Regency Surrender: Wicked Deception. Christine MerrillЧитать онлайн книгу.
she had been last night. As she’d sat on his bed, near enough to touch and waiting for intimacy, she’d been as stiff as a waxwork and just as cold.
After the meal, he’d been hoping for a relaxing glass of port with Adam and Sam as the ladies retired. But they took that hurriedly, wanting to join the women in the parlour and using the comfort of the chairs, and his semi-invalid status, as an excuse. At first, he thought it a trick to throw him back into the presence of his wife and force some memory from him. But it seemed that, as their bachelor days receded into the past, his brother and friend had grown used to spending their evenings in the company of their wives. They were less willing to forgo it, even after his miraculous recovery. Now that he was married, they expected him to behave the same.
Married.
It always came back to that. Once again, his feelings were in a muddle. Perhaps he was still avoiding her. He should be able to engage Justine in easy conversation as Adam and Sam did with their wives. But he could not think of a word to say to her, other than the thought that was always foremost in his mind: Who are you?
No one else wondered. They all seemed to know her well. She was settled into what was probably her usual chair beside a screened candle, chatting amiably as though she belonged here. She reached into a basket at its side to take up her needlework: a complex arrangement of threads and pins on a satin pillow. The other women smiled at her, admired her work and discussed children and households.
Adam and Sam seemed to be in the middle of a political conversation that he’d had no part in. How long would it take him, just to be aware of the news of the day? Probably less time than to discover the details of his own life. He could read The Times for a day or two and find everything he needed. But no matter how he prodded at the veil covering the last six months, it was immovable. If the present situation was to be believed, there was a trip to Bath, love, marriage and who knew what other events, waiting just on the other side.
His headache was returning.
He struggled to his feet and manoeuvred himself to a decanter of brandy that sat on the table by the window, pouring a glass and drinking deeply. That he had done it without spilling a drop deserved a reward, so he poured a second, leaning on his crutches to marshal his strength for a return to his chair. The trip across the room had brought him scant feet from Justine and he paused to watch her work.
There was a scrap of lace, pinned flat to the pillow in front of her. It took him a moment to realise that this was not some purchased trim, but a work in progress. The finished work was held in place with a maze of pins more numerous than spines on a hedgehog, the working edge trailing away into a multitude of threads and dangling ivory spools. As though she hardly thought, she passed one over the other, around back, a second and a third, this time a knot, the next a braid. Then she slipped a pin into the finished bit and moved on to another set of threads. The soft click of ivory against ivory and the dance of her white hands were like a soporific, leaving him as calm as she seemed to be. Though he was close enough to smell her perfume, he saw no sign of the shyness that was usually present when he stood beside her. There was no stiffness or hesitation in the movement of her hands. Perhaps their problems existed outside the limits of her concentration. She worked without pattern, calling the complex arrangement of threads up from memory alone. There was hardly a pause in conversation, when one or the other of the women put a question to her. If it bothered her at all, he could not tell for her dancing fingers never wavered.
Though he stood right in front of her, he seemed to be the last thing on her mind. Now he felt something new when he looked at her. Was this envy that she gave her attention to the lace, and to the other women, while ignoring him? Or was this frustration that he’d had her attention, once, and slept through it.
Slowly, the roll of finished work at the top grew longer. No wonder she had nursed him, uncomplaining, for months at a time. She had the patience to measure success in inches. Penny noticed his interest and announced, ‘Her handwork is magnificent.’
It brought a blush to the woman’s fair cheeks, but she did not pause, or lose count of the threads. ‘In my homeland, lacemaking is quite common,’ she announced. ‘My mother was far better at it than I.’
‘Your homeland?’ he prompted, for it was yet another fact that he did not know.
‘Belgium,’ she said, softly. ‘I was born in Antwerp.’
‘And we met in Bath,’ he added. It did not answer how either of them came to be there. But perhaps, if repeated often enough, it would make sense.
‘You may think it common, but your work is the most delicate I have seen,’ Penny reminded her with a sigh. Then she looked to Will. ‘It is a shame that you did not bring Justine to us before the last christening. I would so have liked to see a bonnet of that trim she is making now.’
‘For the next child, you shall have one,’ Justine replied, not looking up.
‘It is too much to ask.’ Penny smiled at Will as though he had a share in the compliment. ‘The collar she made for me last month makes me feel as regal as a duchess.’ Fine praise indeed, for it was rare to hear Penny feeling anything other than ordinary.
‘The edging she made for my petticoat is so fine it seemed a shame to cover it with a skirt, Daphne added. ‘I’ve had my maid take up the hem of the dress so that it might be seen to good advantage.’
‘Because you are shameless,’ her husband added with a smile. He was glancing at her legs as though there were other things that were too pretty to be hidden. It was probably true, if one had a taste for girls who were buxom and ginger. Daphne was as pretty as Penny was sensible.
Will glanced at his own wife, his mind still stumbling over the concept. The candlelight was shining copper in her hair and bringing out the green in her eyes. In museums, he’d admired the technique of the Flemish painters and the way their subject seemed to glow like opals in the light. But if this woman was an indication, perhaps they had simply learned to paint what they saw before them. Though she sat still and silent in the corner, the woman he had chosen seemed illuminated from within, like the banked coals of a fire. Perhaps that was what had drawn him to her. For now that he had seen her in candlelight, he could not seem to look away.
There was a knock on the parlour door and Adam all but leapt to his feet to open it, breaking the spell. He turned back to Will with a grin. ‘Now, for the highlight of the evening. We are to have a visit from your namesake, William.’ He opened the door and the nurse entered, carrying a plump toddler that Will assumed was his nephew.
It was almost as great a shock as discovering he had a wife. When he had last seen little William, they had been in the chapel and the infant had been squawking at the water poured over his head. That child had been but a few months old and had cared for nothing but milk and sleep. The baby that was brought into the room was fully three times the size of the one he remembered and struggling to escape, his arms outstretched to his parents, demanding their attention.
Penny had already set aside the book she’d been holding and took the baby, making little cooing noises and interrogating the nurse about his day. Next, it was Adam’s turn. But instead of coddling the child, he knelt on the floor and demanded that his son come to him. The child did, once he was free of his mother’s arms. It was done in a series of lunges, combined with some industrious crawling and ending in an impressive attempt by little Billy to haul himself upright on the leg of the tea table. He was properly rewarded by his father with a hug and a sweet that appeared from out of Adam’s waistcoat pocket, which Penny announced would ruin the boy’s sleep.
Will felt a strange tightening in his chest at the sight. Six months ago, he had given little thought to his nephew, other than a natural pride at sharing his name. But to have missed so much in the boy’s development was like losing a thing he’d had no idea he’d wanted.
Adam scooped the child from the floor and wiped the stickiness from his hands and mouth before announcing, ‘And now, young Bill, it is time to meet your uncle. Can you say hello for him? Come now,’ he coaxed. ‘We have heard the word before. Uncle. Show your godfather how brilliant you are.’