The Passionate One (27 page)

In his youth such
suspiciousness would have presented an irresistible challenge. To succeed in
seducing a woman already on her guard would have been high entertainment. He
busied himself pouring two glasses of sherry.

Unfortunately he
was no longer so easily diverted. Even the piquant pleasure of bedding a girl
his son wanted wasn’t incentive enough to woo this girl. Not that he wouldn’t
do it at some future point if it profited him.

He’d seen the
glimmer of possessiveness in Ash’s eyes. The girl might be useful in
manipulating his recalcitrant eldest son. But for right now, seducing the chit
wasn’t necessary, and he allowed finally, his mouth flattening, he was no
longer so young that the idea roused him.

Only one thing
still had the same power over him that it had always had: his ambition to
return in full glory to his former position in society—a position from which
he’d been exiled over twenty-five years ago. But if he didn’t return soon he’d
be too old to enjoy his triumph.

He handed the girl
her glass. She accepted it with a mumbled thanks and took a delicate sip of the
sherry; a flicker of appreciation appeared in her hazel eyes. Thank God they
were not sherry-colored.

As
hers
had been.

Knowing Rhiannon
shared McClairen blood, even diluted by half a dozen generations, Carr had been...
anxious that she might have the McClairen eyes. Like Janet.

Thank God, Fia did
not have her mother’s eyes. He didn’t think he could stand it. And Ash, too,
cold as his eyes were, had little of Janet in him. Only the other boy, Raine,
carried his mother’s stamp in feature and character.

The thought brought
with it a ripple of sentimentality, and for a brief moment Carr indulged it.
Some, he knew, said he had no heart. If they only knew how still, to this day,
he grieved for his first wife. If they only knew the truth about Raine’s
incarceration, they would not slander him so.

It was his younger
son’s resemblance to his mother and not his father’s greed, as was widely
reported, that kept Carr from ransoming Raine. Well, honesty forced him to
admit, perhaps Raine’s usefulness in bringing Ash to heel also contributed to
his continued incarceration—but
mostly
it was his resemblance to
Janet.

Was not that
romantic? Was that not indicative of the power of his passion, that he let his
son rot in jail because the look of him was too painful to bear?

Janet would think
so. She was the only one who’d ever truly understood him. He gazed out the
window at the lawns spread below. All the rooms he occupied and entertained in
faced front. He disliked looking out over the cliffs where Janet had fallen.
Indeed, he could barely bring himself to venture into those sea-facing rooms.
Once, just before the break of dawn, when all his guests slept, he’d found himself
in the back library overlooking the terraced gardens. He’d thought he’d heard
Janet singing, her voice soft and light—

“Sir?”

He looked around.
The girl—Rhiannon—was regarding him as though she’d spoken several times.

He pulled his
thoughts together. He had other matters to consider. Like this girl. This
Rhiannon who might, if things did not go as they needed to go, prove
troublesome.

“Your son is wrong
in his estimate of my situation,” she said. “I am sure Mrs. Fraiser will not
deny me the home I have known for over ten years.”

She waited, her
body angled forward in entreaty. He steepled his fingertips before his lips,
regarding her intently, thinking.

He wanted to
believe her. But if Ash had destroyed the girl’s reputation to return her to
Fair Badden and the stigma of being used and abandoned could only be seen as an
act of cruelty. The Prime Minister’s letter, ostensibly written to express his
condolences on the death of his third wife, had made it clear that Carr dare
not be delinquent toward this or any woman.

He remembered the
pertinent parts by heart:

His Majesty has
watched in amazement and deep grief as three of his subjects, all well endowed
in feature, form, and fact, have died whilst in your care, Lord Carr. There are
some who have suggested to His Majesty that your series of sorrows have
benefited you materially. His Majesty is wroth with such slanderous talk. He is
certain that no woman shall ever again come to grief or be caused sorrow while
under your care. Indeed, he is most adamant.

He glanced at
Rhiannon, doing little to disguise the dislike in his eyes. Not only could he
not return her to Fair Badden, he must make certain that while she was here she
enjoyed only the best of health. That meant keeping her from his guests who
were apt to see her fresh innocence as part of the entertainment.

As for the other
matter—that would have to wait. He had some time yet. Something would occur to
him. It always did.

He slapped his
hands down on the arms of the chair and pushed himself to his feet.

Rhiannon blinked at
his sudden movement. “Lord Carr?”

“No, Miss Russell.
I must, for your own sake, refuse you. You will stay here.”

“But—”

“Perhaps later you
can return to this place. I will think carefully on it, consider the
ramifications of your return and the alternatives.”

“Alternatives?
Please!” She threw out a hand. “I don’t want to stay here. I don’t
belong
here!”

“Miss Russell,”
Carr took her hand and patted it, a gesture that seemed both awkward and
unnatural, “the best I can do is to assure you, you will not be here too long.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Ash must look
quite like one of the Russian
vampirs
,”
Fia said. As had become her custom in the nine days since Rhiannon had
arrived at Wanton’s Blush, Fia had arrived in Rhiannon’s room just before dawn
and perched herself on the edge of the bed Rhiannon had recently vacated.

Rhiannon faced the
young girl with a carefully bland expression. Fia’s beautiful, still face was
as cream in the half-light, her immodest, sumptuous gowns wilted by a night of
carousal. Yet, fatigued though she must be, each day before retiring she
appeared in Rhiannon’s room to relate the evening’s exploits and debauches. Too
often they involved Ash.

“I have never heard
the term,” Rhiannon said now.

Fia’s rare smile
flashed and disappeared. “It’s a folk legend of the Russian people. A count
came to Wanton’s Blush last year. He grew... fond of me and being uncertain
whether I would be more beguiled by fairy tales or salacious palace intrigue,
he amused me by alternating the two.” She leaned over, a spark of mischief in
her dark eyes. “I preferred the fables. The Russians are quite savages, you
know.”

“Yes?” Rhiannon
asked. “What exactly is this
vampir
you compare your brother to?”

“A
vampir,
my dear Miss Russell,” Fia instructed, sitting back, “is a dead creature that
rises at night to dine on the blood of the living.”

“Disgusting,”
Rhiannon said coldly. She shed her nightgown and drew on a chemise and
petticoats. It would do no good to order Fia from the room while she dressed.
She would simply ignore the order and none of the servants would dare put hand
to her. Besides, Fia was the only person with whom Rhiannon spoke, Carr having
abandoned her whilst he “pondered” what to do with her, and Ash, besides
stalking her with his gaze, having kept his distance.

Fia shrugged. “I
simply report what is told me and make the observation that Ash could be a
model for these creatures.”

Rhiannon hesitated.
She didn’t want to ask. “Why do you say that?”

“Because,” Fia
raised her eyes to the ornate plaster ceiling for inspiration, “because he
looks like such a predator. And seeing him night after night hunt through
Carr’s guests, I must own he
is
a predator. Not that the ladies mind.
I think any number of them would like to be mauled by my brother.”

Rhiannon ignored
this statement, though she had no doubt it was true. She’d seen the type of
woman who visited Wanton’s Blush. Rapacious, hungry. Eyeing Ash with the same
expression she’d once seen in him regarding her a lifetime ago. It had thrilled
her then. God help her, it still might.

“He looks... I
don’t know,” Fia continued thoughtfully. “His eyes...” she made a circular
motion in front of her own face. “They’re barren, empty, as though he simply
moves by instinct rather than sentient purpose. He drinks too much. He rarely
eats.”

Rhiannon inhaled
sharply. It wasn’t that she cared for him; it was just that she so hated a
waste.

“He’ll be a corpse
in truth if he continues on his current path,” Fia said glibly. “He burns from
within. ’Tis quite a spectacle. You ought to come down from this tower of
yours, Miss Russell, if only to witness Ash’s last bright hours.”

“Don’t say that!”
Rhiannon snapped, startling the young girl. “What sort of unnatural creature
are you that you can speak so of your own brother?”

“Ach, Miss Fia,
Miss Russell be right!” The reproach came from the doorway where Gunna stood.
Fia turned to face her onetime nanny “Ye shouldna speak so. Miss Russell does
not understand the ways of yer family.”

“How could she?”
Fia asked calmly, but the color was high in her smooth cheeks. “I don’t
understand them myself. You should have seen her, Gunna. She all but bit my
head off simply because I told her what Ash was getting up to—”

“I don’t wish to
speak about him,” Rhiannon said, trying to drive the image of Ash, burning and
spent, from her mind.

“Then we won’t,”
Gunna declared, crossing the room to the tall chest on which lay a comb and
brush.

“Ye’ll be going for
yer morning walk as usual, Miss Russell?”

“Yes,” Rhiannon
answered gratefully.

“Then best let me
comb out that tangle. And best ye be in bed, Miss Fia,” she said pointedly.
“Yer lookin’ none too well yerself.”

This news did not
hasten Fia on her way. If nothing else, the girl was wholly lacking in vanity.
She cared less for her looks than anyone Rhiannon knew, and in many ways even
abused her beauty.

“Go on, Fia,” Gunna
urged more gently. “Ye can come back and talk to Miss Russell this evening,
before ye go down.”

“Oh, all right,”
Fia agreed, dropping lightly to her feet and sliding gracefully across the
room. She did not turn at the door, nor did she give any gesture of farewell
when she left.

Gunna watched her
go and Rhiannon studied the old woman curiously. Gunna was genuinely fond of
the unnatural witchling.

“She hasn’t had yer
advantages, miss,” Gunna murmured, her eyes still on the door through which Fia
had departed. “She canna be anythin’ other than what she is and that’s better
than anyone has the right to expect, or anyone has the imagination to see.”

Immediately
Rhiannon felt ashamed of her lack of charity. Who knew what she would have
become had she been raised in this odd, displaced pleasure palace?

“You shame me,
Gunna. It is only that Fia seems not to feel any pain for... another and I find
that unnatural.”

“She feels pain,
mark me she does,” Gunna muttered and then turned her one good eye on Rhiannon.
“As do you, miss. Fer
his
sake.”

Rhiannon shook her
head in violent denial. “I would have as much care for a mad dog.”

“Tenderhearted are
ye?” Gunna asked and cackled. “Then ye must have learned that trick in that wee
small hamlet of yours fer no Russell I knew of was ever accused of being
softhearted.”

“You knew the
Russells well enough to have marked their character?” Rhiannon seized on the
change of topic, glad of the diversion.

“A bit,” Gunna
replied.

Several times now
Gunna had made a casual mention of Rhiannon’s family, and with each remark
Rhiannon found her interest sharpening. A surname would sometimes bring with it
an image from her childhood: Ross of Tilbridge with his great shelf of
eyebrows; Jamie Culhane, an old man with impossibly red hair; and Lady
Urquardt, a thin lady whom everyone knew by her retinue of wee spaniels.

Piece by piece,
Rhiannon fit together a past she’d denied and a history she’d never been told.

“My father.” The
words slipped unthinkingly from Rhiannon’s mouth.

“What of him?”
Gunna asked combing out her hair.

“Did you... did you
know him?” She heard the caution in her own voice.

“I knew
of
him.”

“What was he like?”

“A fine, decent
man,” Gunna said shortly, frustrating Rhiannon.

The old woman
shuffled over to the chest of drawers at the foot of the bed and opened the
lid. She rummaged inside a second before withdrawing a pale blue wool gown.
“This may keep ye warm on yer walk, miss. Though it be cold this morning. Ye
should ask Miss Fia fer a cloak to wear if ye must go traipsin’ out by the
sea.” She gave a little shiver. “Canna see what draws ye there.”