Secrets of the Heart (4 page)

The fact that she seemed to like him more the more she was around him made him hopeful that he would be able to win her love completely once the massive production of the wedding was over and they were finally alone together.

It was two days before the wedding, and as Michael strolled with Rachel from the music room after a convivial evening of song and merriment among their friends, he was thinking with anticipation of the time when they would at last be alone together. He did not intend to consummate their marriage that first night; it would be, he thought, too frightening for a young woman still virtually a stranger to him. No matter how much he wanted Rachel, he intended to take his time and build her trust in him, to awaken her gradually to passion. He had long ago vowed that no woman would suffer at his hands, and he certainly would not inflict any pain or fear upon Rachel, whom he loved.

But it would be wonderful just to be alone with her, without the constant presence of a chaperon—to be able to talk with her, to laugh and do as they pleased, to get to know one another, to kiss and hold her, to take her hand, without anyone there to watch or gossip. There had been times in the last few months when he had wondered if that moment would ever arrive.

Rachel, he thought, had been quieter than usual all evening, and as he looked down at her, it seemed to him that she was a trifle pale. She was, he supposed, nervous about the wedding approaching so rapidly.

As they passed the conservatory, empty and dark, he took her arm and whisked her inside the door. Rachel looked up at him, startled, her eyes wide.

“What is it?” she whispered.

He smiled down at her. “No need to be frightened,” he told her.

“What?” Rachel stared at him and let out an odd little laugh. “What do you mean? Frightened of what?”

“I don't know. The wedding. We'll get through it well enough. Everyone always manages.”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose they do.” Rachel gave him a small smile. “I am a little nervous, I guess.”

“Don't worry. I shall be there with you. Just dig your fingers into my arm if you feel that you are about to faint. I'll prop you up.”

“All right.”

He thought that there was the glimmer of a tear in her eye, but she glanced away just then, and when she looked back up at him a moment later, he saw that her eyes were dry. Michael put his hand under her chin and gazed down into her face.

“You trust me, don't you?” he asked softly. “Please believe that you always can. I will not hurt you, I promise.”

“Oh, Michael…” Her voice broke with emotion, and her hand came up to curl around his. “I am not…worthy of you.”

He smiled. “What nonsense. You are worthy of any man.”

Overcome by the love that swelled his heart as he looked at her, he bent to kiss her. Her lips were warm and soft beneath his, hinting of such pleasure that he almost could not bear it. He wanted her in that moment more than he ever had before. His blood pounded in his ears and thrummed through his veins. He thought of Rachel's body pliant in his arms, of her mouth opening to him in passion.

His arms went around her, and he pulled her close against him, his kiss deepening. Heat surged through his body, and he pressed her body into his, delighting in her softness. His lips moved against hers, tasting the sweetness he had dreamed about for months. He thought of the days and weeks ahead, of introducing Rachel to the delights of the flesh, of exploring her body with his hands and mouth, of teaching her the pleasure they could bring each other, and a tremor of lust shook him.

The last thing he wanted to do was to end the kiss, to release her and step back, but he made himself do it. He must not frighten her with the extent of the passion pounding through him.

Rachel stared up at him, eyes wide with surprise. Her lips were soft and moist, dark from the pressure of his mouth, and the sight of them was enough to stir his lust all over again. Michael carefully took another step back, clearing his throat.

“I beg your pardon. I should not…” His mind was too clouded with desire to think of anything rational to say. “Perhaps we should, um, say good-night.”

“Yes, my lord.” Rachel's words were barely a whisper, and she whirled and hurried from the room.

Michael took a step after her, suddenly worried that it had been fear he had read in her eyes, not merely surprise. Then he stopped, thinking that if she was a little frightened, his chasing after her would only increase her fear. No doubt his sudden kiss had startled her. It had not been, he thought rather disgustedly, a suave or subtle move on his part. It was not like him; in general, he was a man who was in control. But Rachel's beauty tested his control, and over the months of their engagement he had had to exercise an iron control over his desires. With the end almost in sight, he had let his guard down. He would have to be more careful, he thought, to keep his distance from his fiancée until after the ceremony.

Right now, he told himself, the best thing to do would be to leave her alone. If his passion had upset her, her mother or sister would be much better at allaying her fears than he.

Michael retired to his study and poured himself a brandy.

He was still there over an hour later, his blood cooler, reading a book and sipping at the last of a second brandy, when there was a polite tap on the door. It was the butler, looking faintly embarassed.

“My lord…” he began somewhat tentatively. “The, ah, head groom wishes to speak to you. I told him you were in your study, but he was most insistent. He would not say what it was.” The butler looked displeased at that notion, but continued. “However, he seemed to feel the matter was urgent. I am sorry to disturb you, but, as it was Tanner…”

“Yes, quite right.” Michael rose from his chair, faintly curious. He supposed there must be some problem with one of the horses—or perhaps one of the guests' animals. Tanner was a normally phlegmatic sort, not the kind to urgently seek his employer's counsel.

Tanner was waiting for him just outside the door leading into the back garden, holding his hat in his hands and twisting the soft cloth nervously. Michael had known the man since he had come there as a groom when Michael was just a boy, and there was something in his leathery face that made Michael suddenly apprehensive.

“What is it?” he asked without preamble, striding over to the man. “Is it Saladin?” He named his favorite mount, a black stallion of unusual grace and speed.

Tanner looked faintly surprised. “What? Oh, no, my lord. Nothing like that. Saladin's as fine and fit as ever. 'Tis something else entirely.” He paused, looking at Michael uncomfortably. “I'm hoping you won't take this the wrong way, sir. I wouldn't have even come to ye, 'cept that the lad generally has a good head on his shoulders. He's not the sort to go startin' at shadows.”

“I'm sorry, Tanner. I'm not sure—who are you talking about?”

“One of my lads, sir. Dougie. He's a good boy, one of the best I've had here, and I would say trustworthy. He came to me just now with a story….”

“Yes?” Michael encouraged him when the other man's voice trailed off. “A story you thought I should hear?”

“Exactly.” Tanner sighed, then said in a rush, “The thing is, the lad thought he saw Miss Aincourt.”

“Miss Aincourt?” Whatever he had expected the head groom to say, it had certainly not been this. “My fiancée?”

“Yes. That's right. Down below the gardens, along the path that leads to the meadow.”

“The meadow! When? You mean tonight?”

“Aye, sir.” The other man looked away, not meeting his gaze. “Maybe thirty minutes ago or so. Dougie was taking a walk before bed, and he comes back inside, lookin' all distraught, and he pulls me aside and he says he seen Miss Aincourt down there.”

“He must be mistaken,” Michael said automatically. “At this time of night? I just saw Miss Aincourt a little over an hour ago, and she was going up to bed.”

“I asked him, sir, and he swore up and down that it was the lady herself. He was taken aback to see her, he said, so he moved a little closer. He…” The groom hesitated, then went on in a rush. “He saw that she was talkin' to a man.”

Michael went suddenly cold. His fingers curled into his palms. “Go on,” he said, amazed at how even his voice sounded.

“Dougie thought it was you at first, so he was goin' to turn and leave, only a horse whinnied. He looked an' seen there was a bay tied to one of the trees, kind of back in the shadow. Now Dougie knows horses, and this wasn't one of ours, so he—he didn't know what to do, sir. He was thinkin' he shouldn't leave Miss Aincourt out there alone, an' he reckoned the man was a stranger, 'cause of the horse. So he stayed, watching, tryin' to decide. And then, well, the man led his horse out, an' Dougie saw his face. It was no one he'd ever seen afore, he said. An' he—he helped Miss Aincourt onto the horse and mounted it after her, an' they—they rode off.”

The groom studiously examined the flagstone walkway beneath his feet. Michael felt as if someone had just knocked the wind out of him. He remembered suddenly the look on Rachel's face after he kissed her—surprise, he'd thought, then wondered if it had been fear. Had the force of his passion scared her into running from him? Then he remembered that she had seemed a little odd all evening.

He took a breath and tried to clear the confusion from his head. “He is certain?”

“He swears it is what he saw. I wouldn't have bothered you if it had been some of the other lads. But Dougie…well, I've never known him to lie or even exaggerate. I asked him over and over, an' he insisted he hadn't been mistaken. There was no smell of gin on his breath. I didn't know what to do, sir, but finally I decided I had to tell you and let you decide, you know….” His voice trailed off miserably.

“I will look into it straightaway,” Michael assured him grimly. “I needn't tell you—”

“No one else heard it, and they won't. I already swore Dougie to silence. He knows he'll be turned off without a reference if he breathes a word of it to anyone else, including the other lads.”

“Thank you, Tanner.”

He went back into the house, feeling strangely numb, and knocked on Lord Ravenscar's door. Ravenscar came to the door, glowering, with his nightcap on his balding head and a dressing gown flung hastily around his shoulders.

In a low voice, Michael explained what he had learned. Ravenscar stared back at him blankly for a long moment, then his cheeks flushed red. “What? What are you saying?” he barked. “Do you dare to imply that—”

“I am not implying anything,” Michael responded coolly. “I am just asking if Lady Ravenscar might step into Miss Aincourt's room and see if she is in her bed.”

Ravenscar looked as if he would have liked to shut the door in Michael's face, but after a moment he turned away, and Michael heard him talking to his wife. Michael stepped a few feet away and waited. A few moments later Lady Ravenscar rushed out of the room, a dressing gown wrapped around her, the ribbons of her nightcap fluttering as she rushed down the hall. Michael caught only a glimpse of her face, but he saw that it was white and taut with fear. He was suddenly sure that she knew something her husband did not.

Lord Ravenscar went down the hall after her at a more stately pace. Before he reached the door, his wife stepped back out into the hall. If possible, her face was even paler than before. She looked at her husband, then at Michael, fumbling for words. Impatiently, Ravenscar shoved past her into the room. Michael strode down the hall to Rachel's mother and took her arm to steady her. She looked as if she were about to faint.

“She's gone, then?” he asked in a low voice.

Lady Ravenscar nodded dumbly, tears pooling in her eyes. She raised her hands to her cheeks. “I don't know what he will say.” She cast an anxious glance behind her toward the room into which her husband had gone.

Michael steered her into Rachel's room and closed the door behind him, guiding Lady Ravenscar to a chair. Ravenscar stood in the middle of the room, shock turning to rage on his face.

“Are any of her things gone?” Michael asked quickly, forestalling the imminent explosion from Ravenscar.

Lady Ravenscar shook her head. “I don't know. I don't think so. Her vanity set is still there.” She gestured toward the dresser, where a silver-backed set of brush, mirror and comb lay.

Michael glanced around the room. The bed had been turned down, the fire banked. A woman's white nightdress and dressing gown were tossed onto the bed. She had dressed for bed, he surmised—no doubt because of the presence of her maid—then had discarded the nightclothes and redressed, slipping out into the night. There was no sign of a letter on the bed or anywhere else. He wondered if she had gone out wothout intending to leave the estate, or if she had left her things behind to conceal what she had done for a while longer.

“Do you have any idea who he is?” Michael asked Lady Ravenscar.

“Of course not!” Ravenscar snapped.

Michael noticed that Lady Ravenscar cast a furtive glance at her husband but said nothing. He turned to Lord Ravenscar. “They have not been gone long, and Dougie said they were riding double. It is quite likely that we can catch up with them if we leave quickly. I will send down to the groom to saddle two horses if you want to accompany me.”