The Sins of Viscount Sutherland (11 page)

Instead she was Gray’s.

T
hey didn’t leave Wildewood until the third day of their marriage. Gray had decided he might as well see to changes of the estate management as long as he was there. A part of Claire resented him fiercely. This was her home, not his. She couldn’t stop the thought burning through her: it should have been Oliver taking over as lord of the manor.

Not his killer.

When night fell on the day of their wedding, Claire’s nerves were wound taut. She wondered almost frantically if Gray expected them to sleep together as husband and wife. She did not broach the subject when she announced her intention to retire. She left him in the study. She spent much of the night straining to hear footsteps coming down the hall. It was near dawn before she fell into a restless sleep.

Gray spent the night in a guest room.

Claire was on tenterhooks the next night as well. But again Gray did not join her. Perhaps, she decided cautiously, in light of her pregnancy, he wouldn’t.

The third day after their wedding, they left Wildewood. Gray told her they were going to Brightwood, his home in Dorset. The journey there would take about three days. Claire queried him about his home there, but his manner was stiff. If the oaf could not be civil, she decided, so be it. The less discourse between them, the better.

The morning of the second day of their journey, she woke miserable and tired; it was as if a boiling sea resided in her innards. By noonday she discovered that being jostled in a carriage did not set particularly well. Her stomach heaved. She had to ask the driver to stop.

Gray opened the door and pulled down the step. Claire barreled past him. Nausea welled up in her throat and she fell to her knees.

Her breakfast was lost in the bushes. To her utter mortification, it was Gray who held her and wiped her face. Claire leaned back against his shoulder, welcoming the enveloping strength of his arms around her. He slid a cloth down the slender grace of her throat. She was totally oblivious to the hunger in his expression as she turned her cheek into his neck.

“You should have told me you were a bad traveler,” he said gruffly. “I’d have set a less strenuous pace.” Gray was also upset with himself for not realizing it sooner.

“But that’s the thing! I’ve never in my life been a bad traveler.”

“You’ve never been with child before either.”

Claire sucked in a breath. There was something odd in his tone.

No. She was mistaken.

He helped her upright. “We’ll stop at the next town.”

“There’s no need for that, you silly man.”

A slow-growing smile etched across his face.

“What is it?” she asked.

He hiked a brow. “I have been called many things, Claire, but I don’t believe anyone has ever called me a silly man.”

By the time they arrived at Brightwood, her strength was sapped. She was drained, both physically and emotionally. Gray took in her weariness.

“Would you prefer dinner in your room?”

“Yes, please.” She was grateful.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Henderson, showed her to her room. It was huge, more than three times her room at Wildewood. There was a small sitting area in front of the fireplace. Claire sat with her head leaning back. She wondered vaguely if his room was next to hers. But no, there was a door beside the armoire. She tore her attention away from it.

A maid named Paulette brought her a tray, then helped her into her nightclothes. Rosalie was to follow later with the rest of her wardrobe. She climbed into bed, exhausted.

Claire felt much recovered when she woke. The room was done up in yellow and white, a little too bright for her tastes.

She was aware of the maid’s puzzled look when she rose from her bath. There was no disguising the thickening of her waist and belly anymore. Her gowns were tight about her bosom as well. She sighed.

“I’ll settle the question right now. Yes, I’m carrying a baby.”

There would be gossip in the servants’ quarters that day, she decided.

Paulette flushed bright red. Quickly, she said, “I can let the seams out of your gowns if you like.”

Claire flashed a smile. She liked the girl. “Thank you. My maid Rosalie will be arriving soon with the rest of my clothing. She’s started with some others, but it would be much appreciated if you could sew the ones I’ve brought.”

Sitting at the dressing table, Claire let Paulette brush her hair. “Your hair is lovely, my lady,” Paulette said. “So thick and shining. Would you like me to braid it and twist it up on your crown?”

Claire smiled. “Certainly.” She liked the girl’s forthright manner. Paulette caught her hair up in her hand and separated it into three long ropes. While she worked, she told Claire the names of some of the servants.

“Mrs. Henderson has been the housekeeper back when”—was it a pause? Or did she stop short?—“for quite some time now.” Quickly she went on. “Edgar is her husband, and the estate manager for his lordship.” A host of other names followed. Claire decided she would have to meet everyone before she could remember who they were.

“We were surprised when we learned that the master was coming home.” Paulette braided her hair with quick efficiency. “We scurried to work to have all in readiness when he arrived.”

Claire was puzzled. “Why?”

“Oh, mum, he hasn’t been here for—oh, my word—why, it’s surely been three years now. Shortly after the accident.” She shook her head. “Oh, look at me, now. Mrs. Henderson would be most displeased if she learns I’m prattling on.”

Three years! He’d been gone for three years? How odd. What man would leave his estate for three long years? And what accident? Claire was puzzled—and curious, too. She sensed Paulette had been about to say more but caught herself before she did. She wanted to query her further, but another maid came in and announced that breakfast was served.

Gray was sitting in the dining room when she entered. He stood politely.

“Good morning, Claire.”

“Good morning to you, sir.”

“I trust you slept well?”

“Thank you. I did.”

Claire moved to the sideboard, where an ample breakfast had been laid out. She helped herself to eggs, plump sausages, and toast. The eggs were perfectly cooked, the sausage as well. But her stomach began to pitch.

“Are the sausages not to your liking?”

“They’re wonderful,” she said quickly. A flush crept into her cheeks. “I . . . um . . . I fear that . . .”

There was an awkward pause. “It will pass.”

Claire was annoyed. Who was he to think he had the knowledge of a physician?

“You must be curious about your new home,” he said.

“I am.”

“Then let me show you.”

They spent the next few hours strolling through the house and grounds. To Claire, the house was immense, much larger than Wildewood.

They walked through the grounds, well tended but brown and bare with the coming winter. When spring came, no doubt there would be a riotous explosion of color.

Spring.
Spring would bring the birth of her child.

They ended up in the corridor outside her room. Claire opened the door but didn’t enter. Instead she turned to Gray, feigning an air of nonchalance. “Where is your room?”

She could clearly make out the suddenly tense line of his jaw. “The next room to the right,” he stated coolly.

“I see.” Claire’s heart had picked up its pace. She stepped across the threshold and pointed to the door next to the armoire. “There is a door locked in my room.”

Gray said nothing.

“Does that lead to your room?”

Was he offended by her bluntness? She could have sworn she heard his jaw lock. “Yes.”

His forbidding expression kept her tongue in check. But she couldn’t withhold the thought that sprang high in her mind. Was it to keep him out? Or to keep
her
out?

A ridiculous thought.

Claire linked her fingers together before her, marveling at her boldness. “I am unsure of my role here.”

“You are mistress here.” He was curt. She could still clearly make out the tense line of his jaw. “You will tend to all the duties that entails.”

Her chin rose. “
All
duties?”

His mouth was tight.

“I expect to be treated as a wife. More to the point—” She swallowed. “—I would like to make clear whether you will expect me to . . . to—”

“Share my bed?”

He seemed to take great pleasure in the words.

Claire swallowed. “I will if you wish it.”

Not that he would want to, she expected, given her condition.

“Gray?”

He looked at her with murder in his eyes. “Let us be quite clear, then.” His tone was clipped and abrupt. “There will be no need to come to my bed.”

His expression was glacial. Claire very nearly fell back. She found it difficult to believe this man capable of love.

“There is one more matter,” she said, forcing herself to go on. “This room. Was it your wife’s?”

“You are my wife, Claire.” His tone was edged with ice.

Her eyes flashed. “I believe you know what I mean.”

“Yes.”

“Is it possible I might know her name?”

Time spun out to a screaming silence. “Lily,” he said at last. “Her name was Lily.”

“Thank you.” Her chin lifted a notch. “May I have your permission to redecorate?”

“Redecorate anything you want. Have the bills sent to me in London. Now, if you have finished, I would like to be on my way.”

Claire blinked. “On your way?” she repeated.

“I’m returning to London.”

“What . . . now?”

“Yes.” He turned and walked away.

She was too shocked to say a word. Fury began to mount. Why, the bastard! Good riddance to the man, then!

One month later, Gray sat in the Duke of Braddock’s study. On the corner of the desk was a half-empty, finely etched crystal decanter.

Two lazy curls of smoke drifted to the ceiling. Gray had long ago tugged off his cravat. Both had just had several glasses of Irish whiskey.

Clive guided the rim of the decanter into both glasses. Leather creaked as he leaned back.

“Well, Gray, I do not envy you your predicament.”

Gray flicked the ash from his cigar. “An annulment is not an alternative.”

“No,” agreed his friend. “There’s no question about it.” Clive shook his head. “I still can’t believe this has happened.”

Gray’s mouth twisted. “I thought she was—how shall I say this?—quite experienced, given her marital status.” Well, that wasn’t quite true. A voice in his head intruded.
You recall thinking she’d not been wed for long.
The other voice argued,
Who would have expected a widow to be a virgin?

“She deceived me, Clive. All that time she deceived me.”

“You killed her brother,” Clive pointed out.

“That wasn’t meant to happen. You were there, for pity’s sake.”

“Nonetheless, it did.” Clive studied him. “Have you told her that her brother was the first to fire?”

Self-loathing swelled. Claire had called him a murderer. And he was. He was all that and more. His hands were stained with blood.

Gray gave a tired shake of his head. “For what reason? Would that make it any easier for her? He’s dead. That doesn’t change what happened.”

“And it doesn’t change that she’s expecting your child, Gray. Man, whatever came over you?”

He grimaced. What, indeed. If he’d known she was a virgin, he wouldn’t have . . . He let loose a self-deprecating curse. Controlled himself? It was a lie. Even if he’d known, he wouldn’t have been able to stop. No power on earth could have stopped him.

His mouth tightened. He was a man of utmost discipline. Even in bed. He didn’t like being out of control.

He clenched his teeth. Out of control . . . That was how he’d felt with Claire in his arms. He’d been driven by the blood rushing hot and thick in his veins, desire scalding every part of him. Burned in his memory was the feel of her body beneath him—memories afresh—her belly rubbing against his as he plied her legs wider. He relived the mind-shattering instant he seated himself inside her—as far as he could go—the way her breath dammed in her throat. Christ, he could still feel her!

Clive leaned back in his chair. “You surprised me, Gray, when you said you took her to Brightwood instead of returning to London.”

“I won’t subject her to ridicule. For me, it doesn’t matter.”

“How long has it been since you had been at Brightwood?”

Pale blue eyes glinted. He didn’t appreciate the reminder. “Three years,” he said tersely. Three years since he’d vowed never to return—except in his coffin. “What can I say, except . . . things change.”

Clive watched him closely. “Yes. You can hide her away at Brightwood and resume your life here in London.”

A self-derisive scorn filled his chest. Claire had called him a murderer. And he was. He was all that and more.

That was exactly what he had planned. He would return to his life in London. Yet in this past month, scarcely a moment had passed that Claire hadn’t been on his mind. Lady Hastings had let him know she wasn’t averse to sharing a bed with him again. She, too, was a widow. But her curves and smiles left him cold. He hadn’t lain with a woman since Claire.

And most unexpectedly, his conscience prodded him. He’d thought he lost it long ago.

“What about the babe, my friend? Is there any question the child isn’t yours?”

“No,” he said tersely.

Clive studied him. “I can only imagine how difficult it must have been to return home after so long. After Lily and—well, I don’t think I need say it.”

A dark shadow blotted Gray’s soul . . . He’d missed Brightwood. He hadn’t realized how much until he walked through the doors. The past closed in, memories he could not lock away. Damn Clive! He was reminding him of everything he sought to forget! It had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed to walk into his home. Every breath was like fire in his lungs. Even Clive didn’t know the truth—

“It was inevitable, Gray, that you return. I know your pride in everything your family has built—”

“You are right,” Gray bit out. “You can’t know.”