“That’s the trouble, milady. A happy couple, those who remember say of them, and her ladyship was pregnant.”
Deeply moved, Laura drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Tears blurred her vision and sympathy for the scared, young boy Lord Debnam must have been made her heart ache. She had looked for portraits of the former earl and his wife in their later years but realized now that they’d never grown old. It was so senseless a crime, she found it impossible to comprehend.
Might the painter have taken license with his portrait of the former earl? Such a work wasn’t always a painted replica of its subject. A good portrait painter, as he undoubtedly had been, would try to capture character in the face he painted. And his lordship certainly didn’t appear to have been the sort of man destined to play such a grim role in life.
The horror remained to trouble her as she lathered the soap and finished washing. She stepped from the bath and dried herself with a towel. “His lordship must not hear that I know about this,” she said as Penny held out her nightgown. “So please don’t mention it to anyone below stairs.”
“Of course I wouldn’t, milady. I’d get into the worst trouble for gossiping about my employer.”
“I am pleased you have told me, Penny.” She might have unwittingly asked Lord Debnam questions, which would surely have hurt him. Questions he would not want to answer.
Laura slipped on her dressing gown and sat before the mirror, removing the pins from her hair, and picked up her brush, tackling her long, heavy hair with firm strokes. “I am to have dinner in my chamber, although I’m perfectly able to dress and walk to the dining room. Penny, once you’ve tidied away the bath things, go down and have your supper.”
When alone, still heavy-hearted, Laura wished she could see Lord Debnam, even though she could not refer to his family’s past. There was nothing she could do or say to make him feel any better. Except to tell him how strong her conviction was that there was no violence in him. That he could not become like his father. He would not believe her or welcome it. Lord Debnam had suffered this from a child through all of his adult life. Her mind filled with impressions of him: wading into the river to save Mary and her mother, and then patiently waiting for her to agree to continue the journey here; his kiss when he’d taken her to see the wildflowers, which now filled the vases in the reception rooms; and hastening into the woods to find her without taking time to dress or even grab his hat, and then carrying her all that way home as if she’d weighed nothing at all. No, she saw no violence or madness in him, only profound sadness, which she now understood.
Laura grew sick of her own company. If only she’d taken up his offer of a book from the library. She wasn’t ill and disliked the idea of being alone for hours in this chamber with her restless thoughts. She needed something to distract her from the appalling tragedy. But she longed to know more about the earl’s past. What had happened to the little boy after his parents had died? Had some good-hearted person cared for him? And loved him? It was unbearable to think the tragedy might have left him all alone. She wished she could ask him.
It was too early to retire. Her long hair in a braid, she rose from the dressing table and roamed restlessly around the bedchamber, rearranging the vases of wildflowers, smoothing her hand over the creases in the silk counterpane, and studying the floral paintings on the walls.
A footman brought in a tray, and she sat at the table to eat her dinner. Broccoli soup, tender roast beef and vegetables, and a delicious caramel dessert, probably with some fancy French name. Her appetite gone, she ate the meal with little enjoyment, then pushed the plate aside, lingering over the glass of fruity, red wine.
Leaving the table, she went to the window. The weather had turned breezy, and shadows danced over the grass like grasping fingers. A long night loomed ahead. Laura knew she would not sleep.
Why not slip down to the library while the earl dined? She could select a book to read from the shelves and be back in her bedchamber before he left the dining room. Deciding, she tightened the belt of her dressing gown and, still in her slippers, left the bedchamber. Although a little sore, her ankle no longer bothered her. The house was quiet. No servants or footmen appeared in the corridors or on the stairs, and the library, when she opened the door and poked her head in, was empty. What a wonderful room. Leather sofas and walnut paneling, many tables and chairs. Bookshelves rising almost to the high ceiling with a ladder, inviting her to climb it to investigate the upper shelves. A room a person could spend untold hours in. More appealing than the formal drawing room, she imagined this handsome room in winter with the enormous fireplace aglow with a yule log, while snow painted the gardens white beyond the windows. Holly decorating the mantel. A tall fir for a Christmas tree like the one she’d seen in a magazine article about Queen Charlotte’s, with bright baubles and sparkling tinsel. Wrapped presents awaiting the family on the hearth.
How had Lord Debnam, as a young boy, spent the few Christmases he had shared with his parents? Had he ever enjoyed Christmas again after they’d been gone? She gasped as sympathy for the earl, so strong, it was painful, tugged at her heart. But she must not let him see it. She sensed he wouldn’t welcome it.
*
Brendan had littleappetite. He finally pushed back his chair and rose, ordering Redfern, who hovered with the wine carafe, to inform the chef hisla fricassée de poulet aux champignonswas superb as always, and he was sorry he couldn’t do it justice.
Forgoing his usual lingering at the table with the port, he left the dining room, intending to have a cognac in the library; it was the one room in the house which offered him solace, perhaps because his father’s books and letters revealed the words of a rational being and not a raving madman. His actions defied all reason, and Brendan would never make sense of it, but in the library, for a brief time, his father seemed restored to the man Brendan remembered, and the man’s erudite letters and journals written in a fine, clear cursive somehow reassured him.
He made his way along the corridor, framing in his mind the missive he must write to Laura’s brother. He would advise the baron that while he did not require reimbursement of the monies paid, some urgent, unforeseen matter had arisen which would require him leaving his estate for London. Brendan would invite Netterfield to come to Beechley Park to take his sister home, as it seemed the most discreet option. It was imperative that he do so quickly before Gaylord caused irrevocable damage, which Brendan suspected he would take a good deal of delight in.
As he walked along the corridor, Brendan found himself reluctant to put pen to paper. Perhaps tomorrow. He found parting with Laura extraordinarily hard to accept. He opened the library door and stood, silenced. Before him, Laura, dressed in a negligee as fragile as smoke, her long hair braided and hanging down her back, stood at the top of the bookshelf ladder, a tome in her hand. Her dressing gown swirled around her ankles, revealing her lovely bare legs above the knee. He caught his breath and then strode forward. The siren! He had thought her safely tucked up in her bed and unable to tempt him.
“Dear lord, Laura. What are you doing here?”
She turned quickly and almost overbalanced. “Oh, my lord—Debnam, you shouldn’t startle me like that! I expected you to still be at dinner.”
“Well, as you can see, I am not,” he said, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. The unexpected sight of her, when he’d decided they must part, sent a heated yearning through his body. Intent on returning her swiftly to her chamber, he moved to the ladder to help her down. “What the devil are you doing climbing that ladder with an ankle strain?”
“I wouldn’t have attempted it if I thought my ankle wouldn’t support me,” she said reasonably. “It does very well, as you can see.”
The book in one hand, she descended slowly, backward, the shape of her deliciously rounded bottom showing through the delicate silk of her dressing gown, while he waited, his pulse beating hard.
When she reached the lower rungs, he caught hold of her and swung her away to place her safely on her feet. He kept his hands at her waist, anchoring her there, enjoying the sight of her, the closeness.
She clutched the book against her chest and smiled up at him. “Are you cross with me?”
He returned her smile with a shake of his head.
Their smiles fell as they studied each other. His gaze roamed her face, marveling at her delicate features, her small nose and full-lipped mouth. He placed a thumb and finger on her firm chin to raise her eyes to his, her skin as soft as a rose petal. “But you are stubborn.”
“Unfair,” she murmured and she reached up to stroke his jaw. “Your bristles are soft. I expected them to be scratchy.”
“I’ve had no complaints.” He swallowed. At her touch, insistent need rocketed through him, demanding more of her. Every inch of her. “I shave twice a day. But I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”