Lord Savage (31 page)

His handsome face was set and implacable, his expression so hard that it might have
been carved from stone. Of course I left with him, my bare feet hurrying to match
my strides to his. He did not so much as glance at Lady Carleigh, let alone say anything
further. He kept his gaze straight before him, and did not speak another word as we
went through the long halls back to his rooms, walking so quickly that we were nearly
running.

He threw the door open and went striding past Barry, pulling me with him until we
reached the bedroom, and slammed the door shut after us. At last he released my hand,
and took a step backward, purposefully keeping a distance between us.

“There are things you should know of me, Eve,” he began. He was breathing hard, struggling
to keep some manner of composure, and I saw in his eyes the effort it took. “I had
never intended to burden you with my troubles, but it is better you hear this from
me instead of some misguided falsehoods from servants or—or others.”

I nodded, with no notion of what might be coming. With Savage, it could be nothing,
or it could be beyond my wildest imagining. Yet, because it
was
he, I would listen, and in silent sympathy I reached out to him.

He would not accept my hand or my comfort. Instead, he took another step back, his
hands in fists at his sides.

“Listen first, Eve,” he said heavily. “I loved Marianne—my wife—when we wed. I was
young, and I believed her to be the most perfect woman in the world. But before long
I discovered the flaws in her loveliness. I knew she’d been unhappy with her parents,
and I wanted to rescue her from the misery she blamed on them. But her troubles were
far deeper than I’d realized. Her mind was unsettled, her behavior erratic and unpredictable.
I never knew what to expect from her, and with each day she grew a little worse.”

“I’m sorry,” I said softly, once again the only thing I could think of to say. “I’m
sorry.”

But he shook his head, shaking aside even that small solace. His face was marked by
suffering, by the burden of his grief.

“I took her to doctors of every kind, both in London and on the Continent,” he said.
“I agreed to every treatment, praying for a miracle, and kept her at Thornbury, far
from London, where she could be tended with care. When our son was born, I dared to
hope his young life might be a fresh start that could bring her back, but she demonstrated
as little interest in being a mother as she did a wife. I had to send our boy away
to be tended by others, from fear she’d harm him.”

So many little mysteries were now fitting together: why Savage had had no wish to
speak of his wife, why he avoided his house at Thornbury, why he was distant from
his son, why he feared the boy would be like his mother—it all made heartbreaking
sense to me now.

“She was only twenty-two when she died,” he said, coming at last to the inevitable
end of his story. “It was the madness that killed her. For the sake of the boy, I’ve
tried to keep the details of her illness and death as quiet as I could, but there
are always whispers, and not just among the servants, either. Not even friends can
resist the temptation to draw the darkest of conclusions. You saw that for yourself.”

“Even those who mean well can often be cruel when they don’t know the truth,” I said
softly, longing to take him in my arms and share the pain with him. “I’m sure Lady
Carleigh did not intend any hurtful slander—”

“I’m not hurt,” he said bluntly. He turned and charged from the room, leaving the
door ajar. Hesitantly I followed. He was standing over his desk, ransacking the top
drawer. At last he found what he was searching for: a small handful of sealed notes.

He thrust them out to me. “There,” he said. “Read them yourself. God only knows what
she’s written of me.”

I stared down at the notes, seeing how his hand shook. “I don’t understand,” I said
slowly. “What are these?”

“They’re the notes that Lady Carleigh wrote to you,” he said. “One, sometimes two,
a day. They were all delivered here.”

“The ones she mentioned while we were in the gallery?” I asked, though it was already
obvious that they were. I recognized the viscountess’s handwriting, and the coral-colored
wax that sealed each letter.

“Yes,” he said. “Take them.”

I did, aligning their edges into a neat stack in my fingers while my thoughts ran
wild. I knew what I had to ask, even as I dreaded his answer.

“Why didn’t you give them to me when they were delivered?” My voice was small and
uncertain. “That wasn’t part of the Game. It couldn’t have been. Oh, Savage, why did
you keep them from me?”

“Why,” he repeated. He tried to smile, and failed, his eyes filled with bitterness.
“It’s obvious enough, isn’t it? I didn’t want to share you.”

I shook my head, confused. “I didn’t wish to be shared, either,” I began. “But that
has nothing to do with—”

“I must go,” he said, already moving toward the door. “There is someone I must see
directly.”

“No, Savage, wait!” I cried, following him. “I need to know why—”

“Read what Laura wrote to you, Eve.” He paused, his hand on the doorknob, and looked
at me as if he might never see me again. “Then, if you still wish it, we will talk
further.”

Before I could answer, he closed the door and was gone. I could have followed; for
once he hadn’t forbidden it. But he’d made it clear enough that he wished to be alone,
and the way my head was spinning from all he’d told me, so did I.

It wasn’t a good solitude, either. I hurt because he had walked out like that. How
could I not? His scent was all over me, reminding me keenly with every breath of the
hot, urgent sex we’d just shared in the gallery. I stared down at the envelopes in
my hand, wondering—or was I dreading?—what messages they contained.

“May I bring you tea, Mrs. Hart?” Barry asked, appearing from nowhere as he always
did.

“No, Barry, thank you,” I murmured. “I believe I will wait for his lordship in the
bedroom.”

“Very well, ma’am,” the servant said. “I do expect him to return shortly.”

“You do?” I asked, my voice trembling with fragile hope.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said confidently. “His lordship is wearing his dressing gown. He
has not been shaven yet this day. He cannot go far in such a state.”

“Ah,” I said, feeling foolish for expecting more. “No, he cannot. Thank you, Barry,
that will be all.”

Barry hesitated, lingering longer than was proper. “Forgive me for speaking out of
turn, ma’am, but I also believe his lordship will return because of you.”

I smiled. Barry had been with Savage most of his life, and would be intimately acquainted
with all his master’s humors and habits, and his past as well. If Barry said that
Savage would return because of me, then he would. He
would
.

“Thank you, Barry,” I said softly. “Thank you very much.”

He nodded, and quickly withdrew. With Lady Carleigh’s notes in my hand, I retreated
to the bedroom. I wanted Savage to find me there, the one place that had become so
special to us that it was almost impossible to imagine us together anywhere else.

Sitting in the chair beside the window, I frowned down at the sealed notes. Part of
me wished I could simply burn them, sealed and unread, and be spared their contents.
But Savage had specifically told me to read them, and so with a sigh I began to open
the notes, one after the other, and arrange them by date on my knee.

Each was only a sentence or two long, the kind of little note that every good hostess
sends to her guests to make them feel welcome at a house party—except that Lady Carleigh
was referring not to a standard dinner or hunt but to the Game.

The first must have been written and delivered soon after Savage had won me in the
auction. Less than a week had passed, and yet it already seemed a lifetime ago.

My dear Mrs. Hart,

Didn’t I promise you that all would fall into place as planned? I trust at this moment
you are enjoying the most rapturous kisses & caresses from your delectable MASTER!

Fondly,

Lady C.

The next must have been the following morning.

Dear Mrs. H.,

How disappointing not to see you & Lord S. at breakfast, but I can only assume you
are finding such rapture in each other’s arms that you cannot be parted as yet. You
must tell me all when we dine this evening.

Lady C.

But there hadn’t been any time for confidential little conversations at that dinner—not
after Savage had flown at Mr. Henery. Lady Carleigh herself hadn’t witnessed that—she’d
been in the kitchen at the time, being bedecked with strawberries and cream—but clearly
she’d heard from her husband and others what had happened.

My dear Mrs. H.,

How dismayed I was to learn of the disturbance,
le désaccord,
if you will, between Lord S. & Mr. Henery this evening! To be sure, it is flattering
to have so chivalrous a champion to defend one’s virtue, as he did yours, but the
degree of the defense was
très outré
for our little company.

Lord S. has been known to let his temper run wild before—truly he can be the
beau sauvage
!—but I had believed that such outbursts were well in his past. If you can, & in the
sweetest way possible, urge him towards sobriety & genial behavior for the remainder
of our time together. Pleasure is our only goal, yes?

You’re a lamb,

Lady C.

This note worried me. Not the part about Savage’s temper—all men had tempers if they
were crossed—but the French phrases that were sprinkled throughout. English-speaking
ladies resorted to French only when they were especially upset, as if using the other
language softened things they’d rather not be saying at all. Lady Carleigh was not
happy with Savage, and her unhappiness grew with the next note.

Mrs. H., my dear,

It seems that Lord S. has made quite the hermits of you two. Please dine with us this
evening, or at the very least join us for the later entertainments. If he is the reason
you are staying away, please do your best to persuade him otherwise, & tell him he
must answer to me. You are sorely missed,
ma chère.

À plasir,

Lady C.

But evidently Simpson had gone to her mistress after she’d seen my bruises in the
bath, and in Lady Carleigh’s next note both the playfulness and the French were gone.

Dear Mrs. Hart,

I have just now spoken with Simpson, who is much concerned on your behalf, as am I.
Simpson suspects that things are not as they should be between you & Lord S. Please
come to me in my rooms at once, or at the very least send word to me that you are
well & unharmed.

Lady C.

I sighed impatiently. What real reason did they have for their concern? I preferred
Savage’s company to the licentious goings-on among the others, and he preferred mine.
We’d been invited here to play the Game, and this was how we’d chosen to play it,
that was all. I was hardly his prisoner, or whatever else they were imagining. I could
have left him at any time. I’d simply chosen not to.

As for what we did together, that was no one’s business but our own. These last days
with Savage had been happier and more exciting than any I could recall in my entire
life. That was all that mattered, wasn’t it?

Certainly there was nothing in Lady Carleigh’s notes for Savage to dread, and nothing
that would turn me against him. Wishing he would return, I cracked the seal on the
final envelope.

Dear Mrs. Hart,

I beg you not to ignore these words as you have ignored all my others. Lord Savage
may be an old & dear friend, but I fear that he has influenced you in an unfortunate
& desperate manner. I do not wish to alarm you, but I worry that he may have lapsed
into past habits of unpredictable violence. There, I have spelled it out plainly.
I fear for your safety, my dear. At the time of poor Lady Savage’s death, there were
many questions asked about his role in her demise, & none answered. Thus I urge you
to take care of his temper, & guard yourself against any further outbursts.

If I do not receive a reply, I shall be forced to come seek you out, to reassure myself
of your well-being.

In perfect sincerity,

Lady C.

I read the note over twice, then slowly refolded it to set aside with the others.
At least I now knew why Lady Carleigh had appeared so suddenly in the gallery, and
why she’d brought the tall footman with her, too. And I was thankful that Savage had
explained to me about his wife; if he hadn’t, I might indeed have wondered what dark
things Lady Carleigh was hinting at.

Instead, it was all sadly easy to decipher. These mysteries around Lady Savage’s death
would be due to his desire to keep her last illness private. What the world perceived
as his uncontrollable temper, I realized, was his way of protecting me in the same
way he’d tried—and failed—to protect his poor wife.

It was so unfair of the Carleighs to suspect him of worse. He’d never turned against
me, nor had I ever feared for my safety in his company. Instead, with him I’d always
felt safe, secure, even cherished. We had played the Game of Protector and Innocent,
but behind it was an unspoken understanding, an empathy, between us that went much
deeper.

It would be difficult to describe in words, because words had often been secondary
to our deepening trust. Lady Carleigh might claim a long friendship with Savage, but
after only a week, I felt sure I was the one he trusted more, the one who knew him
better.

I glanced up at the ormolu clock on the mantel, surprised to see that he’d been gone
only fifteen minutes; it seemed like much longer. As far as I was concerned, we would
have little to discuss when he returned. There were no great revelations in the viscountess’s
notes, and nothing that merited his uneasiness. All I wished now was to reassure him,
and make our last hours together as memorable as possible.