“I thought we’d break ground this spring. Still cross with me?”
Eliza turned to Malcolm, all of her remaining anger fading. She thought of the sweet, studious young man who only wanted to read and work at his figures. The quiet boy who only ever wanted his father’s approval and had never gotten it. She reached out, her hand cupping his jaw. At her touch, he closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them again.
“Eliza ... I’m sorry. I know I’m not always kind, but please try to understand. I have reasons for the things I say and do. I only mean to protect you. Not only from Eastleigh, but from anyone who would question your honor.Ourhonor.”
“Shhh ... husband. I understand,” Eliza said, pulling him close. When their lips touched, it felt like a first kiss—hesitant, soft, shy. He slowly eased, melting into her with a ragged moan, his hands tangled in her hair.
“I’ll come to you tonight, darling,” he said, gently pushing her away. “I cannot do this right now.”
“Why, Malcolm? Hmm?” she said, nuzzling against him. “We’re alone. There’s a lock on the door.” Her hand went to the fork of his trousers. “I’ve missed you. Let me show you how much.”
“Eliza, please. I ...”
Ignoring his protestations, she pushed the building plans aside and perched on the edge of the desk, rucking up her skirts. Malcolm’s cheeks blazed with color. “My God,” he murmured. He closed his eyes and stumbled backward as if he were drunk. He stood staring at her for a long moment before turning away to hastily unbuckle the closure on his trousers. She sensed what he meant to do.
“Come, husband. There’s no need to pleasure yourself. Let me satisfy you. The hours have been too long since we last enjoyed one another.” Eliza lay back and raised her hips in offering.
“I can’t, Eliza,” Malcolm said, with a ragged sigh.
“I’ll be quiet. I promise. No one will ever know what we’re getting up to.”
“Is that so?” He gave a bitter laugh, then turned and crossed the room in two strides. He braced himself over her, gripping the edges of the desk. “What torment this is! You are so lovely,” he murmured, his eyes lit with lust. His fingers hesitantly traveled from the inside of her knee up to her thigh, then higher. Eliza closed her eyes with a soft sigh, her body responding to his touch.
There was a knock at the door.
“What, what is it?” Malcolm called, pushing away from her. Eliza stood, smoothing her skirts, her body jumping with arousal and frustration.
“There’s a delivery here, m’lord.” Turner’s voice. “Lumber. They need you to sign.”
“Blast it,” Malcolm spat, his face florid. He angrily fastened his trousers, then passed a shaky hand through his hair.
“Shall I wait here?” Eliza asked.
Malcolm waved his hands, his irritation displacing the desire she’d felt only moments before. “No. And please do not try ...thatbusiness again. Such vulgar displays of seduction are meant for common prostitutes, not ladies.” He sneered. “Bloody hell, Eliza. What were you thinking?”
What wasshethinking? How dare he shame her! Her husband was a beast. More harsh and cruel than she’d ever thought possible. Almost as cruel as the man who raised him.
Eliza bit her cheek against her threatening tears and pushed Malcolm out of the way with an angry shove. Damned if he’d see her cry! She threw open the door, swept past a befuddled Turner, and went through the house to the gardens, where the sounds of Leda’s fountain drowned out the ragged, heaving sobs she could no longer contain.
CHAPTER 24
As September curled more deeply into autumn’s bosom, the pounding of hammers and rasp of saws rang through Havenwood Manor in a near-constant symphony, beginning shortly after sunrise and carrying on until sunset each day. Malcolm kept watch at the entry to the south wing, supervising the workers as they went about their repairs. Eliza’s plans of sneaking into the south wing unnoticed had been thwarted by his vigilance.
He hadn’t visited her chambers in almost a week. Her isolation was by choice, the sting of his rejection still fresh as a whip’s lash. After the second night, he’d stopped knocking on her door.
Shirley brought breakfast, tea, and dinner to her room, perching on the edge of Eliza’s bed while she picked at her food. In the evening, Eliza turned to her laudanum, dosing herself into a delirium that made the walls heave like the bellows of a blacksmith’s forge. In her dreams, she heard arguing men, voices raised in an unknown language. At other times, an unseen hand stroked her hair as tenderly as a mother would. Eliza liked to think this was the kindly spirit, come to comfort her in her loneliness. Was the spirit Ada or one of the other tragic Havenwood wives? Or perhaps Beatrice? If itwasBea, who had murdered her? And why?
Eliza had taken to strolling the perimeter of the property during the day to banish her omnipresent tiredness, puzzling over her thoughts and observing the improvements to the house from the outside. She enjoyedwatching the workers. Their easy banter and lack of airs reminded her of her father. They were most grateful for her deliveries of apples, smoked herring, and Shirley’s shortbread, which she placed in tin pails to haul up to them. It was good to feel useful and appreciated.
The new beams coaxed the voluptuous curve of the mansard roof back to life, the brightness of the fresh yellow wood replacing the dark, scorched rafters she’d first seen from her room at Sherbourne House. Little by little, her home was being made ever finer, at least to the outside eye.
She was taking her daily deliveries to the workers when a young man with clever, sun-creased blue eyes smiled down at her, dangling from the scaffolding. “How’re ya, maum?” he said, doffing his cap. His dark hair waved in sweaty tendrils around his forehead. “You’re the famous missus, right?”
“I am,” she said, shielding her eyes with her hands. “I bring you men your cookies each day.” She lifted the tin bucket.
“What are cookies, maum?” he asked, scratching his head as he climbed down and took the bucket from her hand.
“You call them biscuits.”
