“Ruy,” she laughed, squeezing his hand. “Such a tease! Oh, you must tell me all about Rio de Janeiro. Is there really gold just lying about in the streets?”
“Indeed, there is, and I brought you back an entire chest of it. You may purchase yourself anything you desire.”
Her dark, perfectly defined brows quirked. “Would that it were true! I would buy a house—yes, that is it.” She sighed dreamily. “Nothing too pretentious, you understand. Just some sweet cottage of my own, overlooking the ocean.”
“Is your husband not invited?” he lowered his face, gazing more closely into hers.
Her lips pursed. “Miguel does not care for the sea.”
“Ah.” He glanced furtively about, ensuring himself that the music and the general hum of other conversations would afford him a few words of privacy. “Are you happy, dearest?”
She tilted her head, her lovely smile distorting and reforming itself upon her lips until it looked less cheerful than brave. “I am happy to seeyou,” she answered. “Tell me, did you see the Prince Regent, or Carolota Joaquina?”
“That will never do, Amália! I know you too well. This marriage was not your wish, was it?”
Amália lifted her chin, and the eyes which often flashed the colour of the sunset seemed to blacken. “I wished to please my father, Ruy.”
“That is right and noble, but it is not what I asked. Miguel always did have an eye for you, but I never thought the feeling returned.”
“You speak as if such tender affection were vital to a marriage!” she gave a scornful little wave of her hand.
“You always believed it ought to be. I remember that once you felt—”
“Perhaps we may discuss this later, Ruy.” She turned back to him with that cheeky sparkle in her eye that never failed to silence him. “You may assure yourself that I am hardly the downtrodden wife—quite the contrary! And as I see my husband coming to us just now with Senhor Corte-Real, I shall thank you to not put a melancholy look on my face.”
Ruy chuckled, then leaned to kiss the cheek she lifted to him. “I hope he is worthy of you,” he whispered closely. “You deserve a man who would slay dragons for you.”
She stilled, the brilliance of her dark brown eyes dimmed somewhat as she gazed up to him. “Why do you say that?” she whispered tightly.
“Did not another man once vow to do that and more? Evenhewas yet found unworthy, so I am left to assume that Miguel Vasconcelos achieves yet a higher standard. A prince among men he must be.”
Her jaw clenched, those golden eyes now glittering in fury. “Curseyou, Ruy!” she hissed.
He straightened in mild surprise. “I say! I did not think to anger you. I thought perhaps you had forgotten all about the Englishman. A good chap, too—saved my life once, you remember. Forgive me, Amália. I did not know—”
She caught herself in an instant, once more drawing the serene veneer over her beautiful features. “No, you are quite right, Ruy. How silly of me. I haven’t the least idea of whom you speak, for I have forgotten all about Richard Fitzwilliam.”
Chapter nine
Pemberley
Theservant’sentranceatPemberley was a narrow, dim flight of stairs leading down from the rear part of the house. The wooden steps were well worn from countless forays by maids carrying buckets or footmen taking errands. The long, narrow handrail down the side was smooth, burnished to a sheen by sweat and years.
It was this handrail that guided Richard on his descent. He carried no lantern, for he desired none to know of his late-night errand. No whisper of conjecture might be breathed through the house—not until he knew whom to trust. If he were correct in his suspicions, his next strategies must be planned with the utmost care. If he were mistaken… his stomach twisted.
If he were mistaken, this one ethereal hope, likely a mere figment of his own will, would finally die. The guilt of defiling a grave would be then the least of his sorrows, and he would learn at last to mourn without denial.You must face the truth eventually,his better sense chided. He grit his teeth, retorting back to that inner voice. While there remained a doubt in his heart, every avenue must be pursued. A good officer would do no less!
A step creaked under his foot, and he paused. He was in the midst of the flight of stairs, with no figures in sight at either top or bottom. His racing pulse eased. Of course, no one would be down here at such an hour—at least they ought not be. It had been a near thing, slinking from his room without attracting notice. Mrs Annesley had nearly caught him when he first slipped into the rear passageways. What in blazes was the woman doing in the back corridors of the house? Richard had slipped into a shadow, praying that the thumping of his own door had escaped her hearing. He had not drawn an easy breath for long moments after she had passed.
Richard dared a quick descent now, down the final steps, glancing once over his shoulder before he pushed open the door at the bottom. Objective number one: Successful.
He wrapped his dark cloak more tightly about himself as he darted away from the footpath. Perhaps such stealth was ridiculous, but his conscience already smote him for what he had set into motion this night. He felt like a rebellious youth once more, stealing off to the stables for a midnight escapade, and each breath of wind, each light stirring of some creature in the underbrush, arrested his heart.
Through the trees he threaded his way, marking the places where the needles pressing into the damp earth silenced his footfalls. At once, the snapping of twigs echoed through the wood. Richard jerked to a halt. The sound had not been made by his own boots.
He rounded behind the nearest tree, squinting against the shadows until a figure—vague and shrouded by tendrils of mist—moved apart from the rest. “Who goes there?” he demanded.
The figure—a man, he could see—froze. “Please, sir, do not wake the house,” a voice returned. “I was only off to see my mother—”
