Silver Splendor (34 page)

“Of course not. He wanted to lull your suspicions until he had you trapped on his remote Irish estate.”

“You haven’t any proof of that,” she flung back. “You just want to have things your own way, because you’re used to people doing as you wish.”

“Am I supposed to be thrilled that my wife wants to leave me for months on end? To spend her time with a notorious rake?”

Elizabeth swallowed a swell of anger. Trying to understand him, she studied the implacable planes of his face, the set of his jaw and the tautness of his cheekbones. He could be all tender warmth and blazing passion, or as now, all merciless power and chilling control.

“Then come with me to Ireland, Nicholas,” she said evenly. “See for yourself that I’m not going to leap into an affair with another man.”

He looked at her sharply. “I’m not worried about you having an affair.”

“Then why
are
you carrying on so?”

“Why is this so important to you?” he shot back. “I can get you scores of commissions, commissions that will let you work at home.”

How could she explain to him her need for the freedom to choose? “But this is a chance I was offered on my own merits, not because I’m wife to the Earl of Hawkesford.”

He favored her with a cold stare. “Merits! The only merits Buckstone cares about are the ones beneath your clothing.”

Her anger flared. “You’re jealous, Nicholas Ware. Jealous because Peter is offering me an opportunity I want with all my heart and soul.”

His face looked carved from ice. Only his eyes were expressive, unveiled and vulnerable. Quietly he said, “Do you regret giving yourself to me instead of to him?”

His haunted gaze burned through her resentment. Why were they arguing, anyway? Better to wait… wait until she learned if she’d won the commission.

She lay her cheek against the warm wall of his chest. “No, Nicholas, never. I love you.”

“Then show me,” he said, his voice raspy. “Show me.”

His fingers roughly tilted up her chin. His lips pinned hers in a hard, hungry kiss that shook Elizabeth with its intensity. The feel of his tongue plunging into her mouth brought a searing burst of excitement. She pressed herself to him, her arms wending around his neck, her fingers mussing the thick perfection of his hair.

Abruptly Nicholas pulled away. Leaning to the window, he yanked down the tassled black shade, plunging the private compartment into shadows.

She blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Shutting out the world,” he said silkily. “Shutting out everything but you.”

His hands surrounded her waist. In one swift movement he lifted her onto his lap so that her legs straddled him and her skirts billowed around them. Her breasts yielded to his chest; her calves hugged his hard thighs. Pressing into her most intimate place she felt the telltale swell of his passion.

“But… here?” she said breathlessly.

He consulted his pocketwatch. “We’ve half an hour before the train stops in Huntingdon.” His eyes gleamed through the dimness; his hand delved beneath her skirt and petticoats to slide slowly up her silk-stockinged leg. “Half an hour of paradise.”

His skilled fingers found the parting in her lace drawers. Her breath caught and her head fell back as he stroked her dewy warmth. Desire rose sharp and sweet inside her. She wanted him to love her; she wanted to love him. Shifting slightly to give herself space, she reached with quivering hands to unbutton his trousers until no cloth separated their flesh. He lay hot and heavy in her hand and as she caressed him, he closed his eyes and groaned, his head tilting against the leather cushion.

“Elizabeth,” he muttered. ‘This is why I love you … this is what you’ve taught me… to be open and free.”

Lifting her again, he filled the empty ache inside her
with his surging heat. The rocking of the train matched
the rhythm of their pleasure, the sway of their bodies
seeking, reaching, giving. Elizabeth gloried in the freedom of straddling him, the freedom to stoke the fires of
his passion with the movements of her hips. She reveled in his whispered words of encouragement, gloried
in the excitement of his kisses, the sensuality of his
touch, the headiness of his scent and taste. Clinging to
him, she moaned his name over and over on the stead
ily building ride that plunged her headlong into ecstatic
oblivion–

The train chugged slowly into Huntingdon Station, the wheels squealing metallically on the rails. Nicholas gave Elizabeth one last lingering kiss, then helped her back to her seat. Swiftly she smoothed her wrinkled skirts. He repaired his own dishevelment before snapping up the window shade.

Just in time. Heedless of Nicholas’s noble glower, a portly matron and her rosy cheeked daughter entered the compartment and settled themselves in the seat opposite.

Elizabeth glanced at him and caught the wry tilt of his lips, the faint shrug of his shoulders. Save for the glow in his eyes, she couldn’t have guessed from his impeccable facade the intimate joy they had shared just moments earlier. He looked as coolly perfect as ever.

He’s a master at appearances, she thought, doubts creeping into her contentment. Was that why he’d given her
Gray’s Anatomy,
to lull her into believing he supported her sculpting?

No, she had to trust him. If she didn’t, their love might crumble like unfired clay.

They found lodging at an ancient posting inn near the duke’s estate, which bordered the wild Yorkshire moors. Elizabeth acknowledged a secret relief at stealing one more night alone with her husband before facing the truth of her past. As they lay sated in each other’s arms, surrounded by the musky scent of their lovemaking and the lonely sough of the wind around the eaves, Nicholas quietly outlined their plans for the morrow.

“We’ll leave our things here,” he said, his hand absently rubbing up and down her arm. “We can’t be certain Rockborough will invite us to stay.”

She tipped her head back against his hard shoulder; his eyes shone dark as charcoal in the faint flickering light of a lone candle. “Should we have sent a note to the duke?”

Nicholas shook his head. “I’d sooner catch him off guard. His reaction to seeing you might tell me something.”

She noted his lordly I, but vowed he would not stop her from aiding him. Her trained powers of observation might find a clue.

His deep sigh stirred the tendrils along her temples. “I hate like the very devil to put you through this,” he muttered.

“It’s what I want, Nicholas. I won’t live the rest of my life in fear.”

He made no reply but clasped her tightly, as if he could shield her from harm by imbuing her with his strength. He had indeed taken every precaution. Upon their arrival, she had been astounded by the entourage that had emerged from the second class railcar. Dobson and Pickering unloaded the luggage under Quinn’s sharp directives; Janet and Kipp scurried to find transport to the inn. If they were to stay with the duke, Nicholas declared, he would surround her with people he could trust.

In the dusty inn yard the next morning, Kipp seemed to take her new marital status for granted, his boyish interest focused on the upcoming visit. “I’m to keep me ear to the ground,” he told her, jabbing a thumb at his liveried chest. “Ain’t nobody goin’ to ‘urt you with me an’ ‘is lordship around.”

Nicholas helped her into the leased cabriolet, then climbed in beside her, Kipp riding on the tiny pageboard behind. The other servants would wait at the inn. Handling the reins with competent ease, Nicholas guided the open carriage out of the yard. The ancient vehicle creaked and groaned over the rutted road, the swaybacked dun horse looking more suited to pull a plow.

Morning sunshine warmed Elizabeth. Farms stretched over rolling hills, the fields separated by stone walls. The patches of cultivation gradually gave way to a primeval landscape untamed by human influence, save for an occasional cluster of grazing sheep. A cool wind tugged at Elizabeth’s plume trimmed bonnet. Nowhere in New York had she seen anything so barbarously beautiful, so ruggedly remote. Clumps of bushes dotted the countryside and she drew in a deep breath of tangy air.

Nicholas smiled at her. “Heather will be blooming soon,” he said over the rattle of the wheels. “And that’s the sea you smell. We’re not far from the coast.”

He pointed out the purple moor grass, bilberry and crowberry shrubs, and the tough stemmed bracken, the bane of farmers. Kipp leaned over the back of their seat, unabashedly listening. Against the clear sky a kestrel soared and circled in search of prey. The lonely vista touched a chord deep within Elizabeth.

“Look familiar, love?” Nicholas said.

Was it her fancy or did the scenery stir long dormant memories? She shook her head. “I’m not sure.”

He touched her hand. “Give yourself time.”

At length he turned the cabriolet onto a bumpy side road leading to an arched gate in the distance. Connected to either side of the massive entryway stood twin stone buildings glinting with mullioned windows. The place looked empty, imposing, and somehow forlorn.

A horseman appeared over the rise, galloping toward them in a thunder of hooves and a cloud of dust. Nicholas drew the dun to a halt just shy of the gatehouse. Elizabeth tensed as the rider hurtled headlong at them, as if the carriage were invisible. At the last possible moment he reined in and his majestic black stallion halted within an arm’s length of the vehicle.

“Cor!” muttered Kipp.

A thickset man, his face broad and plain beneath a battered felt cap, sat erect in the saddle. Elizabeth was struck by the contrast between unkempt man and sleek horse. Yet despite his baggy clothing, he aimed an arrogant glare at Nicholas.

“What business have you here?” he demanded, his deep voice not servile in the least.

“We’ve come to see the duke,” Nicholas said.

“His Grace is indisposed. We’ve no visitors scheduled. Go away.”

Nicholas studied the horseman. “We’ve come a long distance,” he said in a tone as smooth as cream. “I’d hoped you would show us more hospitality. Your Grace.”

The brown eyes narrowed, then with a braying laugh that sent the stallion dancing sideways, the rider whipped off his cap. A thin mass of graying brown hair tumbled downward. With a shock Elizabeth realized she must be gazing at the Duchess Adelaide.

The duchess’s pale lips parted in amusement, revealing an enormous set of white teeth. “Should have known I couldn’t pull the wool over your eyes, Hawkesford.”

He merely smiled. “My wife and I are on our honeymoon trip. We were in the vicinity and thought to pay our respects to you and the duke.”

The duchess flicked a disinterested glance at Elizabeth; then her gaze sharpened. “You weren’t present at tea,” she stated, “yet we’ve met.”

Elizabeth’s heart jumped, and she felt Nicholas’s strong fingers interlock with hers. “No, I’m afraid we haven’t met,” she said.

“Elizabeth is an American,” he added, “but her mother lived near here many years ago. Their close resemblance might explain why my wife looks familiar.”

Elizabeth held her breath under the duchess’s piercing stare. The ebony stallion blew gently into the silence, and Kipp shifted on his rear perch.

Abruptly those dark eyes turned back to Nicholas. “Perhaps so,” she said, her tone bland.

“I’d like to speak to the duke,” he said.

The duchess’s homely face drew into a grimace. “Oh, very well. Hugh’s likely still abed, but we’ll rouse the old bugger.”

Wheeling around, she dug her boot heels into her mount and the stallion bounded away. Nicholas snapped the reins; the dun started at a trot, following in the duchess’s dust. Elizabeth slowly relaxed her fingers on the sapphire and silver stripes of her skirt.

She tilted her nead at Nicholas; morning sunlight glinted off his flawless chestnut hair. “Do you suppose she remembered my mother?”

He lifted the broad shoulders beneath his dove gray coat. “I’m not sure. We’ll just have to wait and see.

An avenue of elms lined the winding drive to Swanmere Manor. In contrast to the harshly drawn moors, streams were overgrown with oaks and sycamores, and clumps of wild rhododendron promised a brilliant springtime palette. An occasional tumbledown temple or Paladian bridge embellished the carved hills. A sudden turn in the road revealed the great, green sweep of a lawn, where a few sheep grazed like gray boulders and a circular drive led to a stark, sprawling mansion.

Colossal columns and tall windows broke the harsh gray stone facade, while urns and chimneys dotted the straight roofline at uninspired intervals. The sheer enormity of the dwelling overwhelmed the architectural attempt at classical simplicity; the place looked as stately and unapproachable as Queen Victoria.

A vague discomfort stirred inside Elizabeth. She wasn’t sure if the feeling arose from anticipation at meeting her blood father or from a buried recognition. As she studied the house, her fingers reached into her pocket to touch the swan signet, the ring she hadn’t been able to bring herself to wear around her neck since Owen’s revelation.

Nicholas drew the cabriolet to a halt in front of a huge portico, then leapt lithely out and tossed the reins to Kipp when no retainer or footman came forth to assist them. The duchess was nowhere in sight. Nicholas helped Elizabeth climb down, then their footsteps echoed on the massive marble steps leading to the arched entryway, where a soaring swan adorned the pediment above the door. Feeling dwarfed and ill at ease, she clung to the warmth of his arm. The house appeared deserted, from the dullness of the door brass to the crumbling of the stone mortar.

“Chin up, Countess,” Nicholas whispered, flashing her a wink and a smile.

His imperious knock resounded on the great door He, at least, Elizabeth thought wryly, felt unthreatened by the imminent encounter. After a moment he pounded harder. They waited for what seemed like ages before the intricate knob rattled and the brasi hinges squealed and a surprised face poked out.

A white mobcap covered the woman’s hair, and eyes black as mica peered out of doughy features. “Wha d’ye want?” she said in a voice that sounded more wondering than rude. “If ye’re lost, go ‘round to th stables an Black Pete’ll gi’ ye direction.”