The Nude (full-length historical romance) (25 page)

“What do you know of this?” So George
had
been holding back information. Nigel should have pressed him harder in London when his friend’s reluctance to speak on the matter first arose. If he had, Elsbeth’s life might have never been endangered.

“Nothing . . . nothing of import, Edgeware. A rumor here and there, is all.” George withdrew back into the shadows of the terrace. “I feel the need to scold you, though. I thought you were my friend.”

“I am. What the devil does our friendship have to do with anything?”

“I would have thought you’d want a friend to stand up with you at your marriage . . .”

“Oh, the marriage.” That was the last thing he wanted to discuss.

“According to Lady Olivia, your bride had been given a healthy draught of laudanum and was quite insensible all day. I wonder, does the new marchioness yet know of her elevated position?”

How was Elsbeth going to respond to the news of their hasty nuptials? Nigel had no clue. And though that singular worry had been gnawing at him all evening, it wasn’t something he was willing to admit to anyone. Not even to George.

With a shrug filled with aristocratic arrogance, he turned on his heel and walked away.

Perhaps he needed to find a new friend, one with a lesser ability to scour out details. But, in truth, he would never wish to trade George for some mindless dolt.

“I can imagine any woman’s ire when she discovers she was duped into a marriage, no matter how favorable the terms may be for her.” George chuckled. “Do you desire to have a second stand up with you when you tell her? The duel that will most assuredly occur promises to be terribly dangerous . . . for you, Edgeware.”

The next morning Elsbeth sat up groggily in bed. Her side, stiff and angry, punished her for the movement.

“Will you be needin’ another draught o’ the laudanum?” Molly, who was fussing by the bedside, was quick to inquire.

“No, please, no.” Her mouth tasted as if she’d swallowed a down-filled pillow during the night. “Plain water, if you please.”

Molly crossed the room to where a silver pitcher of water sat ready on a tray. “Brings back un’appy memories, this does.” She clicked her tongue.

Elsbeth agreed. Too many distressing memories were stirring, triggered by all too familiar twinges of pain and helplessness. At least she no longer had a husband to contend with. At least she was free to tend to her injury in peace.

“The ladies Olivia and Lauretta ’ave been pesterin’ me all morning to see you,” Molly said after she pressed a glass of cool water into Elsbeth’s fingers. She helped Elsbeth lift the drink to her lips.

“I think I would like my hair braided first.” She savored the tiny swallow of water and was ready for more when an even greater need suddenly plagued her. “Um, I believe I require a hand getting out of bed, as well.” She gave a meaningful glance toward the screened area in the corner where the chamber pot was hidden.

“Just like old times, milady,” Molly clucked sadly as she helped her mistress cross the room. Her eyes darkened. “That reminds me. That dastardly Lord Edgeware demands to have a word wit’ you as well.”

My, Molly had certainly taken a quick dislike to the dark lord. “You don’t approve of the Marquess?” Elsbeth asked after settling back into the bed.

“’E’s a bleedin’
man
, ain’t ’e?”

Elsbeth’s first instinct was to agree, but Lord Edgeware was so different from any man she’d ever known. She rather liked him—a realization that threatened to suck all the air from her chest.

“You better let my exuberant cousins in to see me now,” Elsbeth said as she fought to steady her breath.

Molly nodded to her mistress, and opened the door.

Olivia pushed her way in the room first with Lauretta not far behind.

“Oh Elly, we were so very worried,” Olivia cried. Fat tears dripped down her rosy cheeks. “You will live, though? Despite what everyone is saying?”

“Yes, my dear, I believe I will live. Who is saying I am dying?” She took Olivia’s hand and squeezed it.

“La, all the guests are saying you must surely be dying.” Lauretta rushed forward. “They are saying that is the only reason Lord Edgeware would marry you.”

“Beautiful girls.” She caressed her cousins’ bright cheeks. They were dears to worry after her so. “I am firm on my conviction. I will not marry Edgeware. I will not leave you.”

Olivia and Lauretta shared a silent frown.

“But-but Elly—”

“No, Olivia, my mind is set.”

“How could she not know?” Lauretta asked.

Olivia shrugged prettily and then drew Elsbeth’s hands into her own. “Elly, Lord Edgeware and you were married yesterday.”

Married?
Ice ran through Elsbeth’s blood.

The golden band encircling her ring finger served as proof. How could he do this to her? Without her consent? Without a license?

Devils and demons, she was plagued. She was doomed to be unhappy.

Molly pulled the curtains open. The light crimson color of the morning sky was darkening thanks to a line of encroaching storm clouds. Lord Mercer had once given her a painting that had captured such a sky.

“You will enjoy the colors,” he had said when he’d handed her the carefully wrapped package. That had been years ago when she still believed he was the artist. Foolish, blind child, she had once been, she had believed that a heartless man could create such wondrous works of art.

“You will enjoy the colors,” he had said. The colors in the landscape were indeed beautiful. But the brushstrokes were quick slashes of frustration. An ancient ruin sat on a distant hill, awash in a bath of golden sunlight. The ruin’s stone walls crumbling into the lush grasses. A tree, its pale bark scarred and its branches twisted from years of enduring storms, dominated the forefront. Only a few branches still supported life. A rocky creek frothed as it forced its way through countryside and threatened the roots of the dying tree.

When she’d seen the painting for the first time, tears had sprung to her eyes.

She should have known the truth right there and then. For all her husband saw in the painting was a collection of colors. While she had seen into the artist’s soul and loved him all the more for his ability to share his beautiful soul with the world.

And yet Edgeware . . . Edgeware, so different from her Lord Mercer, had merely thought the painting in his drawing room was no more than a “pretty splattering of colors”.

Dionysus . . .
Dionysus
. . . whoever he was, she needed to know why he would dupe her into yet another loveless marriage. Why did he need her to be the subject in yet another heartrending scene?

Why did he hate her so? What did she ever do to him to earn his scorn?

“Elsbeth?” Edgeware’s voice startled her. “You are crying?”

She tore her gaze from the window and glanced around the room. Her cousins were gone. Even Molly had slipped away, leaving her alone with him. It was now proper. According to her cousins, he was her husband now.

“No, my lord,” she said with a sniffle.

“No?” He dried her cheeks with a soft handkerchief anyhow. “It would please me if you would call me by my given name, Elsbeth. I am Nigel, if you recall.” He settled into a chair beside the bed. “I will not insist, though.”

Molly had propped Elsbeth up in the bed with several pillows and fixed her hair into a loose braid that neither pulled nor pinched. But even so, she was uncomfortable.

“Was it legal, my lord?” she asked, not ready to speak with him with the familiarity and intimacy that should be shared between a husband and wife. She didn’t trust him yet. And worse, she didn’t trust herself.

Edgeware frowned as he studied his nails. They were buffed and well cared for.

“I mean, my lord, there were no banns read. I cannot imagine there had been time to secure a special license.”

“Does it matter?” he asked, still not turning his attentions from those utterly clean nails.

Does it matter
? She couldn’t believe he’d ask such a question. Of course it mattered. It mattered to God, to society, to herself . . . she snuffed the angry response that was ready to fly out of her mouth. She would do well to remember this man was now her husband, and required to be treated accordingly.

“I ask,” he said, “simply because I want you to know that it doesn’t matter to me. If the vicar is unable to convince the bishop for special consideration in this matter, I am willing to repeat the ceremony . . . a hundred times if need be.” He turned to her then. “My only desire is to have you as my wife, Elsbeth.”

The heat of his gaze made her feel all the more trapped. Lord Mercer had wanted her like that, too. Like a possession. That was all she had been to him. A pretty possession. If not for the paintings . . .

“You didn’t wish for this marriage,” he said.

She turned away, unable to bear gazing into his black eyes while thinking of Dionysus. Instead, she stared out the window again and at the lightly tinted sky that reminded her of the artist she’d fallen in love with, the same artist who’d sought to destroy her.

The storm clouds had blown closer.

“Why the silence? Why don’t you scold me?” Edgeware asked. “Why don’t you blister my ears for acting against your wishes? Why do you hold back the anger I see dancing behind your eyes?”

“No,” she whispered, closing those same betraying eyes. His tone had grown sharper, bitter almost. The pretty, loving words he’d spoken to her only yesterday were now gone. They’d faded away just as they had with Lord Mercer.

“Is it because you’re afraid of me? Afraid I will fly into a rage and hurt you like that damnable Lord Mercer?”

She shook her head from side to side, all the while tears spilled from behind her tightly sealed eyelids.

“Are you afraid I won’t wish to ever hear a cross word leave your lips? Afraid I will punish you on a whim?”

She attempted to fight a sob. Failing, she hid her face in her hands and cried in earnest.

“Men like Lord Mercer are cowards. Sniveling, worthless cowards.” He pried her hands away from her face and caressed her cheeks again with that soft handkerchief of his. “Cry, scream, curse me. You may chase me from the room. You may wound my heart. But you will never so prick my anger that I would raise a hand to harm you.
Never
.
”

Words.
How many earnest-sounding words had Lord Mercer plied her with? How many lies had he freely given her?

“I cannot give you a child,” she said with a sob in her voice. She pushed his hands away, not able to bear the sensual feel of his touch and not remember the heaven he’d introduced her to the other night. She needed to be strong against him, for no other option was palatable. “Nor can I give you love. I have no fortune. I have no property. I have nothing for you. Nothing. We aren’t even properly married.”

His lips pulled into a strained smile. “I see.”

“Begging your pardon, I do not think you do. No matter how you badger me or weave your seductive charm, I do not want you. I will not have you. I will not let this marriage stand.”

He drew a deep breath and rose from the dainty bedside chair. There was anguish, pure Dionysus-styled anguish in the way his shoulders sagged against the weight of her anger. He gave her a shallow bow and, without another word, left her alone in the bedchamber.

* * * * *

Nigel longed to have a paintbrush in his hand, to create in stains and dark pigments a solid image of the fresh torment cutting into his soul. This need, this unquenchable desire to paint was intruding into his daily life, something that had never happened before. And quite frankly, it shocked him to the core. His stormy relationship with Elsbeth was beginning to unravel the barriers he’d spent years constructing between Dionysus and himself.

For his sanity and hers, he should leave her alone. He shouldn’t press his company upon her.