Prelude to Heaven (37 page)

Tess's pain was obviously less important to her husband than his own convenience. “I imagine so,” he murmured.

“You're a widower, I believe?” Aubry asked, diverting the subject.

“Yes.” Alexandre took a much-needed swallow of cognac. “I have a daughter.”

“So I heard. Damned shame about your wife. Pity she couldn't give you a son.”

Alexandre tightened his grip on the glass in his hand, fighting back a sudden, overwhelming desire to put his fist through Lord Aubry’s handsome face, an impulse he struggled against all evening long.

***

Alexandre was already in the conservatory waiting for her when Tess arrived at ten the following morning to begin the portrait sittings. He had chosen a trellis of potted jasmine as the backdrop for her portrait—a bit of scenery he felt was conventional enough for Aubry’s banal sensibilities, and Tess took the chair he had already placed there for her without a work. She arranged the folds of her lemon-yellow silk gown around her, clasped her hands together in her lap, and waited for him to begin, her chin down, her gaze fixed on the empty expanse of tile floor between them.

It was probably safer for him that way, since looking into her expressive eyes was akin to playing with fire, and her image was so burned in his mind that he hardly needed to see her face to paint her. But damn it all, he wanted to see her face.

He closed the distance between them, but she didn’t look up as he halted in front of her. He grasped her chin in his fingers and tipped her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze as he tilted her head a little to the right. “Hold that pose,” he said as he dropped his hand and returned to his place. “Try not to move.”

He studied her a moment, then he picked up his sketchbook and pencil and began to draw. She didn’t speak, but he didn’t share her reticent mood. Nor did he feel inclined to find tactful, discreet ways of learning what he wanted to know. “I heard you've been ill,” he said as he sketched. “What's wrong?”

She held his gaze, her face expressionless. “I don’t know what you mean. I'm perfectly well.”

“Well?” he echoed, and the sharpness of his voice made her jump, a reaction that had him tossing down his pencil and sketchbook. “You're thin as a stick,” he said, once again coming stand before her. “You come to London for the Season, but after a fortnight you take to your bed. Your butler said you were not able to receive callers. Just last night, you had a headache. Yet you insist you are well?”

Her eyes widened a little. “You paid a call on me in Town? You came to see me?”

“Yes. I left my card. Didn't your butler tell you?”

“No. Why—” She broke off and took a deep breath. “Why did you call upon me?”

“I kept hearing rumors of your frequent illnesses and your delicate constitution. So, how ill are you? Have you consulted a physician?”

“You should not have come to see me.” She paused, her fingers hands clasped tightly together, her body visibly tense. “My health is not your business.”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s my business or not,” he countered, his voice and his anger rising a notch. “I—”

“Ssh!” she cut him off, glancing past him toward the open doorway with a look of alarm. “I told you, I’m perfectly well,” she said in a low voice. “I was...ill, but I recovered.”

He gripped her chin and forced her to look at him, not at the doorway. “What illness did you have? I want to know.”

“Why?” she asked, a hint of desperation entering her voice, belying her pose of indifferent poise. “What difference would it make to you?” She sagged in his grasp. “Oh, why did you ever come here?”

“You owe me some explanations, Countess, and I want them. I want to know why you pretended to love—”

“Don't!” she ordered in a fierce whisper. “Please, don't. Someone will hear.”

“Your husband, you mean? What’s wrong? Are you afraid he'll find out about us? Afraid he'll learn where you spent those months in France? How did you explain it all to him, I wonder?”

“Stop!” She pressed her hands to her ears. “Oh, please stop!” She waited a few moments and when he remained silent, she lowered her hands and met his gaze head on. “I want you to leave. Make an excuse to Nigel, and go away from here.”

“I'm not leaving until I obtain some answers from you.”

Her chin quivered, and he couldn't bear it. Abruptly, he turned away and walked to the door. “We're finished for today.”

“Alexandre?”

He halted at the sound of her voice but he did not turn around. “What?”

He heard a whisper of silk and then she was beside him. She leaned through the doorway of the conservatory as if to be sure no one else was within earshot, then she returned her attention to him. “How...” She paused as if struggling with what she wanted to say. “How is Suzanne?”

“She’s as well as any babe can be without a mother.”

“I know you brought her to London. Is she still there?”

“No. She is staying nearby, but if you think I would tell you where—”

“What? Near here?” Her hand gripped his shoulder to stop him as he started through the doorway. “How near?”

“Not near enough for you to see her.” Unable to bear any more, he shook off her hand and left the room without a backward glance.

Tess was only half dressed when the gong sounded, announcing that dinner was thirty minutes away. “Is it half-past four already? Sally, hurry. You know how Aubry hates it when I'm late.”

Sally fastened the complicated tapes of Tess's willow green evening gown as quickly as she could, but it was still seven minutes later when Tess rushed down the stairs to the drawing room.

Her husband was a stickler for punctuality, and Tess was expected to be in the drawing room no later than three minutes after the first gong. But when she entered the room, Alexandre and her husband had already enjoyed their first glass of madeira, and Margaret was sipping ratafia.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” she said, trying to keep her voice dignified when her protesting lungs wanted to gasp for air from her rapid dash down two flights of stairs. “We have been waiting for you, Teresa.” Nigel pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and opened it. He noted the time then gave her a pointed glance.

She walked to the table where a glass of ratafia had been poured for her. “I'm sorry, Nigel. I was unavoidably delayed.”

“Your abigail again? That girl is very irresponsible. I fear we shall have to find you a new maid.”

Tess bit her lip, knowing the poor girl would be gone by morning without so much as a letter of character. Hoping to prevent it, she said, “It wasn't her fault. She'd laid out a lovely gown for me, but I decided to change.” Though it galled her to say it, she added, “I wanted to wear this gown instead because I know how much you like it.”

Nigel gave her a hard stare and she knew he was considering whether or not to let the transgression pass. She found it hard to care either way. After all, if he injured her, then the portrait could not be completed and Alexandre would have to leave.

“And it is worth the wait, Countess,” Alexandre's smooth voice broke the tense silence, “when the gown's as lovely as that one.” He gave her a gallant bow and gave the other man a smile. “Your wife's beauty does you credit, Aubry.”

Nigel took a sip of wine, seeming pleased by the compliment, and Tess didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. She took her glass of ratafia and sat down beside Margaret on the settee.

“How is the portrait progressing, Dumond?” Nigel asked as the two men also resumed their seats.

“I shall have no difficulty completing it within the week.”

“Excellent. Perhaps tomorrow or the day after, I'll wander in and have a look at it.”

“Forgive me, Lord Aubry, but I must insist that you do not.”

“I beg your pardon?” Nigel set down his glass and eyed Alexandre askance. “I am not permitted to examine what I am paying for?”

“I never allow anyone to see a portrait until it is finished.” He shrugged. “Call it an artistic eccentricity.”

Tess remembered how he had locked her portrait away in his studio so that she wouldn't be able to take a look at it, and she smiled at the memory. But when she glanced at Nigel, the irritation that marred his handsome features reminded her that as gratifying as it was to see her husband put out of countenance, the consequences of such a thing were seldom worth the momentary satisfaction.

Nigel let out a petulant sigh. “Very well,” he conceded. “I suppose one must always have patience with artists.”

“
Merci
.”

“Tomorrow after your session with my wife, perhaps you would like to see the estate?”

“I should like that very much.”

“Teresa.” Nigel turned to her. “I believe you should make calls tomorrow. You have not done so since returning home. Mother will accompany you.”

“Certainly,” she murmured, “if Margaret wishes to do so.”

“My mother adores making calls. Don’t you, Mama?”

“Of course.” The lassitude of Margaret’s reply had Tess glancing at her mother-in-law, and the weary resignation she saw there was so like her own inner feelings that Tess had the strange sensation she was looking into a mirror, seeing an older reflection of herself. It was a disturbing image.

***

During dinner, Alexandre couldn’t help casting several puzzled glances in Tess’s direction. He’d come to Aubry Park for answers, but all he had so far were more questions.

He didn't understand the way she catered to Aubry's every petulant whim, but he had the distinct impression it wasn’t to please him or make him happy. Nor could Alexandre determine with any certainty what her feelings were for her husband, and nothing in her expression gave him any clues.

“I think you'll enjoy our tour tomorrow,” Aubry told

him as the first course of Mulligatawny soup was placed on the table.

“It's a beautiful estate,” he answered politely, picking up his spoon. “I might paint some of your gardens while I am here. They are lovely.”

“Thank you.” The earl looked at his wife, seated at the opposite end of the long table. “Speaking of gardens, my dear, I took a walk through the new flower bed you had put in. I'm not certain I approve of the design.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Alexandre saw Tess's body stiffen. In the silence, he heard her sharp intake of breath, but when she spoke, her voice seemed natural enough.

“What is it that you don't like about it, my lord?”

“It's rather chaotic, don't you think?” Aubry took a sip of his wine. “Far too many varieties of flowers all thrown together with no plan or pattern. Really, Teresa, it looks like a peasant's cottage garden. I would prefer something more formal, more elegant.”

“But—” Tess paused, and it was several seconds before she spoke again. “What flowers would you prefer?”

“You don't need to worry about it, my dear,” he said and set down his glass. “I've already given instructions to the gardeners, and they will take care of everything. I should never have allowed you to take on such an ambitious project. You do far too much as it is.”

Alexandre was watching Tess closely, and though her expression was unreadable, there was something terrible in the rigid stillness of her form. He sensed disappointment in her, and resignation and something else. Anger.

He didn’t blame her. He felt the same anger burning inside himself. When dinner was over, he excused himself and went for a walk. He'd only been in this house for twenty-four hours and already he found the atmosphere suffocating.

As the sun set behind the rolling green hills, he strolled through precisely laid-out beds of Michaelmas daisies, roses, and neatly trimmed boxwood. His artist's eye took in the perfection of their symmetry, but his mind was elsewhere.

Aubry treated his wife with cold disapproval if she was a few minutes late to dinner. He belittled her ability to design a garden or choose a picture for their library. Even if she was standing beside him, he talked to others as if she wasn't there.

It infuriated him to see her treated this way. But what made him angrier was the way she sat back, tolerating the other man’s behavior without so much as a word of protest. Of course, that could be because of his presence. One didn’t argue with one’s spouse in front of guests.

He crossed the lawn, making for a boxwood maze about fifty yards away, but he paused as his gaze caught a flower bed nearby, one vastly different from everything else he'd seen at Aubry Park.

Tall spikes of delphinium and foxglove, fat bunches of white daisies, and graceful spires of pink yarrow were mixed with herbs and other flowers, creating a riot of color and shape. This had to be Tess's special garden.

Aubry was right about one thing. It was chaotic. But as an artist, Alexandre appreciated at once the forethought that had

gone into its design. The colors and shapes blended into each other so naturally, it looked as if this garden had come about on its own, through the work of nature rather than man. It was wild, almost primitive, and he found it much more beautiful than all the precise and perfect gardens on the estate.