A Perfect Secret (8 page)

Genevieve smiled. “As a child, I was ashamed of my ‘carrot top.’ ”

“Oh, no. It’s ’most th’ color o’ cherry wood, it is. Verra distinguishing.”

Very distinguishing indeed. Which meant she could not stay here. Eventually
he
would learn she still lived. And come after her.

She must disappear into the night where no one would ever find her. She hated the thought of betraying her host and hostess’s kindness, but she’d probably have to resort to stealing enough money to flee. Somehow she’d find a way to repay them. Perhaps she could sneak back into Lord Wickburgh’s house and take her pin money. It should be enough to get her passage to Scotland and provide for her needs until she could secure employment—a governess, perhaps, or a teacher in a lady’s seminary. But she didn’t dare risk one of his servants finding her. He had a veritable army of ruffians he paid to do any number of unsavory activities, not the least of which was hold her prisoner with only her cat and, for a time, her canary for company. It had taken a miracle to escape. She’d need another miracle if she were to truly leave behind her life.

After styling Genevieve’s hair, the maid dressed her in a borrowed shift, stays, and stockings before lowering over her head a morning gown she’d hemmed while Genevieve bathed.

“Ach, the fit is all wrong and that color washes ye out,” Ann said with a frown as she fastened the buttons down her back.

Genevieve glanced in the mirror. The butter-colored gown, no doubt lovely on Lady Tarrington, seemed to drain all the color out of Genevieve’s already pale skin, and accentuated bruises she’d received from the debris-filled river.

“No matter. I’m not trying to impress anyone. And I’ll only go for a short walk in the gardens and then return to my room.”

Ann clapped her hand on her head. “Shoes. Ye haven’t any have ye?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Wickburgh ensured she never owned a pair of shoes in an effort to prevent her from leaving the house without his permission. The moment they’d arrived at his estate last month, he’d immediately burned the shoes she’d worn on the journey.

“Wait ’ere,” said the maid.

Ann returned moments later with a pair of Lady Tarrington’s shoes and placed them on Genevieve’s feet. Genevieve wiggled her toes inside the large shoes like a child wearing her mother’s slippers.

Ann frowned. “Those simply don’t do—they’re far too big. I’ve never seen such little feet.”

Papa had called her his little elf. Genevieve smiled at the memory. How she loved him! How foolish she’d been to believe him not only invincible, but infallible. But at least Papa and Mama remained safe. That knowledge lent her strength each time Lord Wickburgh played another cruel game, like the time he’d chopped down her favorite tree, or killed her canary, or each time he flew into a rage ....

Genevieve shuddered and focused on Ann’s face. “Pray, don’t trouble yourself, I’ll simply remain in my room.”

“No trouble. I’ll try again.”

After a foray into the servants’ quarters, Ann returned with a pair of shoes Genevieve could keep on as she walked. Ann still looked unhappy. “Those aren’t good ’nuff fer a lady.”

“They hardly show underneath the gown, and they’ll stay on when I walk. For now, it’s enough.” If only she had something to give or do for Ann in return.

After donning a bonnet and a pair of gloves Alicia had provided, Genevieve went in search of temporary freedom. She wandered through the corridor, treading on plush carpet running the length of the corridor, marveling at the beauty of Tarrington Castle. The intricate woodwork in rich mahogany shone with constant care. Genevieve traced the elegant paper in gold and red
fleur de lis
on the walls. She admired portraits of distinguished ladies and gentlemen of by-gone eras hanging on the walls. The first Lord Tarrington greatly resembled Christian. Crystal wall sconces shimmered in the sunlight from nearby windows, sending rainbows on the walls and floors. The décor outshone even the splendor of Lord Wickburgh’s county seat. She’d always thought of Wickburgh’s houses as his homes. Never theirs. Of course, he’d never made any pretense about loving her. Their wedding night was proof of that. Losing the baby—the one pure thing to have come of their marriage—had been the killing blow.

Dark grief threatened to overcome her again but she swallowed back her sorrow. She’d been given a chance for escape and she must seize it. 

Squaring her shoulders, she descended the stairs. After entering several rooms, she found a large room at the back of the house. One wall completely lined by French doors opened to a paved terrace. Outside the house, she paused and breathed in the crisp morning air. Her tension eased and she let herself enjoy the beauty around her. She’d heard of Tarrington Gardens, but had failed to conjure the image that now met her eyes. Tendrils of mist clung to the trees, giving them a magical shimmer. Entranced, she wandered along the winding gravel paths, stopping now and then to admire flowers blooming in unearthly beauty amid ponds, fountains, marble statues. At the entrance to the next garden, she halted.

Christian Amesbury sat bareheaded, his golden hair shimmering in the sunlight, a notepad balanced on one knee. Wearing a snowy cravat, grey and blue striped waistcoat, sky blue frock coat and grey breeches tucked into gleaming boots, he emulated the perfect nobleman, fit for entrance into the most exclusive clubs in London. Yet the haughtiness of his class remained absent. He’d completely lacked the urbane boredom Londoners deemed appealing.

Apparently he’d found that cool reserve during their separation. But now, so engrossed in his art, he looked so much like the Christian from her past that tears stung her eyes.

With a pencil in his left hand, he rapidly sketched. She glanced around the garden but failed to discover what had attracted his attention. Christian glanced in her direction with a ready smile. The instant he saw it was she, his smile faded.

He leaped to his feet. She’d forgotten how tall he was. His commanding presence and that new underlying tension seemed to add to his size.

He inclined his head in an abbreviated bow. “Lady Wickburgh. I didn’t see you there.”

She winced. “I don’t really think we need resume our formality, after everything that passed between us in Bath, do we?”

He stiffened. “That is exactly why we should.”

Rather than explain how much she hated her title, and everything it meant, she gestured at the bench. “Pray, continue. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

His gaze passed over her with such intensity that she almost stepped back. He was so different than he’d been in Bath. She couldn’t reconcile the gentle man she’d loved then to this new, hardened Christian. Perhaps she was too emotionally exhausted and beaten down to even try. It didn’t matter. She must leave and never see him again.

His gaze dropped and he gripped his pencil with whitened fingers. She should leave now. Spending time with Christian could only mean disaster for her heart. But at the thought of leaving, pain raced through her.

She took a step forward. “What are you drawing?”

He looked away as if he couldn’t bear to look at her, and made a vague gesture. Then his mouth twitched into a self-deprecating smile. She’d always loved how expressive he was. Although seeing him so clearly angry and disapproving opened up an ache in her chest.

“I sometimes get fascinated by odd things, common objects other people find dull.”

She nodded, remembering how often they stopped as they walked together in Bath so he could capture something on paper. She indicated his sketch book. “May I see?”

He hesitated, no doubt uncomfortable showing her, the jilt, anything so personal as his drawings. Without looking at her, he surrendered the book. The first page held a sketch of a cluster of mushrooms, oddly shaped and distorted. She turned in the direction he’d been facing and spied them huddled in the shade of a fountain. They were exactly as he’d drawn them, but under his pencil lines, they took on an almost magical slant. His art had always had a fanciful flair. She flipped the page back to the previous drawing and saw a single hand, long-fingered, slender and graceful.

“Amazing,” she said.

The next page showed a pair of eyes, dark and soulful, filled with such despair that tears stung her own eyes. She quickly flipped to the next. On paper, Lady Tarrington wore a tender expression as she lovingly rested her hand on her rounded stomach. He’d re-created her quiet dignity and serenity. She glowed in maternal joy. Genevieve ruthlessly shoved away her own grief and shut it behind a door.

She glanced up at him. “You’ve done an impressive job in capturing her spirit. She’s very kind. And so lovely.”

“Yes, she is.” His voice took on a wistfulness. “She makes my brother very happy.”

She adjusted her gloves. “I have no gift for art, of course, but I have read a great deal on the subject and have visited a number of public and private galleries. And I saw the Elgin Marbles when they were on display. I’d love to see your paintings.”

He said nothing, simply stood fisting his hands. The ache in her chest sharpened at his clear emotional upheaval.

She cleared her throat. “By the way, I failed to thank you. I understand it was you who rescued me from the river. You put yourself in great danger. I’m indebted to you.”

Despite his overt tension, the barest hint of a teasing note entered his voice. “Think nothing of it. I frequently go about rescuing ladies in distress.”

She forced herself to smile in spite of the pain in her chest. “I’m not surprised. You would have made a wonderful knight, shining armor and all.”

His expression was so uncharacteristically guarded that she couldn’t determine his thoughts. If only she could tell him she hadn’t really thrown him over, that she’d done it to save her parents. But that would not help matters. Somehow, though, there had to be a way to smooth over the hard feelings between them. She fidgeted with the ribbons of her bonnet and came up with nothing.

He cast a desperate glance at the house as if plotting his escape.

To break the silence, she drew a breath and spoke. “So, you live in London now? I thought you didn’t care for the city.”

He looked away. “London suits my needs.”

She studied him, searching for an explanation. He once loved the country best, letting the splendor of nature inspire him to create beautiful paintings. “I thought you would have received a position in the church by now. Are you still planning to go into the clergy?”

He shook his head.

She waited.

He didn’t elaborate.

She reached down inside and found a smile she could offer him. “Would you be willing to give me a tour of the gardens?”

Without looking at her, he shrugged and with forced nonchalance, said, “If you wish.”

Her heart squeezed. Surely a hundred other women had tried to heal Christian’s wounded heart and win his love. She pictured another woman in his arms. Jealousy tied her stomach into knots. That, of course, was selfish. He deserved happiness, and she certainly couldn’t give it to him. Yet for one mad moment, she almost told him everything and begged him to take her away.

But she was the daughter of a traitor, and had sold herself for a blackmailer’s silence. She was used and broken. Her unworthiness of Christian sliced through her wounded heart, and another piece fell away leaving an increasingly larger void inside.

She should leave. His presence only reminded her of what she’d sacrificed. And she clearly made him uncomfortable. But if she could help heal the wounds of the past, they might both find healing. There had to be a way to break through those heavy shields he held in front of him as if he saw her as a foe bent on destroying him. She owed it to him to try to help him if she could. And she craved his forgiveness.

Christian cleared his throat and made a loose gesture that encompassed the garden in which they stood. “I suppose we can start here. This garden was designed by the seventh Baron Tarrington, back before my great, great-grandfather was given the additional title of earl.”

He led her through each of the gardens, describing with obvious family pride, the background and its roots in mythology. Each successive Lord Tarrington had added his own garden with a unique theme. Caught up in his tales, Christian’s reserve softened. His animated expression and eyes alit with excitement, combined with his rich baritone, kept her spell-bound. Her gaze riveted to his lips—full and expressive.

“Cole has yet to design his garden but he’s mad about astronomy and Greek legends, and has a number of ideas.”

As they came to a new entrance to a garden, he quickened his steps to lead her past it. A haunted shadow darkened his eyes.

She glanced up at him. “What is it?”

He swallowed hard. “I don’t go there. It’s where my brother died.”

She drew in her breath. She’d heard him speak of Cole, Jared, and Grant. Had one of them died since that summer in Bath?  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. Who?”

“Jason,” he bit out. “Are you tiring?”

She almost stepped away from his fierceness. “A little.”

Jason. An Amesbury brother she didn’t know he had. Glancing over her shoulder to the garden Christian shunned, she wondered about the brother he’d lost, and the circumstances of the death that obviously tormented Christian. He’d never spoken of it. She eyed him as they walked, but his expression remained closed over, his thoughts tightly guarded. He led her through the maze of pathways to the house. His posture stiff, he walked as far on the other side of the path as he could. If only she could soothe his hurt.

A pristine white lily blossomed in the middle of a nearly dormant flower bed. She gestured at it. “Look, a lily blooming so late in the year.” She paused, bent down and admired the flower that had the boldness to bloom despite the rest of the world withdrawing from the looming winter.

Christian leaned down and picked it. He handed it to her. “You might as well take it inside or the cool nights will kill it soon.”

She smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

They stood only inches apart, so near that the heat of his body seemed to enfold her, so near that his bay rum aftershave wafted to her, so near that she could touch him if she moved her hand. So far away that they could never recapture what they once had.