The Perfect Bride (16 page)

"You
will never get him to agree."

"You
underestimate me, Mortimer. You have forgotten about the duke."

"Claridge?
What has he to do with Edward?"

"You
shall see, dearest. Meanwhile, tonight we drop in on our sleeping guests."

C
HAPTER ELEVEN

Simon
sat up in bed, shaking. He had had the dream again, the one where carnage lay
all around him, where all that remained of the brave soldiers who had plunged
so valiantly into the fray of clashing swords and thundering cannons was bloody
bits of flesh and bone.

During
the war, the dream had been as constant a companion as death. What triggered it
tonight Simon did not know, but he awoke as he always did with a desperate
thirst for life. On such nights he usually roused Jeffers for a blistering bout
with the foils.

Strangely,
tonight there had been a woman on the battlefield. She had appeared at the edge
of the cornfield, walking sadly among the broken soldiers, looking for any
glimmer of life. Simon had lain among the bodies, all but dead himself.

When
she came to him, she stopped. He could feel her staring at him, assessing. He
wanted to cry out that he lived, that he needed her help, but he could not move
or even open his mouth to whisper his plea. Miraculously, she heard it anyway.
Bending down, she touched his face so gently it might have been the wind
brushing by. Her lips, so sweet they banished the pain, met his. Blood flowed
in his veins again. The life force bubbled within him, reawakened by the
angel's healing touch.

Reaching
upward, he tried to stay her progress, but she moved on. Simon struggled to his
feet and lurched across the field after her. Desperate for that golden touch
and life-giving breath, he did not care that he was unworthy of her. He had wanted
her as he had wanted nothing else.

Simon
rubbed his eyes and pondered the images that had pulled him from sleep. It
required no special insight to see that his dreams were tormenting him for
kissing Miss Fitzhugh. What a fool he had been — pretending to himself that
masquerading as Thornton would allow him to protect her from Julian, then behaving
like a rakehell himself today out by the cliffs. To make things more
ridiculous, Julian had not shown his face all day. The only one Miss Fitzhugh
needed protection from, it seemed, was himself.

The
moment their lips had touched, Simon had realized how much he had wanted that
kiss all along. Releasing her, setting her from him, had required a supreme
effort. He wanted to make love to her with the wind and the salt air engulfing
them, there on the cliffs for anyone to see. The full force of his desire had
stunned him. Along with the knowledge of his utter hypocrisy.

In
the guise of protecting her, he had given license to his lust. He had behaved
disgracefully. And now, hours later, his dreams had shown him the extent that
his behavior had eroded honor, the very lifeblood of his being.

Simon
had never succumbed to passion at the exclusion of all other considerations.
When he had a woman, it was a woman who wanted to be had. Never had he allowed
desire to compromise honor. Honor was all a man had. That, and control. They
kept a man civilized.

But
what was a man to do when those things failed him?

What
he must. He would be called to account; he did not know when or how. He would
set things aright, though tonight his brain was muddled enough with sleep and
dreams that the path forward did not present itself. It would, in time.

He
needed to clear his head. Grimly, Simon reached for his breeches. Jeffers would
not mind a little nocturnal match. Not when the sanity of his employer depended
on it. He ripped open his door, determined to exorcise a few demons.

And
froze.

At
the other end of the corridor, a figure paused in the act of emerging from one
of the bedchambers.

Instinctively,
Simon withdrew into the shadows. The man looked around but did not see him.
Creeping furtively down the hall, the man entered another room.

Shock
gripped Simon as he realized the identity of that slinking figure: Julian
LeFevre.

The
room from which he had emerged in the middle of the night was Miss Fitzhugh's.

***

Amanda
had not been able to shake the feeling that something was amiss. Perhaps it was
only that awful painting with the gory battle scene that disturbed her sleep.
Perhaps it was the massive wardrobe with the burled wood that resembled
sinister eyes. Or perhaps it was only her own conscience, reminding her of her
wanton behavior with Mr. Thornton.

Amanda
shook her head in disgust and dismay. Apparently her imagination was every bit
as fanciful as Felicity's.

Poor
Mr. Thornton! Whatever momentary whim had compelled him to kiss her obviously had
not been sufficient to persuade him to continue the exercise. That was lowering
enough, but the knowledge that she’d been a hair’s breadth away from utter
capitulation was even more disturbing. Would she ever be able to face him
again? Why had she behaved so scandalously — and in easy view of anyone who
might happen by or see them from the castle?

There
could be only one answer: She had deluded herself into thinking that eight
years of living like a virtual hermit could control a wanton nature like hers. Apparently,
she had neither will nor strength to resist even so fatherly a masculine
specimen as Mr. Thornton — though fatherly did not precisely describe him.

Even
now, in the dark of her room, her imagination took flight as the moonlight
caught the figures on the frieze near her bed. At first they looked to be a
perfectly respectable group of dancing lords and ladies; as she studied them,
however, they began to doff their clothing, cavort wildly, and — dear Lord! - perform
licentious acts.

Blinking,
Amanda tried to banish the images, but others more arousing came to mind: Mr.
Thornton's sensuous lips under that drooping mustache, his strong hands, a solid
chest age had in no way diminished. And much,
much
more — judging by her
inadvertent but quite revealing slide down his front. She should have been
shocked at that, but the only thing that shocked her, she realized, was the
shameful course of her thoughts.

Punching
her pillow in frustration, Amanda vowed to go to him tomorrow and apologize for
her actions. Then, for the duration of her visit, she hoped they could manage
to avoid each other.

Gradually,
her spirit calmed. Difficulties always seemed worse at night. Tomorrow, that
kiss on the cliff would not seem so disastrous. The images that tormented her
tonight would vanish, life would resume its normal character, and she would
once more be a sensible woman.

No
doubt the oppressive atmosphere of the castle had unsettled her. She must
remember that it was only an old pile of stones, harmless and inanimate.

Before
she could draw sufficient comfort from that thought, however, an abrupt
creaking of hinges in her room sent her heart to her throat. Amanda watched in
horror as the doors to her wardrobe swung open.

Two
hands emerged, followed by the distinctly masculine form to which they were
attached. A figure holding a lantern stepped out of the wardrobe and into her
bedchamber.

She
gasped.

A
slow smile spread over the man's face. As that cruel, slashing mouth curved
upward, Amanda knew she was in grave danger.

No
woman lying helpless in her bed had any hope for mercy from Julian LeFevre.

***

Sir
Thomas Biddle was having a restless night. Every time he closed his eyes,
disturbing images beset him. A deep uneasiness startled him awake just as sleep
threatened to plunge him into what surely was to be a nightmare.

Yet
when he sat up in bed, thoughts as troubling as those unsettling images plagued
him. He wondered what Eloise was doing this very moment, whether she was
sleeping a blameless sleep or, like him, tossing restlessly in bed.

Was
she alone in that bed? He fervently hoped so. He had always told himself that
his jealous misgivings stemmed from the sort of groundless fears that plagued a
husband with the bad judgment to fall in love with his wife. But tonight he
could not erase the tormenting image of Eloise and Dr. Greenfield locked in
each other's arms with him many miles away.

Yet
Eloise had always been a faithful wife. Moreover, Dr. Greenfield was a fool,
and she had never taken to fools. As for the nightmare Sir Thomas feared he was
about to have, dreams had no substance so he might as well get it over with.
With a yawn, he closed his eyes in resignation.

He
could almost taste Eloise's lips on his. From that first time in his closed
carriage, he had always been a slave to her kisses. She was the most passionate
woman he had ever known. But lately she had held some of herself back. There
was a remoteness in her eyes, something beyond his reach.

Now
the images were growing clearer. Eloise lay languorously on the divan in her
chamber, a smile upon her face, her eyes closed in pure enjoyment. Masculine
fingers massaged her ankle, then crept upward to that tender spot behind her
knees. When they continued their ascent, Eloise gave a purr of delight.

She
opened her eyes and smiled. Sir Thomas beamed. It was that special smile, the
one reserved for him alone in the moment before their bodies joined. Pulling
him closer, she fumbled with his clothing, urging him on.

Soon
they were both naked. Her wild cry of exultation sent shivers of delight
through him. Eloise had never seemed so passionate, so eager. Even though he
knew it was a dream, the experience was as vivid as life.

Yet
something was wrong. He wondered why he did not feel her under him, why he felt
detached from the intimate scene as if he were watching it from a corner of the
room.

And
then he knew.

The
man with her was not a balding baronet, the man who had known her intimately
these many years.

It
was Greenfield who lay with the woman Sir Thomas had known for half a lifetime
and who had come to him so passionately in his carriage so many years ago. It
was Greenfield she held in her arms, Greenfield she urged on with eager hands
and helpless moans.

Greenfield
.
He heard the name in his ear like a whispered, taunting sigh.

Sir
Thomas awoke in a cold sweat.

***

"Good
evening, Amanda. What a happy accident to find you here."

Amanda
stared at Julian. "This is
my
room, sir. What are you doing
here?" Her voice betrayed none of the anxiety she felt at his sudden
appearance in her bedchamber. How long had he been hiding in the wardrobe?

Julian
seemed somewhat preoccupied as he raised the  lantern and slowly inspected the
room.

Her
shawl lay across the foot of the bed, and Amanda hastily grabbed it as she
slipped out of bed. "What are you doing?" she demanded. Her gaze slid
to the door of her room, assessing the distance between where she stood and
escape.

"Looking
for something."

"At
this hour? You must be mad. I insist that you leave immediately."

Julian's
black gaze met hers. "There was a time when you had not the courage or
will to defy me."

"Let
us not dwell on past mistakes," Amanda said coolly. "I demand that
you leave my room.”

A
distant look appeared in his eyes. "Did you know that this was once my
room, Amanda?"

Warily,
she shook her head.

"I
have spent the day prowling the tunnels. I was not certain I remembered the way
to this room until I saw the door from inside the tunnel. I occupied this room for
several months after my father brought me over from France. He did not want me
with him in London. Lady Sommersby was a cousin of my mother’s and took me in
for a while. ‘Twas not a bad place to spend a summer of exile.”

Amanda
eyed the inside of the wardrobe and for the first time saw the yawning opening
in the back that disappeared into darkness. “There is a door?” she asked
wonderingly.

“Yes.
It opens into the tunnel, which runs out to the cliffs. There is also a larger chamber
where smugglers stored their loot." He closed the door in the back of the
wardrobe.

“What
are you looking for?” Amanda asked, determined to keep him talking while she
positioned herself for escape.

"Some
old family papers. It’s possible they are hidden down there."

She
edged closer to the door to the hall. "Family papers?"

"Mementos,
really.” He studied  her. “Let us just say that I am nostalgic about the
past."

Julian
had never been forthcoming about his family or history, but Amanda doubted that
nostalgia had driven him back to Sommersby Castle. The man never did anything
that did not arise from his own selfish whims.