The Light in the Darkness (8 page)

It was a disturbing thought, disturbing enough to cause her to toss and turn despite the unaccustomed softness of the feather mattress and the rope springs of the bed. At last, quite certain that she would get no sleep despite her exhausted and aching body, she rose quietly, drew on her old indigo gown—for she could not lace herself into that dreadful green gown without help—lit a candle with the tinderbox on the table next to her bed, and walked quietly down the stairs.

At the tavern, she had often sneaked outside at night and stared at the stars. It was the only time in her life of hard work and servitude when she ever had a few moments to herself. She found it very relaxing to lie on her
back in the grass, looking at the brilliant points of light scattered thickly across the sky and listening to the music in her head. She never mentioned the music anymore. Once she had told her uncle that she heard music in her head, tunes that she had never before heard, melody and harmony weaving into a beautiful whole, and he had slapped her. “Bloody daft bitch,” he’d said.

Since then she had told no one, not even Carey, for fear of being thought mad. But the music was beautiful, and she only heard it when she was at peace. There had been little enough peace in her life since her parents had died. Looking at the stars seemed to be the only thing that could quiet her mind and make her feel calm.

Walking silently toward the massive front door, she heard someone’s voice. She hesitated, fearful of being caught. Then she recognized it as Grey’s voice. Apparently he was talking to himself. Perhaps, she thought, he was as daft as she herself was.

Curiosity getting the better of her, she crept nearer the study door, from behind which his voice drifted. The door was ajar, and she peered cautiously around it. Her husband was slouched in a leather-upholstered easy chair, his tanned features deeply shadowed by the light of the guttering candle perched on the edge of his secretary desk. His empty eyes, black in the candlelight, were fixed on a portrait over the fireplace. And he appeared to be addressing it.

“I miss you,” he said hoarsely. “I miss you so much.” Though the words were blurred with drink, there was no mistaking the note of love and longing that shaded his voice. “I wish—that you could be here with me—”

And then he paused, apparently listening for a response.

Jennifer drew in her breath so sharply that she was afraid he would hear her, but his attention was focused completely on the portrait. He
was
mad, she realized dully, yet the realization did not bring horror, only pity. It mattered not one bit to her that her husband was insane, for she believed that she herself was none too sane. Who was to define sanity, in such a mad world? But the grief on his
face was enough to make anyone pity him, even someone like Jennifer, who could feel so little.

Grey started murmuring again, too quietly for her to hear the words. She glanced quickly at the painting over the black-painted mantel. It depicted a lovely woman, with ice blue eyes and snow blond hair, clad in a pale blue satin gown with lavish ruffles of lace adorning the low neckline. In her bodice was a single pink rose. Jennifer stared from the portrait to Grey’s ravaged face, and she understood.

Grey was talking to Diana.

Now Grey’s voice grew louder, as though he were arguing. “I know I shouldn’t have brought her here, beloved, but I only wed her so that I could be left alone. Alone with you.” A pause. “Please don’t be angry with me, love.”

In his mind, Jennifer realized, Diana was angry with him for installing another woman in her place. Now he began to plead with her. “Please, dearest, I didn’t mean any harm. Come back, beloved—please come back!”

And then he collapsed back into his chair and sank his head wearily into his hands, still murmuring, “Come back … come back.…”

Still peering anxiously around the door, Jennifer’s eyes widened. Astonished, she watched as the cold, bitter man she had married wept like a child.

“O
h, God, Grey, I’ve missed you.”

Grey regarded his mistress sardonically, no trace of affection discernible on his face “More to the point, I suspect,” he drawled, “you’ve missed the amusement I provide.”

To illustrate his point, he let his hand drift from her mahogany hair to her bare breasts, lightly brushing over nipples that were erect in the chilly January breeze. She moaned, protesting huskily, “Truly, Grey, I have missed you. As well as the amusement you provide.”

Grey shrugged indifferently and turned away, much to her dismay. His body had been sated for now, and he no longer had any interest in her as she sprawled on the ground. Her body was lovely, voluptuous yet firm, but he had no use for her once she had satisfied his lust. He had not missed her in the least.

He buttoned his breeches and brushed away sundry bits of pine straw that were clinging to his elegant, if somewhat disheveled, clothing. Usually they made love in an abandoned, crumbling cabin that had formerly been slave quarters, but Grey, made more amorous than usual by his six weeks of abstinence, had been impatient. The cold weather of the past few weeks had given way to an unseasonably warm day, almost springlike, and they had made love in the forest atop his fine woolen cloak.

“A parting of more than a month should have given
you an opportunity to improve your relationship with your husband.” He glanced at her, a dark, slashing brow quirked. “Or, perhaps, with another man.”

“Grey!” she protested indignantly, golden brown eyes wide with feigned innocence. “You know there is no one else for me.”

“Would that you could say those same words to your husband,” Grey remarked dryly.

She propped herself up on one elbow, covering herself against the chilly breeze with the cloak they had lain on, and stared at him. “Are you feeling guilty, Grey?” She gave him a feline smile. “Could it be that you are developing a conscience?”

“God save me from that folly, Melissa. Why should I feel guilty for bedding a woman caught in a loveless marriage? If your husband doesn’t have the good sense to make you happy, he should expect you to look elsewhere for your pleasure.”

But he did not look in her direction. Melissa realized he did indeed feel guilty—not because of her, he never spared a thought for her—but rather because he felt that he was betraying Diana. During lovemaking he was invariably passionate and gentle, if somewhat detached, but afterward his face always took on an expression of self-disgust, as though he were repulsed by his lack of control.

But today he seemed even more distant than usual. “Something is disturbing you,” she persisted, driven not by sympathy but by her prurient curiosity.

Grey shot her a level look. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard,” he said flatly. “I’ve married.”

Melissa sat up abruptly, staring at him with something like shock. Had Grey somehow fallen in love in a short six weeks? Grey, who was so obsessed with his dead wife? Grey, whose heart had turned to stone so many years before?

And then she glanced down at her bare breasts, gleaming ivory in the midday sun that filtered through the pine trees, and almost laughed aloud at her absurd thoughts. Of course Grey had not fallen in love. Even Grey could not be
callous enough to bring home a woman he loved and hurry to his mistress’s arms the following day.

Nor was his dark, preoccupied face that of a man in love. She smiled, certain now what must have happened and so relieved that she dared to tease him. “Really, Grey, you should have been more careful. There are ways to avoid such unpleasant consequences, you know.”

Much to her surprise, he burst out laughing. Rarely had she heard him laugh. At last he stopped, and said, still grinning sardonically, “I’m afraid you have the wrong idea. I haven’t bedded the chit—I wouldn’t bed her for a bloody fortune.”

“Then why—”

“Catherine told me to find a wife, someone worthy of the Greyson name,” Grey explained briefly. “I did so.”

Melissa eyed him, wondering nervously if his new wife would be a rival for his attention. “Someone worthy of the Greyson name?”

“I should say so,” Grey replied, resembling a wolf as he grinned. “I wed a tavern wench.”

Melissa could not prevent herself from smiling in relief. “A tavern wench!” she repeated in amused shock. “Grey, how could you do such a thing? My God, what will people say?”

Grey grinned more widely at her shocked response. It was exactly the sort of reaction he enjoyed provoking. “What they always say, I daresay. That I am quite mad. And I suppose I am.”

Such a woman as Grey described certainly could be no rival, and the scorn he felt for his new wife was evident in his tone. Melissa’s concern, of course, had only been for herself; the self-loathing that had led Grey to marry someone so far beneath his social station concerned her not at all. Despite their long-term relationship, which had endured off and on for nearly seven years, she had little genuine fondness for Grey, for he was not a man who inspired affection. “As long as she will not cause you to forget me,” she murmured seductively.

Grey looked at her shoulders and round, full breasts, glistening in the sunlight. “Small chance of that,” he replied in a halfhearted attempt at gallantry, though she knew full well that he scarcely spared her a thought unless he wanted a woman to warm his bed. He added more seriously, “What puzzles me is why you ever wanted me to begin with.”

Melissa hesitated. She had her own reasons for cuckolding her husband with Grey, reasons that she preferred he know nothing about. “You are very attractive,” she said at last. “Every woman in Virginia wants you.” That, at least, was true enough. Despite the rumors that he was mad—or perhaps because of the rumors—women were drawn irresistibly to him. Part of his attraction was his immense fortune, but that did not explain why married women pursued him almost as zealously as unwed girls.

Grey frowned, his heavy black eyebrows drawing together over pale silver eyes. “Your husband is handsome as well, more so than I am.”

Melissa sighed. How could she explain the powerful magnetism that Grey exuded? True, he was not handsome in the traditional sense, but he radiated a strength that was extremely attractive, even when he was foxed, and his carved features were strikingly aristocratic. She did not reply, afraid that she might betray herself if the subject went further.

“If you were unwed,” Grey pressed on with single-minded determination, “I would have suspected your interest was in my fortune. As it stands, however, I cannot imagine what it is about me that you find attractive.” He was not modest; he was aware that women seemed to like to look at him. Generally, though, a few moments in his presence cured them of any notion that he was attractive in any way beyond his looks. Melissa, on the other hand, had been his mistress since shortly after Diana had died—though he had not restricted himself solely to her bed. Far from it.

“Does your wife find you attractive?” Melissa countered,
uneasy with the direction the conversation had taken.

Grey turned away. An expression strangely foreign to his face, a look almost of embarrassment, was beginning to settle over his features, as though even he was appalled by what his callousness had done to the girl he had married. “I hardly think so. At the beginning I believe she saw me as a hero, a knight in shining armor, but—I took steps to correct that. I cannot bear to have her following me like an adoring puppy.” He shrugged, “She is not bright, perhaps even a little simple-minded. I think she is afraid of me.”

Not surprisingly, Melissa thought, studying his sharp profile, the curving nose and jutting cheekbones, and the harsh expression etched, apparently permanently, on his face. To her surprise she felt a brief stab of pity for the poor girl whom Grey had married. To be wed to such a cruelly indifferent man, to be ripped from familiar surroundings and thrown into a completely foreign environment—the child must be terrified. And Grey, typically enough, did not seem to give a damn.

Melissa suppressed her unwanted surge of pity. The girl’s presence, she realized, was to her advantage. If Grey was no longer being pursued by every unwed ninny in the colony, she could continue to hold his attention. She alone would share his bed. And to further her aims, to obtain what she wanted most, that was necessary. The happiness of a mere tavern wench, she decided coldly, mattered not at all.

While her husband dallied with his mistress in the woods, Jennifer sat in the parlor learning to be worthy of him. So impressed was she with her attire that she barely listened when Catherine spoke. She regarded her wide hoops with a peculiar mixture of delight and distaste. As a lowly tavern wench, she had never before worn side hoops, or panniers. She knew that some members of the middle class, such as shopkeepers’ wives, wore hoops fashioned of
bent wood. But
she
was now wearing hoops made of bone! They made her green silk gown look elegant and fashionable, yet they were terribly awkward to walk in. The bone stays that made her already slender waist impossibly tiny were even less comfortable, laced as they were so tightly that she could barely draw a deep breath. But she was now a member of the Virginia aristocracy. She had to wear such things at all times.

“
At all times,
” Catherine stressed as she watched her pupil practice a slow, genteel walk. She sounded as though she suspected the girl of unladylike behavior already, and Jennifer quailed, thinking of how she had drawn on her indigo-dyed dress the night before.

Catherine groaned, thinking it would take weeks, years—perhaps forever—for the girl to learn to walk in a ladylike manner. Despite the fact that Catherine had carefully demonstrated a graceful walk as best she could, given her infirmity, the child seemed incapable of walking slowly, with her head held high. Her gait was best described as a scurry—she walked quickly with her head bent submissively, as though she expected to be struck violently by a fist at any moment. Catherine supposed that was only natural, given Jennifer’s background.

“Very good, for your first day as a lady,” she lied, smiling kindly. It was impossible not to feel pity for the girl. She gestured to one of the chairs. “Come sit and we’ll have tea.”