When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (24 page)

She raised a brow. “Oh?”

He lowered his voice to a playful growl. “Aye. Locked in here, naked and at my mercy for weeks. All your gowns in wee little tatters.”

She laughed, as he’d intended. It was better if she did not know the seriousness behind his words. Had she left him, he would have chased her to the ends of the earth. He would have done whatever was necessary to keep her.

Fortunately, his wife had both the grace to admit when she was wrong and the courage to do what was right. Not to mention persistence. She had that in abundance.

He drew her into his body, absorbing the sheer pleasure of her softness against him.

“James?” Her voice was muffled and wheezing, so he loosened his hold.

“Aye.”

“You are rather filthy, and so am I.”

He pulled back, a flush of shame returning. He’d torn her gown. Taken her on her hands and knees—on a sofa, no less. All while covered in dust and sweat. “I’m sorry, lass.”

“Oh, I’m not. I was just going to suggest a bath. Do you suppose there is a tub big enough for us both?” Then, his bold, flirtatious, provocative wife rubbed her sweet, tight nipples against him and purred, “I do so admire the way you wash me.”

*~*~*

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“The perception of beauty is, by its nature, subjective. For example, some may consider your waistcoat a masterpiece, whilst others have little need for spectacles.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lord Gattingford on a pleasant stroll through the south garden.

“Bloody hell,” James muttered as the massive, living work of art was erected atop the stone well at the edge of the green. Every year, the villagers built a wooden canvas on a table-sized frame. They layered the surface first with clay from a nearby pond, then attached hundreds upon hundreds of flower petals, leaves, seeds, and any other odd bits that suited the image they wished to create.

This year, they’d chosen to celebrate the happy occasion of his marriage by arranging every blue, purple, pink, and white blossom upon their canvas of mud to form an image of Viola standing beneath a full moon and a skyful of stars—with him.

“My head looks like a loaf of bread,” he grumbled.

Viola giggled then shushed him.

“And here we have the magnificent creation,” announced the vicar to a rapt audience. “A tribute to Lord Tannenbrook, who has seen fit to grace our village and all the people of Shankwood with a most splendid, virtuous, gracious lady.” He gestured to Viola, who inclined her head in acknowledgement. “Lady Tannenbrook, you are a blessing to us all. A gift sent from the heavens to …”

While the vicar droned on, as vicars were wont to do, James leaned down to whisper in Viola’s ear, “Even the bloody vicar, eh? Is there any man who does not worship at your feet, lass?”

She gave a secretive smile and whispered her reply. “There is only one man from whom I seek worship. Perhaps he might consider kneeling at my altar later.”

He covered his bark of laughter with a sharp cough. “I’ll have you singing God’s praises, sure enough.”

“… and pray that the fruits of our lady’s womb might be bountiful and, by the grace of God, bless Shankwood and its lands with many generations to come.”

Loud applause rang out from the assemblage of villagers gathered on the green. James could not determine whether it was agreement or thankfulness that the vicar had ceased droning. Viola, however, had gone strangely still.

“What is it, lass?”

Though she appeared pale to him in the diffuse sunlight, she shook her head and patted his arm to indicate she was fine, subsequently donning her customary smile. Later, after they had greeted the villagers and spoken at length with the vicar, she was still smiling brightly. He could only conclude he’d misread her reaction earlier.

As the crowd dispersed, he leaned down to kiss Viola, explaining, “I’ve work I must do. I will see you at the celebration this evening.”

She smiled again and nodded. “I promised Victoria that I would sit for her, but I should return well before the festivities begin.”

He kissed her a second time. And a third. She chuckled against his mouth and pushed him away.

Trotting the short distance to the workshop, he entered to find it empty. So much the better. He had work to do, and he intended to complete it before Viola returned from Thornbridge. Tonight, his wife would learn just how devoted this particular congregant was to his lady.

He took the greatest care, the work as precise and demanding as he remembered. Every stroke of his fish tail chisel, every fine grate of his rasp, had to be done at the perfect angle to achieve the final effect he desired. Time passed so swiftly, he scarcely noted the waning light. The thunder in the distance. The patter of rain upon glass. All he knew was that, when he glanced up, sheets of water were streaming down the windows, and the cries and laughter of the village children had been replaced with repeating booms and wild gusts.

The sudden squall could cause a delay of the well-dressing festival. He hoped it passed quickly, for Viola had gone to a great deal of trouble to ensure this evening’s celebration was a success.

Frowning, he used the light he had remaining to put the finishing touches on his creation. Buffing the last of the dust from the work, he stood back and walked around the table, examining the piece from all angles. It was good work, he thought. He’d never attempted anything quite so intricate before, and for a moment, he felt the warmth of pride sing through his veins.

He glanced around the workshop, realizing he could scarcely see in the low light. He removed his apron and hung it on the peg next to the door before donning his hat and coat. Then, he went to the table holding his creation, covered it with a bit of canvas, lifted it into his arms, and carried the thing out into the rain.

He was drenched within seconds. “God, what a storm,” he murmured to himself, looking up at a roiling, blackened sky. Although it could not be later than five or six, the day had turned to dusk. Thunder rolled heavily. Lightning cracked and spewed its fury across the black.

He hurried down the empty, muddy lane, loping toward Shankwood Hall. By the time he entered through the south hall, he was soaked from hat to boots. Even his face was slick with rainwater, the droplets falling from his lashes with every blink.

“Let me help you, my lord,” said Mrs. Duckett, shuffling in from the corridor as he stood dripping on the polished parquet. She took his hat and offered to take the bundle from his arms, but he refused to release it.

“I shall take care of it,” he said. “Where is Lady Tannenbrook?”

The old woman blinked and squinted. “Lady … Why, I assumed she was in the village with your lordship.”

He frowned. “She has not returned from Thornbridge?”

“No, my lord.”

A prickle of alarm started at the top of his spine.

“Perhaps she elected to remain until the storm passes. That would be sensible. It is a rarity to have such a vigorous downpour as this.”

Feeling chilled, he nodded. But his mind was uneasy. He wanted to touch her, to know she was safe.

He carried the sculpture upstairs, placing it upon her dressing table beside the enameled box. With a finger, he lifted the box’s lid. The handkerchief was still there, lying beneath a handful of hairpins. He sighed. Perhaps after seeing his gift, she would consider offering him her own creation again. A man could only hope to have a second chance at something so precious.

The door flew open. The youngest footman, a man of forty years named David, was panting, his eyes flared wide. “My lord, you must come quickly. Lord Atherbourne is here.”

The alarm he’d felt earlier burst open and unfurled its full, menacing weight along his spine and skull. He ran. He ran as he’d never run before, taking the length of the corridor and the span of the stairs in a mere heartbeat. But then, his heart had stopped the moment he’d seen the look upon David’s face.

Then, he saw Lucien. Standing in front of the door. Dripping. Heaving as though he’d ridden pell-mell through this godforsaken storm. Dark eyes caught his when James was halfway down the staircase. They were grimmer than he’d seen them in two years.

Ah, God, no.

Something was tearing at James’s chest, clawing and ripping him to shreds. The air around him and inside him froze. He wanted time to stop. He wanted to fall to his knees and beg. He wanted Lucien not to say what he was about to say.

“You must come now, James. I am sorry, but you must.”

*~*~*

Flashes of light, white and gray, shone in the darkness. Pain stabbed and pounded. Distantly, she heard the sound of it. Boom and echo. Boom and echo. Boom and echo. Though the sound faded, the pain remained.

It was confusing in the dark. But soon she was engulfed in light. It was morning. Sunlight warmed her hands where they rested upon the oak desk of her sitting room. Dust floated in on a flickering beam, landed upon her fingers and her gown’s indigo sleeve.

A letter had come from Charlotte. Viola had tried thrice to write her dearest friend. To explain about James. About how deeply she loved him and yet how she despaired that she must release him for his happiness’ sake. Each time, she’d been unable to find the words, even after he had declared his intention to keep her. Now, happily, Charlotte had written, easing her guilt for the lapse in their correspondence.

She worked the edges of the paper between her fingertips and thumb, enjoying the lovely script of Charlotte’s hand. Upright and neat, elegant and efficient. Viola’s own calligraphy possessed an impatient slant and the occasional wild curl. She’d never mastered elegance in any craft.

Dearest Viola,
the letter began.
Perhaps you will think me mad, and perhaps you would be right, but I do believe Benedict Chatham to be the best man I have ever known.

Viola disagreed on that point—James was finer than all others—but she would concede allowances for Charlotte’s obvious infatuation. She sighed and continued reading. Her smile grew as she learned of her friend’s recent discovery.

I am with child, dearest. Though, I must tell you, this knowledge constitutes the greatest of joys and the greatest of frights. When one has not a mother of one’s own, the prospect of becoming one causes the heart to imagine itself wholly unequal to the task. However, my darling Chatham is over the moon. He insists upon constructing a new cradle for the nursery, despite having wielded neither chisel nor hammer in all his years upon this earth.

Viola smiled again, but her smile soon faded. A child. James had made love to her many times, but if Georgina’s descriptions were correct, he had not yet taken the final, critical step to get her—Viola—with child. She’d assumed he sought to give them both time to accustom themselves to their marriage before attempting to beget an heir. Perhaps that was so. But Charlotte’s news made her ache inside in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

The paper trembled, the words now winking in and out of her sight. Her fingers lowered the letter to the desk and came up to press her forehead. The pain had begun again. She tried to glance out the window, but the light was blinding now, the headache’s talons gouging behind her eyes.

Darkness flashed. Then light. Pain boomed and echoed. Boomed and echoed. Boomed and echoed.

She was in James’s study now, searching for him. The well-dressing ceremony would begin soon, and they must attend. Her head pained her, but she refused to let such a minor imposition keep her from the event. She spun in the center of the study as she heard footsteps. It was not James, but instead his solicitor, Mr. Gates, an intelligent-looking man who always carried a leather-bound journal in his hand and a pencil in his pocket.

“Lady Tannenbrook,” he exclaimed with a broad grin and a nudge of his spectacles. “What a pleasure to see you again. By your expression, I gather you were expecting Lord Tannenbrook.”

“Indeed, Mr. Gates, although it is lovely to see you, as well.” It was not precisely a lie, but she did feel disappointed. She wanted James. And her head was aching.

“I, too, was seeking his lordship. I have made a discovery which I anticipate will please him greatly.”

“Oh?” She did not care, but Mr. Gates was most enthusiastic, so she folded her hands and waited for him to elaborate. She did not wait long.

“His lordship’s heir is alive. And, if my research proves correct, he is even now in London.”

“His lordship’s … heir?”

“A cousin. As you may know, there was some question about whether the boy had survived, as it appears he changed his name after the unfortunate death of his mother and father.” Mr. Gates paused to remove his spectacles, wiping them with a cloth he pulled from inside his coat. “My research had reached a standstill prior to your marriage. I even inquired as to whether his lordship wished to continue the effort. It is well that his lordship insisted, however, for the past three days have seen great strides forward in locating his heir presumptive.”

“Insisted? My husband insisted you continue searching, even after we were wed?”

As Mr. Gates plopped his spectacles back upon his nose, a tiny crinkle formed between his brows. “Indeed. Did he not say so? Well, perhaps he felt the matter too uncertain to consider burdening you, my lady. It has weighed heavily upon him, as you know.”

She’d known about the search for his heir during the season. She’d also recognized his resolve to complete his self-assigned mission. A man did not subject himself to Lady Wallingham’s tender mercies without compelling cause, after all. But she had thought his urgency resulted from his resistance to marriage, for if he never married, he could never produce a legitimate son.

Now, however, he was married. To her. And, yet, he’d asked Gates to continue the mission.
Insisted,
even.

Her headache was worsening, making her stomach roll and quake.

The light wavered and flashed in her sight, blocking out Mr. Gates’s nose as though his spectacles reflected the sun’s glare into her eyes.

It grew until it flashed, bright and blinding. Then came the darkness. Confusion. She hurt, wanting to whimper. Wanting James.

He was there. They stood together, watching the well dressing. Laughing and teasing one another. The pain in her head was nothing when she was with him. The vicar was speaking. Speaking about wombs and fertility. It made her remember. The yearning joy she’d had upon reading Charlotte’s letter. The doubt and confusion introduced by Mr. Gates.