Susan Carroll (7 page)

Her eyes misted over when she recalled the
first time she had ever seen the cloak. It had been lying draped
over that very same indigo-blue velvet wing chair, nestled so close
to the fire screen. Of course, then the wing chair had been new,
part of the elegant bedroom furnishings downstairs. The velvet was
faded now, but not so her memory. Sinking down upon the daybed's
stiff brocade covering, Phaedra stroked the soft wool of the cloak,
her mind drifting back to her wedding day.

She had returned, exhausted from the
celebration of the rites in Hanover Square, to the rooms Sawyer
Weylin had had prepared for her and Ewan. Exhausted, yes, but happy
and full of plans for the future. She had not been pleased to begin
her married life under her tyrannical grandfather's roof, but was
sure it would not be long until Ewan whisked her off to his own
estate in Yorkshire. Scrambling into her linen shift, she had sent
her maid away, then snuggled beneath the coverlets to await Ewan.
Her handsome, charming, husband.

Phaedra's heart had skipped a beat, her
youthful body wriggling in anticipation. She was not totally
ignorant of what to expect. Although she was still a maiden,
Phaedra had learned much from a muscular Irish stableboy, whom she
had once fancied. Learned far more than her parents would have
wished. It was at that time the decision had been made to find her
a husband. Phaedra had giggled as she remembered how forcefully her
mother had put the case to Papa.

“By my faith,” Lady Siobhan had snorted, “the
girl is overripe, George. Delay much longer, and we shall see her
fruit plucked by the wrong hands."

Strangely, Sawyer Weylin had chosen that time
to heal the breach between himself and his son. Although Weylin
still had refused to receive his Irish daughter-in-law, he had
showed an interest in producing a suitable candidate for his
granddaughter's hand. At first Phaedra had rebelled, wanting
nothing to do with the grandfather who so snubbed her beloved
mother. But Lady Siobhan herself had insisted that Phaedra accept
Weylin's offer, seeing better prospects for her daughter in England
than in Ireland. Phaedra's own objections had lessened when she saw
the portrait of the man Sawyer Weylin had selected. Lord Ewan
Grantham was decidedly a fine figure of a man.

The betrothal was delayed for another year by
the untimely death of her mother. Most willingly would Phaedra have
remained with her father, but George Weylin seemed to have no heart
left for anything but his grief. He had bundled Phaedra off to
England at the earliest opportunity. Banished to a strange country,
her mother gone, her Papa far away at Abbey Lough, Phaedra had
received a cold welcome from Sawyer Weylin, who from the outset
regarded this half-Irish grandchild critically. But Lord Ewan had
turned out to be as handsome as his portrait. Most naturally,
Phaedra had transferred the full fire of her passionate affections
to him, adoring her new husband.

Squirming beneath the sheets on her wedding
night, Phaedra had wondered how she could contain herself much
longer if Ewan did not hasten to her side. It was then that she had
first noticed the dove-colored cloak. With a shriek of feminine
joy, she had bounded out of bed, snatching up the garment. Then the
door to the bedchamber had crashed open and Ewan had staggered
inside. She had turned to him, glowing with pleasure.

"Oh, my love. What a splendid wedding gift. I
thank you, oh, a hundred times."

But instead of the urbane smile she had come
to expect, Ewan flashed her a look of anger and hatred. He yanked
the cloak from her hands, nearly spinning her off-balance.

"Don't you ever touch this again," he had
slurred. He reeked of whiskey. Phaedra shrank back, the smile
withering upon her lips. "I-I am most dreadfully sorry. I thought
it was meant for me."

"You?" He gave a vicious bark of laughter.
"This little cloak for a great horse like you?" He shoved the
fabric in her face, and she stepped back, wincing.

"Then whose is it?" she had whispered.

"This, my little Irish bitch, belonged to the
woman I loved."

Hugging the cloak as if he embraced a lover,
Ewan wove his way across the room. He attempted to seat himself in
the wing-backed chair, missed, and sank into a heap by the
fire.

Phaedra had tried to reach out to him, but he
waved her away, shaking his fist. "You stay away from me. Don't
want you. Never did." He buried his face in the cloak. "Oh, Anne,
my lovely Anne."

Phaedra's hand fell limp to her side. She
quavered. "Is she your mistress?"

Ewan had raised his head long enough to roar
at her. "No! She would have been my wife! My true wife!" His voice
grew thick with weeping and his entire frame shook with sobs.
Numbly, Phaedra had retreated to her own bedchamber, but the heavy
oak door could not block out the sound of his dreadful sobs, which
continued far into the night. It was then that Phaedra had fled to
the top of the house and found the abandoned attic chamber that
would become her retreat-a place to shed quiet tears of her own for
a love lost, for a love that she had never truly had.

The memory of that night faded as Phaedra
folded up the cloak her husband had wept over so long ago. She had
never asked Ewan what had become of his Anne, whether the woman had
died or married someone else. The manner in which Ewan had
cherished that cloak had told Phaedra all she cared to know. She
could see now what a fool she had been, becoming infatuated by a
handsome face. How many times had she met Ewan before their wedding
day? Perhaps thrice. She had been nothing but a pawn, caught
between two ruthless men: her ambitious grandfather, who wished to
marry a member of his family into the nobility, and Ewan Grantham,
in need of Weylin's money to settle his debts. Never, Phaedra
vowed, would she permit herself to be so used again.

She resolutely put the garment from her. She
had had to endure Ewan's keeping the cloak about, but now that he
was dead, she was not going to be haunted by it anymore. She
regarded the fireplace grate, longing for the courage to stuff the
cloak in and watch it burn to ashes. After all these years, the
dove-colored wool still seemed to exercise a spell upon her. But,
at least, she would have it boxed up, sent someplace where she
never had to lay eyes upon it again.

Stuffing Anne's cloak under her arm, she
retreated down the stairs to the hall below, directing her steps
toward that wing of Sawyer Weylin's mansion that she had shared
with her late husband. The carpeted floors seemed unnaturally quiet
now without the constant stream of tradesmen, barbers, and other
servants who had ceaselessly attended upon Ewan's demands.

Although Sawyer Weylin was generous about
paying Grantham's debts, there had been conditions attached. The
one that had irked Ewan the most was her grandfather's' insistence
that the newlywed couple live under his roof, where Sawyer could
maintain control over her spendthrift husband. Too weak to defy the
old man, Ewan had directed his bitterness at Phaedra. He had felt
as trapped by their marriage as she. His dying had released them
both.

Phaedra's step faltered as she passed the
door to Ewan's bedchamber, locked now in accordance with the
mourning custom, which dictated that the deceased's chambers be
shut up for a lengthy period of time. Not that Phaedra cared a whit
for that. She had no desire ever to set foot again in that room,
which held for her only memories of humiliation. On those
infrequent occasions when she had had to submit to Ewan in his bed,
his lovemaking had been brief, almost savage, as though he sought
to punish her for not being Anne.

But her own bedchamber was linked to his by a
connecting door, and Phaedra was disturbed by the tomblike silence
that now emanated from Ewan's room. It was like living next to a
mausoleum.

Clutching Anne's cloak a little tighter,
Phaedra prepared to skirt past that still, forbidding doorway. Then
she froze, hearing a sound where there should have been none. The
light padding of a footfall, a whisper of silk.

Not even the housemaids were permitted to
enter Ewan's room. Then who would dare? The door had remained
locked since the day of Ewan's burial. Stretching out a hand, she
tried the knob.

It turned easily. Phaedra scowled. The
housekeeper was the only person with a key. Phaedra ground her
teeth as she inched the door noiselessly open. If Hester were up to
more of her tricks, she would-

Phaedra paused on the threshold, taken aback
by the flood of sunlight. She had expected to find the room
shrouded in darkness, but the curtains were flung wide. All the
furniture was gleaming with a fresh polish of beeswax from the
mahogany dressing table to the four-poster bed where where a
strange man stood with his back to her, shrugging himself into a
pair of breeches. Phaedra caught a glimpse of muscular buttocks
before the man eased the tanned cloth over his lean hips. Stunned,
her eyes roved upwards past a trim waistline to a broad back, as
hard-muscled as any strapping farm laborer's. Shagged lengths of
sable-colored hair covered the nape of his neck.

"Who are you? What are you doing in my
husband's room?" Phaedra managed to ask at last.

The man started at the sound of her voice. As
he spun around, a gasp escaped Phaedra. Her arms went slack,
dropping Anne's cloak in a heap.

"You!" she cried.

The elegant satins might be stripped away,
along with the mask and white-powdered wig. But there was no
mistaking the lean, jawline, the sensual mouth, the chilling blue
eyes. The half-naked man who now stalked toward her was undoubtedly
Armande de LeCroix, the most noble Marquis de Varnais.

Varnais halted inches from where Phaedra
stood, immobile, on the threshold. She had but to raise her hand
and she could have touched the dark mat of hair that clung with
sweat-sheened dampness to his bare chest. With unshaken aplomb,
LeCroix worked to close the last button on his breeches. Phaedra
forced herself to wrench her eyes away from the deft movement of
those long, tanned fingers.

"
Bon jour
, Lady Grantham." He inclined
his head toward her in an ironic bow. "An unexpected pleasure. Is
this another of your unusual English customs?"

His light mockery roused Phaedra, flooding
her with anger at the shock he'd given her.

"Damn you! What are you doing here?"

"I live here," he said dryly.

"Since when?"

"Since your grandfather most kindly suggested
that I give up my lodgings and become his guest-about a fortnight
ago."

"A fortnight!" Phaedra sputtered. "Then last
night when we met, you knew you already were-would be-" Sleeping
but yards away, divided only by one wall from where she had tossed
in her bed, tormented with dreams of him threatening her, caressing
her. The thought brought heat rushing into her cheeks.

"You did not trouble yourself to inform me of
the fact!" she accused.

The corner of his mouth twitched, a faint
trace of amusement shading his eyes. "It was one of the few
questions you did not ask me, my lady."

Taking a hesitant step backward, she scarce
knew what to do next. She could not bodily eject Armande from
Ewan's room as she would have liked to have done. The most ladylike
course of action would be to stalk away in high dudgeon to find her
grandfather. The marquis was half naked, and even now she could
hear one of the maids coming down the hall.

Impulsively, Phaedra bolted forward and
slammed the door closed behind her. The abrupt movement brought her
brushing up against Armande. Flinging out her hands to ward him
off, her palms pressed against the warm, firm flesh of his
shoulders. She received the briefest of warnings from the sudden
intensity of his gaze and jerked her hands back as though she had
been seared. But it was too late. His arms banded about her,
imprisoning her against him. Heart thudding, for one moment she
forgot herself enough to allow him to draw her close. But at the
first heated touch of his lips, his mouth grazing hers with the
promise of sweeter fire to come, she struggled to be free. To her
surprise, he readily released her.

"How dare you!" she gasped.

He shrugged, and whatever desire she had seen
flare to life in his eyes was gone. "
Milles
pardons
,
my lady. It would seem I misread your intent. In France, there is
only one reason for a woman to so rush into a man's
bedchamber."

So the kiss had been but another of the
marquis's mockeries. Phaedra drew in a tremulous breath, raising
one hand to her burning cheek in an attempt to cool it. "This was
my husband's room. I came to see what you are doing here."

"Dressing myself."

He was baiting her she thought, and enjoying
every minute of it. She replied in as cool a voice as she could
muster. "You cannot stay here, especially not now that I've
returned from Bath. This room adjoins my bedchamber."

“You can always keep your door bolted, if you
wish," he said. In his voice was the barest suggestion that she
might not wish it.

Phaedra's hand fluttered to the neckline of
her gown. "So I shall, for the rest of your brief stay here."

He merely smiled and walked leisurely toward
the bed, where his plain white shirt lay spread out on the blue
velvet counterpane. He picked up the shirt, easing the .linen over
the muscular contours of his shoulders. Did not the man have a
valet? Phaedra wondered. That was odd for a great nobleman. Either
he could not afford a manservant or he wanted no one in such close
attendance upon him. The elegant cut of his clothes, and the heavy
ruby glinting upon his finger, made a lack of funds seem
unlikely.

When he had put on the shirt, he glanced up,
looking as though he were surprised to find her still there.