A Perfect Secret (6 page)

From the way Christian glared at her, whatever affection he once felt for her had died.

She moistened her lips, searching for something to say to him. She focused on the black armband he wore. The newspaper had reported the passing of the Earl of Tarrington and of the succession of the title by Christian’s brother, Cole, several weeks earlier. “I’m sorry about your father.”

He nodded. A new, decidedly haunted expression crept over his expression. As if catching himself in a moment of vulnerability, he straightened, pinned her with a hostile glare. “My sister-in-law had some clothes brought in for you.” He made a loose gesture toward another part of the room. “Now get up and go back to your husband.”

She gaped at the hardness of his tone. Where was the artistic dreamer she’d known and loved?

He continued barking orders at her. “I’ll order a carriage and have them take you back to Wickburgh’s manor.”

Send her back! Alarm raced through her body and she shot to an upright position, ignoring the pain of her mysterious bruises, and held out her hands in supplication. “Please don’t send me back.” Her voice sounded helpless, pleading, pathetic.

He spoke as if he hadn’t heard her. “Or I could simply return you to the river. Unless you’ve changed your mind about killing yourself?” Eyes so blue and pale that they appeared to glow fixed upon her, accusation shining clearly through.  “I admit, I never really knew you—obviously—but I never would have thought you capable of suicide. That’s despicable even for you.”

She deserved that. She really did. But his open hostility raised her hackles. He had no idea what she’d suffered. How dare he be so self-righteous and judgmental! Clearly she’d been right; if he’d learned of her father’s mutiny, he would have been horrified and rejected her. He probably would have marched down to the admiralty and personally reported her father.

Fisting her hands in the counterpane covering her, she threw open the gate controlling her fury and flung at him the word his brothers taunted at him throughout his childhood. “Yes, well, it must be difficult being so
perfect
all the time.”

He stiffened at her use of the word ‘perfect.’ Good. She had his attention.

She drove in the barb deeper. “Clearly your only flaw is having to live among us flawed mortals who make mistakes.”

With narrowed eyes, he leaned forward. “ ‘Mistakes’ is hardly the word I would use for what you did.”

“You know nothing!” A sob tore out of her. She deserved his hatred, his judgment; she’d told the lies to earn it. Yet the full sharpness of his bitter anger stabbed her like a twisting blade. He had no idea what she had suffered, nor why she’d done it.

He leaped to his feet like a restless tiger, turned on his heel, and strode to the door. “Go home.”

He wrenched open the door and nearly trampled a maid carrying a tray. With a yelp, the maid staggered back, nearly upsetting the dishes. He caught her tray with one hand while steadying the girl with the other.

The maid gulped in a breath, eyeing Christian’s hard set mouth and flushed face. “F-forgive me, sir. I-I brought yer breakfast, Miss,” she stammered, glancing at Genevieve desperately.

Christian dragged his fingers through his hair and gripped the back of his neck. Stepping back, he blew out his breath. “Sorry, Ann.”

He gestured for the maid to enter. With another wary look at Christian, the poor maid sidestepped him, giving him a wide berth, and entered the room.

Genevieve sucked in a breath, and blinked back hot tears welling up in her eyes. “Thank you,” she managed, glancing at the maid.

She braced her hands on the bed and resettled herself into a more comfortable upright position. Pain shot out from multiple places and she hissed in her breath. After setting the tray on a bedside table, the maid arranged pillows behind her.

Christian hovered in the doorway, sending darting glances her way. What could she say to him? She was sorry? She didn’t mean all those things she said in Bath, or just now, for that matter? Any of that would only make matters worse. Her throat tightened and her eyes burned. She glanced at the scones and a cup filled with brown liquid that smelled of chocolate. The maid bobbed a curtsy and left the room.

Still standing in the doorway, Christian let out a long exhale and turned to leave. He might send her back to Wickburgh. Panic raced through her.

“Christian, wait.”

With his back to her, he paused and stood fisting his hands.

Her heart thudded as she sought for the words to convince him to keep her secret. “You think me terrible for a number of reasons, and I have no right to ask you for forgiveness, nor for any favors.”

He made no motion, just stood completely still.

She took a steadying breath. “But I beg you; do not send me back to Wickburgh.”

Slowly he turned, folded his arms, and leaned his back against the doorframe in forced nonchalance. “Not blissfully happy as a viscountess, I take it?”

She had no reply to that. She wasn’t about to bare the horror of belonging to Wickburgh.

“You can’t stay here,” he said flatly.

“No. That would be unwise for a number of reasons. All I ask is that you don’t send me back to him. Please, just give me a day or two to regain my strength.”

“And then?”             

She picked up her cup to give herself time to think. Then what? The idea of a watery grave no longer seemed a welcoming option. In truth, how could she have even thought of killing herself? Those actions seemed to belong to another person. Perhaps the water had knocked some sense into her. But to go back to her ivy-covered prison ...

No. She’d never go back to
him
.

To avoid looking at Christian, Genevieve let her gaze drift about the room. Royal blue wallpaper with gold leaves adorned the walls. A corner of one piece of wallpaper had fallen loose near the window, reminding Genevieve of how her idyllic life had become tattered the moment she married Wickburgh. More than tattered—completely unraveled.

How could she avoid going back to him? He’d find her just like he did the last time she’d tried to leave. Of course, he might believe she’d died in the river. Her breath caught. He might believe she’d died in the river.

A new plan formed. Daring. Dangerous. Probably doomed. But she could escape. If it worked.

She poured cream and sugar into her cup of chocolate until the normally bitter drink became creamy and decadent.

Finally, she looked up at Christian who watched her warily. “I’m not entirely certain where I should go just yet. But I must get far away. And I really, really need everyone to believe I’ve drowned.”

His forehead creased and he let out a huff in mocking amusement. “You want me to lie for you—you, of all people. Why would I do that?”

The cup in her hand shook at the venom dangling off his words. “No, I’m not asking you to lie for me. Just don’t send word to anyone that I’m here. Say nothing. Please.” She leaned forward. “Tell no one who I am. Let him think I’m dead.”

The crystal blue of his eyes turned to pure ice. “I want no part of this.”

“Please.” It came out as a half sob. “I cannot go back to him.”

He shook his head, his shoulders sagging a little. “Very well. I won’t send word that you are here. But I won’t lie for you,
Lady
Wickburgh. Leave. Soon.”

He closed the door. Cold seeped into her bones. Christian was so different. Had he changed so drastically, or had she not really known him? Their courtship had been short and blissful. Perhaps there was another side to him she’d never discovered in Bath.

At least she was safe for now, but this refuge could only be temporary. Remaining here would put her too close to her husband’s reach. And that she could not abide.

CHAPTER 7

In the family dining room, Christian sat at the table, slowly drawing circles in his gravy with his fork. He glanced out the door in the direction of the stairs where he’d left Genevieve hours ago. The knots in his stomach left no room for his normally robust appetite.

His sister-in-law, Alicia, smiled gently, concern etching creases in her lovely face. “My word. I can’t recall the last time you failed to empty nearly every dish on the table. You must be coming down with something. Do you feel unwell?”

Christian let out his breath in a long exhale. “How long until she’s able to leave?”

Alicia drew back in surprise. “Leave? Well, the doctor said she needs a day or so to rest. One doesn’t recover from a near drowning in an hour.” Her voice quieted. “And the doctor said she was
enceinte
.”

“She’s with child?” Christian’s stomach clenched. Another man’s baby. It made her betrayal so much worse.

“Not anymore; she recently miscarried.”

“I see.” He couldn’t decide if her loss minimized her betrayal or not. He didn’t know what to feel about anything right now. Everything inside twisted into a tangled mess.

“I wonder if the loss of her baby is what drove her to throw herself into the river. I’ve heard sometimes after a woman loses her unborn child, she can fall into a terrible melancholy.” She looked down and rubbed her rounded stomach. “I hope nothing like that happens to me.”

“I’m sure it won’t,” Christian said numbly.

Alicia buttered her bread thoughtfully. “Odd that she wouldn’t give you her name when she woke. She was equally reluctant with me when I looked in on her. I wonder who she is. Her hands are fine and she speaks with the cultured tones of a lady, so she’s clearly not a servant.”

“No.” Christian wished he could sink into his chair rather than lie to Alicia.

“I suppose she could be a governess, but she’s awfully pretty for a governess. You grew up here, yet you don’t know her?”

Christian watched the fork leave tiny lines as he drew it across the plate. “I haven’t lived here in years, since before I went to Cambridge.” He wasn’t lying...exactly.

Alicia’s expression turned wistful. “It would simplify everything if she’d just tell us who she is. She’s hurting, frightened, and grieving her lost baby. We must be sensitive to her feelings.”

He nodded silently. Sensitive to her feelings. What feelings? Maybe she didn’t have feelings. She certainly hadn’t shown any last year.

When the fork in his hand bent under his white-knuckled grip, he set down his utensils and pushed away his plate.

Alicia’s voice broke into Christian’s thoughts. “We need to watch her carefully. I fear she may try to harm herself again. Or leave before she’s well enough.”

Voices traveled from the great hall and a mild commotion reached their ears. Christian jumped to his feet. He half expected Lord Wickburgh to blast his way in. As Cole’s voice boomed over the greetings of the servants, Christian relaxed. Alicia’s eyes lit up and her face glowed. Cole appeared in the doorway wearing a wide grin.

“You’re home,” Alicia breathed, her face infused with joy.

“I have an excellent reason to be here.” Cole’s grin broadened.

With long strides, he came to Alicia, knelt by her chair, and gathered her in his arms. Cole was all tenderness when he kissed Alicia and placed his hand over her rounded belly. As the happy couple locked in a prolonged embrace, Christian mumbled an excuse and left them alone.

He cast a glare upward to the room where Genevieve lay. Fate had a cruel sense of timing to bring the jilt back into his life on the anniversary of Jason’s death. The days’ events left him frayed and worn and raw. Since he couldn’t work off his frustration by boxing or fencing or racing, he’d paint to rein in his roiling emotions.

Christian went into his studio upstairs and lit every lamp in the room. He preferred natural sunlight, which is why he used a room with windows all along the east wall. However, when seized by the need to paint this time of night, he needed to make concessions. Christian removed his frockcoat, waistcoat and cravat, rolled up his sleeves and donned a large smock. Then he uncovered his easel and eyed his unfinished landscape.

After losing so many members of his family, Christian understood all too well the tenuous hold men have upon life. What would drive a person to such drastic measures as to purposely try to end her life? Not even Father, in his bleak and inconsolable grief after Mama died, had resorted to self-murder. No, he’d died slowly, a little more each day, of a broken heart.

He shouldn’t be so affected by Genevieve. He lost her a year ago. No, he hadn’t really lost her; she had never been his in the first place. He didn’t need her. He was better off without her.

Drawing a deep breath, he blew away his scattered thoughts like so many dried leaves. After crushing the pigments with a pestle, he mixed his colors, then picked up a brush and focused on the painting. With his brush, he outlined a landscape he’d viewed during his recent trip to the lake country.

Normally painting provided a reprieve from whatever thoughts haunted him, but tonight, they spiraled back to Genevieve. If she’d married him, they would have been happy. His whole existence would have been to make her smile. But she’d proven how unfaithful her heart was. And now she wanted to flee her husband. Which just proved—again—that she wasn’t capable of constancy. Was she even capable of love or did she view love as a game?

Refocusing on his painting, he finished shading in a tree before he began on the patterns of the lake. Creating life-like water had always proved a challenge that required his full focus, but tonight, instead of a clear lake, the muddy river that had nearly claimed both his and Genevieve’s life tainted the painting.

It would have been so much simpler if he’d let her drown. He clenched his fist and put down his brush before he snapped it in half.

The clock revealed three o’clock in the morning. With a sigh, he washed his brushes and his hands. After removing his smock, he draped it over a stool and banked the fire. With a frown at the painting with the greenish-brown lake, he blew out the lamps.

Shadows lurked in the corners along his path downstairs to the family quarters. He nodded to a sleepy-eyed footman at the bottom of the stairs, and then paused, casting a long look to the wing where Genevieve slept.