Pale Moon Stalker (The Nymph Trilogy) (5 page)

His reply sounded stiff and unnatural to Sky. "You must truly detest Cletus," she said, to cover her own unease at his peculiar distraction. The sooner they settled matters here and returned to America to track Johnny Deuce, the sooner they could go their separate ways.
That will be for the best.
Why didn't she believe her own thoughts? "Did things go well with your solicitor?"

"I've had more enjoyable confrontations with cold-blooded murderers," he gritted out as he spun on his heel and stalked from the room.

Sky stood rooted to the floor, stunned at his vile temper. What must have happened to cause this sudden shift in his mood? Had Jerome Bartlett done something amiss? This afternoon when he'd left for the solicitor's office, Max had appeared resigned if not exactly overjoyed with the family gathering. In fact, he'd been quite concerned about her feelings regarding the introduction to his cousins. He'd even assured her she would be the perfect hostess.

She stewed as she waited for Max to change, rechecking her own appearance in a sitting room mirror to make certain she was presentable. The heavy crown of gleaming braids and elegant mourning gown made her complexion appear pale by comparison. Her normally bright blue eyes appeared washed out. Smudges had suddenly appeared beneath them.

What have I gotten myself into?

Her troubling ruminations were interrupted by Baldwin as he announced the arrival of Phillip Stanhope, the family estate manager. From what Max had told her about his second cousin, the fellow was an affable chap, competent and hard-working. When the tall, rather raw-boned man with the trademark Stanhope silver-gilt hair entered the room, she felt the warmth of his smile.

After they had introduced themselves, she murmured, "I must say, you do bear a striking resemblance to my husband."

"You are most kind, Lady Ruxton, but I'm just a poor country bumpkin cast adrift in the big city," he replied with a winsome smile. "Max has always been the charmer. How else could he have won such a lovely bride?"

"Now, who's the charmer?" she teased, instantly liking him. "Please, Phillip, call me Sky, if I may be so bold as to address you by your Christian name."

"Most certainly, Sky," he replied warmly.

"I've seen the portraits of your uncle Harry and Max's father. Do all the Stanhope men look so alike?"

Phillip appeared to hesitate. "Not all," he replied vaguely as the front door again opened and Cletus was announced. The moment he entered the sitting room, Sky knew why Phillip had not wanted to discuss family resemblances. Cletus Stanhope was short and pudgy with a dough-soft belly. Narrow bloodshot eyes of a color difficult to discern squinted at her from beneath the bush of his heavy red eyebrows. His complexion, no doubt owing to copious quantities of alcohol, was bright red, several shades darker than the faded, thinning strands on his scalp.

"So, yer Max's new lady," he said by way of introduction, scarcely giving her a nod before he sauntered toward the sideboard, where an assortment of liquors were set out in glittering crystal decanters.

"Chivalrous as always," Max said from the doorway, scowling at Cletus, who scarcely turned to acknowledge his host as he filled a snifter with French brandy. "Phil, how are things going down in Kent?" Max asked as the two men shook hands.

Sky could see they shared not only hair coloring and sun-darkened skin but also callused hands. They were both men who worked and lived outdoors. She listened as they discussed the family estates and was surprised to learn how much Max appeared to know about agriculture and livestock.

"I've met your lovely wife, Sky," Phillip said, drawing her into the conversation. "You are to be congratulated, coz. The lady is a true beauty."

Max regarded her with those hard green eyes. "Yes, she most certainly is," he replied thoughtfully.

A ripple of unease swept over her. Whatever had set him off this afternoon must have been troubling in the extreme. Her worried thoughts were interrupted by Baldwin, announcing dinner.

"About time, before Cletus becomes so inebriated that he attempts to eat his soup with a fork. He's done it before," Phillip murmured to her as they filed into the dining room, with their portly cousin bringing up the rear, brandy glass clutched in one meaty fist.

Sky smothered a chuckle.

By the second course, Cletus indeed was having difficulty getting food to his mouth without spilling spots of consommé and slices of fish on his shirtfront. Somehow he managed never to spill the brandy or wine, which went directly down his gullet. Between swallows and bites, he prattled on about various influential people in high social circles with whom he hobnobbed.

Just before the fowl was served, he raised his glass and cleared his throat, garnering their attention as he sneered, "A toast to our dear uncle Harry, wretched pinchpenny that he was. Leaving me only a measly twenty thousand with a yearly pittance of four while the fair-haired Maxwell inherits everything." He burped in the stone silence of the room, then blustered on, "But you were the hero of Rorke's Drift, weren't you, coz?"

Phillip leaned toward his cousin and placed a restraining hand on his arm. "Clete, old man, you're foxed and unfit for decent company. Our uncle left me the same inheritance, a tidy fortune, and I'm exceedingly grateful. So should you be." When Cletus subsided and sullenly stuffed nearly half a quail in his mouth directly from the tray the server held before him, Phillip turned to Max and asked, "Would you mind if I used part of my inheritance to buy some land adjacent to Ruxton Manor? I could manage all the property easily from Kent—that is, if you don't object?"

Max nodded, forcing himself to ignore Cletus. "Certainly, Phillip. I was hoping you'd want to stay on."

"Always so generous is our Max," Cletus interjected.

Seeing her husband was nearing the end of his patience, Sky spoke up. "Sir, you call twenty thousand pounds measly?" she asked the drunken man, then turned to Phillip and inquired, "What would twenty thousand pounds be worth in American dollars?"

Phillip stroked his jaw, considering, then replied, "The last exchange rate I recall was one pound sterling to a bit more than four dollars. Four fifty-eight, if memory serves."

Her face flushed with amazement as she calculated. Max watched her with a sudden burst of amusement. He had a suspicion Cletus was about to receive a verbal thrashing—far preferable to his beating the imbecile to death and leaving a gory mess for the servants to clean up.

"That's more than ninety thousand dollars! And you have the audacity to call your uncle a pinchpenny?" she asked incredulously. "That's a fortune! In America it would take a skilled physician a lifetime to earn that much money."

"My dear, I am an English gentleman, not a skilled physician," Cletus replied contemptuously.

"Cletus, you are not a skilled anything," Phillip interjected, eliciting a chuckle from Max, for whom the evening had just taken an amusing turn.

"And most certainly not a gentleman either," Sky found herself blurting before she thought better of it. Now Phillip joined in the laughter.

Tossing down his unused napkin, Cletus glared at her. "Well, m'lady, I don't see that your husband is any different, except for receiving a Victoria Cross for killing a bunch of bloody wogs."

"Here, Cletus! Watch your language," Phillip remonstrated.

When Max stood up, Sky reached over and took hold of his hand, pulling him back into his seat. "He's drunk," she said.

"And stupid," Phillip added cheerfully.

She turned to him and asked, "What are wogs, Phillip?" although she already had a pretty fair idea.

Max's cousin looked exceedingly uncomfortable, casting a glance at Max, who nodded for him to reply. "I fear Cletus is referring to the Zulu people of Africa, one of the largest and fiercest warrior groups inhabiting a sizable portion of the continent."

Sky turned to her husband and inquired in dulcet tones, "Would you say, Max, that the Zulus are analogous to the Sioux Nation?"

Suddenly the conversation had taken a most unpleasant twist he'd never anticipated. He swallowed hard and nodded silently.

Sky turned to Cletus with glittering eyes and addressed him in a harsh burst of alien language. "That was Sioux, Mr. Stanhope. I called you an offal-licking, lizard-lipped miscreant. Now, I'll tell you in the English of which you are so proud, that if you ever dare to enter my home again, I will use a Sioux scalping knife on the pitiful remains of your scraggly red hair—and if I ever encounter you on the street, I'll employ it to geld you to prevent you from contaminating the stock of your much-loved English nation! Leave this house this instant." The last words were delivered in icy cold command.

Cletus Stanhope overturned his chair in his haste to escape.

He stumbled for the door to the hallway and crashed against the walnut frame, then careened into the foyer, where they could hear him bleating when he slipped on the marble floor.

"He's probably crawling out the front door on hands and knees," Phillip said gleefully.

Sky found her rage suddenly dissipated after Cletus' ungainly retreat. She had behaved like the uneducated savage "wog" that odious man believed her to be. She glanced apprehensively over at Max...expecting censure. If he had not already, he surely regretted his hasty marriage now.

Chapter Three

Sky sat frozen, not daring to meet her husband's hard green gaze. Until the sound of clapping broke the sudden silence after Cletus' exit. Her head jerked up and she saw Max smiling at her as his hands applauded her treatment of his detestable cousin. Phillip, too, joined in the accolade. She was speechless. They suddenly broke into laughter, slapping each other on the back as Max informed her, "Lizards don't have lips, love."

"Egad, but it does alliterate! You both do!" Phillip joined in with a hearty guffaw.

Max nodded. "She has a gift for alliteration and oxymorons." He smiled at her.

Not noting the byplay, Phillip continued with glee. "I've been waiting for years for someone to take Cletus down for his egregiously drunken behavior, but never in my wildest imagination did I envision it done to such a splendid turn!"

Sky smiled at Phillip and expressed her gratitude for his support, but her husband's reaction to her outburst was of far more import. She tried to read behind those mysterious dark eyes, now crinkled with laughter. Was he truly pleased by what she had done? With Maxwell Stanhope, one could never be certain...least of all if one was his wife.

* * * *

Later that evening, Max and Phillip retired to the study to go over some estate bookkeeping matters. Sky excused herself, as was the English custom, and went upstairs to the adjoining bedrooms she and Max were using. After her maid assisted her in getting the elaborate gown and undergarments off, she dismissed Polly with thanks, glad for the time to herself to consider the most disconcerting evening. She could never be comfortable surrounded by servants, all eager to do her bidding.

"A good thing I won't be Lady Ruxton for long," she murmured to herself as she sat brushing her own hair before the mirror in her dressing room. She studied her reflection, noting the dusky tinge of her complexion. She knew Polly had been startled that evening when she'd prepared a bath for her mistress and saw that the lady's skin was not merely bronzed by the harsh American sun, but a natural tan over every inch of her body.

"Perhaps she thinks I sunbathe nude," Sky speculated, not really interested in what the servants' gossip would be on the morrow. They would remain unfailingly polite as befitted their station. If the beloved Lord Ruxton chose to marry a "wog," they would never complain, even if they speculated below stairs about why he'd done it.

Phillip, too, appeared to readily accept her, although, as the steward of Ruxton estates, it would have been unlikely he'd openly disdain her. He seemed genuinely pleased by her set-down of Cletus, but that might owe as much to Cletus' vile personality as to any genuine fondness for a woman of mixed blood.

She really did not give a fig for family or servants or, for that matter, the whole of London's approval. Then why on earth did Max's approval mean so much to her? They had a business arrangement. Pure and simple. It would end once the Limey had done his job—tracked down and killed Johnny Deuce.

The thought of Max riding away from her squeezed her heart, catching her off guard. She forced aside the pang of longing and turned to brushing her hair its usual hundred strokes, angrily counting as she plied the brush.
Why am I acting like a lovesick schoolgirl? I'm a widow in mourning!
she reminded herself.

From beneath the doorway between their rooms, Max saw a pale crack of light. Sky was still awake. For some reason he refused to examine, he turned the well-oiled knob silently and watched her. She brushed that gleaming mass of ebony hair, hanging her head forward so the heavy weight fell over her breasts. He could see the slender outline of her spine through the sheer silk of her black lawn night rail. Mourning clothing, worn as tradition dictated down to the most intimate garments, made most women look washed out, faded and gray.

Not his Sky. Her rich coloring and vivid blue eyes were brought to life by the somber wardrobe. Since when was she
his
Sky? He cursed silently, reminding himself that he had not yet decided whether he wanted to make the marriage permanent. He could do as he'd done years ago. Simply walk away from the land, money and title, go back to being the Limey. Let Cletus have the whole of Harry's fortune to squander.