Thunder and Roses (21 page)

“Perhaps they no longer seem as important,” she suggested. “People can change in four years.”

“True. Yet it surprises me that

Michael would change in the direction of indifference. He always cared a great deal about things. Often he cared too much.” Idly Nicholas stroked his horse’s neck, his mind on the past. “When I get to London, I’ll ask our mutual friend Lucien where Michael is, and what he’s been doing. Lucien knows everything about everyone.”

Remembering that Marged had mentioned the name, Clare said, “Is Lucien another of your Fallen Angel friends?”

Nicholas looked at her in astonishment. “Good Lord, has that old nickname made it all the way to Wales?”

“I’m afraid so. Where did the name come from?”

“The four of us—Lucien, Rafael, Michael, and me—became friends at Eton,” he explained. “In London, we often went about together. The fashionable world loves nicknames, and some hostess dubbed us the Fallen Angels because we were young, a little wild in the way young men often are, and two of the group had the names of archangels. It meant nothing.”

“The story I heard was that you were all as handsome as angels, and as wicked as devils,” she said

demurely.
                       

He grinned. “Gossip is a wonderful thing —much more interesting than the truth. We weren’t saints, but neither did we break any major laws, bankrupt our families, or ruin any young ladies’ lives.” He considered. “At least, none of us had at the time we acquired the nickname. I can’t vouch for what anyone has done in the last four years.”

Hearing the regret in his voice, she said, “You must be looking forward to seeing your friends again.”

“I am. Michael may have fallen off the face of the earth, but Lucien has a post at Whitehall and Rafe is active in the House of Lords, so they are almost certainly in London now.” He glanced at her. “We’ll leave day after tomorrow.”

Clare’s jaw dropped. “You’re really taking me to London?”

“Of course. I said so the day you came to Aberdare with blackmail on your mind.”

“But … but you had been drinking. I thought you’d forget, or think better of it.”

“What could be better than getting you a suitable wardrobe? Although the way that old shirt

clings is quite fetching. Are you wearing anything underneath it?”

Her hands tightened on the reins, slowing her pony. Since she seemed fated to be constantly embarrassed by Nicholas, she must learn not to let her emotions affect her riding, she thought with disgust. “I couldn’t bring myself to put dry clothing over wet undergarments.”

“A good decision for both practical and aesthetic reasons, except that you appear to be on the verge of freezing.” He peeled off his coat and tossed it to her. “Though it’s against my principles to encourage females to wear more clothing, you’d better put this on.”

She tried to give the coat back. “Then you’ll freeze.”

“I’ve spent too many nights sleeping under the stars to be bothered by the cold.”

Surrendering to the inevitable, she wrapped the coat around her. The folds were warm with Nicholas’s body heat and held a faint, masculine scent that she could have identified anywhere. Wearing the coat was like having his arms around her, only safer.

It would be interesting to see London, but the visit would surely end the odd closeness that was growing between them. In the metropolis he would have his friends, and probably his old mistresses, to fill his time. He would scarcely remember Clare’s existence. Her life would be much easier.

She really should be more grateful for the prospect.

 
The rest of that day fell into what was becoming a pattern. Clare took a long bath and washed the smell and filth of the pit from her body and hair. Then, even though she was still shaky from her brush with drowning, she conferred with Williams about the house redecoration. Today the servants had concentrated on cleaning and reorganizing the dining room, with splendid results. She and Williams planned what rooms would be worked on in her absence. Then they made lists of wallpapers and fabrics for her to buy in London.

After another of Mrs. Howell’s excellent dinners, Clare and Nicholas retired to the library. There he busied himself with correspondence and calculations, working with a degree of concentration that belied his wastrel reputation.

Clare welcomed the opportunity to browse through the library, which contained riches beyond her wildest dreams. If she and Nicholas were on friendly terms when the three months were up, perhaps he would let her borrow books occasionally.

She glanced up and studied his profile as he frowned over a document. As always, he amazed her: stunningly handsome, both aristocrat and Gypsy, as unpredictable as he was intelligent. He and she were as different as chalk and cheese, and it was impossible to imagine a future when they could be friends. More likely, the three months of this ridiculous challenge would end in disaster, and it wouldn’t be the Demon Earl who would suffer.

Telling herself sharply that no one had forced her to come to Aberdare, she returned to her survey of the bookshelves. The collection was well-organized, with sections of literature in half a dozen languages. A few were even in Welsh.

Other sections were devoted to subjects such as history, geography, and natural philosophy. Clare’s father had sometimes borrowed theological texts; though the old earl had considered it his duty to stay within the Church of England, he had had Dissenter tendencies. Probably that was why he had chosen a Methodist preacher to educate his grandson.

Set in the middle of the section was a large Bible richly bound in tooled leather and gilt. Guessing that it was the Davies family Bible, Clare pulled the volume from the shelf and laid it on a table. Absently she paged through, reading some of her favorite verses.

There was a family tree in the front, and she found it moving to see the different hands and inks that had carefully recorded births, deaths, and marriages. Faint smudges that might have been tears blurred one death date. A faded, century-old entry recorded the birth of one
Gwilym
Llewellyn Davies, the exuberantly added “At last, a son!” at the side. The infant had grown up to become Nicholas’s great grandfather.

But as she examined the chart, she understood why the old earl had been so concerned about an heir. The family had not been prolific and Nicholas had no near relations, at least not in the male line. If he held to his determination not to remarry, the earldom of Aberdare would probably die with him.

She turned the page to look at the most recent records. The old earl’s two marriages and three sons were written in his own forceful hand. Though all three of the sons had married, there were no entries for children under the names of the two oldest.

Her mouth tightened when she looked at the notation by Kenrick’s name. In contrast to the ink used everywhere else, Kenrick’s marriage to “Marta, surname unknown,” and the birth of “Nicholas Kenrick Davies” were recorded in pencil. It was more proof of how reluctantly the old earl had accepted his heir. If only he had shown Nicholas one-tenth the warmth that Owen had extended to Huw, who was not even of his own blood!

Thinking sadly of the waste, she turned to the next page. Several folded papers slipped out. She glanced at them, then looked more closely and murmured, “How odd.”

She had not meant to disturb Nicholas, but he leaned back in his chair and stretched lazily. “What’s odd, Clarissima?”

“Nothing very important.” She went to his desk and laid the documents down under the light of the oil lamp. “Those two papers are notarized copies of the parish registers that recorded your parents’ marriage and your birth. Both are worn and stained, as if they were carried too long in a pocket.”

She pointed at the other two. “These documents are also duplicates, though they were copied rather badly. The oddity is that they have no legal value because they haven’t been attested by a notary, yet they’re folded and stained very much like the originals. I suppose your grandfather had the copies made, but I can’t see what use they would be, or how they became so worn.”

Nicholas lifted one of the
unnotarized
copies. Abruptly the tendons sprang taut on the back of his hand, and the air seemed to crackle, electric and feverish, as if lightning had struck.

Clare glanced up and saw that he was staring at the document with the same annihilating rage that he had shown when he had slashed the portrait of his wife. She caught her breath, wondering what could have triggered such fury.

He picked up the other copy and crumpled the two papers viciously in his hand. Then he rose from his chair, stalked across the room, and hurled the documents into the fire. Flames blazed up, then slowly faded back to the dull red of coals.

Shaken, Clare asked, “What’s wrong, Nicholas?”

He stared into the fire, where the papers were slowly crumbling to ash. “Nothing that need concern you.”

“The reason for your anger may not be my concern, but the anger itself is,” she said quietly. “Shouldn’t a good mistress encourage you to speak of whatever is troubling you?”

“Perhaps a mistress should ask, but that doesn’t mean I have to answer,” he snapped. Perhaps regretting his curtness, he added more moderately, “Your good intentions are duly noted.”

She decided that she preferred Nicholas’s maddening whimsy to his imitation of a brick wall. Suppressing a sigh, she replaced the other papers and
reshelved
the Bible. He ignored her, his face like granite as he prodded the fire with a poker.

“Tomorrow is Sunday and I’m going to chapel, so I’ll retire now. Good night.” She said the words for
politeness’s
sake, not expecting acknowledgment, but Nicholas glanced up.

“A pity that the kissing is over for the day,” he said with brittle humor. “
Shortsighted
of me to use my allotment when we were in the mine.”

His fury had passed, leaving an expression perilously close to desolation. God only knew why the papers had affected him so, but Clare couldn’t bear seeing such grief in his face. With a boldness that would have been unthinkable four days before, she crossed the room and placed her hands on his shoulders, saying shyly, “Your kiss is over, but I can kiss you, can’t I?”

His gaze locked with hers, his black eyes haunted. “You can kiss me whenever you want,
Clarrissima
,” he said huskily.

She felt his muscles tense, but he held still, waiting for her to take the initiative. Raising herself on tiptoe, she touched her lips to his.

His arms came around her with unmistakable hunger. “Ah, God, you feel so right.”

Their mouths mated, deep and ardent. The initiative passed from her to him, and what she had intended as a quiet good-night embrace became far more.

When they had kissed in the mine it had been dark, sparing her the shocking intimacy of looking into his eyes. Embarrassed by his penetrating gaze, she let her lids drift shut, only to find that without the distraction of sight her other senses intensified. A spatter of rain against the window, the wet velvet roughness of his tongue against hers. A tangy scent that was smoke and
piney
soap and Nicholas; his breath, rough and wanting, or perhaps it was her breath, too. The crunch of coals collapsing into the grate; the soft rub of palms against fabric as he stroked her back.

The sound of an opening door.

Shocked back to awareness, she ended the kiss and looked past his shoulder. Standing in the doorway was one of the new maids, Tegwen Elias, a young chapel member with high moral standards and an unbridled tongue.

The two women stared mutely at each other,
Tegwen’s
face showing horrified disbelief.

The sight jarred Clare into a sickening awareness of her own sinful behavior. What she was doing was wrong, and nothing could mitigate that stark fact.

The maid’s momentary paralysis ended and she whirled away, closing the door behind her.