A Perfect Secret (7 page)

She’d been desperate for her husband not to know of her existence. If they were simply estranged, they could live out their lives in separate houses and ignore one another. No, it was more than that.

Very well. He’d help her if only to get her out of his life as soon as possible. Besides, anything that would cause difficulty for Wickburgh was sure to be a worthwhile endeavor.

A muffled scream sent Christian’s heart racing. He bolted down the corridor, following the screams. They led him to Genevieve’s room. A footman was already on his way. Christian passed the footman and burst inside.

Fully expecting to see an attacker over Genevieve, Christian raced in and flung back the bed curtains.

Alone and unharmed, Genevieve writhed in bed. Christian glared at her. What theatrics was this? And what did she hope to gain?

A maid appeared at the bedside and caught one of her flailing hands. “It’s all right, Miss, yer safe ’ere.”

Her face pale and the muscles in her neck standing out, Genevieve fought against an imaginary assailant while cries of distress wrenched from her. The terror in her voice pierced his soul. Absolute primal fear rolled off her in waves.

Softening in the face of such genuine panic, Christian touched her shoulder. “Genevieve, wake up. You’re dreaming.”

She came awake with a shriek, wild-eyed, and jerked her hand out of the maid’s grasp.

He gentled his voice and took a step back. “No one will harm you. You’re safe.”

She stared at him without recognition. Her gaze traveled to the burly footman behind him, and then to the maid at his side, her eyes wide and unblinking. Beads of perspiration stood out on her skin and her breath came in labored gasps.

Christian softened his voice. “You’re at Tarrington Castle. You’re safe.”

Slowly, the crippling fear drained out of her and recognition entered her eyes. “Christian.”

She heaved a shuddering sigh and fixed vulnerable, frightened eyes upon him. Dark as chocolate and fringed with thick lashes, the despair mirrored in them nearly broke his heart. Bruises dotted her arms and face, probably from the river. He’d found bruises on his own body, and he hadn’t been in the river as long as she.

He should give her privacy to release her grief. And he didn’t want to be here this close to her. She’d betrayed him. Her misery was for jilting him. Yet he could not leave her to face her demons alone.

Christian nodded to the footman and maid in dismissal before turning back to her. She wept bone-weary sobs as she sat hugging her knees. Grief and terror poured out of her and washed over him, leaving him breathless and shaken. Christian stood, appallingly helpless, at her bedside. Clearly, there was nothing he could do. Nor should he feel obligated to do anything. He headed for the door.

“Don’t leave, I beg you.” Her voice rasped with tears. She wiped her tears.

He hesitated. Looking small and vulnerable, she sniffled and continued to rub her hands over her eyes. With a sigh, he retrieved a handkerchief from the nightstand and handed it to her.

“Thank you. Please forgive me for making such a scene. I often have nightmares ....”

Sympathy tapped the shoulder of his conscience. “Do you wish to tell me about your dream?”

She shook her head vigorously and pushed back at her loose hair. He’d known she wouldn’t be happy with Wickburgh, but her stark misery cut through him like a knife. If only he could do something for her, protect her ….

No. Caring about her again would be supremely stupid. He should avoid her while she remained here. And do everything possible to forget her.

She moistened her lips. “Thank you for your ... assistance. I’m sorry to have disturbed you at this hour.”

“You didn’t. I was still up.”

She glanced at the clock on the nightstand next to a burning candle. “It’s nearly four o’clock in the morning.”

“I was painting.”

Her eyes opened wide. “Your artist’s muse keeps you up at night?”

“Not usually.”

“You never showed me any of your paintings, but your sketches were lovely.”

He’d burned the sketchbook filled with drawings of Genevieve after she married Lord Wickburgh, one page at a time, each page curling and blackening like his heart.

He took a step toward the door. “It’s late. You must be fatigued.”

Her grave eyes fixed on him, so devoid of light and joy that they seemed to belong to a different person. What had happened to her?

“You, as well. Thank you for your concern.” Her stiff formal words failed to hide the pleading of her eyes, pleading him to help her, pleading him to protect her.

She sat in bed wearing nothing but a thin shift that did little to conceal her womanly curves. As if realizing her state of
dishabille
, she pulled the counterpane up and hugged it. Only then did Christian realize he’d left his waistcoat and frockcoat in his studio. He stood, half-dressed, in the bedroom of a woman. Not that she was any temptation. Still, his presence here was inappropriate.

“Rest, Genev—er Lady Wickburgh. You’re safe here.”

He wouldn’t let down his guard enough to trust her, or—heaven forbid—make the mistake of caring about her again, but the wall he’d built around his heart developed a crack. Wickburgh had no doubt been a cold and unyielding husband, but her terror suggested it was more than that. Christian’s gut wrenched at the thought. Again he wondered what had driven Genevieve to marry Wickburgh.

Whatever had happened to her was real and terrible, and his duty as a gentleman was clear. Very well. He’d send her as far away as possible and dust off his hands, glad to be rid of her. Then he’d resume his efforts to rebuild a life without her. As he left the room, he built another wall around the fortress of his heart.

CHAPTER 8

Genevieve barely slept, always listening for the sound of
his
footsteps, her heart stopping at the treading of feet. But Christian was here. She was safe. For the time being. As morning light spilled between the draperies, Genevieve plotted her next move.

The maid, Ann, crept closer. “Miss? May I bring you a tray?”

“Yes, thank you.”

As Ann ducked through the doorway, the young Lady Tarrington entered, bearing her usual aura of serenity, and, despite being great with child, moving with grace. Lady Tarrington’s smile bathed Genevieve in the brightness of her cheer. She’d only spoken with Genevieve a few moments the previous day but now Lady Tarrington lowered herself into a chair near the bed.

“How do you feel this morning?”

“Surprisingly well, thank you.” Considering she was supposed to be existing in endless torment amid fire and brimstone. Fortunately, someone had saved her from the river. Now, at least, she had options.

“What can we do to make you more comfortable?” Lady Tarrington smiled so encouragingly that Genevieve was tempted to tell her everything. Almost.

Genevieve spread her hands. “You’ve already done too much.”

“Not at all. You are welcome to remain here as our guest while you convalesce.”

“It’s very kind of you,” Genevieve replied, “but I don’t wish to impose on your hospitality.”

Lady Tarrington drew in her breath sharply and rubbed her swollen abdomen.

Genevieve gave a start. “Are you unwell, my lady?”

Lady Tarrington shook her head, a peaceful smile touching her mouth. “I’m well. It happens a bit more often now. The
accoucheur
says it’s all in preparation.”

What a cruel twist of fate that Genevieve must find herself in the presence of a lady joyfully awaiting the birth of her child when Genevieve had so recently lost her own, the one good thing that might have come of her horrible marriage. Sorrow burrowed a hole through her heart, leaving a raw, gaping wound.

Lady Tarrington’s amber eyes opened wide as she looked at Genevieve. “Are you in pain?”

Genevieve tried to shake her head as a tidal wave of grief washed over her. Uncontrollable sobs seized her.

“I’ll send for the doctor!” Lady Amesbury cried.

“No,” Genevieve squeaked. “No. I don’t need a doctor.” She turned her head away and wept.

The bed sank under a weight next to Genevieve and a small, cool hand covered hers. Lady Tarrington watched her with concern and sorrow. “Forgive me. I’ve been terribly insensitive. The doctor told me you recently lost a baby. And here I am going on about mine.”

How long since she’d been touched in a gesture of friendship and affection! Starved for human contact, she gripped the woman’s hand. Lady Tarrington gathered Genevieve into her slender arms. She was soft and soothing and motherly. Welcoming long-absent contact, Genevieve clung to her. Lady Tarrington rubbed her back lightly while Genevieve unleashed her grief.

When her tears finally abated, Genevieve pulled away. “Forgive me.”

Lady Tarrington’s eyes were red-rimmed with shared sorrow. “No need to apologize. I cannot pretend to understand what you must have suffered.”

Ann came in bringing her fruit and croissants. “ ’ere ye are, miss.”

Wiping her eyes, Lady Tarrington helped place the tray. “First, eat. You were so chilled when you first arrived that we bathed you in hot water to try to warm you, but I’m afraid we failed to get all of the mud out of your hair. If you’re feeling strong enough, I’ll have Ann fill a bath for you.”

“A bath would be lovely, thank you.” Her tears returned, this time in gratitude. “You’re very thoughtful. I wish there was something I could do for you.”

“There, there. Don’t cry or you won’t be able to eat.” Lady Tarrington’s eyes shimmered.

Genevieve made an effort to banish her tears. Lady Tarrington cleared her throat and blew her nose. Genevieve turned her attention to her breakfast tray. Her cup contained chocolate again. Sugar and cream sat in small containers and she added them both liberally to the bitter cocoa. After the liquid turned a shade of warm brown, Genevieve picked up the cup of chocolate. The sweetened drink slid comfortingly down her throat.

Lady Tarrington smiled. “You like your chocolate sweet and creamy, as do I.”

Shaking off her sorrow, Genevieve returned the smile. “If I wanted to drink something bitter, I’d have coffee.”

“Exactly!”

Genevieve held out the cup to her. “Would you like some?”

“Oh, heavens no. I’ve had two cups already this morning.”

Suddenly bonded by such a quirk, they chatted comfortably of inconsequential things while Genevieve finished her breakfast. Outside the windows, the sun’s glow painted stripes on the carpet.

Lady Tarrington gestured to a chair where gowns draped over the back. “I’m too big to wear these now and thought you might wish to borrow them.”

“How kind.”

“We have lovely gardens if you desire to take a turn about them.” She smiled. “You’re invited to dine with us when you feel able. We welcome your company.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

Lady Tarrington’s smile radiated true warmth. “You are safe here. Won’t you please trust me with your name?”

Genevieve hesitated. If Christian hadn’t told them her name, perhaps he’d chosen to help her, after all. Of course, he might not have decided yet what to do. “My life depends on no one knowing my name, my lady.”

“I see. Are you … wanted by the law?”

“Oh, no, I vow I’ve done nothing illegal.” She let out a helpless sigh. “Of course, I suppose trying to drown myself is illegal, but there is no reason for the authorities to be looking for me.”

Lady Tarrington looked her over in an assessing way. “I believe you.”

Why that meant so much to Genevieve, she couldn’t say, but some of the tension left her shoulders. “Thank you.”

“You’re fortunate Christian found you in time to pull you from the river.”

Genevieve’s heart stuttered to a halt. “Christian pulled me out?”

“Yes, he did. He came home carrying you like you were a crystal doll.”

She closed her eyes. “He put himself at great risk.”

“It must be in the Amesbury blood. They all have a strong code of honor and an innate need to come to the rescue of those in need.”

“Lady Amebury—”

“Please, call me Alicia.”

“Alicia. What a lovely name.”

“My mother was French.”

After all Alicia’s kindness, Genevieve had to offer her something of herself. “You may call me Jenny.”

“So if you aren’t in hiding because you are a fugitive, why are you in hiding?”

Genevieve hesitated, but Alicia’s gentleness and concern nudged aside her cautiousness. “Someone means to do me harm.”

Lady Tarrington nodded slowly, her brows furrowing in concern. “Then of course you must stay until you find a safe place.”

Ann appeared. “The bath is ready, ma’am.”

Lady Tarrington—Alicia—stood. “I shall leave you in Ann’s capable hands. Let her know if you require anything, anything at all. She’ll make adjustments to the clothing that you require.” She eyed her critically. “You’re tiny; no doubt she’ll need to take everything in a great deal. She’s in training to be a lady’s maid, so anything you’ll allow her to do will help her with that endeavor.” With another serene smile, Alicia left.

Genevieve sat up and swung her legs over but when she tried to stand, dizziness darkened her vision. She sat on the edge of the bed.

“Per’aps it’s too soon for ye to be gettin’ out o’ bed, miss,” Ann ventured.

“Give me a minute, and we’ll try again.”

Once the room righted itself and the grey fog around her vision lifted, she gripped Ann’s hand. Ann put her other arm around her. Only when Genevieve could stand steadily did they move to the dressing room where she bathed. Ann handled her as if she were made of glass and scrubbed her scalp until her hair finally came clean. Genevieve lay back and soaked for a few moments while Ann sat sewing.

After bathing, Genevieve sat patiently while Ann coaxed knots out of her unruly curls and wrestled them into a semblance of order.

“Just twist it into a simple knot, Ann.”

Ann looked disappointed. “As you will.” The maid coiled a chignon at the nape of Genevieve’s neck. “Oi! Ye ’ave such beautiful ’air. Now that it’s clean, it’s such a lovely shade.”