The Ravencliff Bride (7 page)

Nicholas Walraven prowled the edge of the cliff in the darkness. The sighing wind had risen again, teasing his multi-caped greatcoat: lifting the hem of it, playing with the collars, like the fingers of a curious child. It was still moon dark, and but for an occasional glimpse of whitecaps riding the breast of the water below, the night was black as ink. He needed no moon or stars to light his travels there. He knew every rock, every derelict weed and blade of grass bent low between them in the storm, by heart. This was the only place he felt safe, the only constant in his life that never disappointed, this precipice that welcomed him. He haunted it often—fair weather and foul, he went to it for comfort, like a child to its mother’s breast, like a lover to his mistress—but it couldn’t stop the nightmare. Nothing could.

His valet would be preparing his bath now—a cold bath. Again. It wouldn’t chase the madness, for that is what it was. Sara had named it, by God! A madness in the blood, and he cursed his father for it. He must have been mad to think this marriage of convenience would work, to think he could live like other men lived, have what other men had. It was a mistake,
and if he were to pace the seawall until kingdom come, it wouldn’t be put right. He would have to do that himself, and he would have to do it soon. He’d come to that conclusion when he first clapped eyes on Sara, Baroness Walraven, nee Ponsonby, the beautiful, innocent creature he’d plucked out of live coals only to cast into a raging fire . . .
but how to put it right?
She’d already gotten under his skin. He didn’t dare keep her, and he couldn’t bear to send her away. He couldn’t tell her, either, and chance exposure. His was a well-kept secret. He couldn’t compromise that. The repercussions would be catastrophic. Not even Alex Mallory knew, only Mills—his valet, his confidante, protector, and friend, just as he’d been Nicholas’s father’s before him. But Nicholas had already cast into the water the pebble that would damn him. The ripples had begun, and there was no way to stop them from spreading.

He glanced up toward Sara’s windows. They were dark. She was asleep. Finally. It was safe to go back now, but back to what—a cold bath and an empty bed, or the madness again? That was the other constant, the unpredictable constant, the one over which he had no control.

His bath was waiting, just as he knew it would be, and Mills was ready to help him into it. The straight-backed, white-haired valet of indeterminable age stood beside the chiffonier in the master suite dressing room. It was heaped with towels, and littered with herbal jars. Beside them, Nicholas’s nightly cordial waited, brewed of skullcap, linden, and hops sweetened with honey. It was supposed to keep him calm, and bring natural sleep. Its effectiveness was questionable, considering the events of the last two days.

Cold though the water was, the strong, pungent aroma of crushed rue, and the sweet evergreen pleasantness of rosemary, wafted toward him from the tub. Purging inside and out: that was the regimen. Gypsy remedies eons old. He’d thought they might be working . . . until Sara.

“You’re going to catch your death out on that cliff, my
lord,” the valet predicted, helping him out of his damp clothing. “It’s penetrated you to the skin.” He clicked his tongue, laying the clothes aside.

Nicholas held his breath as he submerged himself in the water. He should be steeled against it by now. Somehow, he never was, and doubted he ever would be. Calm and cold, he had to stay calm and cold.
How
, when even the faintest image of Sara ghosting across his memory brought his sex to life, the icy water notwithstanding? It soon warmed to his body heat, to the fever in his blood, the blood that caused the madness that wasn’t madness, at least not the stark, staring variety.
That
could be cured, and if not, mindless oblivion would be release. There was no release from this breed of madness. That was what it was: a
breed
—his erect manhood and raised hackles were proof positive of it. If this could be from the mere thought of her, what would happen if they were to touch? He’d nearly scourged his traitorous body raw, before Mills snatched the sponge.

“Here!” the valet cried. “You’ll have no skin left on you, my lord.”

“Pain is the other deterrent, old boy—that, and death.”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” the valet scolded, dumping a pitcher of water over his head. “We’re making strides.”

“We
were
making strides,” Nicholas corrected, shaking himself like a wet dog. “That’s why I thought the arrangement might work. I was a fool.”

The valet wagged his head, dodging the spray. “You were warned, my lord.”

“You know why this . . . marriage had to be,” said Nicholas. “People were beginning to talk, and the
on-dits
were getting back to me
even here
, entombed as I am in this drafty old mausoleum. Each time Alex returns, there are more rumors. The
ton
is rife with them—an eligible bachelor, titled, with lands and wealth, personable enough to appeal to the catch of the Season in Town . . . in seclusion in the
wilds of Cornwall. You know how many invitations to fêtes,
fête champêtre
, routs and balls and teas I’ve refused. The missives arrive daily, and the Season hasn’t yet begun. I shudder to wonder what will be when it does, and I cannot go abroad again. It’s too dangerous. I will surely be found out. Hah! Sara asked if I were a sodomite—not in those words, of course, she was most diplomatic, but that was the gist of it. You know I cannot take her to my bed as I am, and that was what she imagined to be the reason. What am I going to do, Mills? I can’t let her stay, and I can’t let her leave—not now, not
ever
. It’s only a matter of time before she finds me out.”

“You’ve grown fond of her,” Mills said, “—and so soon.”

“Worse than that,” said Nicholas. “The feeling is mutual. It’s more than I dared hope for, and more than I can stand. She is everything I ever wanted—golden, and fair—eyes like Highland bluebells. I saw them once . . . when I was a child. Was I ever a child, Mills?”

“Ahhh, my lord,” the valet crooned. “You mustn’t take on so. You know what it will lead to. Perhaps once Mr. Mallory returns with your houseguest—”

“Ahhh, yes, the good Dr. Breeden, who will surely think I’m addled, some crackpot who’s read his treatise and means to exploit or discredit it, and Alex mustn’t know. I’ve gone to great lengths to keep it from him, as you well know. That would be dangerous. You’re going to have to help me there.”

“Haven’t I always, my lord?”

“Yes, old boy, you have, but this is different here and now. Things are unpredictable.
I
am unpredictable, and Alex is on the prowl.”

“For my lady?” the valet breathed, his steely eyes come open wide.

“She says she has it in hand, but I know Alex, and you know me. If I didn’t need him here to handle the affairs I dare not leave this place to see to . . .”

“I will help you however needs must, my lord, that goes without saying,” the valet responded. “But . . . if I may be so bold as to inquire, what excuse have you given Mr. Mallory for fetching the esteemed Dr. Breeden from London?”

“To assess my bothersome anemia, which we both know is nonexistent, and to enjoy the hospitality of Ravencliff—a working holiday, if you will. He’ll be with us a fortnight . . . if all goes well.”

The valet hesitated. “As it is now, your . . . condition is between us,” he reminded him. “The more who know—”

“What other choice have I, Mills?” Nicholas cut in. “Dr. Breeden is my last hope. I have read his papers. His credentials recommend him to my ‘condition.’ If he cannot help me, I cannot be helped.”

“What then, my lord?”

“God knows. The old man’s in his grave, and I am damned with the legacy he’s left me.”

“It wasn’t his fault, my lord.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Nicholas snapped. “The knowledge doesn’t make it any easier to live with. He should have done as I am doing—embrace celibacy—but no, he would have his damnable heir.”

“I’m worried that this doctor will not be discreet, my lord.”

“I will make certain he will before I confide in him, old boy. His oath subjects him to doctor-patient privilege. He would have to keep my confidence. To break it would ruin him professionally. I think I’m safe enough.”

“But
this
, my lord!”

“ ‘This’ is why the man was chosen, Mills. We shall just have to wait and see.”

The valet was silent apace. “Have you told my lady of the doctor’s visit?” he said at last.

“It never really came up, what with all the rest,” Nicholas said. “I’m glad it didn’t. The woman is curious to a fault, she wouldn’t have let that go—a doctor living in with all the
other strangeness hereabout? Take my word for it, old boy, she’d have pounced upon that like a tigress. I’m just not prepared to deal with a barrage of questions over my health at the moment. She knows we are to have a houseguest, nothing more.”

“What will you ever tell her, my lord?”

“I will tell her the same as I have told Alex, now let that be the end of it.”

The valet said no more, and Nicholas sank into the herb-scented water to his neck, raking his wet hair out of his eyes. Mulling over the day’s blunders, he let his breath out on a long sigh. He hadn’t meant to hurt Sara, but maybe it was best that he’d been abrupt. Better to arouse her anger than her ardor. Better to keep her at arm’s distance, for both their sakes. Still, it went against his nature to be boorish. It offended his sensibilities—opposed every principle that knitted him together as a gentleman—to be the cause of a lady’s tears. He hated himself for it, and yet he would probably do it again. It was his only defense mechanism against betraying himself, against exposing his heart—and hers—to hope when there was none to be had.

Mills was watching him, the faithful servant. How did he deserve such a loyal friend and mentor? It certainly hadn’t been easy for the valet in such a place as Ravencliff, where the walls had ears, and it was up to Mills to see that nothing untoward occurred within the others’ hearing. This was why they never discussed it openly, why they never spoke a word out loud that could be interpreted—even here in the sanctuary of his third-floor suite so far removed from the rest in residence. This was why, when they did speak as they did now, their speech was for the most part encrypted. The valet had never once slipped up in all the years he’d served. How he had ever managed that was a mystery, and a miracle. Nicholas made a mental note then and there to have his conversations with Dr. Breeden out of the house altogether.
However discreet the man was, he wouldn’t be equal to such as that.

“Get me out of this, will you, Mills?” Nicholas charged, surging to his feet. Water ran in rivulets the length of his body, and sloshed out onto the floor, puddling on the parquetry. Moving with the agility of a man half his age, Mills spread a thick white towel on the floor for him to step on, and Nicholas climbed out of the tub. The valet bundled him in towels, and Nicholas rubbed himself dry, bruising the herbs that clung to his skin, spreading their scent, grinding their soothing oils into his pores before brushing them away, with no less a scourging than he’d inflicted with the sponge earlier.

“Will you want a fresh toilette, or shall I fetch your dressing gown, my lord?”

“The dressing gown, Mills,” Nicholas responded. “I’m done for the day—exhausted.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the valet, shuffling into the bedchamber. Nicholas was still scrubbing himself with the towels when Mills returned, and the servant took them from him and helped him into the dressing gown. “Your cordial, my lord,” the valet reminded, snatching it from a silver salver on the chiffonier.

“Ahhh, yes, mustn’t forget the deuced cordial,” Nicholas said, cinching his sash with rough hands. He took the offered glass, and flopped in the wing chair beside the hearth, while Mills collected the towels and mopped up the puddles. “I actually gave her permission to take a lover,” he said. He needed absolution for that, and Mills had always been ready to give it. Not this time. The valet stopped mopping midstroke, and met Nicholas’s gaze slack-jawed.

“
My lord!
” he breathed. “Surely, you
didn’t?
”

“Oh, but I did,” Nicholas said, tossing back the cordial. He grimaced. It tasted bitter despite the honey.

“Whatever did she say to that?” the valet inquired. 54

“It put her in quite a taking,” said Nicholas, toying with the empty glass. “To say that she pinned my ears back over it is a mild assessment. But she wouldn’t let it go, and I didn’t know what else to suggest.”

“You can hardly blame her for ringing a peal over your head, my lord. I’ve had but a glimpse, and even
I
can see that she’s quite well to pass—a diamond of the first water, to be sure.”

It wasn’t the reply Nicholas wanted to hear, and he breathed a ragged sigh, setting the empty glass down on the candlestand beside his chair. The valet’s reproachful eyes turned his own away; he could bear anything but this dear man’s disapproval. It wrenched his gut as though an unseen hand had fisted in it.

“What would you have suggested?” he asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know, my lord,” the valet said. “But certainly not
that
. It’s a wonder she didn’t crack a vase over your head. What could you have been thinking?”

“I was thinking, Mills, that I owe her the freedom to take her pleasures where she wishes, since I cannot offer her connubial bliss. I thought it was the least I could do.”

“And how would you have felt if she took you up on it, my lord?”

“I can’t think about that now, Mills, else this whole blasted ritual here be wasted.”

“Mmm,” the valet hummed, resuming his chore.

“That door’s not closed, Mills. It could still happen, and if it does, I could neither accept it with an open mind anymore, nor in good conscience could I put a stop to it. I haven’t the right.”

The valet collected the wet towels, and got to his feet. “What if you were to tell her outright, my lord?” he said.

“You
know
I cannot do that,” said Nicholas. “She’d run screaming from the house, you can bet your blunt upon it, old boy.”