The Nude (full-length historical romance) (35 page)

Happy, perhaps.

Not that she’d been unhappy last night. Remembering how she’d spent the night in Nigel’s bed brought a rush of heat to her cheeks and made her ache for her husband all over again. She’d never felt so sensual . . . so desirable . . . so loveable . . .

But why had he left his bed without waking her this morning?

“My lady,” Gainsford said softly from the door. “The Earl of Baneshire is asking to see you. I have shown him to the front parlor.”

“My uncle? He is here?” Elsbeth rose gingerly from the chair. After her late night excursion, even her softest chemise chaffed the puffy skin around the bullet wound. But for last night, she happily endured the discomfort.

Gainsford, a man well into his fifties but in better shape than most of the younger footmen, led her to a light and airy room decorated with pale blue colors and again, curiously, no paintings. Lord Baneshire stood in the middle of a blue and white Axminster rug. He was scowling.

“Uncle.” She held out her hands and crossed the room to him.

He wrapped her in his arms, holding her tightly against his chest. “Elsbeth, Elsbeth,” he whispered. “Olivia and Lauretta told me it all. Every detail. I heard how Lord Edgeware tricked you, that bounder. He has no right to you. You don’t have to stay here. You don’t have to worry about anything. I’ve come to take you home.”

Home
. A place of her own. A place where she felt safe. A place where she belonged. Lately, she didn’t feel as if she belonged anywhere.

Lord Mercer’s estate had never been a home for her. It had been a prison. A hell. And although her family had always been kind to her, she never felt like she truly belonged at her uncle’s town house. A few nights ago she had hoped she could find a home with Nigel. But because of the secrets wedged between them, that hope was fading and the realization shattered her.

She collapsed in her uncle’s arms, sobbing.

He petted her hair as he soothed her with nonsensical words and soft sounds. “I will make everything right again,” he vowed, which only made her cry harder. “I swear I will.”

She didn’t know what made her open her eyes or turn her head. Perhaps she’d sensed him there. Her teary gaze met Nigel’s as he stood in the parlor doorway. His jaw dropped slightly. A raw expression of pain sliced through his dark, glassy eyes. Never had she seen such naked torment. But she understood it. She felt it herself in her own heart.

“Shush now, Elsbeth,” her uncle whispered, patting her head. “You don’t need to worry any longer. I will free you from this disaster of a marriage.”

She tried to call out to Nigel, but tears clogged her throat and she couldn’t find her voice. By the time she could speak, the entranceway to the parlor was empty. She started to go after him. She needed to talk to him. Needed to tell him that she was hurting, too.

She needed to know if there was any hope left for her. She needed to know if she could build a home, here, with Nigel.

“Come.” Her uncle took her arm, not letting her break away. “We need to talk.” He led her to a powder blue sofa.

Her thoughts trailed back to that empty doorway. Nigel had looked as forlorn as one of Dionysus’s paintings as he’d stood there, watching.

“Sit.” Her uncle patted the cushion.

“I-I should—” she started to say.

“You should sit,” her uncle commanded with such force her legs immediately obeyed. “Now then, I’ve already contacted my solicitor. He questions the very legality of the marriage since no banns were read nor special license secured. He doesn’t believe you will even need to seek an annulment.” He crossed the room and pulled a pretty ceramic knob to call a servant. “And I will demand reparations.”

“Nigel has never acted maliciously against me or tried to harm me. In fact, he—”

“But you are damaged nonetheless. This dastardly deed will not go unpunished.”

“You rang the bell, my lady?” Gainsford asked gleefully when he entered the room a short time later.

“No,
I
rang for you.” Lord Baneshire said, leaving no room to doubt who was in charge. “Have all of Lady Mercer’s belongings packed. I’ll send a man over this afternoon to pick them up.”

“Lady Mercer, my lord?”

“Yes. Lady Mercer.” He swung his arm in Elsbeth’s direction. “My niece.”

“My lady?” Gainsford’s cheerful expression fell. “I do not understand. You are leaving? But you have only just arrived.”

“This marriage is a sham,” her uncle said before she had a chance to answer Gainsford. “I’m taking her home where she belongs
and
before a full scandal erupts.”

“A sham?” Gainsford frowned at that. “That cannot be true, my lord. The Marquess is a very cautious man. He would not bring a woman into the house as his wife if it were not true. He simply would not dishonor a woman in such a way, especially one he loved. My lady, I beg you . . . Do not leave.”

“This isn’t her decision to make. And stop talking such nonsense of love, my good man, and do as I bid!”

Gainsford stepped swiftly back into a bow. “Very good, my lord.”

“Wait.” Elsbeth rose from the sofa. She’d been a passive participant in her life for far too long. “Uncle, I appreciate what you have done for me. And for what you are doing now. I truly do. Your affection touches me deeply.” She drew a long shuddering breath. She was tired of living her life while waiting—longing for a home, longing for a knight on a white charger to come rescue her. Despite her family’s kindness, she didn’t belong at her uncle’s town house. Her life up until now hadn’t been living. It had been nothing more than a long string of years of waiting . . . desperately waiting . . . for something special to happen to her . . .

 
She drew off her locket. She’d taken the first step last night. She was taking control of her life. Be it happy or painful, she needed to give herself the chance to truly try and live her own life, to make her own decisions.

“Gainsford.” She held out the locket. “Please take this up to my room and have it placed with the rest of my jewelry.”

“Very good.” Gainsford tried a tentative grin. “And, Lady Edgeware, you will not be needing your belongings packed?”

“No. You may go. I need to have a few words with my uncle in private.”

“I don’t understand,” Lord Baneshire said after Gainsford had left.

“I don’t completely understand everything myself.” She held up her hand, not letting her uncle interrupt. “Yet I do know Nigel needs me.”

“But Elsbeth, I’ve been told that your life has been placed in danger at least twice. What kind of provider can he be if he allows this? And you cannot deny how you sobbed when I first arrived.”

“You are right. I cannot deny that I cried.” She slashed her hand through the air. Her heart felt more confused than unhappy. “Perhaps I simply do not know how to be happy.”

“You talk nonsense, child. You sound just as flighty as Olivia. And that girl certainly doesn’t know her mind.”

Elsbeth smiled at that. “She knows her mind better than you might think, Uncle. That is precisely why she has yet to agree to marry.”

“Women!” He threw his hands in the air. “What are you waiting for? Do you wish to remain with this man who trapped you into marriage or not?”

“Do I wish to—?” She didn’t know the answer to that question. True, Nigel had married her without her permission. The marriage wasn’t even valid. But to leave him . . . ? “I believe I have a duty to stay. I don’t expect you to understand when I, myself, don’t fully understand my own feelings regarding him, or this marriage. But I believe I have a responsibility to him. His life is in danger, and I fear I’m the only one who can save him.”

After escaping to the cellar, Dionysus took up the brush. He’d not sketched a plan nor did he have any idea what he should paint. He only knew the pain tearing at his heart. Elsbeth had sought her uncle for comfort, not him. Even after last night, she refused to share herself with him. He didn’t know how he could convince her to offer not only her body, but also her heart.

Dark colors—blacks, deep greens, midnight blues—made for a mournful backdrop. His paints created a bleak landscape that faded into a deeply shadowed forest. He dropped his brush and turned to his worktable. With a mortar and pestle he ground vermilion mixed with a few drops of oil into a brilliant scarlet red paste. The paint lying insensate in the bottom of the marble mortar might as well have been his own blood.

She spurned his company as surely as she would turn her lips away from an inferior piece of fruit. She wouldn’t even share with him the one piece of information vital for his own protection. She’d rather see him dead than to suffer, forced to share her life with him. What could he do to win her favor? He’d tried to offer her the truth about Dionysus—the one thing he knew she wanted—and she’d refused to hear it. And he hadn’t insisted. She clearly loathed the artist who had so wronged her. Confessing the truth, telling her that he was Dionysus would only push her further away. She might even strike out against him. So what else could he do? What else could he offer? What did he have to give her besides the protection of his title, his family’s name?

And his love . . . ?

* * * * *

Three days later he slashed his brush against the canvas. He’d spent most of his days hidden away in his dank cellar, ruining his eyesight while working in near darkness on his latest painting. For three days his brush moved with a force beyond his control. The bristles pulled along the fabric, as it smoothed the edge of a delicately curved neck. He knew she would have surfaced as the central figure of this work. Had it not always been that way? Her willowy figure gradually appeared in the middle of his desolate landscape. Dressed all in white, she huddled on the ground, her face hidden from view. She was crying. Of that, he was certain.

He’d caused her pain. From the first time he’d seen her, he’d brought her nothing but pain. Their marriage hadn’t healed those wounds. If anything, it had made them worse. She spent most of her time away from the house. She was visiting with friends, she’d told Gainsford. The way his butler quaked and twitched when he was questioned about Elsbeth’s whereabouts, Nigel suspected his butler knew it to be a lie. More likely, she was avoiding him and his butler was covering for her.

All his servants appeared to be besotted with Elsbeth and more than a little protective of her. He couldn’t blame them. But it did complicate their relationship. Whenever he tried to confront her and demand that she tell him why she’d been spending so much time away from the house, a servant would burst into the room and interrupt him with some pressing household matter. When they did spend time alone together at dinner, she rarely looked at him. And his attempts to engage her in conversation were sharply rebuked.

If he tried to touch her hand, she’d flinch and pull away. When he’d discuss the Bow Street Runner’s progress in trapping the smugglers, trying to involve her as if she were an equal partner—which he hoped she’d one day become—she’d swiftly cut him off. When he’d ask her about her daily activities, she’d pale.

She was up to something . . . but what?

Did she want to be free of him? Did she wish him dead? She’d certainly made it clear that she wasn’t pleased to have been tricked into marriage. And, even though he’d questioned her about it several times, she remained stonily silent about what had happened to her out in the storm. Still, he held out hope that one day he would be able to win over her heart. And her trust.

The tension growing between them was eating at his soul. It would have driven him completely mad if not for the miracles that occurred in the small hours of the night. Like a beautiful phantom, she’d steal into his bedroom and in the silence of the darkness they’d make love until dawn.

Yet possessing her body alone wasn’t enough. He wanted—
needed
—more. But how did he demand she love him without pushing her farther away?

He bit into his lip and dabbed his brush against the canvas. This was a painting his soul needed to do as a penance.

She didn’t love him. Couldn’t love him. Like the worst sort of beast, he’d trapped her into a marriage against her will.

He didn’t deserve her. Perhaps would never deserve her. And yet he wasn’t willing to let her go. He dipped the brush into a shimmering white paste, a color he hoped could capture the ethereal glow of the sheer nightrail she always wore to his bed.