Stormswept (24 page)

And so much more handsome. The lines etched in his face removed any hints of youthful indecision, and his unpowdered hair, tied back in a queue, gleamed blue-black in the candlelight. She was glad he eschewed the fashion for powdered wigs and patches.

“The Americans have a song about the Macaronis,” he said as he took his seat. “It’s called ‘Yankee Doodle.’ I heard it sung in a tavern once, before a battle.”

“How does it go?” she asked, wanting to keep him in this amiable mood.

He sang it for her, and she could envision him in a colonial tavern rousing the troops. Her throat tightened. Poor Rhys, forced to fight for another country’s freedom instead of his own.

The servant brought in the
cawl
. Rhys looked down into the bowl, and his smile faded as he stared at the traditional blossoms of marigold floating in it.

Oh dear.

He lifted his head. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had Cook’s wonderful
cawl
?”

Relieved, she kept her voice light. “Six years?”

“More. I was abroad for the Grand Tour when Llynwydd . . . changed hands.” He ate a spoonful, and a blissful smile crossed his lips. “Double her salary. Give her whatever she wants, but make sure she serves
cawl
at every meal from now until doomsday.”

Juliana couldn’t keep the delight out of her laugh. She’d have to kiss Cook. Double her salary? It was worth that to
see his face light up. And to hear him speak to Juliana as a partner in their marriage.

“So
cawl
wasn’t a regular item on the menu in America, I take it?”

He tore off some bread and dipped it in his soup. “Not in America, or the navy.” When her face fell, he seemed to regret his mention of the navy, for he added hastily, “But there were other interesting dishes in America.”

“Oh?” She ate a spoonful of soup. “Like what?”

“Clam chowder, for one,” he said between mouthfuls. “ ’Tis merely clams in a cream soup, but the Americans add some sort of spice. ’Tis a delicious dish if the right cook does it.”

She set down her spoon, eating forgotten as she remembered all those women he’d said had shared his bed. “And who cooked it for you?”

He seemed not to notice her sudden sharp tone. “My landlady. I lived in a boarding house when I wasn’t at sea. That’s how I saved so much money.” He flashed her a grin. “You should have seen this terror of a woman. Gray-haired and pug-faced, she’d have made two of you, and if anyone entered her kitchen, she threw them out with one huge fist. But the woman did know how to cook.”

She relaxed. Somehow she couldn’t see Rhys sharing a bed with an Amazon like that. “Tell me about your time in America. I’ve only read about the colonies, and I’ve always wondered if the truth is as intriguing as the stories.”

He shrugged. “All right. What do you want to know?”

The next hour passed in a pleasant haze. From Rhys’s description of the colonials, she gathered that they were
quite a mix—the English-speaking Dutch of the Hudson Valley, the Scots in North Carolina, the warring tribes of Indians, and the English themselves, who were divided in their loyalties. He’d traveled up and down the coast privateering, and had seen more unusual things in his three years than she’d seen in a lifetime.

Courses came and went—lampreys in galantine, roast goose, boiled leeks with bacon, and preserved apricots—but she scarcely tasted a bite. She hung breathlessly on Rhys’s every word about men who painted their bodies and went half-naked into battle, about wooden stockades and dense forests, and something called moose roaming free.

“It sounds so wild,” she said as he finished his second serving of Welsh rabbit, the toasted cheese on bread that his countrymen were so fond of. “How do people raise families and have peaceful lives with Indians whooping down about their heads?”

He chuckled. “I’m afraid I’ve given you as distorted a look of America as the books. You were such a good audience that I was driven to exaggerate. ’Tis only wild in the untamed forests inland. Life in the coastal cities is quite civilized. People go to the theater and to church, and children attend school every day. It’s not as different from Wales—or England—as you might expect.”

Just then, the servant brought in an elaborate puff pastry that Juliana knew Cook had been working on ever since their arrival. Rhys gestured to it with a laugh. “I must say, I’ve not seen a pastry as ornate as that in America. Obviously, Cook is still outdoing herself.”

As the servant began to cut servings, Rhys settled back in his chair and drank deeply of his wine, looking very lordly as his gaze lingered on her. He was different tonight. Though he wore the arrogant expression of a man sure of what he owned, there was also invitation and promise in his look.

He set his wineglass down. “Cook wasn’t the only one who outdid herself. This was truly a feast. If I’d asked for every dish myself, I couldn’t have chosen a better meal. You must have been preparing for this ever since we arrived.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve been planning this meal ever since you left Wales. I thought surely that if . . .
when
you returned, you would wish to have the dishes you’d been deprived of while you were . . . abroad.” She couldn’t bring herself to mention the navy.

“Thank you for caring that much. It isn’t what I . . . Actually, I didn’t know what to expect.”

He was being so truthful, she couldn’t help saying, “After last night I did consider serving you gruel, but Cook would have none of it. She wanted to amaze you with her talents.”

His eyes grew thoughtful. “And did
you
want to amaze me with your talents, too?”

She toyed with the pastry on her plate. “Perhaps.”

“I’m suitably impressed. With the house, the furnishings, the staff . . . You’ve done well by me, even if it wasn’t for me you were doing it.”

She started to retort that
everything
had been for him—but had it? Or had she done it to prove her worth in a
world where a woman was often only measured by her docility as a wife?

Even before she’d been told he was dead, her pride in Llynwydd had ceased to be linked to him. As her hopes of seeing him again had faded, her thirst to improve Llynwydd had increased. She’d found joy in making it special for both her staff and her tenants. None of that had anything to do with him.

Rhys made a sweeping gesture that took in their surroundings. “I like what you’ve done to this room. ’Twas always far too dark; with the lighter hangings and the paint, it’s much cheerier. And there’s more furniture, isn’t there?”

“Only that
cwpwrdd tridarn
.” She pointed to her pride and joy—a Welsh court cupboard made of mahogany, with intricately carved doors. “I commissioned it from a joiner in Carmarthen.”

“I suppose you paid for it out of Llynwydd’s profits.”

She shook her head. “I bought it before Llynwydd was doing well, so I used my allowance on it.”

He looked at her oddly. “Your father approved that?”

“He didn’t know.”

“How much of your annual portion went to sustaining the estate?”

“Sometimes half. One year, two-thirds.”

He frowned. “That was good of you, but it shall end now. You don’t need to support Llynwydd anymore; I have ample money for that. And we should probably discuss pin money and the like, so you can buy gowns, jewelry—”

“I’d rather spend my money on Llynwydd.” She rose. “There’s still so much to be done.”

“And I shall do it. If you want a piece of furniture, tell me, and I’ll take care of it. Otherwise—”

“You’ll do everything yourself? Why must you do it alone? I’ve proven I can take good care of this estate, so surely you can allow me to do my part now. I won’t sit in the drawing room and embroider all day, when I could help you run Llynwydd.”

His gaze darkened.

“I know you think to punish me by reducing me to a guest in my own home, but can’t you see how foolish that would be? Together, we can do more good for our estate than you can do alone. And if we’re to live as husband and wife—”

“Ah, but therein lies the problem,” he said tersely. “You’re my wife only when it suits you—in the study, in the kitchen. But not in the bedroom, eh?” His expression chilled. “You directed the footmen to move your belongings out of our bedchamber and into the Blue Room, after I’d expressly forbidden it.”

She thrust her trembling hands behind her back. She’d done that while he was touring the stables, and she’d instructed the footmen not to mention it to him. “How did you know?”

He walked up to where she stood. “Remember, I told the servants to come to me when they had a question. They’re not fools; they know who’s master. So they are moving your belongings right back as we speak.”

He pulled her so close, she could feel his breath. “If you want the privileges of running a household, you must also take on the duties of a wife.” When he slid his arm about
her waist and pressed a kiss to her hair, he made it clear what those duties entailed. “Will you share my bed? Willingly?”

She ached to say yes. His breath against her cheek was warm and inviting, and his hand at her waist skimmed up along her ribs, tempting her to make the small shift of her body that would put her in his arms.

But she couldn’t. If she let him buy her like this she’d regret it, for he only wanted her body—to treat her as a faithless betrayer even while making love to her. He’d never see her worth. “I won’t share your bed until it means more than a conquest to you.”

With a growl, he whirled away from her. “Fine. Sleep wherever you like. But prepare yourself for long days of embroidering and thumb-twiddling. Because you won’t be mistress in this house until you’re mistress to me.”

And with that, he left.

All the old loves I followed once

Are now unfaithful found;

But a sweet sickness holds me yet

Of love that has no bound!

—WILLIAM WILLIAMS PANTYCELYN, “I GAZE ACROSS THE DISTANT HILLS”

D
arcy strode up to Lettice’s cottage, not knowing what to expect. She’d never sent him a note asking him to come before. She’d always waited until his obsession got the better of him and he came to her. It was her most maddening quality—that she never needed him as badly as he did her.

He could think of only a few reasons she might want to see him, none of them good. Either Vaughan had spoken to her or brought her a message from Pennant—or worst of all, Morgan Pennant was here in the flesh.

The place was ominously silent as he approached. Of course, Edgar would be in bed by now. With his heart hammering in his chest, he walked up to the door and opened it, not bothering to knock.

And there was Lettice wrapped in the arms of another man.

With a curse, he slammed the door behind him. Instantly, Lettice jerked away from the damned scoundrel, her eyes wide with guilt. Pennant, damn him. He’d come straight to Lettice, and she’d welcomed him with open arms.

“Get out of my house! ” he growled at Pennant. “You have no right.”

Pennant blocked Lettice from his sight. “I have more right than you. ’Tis my woman and my son you’ve kept here with your lies.”

Darcy was stunned. Edgar was Pennant’s son? No, it wasn’t true.

Lettice thrust Pennant aside. “Hush, I’ll handle this in my own way.”

“As you handled it before?” Pennant snapped. “Believing his lies and letting him take advantage of you? No. This won’t go on any longer. There will be truth between us all now.”

He fixed Darcy with a fierce gaze. “Tell her the truth. She knows you had me impressed. Now tell her what you said about her six years ago. Tell her how you tried to destroy my love for her.”

Darcy cast about in his mind for some plausible tale, something that would keep her from hating him.

“Careful now,” Pennant hissed. “If you lie, I’ll bring Vaughan into it. He was there. He heard everything you said, too.”

“Lettice, you mustn’t listen to him. He and Vaughan have been spreading this mad tale that I—”

“Please, Darcy.” Tears shone in Lettice’s eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”

“You’d believe him over me? He wants you, damn him! He’s always wanted you, and he doesn’t care what he says if it’ll bring you back to him.”

“Are you any different? You’re lying to keep me, too.”

He felt the room closing in on him. “Am I the only one who lied?” A painful pressure built in his chest. “You told me Edgar is mine. Pennant says the child is his. Which is the truth?”

She paled, and Pennant put his arm about her shoulder. But she shook him off to stand apart from both men.

“Is Edgar mine or not?” Darcy persisted. “I want the truth, and I swear it won’t make a difference to me either way. I’ll love the boy and care for him, no matter whose he is. But I want to know if he’s mine.” When pity showed in her face, he winced, feeling as if someone had cleaved him in two. “He’s not, is he?”

She shook her head. “I know I shouldn’t have deceived you, but—”

“But you thought I was some stupid, lovesick fool who’d believe whatever you said.” Anger made him want to hurt her. “You pretended to love me, hoping all the while that one day your lover would return. Well, I pretended to help you, when it was me—yes, me—who sent your lover away.”