Julia London 4 Book Bundle (27 page)

Adrian shot her a furious frown and shook his head disgustedly.

“Tell me why!” she demanded. His frown deepened. “Tell me why you married me, Adrian!”

He suddenly pushed from the mantel, his eyes glowing maliciously. “You want to know why?” he asked nastily. “My father disowned me, Lilliana. He gave everything that was rightfully mine to your weak-willed lover. Kealing took
everything
from me, and Benedict never had the courage to stand by me when I needed him to!
That’s
why!”

She flinched at the bitterness in his words, unable to believe him. “I know you and your father quarreled, but I do not see—”

“Don’t you? Can’t you see that I took the one thing Ben wanted?” He paused, watching the astonishment and hurt fill her. “You need not look at me with such horror. I have already commended myself to the devil for it,” he said and casually shifted his weight onto one hip.

She could not move. Paralyzed with revulsion, she
could not
move. Revenge? He had married her for
revenge
? Somehow she managed to get a hand to her throat and gripped tightly against a swell of nausea. Unable to absorb it, she closed her eyes.
“It was a lie.”
It was her voice, strange as it sounded.

“More or less.” There was no remorse in his voice, nothing but the casual tone of observation.

It was more than she could bear; about to be violently sick, she whirled around, fumbling for the door. Grappling blindly with the brass knob, she pulled with all her might until the latch finally gave and the door swung open. An impulsive need to look at the monster before fleeing in horror compelled her to drag a blurry gaze to him—he was still standing there, expressionless, as if he had not just uttered the crudest thing imaginable.

“You are your father’s son,” she muttered raggedly,
and raced from his study, running blindly down the corridor, her pups chasing behind her as she bolted up the stairs. The sobs were choking the life from her, the tears blinding her. Had it not been for Polly, she would have collapsed at the top of the staircase to die. But Polly put a strong arm around her and dragged her down the hall to the west wing, muttering under her breath that it was “just like the Albright girls all over again.”

After a moment of confused terror at what he had done, Adrian stormed after Lilliana, watching in helpless frustration as Mrs. Dismuke gathered her up and dragged her away. Astounded by his own callousness, he pivoted around in the foyer, too appalled to witness her devastation, and caught sight of an ashen Bertram staring mutely at him. He was an animal! He strode angrily to his study, away from anyone who would remind him what sort of beast he was.

Once inside he marched to the sideboard and grabbed a decanter of whiskey, then seated himself at his desk with it. What had he done? What madness had caused him to do something so horribly vicious? What in the hell was
happening
to him? His world was turning upside down—he hardly knew himself anymore. Adrian drank, numb to the burn of the liquor in his throat as the demons from his past emerged and clashed with one another in his head, sending him into a tailspin. He had known disaster would happen. He had understood there would be a price to pay for Phillip’s death. But he had never imagined it would destroy him.

If there was one person Max admired, it was Lord Albright. In the nine years he had been with him, he had never seen him falter. Completely unflappable, the man was a rock—calm, cool, and terribly sophisticated in the direst of circumstances, and Lord knew Max had seen his lord in dire circumstances.

But that was before he had married
her.
Oh, Max adored Lady Albright. He thought her very refreshing, and secretly laughed at her attempts to move the rock. But lately it seemed everything about her was trouble. Not
her
precisely, but … well, there was Lord Benedict, for example. That man acted as if he owned Longbridge, and his attentions to his sister-in-law were unnatural, in Max’s humble opinion. And Mrs. Dismuke, good
Lord
but that woman was constantly prattling about disaster, and the Albright girls, and history repeating itself.

The worst was Lord Albright. Max had seen him in any number of dangerous situations, and he had never shown anything but that cool, silky demeanor. But he had changed; he seemed almost haunted, so completely unlike himself that it made Max even more nervous than usual. And now this … 
this
was catastrophe. When Bertram had come running into the kitchens to tell him of the horrible argument between Lord and Lady Albright, Max had immediately gone off to see what could be done. But Lord Albright had locked himself in the study and would not allow anyone entrance.

The hearth had not been lit; it had to be freezing in there, so Max had hovered about, anxiously waiting to be called. When the noon hour came and went, he forced himself to go on with his daily tasks, reasoning that Lord Albright was a grown man and quite capable of caring for himself. No doubt he was studying his books. Bertram had probably exaggerated the whole thing.

But when Max returned an hour later, the study door was wide open and Lord Albright was gone. An empty bottle of whiskey lay on the floor. As Max walked through the foyer he stopped Roger, his lordship’s valet. “Have you seen Lord Albright?” he asked.

Roger scowled. “Indeed I did, sir. He went that way, a bottle in one hand, his hat in the other,” he said, and pointed toward the west wing.

The west wing? His lordship
never
went to the west wing, as he had once remarked he did not need to be
reminded of a family past that was not his. Max hurried into the corridor, walking quickly from one door to the next. He was quite familiar with it, actually, as he made sure the rooms were swept and aired on a routine basis. As he came to the last door before the terrace and steps leading to the outbuildings, he paused to look inside.

The sound of the gun blast shook him from his boots. He caught his breath and brought a hand to his suddenly pounding heart. The blast had come from one of the outbuildings. Max suddenly thought of the game house, chock-full of the late Lord Albright’s hunting trophies and old guns. He was running in that direction before he realized it, his heart pounding furiously with fear. He skidded across the terrace, stumbled down the steps, and careered to the door of the game house. With trembling hands, he fumbled about until he got the door open.

The acrid smell of gun smoke assaulted his senses, and he coughed as he fumbled for a kerchief in his pocket. Waving a hand in the air at the smoke, he anxiously looked around, and screamed with terror when he saw the earl’s still form lying on the floor. He rushed to his lord’s side and fell to his knees. The gun was lying a foot or so away, below an open window. The earl’s hand, bent at an odd angle, was covered with black. Terrified, Max nudged him over onto his back, then released a keening cry that could be heard almost throughout the estate.

“Max! What in the blazes—” Bertram shouted as he rushed inside the game house.

“Dear God, he is
dead!
” Max cried.

     
F
ORTUNATELY FOR THE
panicked residents of Longbridge, Max didn’t know a thing about the human anatomy beyond what he was required to know, and he knew nothing about injury of any kind. When he had appeared on Dr. Mayton’s doorstep wailing that the Earl of Albright was dead, the doctor had rushed to the estate, fearing the worst. He discovered that the earl was far from dead, although one would be hard pressed to convince his lordship of that. Apparently an old gun he had been handling had misfired, exploding in his face.

Thankfully, there were no broken bones or any apparent internal injuries, but in addition to a horribly deep gash at his temple, the earl had sustained a terrible injury to his eyes. Dr. Mayton would never forget the absolute horror when the earl regained consciousness or the shocked silence as he explained that when the bandages came off, he might very well be blind.

And the insufferable silence began. For several days Lord Albright lay in his massive bed, his bandaged eyes resembling an owl’s. It was heartbreaking, even to a seasoned doctor like Mayton, that a young man as virile and commanding as the earl might be permanently
blinded. Added to that was the scandal threatening to erupt—the entire estate was whispering of an attempted suicide.

But Lord Albright had grown quite agitated when Dr. Mayton had asked if he had intended to take his own life. “I am a fool, not a
coward
,” he spat, and begrudgingly admitted having drunk himself into quite a state. Apparently, although he could not recall why, the earl had wandered into his grandfather’s old game house and in a state of inebriation had toyed with one of many old guns. He recalled wanting to see if the gun worked, and had opened a window with the intent of firing at some target. Somewhere between opening the window and priming the ancient firearm, it had misfired in his face. The doctor felt a little better with that explanation—after all, his own foot had been the victim of an old gun.

But Lord Albright made the rumors worse by refusing to see anyone. The man was quietly but completely despairing of his destiny, often mumbling incoherently about something to do with mercy and idiocy.

How fortunate, the doctor thought as he flipped through the pages of his medical books again, that Lady Albright had proven to be such a rock of strength. Not that she hadn’t been overcome with grief when she learned the unfortunate prognosis that night, but by the next morning her demeanor had become eerily calm and her eyes glinted with determination. As Lord Albright refused to admit her into his rooms, Lady Albright paced outside his door, walking slowly from one end of the long corridor to the other while her pups slept on a cushioned window seat. When anyone emerged from his room, she would demand to know how he fared, her pretty eyes narrowing with anger when she was told that he would not eat.

The entire estate endured two excruciating weeks of waiting for the bandages to be removed. When the morning came, the earl sat as rigid as a monument, unflinching as Dr. Mayton peeled the strips of cloth from his eyes. Beneath the bandages, his pus-filled eyes were
scarred around the edges, which Dr. Mayton assured him would fade with time.

“Open them,” the earl had stoically responded.

So he had, prying one open, then the other. His hand trembling slightly, he had lifted two fingers in front of the earl’s face.

Nothing.

Dr. Mayton quickly bandaged them again as he awkwardly reassured the earl that his eyes were not quite healed, that they needed more time. Lord Albright had not uttered a word. Another week passed, and again the earl sat stiffly as the bandages were peeled away. Again, he could not see the two fingers the doctor lifted in front of his face.

There was nothing Dr. Mayton could do; there was no known cure for blindness. He tried to console the earl by suggesting it might only be a matter of time before his sight returned. But the earl had laughed darkly and shook his head. “Apparently, Dr. Mayton, you don’t know the quality of mercy when you see it.” With that he had turned away, refusing to say anything else.

Dejected, Dr. Mayton had met Lady Albright in her sitting room and explained that he had exhausted all resources available to him, that there was nothing more he could do for her husband. Her eyes glistening with tears, she had nodded solemnly and had asked, was it possible he might send for a surgeon? Of course, he had told her, but surgery on the head was almost unheard of and, moreover, there was no known procedure to restore sight. Lady Albright had turned away, walking slowly to the window that looked out over the gardens. She had looked terribly regal, dressed in a pale green gown—how sad, he had thought, that the earl would never gaze into her lovely countenance again. She stared out the window for an eternity it seemed, but at last she turned. Tell me what to do, she had asked.

Dr. Mayton had seized upon that—make him live, he had said, teach him how to live with his blindness. And by the time Lady Albright had shown him to the door of
Longbridge, he had no doubt that she would make her husband live again, whether he wanted to or not.

Make him live.
Dr. Mayton’s words reverberated in her mind. But exactly how did one do that? With a shawl wrapped around her shoulders Lilliana sat in a chair pulled up to the window in the suite adjoining Adrian’s, staring at the stars. The room was bathed in darkness except for the weak moonlight that streamed in the window; even the fire had grown cold. She absently wondered how long she had been sitting in the chair, knowing only that the sun had just started to sink into the horizon when she had sagged into it, exhausted.

She had, of course, moved back to her rooms the same day of the accident, desperate to help him but unsure
how
to help him. Her efforts seemed awkward and contrived after the appalling words they had exchanged. But oh God, she was devastated by what had happened to him! Never had she felt such sorrow for anyone—the magnificence of him, the spirit of the strong and reckless adventurer—all of it cut down by blindness. Lilliana pulled the shawl tighter, shivering at the omnipotent forces that could do this to a man. She understood his terror—to rob him of his sight was to rob him of life. Regardless of what had gone between them, nothing that had been said could make her turn her back on him now, not when he was in such distress.

He
needed
her.

Not that he would ever admit it. He had sent her away a dozen times or more, refused to see her, and forbade the little maid who tended him from allowing her entry. He had even suggested through Max that she return to Blackfield Grange until such time his sight had returned.

Ridiculous. It was instinctive, she supposed, but she knew it was grief that caused him to act so petulantly. But she did not want to aggravate him, and tried to help in another way—by attempting to dispel the awful rumors
circulating about the entire parish. Unfortunately she was not particularly successful, in part because the rumors were so fantastic they created a life of their own.