Beneath a Silent Moon (6 page)

Mélanie knotted the ends of the bandage. "Perhaps it's not the fact that he's remarrying so much as
who
he's marrying."

He went still for a fraction of a second. "Honoria deserves better," he said in the same careful voice. "But she's a grown woman. Presumably she knows what she's about."

Mélanie set down the scissors and the ends of lint and looked up at her husband. He returned her gaze, but his eyes had turned as impenetrable as the weathered rocks of the Scottish coast he loved so well.

At such moments, there was only one way she knew she could reach him. She wondered sometimes if such tactics cheapened what they had between them, but at the moment she hungered for any affirmation of their bond the way a battlefield amputee longs for laudanum. She curled her hand behind his neck and pressed a kiss against his throat.

A wall of flame shot up before him. Panic closed his throat. A woman screamed. He ran, stumbling through a dark, unfamiliar landscape, and caught her in his arms. She clutched him tightly, as though she was caught in an undertow. He thought it was his sister, but the hair he was stroking was a paler gold. Honoria. She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him, her eyes fevered with desperation, her face contorted with fear.

Someone grabbed his shoulder, trying to pull him away from her. He shook the attacker off and clutched Honoria more tightly.

"Charles." The attacker grabbed him again. "Darling, wake up."

He loosed one arm to strike his assailant, but some part of his brain registered that the voice belonged to his wife. He opened his eyes onto darkness. He was sitting up in bed, his heart pounding, his skin slick with sweat, his arms wrapped over his chest, his fingers digging into his bare flesh.

Mélanie touched his arm with cool, steady fingers. He flinched away from her all-knowing gaze. He couldn't bear to have her understand something he couldn't make sense of himself. Not to mention the risk of revealing secrets that weren't his to share.

"I'm all right." He hunched forward. He was chilled to the bone despite the sweat drying on his skin.

He pressed his shaking fingers against his temples. Usually Mélanie was the one with nightmares. Usually he held her. For the first time he wondered if she ever found being held an intrusion.

Mélanie said nothing and didn't attempt to touch him again, but he could feel her concerned gaze on him. He turned his head and managed a smile. "Lobster patties and whisky. Always a fatal combination. It's a wonder my nightmares weren't worse."

In the shadows, her gaze moved over him the way she checked for signs of physical damage over his protests that he was unhurt.

He touched his fingertips to her face. Difficult to believe he'd been kissing it only a few hours before. He flinched again, inwardly, at the memory. He might not be a paragon of a husband, but he'd like to think he was above using his wife to exorcise his own demons. He'd failed at that tonight. He'd buried himself in her heat and let the touch of her fingers and lips and the taste of her skin turn his blood to fire, seeking an oblivion that was all too temporary. "I'm all right, truly. Go back to sleep, Mel. Sorry I woke you."

The Irish linen and Portuguese silk coverlet rustled as she lay back against the pillows. He lay down beside her, resisting the impulse to retreat to the far edge of the bed. The sliver of black between the curtains told that dawn was a long way off. He listened to the even sound of his wife's breathing and tried to sort through the question of why he had been dreaming about the woman who was about to become his stepmother.

Mélanie stared at the jumble of gilt-edged vellum on the writing desk before her. Invitations requesting the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Fraser's presence at balls, routs, receptions, dinners, musicales, breakfasts, and fetes champêtres. Written in the flowing, governess-trained hand of ladies she had never met, half of whom were connected to one branch of Charles's family or the other, the other half of whom had no doubt rolled hoops round Hyde Park with Charles's mother or played dolls with Gisèle or Mozart duets with Charles himself.

Charles had said that as far as he was concerned she could pick the ones she wanted to attend or decline the lot of them. But she knew it wasn't that simple. Charles was in Parliament now, and entertaining and being entertained were an important part of a political career. The part that was supposed to be managed by the politician's wife.

She glanced at the hearthrug where Colin was building a block tower. Jessica, propped against a cushion, watched him with a rapt gaze.

She and the children were in what was optimistically called the library, a glorified name for a back downstairs parlor lined with bookcases and now also filled with crates of the books they hadn't been able to fit on the shelves. As lady of the house she should choose a decorous room on the first floor where she could do her correspondence, but she found the musty smell of the books and the chaotic jumble a great comfort, familiar from years of living in cramped quarters.

Jessica snatched up a bright red block and tried to stuff it in her mouth. Fortunately it was too big for her to swallow. Colin reached for the block. Jessica screamed. Half the blocks fell over.

"Mummy!" Colin said.

"I know it's frustrating, darling. Let her have that one and move the tower away a bit. She can't crawl yet."

Colin began to shift the blocks away from his now smiling sister. "When's Daddy coming back? He said he'd read us a story."

"And I'm sure he won't forget. He'll be home before dinner. He had to see his father."

Mélanie glanced at the mantel clock. Charles's interview with Kenneth Fraser was in half an hour's time. Charles had left the house after swallowing a hasty cup of coffee this morning and stayed out the whole day. Neither of them had got much rest the night before. Charles had tossed and turned and kicked at the coverlet and muttered unintelligible phrases and finally broken out in a cold sweat of terror. He'd jerked away from her proffered comfort as though she'd struck him. For the remainder of the night, he'd lain stock-still, trying to control his breathing so he wouldn't disturb her. She knew, because she'd been doing precisely the same thing.

She forced her attention back to the invitations. The rules of social intercourse had been freer on the war-torn Continent. The British
ton
was uncharted territory, and she was woefully ignorant of the rules of engagement.

A rap sounded at the door, and Michael stepped into the room. "Miss Talbot has called, madam." His shoulders were punctiliously straight, but his dark gaze was warm with sympathy. "Are you at home?"

Mélanie cast a swift glance round the room. Her first instinct was to have Miss Talbot shown into the drawing room, but on reflection she would far rather greet Charles's old friend—or whatever else she was—on her own territory. She had five minutes to twitch her sarcenet skirt straight, rub at the ink on her nails, smooth Colin's hair, and scoop Jessica into her arms before Michael announced, "Miss Talbot."

. Honoria Talbot swept into the room with a whisper of violet and hyacinth and a stir of jaconet muslin and primrose satin. Her face broke into a smile that sparkled with just the right amount of informality bounded by good breeding. "I was hoping to meet the youngest members of the Fraser family."

"My son, Colin, and my daughter, Jessica. This is Miss Talbot, Colin." And then, because Colin was going to find out soon in any case, Mélanie added, "She's going to marry your grandfather."

Colin, who had been introduced to the Duke of Wellington, the Crown Prince of the Netherlands, Talleyrand, Metternich, and the Duchess of Richmond, stepped forward and bowed. "Does that mean you'll be my grandmama?"

Miss Talbot laughed and crouched down to his level, heedless of the way she was crushing her flounced skirt. "I suppose it does, but I'm afraid I'm still getting used to being a wife, let alone a grandmama, so perhaps you'd best call me Honoria."

"Noria," Colin repeated. A smile broke across his face. Apparently Miss Talbot's charms were effective on three generations of Fraser men.

Miss Dudley, Colin's blessedly efficient governess-nurse, arrived to take the children into the garden, and Michael brought in a tea tray. Mélanie and Miss Talbot settled themselves on the green velvet sofa before the fireplace.

Miss Talbot began to undo the pearl buttons on her limerick gloves. "What lovely children. You must be so proud. I believe Colin has Charles's eyes and mouth."

Colin couldn't look remotely like Charles except by sheer luck. Miss Talbot was either being exquisitely tactful or sending a particularly effective dart in Mélanie's direction.

Mélanie lifted the teapot, which had a chip in the spout from one of their various moves. "Milk or lemon?"

"Lemon. And two sugars. I have a shocking sweet tooth." Miss Talbot accepted the cup and took a graceful sip. "It seems so odd to think of having children of my own, though I've wanted them for such a long time." She set the cup and saucer down, barely rattling the bone china, and turned her Wedgwood-blue gaze full on Mélanie's face. "There's no sense in pretending. Last night must have come as a shock, especially to Charles."

Mélanie reached for the milk jug. "It was certainly a surprise."

"I thought about warning him. I couldn't begin to find the words. So I took the coward's way out." Miss Talbot smoothed her gloves in her lap. "I own to a craven relief that Charles isn't at home."

"He's gone to see his father."

"Today?" Her fingers tightened on the gloves. Her diamond betrothal ring caught the light from the windows. "I didn't realize Kenneth—Mr. Fraser—would tell him so soon."

"Tell him?" Mélanie set down the milk jug, splattering white droplets over the satinwood table and silver-rimmed saucer.

Miss Talbot laid the gloves atop her shell-shaped reticule. "I wish—but it isn't my place. Only do be kind to Charles when he returns—oh, but that's nonsense. I'm sure you're always kind. And I'm sure he'll tell you directly. You seem so admirably devoted."

Mélanie took a sip of delicately scented tea, longing for café au lait. "I'm sure Charles will tell me whatever he wishes to." She held out a plate of biscuits.

Miss Talbot accepted a biscuit, but set it on her saucer untouched. "I do hope we can be friends. It's bound to be awkward. I'm sure you know that Charles and his father aren't on the terms of intimacy one would hope for between a father and son."

"You have the makings of a diplomat, Miss Talbot."

"Perhaps it's presumptuous of me, but I hope in some small way I can help to put things right between Charles and
Mr. Fraser. I don't know the whole of it, of course—no doubt he's told you more. But I do know it was dreadfully hard on all of them when Lady Elizabeths—Charles's mother—died. It could hardly fail to be so, especially considering the
way
she—" Miss Talbot's gaze skimmed over Mélanie's face. "Oh, dear Lord. He hasn't told you?"

The weight of unmade confidences pressed against Mélanie's chest. "Only that his mother died just before he left Oxford. I assumed it was illness or an accident."