The Ravencliff Bride (12 page)

“No wonder you are so familiar with the culture,” said Mallory, raising his wine goblet.

The footmen had begun removing the table linen, and setting out the sweet wines and desserts. Again, silence prevailed until they had laid out an array of assorted jellies and creams, rum and apple pudding, and French nougat cake.

“Good heavens,” said the doctor, accepting a helping of the fragrant pudding. “I shall be courting gout if this keeps up. My compliments to your cook, my lord.”

“I shall convey them, Dr. Breeden,” said Nicholas, “but you have the baroness to thank for the menu. She is quite skilled at the art of entertaining, as you shall see.”

“A pity she couldn’t join us,” the doctor said. “She’s really fit enough, you know. The side effects of concussion will take awhile to dissipate, but that shouldn’t deter her, so long as she’s careful.”

“She will be joining us tomorrow evening,” said Nicholas, “once I’m certain I can trust her not to overdo. This is the first time we’ve entertained since our marriage, and I know how important it is to her.”

“You two are getting on well, I take it, then?” said Mallory.

“Of course,” Nicholas responded. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

The steward shrugged. “No reason,” he said, finishing his cake. “I sensed a bit of . . . apprehension on her part during the trip down, that’s all.”

“Apprehension, Alex? How so?”

“Perhaps that is too strong a word,” said Mallory, signaling for more wine. “Unease is more accurate. Prenuptial jitters, I expect. It’s only natural, considering, that she should have . . . second thoughts.”

The doctor was watching the exchange with not a little interest. Nicholas wished the steward hadn’t brought the subject up, but knew why he had. Alexander Mallory was easily read. He was hoping things wouldn’t work out between
them. He was hoping to step in once the arrangement failed. Anger was Nicholas’s enemy then. It raised his hackles, and when he spoke he directed his reply to the doctor.

“I married the baroness by proxy, Dr. Breeden,” he said. “Alex here stood in for me since . . . circumstances beyond my control prevented me from making the trip to London for a proper wedding.”

“Oh dear, have I spoken out of turn?” said Mallory, setting his serviette aside.

“Not at all,” Nicholas forced. The anger was still with him. It was all he could do to keep from leaping across the table to satisfy it. He took deep, measured breaths instead.

“I wasn’t aware that proxy marriages could be performed here in England any longer,” said the doctor.

“They cannot,” Mallory said. “We had to travel all the way to Scotland to have it done. Dreadful trip. The weather was ghastly.”

“Years ago, when such things were allowed,” Nicholas said, “it was simply a matter of the absent party going before the local registrar with a stand-in to finalize the union.” He gave a guttural chuckle; this was just what he needed to break the tension. “Before we realized such unions were no longer possible, in the absence of a literate female stand-in, Mills was set to do the honors for me before the registrar from Truro if needs must. There is no limit to that man’s devotion to House Walraven.” A round of laughter followed. They had finished their dessert, and Nicholas rose from the table. “Shall we adjourn to the study for a spot of brandy, gentlemen?” he said.

“I must cry off,” the steward replied. “With your permission, Nicholas, I shall pay my respects to the baroness before I retire, and make an early night of it. It’s been an exhausting journey.”

Nicholas hesitated. “As you wish,” he returned. “Don’t tire her, Alex.” The thought of the steward paying a call upon Sara made him marginally uncomfortable, but there
was no real harm in it. Nell would be close at hand. He knew Sara’s position when it came to Alexander Mallory, and he was anxious to have a moment alone with the doctor.

“Oh, I shan’t. Good evening, Nicholas . . . Dr. Breeden,” he said. Sketching a bow, he left them.

Neither Nicholas nor the doctor spoke until they were inside the study behind closed doors. Once they settled down with their brandy, it was Nicholas who broke the silence between them.

“Forgive me, Dr. Breeden,” he said. “In this house, we cannot converse on the topic of our . . . mutual interest. The very walls have ears, and much depends upon secrecy. Perhaps tomorrow, weather permitting, we might have a walk on the strand. The sea will keep our secrets. She has kept mine since I could stand without my knees buckling.”

“Understood,” said the doctor.

“I do not mean to offend, but so very much depends upon it . . . do I have your guarantee of confidentiality?”

The doctor smiled. “Of course, my lord, that goes without saying. My oath is your guarantee—but even if it weren’t, if we are going where I believe we are going with this, who would believe me if I did tell? Half of England considers me a crackpot, and the remainder is quite convinced that I’m a certified bedlamite.” He raised his snifter in salute. “Your secret is quite safe with me.”

The last thing Sara expected when the knock came at her sitting room door was a visit from Alexander Mallory. Thanking Providence that she was still dressed, she bade him enter, and resumed her seat at the writing desk, only half facing him in an attitude that she hoped would convey the message that what he’d interrupted was far more important than he.

“I’m sorry for your mishap, my lady,” he said, strolling toward the lounge. “May I sit? I shan’t stay but a moment. I see that you’re . . . occupied.” Without waiting for an invitation,
he sat with flourish, draping his arm in a casual attitude across the back of the lounge.

“Yes, I am,” said Sara. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Mallory, but it is late, and I must finish these before I retire.”

“Shouldn’t you be abed?” he queried. “You took a nasty fall, so Nicholas tells me.”

“I have been abed, Mr. Mallory,” she snapped. “And I have the doctor’s permission to resume my activities. Now I really must insist—”

“I do wish you’d relent and call me Alex,” he interrupted. “We are all one happy family here.”

“Yes, well, I somehow rather doubt that, Mr. Mallory. Now if you will excuse me, I do have to finish this.”

“Nicholas gave me permission to come up,” he drawled, “if that’s what you’re worrying about. He shan’t come bursting through that door like the jealous husband, pistol in hand.”

Oh, he gave permission, did he?
That struck a chord. Did Nicholas think so little of her that he’d given the steward leave to put her in such a position? If he did, he had about as much respect for her as Mallory. Hot blood rushed to her temples. The man was a master of mixed signals.

“He has no reason to,” she snapped, surging to her feet. Her frock brushed the desk and one of the menus she had been working on floated to the floor. Mallory sprang off the lounge and dove to retrieve it as she bent to the task also. Their faces were very close, both their hands vying for the parchment on the carpet. Neither would give quarter. He smelled sour, of strong liquor laced with sweet wine. The result was sickening. Was the man in his altitudes? If he wasn’t, he was well on the way.

“Allow me,” said the steward.

“I have it, Mr. Mallory. Please! You have outstayed your welcome. I do not know how much plainer I can possibly make it.”

“ ‘Methinks the lady doeth protest too much,’ ” Mallory quoted.

The delivery was an unmistakable attempt at seduction, and Sara snatched the parchment in contention from his grip, tearing it in the process, and surged to her full height in such haste that vertigo threatened her balance. Though Mrs. Bromley’s herbal compresses had reduced the swelling on her brow, the bruise remained, as did the effects of the concussion. The last thing she needed was to swoon into this man’s arms, and she steeled herself against it.

“You, sir, are quite foxed,” she said. “You reek of liquor. While that hardly excuses your conduct, I shall make allowances—so long as you leave my suite at once!”

“You are a very desirable woman, Sara,” Mallory crooned, straightening up. He tugged his waistcoat back into shape and squared his posture, looking for all the world like a strutting rooster, Sara thought. “He won’t do you justice,” he went on. “He’s a cold fish, is Nicholas. But then, I imagine you’ve gathered that by now. I, on the other hand, would be worth your while.” Sara floated to the door and flung it wide. Mallory raised his hands, strolling toward it. “All right, I’m going, my dear,” he said. “Just remember, when you’re ready for a real man, you know where to find him.”

Sara slammed the door behind him and leaned against it. Should she tell Nicholas, as he’d told her to? Why, when he’d left her open to such a confrontation? Was this some sort of test? If it was, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He hardly deserved blind obedience. Tears stung her eyes. She refused to let them fall. What did she expect? What
could
she expect after marrying a man she’d never even seen, by proxy, then accompanying a total stranger to the hind side of nowhere to fulfill her marital obligation? How much respect would that generate—even though Nicholas was the one who’d engineered it? He’d made the proposition; all she’d done was accept it and he knew why. It was obvious what Alexander Mallory thought of the whole business. He had
no way of knowing that there had been no consummation. He thought her a tart, a ladybird, no better than a whore. He never would have behaved in such a manner otherwise—drunk or sober. The man at least had the veneer of a gentleman, albeit thin and brittle, no doubt veined with the cracks of previous conquests. Well, she would not become one of them.

She examined the torn menu in her hand. The rest of it lay crumpled on the carpet where he’d left it after his seduction failed. She snatched it up and smoothed the halves out on top of the desk. She would have to copy it over, but not tonight; Nell had already reclaimed her dinner tray.

She was just about to ring for the abigail to come and prepare her for bed, when the girl appeared and helped her into her nightdress. Sara was exhausted, and she dismissed Nell, who was only too happy to slip away in search of her hall boy. It was just as well. Sara was in no humor for aimless gibble-gabble.

She produced the portion of mutton she’d saved from her dinner tray, wrapped loosely in her serviette, and set it on the rug at the foot of her bed, where she’d left it the last time in hopes of a visit from Nero, who hadn’t appeared since the night of her fall. Had Nicholas gotten rid of the animal in spite of her pleadings? She couldn’t bear to consider the possibility. Padding to the foyer door, she left it ajar just as she had done from the first, in case her fears were unfounded and Nero did pay a visit. Then, snuffing out the candles on the branch beside her bed, she climbed in between the sheets trying to make some sense of the situation, but her thoughts would not order themselves. They always returned to the same questions: Why had Nicholas married her if all he wanted was a hostess? What was the real reason he didn’t want an heir? He was capable of heart-stopping passion. It was in him when he’d carried her out of that priest hole, when he’d held her in his arms and soothed her with such tenderness she ached for it to go on forever; how could he
treat her with such total indifference after that—leave her prey to such a one as Alexander Mallory? Nicholas was drawing her in, despite her valiant resolve to put from her the feelings she could no longer deny. She’d tried to transfer some of those feelings to Nero. Now he was gone, too, and she began to doze, imagining herself wrapped in Nicholas’s strong arms again, imagining the feral, salt-sea aroma drifting from his skin—or was that Nero’s scent? They were similar, and why wouldn’t they be, all tangled into her dream state? She loved them both, didn’t she?

The arms she’d conjured held her tighter, but the scent drifting toward her nostrils was not clean, like Nicholas, like rain-washed air drifting over the sea; it was sour—fetid with brandy and vomit. Her eyes snapped open. This was no dream, it was Mallory clutching her—groping through her peach silk gown.

“I knew it was all an act, for that abigail of yours next door, no doubt. I
knew
it,” he whispered close in her ear, his words slurred and halting. “She isn’t in there now, is she? Nooo, and you left the door ajar for me, just as I knew you would—didn’t you, ‘my lady’? You won’t be sorry. . . .”

Sara screamed, but the hand clamped over her mouth cut it short, while his other hand fumbled with her gown. The scream in her throat reduced now to a desperate squeal, she kicked at him, meanwhile clawing at the hand holding in her cries. When that failed, she bit down hard, and he let her go with a yowl in concert with another blood-chilling sound, a guttural snarl that froze Sara where she crouched.

It happened in a blink. Nero’s silver-tipped black body sailed through the air, and his sharp teeth sank into Mallory’s forearm, driving the steward off the bed to the floor with a thud that echoed. Blood spattered the counterpane. Nero was going to
kill
him! Why didn’t Nell come? Was she still trysting with her hall boy?

Sara tried to scream, but fear closed her throat over the sound—fear that Nicholas would surely banish Nero now.
She couldn’t let it happen. She couldn’t scream and bring the servants or Nicholas himself and risk it. This was twice now that Nero had saved her.

She peered over the side of the bed. Mallory was holding his own, fending Nero off with the fallen candle branch wedged between the animal’s bared teeth and his throat, but he was weakening. Sheer terror found her voice.

“Nero,
no!
” she cried. “Let him go. My God,
let him go!
”

As if released from a trance, the animal hesitated, looking her in the eyes as though he understood—just long enough for Mallory to scrabble to his feet and stagger toward the door, clutching his bleeding forearm, the blood spotting the carpet as he went.

“I’m going to kill that mangy cur!” he gritted. “You mark my words, he won’t live out the night!”

Nero faced him, feet apart, hackles raised, his dilated eyes glowing red in the firelight. Baring lethal fangs, he made a short lunge toward the steward, then another, digging his nails into the carpet with each advance, blood-flecked foam dripping from his jowls. A warning snarl leaked from his curled-back lips, and then a hoarse, rattling bark, with his head held high, before he lowered it and lunged again, another snarl driving the steward through the open foyer door.