Rules of Attraction (19 page)

Her grandparents. Perhaps they were cruel. Perhaps they were kind. Perhaps they deserved no forgiveness for the hideous fate they had wished upon their grandchild, and perhaps Hannah had no forgiveness to give them. But she had to know. She had to see them. She would take matters in her own hands.

Next week was her half day off. Filled with drastic resolution, she asked, "Where do the Burroughses live?"

15

H
annah had her information, the information she had come to Lancashire to find. Aunt Spring had provided it freely, without imagining how much it meant to Hannah or how chagrinned Dougald would be that she had obtained it. Furthermore, Hannah felt sure Aunt Spring would have provided her with the Burroughses' direction even if she had understood the situation.

So why did Hannah feel so guilty?

Probably because she had kept the facts from Aunt Spring and the others. They were such lovely ladies, taking her into their embrace, telling her all their secrets, making her job a pleasure. With the renovation of the tapestry proceeding so well, and the kindness of her charges, the only fly in the ointment was Dougald and his despicable superiority. If not for him, she would be perfectly happy.
Perfectly
happy.

To prove it, she hummed as she held her candle high and walked down the corridor to her bedchamber. The darkness did not bother her, nor did the hideous, shabby wallpaper, nor did the shadows that stretched and wavered in the candle flame, nor did the deep-set doors, closed and mysterious, and certainly not the absolute, wretched loneliness of her situation.

Mrs. Trenchard had told the truth when she said only Dougald and Hannah lived in this wing. The live-liness, the camaraderie, the brightness that characterized the aunts' wing was absent here. The servants came in the daylight to dust and wax, to replenish the water in the pitcher and take her laundry, but at night each step echoed on the polished wood floor and Hannah found herself fantasizing about Dougald and what she wanted to say to him— if she ever saw him.

Stopping opposite the double doors, she stared at the master's suite. Mayhap he was inside, and she could trap him and tell him… everything. How his evasive tactics were not breaking down her fortitude. That she was happy being his aunt's companion and nothing more. That she didn't care whether they ever again lived together as man and wife, and in fact she scarcely thought of what might happen if the two of them were alone together on a bed. Oh, and… that she'd invited Queen Victoria to visit Raeburn Castle.

Hannah chuckled softly. He had done everything in his power to prove he cared nothing for her, but she would wager he'd definitely care about that invitation.

She took a step closer to the doors. Truly, a valiant woman would knock on those doors and speak to her employer. It was foolish to refrain. More than that, it was cowardly, a mark that, despite her assurances to herself, his nerve-wracking tactics
were
working.

Reaching out her fist, she rapped on the panel. The thick wood muffled the noise, yet it sounded loud in the emptiness of the corridor. Compulsively, she glanced around. The corridor was still empty and dark. So she knocked again.

Nothing. He didn't answer. No light shone from beneath the door. Probably he wasn't inside.

So why did her hand reach out and close around the doorknob? The metal was cold in her palm; she paused and wondered at her insanity. Then she turned the knob. The latch clicked. The door opened.

She lingered on the threshold and peered into the Stygian gloom. If she stepped through, she would be thoroughly invading Dougald's privacy.

Not that he didn't deserve it. In London, he had had her watched, for heaven's sake.

But to sneak into her estranged husband's bedchamber seemed illogical and not at all like her.

Except that she'd had a healthy dose of curiosity when she was a girl. Look at her eagerness for new experiences. That curiosity had gotten her into Dougald's arms and into the unendurable marriage to begin with.

Which was a good reason not to go in.

But she wanted to know what his room looked like. So she set foot through the portal and, candle aloft, stepped cautiously into the middle of Dougald's sitting room.

A few coals glimmered in the fireplace, casting their feeble light over the furnishings and carpets. From here, his life as the master of Raeburn Castle wasn't much different than hers as the aunts' companion. His sitting room was large, his bedchamber larger, but the carpets were faded and dreary, the embroidery on the chair seats was frayed, the wallpaper might have been stylish once, but not for at least forty years and, as Mrs. Trenchard promised, the coals cast a pall of smoke into the room. The man who had worked so hard for the pleasures of life now worked, but ignored the pleasures.

"This is wretched." She smoothed the ugly, worn material on one of the chairs. "Really ugly. Who chose the fabric, the village blacksmith?"

The door slammed against the wall, and Dougald said, "Actually, I believe Aunt Spring's grandmother chose the fabric."

Hannah jumped and whirled. Hot wax splashed onto her hand, and she held on to the candle by instinct only.

Dougald watched, his green eyes gleaming. He stepped across the threshold. His broad shoulders blocked the door, his fists rested on his hips and made him appear yet larger. There was a message in his stance. She wasn't getting past him.

"What are you doing here?" Hannah demanded.

He lifted an eyebrow.

Of course. This was his suite. "You're wondering what
I'm
doing here. I was just… looking." She sounded guilty. That was bad. "I wanted to speak to you." There. That was firmly spoken. Better.

"The room was empty."

"I thought I might come in and wait."

"How… bold… of you," he drawled.

His mockery reminded her of her indignation, and she shed guilt as a duck does water. "If you had consented to speak to me when I requested it, I would not now be driven to such behavior."

With chilly detachment, he said, "I didn't wish to hear you nag."

"Nag?" About inviting the queen to Raeburn Castle? She narrowed her eyes. "About what?"

"Our marriage. Your family." He gestured toward her, his palm broad, his fingers splayed. "Whatever it was that you wished to nag about."

He was insufferable, imagining he knew her thoughts. In a grand gesture of defiance, she told him, "I don't need to nag you about my family. I spoke to Aunt Spring."

She thought he would roar with fury. Instead he smiled a chilly smile. "I suspected you would."

Perhaps he didn't understand. "I now know not only my grandparents' names, I know where they live."

"I understand."

But how could he? He wasn't scowling or forbidding her. "I'm planning to go see them, Dougald. You can't keep me from it."

"Certainly. Go." He leaned negligently against a chair. "Let me know what the Burroughses say when you appear out of nowhere and claim to be their heir."

"Their heir," she said foolishly. "To what?"

"They have a tidy little fortune. A pleasant house. No descendants to inherit. So when you arrive and say you are their long-lost granddaughter, I would love to hear how they react."

He did understand. He understood better than she did. "I'm not interested in their money, and I'm sure the estate is entailed." At once she heard the feebleness of her protest. No one would believe that she, an orphan, a woman who worked for her living, didn't care about her grandparents' fortune.

"I've spoken to Mr. Burroughs. He's a tough old hawk, a former military man with few illusions and little patience with pretenders. He put me on the rack about my past and my background. Can you imagine what he will do when he meets you, Miss Hannah Setterington? A woman who doesn't even use her mother's last name?"

To have come so far! To have learned so much! And to have reached such an obstacle in her search for family! "I have no proof of my parentage," she said stiffly. "If what you say is true, then I can never convince them who I am."

"Maybe they'll see a resemblance between you and their son. Or maybe…" Dougald rubbed his chin in false thoughtfulness. "Maybe proof exists."

Taking a hard breath, she asked, "What proof?"

Dougald dropped his performance. "A packet of letters written from your father to your mother. Your mother left them with me. That will be the evidence they seek."

"Letters? From my father?" She could scarcely contain her joy. Evidence of her father's existence. Words he had written. Words she could read. Then she realized… the letters were nothing to Dougald. Nothing but leverage over her. With impetuous demand, she said, "Give them to me."

"No."

"You're a jackass."

"Such flattery will not win my patronage."

His black hair swept back from his forehead, lending a stark elegance to his features. The pale flicker of the single flame played across his face, showing the thrust of his cheekbones and angle of his jaw in sharp relief. Not a hint of a smile softened his lips. His large eyes didn't
watch
her; they performed a surveillance. Nothing she did, no nuance of thought or speech went unnoticed. His dark suit blended with the night that surrounded them, but still she saw and sensed every muscle in his body. The strength of his shoulders, the bulk of his chest, the narrow hips and mighty legs. Yes, he had lost weight since their wedding day, but she never doubted he could run her down and overpower her. In this light, in this place, he looked very much like the avenger who haunted her nightmares and not at all like the lover of her fantasies.

"What do I have to do to get those letters?" she asked.

"You know."

Did he mean…? But of course he did. If he was trying to make her uncomfortable, he succeeded only too well. He said such terrible things to her. Hurtful things, with no hint of kindness or affection. Nevertheless, now, her heart beat with the rhythm of their haunting desire. Here, in this dark, smoky room with his gaze lingering on her, she again experienced that long-ago flush of excitement, of newness, of fascination. Her breath came too quickly— had Dougald noticed? Prudently, she pressed her knees together beneath her petticoats, but whether to eliminate the pressure and the dampness or to preserve the sensation of his imagined flesh, she didn't know. And she wished— la, how much she wished!— that she could ever believe in the future as she had that first day on the train when she believed he loved her… and she believed she loved him.

The darkness clung to him like a lover, and she wanted to retreat into that darkness. "Why don't you have a candle?" she demanded.

"I like to watch you walk past."

Shocked, she stared at him. He had been standing there when she walked past? Was it so dark and she so engrossed in her thoughts she had missed him? And… and he had watched her on other nights, at other times? When she was singing or…

"You talk to yourself," Dougald said.

She couldn't deny it. She talked to herself when she was nervous or lonely, and as she traipsed down the corridor she was frequently both. Frantically she tried to recall how much she'd spoken. What she'd said.

His teeth gleamed in the dim light. "It's a nasty habit, one that leads to insanity… or does it mean you're already insane? I can't remember."

Why did he watch her? Did he dream of doing as he threatened? Did he plan to murder her? Or spring on her and take her? "You should be able to tell," she answered.

She knew Dougald. He wouldn't murder her, and if he wished to… well, he'd warn her before he did the deed. "So will you have me committed?" Testing him, she offered him an alternative. "I believe insanity will free you of unwanted wedding vows."

He rubbed his chin in false thoughtfulness. "I hadn't thought of that. Thank you for the suggestion."

"If you have me committed, you have to admit you never killed me, yet allowed the rumors of my death to circulate— to your detriment." She challenged him with her stance. "Who then will be considered the lunatic?"

"I would be, for not disciplining my wife."

"There's my Dougald. Always a brute." She turned her back on him— akin to the lion tamer who audaciously turns his back to his savage beast— and walked to the drapes. Lifting a tassel, she faced him again. He hadn't moved. "Brute or not, you don't have to live like this, with everything old and shabby. Whoever picked out this pattern should be shot."

Dougald flinched.

She stared at him. "You don't agree?"

"I hadn't noticed."

"Since when? You used to want the best."

"I used to care what others thought."

"We're talking about basic comforts."

"The chairs are old, the mattress is lumpy." He shrugged. "I don't sleep anyway."

"Maybe that's why you're so cross." Walking to the candelabra on the table, she lit the candles. The room looked no better illuminated by a dozen flames. Smoke had stained the drapes and wallpaper in uneven streaks, and the acrid odor permeated everything. As she looked around, she thought that he needed… well, he needed something. A softening influence, or some firm, reasonable discourse.

She'd never been able to talk sense into him, but her nemesis could. "What does Charles think of this?"

His eyes became slits of green ice. "I don't ask him."

Dougald's hostility didn't impress her. "He always liked his creature comforts even more than you."

"He has his creature comforts— elsewhere." Dougald took a step into the room. "Nothing about me is the same, Hannah. If you're trying to judge me by my past actions, you are doomed to failure."

"Then there are subjects we need to discuss."

"Not tonight. Not here. Not now."

"You said nothing about you was the same, but I'd have to say it is. You still want your own way. Of course— you are a man." Sitting down on one of the overstuffed chairs, she crossed her arms. "Tonight. Here. Now."

Still half-hidden by shadow, he leaned his shoulder against the wall. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of the old Dougald in his half smile. "You are very bold for an erring wife."