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Brewster looked up at them, and his eyes were faintly accusing. “Perhaps it would be best if I tended the earl in peace until he arrives, my lady.”
“Yes,” she said impassively. “That may be best.”
It was all so strange, but Celia turned with them to leave the room, uncertain what she should say or do, or even if she should try to talk to Colter. He looked so cold, his expression frozen into a carefully blank mask.
When they reached the door to the sitting room, Celia glanced back. The earl was staring at her, his body tilted to one side in the chair as Brewster attempted to support him. Slack lips formed a single word that was a grating, guttural sound. “Léonie.…”
It was the last word he was to ever say.
30
A cold wind blew across the chalky crags, swept over the barren grounds of Harmony Hill in a soft sighing moan. Winter still lay upon the land, but already there were signs of the coming spring in the tiny buds of crocus that poked purple and yellow heads through warming soil.
Celia stood at the window looking out over the garden, waiting. It seemed she had been waiting for so many days for him to return. Oh God, he had been so distant lately when she ached for him to regard her with something other than that polite detachment that made her want to provoke him into any kind of emotion, even anger.
But there was no honest emotion, not even when they’d been wed at Gretna Green just across the border into Scotland, an “over the anvil” ceremony that was swift and legal and long overdue, if Jacqueline was to be believed. It still shocked Celia, the haste with which he had taken her from his father’s home, the earl’s body not yet cold in his bed, his “grieving” widow left to tend the details that were always necessary when a peer died.
He had silenced her brief protests at the impropriety with his mouth, then his quiet, controlled lovemaking, so that by the time they arrived in the tiny village, she had no more objections, only a kind of numb complaisance.
Yet it’s not the same, she thought with a despairing sadness that enveloped her. He does not look at me as he once did, and I don’t know what he truly thinks!
They existed in an empty life now, save for the nights when he came to her bed, usually with the smell of brandy on his breath, sometimes gentle with her and sometimes with a passion bordering on violence as he took her, his hands rough and demanding.
She had tried once to explain her lies to him, how she had not trusted even her cousin to understand the years of grief and pain and rage after her mother’s death, but Colter had not let her. Instead he had stopped her, his voice fierce as he said, “He’s dead now. Leave it be, Celia.”
No, he would never understand, not at all. There was a wall between them she wasn’t certain she’d ever be able to tear down. Why had he married her? Guilt? Or love? She had to know, and it was obvious Colter would not tell her.
So she’d sent an invitation to Jacqueline to visit. Perhaps her cousin could help her understand.
When she recognized the Leverton crest on the carriage rolling to a halt at the front door at last, Celia left the window to go and greet her cousin.
“Ma petite,” Jacqueline said, sweeping into the hall to press her cold cheek against Celia’s, dark hair a vivid contrast against pale. “How wonderful it is to see you again! Now come, we must have hot chocolate and you will tell me how it is to be a countess, and how happy you are with your so-handsome husband.”
Celia waited until the servant left the parlor to lean forward and pour hot, fragrant chocolate into the Sévres cup that Jacqueline held out. Their eyes met briefly before her cousin’s glance skidded away, as if she was afraid to look too closely into her eyes.
“How is Carolyn,” she asked, a mundane question to ease the tension, “and dear Jules? They are well, I trust.”
“Oh, yes, very well, and Caro sends her regrets. She is so busy lately, tending the details of the wedding and all that is to be done before—The king sent a lovely gift, a huge silver urn engraved with his crest, though what she will do with it, I am not at all sure. A vase for flowers, perhaps.” Jacqueline sipped her chocolate, and the cup rattled slightly in the delicate saucer, sounding as brittle as her voice. “And you, my dearest? All is well with you?”
“I don’t know. Oh, there’s so much I have to say and I don’t know where to begin, or even if I should, but you know it all now, or I think you do—”
Leaning forward Jacqueline put a hand on her arm. “Yes, ma petite, I know all. I found the document, the charges against Moreland, though he was Northington then. I should have confessed when you returned to London, but everything happened so fast, and Northington—oh my, now he’s Moreland—was so anxious to wed you that there never seemed to be the right time.”
“Yes, he was very anxious to marry me,” Celia said, and noted that Jacqueline’s gaze shifted away again. “Perhaps you can tell me why.”
“Why? Oh, it must be obvious, ma petite. He is such an impetuous, forceful man, and obviously so much in love with you. Why, he was a very devil until you returned!”
“Tell me the truth, please. I know there’s something you aren’t saying. I have to know. I have to know! It’s so different now, and I need to know why.”
Distress creased Jacqueline’s face, and her hand shook slightly as she placed the cup and saucer back on the footed silver tray. “I only meant to help you, Celia, I swear it. It seemed the right thing to do, and it is, truly it is…You will be happy, anyone can see that you are both in love!”
“Oh God.…” Her whisper lay between them, and in the cheery glow of the parlor fire, Celia saw the truth in her cousin’s eyes.
“It wasn’t for love! He married me because he had to.…Oh no, how could you? How could you do that to me?” Surging to her feet, she fought a wave of grief and nausea, sick that he would agree to it, sick that he would go through with it. What had he thought of her? It was no wonder that he’d left so quickly. “Oh God, what have you done,” she moaned, and Jacqueline leaped up in distress, knocking over the chocolate pot.
Dark brown liquid splashed over her yellow silk gown and onto Celia’s green silk skirts, but she ignored it.
“Ma petite, it was for the best, don’t you see? People had begun to talk. No amount of explanation could account for your disappearance, and the whispers…You were ruined! Don’t you understand? And it was so obvious that you love him—Please don’t hate me!”
