‘And I meant it.’ He unfolded his arms to smooth a hand over the wolfhound’s curly head. ‘However, if you’re curious, perhaps you’d allow me to give you a tour?’
‘No!’ She gasped, recoiling in horror at the very idea of being alone with him. No respectable woman would ever agree to an assignation with a strange man at night. No respectable man would ever suggest such a thing either! Only he wasn’t a strange man, she remembered, a few seconds too late. He was her husband. Which meant that it wasn’t scandalous at all, even if she still didn’t much care for the prospect of his company. ‘I mean, I’m happy to look around by myself. It’s not necessary to accompany me.’
‘Considering what happened earlier, I’m afraid it might be.’ His expression didn’t alter, although the tone of his voice suggested he wasn’t particularly thrilled about the idea of spending time with her either. ‘I wouldn’t want you collapsing again, especially carrying a candle.’
‘Oh.’ She pursed her lips. It was a reasonable point, even if she suspected he was more concerned for the safety of his furniture than her well-being. Her legswerefeeling somewhat more stable now, but she probably still ought to be careful.
‘Very well.’ She looked around, belatedly noticing two rows of alabaster busts, all of stern-faced men, confronting each other from red marble plinths on either side of the hall, like opposing teams on a chess board. ‘This is very grand. I like the swan. Is there a reason for it?’
‘My father liked birds.’
‘Ah.’ She glanced upwards. ‘Well, that explains the cage.’
He nodded, following the direction of her gaze. ‘That used to contain a pair of nightingales. The idea was that everyone who entered the house would be greeted by the sound of birdsong.’
‘What a lovely idea.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Although not so nice for the birds.’
‘I agree. That’s why it’s empty now.’
‘Then maybe you should take it down?’
He gave her a sharp look, as if the idea had never occurred to him before. ‘Maybe I should.’
‘So…’ She gestured past his shoulder as tension seemed to crackle in the air between them. ‘What room is that?’
‘Take a look.’ He held a hand out for her candle. ‘May I?’
She handed it over as she walked past him into a drawing room at least four times the size of her new, already sizeable bedchamber. Between the candlelight and the floor-to-ceiling paintings, it was hard to judge the colour scheme, but it looked like a shade of deep forest green with a pattern of…she peered closer…birds again. Golden eagles, by the look of it, engraved into the paper. The bird motif was evident all over the room, in porcelain figurines and ornate carved furniture with… Were those talons for feet?
She headed towards the fireplace, over which hung a gilt-framed painting of a large, stately-looking house. It was made of grey stone, with side wings that extended forward to form a courtyard, in which two external staircases led up to a terrace fronted by six massive stone pillars, themselves topped with a triangular-shaped pediment. The roof on either side, meanwhile, was flat, with a balustrade that ran the entire length of the house, giving the impression of medieval battlements. Clearly, it had been designed to look like a modern-day stronghold, a bastion of wealth and privilege.
She gasped as it occurred to her that there was only one reason why such a painting would be given pride of place over the fireplace.
‘Is that…here?’ Suddenly she couldn’t drag her gaze away.
‘Yes.’ Her husband answered from just behind her shoulder. ‘That’s Rainton Court.’
‘You mean, we’re inside…there?’
‘We are.’
‘Sothat’smy home?’
There was a telling pause before he answered. ‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ She sank down onto a conveniently placed footstool.
‘Are you feeling unwell?’ His tone was completely neutral, as if he was neither surprised by, nor particularly interested in, her reaction. ‘Do you not wish to continue our tour?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t…’ She put her palms on either side of her head, as if she could somehow squeeze her thoughts back together. ‘I just need a few moments.’
‘Very well.’ He placed her candle on the mantelpiece and braced his own hands against it, leaning forward to stare down into the fire, his posture rigid.
‘How many rooms are there?’ she asked at last, though her voice sounded small even to her. By contrast, the ticking of the clock on the mantel seemed almost deafening.
‘Altogether?’ He didn’t move. ‘I’m not certain. Around one hundred, I should think, including the attics.’
‘One hundred?’ She gaped at him, watching as the firelight cast shadowy patterns over his face. It wasn’t a house so much as a palace. What wasshedoing in a palace? Her family home consisted of only fourteen rooms in total!
