Thunder and Roses (14 page)

He began to relax as dinner was served by Williams and one of the newly hired footmen.

After the food had been placed on the table and the two servants were about to withdraw, Nicholas said, “Williams, I understand that you contributed substantially to the improvements in the drawing room. Well done.”

The butler blushed pink with pleasure and shot a grateful glance at Clare. “T
hank
you, my lord. It was my pleasure.”

Clare had to admire Nicholas, who had obviously learned that a few appreciative words were an effective way of earning loyalty. From what she had heard, it was a lesson that the old earl had never mastered.

As Nicholas carved the joint, he remarked, “Roast lamb again, but this time cooked as it should be. A suet crust with mountain ash berry jelly on the side, I believe?”

“Exactly. One of Mrs. Howell’s specialties.”

The roast potatoes were crisp and hot, the asparagus tender, and the
sauteed
trout known as
gwyniad
flaked delicately away from the bone. It was the best meal Clare had had in months. If Nicholas had sneered at the simplicity of the food, she would have been tempted to pour the leeks in cheese sauce over his head, but he ate with obvious enjoyment.

After having second helpings of everything, he pushed his plate away with a happy sigh. “Double Mrs. Howell’s salary.”

Clare almost dropped her fork. “But you don’t know how much she’s earning.”

“Whatever it is, she’s worth more.”

“As you wish, my lord.” She smiled. “Yesterday’s unsuccessful cook, Gladys, is now the head housemaid. She’s excellent at cleaning.”

He chuckled and poured himself more wine, then began describing what he had accomplished in Swansea. When he was finished, Clare outlined the arrangements she had made in the household, and told him of the mine visit that was scheduled for the next day. It was a curiously domestic conversation.

The servants silently cleared away the dishes and brought hot coffee while Clare and Nicholas discussed what needed to be done next. She was surprised when the clock struck ten. Feeling suddenly tired, she got to her feet. “It’s been a busy day. I’m going to bed now.”

He said softly, “Come here.”

Her fatigue instantly vanished in a surge of wary anticipation; given what had happened that afternoon, she had half expected him to forgo his kiss.

He pushed his chair away from the table but remained seated. When she was close enough, he caught her hand and pulled her toward him until she was standing by his chair. With his face a few inches below hers, she saw how ridiculously long his eyelashes were. He really was too handsome to be believable.

Still holding her hand, he said lazily, “Where shall I kiss you tonight?”

The fact that her leg was pressed against his hard thigh undermined her judgment. Trying for her best schoolmistress voice, she said, “I assume the question is rhetorical because you’ve already made up your mind.”

He smiled. “Not yet.”

His gaze went to her throat, where he had kissed her the night before, and she felt her pulse beat harder. When his gaze shifted to her mouth, she touched her tongue to her lower lip. Surely tonight he would kiss her on the mouth.

He surprised her again, this time by pressing his lips into her hand. At first he simply exhaled softly into the sensitive flesh, his breath a warm caress. Then his tongue began teasing the center of her palm. “A woman’s body is a symphony,” he murmured, “and every part of you is an instrument crying out to be played.”

Her fingers curled involuntarily and brushed his cheek. Under the dark, smoothly shaven skin she felt the faint prickle of whiskers, a texture that was startlingly erotic in its maleness.

His firm lips moved higher and he drew her little finger into his mouth. Pressure, heat, and moisture, a dimly understood essence of desire. Her breath quickened and her body slackened. As if she were mesmerized, she drifted lower until she settled on his knee. Dimly she realized that her behavior was appalling, but she had no more volition than a leaf in the wind.

His mouth traced a path down to the pale fragile skin inside her wrist. Enchanted, she gave a breathy exhalation and relaxed against him. With her free hand, she stroked his hair. Ebony softness, thick, sensual, alive.

Once more she experienced the feeling of melting, and she wondered helplessly how he could reduce her to this state so quickly. She knew she should call a halt, but the yielding warmth flowing through her was so gently delicious that she couldn’t bear to end it.

Until she realized that his other hand was on her thigh, and he was slowly stroking upward. For the space of a heartbeat, she considered letting him continue until he reached the throbbing between her thighs. He would ease it …

Then sanity returned. “Enough!” She scrambled off his lap, staggering in her haste to get away. She almost shrieked when he grabbed her wrist, until she recognized that he was merely keeping her from falling.

“Nowhere near enough, but tomorrow is another day.” As he released her wrist, his breathing was also faster than normal. “Sleep well, Clarissima.”

She stared at him with wide, stark eyes, like a deer cornered by a hunter. Then, as she had the night before, she picked up a candle and hastened from the room.

He lifted his napkin from the table and absently began folding it. She was unlike any other woman he’d ever known; certainly she was nothing like Caroline ….

He had forgotten about the portrait, or rather, had blocked its existence from memory. It was a damnably accurate likeness, and seeing it unexpectedly was almost as great a shock as it would have been to see Caroline herself. Foolish of him to think that he could forget her while he was living in this house.

Finding that he had twisted the linen napkin into a noose, he tossed it onto the table in disgust. Far better to think about Clare and her sweet femininity than about the past.

When they had begun their little game, he had been able to objectively consider the fact that he might fail to seduce her, but that was no longer an acceptable outcome. This was one game he was going to win. In the meantime, he would indulge in the one activity that had always provided solace. He got to his feet and headed for the most distant corner of the house.

 
When Clare reached the safety of her bedchamber, she threw open a casement window and inhaled a lungful of cool, moist air.

Outside a gentle spring rain was falling, and the steadiness helped calm her nerves. Ruefully, she thought that no one in Penreith would recognize her as the cool, collected schoolmistress to whom they had entrusted their children.

She was beginning to think that Nicholas really was the devil; he certainly was a genius at offering temptation. The trouble was that she reacted to Nicholas with her senses. She must learn to use her mind, be rational instead of emotional. Then she would be able to resist him.

It sounded so easy when he wasn’t around.

Leaving the window open, she changed into her nightgown and slid into the wide bed. It took time for her to relax, but eventually the restful beat of rain began to lull her to sleep.

As she drifted between waking and slumber, a whisper of music began weaving through the raindrops, like fragments of a dream. At first she simply enjoyed it.

Then realization of the improbability jarred her to wakefulness. How could there be music in the middle of the night in an almost empty house? And such music—a delicate tune as elusive as fairy song.

The hair at the nape of her neck began to prickle as she tried to remember if there had ever been talk of ghosts at Aberdare. Not that she believed in ghosts, of course.

She slipped out of bed, went to the open window, and listened hard. At first she heard nothing but rain and the distant bleat of a sheep. Then another haunting phrase brushed the edges of her hearing, a sound as profoundly Welsh as the stony hills that guarded the valley. And though she heard it through the night air, it seemed to originate in the house.

While many of the younger servants would be moving into the house the next day, tonight there were only six people sleeping at Aberdare. She wondered if Williams might be a musician who practiced in the middle of the night. But he had grown up in the village, and she had never heard that he was unusually musical.

With a sigh, she lit a candle and donned her shoes and her old wool robe. Curiosity about the music would keep her awake, so she might as well try to locate the source.

Candle in hand, she unlocked her door and stepped into the hall. The flame danced in the drafts, and the wavering shadows and drumming raindrops made her feel that she had wandered into a Gothic melodrama. She shivered and briefly considered waking Nicholas, but dismissed the idea. The Demon Earl naked in bed was far more dangerous than any ghost. Soft-footed, she set out through the darkened house.

Her quest led her to a room in the most distant corner of the ground floor. A faint light showed under the door, which she found reassuring; presumably ghosts didn’t need lamps.

Cautiously she turned the knob. When the door was half open, she halted in astonishment. The inhabitant of the room was no phantom.

But a ghost would have surprised her less.

8

 
Since a covered pianoforte stood in the shadows, Clare assumed that she had found the music room, but it was Nicholas who drew her fascinated gaze. He sat on a chair by the flickering fire, his face dreamy and a small harp resting against his left shoulder. In contrast to the stillness of his expression, his fingers danced across the metal strings, calling forth a melody that rang like singing bells.

Though she would have recognized him anywhere, his expression made him seem like a stranger. He was no longer the flippant aristocrat or the menacing rake, but the embodiment of a legendary Celtic bard—a man with gifts and
griefs
beyond those of the common man.

The vulnerability in his face called to Clare, whispering that perhaps she and Nicholas were not so different after all. And such thoughts were dangerous.

He began singing in Welsh, his low voice filling the room with a baritone as sweet and rich as dusky honey.

Maytime
, fairest season, Sweet are the birds, green are the groves

…

 
After two more lines, the music shifted from joyous spring to a minor key lament.

When cuckoos sing in the high tree tops, Greater grows my grief. Smoke stings, sorrow cannot be hidden,

For my kinsmen have passed away.

 
Softly he repeated the last line, all the world’s anguish in his voice.

Though the tune was unfamiliar to her, Clare recognized the words as a poem from the medieval Black Book of
Caermarthen
, one of the most ancient Welsh texts. Tears stung her eyes, for the familiar words had never touched her so deeply.

When the last notes had faded away she sighed, mourning all that she had lost, and all that she would never have.

Hearing the sound, Nicholas’s head whipped up, his fingers clashing the strings in a harsh chord as vulnerability instantly transformed into hostility. “You should be asleep, Clarissima.”

“So should you.” She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. “Why do you call me that?”

His expression eased. “Clare means clear, bright, direct. Clarissima would be the superlative form in Italian. Most clear, most direct. It suits you.”

She came forward and perched on the edge of a chair near him. “I didn’t know you were so musically accomplished.”

“It’s not a widely known fact,” he said dryly. “In ancient times, a Welsh gentleman had to be skilled in the harp to be considered worthy of his rank, but that has changed in these uncivilized days. Behold my secret vice.”