Regency Society. Ann LethbridgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
that was left to him as she rejoined her husband.
‘Damn.’ As he shook his head against the growing ache in his temple, the rush of pain made his brow wet and his hands relaxed as swirling lights of dizzy unbalance reached out to claim him.
Cristo Wellingham was deathly white, the pale set of his more usually bronzed skin visible even from a distance. He was trying to sit up, trying to make sense of what had happened and reclaim a lost control.
‘The doctor should be here within a few moments.’ Anthony Baxter’s statement contained more than a measure of worry.
‘No need.’ Shakily moving his head from side to side, Cristo Wellingham dislodged the wet cloth draping his forehead as shards of amber caught her glance again, drawing her in like finely-honed magnets, and the guilt and uncertainty that had blossomed in such a startling way when she had touched him a few moments ago returned.
The blond of his hair was darkened with sweat, the length of it resting upon his opened shirt, the skin of his chest easily seen in the parted fabric.
‘I am … sorry.’ He spoke to the room in general as he sat up, one hand on the sill of the window behind and the other on the arm of a sofa next to him. Eleanor knew instantly the effort it was costing him. ‘I suffer from migraines and they recur from time to time. The English weather seems to bring them on.’
His voice held a note of steel and ice, though the smile that played across his face was there as a foil. A mask, showing only what might be shown at a party, his considerable illness consigned to mere nuisance.
‘Does an episode last long?’ Honour Baxter’s question was brittle.
‘No.’ He was upright now, the ties of his cravat hanging in long folds against the dark of his jacket. A man who was seldom used to showing weakness in front of anyone, she guessed, and who was trying in the aftermath of exposure to minimise any appearance of blemish. He no longer looked her way as he made a show of thanking his host for the evening whilst apologising for his part in the spoiling of it.
When Anthony Baxter shook his head in the age-old tradition of a host denying even the hint of difficulty he took his leave, the energy and vitality in the room lessening with his departure and leaving only a dull and awkward silence.
Eleanor swallowed back all her tumbling thoughts even as her husband began to discuss the turn of events with the two men next to him.
Cristo Wellingham’s migraine looked more debilitating than she had ever imagined one to be. Why was he not ensconced at Falder with his family if his health was so fragile?
His solitariness rankled and the wooden handles on her husband’s chair were hard beneath her palms and so different from the living spark of skin she had felt as she had touched his arm. She hated the prick of tears behind her eyes and the empty ache in the back of her throat as she remembered the way his fingers had curled about her own.
‘You did not tell us that you suffered so badly from headaches. The drawing rooms of this city were alight last evening with the news of your swoon yesterday at the Baxters’.’ Ashe paced Cristo’s bedroom with a decided purpose. His brother had arrived well before noon, to find him naked in bed, curled on his side, the covers pushed down, to allow the cool air to play across his sweat-covered shoulders. When Cristo turned over, Ashe did not look at all happy.
‘I have had them for a long time …’
‘Or that your back was riddled with scars. Where did you get them?’
‘The boat I took when I left England made a small detour to the south of Spain. It was not a passenger ship, you understand, but a vessel intent on the pillaging of other more innocent sea-farers. I was young and fit and foolish enough to see some celestial justice inherent in robbing from the wealthy to give to the poor.’
‘So you did not think to jump ship?’
‘I did as soon as I was able, catching a ride from Barcelona to Paris. Ashborne had made it clear that my behaviour was abhorrent to him and I did not think he would have wished for any further plea for help.’
‘And what of Taris and me? We heard nothing from you for years when you were in Paris except for a few terse notes demanding we stay out of your life.’
‘I had imagined you felt the same way as our father did.’
‘But the letters we sent …?’
‘Went unopened. I saw no reason to revisit bad memories.’
‘God, Cristo! You are twice as stubborn as Taris and that is saying something. I want you to come to Falder to recuperate.’
Cristo shook his head, the pillows behind him protesting the movement.
‘You’re ill, damn it! You need someone to look after you.’
‘Milne has done it before.’
‘Someone qualified.’
‘Experience qualifies him.’
‘And any lasting damage? Is that something we might be worried about?’
‘If it was, I am certain such an affliction would have shown itself by now.’ Reaching for his gold watch on the bedside table, he checked the time. The disturbances in his vision were much lessened this morning.
‘If you would rather I left England altogether …?’
‘And go where?’
‘Europe. America. The East. The world is a big place when nothing ties you down.’ His easy drawl was so practised he almost believed his own indifference.
‘Just roll in and roll out, you mean, after ten years of no contact? I almost believe that you might do it. Well, brother, you have not bargained on the whims of my wife and I tell you now if I don’t bring you home after this Emerald will send Azziz and Toro to get you.’
‘Who?’
‘Men from the port of Kingston with rings in their ears and swords in their hands.’ Asher began to smile at his explanation.
‘As I remember it, you used to be less happy.’
Again he smiled.
‘I keep hearing rumours that your wife was a pirate.’
‘And you believe them?’
‘Her minions fit the description.’
‘Then it must be true.’
Cristo saw how he turned the golden ring on the third finger of his left hand with infinite care.
‘When I left you had just married Melanie.’
‘When you left you still had ten fingers on your hands and a hide on your back that was untarnished.’
‘Things change.’
‘And change again.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Second chances, Cristy.’
His old name. His nickname. He shook his head before he knew that he had and watched Ashe cross to the bed and sit down.
‘Falder offers redemption to wearied souls and from what I can see your soul is indeed wearied. Come home and heal.’
Cristo swallowed. Home in the company of his family? The secrets he needed hidden were so much more easily exposed there. ‘I can’t.’
‘Then you will be nursed in London by Emerald, Lucinda and Beatrice-Maude.’
‘No …’
‘Starting today.’
The pounding in his temple stopped him from arguing further and as he lay back against his pillows he knew that he was defeated. Closing his eyes, he slept.