The Ravencliff Bride (2 page)

“Forgive my want of conduct, running off like this,” he said, returning her hand to her dutifully kissed, “but all good things must come to an end. You’re quite safe in the custody of Smythe here, Baroness Walraven. He will see to your every need. It has indeed been my pleasure, but now I must away.”

Sketching a bow, he bounded down the steps and disappeared back inside the coach, whose wheels were rolling over the blue stone drive before he’d settled once more against the squabs.

Footmen rushed past to fetch Sara’s luggage. There wasn’t much: one portmanteau and a small valise containing necessities bought in London. The rest was to be provided at Ravencliff. Once they’d been brought inside, the butler shut the door and slid the bolt.

“Take Baroness Walraven’s bags up to the tapestry suite,” he charged the footmen. He turned to Sara. “If you will follow me, madam,” he said, “Baron Walraven awaits you in the study.”

So, he was in residence. She almost wished he weren’t. What would he think of her in her damp, clinging traveling costume? She tried to tuck the wet tendrils of hair plastered to her cheeks underneath her bonnet, but it was no use; there
were just too many. To her surprise, since it had seemed so dark from outside, candles set in branches on marble tables and in wall sconces lit the Great Hall, and each of the corridors they traveled. They did little to chase the gloom. There was a palpable presence of sorrow in the house, in the stale, musty air, and in the melancholy echo of their footfalls on the terrazzo floors.

Just for a second, Sara thought she heard the patter of dog’s feet padding along behind. She turned, but there was nothing there, and after a moment, she turned back to find the butler watching.

“Is something amiss, madam?” he inquired.

“I thought I heard a dog,” she said, feeling foolish now that, as far as she could see, the corridor behind was vacant.

“The house groans with age now and again,” he said, resuming his pace. “You’ll hear all sorts of peculiar noises, especially when the wind picks up. It’s naught to worry over.”

When they reached the study door, Smythe knocked, but there was no response at first. It wasn’t until the butler paused a moment and knocked a second time that the Baron bade them enter, and then the butler ushered her into a large room, walled in books. Dark draperies were drawn at the windows. But for a branch of candles on a stand beside the wing chair Nicholas Walraven occupied, and a feeble fire burning in the hearth, the room was steeped in shadow. Sara flinched as the door snapped shut behind her in the butler’s hand. The Baron set the tome he’d been perusing aside and surged to his feet, taking her measure.

Alexander Mallory had provided her with a description of her bridegroom, but he hadn’t prepared her for the reality of the man. She assessed him to be in his mid-thirties, a striking figure, tall and slender, though well muscled. The Egyptian cotton shirt he wore tucked into skintight black pantaloons was open at the neck, giving a glimpse of chest hair beneath which matched the hair—as black as his namesake, the raven—waving about his earlobes, and falling in a
rakish manner across his broad brow. The deep-set eyes beneath, dilated in the darkness, shone like obsidian. They had the power to hypnotize.

“Please be seated,” he said, gesturing toward a Chippendale chair on the opposite side of the Aubusson carpet. “This needn’t be awkward unless you make it so.”

“Forgive me for staring,” Sara said, sinking into the offered chair. “I didn’t expect—I mean to say . . . Mr. Mallory didn’t exactly prepare me for . . . all this.” What had really tied her tongue was why such a man as this needed to resort to such outrageous lengths to get a wife.

“Have you eaten?” he asked. His deep voice resonated through her body, striking chords in places hitherto untouched in such a manner, and she shifted uneasily in the chair.

“I have, sir,” she replied, “at the coaching station inn on Bodmin Moor.”

“Would you like a glass of sherry, or perhaps something . . . stronger, to warm you?”

“No, thank you,” she said. “I do not take strong spirits.”

Walraven did not resume his seat. Instead, he strolled to the desk, and leaned against it, half-sitting on the edge with one well-turned thigh draped over the side in a casual pose. His polished Hessian boots gleamed in the candle glow, and the flickering firelight cast shadows that played about the deep cleft in his chin. No; Alexander Mallory had not done the man justice at all.

“Naturally, you have questions,” he said in that throaty baritone that had such a shocking effect upon her. “To save time, how much has Alex told you?”

“Only that your offer was an honorable one; that all proprieties would be strictly observed; that the arrangement was to our . . . mutual betterment, and that you would provide the details once I arrived.”

“Did he give you my missive?”

“Yes,” Sara said, studying her folded hands in her lap.
Her heart skipped its rhythm. His eyes had picked up red glints from the fire. They were burning toward her like live coals. She couldn’t meet them. “A most gracious invitation, Baron Walraven,” she murmured.

“That won’t do,” he said. “You shall call me Nicholas, and I shall call you Sara when we are alone—commencing now. You shall need to get used to doing so. You are Sara Ponsonby no longer. We are husband and wife, and you must present that image. The private familiarity will help you adjust to that. On state occasions, you are Baroness Walraven, of course, more informally, Sara Walraven, which is how you will sign your documents. Is this clear to you?”

“Y-yes, Bar—Nicholas.” His name did not roll off her tongue. It was all too new.

“Very well,” he said. “Would you remove your bonnet, please?”

Sara was hoping he wouldn’t ask her to do that, not until she’d had time to order herself. Hot blood rushed to her temples. Blushing was her most grievous fault, the curse of her fair-skinned heritage. She didn’t need a mirror to tell her she was blushing now. Her cheeks were on fire. The heat rising from them narrowed her eyes.

“Please,” he repeated, prompting her with a hand gesture. Sara removed the bonnet, and he arched his brow. “I see you are no slave to fashion,” he observed.

“Sir?”

“Your hair,” he said. “You haven’t cropped it after the current craze.”

“With so much upon me of late, I’ve hardly had time to think of fashion,” she returned. Was her reply too snappish? She feared so, but it was too late now.

“I shall be brief,” he said, shifting position, and the conversation along with it. “I am in need of a companion—only that. Someone to preside over my gatherings, and appear with me in public . . . on occasion, in order to deter predatory females, and keep the
ton
from continually trying to
snare me into the marriage mart. If I have a wife . . . well, I think you get the point.”

“Is that why you don’t come to Town for the Seasons?” she couldn’t help inquiring. It didn’t ring true. If all he wanted was a hostess, he could have taken a mistress.

He hesitated. “That is . . . one of the reasons,” he said. “My motives need not concern you—only my needs. Suffice it to say that I couldn’t hire someone for the position, and have her reside here under the same roof with me without a breach of propriety. Since the woman of my choice would have to live here, she would have to become my wife. She had to be attractive, cultured, and above reproach. You possess all of those qualities. She also had to agree to the arrangement, as you have done on the strength of my missive alone, without full knowledge of the . . . conditions. That was paramount. It proves trust, and trust is vital. When I was made aware of your . . . situation, it seemed to me that we might strike a mutually beneficial bargain. I am glad that you have chosen to accept it. You will want for nothing. There are a few simple house rules that I must ask you to follow, but I shall come back to that.”

Sara stared into those all-seeing obsidian eyes that seemed to penetrate her soul. The firelight still shone red in them. It was an odd business, and though he’d answered many of her questions, there was still one that needed to be addressed, and she didn’t know how to ask it.

“Is something unclear?” he asked, as though he’d read her thoughts. “Oh, yes, of course,” he hastened to add, convincing her that he did indeed possess such powers. “Your duties do not include sharing my bed. I have no desire to perpetuate my line. I hope that shan’t be . . . a problem? I thought, under the circumstances, it might be somewhat of a relief.”

“N-no, not a problem,” Sara said. She hadn’t considered the possibility of children, or the lack of them. His bluntness shocked her, and she avoided the issue. “There is one other thing that has puzzled me from the start, though,” she said,
with as much aplomb as she could muster. “Why did you send Mr. Mallory to London to fetch me, and why a proxy wedding, when such things aren’t even possible in England? Why didn’t you come yourself? I should think that would have been simpler than having me trek all the way to Scotland with a total stranger to have it done.”

“That is not ‘one thing,’ Sara; it is three things,” he said. “And all three encroach upon
motive
. However, I will allow it this once. Let us just say that . . . preexisting situations here on the coast prevented me from leaving it—even to marry.” Striding to the bell pull, he yanked it, and turned back to her. “I’ve rung for Mrs. Bromley, my housekeeper. She will show you to your rooms, and introduce you to Nell, your abigail. Her quarters adjoin your suite.”

“Thank you, Nicholas,” Sara murmured.

“You will join me for meals,” he continued. “Breakfast and nuncheon are served in the breakfast room. The evening meal is served in the dining hall. The servants will direct you.”

“You said something earlier about . . . house rules,” she reminded him.

“Yes,” he said, “I was just coming to that. You will be given a complete tour of Ravencliff tomorrow. Please do not go off exploring on your own. The house is very old. Much of it is in disrepair, and you could do yourself a mischief. Please do not go out to the seawall unescorted. The Cornish winds are notorious. They have been known to blow strapping men off cliffs, and gales come up suddenly. We are on the verge of one right now. Though there are stairs hewn in the rock, do not go down to the strand. Those stairs were carved there centuries ago, and used by smugglers. This coast is rife with cairns and caves and passageways, none of them safe. Riptides are common here, and you could be cut off in seconds. Finally, what occurs within these walls
stays
within these walls. I expect you to be discreet. Do not carry tales. If you have a question, or a concern, do not burden the
servants or Alex. Come directly to me. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes, Nicholas,” Sara replied, rising as he came closer.

“Good,” he said. “I want this to be a pleasant association . . . for the both of us.”

How he towered over her. Those riveting eyes, wreathed with dark lashes any woman would envy, were even more alarming in close proximity. They were hooded now, devouring her in the candlelight, making her heart race. He smelled clean, of the sea, with traces of tobacco, and brandy drunk recently. Combined with his own—almost feral—essence, the effect was intoxicating. She drank him in deeply, extending her hand.

He took a step back, breaking the spell. “Forgive me,” he murmured, “I do not like to be touched.”

A light knock at the study door made an end to the awkward situation, but not to her embarrassment, and she dropped the hand to her side.

“Come!” he called.

The door came open, and a plump, rosy-cheeked woman entered wearing crisp black twill, and a starched lawn cap and apron.

“Please see Baroness Walraven to her apartments, Mrs. Bromley,” he said, “and have Nell attend her. See that all her needs are met.”

“Yes, sir,” the housekeeper responded, sketching a curtsy.

He turned to Sara. “It’s late,” he said. “You must be exhausted. I will expect you at breakfast. If you have further questions, I will address them then. Good night, Sara.”

He dismissed her with a cursory bow, turned, and strolled to the hearth, his obsidian gaze fixed on the sparks shooting up from a fallen log in the grate. She had questions—so many questions, but there would be no answers then. The strange interview was over, and she followed the housekeeper into the corridor.

He’d made it clear that their marriage would be in name
only. He’d addressed that head-on, and she’d received it with mixed emotions. While she had been worried about sharing a bed for the first time with a virtual stranger, she was more disappointed than relieved that this wasn’t to be part of the arrangement. Why would the man not want an heir? Come to that, why didn’t he even want to be touched? Alexander Mallory had seized her hand earlier, and pressed it to his lips before it was offered; Nicholas, who was albeit technically her
husband
, had stressed that she was to present a wifely image, yet he’d refused such an innocent gesture of goodwill as taking it to seal their bargain.

Perhaps she’d been too hasty. Nicholas Walraven was a mystery, but there was nothing hidden in her situation. It was common knowledge that her father, wounded in battle and knighted for valor after serving under Wellington on the Peninsula, had died heavily in debt leaving her encumbered. Nicholas had paid a staggering sum to free her—far more than he would have had to settle on the daughter of one of his peers. Why, with so many well-to-pass prospects to choose from, had he made her the subject of his quest? It couldn’t just be because their fathers once served together on foreign soil. He wasn’t even born then. There had to be more to it than that, but what could it be?

She didn’t believe his feeble explanation for marriage, either. He did imply that there was more to that. Why hadn’t he explained? Why had a proxy wedding been necessary? Why hadn’t he choosen to get to know her before making his offer? What had seemed an answer to her prayers in the beginning was now taking on darker dimensions. The worst of it was the way this strange, enigmatic man impacted her in the physical sense. That was most frightening of all.