A Perfect Secret (Rogue Hearts) Read online

  Christian dragged his fingers through his hair and gripped the back of his neck. Stepping back, he blew out his breath. “Sorry, Ann.”

  He gestured for the maid to enter. With another wary look at Christian, the poor maid sidestepped him, giving him a wide berth, and entered the room.

  Genevieve sucked in a breath, and blinked back hot tears welling up in her eyes. “Thank you,” she managed, glancing at the maid.

  She braced her hands on the bed and resettled herself into a more comfortable upright position. Pain shot out from multiple places and she hissed in her breath. After setting the tray on a bedside table, the maid arranged pillows behind her.

  Christian hovered in the doorway, sending darting glances her way. What could she say to him? She was sorry? She didn’t mean all those things she said in Bath, or just now, for that matter? Any of that would only make matters worse. Her throat tightened and her eyes burned. She glanced at the scones and a cup filled with brown liquid that smelled of chocolate. The maid bobbed a curtsy and left the room.

  Still standing in the doorway, Christian let out a long exhale and turned to leave. He might send her back to Wickburgh. Panic raced through her.

  “Christian, wait.”

  With his back to her, he paused and stood fisting his hands.

  Her heart thudded as she sought for the words to convince him to keep her secret. “You think me terrible for a number of reasons, and I have no right to ask you for forgiveness, nor for any favors.”

  He made no motion, just stood completely still.

  She took a steadying breath. “But I beg you; do not send me back to Wickburgh.”

  Slowly he turned, folded his arms, and leaned his back against the doorframe in forced nonchalance. “Not blissfully happy as a viscountess, I take it?”

  She had no reply to that. She wasn’t about to bare the horror of belonging to Wickburgh.

  “You can’t stay here,” he said flatly.

  “No. That would be unwise for a number of reasons. All I ask is that you don’t send me back to him. Please, just give me a day or two to regain my strength.”

  “And then?”

  She picked up her cup to give herself time to think. Then what? The idea of a watery grave no longer seemed a welcoming option. In truth, how could she have even thought of killing herself? Those actions seemed to belong to another person. Perhaps the water had knocked some sense into her. But to go back to her ivy-covered prison ...

  No. She’d never go back to him.

  To avoid looking at Christian, Genevieve let her gaze drift about the room. Royal blue wallpaper with gold leaves adorned the walls. A corner of one piece of wallpaper had fallen loose near the window, reminding Genevieve of how her idyllic life had become tattered the moment she married Wickburgh. More than tattered—completely unraveled.

  How could she avoid going back to him? He’d find her just like he did the last time she’d tried to leave. Of course, he might believe she’d died in the river. Her breath caught. He might believe she’d died in the river.

  A new plan formed. Daring. Dangerous. Probably doomed. But she could escape. If it worked.

  She poured cream and sugar into her cup of chocolate until the normally bitter drink became creamy and decadent.

  Finally, she looked up at Christian who watched her warily. “I’m not entirely certain where I should go just yet. But I must get far away. And I really, really need everyone to believe I’ve drowned.”

  His forehead creased and he let out a huff in mocking amusement. “You want me to lie for you—you, of all people. Why would I do that?”

  The cup in her hand shook at the venom dangling off his words. “No, I’m not asking you to lie for me. Just don’t send word to anyone that I’m here. Say nothing. Please.” She leaned forward. “Tell no one who I am. Let him think I’m dead.”

  The crystal blue of his eyes turned to pure ice. “I want no part of this.”

  “Please.” It came out as a half sob. “I cannot go back to him.”

  He shook his head, his shoulders sagging a little. “Very well. I won’t send word that you are here. But I won’t lie for you, Lady Wickburgh. Leave. Soon.”

  He closed the door. Cold seeped into her bones. Christian was so different. Had he changed so drastically, or had she not really known him? Their courtship had been short and blissful. Perhaps there was another side to him she’d never discovered in Bath.

  At least she was safe for now, but this refuge could only be temporary. Remaining here would put her too close to her husband’s reach. And that she could not abide.

  CHAPTER 7

  In the family dining room, Christian sat at the table, slowly drawing circles in his gravy with his fork. He glanced out the door in the direction of the stairs where he’d left Genevieve hours ago. The knots in his stomach left no room for his normally robust appetite.

  His sister-in-law, Alicia, smiled gently, concern etching creases in her lovely face. “My word. I can’t recall the last time you failed to empty nearly every dish on the table. You must be coming down with something. Do you feel unwell?”

  Christian let out his breath in a long exhale. “How long until she’s able to leave?”

  Alicia drew back in surprise. “Leave? Well, the doctor said she needs a day or so to rest. One doesn’t recover from a near drowning in an hour.” Her voice quieted. “And the doctor said she was enceinte.”

  “She’s with child?” Christian’s stomach clenched. Another man’s baby. It made her betrayal so much worse.

  “Not anymore; she recently miscarried.”

  “I see.” He couldn’t decide if her loss minimized her betrayal or not. He didn’t know what to feel about anything right now. Everything inside twisted into a tangled mess.

  “I wonder if the loss of her baby is what drove her to throw herself into the river. I’ve heard sometimes after a woman loses her unborn child, she can fall into a terrible melancholy.” She looked down and rubbed her rounded stomach. “I hope nothing like that happens to me.”

  “I’m sure it won’t,” Christian said numbly.

  Alicia buttered her bread thoughtfully. “Odd that she wouldn’t give you her name when she woke. She was equally reluctant with me when I looked in on her. I wonder who she is. Her hands are fine and she speaks with the cultured tones of a lady, so she’s clearly not a servant.”

  “No.” Christian wished he could sink into his chair rather than lie to Alicia.

  “I suppose she could be a governess, but she’s awfully pretty for a governess. You grew up here, yet you don’t know her?”

  Christian watched the fork leave tiny lines as he drew it across the plate. “I haven’t lived here in years, since before I went to Cambridge.” He wasn’t lying...exactly.

  Alicia’s expression turned wistful. “It would simplify everything if she’d just tell us who she is. She’s hurting, frightened, and grieving her lost baby. We must be sensitive to her feelings.”

  He nodded silently. Sensitive to her feelings. What feelings? Maybe she didn’t have feelings. She certainly hadn’t shown any last year.

  When the fork in his hand bent under his white-knuckled grip, he set down his utensils and pushed away his plate.

  Alicia’s voice broke into Christian’s thoughts. “We need to watch her carefully. I fear she may try to harm herself again. Or leave before she’s well enough.”

  Voices traveled from the great hall and a mild commotion reached their ears. Christian jumped to his feet. He half expected Lord Wickburgh to blast his way in. As Cole’s voice boomed over the greetings of the servants, Christian relaxed. Alicia’s eyes lit up and her face glowed. Cole appeared in the doorway wearing a wide grin.

  “You’re home,” Alicia breathed, her face infused with joy.

  “I have an excellent reason to be here.” Cole’s grin broadened.

  With long strides, he came to Alicia, knelt by her chair, and gathered her in his arms. Cole was all tenderness when he kissed Alicia
and placed his hand over her rounded belly. As the happy couple locked in a prolonged embrace, Christian mumbled an excuse and left them alone.

  He cast a glare upward to the room where Genevieve lay. Fate had a cruel sense of timing to bring the jilt back into his life on the anniversary of Jason’s death. The days’ events left him frayed and worn and raw. Since he couldn’t work off his frustration by boxing or fencing or racing, he’d paint to rein in his roiling emotions.

  Christian went into his studio upstairs and lit every lamp in the room. He preferred natural sunlight, which is why he used a room with windows all along the east wall. However, when seized by the need to paint this time of night, he needed to make concessions. Christian removed his frockcoat, waistcoat and cravat, rolled up his sleeves and donned a large smock. Then he uncovered his easel and eyed his unfinished landscape.

  After losing so many members of his family, Christian understood all too well the tenuous hold men have upon life. What would drive a person to such drastic measures as to purposely try to end her life? Not even Father, in his bleak and inconsolable grief after Mama died, had resorted to self-murder. No, he’d died slowly, a little more each day, of a broken heart.

  He shouldn’t be so affected by Genevieve. He lost her a year ago. No, he hadn’t really lost her; she had never been his in the first place. He didn’t need her. He was better off without her.

  Drawing a deep breath, he blew away his scattered thoughts like so many dried leaves. After crushing the pigments with a pestle, he mixed his colors, then picked up a brush and focused on the painting. With his brush, he outlined a landscape he’d viewed during his recent trip to the lake country.

  Normally painting provided a reprieve from whatever thoughts haunted him, but tonight, they spiraled back to Genevieve. If she’d married him, they would have been happy. His whole existence would have been to make her smile. But she’d proven how unfaithful her heart was. And now she wanted to flee her husband. Which just proved—again—that she wasn’t capable of constancy. Was she even capable of love or did she view love as a game?

  Refocusing on his painting, he finished shading in a tree before he began on the patterns of the lake. Creating life-like water had always proved a challenge that required his full focus, but tonight, instead of a clear lake, the muddy river that had nearly claimed both his and Genevieve’s life tainted the painting.

  It would have been so much simpler if he’d let her drown. He clenched his fist and put down his brush before he snapped it in half.

  The clock revealed three o’clock in the morning. With a sigh, he washed his brushes and his hands. After removing his smock, he draped it over a stool and banked the fire. With a frown at the painting with the greenish-brown lake, he blew out the lamps.

  Shadows lurked in the corners along his path downstairs to the family quarters. He nodded to a sleepy-eyed footman at the bottom of the stairs, and then paused, casting a long look to the wing where Genevieve slept.

  She’d been desperate for her husband not to know of her existence. If they were simply estranged, they could live out their lives in separate houses and ignore one another. No, it was more than that.

  Very well. He’d help her if only to get her out of his life as soon as possible. Besides, anything that would cause difficulty for Wickburgh was sure to be a worthwhile endeavor.

  A muffled scream sent Christian’s heart racing. He bolted down the corridor, following the screams. They led him to Genevieve’s room. A footman was already on his way. Christian passed the footman and burst inside.

  Fully expecting to see an attacker over Genevieve, Christian raced in and flung back the bed curtains.

  Alone and unharmed, Genevieve writhed in bed. Christian glared at her. What theatrics was this? And what did she hope to gain?

  A maid appeared at the bedside and caught one of her flailing hands. “It’s all right, Miss, yer safe ’ere.”

  Her face pale and the muscles in her neck standing out, Genevieve fought against an imaginary assailant while cries of distress wrenched from her. The terror in her voice pierced his soul. Absolute primal fear rolled off her in waves.

  Softening in the face of such genuine panic, Christian touched her shoulder. “Genevieve, wake up. You’re dreaming.”

  She came awake with a shriek, wild-eyed, and jerked her hand out of the maid’s grasp.

  He gentled his voice and took a step back. “No one will harm you. You’re safe.”

  She stared at him without recognition. Her gaze traveled to the burly footman behind him, and then to the maid at his side, her eyes wide and unblinking. Beads of perspiration stood out on her skin and her breath came in labored gasps.

  Christian softened his voice. “You’re at Tarrington Castle. You’re safe.”

  Slowly, the crippling fear drained out of her and recognition entered her eyes. “Christian.”

  She heaved a shuddering sigh and fixed vulnerable, frightened eyes upon him. Dark as chocolate and fringed with thick lashes, the despair mirrored in them nearly broke his heart. Bruises dotted her arms and face, probably from the river. He’d found bruises on his own body, and he hadn’t been in the river as long as she.

  He should give her privacy to release her grief. And he didn’t want to be here this close to her. She’d betrayed him. Her misery was for jilting him. Yet he could not leave her to face her demons alone.

  Christian nodded to the footman and maid in dismissal before turning back to her. She wept bone-weary sobs as she sat hugging her knees. Grief and terror poured out of her and washed over him, leaving him breathless and shaken. Christian stood, appallingly helpless, at her bedside. Clearly, there was nothing he could do. Nor should he feel obligated to do anything. He headed for the door.

  “Don’t leave, I beg you.” Her voice rasped with tears. She wiped her tears.

  He hesitated. Looking small and vulnerable, she sniffled and continued to rub her hands over her eyes. With a sigh, he retrieved a handkerchief from the nightstand and handed it to her.

  “Thank you. Please forgive me for making such a scene. I often have nightmares ....”

  Sympathy tapped the shoulder of his conscience. “Do you wish to tell me about your dream?”

  She shook her head vigorously and pushed back at her loose hair. He’d known she wouldn’t be happy with Wickburgh, but her stark misery cut through him like a knife. If only he could do something for her, protect her ….

  No. Caring about her again would be supremely stupid. He should avoid her while she remained here. And do everything possible to forget her.

  She moistened her lips. “Thank you for your ... assistance. I’m sorry to have disturbed you at this hour.”

  “You didn’t. I was still up.”

  She glanced at the clock on the nightstand next to a burning candle. “It’s nearly four o’clock in the morning.”

  “I was painting.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “Your artist’s muse keeps you up at night?”

  “Not usually.”

  “You never showed me any of your paintings, but your sketches were lovely.”

  He’d burned the sketchbook filled with drawings of Genevieve after she married Lord Wickburgh, one page at a time, each page curling and blackening like his heart.

  He took a step toward the door. “It’s late. You must be fatigued.”

  Her grave eyes fixed on him, so devoid of light and joy that they seemed to belong to a different person. What had happened to her?

  “You, as well. Thank you for your concern.” Her stiff formal words failed to hide the pleading of her eyes, pleading him to help her, pleading him to protect her.

  She sat in bed wearing nothing but a thin shift that did little to conceal her womanly curves. As if realizing her state of dishabille, she pulled the counterpane up and hugged it. Only then did Christian realize he’d left his waistcoat and frockcoat in his studio. He stood, half-dressed, in the bedroom of a woman. Not that she was any temptation. Still, his presence here
was inappropriate.

  “Rest, Genev—er Lady Wickburgh. You’re safe here.”

  He wouldn’t let down his guard enough to trust her, or—heaven forbid—make the mistake of caring about her again, but the wall he’d built around his heart developed a crack. Wickburgh had no doubt been a cold and unyielding husband, but her terror suggested it was more than that. Christian’s gut wrenched at the thought. Again he wondered what had driven Genevieve to marry Wickburgh.

  Whatever had happened to her was real and terrible, and his duty as a gentleman was clear. Very well. He’d send her as far away as possible and dust off his hands, glad to be rid of her. Then he’d resume his efforts to rebuild a life without her. As he left the room, he built another wall around the fortress of his heart.

  CHAPTER 8

  Genevieve barely slept, always listening for the sound of his footsteps, her heart stopping at the treading of feet. But Christian was here. She was safe. For the time being. As morning light spilled between the draperies, Genevieve plotted her next move.

  The maid, Ann, crept closer. “Miss? May I bring you a tray?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  As Ann ducked through the doorway, the young Lady Tarrington entered, bearing her usual aura of serenity, and, despite being great with child, moving with grace. Lady Tarrington’s smile bathed Genevieve in the brightness of her cheer. She’d only spoken with Genevieve a few moments the previous day but now Lady Tarrington lowered herself into a chair near the bed.

  “How do you feel this morning?”

  “Surprisingly well, thank you.” Considering she was supposed to be existing in endless torment amid fire and brimstone. Fortunately, someone had saved her from the river. Now, at least, she had options.

  “What can we do to make you more comfortable?” Lady Tarrington smiled so encouragingly that Genevieve was tempted to tell her everything. Almost.

  Genevieve spread her hands. “You’ve already done too much.”

  “Not at all. You are welcome to remain here as our guest while you convalesce.”