The Lion's Daughter (48 page)

Though
her back was turned to him now, Damon had no doubt of her expression.
Her small, rigid frame vibrated defiance.

“We
oughtn't be eavesdropping,” Gideon murmured.

“Yes,
it's vulgar, but ever so interesting.”

With
a reproving glance at his brother, Gideon loudly cleared his throat.

The
girl was again belaying Varian in her own tongue and evidently didn't
notice the sound. Varian did. He looked toward the doors.

Gideon
pushed them fully open.

“Ah,
here they are,” Varian said in a strained voice.

The
girl swung round. A becoming shade of pink washed her high-boned
cheeks, and her eyes opened very wide.

“Quite
green,” Damon said under his breath.

Varian
moved to take her arm. “May I present my brothers, my dear?
This sturdy fellow is Gideon.”

Gideon
made a courtly bow.

“And
this one with his mouth hanging open is Damon.”

Damon's
bow was rather less graceful. This was due to a temporary
disarrangement of his wits. Now that he saw her up close, it was
clear she was by no means a child, but a young woman. An astoundingly
appealing young woman. Also exceedingly cross at present, but that
only made her the more attractive. He'd never seen anything quite
like the green fire in her eyes. Evidently, Varian never had, either.
That must explain it.

'They've
been perishing to meet you,” Varian said.

Her
ladyship eyed the two brothers with patent suspicion. “Then you
should have brought them to see me,” she said curtly. “At
least my grandmother would have fed them.”

“I
say, we don't look as bad as all that, surely?” Damon protested
with an abashed smile.

She
clicked her tongue. “It is disgraceful. It is plain you do not
eat or sleep properly.” She stepped a bit closer to Damon,

making
his heart thump oddly. “You are much too thin,” she told
h
i
m.
“Who cooks for you?”
“I have been delegated the position of chef, my lady,”
said Gideon.

“
Yes,
and he's a dab hand with boiled
eggs,” Damon assured her, “though I'm afraid he hasn't
quite got the knack of
—”
“
I shall beat you
senseless,” she told Varian. “You are a great idiot”.

“
Oh,
b
ut it isn't Varian's
—”

She
gave Damon a withering look. He shut his mouth. Clearly, he would not
be allowed to complete a sentence. “He is head of the family,”
she said austerely. “It is his responsibility. Unfortunately,
he has no sense. But the mistress is here now. I shall make a proper
meal for you.” Varian
began to say something, received
a deadly shaft from the green eyes, and also decided to hold his
tongue. “Go have a bath,” she told him. “You make
me ashamed.” Then she marched past them, her half-boots tapping
an ominous tattoo, and swept through the doors. Damon looked at his
oldest brother. “I say, Varian, she won't really beat you, will
she?” “I had better have a bath,” Varian said. And
left.

FOLLOWING
A SURPRISINGLY amiable luncheon, the
dowager
sp
ent
several
hours minutely examining the house.

Gideon
followed her, dutifully jotting down her comments in a notebook.
Damon, much to Varian's annoyance, trailed Esme about like a lovesick
puppy. Nonetheless, his lordship knew better than to go with them on
their tour of the grounds. Esme needed time to calm down. Meanwhile,
he could occupy himself by doing something about the shambles in the
master bedroom. He had thought he'd rather die than let her see him
in this state, in this squalid house which so loudly proclaimed all
his villainies. And he
had
died,
a hundred small deaths of shame and guilt. Having endured the worst,
however, he knew he could certainly endure rejection of his amorous
advances.

He
knew well enough he'd no right to make any, and was mad to even
consider it, let alone hope. He just couldn't help himself. After the
first stunned
—
and
short-lived
—
embrace,
he hadn't found another chance to touch her. Not with strange
servants scurrying about, and his brothers or Percival or Lady
Brentmor popping in at inopportune moments
—
and
Esme all this while in an awesome state of temper.

God
help him, he'd even missed her demented rages.

Varian
smiled bleakly as he smoothed the shabby bed linens. Today's display
had shown a new imperiousness. Not that it wasn't to be expected,
after two months of her grandmother's tutelage. By now, his brothers
must think him thoroughly henpecked. That was because they didn't
understand. Nor had Varian any intention of explaining.

He
knew Esme was deeply hurt, and it was he who'd hurt her.

He
didn't know how to undo it. She'd shown him the letter from Mrs.
Stockwell-Hume
—
the
reason for the unexpected visit
—
and
found his response thoroughly unsatisfactory. Varian had tried to
explain that until his fellows saw her for themselves, they'd keep on
creating their own solutions to the mystery of Lady Edenmont.

He
knew this was his fault, and said so: his scandalous reputation, a
bride from a little-known land
—
wild
stories were bound to result. Yet he hadn't the means to introduce
her properly, which meant, at present, that the dowager must do so.
That was when Esme had exploded.

He
understood now that she believed his miserable condition reflected
upon her as an inadequate wife. That was merely a cultural
difference. What troubled him was her certainty that
he
believed her inadequate. She thought
he was ashamed of her, or tired of her.

Which
was perfectly insane. Unfortunately, insane beliefs are by definition
not amenable to reason. She refused to believe a word he said.

Varian
stuffed his dirty clothes into the wardrobe and looked about him. The
furnishings had been salvaged from the discards of a partially-burnt
house in Aylesbury. Only the bedroom furniture had been usable. Or so
he and his brothers had believed.

Now,
he noticed a faint odor of firedamp, despite the hours of scrubbing
and diligent application of herbs and oils. The bed linens, too, were
second
—
or
more likely, third or fourth
—
hand,
shabby and gray, though Annie Gillis had scrubbed them mercilessly.
The draperies were even worse. Ancient
and moth-eaten to start with,
they were rapidly crumbling, thanks to the kittens' busy attentions.
Varian
groaned
and sat upon the bed. What the devil had he been thinking of, to even
consider seducing his baroness in this sordid cell?
“
Varian?”
It was Esme's voice outside the door.

Varian
experienced a cowardly urge to scramble under the bed. Instead, he
gripped the edge of the mattress and prayed she'd look elsewhere, so
he might slip out before she caught sight of his ghastly room. The
door swung open with a protesting squeal. He closed his eyes. “I
thought you would be hiding from me,” she said. “You
ought
to
hide. But I have promised your
brothers I will not kill you. They say they cannot afford the
funeral.” He opened his eyes. She stood in the doorway, her
arms

folded
across her chest, “Also,” she said, “Gideon does
not wish to be baron. He says he
would rather be hanged.”

After
staring at him for a moment, she abandoned her defiant pose, stepped
into the room, and gazed casually about her.

“This
is a very large room. All my house in
Durrës
would fit inside. But it is the
same with my grandmother's house, and so I am not amazed.”

Varian
rose. “It's a dreadful room, though it was elegant once, in an
old-fashioned way. I wish you could have seen it then
—the
entire house.”

She
shrugged. “It is not so bad. With a few women to help, I might
have made it very clean in a week, perhaps a bit more. You must get
another mouser, my grandmother says, and I agree. Though what the
poor mice find to eat, I cannot tell.”

She
threw him an accusing glance. “Damon tells me you work very
hard. He thinks I am blind, perhaps.”

“For
ten years, I never worked at all. I've a good deal to make up for.”

“
He
say
s
you
do this for me. He thinks I am stupid, too.” “You
are
stupid if you don't believe him.
What other reason could I have, Esme?”

She
answered with another shrug. “My grandmother wishes to spend
the night at the inn.”

'The
Black Bramble.”

“Yes.
She did not bring food enough to make the evening meal. I am sent to
invite you to dine with us. She has invited your brothers, also.”

Varian
swallowed his pride in a painful gulp. “Is that where you plan
to spend the night?”

A
long silence. He waited.

No
answer came. Finally, she turned to the door.

“Esme,
please.”

“Please,
what?
”
Her voice was taut, like her
posture.

“I've
missed you, darling.”

She
turned back to him, her eyes wary.

“I
...
I wish you'd stay.”

Her
glance darted to the bed, then back to him. “You told me I must
go to London.”

“That
doesn't mean I don't want you! Goddammit, Esme
—”
Varian caught himself up short.
“I'm sorry. I promised myself
...
but it's no use, never is. I've
tried to explain, but I just can't make you understand. Why is it so
difficult, love? I know you want to help me
—
but
if my peers were to hear my wife was slaving for me, I could never
look them in the eye again. Nor could I live with myself.”

She
said nothing, only watched him.

Varian
gazed helplessly about him while his mind frantically sought the
right words.

“I
would be
disgraced”
he
said at last. “Worse than I am at present. Far worse. I know it
sounds crazy to you, but that's the way of my world. Ask anybody.”

Esme
considered for a frustratingly long while.

“Ask
anybody,” Varian repeated, “when you get to London. If
even one member of the Beau Monde tells you different, you may tell
your grandmother to send you right back to me.”

She
folded her hands tightly in front of her. “Do you promise
this?”

“Yes.
I promise.”

She
studied the grimy floor a moment. “I do not like this country,”
she said. “The people have no sense.”

“So
it would appear.”

Her
brow furrowed. “I have a dancing master, you know, And a maid
of my own. She thinks I do not know how to dress myself, and
so I must pretend I do not or I
will hurt her feelings. It is tiresome sometimes to be a lady, and I
become cross. I told your brothers I was sorry for my rudeness. I
told them my temper is very ugly, and it cannot be helped.” She
flushed, and his heart gave a desperate lurch in answer. “I
love your temper,” he said. “They did, too. It was the
most excitement any of us have had in weeks.” “I do not
wish to be exciting. It is not ladylike.” “I like you
just the way you are.”

“Tsk”

“Ido”,
he said firmly. “Very much. I've missed you very much. I'm
not happy without you, Esme.”
“I
—I'm
glad,” she said. “You
should
be
unhappy.” Varian
moved past her and shut the door.

“They
are waiting for us, Varian.” Her voice was low, shaky.

“I
never dine before eight o'clock.” His eyes fell upon the shabby
counterpane. It was wrong, he told himself, and he was selfish and
base. But he was also desperate.

He
caught Esme by the waist and deposited her upon the bed, then knelt
before her. “In any case, I've two months of conjugal duty to
make up for.”

Her
beautiful
eyes
were filled with doubt
...
hurt as well. Varian looked down.
He'd make it better, he told himself. He knew how. It was the one
thing he did well. He removed one ridiculously tiny half-boot and
stroked her foot. “Silk,” he said softly. “Only a
concubine would wear silk upon her fe
et.”
He looked up at her. “I
wanted you then.” “Because you are wicked.” “Yes,”
Varian removed the other boot. Then, very slowly, he slid his hand up
her leg and unfastened the lacy garter. Slowly again,
he inched the stocking down. Her
toes curled. He dealt with the other garter and stocking with the
same deliberation. She shivered.