“Inebriation is more often the cause than the consolation for one’s troubles. Perhaps if one relinquishes the bottle for a blessed hour, one would arrive at this most obvious conclusion.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her nephew during a discussion of said nephew’s lamentable losses at the hazard table.
The corridor’s marble floor tilted at an odd angle. Genie staggered and nearly lost her hold on the bottle. Fortunately, the doors to the drawing room were there. She caught her sore shoulder against them and righted herself.
“This room. Ah, this room was made for my sister, Mr. Ross. She simply adores yellow silk.” She threw the doors wide and stumbled in. Outside, in the courtyard, rain pattered against the windows. “Whilst I, on the other hand, do not.” She drank again, the room spinning, yellow and blue, yellow and blue.
“My lady, perhaps you would like to sit—”
“No.” She shook her head and sank onto cerulean cushions. “Oh. Yes. Perhaps I would.”
“Shall I fetch you a pot of tea?”
“No.” She held up the bottle and smiled. “Here is to you, Mr. Ross. A fine valet. A true gentleman.” She drank until the wine warmed her stomach. “Perhaps you could instruct Holstoke. A gentleman should not tell his wife …” A hole opened. She closed her eyes against it. Breathed until she could speak again. “Where did Harriet go?”
“She is arranging a bath for you, my lady.”
Genie glanced down at her gown. Ruined. The gold silk was stained with rainwater and the pasture’s muck. A tuft of grass was caught in one of the frog closures. “Some things never come clean, Mr. Ross.”
The valet knelt beside her. His plain, bald head reflected stormy light from the windows. “Some things do, if you work at them.”
She laid her cheek on the arm of the sofa. “I forgot I am the Great Burden of Genie. I should not have. He remembered. Or perhaps he’s always known.” She closed her eyes. Opened them again. “I do not care for this room. Though it is lovely. Too much yellow.” She pushed herself upright, waiting for the spinning to stop—yellow and blue, yellow and blue. Then, she surged to her feet. Mr. Ross caught her arm, helping her maintain her dignity. Not that it mattered. Dignity had abandoned her years ago.
“Thank you, Mr. Ross.” She tugged loose and made for the doors. “His lordship may not thank you for touching me, but I shall. You are a gentleman.”
“You are too kind, my lady.”
She thought amusement laced his voice, but everything was spinning, and she could not pin it down. Weaving back along the corridor and through a set of glass doors into the courtyard, she turned her face up to the rain. She liked it. Cool drops on her skin.
“He made himself a paradise,” she said, throwing her arms out and closing her eyes. “Magnificent place. She loved it, you know. Called it ‘palatial.’ How true.”
“… perhaps a shawl …”
The rain washed over her. Cooling and wet.
She circled the fountain and sidestepped a potted plant. Found another set of doors. Another corridor. It was chasing her, the pain. Chasing and chasing. She did not want to be caught. She drank wine and shook her head. Slammed into a wall with her sore shoulder. Winced.
“… my lady, please. Let me help you …”
Must keep on, she thought. It chased and chased. Another door. She opened it and found wood-paneled hush. Through the window, she glimpsed the sunken garden stretching out toward the lake. At the center, Neptune fought the gale. She sank onto a table beneath the window. Took another drink.
“I shall ask Mrs. Green to prepare tea, my lady. A lovely, warm pot of tea.”
The hush grew when he left. On this side of the castle, she could see the rain more than she heard its tumult. She touched her forehead against the glass, which fogged with her every breath.
The rain had come while she’d stood on the rise with Holstoke. Fat drops had splattered on her nose and cheeks. She’d been numb for a minute or so after he’d said … what he’d said. Then the pain had come, a crack down her middle. She’d called him vile names and shoved him hard. She’d charged down the hill, ignoring his shouts. He’d sent one of Dunston’s men after her. She’d accused that man of having a whore for a mother.
Later, she must apologize. She did not even know his mother.
Now, hours on, she drank again. Sighed. Before the wine, her temple and shoulder had hurt terribly. The mare’s panic had done some damage. But neither pain compared to Holstoke’s cut. That was what chased her.
She closed her eyes. Held her stomach. Perhaps she should have known. He hadn’t wanted to marry her. Not really.
Not her.
Breathing came fast now. She slid off the table, knocking a candelabrum to the floor. The clatter echoed in the hush. She ignored it. Moved to a chair. Set the bottle on the desk. Laid her arms beside the bottle and her head upon her arms.
Paper rustled as she shifted. She saw squares.
And words.
Slowly, slowly, she raised up. Read the words inside the squares.
A crack widened into a chasm. It filled with Holstoke’s words—sentiments she’d long suspected but hoped weren’t real.
God, what a blind, besotted fool she was. Hope was a vicious poison.
On one side of the paper, beneath Maureen’s name, were pleasant and true statements: Attractive. Interest in gardens. Pleasurable company. Widely admired. Excellent mother.
On the other side, beneath the word “Eugenia,” the ledger weighed decidedly in the opposite direction: Vexing. Irrational. Too bold. Invites scandal. Displays little understanding of botany. Needlessly argumentative. Too familiar with staff. Stubborn. Provokes worst male instincts. Unruly.
The lists were lengthy, going on in a similar vein for several pages. Eugenia’s, in particular, took two additional sheets of paper on its own. He’d even noted her “preposterous hats.”
Little wonder he regretted marrying her. Reading this list, she could scarcely abide herself.
The pain she’d been fleeing found her. Rushed into the chasm and howled its triumph.
She could not breathe.
She could not breathe.
The pressure built and she could not breathe.
When she finally did, it was gasp. Then a sob.
The chasm yawned wider. Filled deeper.
“Eugenia?” Gentle hands settled on her shoulders.
She could not answer. Only gasp and keen. She covered her mouth with both hands.
Gentle arms wrapped around her from behind. A cool cheek pressed her own. “Do not cry, Eugenia. Please.”
Hannah held her and rocked her for long minutes until the shudders slowed and she regained control. Genie did not know when the girl had taken Holstoke’s list from her fingers, but it was gone. She sensed a fine tension just before Hannah drew away, commanding Genie to use her handkerchief.
The white scrap of cloth blurred before her, but she took it. Blew her nose. Wiped her eyes. Felt empty and sick.
Hannah took charge, her arm bracing Genie’s waist as she helped her upstairs to her bedchamber.
Maureen’s bedchamber.
The world spun in shades of yellow and blue. Yellow and blue. Then, she lay down upon the bed she hadn’t spent a single night in since arriving at Primvale. Distantly, she realized Hannah had helped her disrobe down to her shift, that the girl was now washing Genie’s face with a warm, wet cloth.
Genie looked up at her lovely sister-in-law, whose cheeks were streaked with glistening trails.
“I am sorry,” Hannah whispered, those pale eyes glossed and bare. “I am sorry for … saying those things. About Maureen. About you. I never meant them. I never did, Eugenia, I swear it.”
Genie closed her eyes. Nodded. Opened them again and looked out upon the sea. The waves peaked white with fury.
“I—I wished to keep things as they were. After … the bad time, Phineas became a home. He is my family. My friend.”
The cloth stroked her cheek again, gentle and warm.
“I was wrong to think you might take him from me. That is not what happened at all.”
When Genie offered no reply, Hannah began plucking her few remaining hairpins and gently stroked Genie’s hair. She went away then returned to brush the curls, taking care not to tug near Genie’s wound.
“You are my friend now, too, Eugenia. And I am yours.”
Genie closed her eyes again. The sounds of the storm faded and for a time, she slept. When she awakened she was alone. The skies were darker, the sea rougher. The pain was the same—sharp and grinding and unbearable. She rolled over to escape it, but it chased and chased and chased. She threw off the bedclothes and went to the charming little sofa with its charming tasseled pillow.
Fury swept over her like the waves. She destroyed the tassels. Tore them off. Ripped the fine silk down the center and threw the unstuffed mess across the room. She threw open the glass doors and walked out onto the terrace, flinching as the doors slammed closed. The stones were slick and cold beneath her bare feet. The rain plastered her shift to her skin in seconds. She tasted salt. Heard the sea roar its rage.
Gripping the balustrade, she leaned forward and closed her eyes. Out here, on the precipice, the pain chased and chased and chased. Running gained her nothing. It always found her. Filled that chasm to the top.
She looked down. Saw the fountain. A serpent and a griffin battled for dominance. Rainwater fell from her hair down several stories to the circle. She watched the drops descend, wondering how something so beautiful as love could hurt so badly.
Behind her, the door clicked open.
And fury from another source growled, “What the devil are you doing?”
*~*~*
For the first time in weeks, his head pounded. He’d rarely gone so long without one of his headaches. But, then, he’d lived a bloody nightmare that day. Watching Eugenia—fierce but so very small—knocked flat by an uncontrolled horse, then seeing her come within inches of … God, he could not bear it. The very thought of her being harmed, let alone crushed, sent him into a killing rage.
He would do anything to keep her safe. Anything. Even if it made her unhappy for a time. Eugenia had to remain safe and alive. This was what mattered.
After their argument, he’d spent hours with his farmers and dairymen. They’d discovered Cicuta virosa roots amongst the parsnips used as supplemental feed for the dairy cows. Someone had poisoned his cattle with bloody cowbane. These were the cows whose milk and cream and cheese fed his entire household. He’d had to assume every bit of food in the larder was tainted, so he’d disposed of the lot. Next, he’d sent Cook and ten footmen to Bridport to restock. He’d set Dunston’s guards the task of questioning everyone who had access to the cattle. Then, he’d ordered seventy percent of his remaining staff to search the castle and grounds for signs of intrusion.
They’d turned up nothing. Bloody nothing.
Worst of all, Phineas knew it was a feint. The blackguard wanted him frantic and distracted. It was working. His body hummed with the need to kill.
Earlier, he’d angered Eugenia when she’d misunderstood something he’d said. By the time he’d realized how his words must have sounded, she’d already informed him—loudly—that he was an “addlepated lobcock” too “bloody dull” to tempt a sheep, much less a woman. She’d further scorned his manners, his matrimonial shortcomings, and his manhood in increasingly vicious terms.
His thoughtless, murmured statement had been aimed at himself, not his wife. Marrying her had been selfish, the act of a man possessed by the blackest enchantment. In claiming Eugenia as his own, he’d put her in danger, which was intolerable.
But he also should not have said what he said. He’d hurt her. Unintentionally, perhaps. His Briar had thorns aplenty, but she was also formed of sweet, tender petals and soft, downy leaves. She could be bruised. He had bruised her. Therefore, he must repair the damage.
He’d sent one of Dunston’s men to protect her, intending to explain himself once he’d dealt with the cattle. Now, hours later, he discovered she’d raided the wine cellar, led his valet on a merry chase, and was currently ensconced in her bedchamber. He sighed, rubbed his nape, and walked through the door connecting her chamber to his.
The room was cloaked in blue light and gray shadows. He searched for her, seeing the bed disturbed but empty. Strangely, a small pillow lay on the floor, shredded into pieces. Then, he caught a glimpse of white. And wet. And Eugenia—his precious wife—bent forward over the balustrade in the midst of a summer storm.
Bloody hell. Fear and blackness and rage merged. Exploded.
He bolted toward her. Threw the glass doors wide. The blackness spoke before he could think. “What the devil are you doing?”
She straightened and turned. The thin, fine linen of her shift was wet. Clinging. Transparent.
Good God. She was incomprehensibly beautiful. Her waist and hips and breasts—everything was exquisitely curved. He shook away his fascination and started forward. He needed to get her inside before she caught her death.
“Get out.”
The coldness of her voice stopped him. Eugenia was many things—fiery and thorny and blunt—but never cold. Her skin was white, her lips drained of color. And her eyes. God, her eyes were killing him. “Eugenia—”
“I said get out. Leave me, Holstoke.”
Holstoke. Not Phineas. He must have hurt her worse than he’d realized. “I will never leave you.”
Her head tilted at an inquisitive angle. “Why not?”
Because you are mine, the blackness roared. He refused to speak it. He dared not reveal his madness to her. Instead, he moved closer, ignoring the cold rivulets running down his nape. “Come inside, Briar.”
“Stop calling me that.” Her face was blank, her words calm. This was not his Eugenia.
“What I said earlier today—that I should not have married you—it was a mistake.”
“No.” She shook her head slowly. Smiled without smiling. “It was the truth.”
“In one sense, and one sense only. As my wife, you are in danger.” He struck his own chest. “I put you in danger. Had I been thinking of anything apart from how much I wanted you, the risk to your life from this poisoner would not exist. That risk tears me apart, Eugenia.”
She blinked, the rain flying from her lashes. She took a shuddering breath and began to shake. Thunder sounded. Wind shoved. Rain sheeted.
“For God’s sake, woman. Come inside.”
“Inside where?”
“Your bedchamber, for a start.”
“It is not mine. Just as you are not mine.”
He frowned. She made no sense. “You are in your cups.”
Again, the smile that was not a smile. “Would that I were.”
“What do you mean the chamber is not yours?”
“It belongs to Maureen.”
This snapped his head back. What the devil? “Maureen has not been here in six years. Apart from which, she is married to Dunston and mother to his five children.”
“Four.”
“Five. I have it on good authority.” He shook his head and stepped closer, but she retreated to the balustrade, her hands gripping the stone on either side of her hips. “It doesn’t matter. You are married to me. One day you will be the mother of my children, Briar.”
“Do not call me—”
He stalked closer. Leaned down. Braced his hands alongside hers. “It is who you are. My wife. My Briar. Perhaps I was selfish in claiming you. So be it. What’s done is done. Now, I must keep you safe.” He inclined his head, breathing in rainwater and violets. “And I will, my sweet one. I promise you, I will.”
She was shivering now. Her teeth clenched against the chill. Shudders wracked her tiny frame. “I—I never doubted it. Protecting is what you do.”
“Come inside.”
“Not there.” She nodded toward her bedchamber. “It is not mine.”
Frustration ate at his gut. “Of course it is.”
“No. It is yellow. I hate yellow.”
He sighed and rubbed his nape. “Then, we will change it. Bloody hell. All this over a color.”
“Her color.” Her throat rippled. Her brow puckered. Her eyes glistened. “Perhaps you should have added that to your list. ‘Eugenia hates yellow.’”
List. Ice ran through his body in a wave. Damn and blast. She’d seen his daft, desperate list?
Her arms folded across her middle. Her shoulders hunched.
Intolerable. He bent and scooped her into his arms. It was a measure of her state of mind that she did not protest, merely dropped her head onto his shoulder. Cradling her precious weight close, he strode through the chamber she’d somehow decided had been designed for her sister and shouldered his way into his bedchamber. Carefully, he set her on her feet beside his bed. Next, he retrieved a pair of towels, using one to squeeze rainwater from the mahogany silk of her hair. Then, he stripped her shift from her body and used the second towel to dry her skin.
By the time he finished, he was wildly aroused, but his body could bloody well wait. He’d injured her. His wife. His Briar. Deeper and more grievously than he’d ever thought possible.
He tossed back the blankets, scooped her up again, and laid her gently on the mattress. After stripping off his own clothes, he climbed in beside her. She rolled away, but he caught her waist and drew her back against him. Her skin was chilled and covered in gooseflesh. He gave her his heat. Wrapped her up tight.
“Listen to me,” he whispered in her ear. “Do you know what that list was?”
“Yes,” she rasped.
“I don’t think you do.”
“You were sorting things out. In squares. Such a peculiar man.”
His heart thudded. She knew him quite well. Better than he’d realized. “I was giving myself reasons, Briar.” He braced himself. Clutched her tighter. God, he did not want to tell her. He did not want anybody to know. But her pain was more important than his pride. “Sensible reasons why I should not be obsessed with you.”
Her body jerked against him. A mewling gasp emerged. She shook her head. “Do not lie to me.”
He kissed her ear. Her neck. “How I wish it were a lie, my sweet Briar.”
“It is. Your obsession is with Maureen—”
“No. Six years ago, I wanted to marry her. She made sense to me. A highly logical choice.”
“She was your ideal.”
“At the time, perhaps. I had never before realized a family like yours was possible. Maureen opened my eyes. Made me want something for myself that I’d never experienced. More than simply a marriage. A different path, diverging far away from what I had known.”
“That—that is why you kept the chamber for her.” Eugenia’s voice was thin.
He sighed and flattened his palm on her belly, drawing her backside harder into his hips so she could feel what she did to him. “The chamber was decorated two years before I met your sister.”
“That cannot be true.”
“Ask Walters. Or Mrs. Green. The gardens were not the only places where I wanted all remnants of my mother erased. The drawing room had previously been blue. I changed it to yellow, which my mother disliked. We had sufficient silk to clad the walls in your bedchamber. That room was once hers. Yellow seemed … appropriate.”
Tentatively, her hand slid over his. She sighed and trembled. “But it suits Maureen so perfectly.”
He kissed her cheek. Her ear. “Close your eyes.” He waited until she did so. “Picture the chamber.” He nuzzled her neck. “Do you have it?”
She nodded.
“Now, picture it with red walls. The same shade as the lilies I gave you for our wedding.”
Her breath caught.
“For whom is it perfect?”
Her breath quickened. She squeezed his hand, interlacing their fingers.
“Open your eyes.”
She did.
“Look about.”
“Phineas.”
“What do you see?”
“Emerald. And silver.”
He breathed her in. Violets and cherries. Sea and skin. Gently, he kissed her bruised shoulder. “There was only one room I changed because of a Huxley girl. Shall I tell you which one?”
“No. That cannot be.”
“It is.”
“I was only a girl then.”
“A girl who cared nothing for boundaries. Who treated me as a friend from the first, telling me I should laugh more and wear emerald pins with my silver cravats because they reflect my eyes to advantage.”
“They do,” she whispered, turning her cheek toward his mouth. “You have wondrous eyes, Phineas.”
“I hadn’t the faintest notion what to make of you, even then.” He smiled. “I only knew your advice was correct and given without expectation. How rare that is, Briar. For someone to see so clearly, to offer her insights not as currency but as a gift.”
“I—I don’t understand. Your list.” Her voice twisted. “Pages and pages, Phineas.”
His chest tightened. His arms tightened. The blackness tightened its grip upon the only thing it gave a damn about—her. It wanted acknowledgement. It wanted to possess her again, to stake its claim. His cock swelled with the demand.
She stiffened against him as she felt the change against her backside.
“Do not be frightened,” he said, though his voice was more guttural than he would like.
“F-frightened? I—Phineas.” She huffed nervously. “I don’t understand.”
“I shall tell you. But you must stay. Stay with me.”
Her fingers dug into his arm.
“Promise,” he rasped. “Please.”
She breathed. Clutched his hand with hers. “I promise.”
He closed his eyes. And told her the truth. “There is a kind of … madness inside me.”
She waited. Breathed. Patient and soft.
“It wants you very badly, Eugenia.”
Her belly rippled beneath his palm. Her hips shifted entrancingly, sliding her flesh along his length. “I did have that impression.”
“You don’t understand.”
She clicked her tongue. “Well, that is what I told you. Go on, then. Help me.”
“It wants to take you, yes, but it wants more. Much more. It wants you all to itself. No touching any other man. Bloody hell, it hates when you smile at other men. It wants to kill the one who threatens you. Tear him to pieces. It rages when you are hurt.” He kissed her injured shoulder again, needing the contact. “It is savage. Uncivilized. I have constrained it, but it has grown until I can scarcely think.” He swallowed. “The blackness has command of me now. Ninety percent, at least. It will not be confined. I’ve tried. God, Briar. How I tried. That is why I made the list. I needed to temper the obsession with logic. You are the obsession, to be clear.”
She was silent for a long while. Had her body not remained soft, her thumb tenderly stroking the back of his hand, he might assume she was appalled. Rightly, she should be. But, instead, he concluded she was thinking. Putting things together in her labyrinthine way. After an interminably long wait, he was proven correct.
“Phineas.”
“Yes, Briar.”
“I love you.”
His heart stopped. Then it started again, thudding painfully against his bones. “You do?”
“Yes. I love your gardens. And your hands. And your eyes. And your brilliant mind.” She tugged at his arms until he loosened them enough for her to roll onto her back, where she gazed up at him from glistening, cat-like eyes. “I love your peculiar nature and the thing you do with your tongue when you wish to be particularly persuasive.” She grinned. Laughed. Glowed up at him. “I thought you should know.” Her hand stroked his jaw tenderly. “It might make what I am about to tell you easier to bear.”
Now, his heart stopped again. His insides iced until he could scarcely feel her skin. Numb. He was going numb. No. She could not leave him. She’d promised to stay. “Briar.” The word was airless.
Her eyes filled with tears. She smiled and stroked his cheek with her thumb. “The madness is not separate from you, my darling. The madness is you.”
*~*~*