Five days wasn’t long enough to grow accustomed to all the abruptly altered facets of her situation. Five days of being patient yet firm with Julian’s sisters. Of contending with the badly needed refurbishing of his home, of fretting over his injuries, of taking her wifely duties to heart.
Osgood stood on the threshold of the drawing room, his face an expressionless mask. Though the rest of Ravenscroft’s staff seemed dubious at best, his butler at least remained a bulwark of old world dignity.
She smiled at him now. His assistance over the last few days was an immeasurable source of comfort to her as she grappled with her newfound role. “Yes, Osgood?”
“His lordship requests the courtesy of your presence, my lady.”
The mere mentioning of the earl kindled a languorous slide of heat through her entire being. They’d spent a great deal of time together as he convalesced and she rather enjoyed her husband’s company. He’d taught her to playvingt-et-unand told her bawdy jokes that made her cheeks flame. He’d listened with rapt attention to her stories of growing up in Virginia and her dream of founding a group dedicated to women gaining the vote. She’d yet to see him this morning, caught up as she’d been in household matters.
She’d missed him, and the sudden realization bemused her.
“Where may I find him, Osgood?”
The butler remained impervious to her good cheer. His expression was impassive. “His lordship may be found in his chamber, my lady.”
One day, she vowed, she’d wring a smile from him. Surely he was capable of levity the same as anyone else. She suspected that his disapproval stemmed from her unsolicited evening call and the resulting mayhem of her father tearing through the earl’s home brandishing a weapon. There was also the matter of the attempt on Ravenscroft’s life. Yesterday, she’d sworn she spied a glimpse of suspicion lurking in Osgood’s dark gaze.
But his suspicions were most assuredly being cast in the wrong direction. The attack on the earl had occupied her thoughts with the heaviness of iron weights. She’d already begun keeping a mental tally of who might have been responsible. For some reason, her mind kept returning to the Duchess of Argylle with fierce persistence.
“Thank you, Osgood.” She gathered up the characters, deciding to bring them along with her so that she could continue her work while entertaining Ravenscroft in whatever madness he delighted in for the day.
As she took her leave of the drawing room and made for the hall, her mind flitted back—as it invariably seemed to do of late—to her husband. She knew so little of him and yet he had overtaken her thoughts just as he’d overtaken her world. It scarcely seemed real to her that she’d agreed to be his wife in truth. He’d caught her at a weak moment with his demand that she choose between Virginia and him. Staring at him, still shaken with the knowledge that he could have died, how could she have made any other decision?
But he was still a stranger to her, a mystery. And she couldn’t shake the feeling that he held himself apart from her, that he was a man of many faces who merely donned whichever one suited his mood or his desires for the moment. What she did know was that he fast grew impatient with his recovery.
He didn’t play the role of invalid with grace, but she was gratified that he’d remained at home, where he was as safe as he could be. Oh, he grumbled and demanded a change of scenery on a regular basis. And so she accompanied him to his study or to the library, all the while taking note of whether or not he faltered or lost his balance. Yesterday had been the first day that she’d not seen a single sign of weakness or dizziness. Even his wound appeared to be healing nicely and was no longer in need of a bandage. With his full head of dark hair, the injury was scarcely noticeable now.
As she stopped outside his chamber door, she knew a moment of unease as she contemplated that. Ravenscroft in his weakened state was rather like a caged tiger. He could be seen and admired, but he wasn’t capable of doing injury. Ravenscroft at full strength was another matter entirely. The mere notion made her knees want to give out.
“Enter,” called his familiar, rich voice at her knock.
A shiver of awareness danced through her as she opened the door and stepped back into his territory. He wasn’t on the bed where she’d expected to find him. Instead, he sat on a chair by the hearth, clad in nothing but a dressing gown. She felt the force of his gaze like a caress. The door clicked closed at her back. Too late to flee now.
She clutched the characters to her breast as though their mere paper and ink could form a protective shield. He was eying her as though he wanted to consume her. “Good morning, my lord.”
Far easier, she found, to remain formal and impersonal when he was at his most tempting.
He stood and offered her a flawless bow, which should have been rendered ridiculous by his lack of dress but somehow made an unwanted warmth steal into her belly. He seemed as if he were truly on the mend, thank the Lord. But his recuperation also held untold ramifications for her. Ramifications that were simultaneously frightening, wicked, and altogether tempting.
“Julian,” he reminded her.
How was it that each day she saw him he seemed to somehow be more handsome than the last? Looking upon him stole her breath and did strange things to her pulse. His bare calves and feet peeked from beneath the hem of his robe as he strode to her. Nary a hint of weakness today. Not a pause. Not a sway. No indeed. This morning, he was pure, seductive intention. How was it possible for a man to move with such elegance, such easy, carnal grace? She couldn’t stop staring at him.
Clara took a breath, marshaled her thoughts into a semblance of order. “Osgood said that you sent for me.”
“Yes I did.” He didn’t stop until he was near enough to touch her. And touch her he did. Nothing overtly seductive. Just a mere glance of his index finger over the characters she still held clutched to her bodice. “What’s this, little dove?”
His vivid gaze held fast to her mouth. “Characters,” she blurted.
“Ah, the search for domestics continues.” He cocked his head, considering her. “Have you ever hired servants before?”
Of course she hadn’t. She had gone from her mother’s home straight to her father’s. Someone else had always taken charge of the household. But she’d never backed down from a challenge and she didn’t intend to do so now. “Do you not think me capable of hiring proper staff?”
He considered her, his regard slow and thorough and so intense that she couldn’t help but feel it as intimately as any caress. “I think you more than capable. You continue to surprise me, Clara.”
She wondered if he meant that as a compliment and decided to accept it as such. “Thank you.”
He gave her a rare smile, and she felt it all the way to her toes. His smile transformed his already gorgeous features, somehow rendering him even more irresistible. It stole some of the lines of worry from his face, abated the darkness in his eyes. Of course, he had cause for the worry and darkness. Someone had tried to kill him. No matter how devilishly handsome he was, no matter how tempting his presence and sensual gazes, she couldn’t forget that disquieting fact.
