Julia London 4 Book Bundle (33 page)

She rushed downstairs to the foyer, where the footman Bertram was at his post. “Good morning, milady,” he said, peering curiously at her hair.

Lilliana quickly raked her fingers through the unruly curls, self-consciously stuffing as many of them as she could behind her ears. “Good morning, Bertram. Have you … ah, have you seen Lord Albright?” she asked nervously.

Bertram suddenly grinned. “Aye, milady. He’s gone to his study.”

His study. To lock himself away from her? Lilliana nodded, walked calmly in that direction until Bertram could no longer see her, then flew anxiously down the corridor. The door of his study was closed, naturally, and she reached for the brass knob, but quickly withdrew her hand. What if it
had
been a dream? How would she bear it if he were indifferent to her this morning? Or worse yet, what if he began his insistence that she leave all over again? She would never be able to
leave him!
Never.
It would be impossible to live without his touch—her body was still warm from his caress!

She reached for the brass knob again, and just as quickly withdrew her hand with a confused shake of her head. No, no,
no!
It would be impossible to stay if he had not felt the same as she did last night! But she had seen him—she had
felt
him—give in to her passion, and oh God, what passion he had shown her in return!

Yes, but he had been passionate before. All right, he had, but not with the same … 
intensity.
Nonetheless … he might insist that she leave Longbridge for her own good.
The moon has, apparently, turned to cheese
, he had said, throwing her oh so elegant refusal to leave back in her face. What if he
did
tell her to go? Oh, but that was simple, she thought, rolling her eyes. She would die. Straightaway and without ado.

This was ridiculous! Lilliana took a deep breath, reached for the brass knob, and pushed the door open. Nerves attacked her with surprising force; she had to make herself poke her head into the gap between the door and its frame and glance toward his desk.

Her husband was there, all right, looking impossibly handsome. Max sat across from him, reading a weekly paper. Aloud. Mesmerized, Lilliana slipped inside the room, self-consciously remaining at the door as she listened to Max.

“The two percents have ex-hibed a tenderly—”

“Exhibited a tendency,” Adrian muttered patiently.

Max glanced at him, then squinted at the paper. “Ah.” He cleared his throat loudly. “Exhibited a tendency to … to rubbish goat—”

“I think you mean rapid growth,” Adrian said, a hint of a smile on his lips.

Max frowned and squirmed in his seat as he squinted at the paper. “Rapid growth and sharp designs,” he muttered quickly.

“Declines,” Adrian said, his smile growing broader.

“Blast it all, my lord, but I can hardly
see
the words on this page!” he blustered in frustration.

Adrian laughed. “That’s a bit better than I can do!” He laughed again, unaware that the blood was rapidly draining from his butler’s face. “Perhaps Lady Albright will relieve you,” he said, and cocked his head toward the door.

Lilliana’s mouth dropped open. How in God’s name did he
do
that? As if reading her thoughts, Adrian chuckled. “I cannot see, but I can certainly hear well enough. Please, Lilliana, do come in and relieve Max. He is pathetically farsighted.”

“
Please
, milady,” Max implored her, and leapt to his feet, waving the paper at her. Lilliana walked forward uncertainly, taking the paper he thrust at her. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I should really be about … something else,” Max muttered, and bobbing a quick, birdlike bow to her, bolted for the door.

Adrian chuckled warmly as the door closed behind him. “He has a fine head for house management, but the man is hopeless with the written word. Perhaps you would be so kind as to finish the business news?”

“Of course,” she murmured and, sitting on the edge of the chair Max had vacated, began to read, her mind whirling as she mouthed words about securities, a shipping company gone under, and the latest news from Paris. She stole surreptitious glimpses of him, looking for something,
anything
to suggest he had not felt as deeply as she had last night, that it was just another coupling to him. But he gave her no indication—his eyes were fixed straight ahead as though he were casually studying one of her paintings.

When she began to read the news of the coal industry, he muttered softly, “You smell heavenly.”

“W-what?”

“The scent of roses. You put the scent of roses in your hair.” His eyes still fixed on the painting, he smiled faintly. “What is the weather today?” he asked.

A deep smile curved Lilliana’s lips and she lowered the paper to her lap. “The sun is shining.”

“Ah. I had heard it is still there. I suppose if I were to
indulge in a turn about the gardens, I might feel it fall down around me?”

Her heart surged with renewed hope. “Every ray, I should think,” she answered, smiling.

Adrian flashed a charming, boyish grin. “Then might I ask the enormous favor of your company? I couldn’t possibly absorb all that sunshine alone.”

She wanted to cry. Good heavens, the urge to weep with joy was overwhelming. He
had
felt the depth of their lovemaking! He had given in
finally
, he had given in to some feeling for her! Lilliana leapt to her feet, oblivious of the paper’s slide to the floor. “I would like nothing better. But wait!” she said brightly, and rushed to the door. “I have something for you.”

He responded, but Lilliana did not hear him. She was already flying down the hall to the foyer, where she came to an abrupt halt in front of Bertram. “The walking stick, Bertram. Do you recall? I gave it to you a few weeks ago.”

The footman grinned widely. “Yes, the walking stick. Fine day for a turn about, indeed, milady.”

Lilliana shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. “Indeed—the walking stick, Bertram?”

“It is just here,” he said reassuringly, and fished about in an umbrella stand, producing a cane of fine mahogany wood with a brass top shaped like the head of an eagle. Having discovered it in the first days she had roamed Longbridge, Lilliana had retrieved it after Adrian’s accident, hoping he would learn to use it to walk freely about. With a smile she snatched it from Bertram’s hands and hastily started back to the study, but halted in midstride.

Adrian was walking down the corridor unaided, as easily as if he could see, using the cords she had strung as a guide. Lilliana bit her lip against a sudden surge of grateful tears.

Adrian would live again.

     
T
HE TRANSFORMATION IN
Adrian was miraculous.

With a fervor that left the inhabitants of Longbridge breathless, he began to tackle the enormity of adjusting everything he had ever known to a dark world. No one could keep up with him—except for Lilliana.

Her fervor was just as intent because she had at last found her freedom. It did not occur as she might have expected, but came to her in the days she spent exploring a new world with the man she loved. She became Adrian’s eyes, and as such, was suddenly seeing familiar things as she had never seen them before. Objects she had taken for granted she now viewed through new eyes. This new vision of inanimate objects made them almost animate—and her paintings took on that quality, a depth she humbly recognized as art.
This
was soaring; this was experiencing life, deep in her heart where it counted most.

And oh, how Adrian had changed! It was preposterous, she knew, but it seemed to Lilliana that in blindness, her husband was more the reckless adventurer than he possibly could have been before. He knew no
bounds—his desire to get on with his life was earnest and contagious. To think that he was the same person who had hobbled about like an old man in the first weeks of his blindness was almost laughable. Now, with the walking stick she had given him and the cords that were strung all over Longbridge, Adrian strode down the corridors and grounds as purposefully as he ever had—a stranger had to look very closely to know he was blind.

He insisted on “seeing” the estate. They walked at first—miles and miles they walked, Adrian’s stick striking the path determinedly ahead of them. Lilliana strolled beside him, happily smiling like a half-wit at everything around her, lost in the magic of just being with him. Her admiration for him grew in leaps and bounds on those walks—the more time they spent together, the more freely Adrian spoke of himself and his life. Amusing anecdotes from his youth, scandalous acts committed with the infamous Rogues, dangerous adventures abroad. Instead of being shocked by the things he told her, as any proper lady would be, she was enthralled by them. She could almost imagine herself there when he reminisced, could almost feel the heady senst of recklessness.

On rare occasions in those moments of reflection, Adrian would speak of his birth. He bore clearly painful memories, particularly of his mother. She was a broken, desolate woman, he said, living a quiet lie. “Imagine, no siblings or friends to speak of, and only two small boys to rely upon. It is a wonder she endured as long as she did.” Lilliana’s heart went out to him—that so-called
quiet lie
had defined his life. She had not been raised so far removed from society that she didn’t understand how that secret would ruin his life if it were to be made public. Nonetheless … something nagged the back of her mind, a vague sense that not everything about the secret fell neatly into place.

The one topic Adrian refused to discuss with her was Phillip Rothembow. It was poignantly clear how distressing
it was for him, and while he seemed to have come to some sort of peace with himself, he would not mention Phillip’s name nor allow it to be mentioned in his presence.

Actually, much to Lilliana’s sheer mortification, Adrian preferred she talk of her simple life. Embarrassed to the core by her own undistinguished and uneventful upbringing, she hesitantly gave him the dull details and waited for the smirk or the signs of tedium. So it was nothing short of miraculous that Adrian never seemed bored with her life. He laughed when she sheepishly admitted the most contemptible thing she had done was to put pepper in Mr. Willard’s snuffbox. He arched a brow when she reluctantly admitted her habit of racing Jason behind her mother’s back, but smiled broadly when she informed him she won nine times out of ten. He nodded sympathetically when she wistfully spoke of her mother and the constant struggle to be good as was expected, of never quite measuring up to those expectations. And when she admitted her lifelong fear of perishing at Blackfield Grange without so much as seeing London, he pulled her into his embrace. “I know how heartbreaking it is,” he mumbled, “to want something so desperately and believe you can never have it.”

She didn’t know what he meant by that, but Lilliana did not pine away for the world as she once had at the Grange. She was experiencing her dream now, with him, and much more richly than she had thought possible.

As Adrian became more confident with his affliction, he resumed more of his life. He took to riding again, holding on to her waist as she pushed Thunder to the stallion’s limits. He reviewed the books with her every morning, taught her how to balance them, and eventually entrusted the task to her.

As the precious days with him piled on, it was impossible for Lilliana to remember the man who had once been so callously indifferent to her. It was as if he were a different man from the one she had married—he even seemed to delight in catering to her silly whims. One
night she had coaxed Polly into playing the pianoforte—if one could call it playing—and had asked Adrian to dance with her. He had been a bit taken aback, but when she pulled him from his chair, he had swept her into a waltz, and she had been embarrassed to learn that
she
was the one with two left feet. He moved so elegantly and seductively that in a mad moment, she had peered intently into his eyes, quite convinced he could actually see. Her unspoken question had been answered by a crash into the sideboard a few moments later. Adrian had laughed uproariously at his blunder before gathering her in his arms and abruptly kissing her—in full view of Polly, Max, and a young footman who turned as red as a tomato.

He became a fixture in the orangery, agreeing to sit for a portrait after extracting her solemn promise that she would remove the painting of him on a mule. Those sittings were at first unnerving, but Lilliana quickly grew accustomed to his seemingly pointed looks as she painted. So accustomed, that she stopped bothering with any modicum of modesty. If it was warm, she unbuttoned her blouse. She hiked her skirts far above her knees so she could better attack the canvas. Her mind on some forgotten tune, she twirled aimlessly about the orangery, not caring if she appeared addled. In there, with him, she was free to do what she wanted, to be
who
she wanted.

And so was Adrian free, seemingly at peace with himself and his life. Never had Lilliana understood that as clearly as she did one morning when she caught him with her dogs. As she passed the open door of his study, she saw him sitting with Hugo stretched out asleep, his head propped on Adrian’s foot. But even more extraordinary, Maude’s head was on his knee and he was stroking her ears. Seeing him with “the beasts” had touched her so deeply that she had pressed a hand to her mouth and smothered a spontaneous cry of joy. If anything marked the transformation in him, if any one thing demonstrated his capacity to feel, it was his attention to her
dogs. It was absurd—insane, really—but Lilliana firmly believed that when Adrian lost his sight, he also lost some invisible shackles that had kept his feelings bound deeply inside.

The truth of that was driven home to her each night. Lord
God
, the things he did to her! She became a shameless wanton in his arms, a Jezebel exalting in the purported sins of the flesh. Incredibly, she was not ashamed of what they did. For reasons lost to her, Adrian’s inability to see her unabashedly covet every masculine inch of him freed her to pleasure him shamelessly, She was not afraid of anything, least of all exploring new and terribly immodest ways to love him. Why God did not strike her with a bolt of lightning for all her indecency astounded her. But until that happened, she would strive to learn the many ways to please him, constantly in awe at how easily he pleased her. The man was a master with his tongue, an absolute artist with his hands. It seemed as if all he had to do was touch her and she was panting for release, begging him to give himself to her, harder, faster, longer. Their lovemaking was so utterly without bounds that she was quite certain the entire household heard her cries of ecstasy when she lost herself in him.