The Handmaiden's Necklace (23 page)

D
anielle was rapidly recovering. It had been a week since the accident and she was home and out of bed and fast regaining her usual robust constitution. In the mornings, though the January weather remained chill, she and Caro walked together in the garden.

“I am determined to get back on my feet as soon as possible,” Dani said. “A week in bed is quite long enough.”

“You need your rest,” Caro argued. “Dr. McCauley said so.”

“He also said that a bit of exercise is good for me.” And she did feel better after a brisk morning stroll. Her body was healing nicely. It was her heart that was in trouble.

From the day they had wed, whenever a problem arose, Rafael had grown distant and remote. Since the accident, he had withdrawn once more, retreating even deeper behind his infuriating reserve than ever before.

Danielle ached to talk to him, to try to discover what was wrong. But each time she worked up the courage, she thought of what he might say and her resolve seeped away.
Instead, she kept to herself just as he did, allowing her body to mend while her heart ached more and more.

At least Caro was recovered, though in truth her spirits were not much higher than Danielle’s. During the day, the slender blonde moved restlessly around the house, her mind burdened with thoughts of Robert McKay. At night, Dani could hear her wandering about in the room next door, unable to sleep, even in the late hours of the night.

At present, Caro was downstairs in the Wedgwood Room, working on her embroidery, making little progress, Dani suspected. Danielle was worried about her. She wished word would come of Robert McKay.

Sitting in one of the smaller drawing rooms at the rear of the house, trying to concentrate on her embroidery and having little success, Caro looked up just as Wooster appeared in the open doorway.

“I am sorry to interrupt, Miss, but His Grace requests your presence in the library.”

Caro’s heart jerked into a faster motion. Perhaps, at last, Robert had come! “Thank you, Mr. Wooster. I shall go there straightaway.” Her knees trembled as she set aside her work and rose hastily from the sofa. Taking a steadying breath, she collected herself, smoothed the front of her pale blue woolen gown, and started for the door, following the butler out of the drawing room.

Her hands were trembling as she waited for Wooster to turn the silver knob on the door, then step back out of the way so that she might walk past him into the study. But as her gaze searched the room, it wasn’t Robert, but the Bow
Street runner, Jonas McPhee, who stood in front of the massive rosewood desk across from the duke.

“Come in, my dear,” Sheffield said. “I believe you’ve heard me speak of Mr. McPhee.”

“Why, yes… Good afternoon, Mr. McPhee.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Loon.” He was short and stout, wearing tiny spectacles, his head balding, but there was something in the thickness of his shoulders, the lines of his face that said he was a man who could hold his own.

The duke indicated she should take a seat next to the runner, and she sat down on the edge of the dark green leather chair, so nervous she had to concentrate to breathe.

“I asked you here because Mr. McPhee has brought news of Robert McKay, and I thought you would wish to hear.”

“Oh, yes, very much. Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Jonas, why don’t you tell Miss Loon what you’ve just told me?”

McPhee nodded his balding head, then turned a little toward her. “To begin with, Miss Loon, much of what your friend has said has been verified as the truth.”

Her body went so weak she thought she might slide right out of her chair.

“Are you all right, Caro?” the duke asked worriedly.

“I am fine.” She braced herself, settling her hands once more in her lap. “Please continue, Mr. McPhee.”

“Recently I traveled north to a small village near York, where I spoke to a man named Stephen Lawrence, who is Mr. McKay’s cousin. Though it took a bit of persuasion, when he discovered I was working on Mr. McKay’s behalf, Mr. Lawrence proved extremely helpful. You see, his mother is Robert’s aunt. Apparently, she was in attendance when
Nigel Truman, eldest son of the Earl of Leighton, married Robert’s mother at St. Margaret’s Church.”

Caro frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Seated behind his desk, the duke leaned toward them. “Although you know a great deal of Robert’s story, Caro, there is a bit more to the tale. You see, Robert’s cousin discovered Robert was Truman’s legitimate son, which made him heir to the Leighton earldom. Apparently, that is the reason he was made suspect for the murder. With his father dead and Robert hanged for the crime, Clifford Nash, the late earl’s distant cousin, was next in line for the Leighton title and lands.”

Her mind spun. “Are you…are you saying it was this man, Clifford Nash, who murdered the earl?”

“Nash or someone he hired,” McPhee answered. “We are not yet certain how Nash discovered Robert’s existence. Stephen Lawrence believes the late earl may have told the man himself.”

“A very poor decision, it would seem,” said the duke.

The runner sighed. “At any rate, the problem comes in finding the proof.”

“But if you know for certain that Robert is…is the legitimate earl—” she broke off for a moment, not quite able to grasp the notion “—then you have found the motive for the murder.”

“That is correct, but as I said, the trouble lies in proving it.”

“How will you go about it?”

“I’m afraid you will have to leave that to me.”

Caro glanced from McPhee to the duke. “Do you know where Robert is now?”

Sheffield shook his head. “Not at present, but in time Mr. McPhee is certain to come across him.”

“I see.”

“Is there anything else you wish to know, Caro?” the duke asked kindly.

But even if she had other questions, her mind had gone completely blank. “Not at present.”

“Then you may leave us.”

Caro rose unsteadily from her chair and made her way toward the door of the library. Her mind was churning, her heart aching. All she could think of was that Robert was an earl and she was naught but a lady’s maid.

Why was life so unfair?

Before she’d had time to reach the solitude of her bedchamber, Caro started to weep.

The last days of January approached. Dani and Caro were sitting in the Wedgwood Room, Caro making a fresh attempt at her embroidery while Danielle listened to the rain against the window and perused a text of Elizabeth Bentley poems.

Glancing over to the chair next to the sofa, Dani saw Caro’s slim hand poised above her needlework while she stared into the flames in the hearth. Since her friend had learned the truth of Robert’s birth, she had been practically inconsolable.

Caro’s eyes met Dani’s. “Even if Robert’s innocence can be proved, it is over between us.” She jabbed the needle a little too firmly into the fabric inside her embroidery hoop. “I am naught but the daughter of a vicar, a commoner, while Robert…Robert is the son of an earl.”

“Perhaps it won’t matter,” Dani said, praying it was true. But Robert had never spoken of marriage and as the days slipped past with no word, it seemed clear it was not his intention.

“I wish I had stayed in America. I wish Robert had stayed. I would have waited for him to serve his indenture. I would have waited for him forever, if he had but asked.”

“Nothing has been settled. We don’t even know where Robert is. Perhaps in time this will all work out.”

But Caro didn’t believe it and neither did Dani. She said nothing more, just set her book aside and left the drawing room, her own mood equally grim.

She was well healed now, feeling completely herself again, and yet Rafael had not come to her bed.

At supper he watched her through hooded, heavy-lidded eyes, making only the meagerest attempts at conversation. Dani wanted to shout at him, demand he speak up and tell her what was wrong. She couldn’t help thinking of the night she had worn the emerald satin gown with the indecent décolletage and actually considered wearing it again.

Instead, after another dull evening that ended with Rafe leaving the dining room immediately after supper and squirreling himself away in his library-study, she retired upstairs to her room next to his and began to pace the floor, angrier by the minute.

But with the anger came uncertainty.

Dear God, even his desire for her had waned. Since the accident, she saw none of the hot desire that had always shone in his eyes when he looked at her, none of the barely leashed passion that always simmered between them.

He didn’t want her. The knowledge was devastating.

More and more he was spending the evenings at his club, returning only in the late hours of the morning. Dani believed that unless she broke through the barrier he had erected between them, it was only a matter of time before he sought the company of other women.

She was still wide-awake when she heard him enter his bedchamber. She could hear him wandering around and imagined him removing his clothes, saw in her mind his tall, lean frame, the indentation of the muscles over his ribs, the hard slabs of muscle on his chest. A little shiver of desire slipped through her.

Sweet God, the man was her husband. It was time he remembered it.

Her decision made, she hurried over to her dresser and pulled out a white satin nightgown. It felt like liquid silver as she drew it over her head and let it glide down over her hips. The nightgown was high-waisted, the bosom covered only by sheer white lace. When she looked into the mirror, she could see her nipples, dark rose circles that made her recall the feel of Rafe’s hands on them, the way he made them peak and distend.

She touched herself there, felt the need burn through her, and realized how badly she wanted him to make love to her. It seemed forever since she had lain with him, not since before she had left with her aunt for the country.

Pulling the brush through her long red curls then arranging them around her shoulders, Dani drew in a breath and started for the door between their two rooms.

It was late, past the hour of midnight. Deciding not to ring for his valet, Rafe pulled the knot on his wide white
stock and slid the long strip of cloth from around his neck. He draped his coat and waistcoat over a chair and pulled his thin lawn shirt off over his head, leaving him naked to the waist.

He was about to remove his shoes when he heard a faint knock at the door leading in from the duchess’s suite. Surprised, he started in that direction, but before he got there, the silver knob turned and Danielle stepped into the room.

“Good evening, Your Grace.” Her words came out softly, a little breathlessly, and his pulse took a leap.

She was dressed in a clingy white satin nightgown that revealed every luscious curve, and his loins tightened. His gaze took in the sheer lace top that barely disguised the twin rose circles crowning her breasts, and as he watched, they began to stiffen into small, erotic buds. His shaft lengthened and swelled, began to grow thick and heavy.

“Is there something you want?” he forced himself to ask.

Her eyes met his, bright green into blue. “Yes…and I believe you know what it is.”

His body tightened and his arousal strengthened. She looked as beautiful as he had ever seen her, tall and regal, incredibly feminine, and he hadn’t had her since before the accident.

The word struck sharply, reminding him of her treachery and renewing his resolve to keep himself apart from her. She had lied to him, betrayed him in an even more heinous fashion than he had wrongly accused her of before. He had promised himself he would take his ease with another woman, that it no longer mattered that he cleave only to her, since there would be no children from their union.

But each night as he lay in bed, it was Danielle he ached for, Danielle he wanted.

Now she was here, standing in his bedchamber, just a few feet away. In the flickering lamplight, he could see the pearly smoothness of her skin, the fiery hue of her long red hair. He could smell the faint, sweet scent of her perfume that reminded him of apple blossoms.

His groin tightened and yet he did not move. “You have been ill,” he said blandly, though he could barely make himself utter the words. “You should rest and recover your strength.”

“I am no longer ill, Rafael…except with wanting you.”

He hissed in a breath, took an unconscious step toward her, then made himself stop and remain where he stood. He clenched his jaw. “Perhaps some other night.”

She started walking toward him, her movements so graceful the nightgown flowed around her lithe figure as if she were gowned in clouds.

She stopped directly in front of him, rested a hand on his bare chest, and he could feel the heat of her slender fingers, the warmth of her breath against his skin.

“It’s been far too long already.” Her fingers sifted though the swath of dark hair on his chest, moved down to his waist, then over the heavy bulge pressing against the fly of his breeches.

His heart thundered. His arousal strained toward her hand.

“You want me,” she said with what sounded like relief, lightly squeezing him through the cloth.

Rafe grit his jaw against the hot desire flooding through him, but when Danielle looked up at him, when she moist
ened her full ruby lips, his careful control stretched thin, then violently snapped.

With a growl low in his throat, he reached for her, slid an arm around her waist and hauled her hard against him, crushed his mouth down savagely over hers. He kissed her deeply, his tongue plunging in, taking what she offered, unable to resist a moment more. Dani slid her arms around his neck and kissed him back, her lips softening under his, her breasts pressing into his chest and making him groan.

He deepened the kiss, inhaling the familiar scent of her, tasting the sweet femininity that was hers alone, aching with want of her. Dani clung to him, kissing him back, using every erotic trick he had ever taught her, making his shaft grow painfully hard.

He reached out to cup a breast, tried to slide the straps of the white satin gown off her shoulders, but Dani stepped away.