Dawn Thompson Read online

  “Only that your offer was an honorable one; that all proprieties would be strictly observed; that the arrangement was to our . . . mutual betterment, and that you would provide the details once I arrived.”

  “Did he give you my missive?”

  “Yes,” Sara said, studying her folded hands in her lap. Her heart skipped its rhythm. His eyes had picked up red glints from the fire. They were burning toward her like live coals. She couldn’t meet them. “A most gracious invitation, Baron Walraven,” she murmured.

  “That won’t do,” he said. “You shall call me Nicholas, and I shall call you Sara when we are alone—commencing now. You shall need to get used to doing so. You are Sara Ponsonby no longer. We are husband and wife, and you must present that image. The private familiarity will help you adjust to that. On state occasions, you are Baroness Walraven, of course, more informally, Sara Walraven, which is how you will sign your documents. Is this clear to you?”

  “Y-yes, Bar—Nicholas.” His name did not roll off her tongue. It was all too new.

  “Very well,” he said. “Would you remove your bonnet, please?”

  Sara was hoping he wouldn’t ask her to do that, not until she’d had time to order herself. Hot blood rushed to her temples. Blushing was her most grievous fault, the curse of her fair-skinned heritage. She didn’t need a mirror to tell her she was blushing now. Her cheeks were on fire. The heat rising from them narrowed her eyes.

  “Please,” he repeated, prompting her with a hand gesture. Sara removed the bonnet, and he arched his brow. “I see you are no slave to fashion,” he observed.

  “Sir?”

  “Your hair,” he said. “You haven’t cropped it after the current craze.”

  “With so much upon me of late, I’ve hardly had time to think of fashion,” she returned. Was her reply too snappish? She feared so, but it was too late now.

  “I shall be brief,” he said, shifting position, and the conversation along with it. “I am in need of a companion—only that. Someone to preside over my gatherings, and appear with me in public . . . on occasion, in order to deter predatory females, and keep the ton from continually trying to snare me into the marriage mart. If I have a wife . . . well, I think you get the point.”

  “Is that why you don’t come to Town for the Seasons?” she couldn’t help inquiring. It didn’t ring true. If all he wanted was a hostess, he could have taken a mistress.

  He hesitated. “That is . . . one of the reasons,” he said. “My motives need not concern you—only my needs. Suffice it to say that I couldn’t hire someone for the position, and have her reside here under the same roof with me without a breach of propriety. Since the woman of my choice would have to live here, she would have to become my wife. She had to be attractive, cultured, and above reproach. You possess all of those qualities. She also had to agree to the arrangement, as you have done on the strength of my missive alone, without full knowledge of the . . . conditions. That was paramount. It proves trust, and trust is vital. When I was made aware of your . . . situation, it seemed to me that we might strike a mutually beneficial bargain. I am glad that you have chosen to accept it. You will want for nothing. There are a few simple house rules that I must ask you to follow, but I shall come back to that.”

  Sara stared into those all-seeing obsidian eyes that seemed to penetrate her soul. The firelight still shone red in them. It was an odd business, and though he’d answered many of her questions, there was still one that needed to be addressed, and she didn’t know how to ask it.

  “Is something unclear?” he asked, as though he’d read her thoughts. “Oh, yes, of course,” he hastened to add, convincing her that he did indeed possess such powers. “Your duties do not include sharing my bed. I have no desire to perpetuate my line. I hope that shan’t be . . . a problem? I thought, under the circumstances, it might be somewhat of a relief.”

  “N-no, not a problem,” Sara said. She hadn’t considered the possibility of children, or the lack of them. His bluntness shocked her, and she avoided the issue. “There is one other thing that has puzzled me from the start, though,” she said, with as much aplomb as she could muster. “Why did you send Mr. Mallory to London to fetch me, and why a proxy wedding, when such things aren’t even possible in England? Why didn’t you come yourself? I should think that would have been simpler than having me trek all the way to Scotland with a total stranger to have it done.”

  “That is not ‘one thing,’ Sara; it is three things,” he said. “And all three encroach upon motive. However, I will allow it this once. Let us just say that . . . preexisting situations here on the coast prevented me from leaving it—even to marry.” Striding to the bell pull, he yanked it, and turned back to her. “I’ve rung for Mrs. Bromley, my housekeeper. She will show you to your rooms, and introduce you to Nell, your abigail. Her quarters adjoin your suite.”

  “Thank you, Nicholas,” Sara murmured.

  “You will join me for meals,” he continued. “Breakfast and nuncheon are served in the breakfast room. The evening meal is served in the dining hall. The servants will direct you.”

  “You said something earlier about . . . house rules,” she reminded him.

  “Yes,” he said, “I was just coming to that. You will be given a complete tour of Ravencliff tomorrow. Please do not go off exploring on your own. The house is very old. Much of it is in disrepair, and you could do yourself a mischief. Please do not go out to the seawall unescorted. The Cornish winds are notorious. They have been known to blow strapping men off cliffs, and gales come up suddenly. We are on the verge of one right now. Though there are stairs hewn in the rock, do not go down to the strand. Those stairs were carved there centuries ago, and used by smugglers. This coast is rife with cairns and caves and passageways, none of them safe. Riptides are common here, and you could be cut off in seconds. Finally, what occurs within these walls stays within these walls. I expect you to be discreet. Do not carry tales. If you have a question, or a concern, do not burden the servants or Alex. Come directly to me. Do we have an understanding?”

  “Yes, Nicholas,” Sara replied, rising as he came closer.

  “Good,” he said. “I want this to be a pleasant association . . . for the both of us.”

  How he towered over her. Those riveting eyes, wreathed with dark lashes any woman would envy, were even more alarming in close proximity. They were hooded now, devouring her in the candlelight, making her heart race. He smelled clean, of the sea, with traces of tobacco, and brandy drunk recently. Combined with his own—almost feral—essence, the effect was intoxicating. She drank him in deeply, extending her hand.

  He took a step back, breaking the spell. “Forgive me,” he murmured, “I do not like to be touched.”

  A light knock at the study door made an end to the awkward situation, but not to her embarrassment, and she dropped the hand to her side.

  “Come!” he called.

  The door came open, and a plump, rosy-cheeked woman entered wearing crisp black twill, and a starched lawn cap and apron.

  “Please see Baroness Walraven to her apartments, Mrs. Bromley,” he said, “and have Nell attend her. See that all her needs are met.”

  “Yes, sir,” the housekeeper responded, sketching a curtsy.

  He turned to Sara. “It’s late,” he said. “You must be exhausted. I will expect you at breakfast. If you have further questions, I will address them then. Good night, Sara.”

  He dismissed her with a cursory bow, turned, and strolled to the hearth, his obsidian gaze fixed on the sparks shooting up from a fallen log in the grate. She had questions—so many questions, but there would be no answers then. The strange interview was over, and she followed the housekeeper into the corridor.

  He’d made it clear that their marriage would be in name only. He’d addressed that head-on, and she’d received it with mixed emotions. While she had been worried about sharing a bed for the first time with a virtual stranger, she was more disappointed than relieved that this w
asn’t to be part of the arrangement. Why would the man not want an heir? Come to that, why didn’t he even want to be touched? Alexander Mallory had seized her hand earlier, and pressed it to his lips before it was offered; Nicholas, who was albeit technically her husband, had stressed that she was to present a wifely image, yet he’d refused such an innocent gesture of goodwill as taking it to seal their bargain.

  Perhaps she’d been too hasty. Nicholas Walraven was a mystery, but there was nothing hidden in her situation. It was common knowledge that her father, wounded in battle and knighted for valor after serving under Wellington on the Peninsula, had died heavily in debt leaving her encumbered. Nicholas had paid a staggering sum to free her—far more than he would have had to settle on the daughter of one of his peers. Why, with so many well-to-pass prospects to choose from, had he made her the subject of his quest? It couldn’t just be because their fathers once served together on foreign soil. He wasn’t even born then. There had to be more to it than that, but what could it be?

  She didn’t believe his feeble explanation for marriage, either. He did imply that there was more to that. Why hadn’t he explained? Why had a proxy wedding been necessary? Why hadn’t he choosen to get to know her before making his offer? What had seemed an answer to her prayers in the beginning was now taking on darker dimensions. The worst of it was the way this strange, enigmatic man impacted her in the physical sense. That was most frightening of all.

  “The tapestry suite, my lady,” Mrs. Bromley said, jarring her back to the moment.

  The windows rattled in their lead casings when the housekeeper threw the door open, and she waddled through the foyer that separated the rooms to draw the bedchamber draperies. Still, drafts snaked their way over the floor, ruffling the hem of Sara’s damp traveling costume. Outside, the flaw was in full swing. Rain pelted the panes, driven by gusts that moaned like human voices, and the roar of the sea rolling up the cliff chilled her to the marrow. She had scarcely crossed the threshold when another sound bled into the rest and gave her heart a tumble: a plaintive, wolf-like howl echoing along the corridor. It rooted Sara to the spot.

  “I knew there was a dog!” she cried.

  “The wind, my lady, only the wind,” said the housekeeper, shutting the door to the hall. “It howls through these old halls in a flaw somethin’ terrible.”

  “That was no wind,” Sara insisted. “I ought to know a dog’s howl when I hear one. We had kennels once, fine hunting hounds . . . and horses.” She spoke haltingly, remembering. She’d had to sell them all, and still it wasn’t enough to satisfy the debt. Mist blurred her vision. She blinked it back. How she missed her beloved hounds. Losing them had wounded her heart. She would never forget the confused look of betrayal in their eyes, their whines and whimpers as their new master took them away—a cruel master, compared to the cosseting they were accustomed to at her hands. She couldn’t think about that now else she dissolve in the threatening tears.

  A maid burst through the door of the adjoining sitting room, face as white as milk.

  “Ah! There y’ are,” Mrs. Bromley said. “Have ya readied my lady’s hip bath?”

  “Y-yes, mum,” the girl replied, sketching a curtsy.

  A stern look from the housekeeper softened the maid’s expression, and she offered a feeble smile in Sara’s direction, though her owlish eyes were still riveted to the door as though she expected someone to come crashing through it.

  “Good,” said the housekeeper, turning to Sara. “This is Nell, my lady, your abigail. She’s a feared o’ storms, but she serves this house well, and she’ll serve you likewise.” She glanced at the maid. “Well? Set out madam’s nightdress, then help her ta bathe and make ready for bed. It’s past eleven, and mornin’ comes quick in this house.”

  “Y-yes, mum,” the girl mewed.

  “The clothes the master ordered sent are all hung in the armoire,” the housekeeper explained, “your unmentionables are in the chiffonier. Whatever’s lackin’ will be brought from Truro, you’ve only ta make a list so’s I can go myself, or send one o’ the maids.”

  “I’m sure everything is more than acceptable,” Sara responded. Compared to the state Mallory had found her in at the Fleet, anything would be an improvement.

  Glancing around at the tapestries hung on the walls, it was easy to see how the suite got its name. But she was too distracted to do them justice. She was straining her ears in anticipation of another howl from the dog no one seemed to want to acknowledge. There was no sound now but the true wind driving the rain, slamming against the mullioned panes, and moaning about the pilasters.

  Sara shuddered, moving on toward the dressing room, where her bath awaited. Having set an ecru gown and wrapper on the bed, Nell turned to follow, when Mrs. Bromley caught the maid’s arm, drew her aside, and whispered something to her. It was obvious that whatever was being said was not for Sara’s ears, and Sara left them to it, anxious to take advantage of the bath before it grew cold.

  The water was strewn with crushed rosemary and mint, and Sara let it envelop her, while Nell sprinkled a few drops of rose oil into the mix. The effect was rapturous, and she groaned as the mingled scents threaded through her nostrils, and the precious oil silkened her skin.

  “We’ll have real rose petals soon now,” the maid said. “They’re late this year, too many flaws. You’ll know when they’re bloomin’. The wind spreads the scent all through the house.”

  “That wasn’t the wind before, was it, Nell?” Sara asked. “It was a dog, wasn’t it—and you heard it too, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know what ya mean, my lady,” the girl said. “All I heard was the wind. I’m scared o’ it—ever since it took the north turret roof clean off, and blew it over that cliff out there. The master had it fixed, but that don’t matter. It’ll only go again. You’re fortunate he didn’t put you in one o’ the turret suites. You’d be wakin’ up in the ocean.”

  Sara would have no answers from the mousy little maid, and she was too tired to argue. The heavenly bath had relaxed her enough to sleep, and she let Nell help her into the gown, and brush out her hair.

  “Such a fine color, my lady,” the girl observed. “It shines like spun gold in the candlelight. Most o’ the ladies are cuttin’ their hair off these days.”

  “Do you think I should?” Sara queried, recalling Nicholas’s remark earlier. She still wasn’t sure if he’d meant it as a compliment or a criticism.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t venture ta say, my lady,” the maid returned. “That’ll be up ta you.”

  The decision would have to wait; the turned-down four-poster looked inviting, and Sara dismissed Nell, snuffed out the candles, and climbed beneath the counterpane and crisp linen sheets. The chamber faced the sea, and the westerly wind blowing off the water slammed full bent against that section of the house. The draperies—heavy though they were—trembled against the panes, and drafts teased the fire in the hearth, throwing tall auburn shadows against the tapestries on the wall. Sara shut her eyes. Lulled by the rhythm of the breakers rolling up the coast, she’d just begun to doze, when a strange noise rose above the voice of the storm, a scratching sound at the door.

  She swung her feet over the side of the bed, but hesitated before she stepped down. Rats! Of course there would be rats this close to the sea. She shuddered. There were rats in the Fleet—big, ugly, hairy black creatures, with long, skinny tails. More times than she cared to recall, she’d awakened to one crawling over her legs in the night . . . in the dark. Gooseflesh puckered her scalp, and she sucked in her breath, remembering.

  The noise came again, and a crippling chill gripped her spine. It wasn’t coming from inside the chamber. Something outside was scratching at the door, and she tiptoed closer, listening. She held her breath. This was no rat scratching at the paneling. It was something . . . larger.

  For a moment there was silence. “Who’s there?” she said, waiting. There was no reply, but then she didn’t expect there to be. This was not a human
sound. It came again. This time there was a whimper, and her clenched posture relaxed. The dog. Of course!

  Sliding the bolt, she eased the door open, and froze on the threshold. She gasped again, come face to face with what looked like a large black wolf. Surely not! It was a dog that looked like a wolf. It had to be. There were no more wolves in England.

  For a moment, the creature stood gazing at her, its eyes glowing blood red in the firelight. Then it turned and padded away, disappearing in the shadows that collected about the second-floor landing.

  Two

  The storm was still raging when Sara woke at dawn. She hadn’t had much sleep. It had been some time before she drifted off after her nocturnal visitor disappeared, and though she’d lain wide-eyed in the mahogany four-poster waiting until the wee hours for the scratching to resume, the animal had not returned. Deep in the night, the howl had come again, from some other part of the house—one long, mournful wail, the way a dog . . . or a wolf, bayed at the moon. But there was no moon. Even if there had been no storm, there wouldn’t have been; it was moon dark.

  She was still groggy when Nell came to help her dress and order her hair. From the selection that was provided in the armoire, Sara chose a high-waisted sprigged muslin frock with touches of blue that complemented her hair and eyes. Nell had just finished adding ribbons to Sara’s upswept coiffure, when Mrs. Bromley arrived to escort her down to the breakfast room.

  Liveried footmen presided over an array of breakfast entrees set out in silver chafing dishes on the sideboard. Nicholas was already filling his plate. Aside from a polite “good morning,” Sara refrained from conversation as she helped herself to a modest portion of baked eggs and sausage, and a warm, fragrant cheese biscuit.

  The table was set before a bay window that overlooked the courtyard. Sara and her new husband were seated at opposite ends, while a footman poured the coffee. But for the storm, the window would have offered a spectacular view of the garden. Instead, the well-manicured lawn was strewn with beheaded blooms, like confetti littering the ground. All but obscured by the rain sliding down the panes in sheets, the scene more closely resembled a spoiled watercolor.