Sterling tucked two fingers in his mouth and let out the low-pitched whistle that never failed to bring the mastiffs trotting to his side. His only answer was a hollow echo.
He frowned. Perhaps Addison had simply neglected to tell him that he'd ordered one of the under footmen to take them for a walk in the park.
As he neared the library, he noted that the door was half-ajar. He leaned against the doorjamb, rendered speechless by the sight that greeted him.
Laura sat on the hearth rug with Cerberus stretched out beside her. Caliban lay with his head in her lap, his big brown eyes pools of slavish devotion. She was absently fondling his ears, not the least bit concerned that he was drooling all over the pale blue silk of her skirt. Sterling could only imagine what his old enemies the French would say if they could see his devil dogs brought to heel by nothing more than a woman's touch. But he knew only too well the power of those hands against his own flesh.
He shook his head ruefully. First his cousin, now his dogs. Was she to leave him nothing?
He was about to turn away, but her melancholy sigh rooted his feet to the floor. Although an open book was propped on her knee, she was gazing into the fire, her expression pensive. Sterling studied her, noticing changes that had eluded him in the velvety shadows of her bed. The sun-kissed bloom was fading from her cheeks. Her rich brown eyes no longer sparkled but were shadowed by loneliness.
She had risked everything, including her heart, to keep her home and her family intact. Yet he'd torn her away from the both of them, not allowing her so much as a backward glance.
Sterling's uncle had ordered all manner of exotic blooms for the solarium, but they rarely flourished because they needed warmth and sunlight, two things the cold, drafty hall could never provide. In the end the blooms had always died, leaving only Sterling to mourn them.
He must have made some small sound, for Cerberus lifted his head to give him a quizzical look. Touching a finger to his lips, Sterling slowly backed out of the room.
He strode to the study, infused with a genuine sense of purpose for the first time in days. After he'd finished penning a rather lengthy note, he rang for Addison.
The manservant seemed to materialize out of thin air, just as he always did. "You rang, Your Grace?"
Sterling handed him the missive. "I need you to see that the marquess of Gillingham receives this message right away."
"Very well, Your Grace. Will there be anything else?"
Sterling settled back in his chair, smiling in spite of himself. "You might want to give the servants a generous bonus. I'm afraid they're about to earn it."
By the end of her second week at Devonbrooke Hall, Laura was so desperate for company that she found herself wandering the portrait gallery in the west wing, searching the faces of Sterling's dead relations for any hint of a resemblance. She amused herself by naming the more colorful of them and making up stories about their lives. She'd decided that the smirking fellow in the doublet and pleated ruff was Percival the Pert, beloved confidant of the very first duchess of Devonbrooke. The ruddy-faced, red-bearded warrior draped in chain mail was none other than Sir Boris the Bloody, defender of the wrongfully condemned. And the buxom vixen with the defiant glare? Why, she must be Mad Mary Harlow, who had murdered her unfeeling husband after she caught him in bed with his married mistress, an acid-tongued wench who just happened to be named Elizabeth.
Laura sighed and made another circuit of the gallery. Even the portrait of old Granville Harlow had lost its power to terrorize. She would almost rather encounter the ghost of the former duke than the present one.
She leaned closer to the wall to examine a small portrait she'd nearly overlooked. It was a stiff, unsmiling likeness of a fair-haired boy, no more than eleven or twelve. His back was ramrod straight and his eyes gazed out upon the world with a guarded cynicism jarring in one so young.
Laura touched her fingertip to his cheek, but could find no hint of the dimple she loved. There was no need to employ her imagination. She already knew his story. He had been abandoned by those he loved the most. He had been given into the clutches of a despotic old man determined to mold him in his likeness. And he had been betrayed by the woman he had trusted with his heart. Laura slowly lowered her hand. Could she blame him for not believing in happy endings?
She was turning away from the portrait, head bowed, when a savage barking shattered the silence. The sound was accompanied by raised voices, a blistering stream of profanity delivered in a Cockney accent so thick as to be mercifully indecipherable, and a shrill shrieking.
Laura jerked her head up. Thinking that she must surely be losing her mind, she snatched up the hem of her skirts and took off at a dead run.
She'd almost reached the top of the main staircase when Diana emerged from the north wing, her usually impeccably styled hair dressed on only one side. "What on earth is that dreadful cacophony? It sounds as if someone was torturing a cat!"
Instead of answering, Laura flew past her and down the stairs. She didn't wait for the startled footman to sweep open the front door but wrenched the knob from his grasp and flung it open herself.
"Laura!"
While Addison struggled to restrain the lunging mastiffs, his face going purple from the effort, a golden-haired moppet launched herself into Laura's arms. The gingham-draped basket hooked over her arm might have looked totally innocent were it not for the number of colorful, swishing tails hanging over the sides and the frenzied reaction of the dogs.
"Lottie! Oh, Lottie, is it really you?" While Addison handed the dogs off to two burly footmen, Laura buried her face in her sister's curls, breathing deeply of their baby-fresh scent.
"Of course it's her," said someone just behind Lottie. "Do you know anyone else who would make such a god-awful racket just because one of those nice doggies mistook her basket of kittens for a picnic lunch?"
Laura lifted her head to discover her brother lounging against the door of the handsome carriage parked in front of the hall, his cravat tied in a flawless knot. "Why, George Fairleigh," she exclaimed, "I do believe you've grown an inch just since I last saw you!"
"Half an inch," he admitted. Although he squirmed and rolled his eyes, he still allowed her to throw her arms around him and give him a hearty kiss. "Mind the whiskers," he warned her. "I may have only two, but they're quite bristly."
"If you ask me, which no one ever does," someone growled, "I still think we should hie our arses back to Arden. Your sister is a lady now—far too fine for the likes of us."
Laura whirled around to find Dower standing behind her, his brow furrowed in a mock scowl. "Come here, you crusty old curmudgeon," she said, "and give this fine lady a kiss." While he pecked her on the cheek, she squeezed his gnarled hands, pleased to see that his bruises had nearly faded.
Cookie was just being handed down from the carriage by none other than the marquess of Gillingham himself. The ostrich plumes adorning her new bonnet waved majestically in the breeze. As Laura buried her face in Cookie's ample shoulder, her throat closed, squeezing off any words of welcome she might have offered.
"There now, lamb," Cookie crooned, stroking her hair. "Cookie's here now. Everything'll be all right."
Even though Laura knew they weren't true, Cookie's words still gave her the courage to swallow the lump in her throat. She surveyed the circle of their beaming faces. "I don't understand. Why aren't you all in Arden? What are you doing here in London?"
Cookie simpered up at the marquess. "Why, your husband sent this handsome young gent here to fetch us, he did."
Thane brought her hand to his lips. "It was my pleasure. It's not every day I get to travel with a woman who can wring a chicken's neck with her bare hands."
Cookie tittered and gave his cheek a pinch. "If I was a few years younger, you'd find out that's not all I can do with them."
Dower rolled his eyes. "Don't mind 'er. She's a shameless flirt."
"So is he," Diana murmured, earning a loaded look from Thane.
Lau
ra was still reeling with shock. "Sterling sent for you? But why on earth didn't he tell me?"
"Because he wanted it to be a surprise." As her husband's rich voice poured over her, Laura turned to find him leaning against one of the portico columns. "And judging from your expression, I'd say he was successful."
It was all Laura could do to keep from flinging herself into his arms. But they remained folded over his chest, a formidable barrier to anything but the most reserved expressions of gratitude.
"Thank you, Your Grace," she said softly. "There are really no words to express my appreciation for your kindness."
There might be no words. But there were feather-soft caresses and deep, soul-stirring kisses. And it was those she promised him with her ardent gaze.
Lottie tugged impatiently at her hand. "You must show me your bed—the one that looks like a sultan's tent. You described it so well in your letters that I can almost picture it. Can I sleep with you the whole time we're here, Laura? Can I? Oh, please say I can!"
Every eye, except for the ever-discreet Addison's, turned to the duke.
Sterling cleared his throat awkwardly, a most endearing flush creeping up his jaw. "That won't be necessary. I've arranged for you and your brother to have your own suite with your own beds that look like sultans' tents."
Before Lottie could launch into a full-blown whine, Cookie drew a linen-wrapped package from her bag and offered it to Sterling. "I made a fresh batch of crumpets just for you, m'lord."
"How very… thoughtful of you," Sterling replied, a hint of his old twinkle in his eye.
"I've something for you, too!" Lottie began to fish around in her own basket.
"Please tell me it's not a bride cake," he murmured.
She shot him a reproachful look, then hefted her find triumphantly into the air.
It was the yellow kitten. The one who had tagged after his every step at Arden Manor.
As she held the squirming creature out to Sterling, his face went utterly still. "Thank you, Carlotta," he said stiffly, making no move to take the cat. "I'm sure Addison would be more than delighted to find appropriate accommodations for all of your pets."
He turned on his heel and marched back into the house. After a moment, they heard the sound of a distant door slamming.
Her expression crestfallen, Lottie tucked the kitten back into the basket. "I don't understand. I thought he'd be pleased."
Laura gave her sister's shoulders a squeeze, exchanging a troubled look with Diana. "It's not you, Pumpkin. It's just a bit more difficult to please him these days than it used to be."
Laura didn't tell her little sister that she was beginning to fear it might just be impossible.
After Addison had ushered their rambunctious party of guests into the foyer, Diana and Thane were left facing each other.
"It was a great kindness you did for my cousin," she said. "You've always been more of a brother to him than a friend."
"Just as you've always been more of a sister than a cousin."
Diana laughed awkwardly. "I suppose that would make us siblings of a sort."
The last thing Diana expected Thane to do was touch her hair. She had forgotten how ridiculous she must look, rushing out with it only half-dressed. But instead of tucking the loose strands behind her ear, he reached around and gently tugged at the pins on the other side, sending the silky dark tendrils tumbling around her face.
His voice was nearly as smoky as his green eyes. "I've thought of you many ways in the past eleven years, my lady, but never as a sister."
Then right there in front of the footmen, the carriage driver, and God Himself, he grazed her lips with a kiss no one could have mistaken for brotherly.
Diana stood there, utterly dazed, while he climbed back into his carriage. As the vehicle rolled into motion, he leaned out the window and tipped his hat to her, the wicked sparkle returning to his eyes. "Don't mind me. I'm a shameless flirt."
* * *
Chapter 24
« ^ »
I still see your face in my dreams.
His mother was calling him.
Sterling sat bolt upright in the bed, trembling all over. He threw back the blankets and slid to the floor. It felt like ice beneath his bare feet as he padded across the chamber and wrestled open the heavy door.
Darkness seemed to rush toward him, but he held his ground, clenching his jaw against a shudder of fear. As the sound came again—plaintive and sweet—hope soared in his heart. His mother wasn't just calling him. She was calling him to come home.
He started down the long corridor at a trot, following the music of her voice. But as the corridor unfurled before him, he became aware of another sound, this one coming out of the shadows behind him. He froze, plastering himself to the wall.
At first he could hear nothing but the harsh rasp of his own breathing. But then it came again—a sound he'd heard a thousand times before, a sound that sent a chill skittering like a spider down his spine.
It was the rhythmic tap of his uncle's walking stick.
Sterling shoved himself away from the wall, breaking into a sprint. But no matter how fast he ran, the relentless tap-tapping kept pace with him, swelling until it nearly drowned out the echo of his mother's voice. If only his legs were longer, he might be able to reach her before his uncle caught him. If only the corridor would stop unraveling beneath his feet with each step he took. If only…
A bony hand shot out of the darkness behind him, closing around his throat.
Sterling sat bolt upright on the chaise, trembling all over.
During his decade in the army, he'd been mercifully free of the nightmares that had plagued him throughout his boyhood. But they'd been crouching in the shadowy corners of Devonbrooke Hall all along, just waiting for him to return.
He swung his legs to the floor and dropped his head into his hands. He still couldn't bring himself to sleep in his uncle's bed. It felt too much like a tomb. He was half-afraid that if he sank down into the feather mattress, he might not be able to claw his way back up.
He glanced at the mantel clock. He'd only meant to steal a brief nap before going to Laura's chamber, but it was nearly one o'clock in the morning. He rose, jerking a knot in the sash of his dressing gown. If Laura was already asleep, he vowed to himself as he strode toward her chamber, he would simply slip into her bed, draw her solid warmth against him, and bury his face in her sweet-smelling hair until the bitter aftertaste of the nightmare had dissipated. He wouldn't even kiss that sensitive spot behind her ear that made her press her rump against him or cup the creamy softness of her breasts in his hands. He shook his head helplessly. The hell he wouldn't.
Sterling eased open Laura's door to find Caliban and Cerberus stretched out on the rug at the foot of her bed like a pair of snoring guardian angels.
"Traitors," he muttered, leaning down to rub their heads.
The exhausted dogs had spent all afternoon chasing Lottie's kittens around the hall until a fluffy gray spitfire had wheeled around and taken a swipe at Caliban's nose. They'd spent the rest of the evening whining and cowering under the kitchen stairs.
Sterling's pulse quickened with anticipation as he parted the bed hangings, only to slow to a dull thud when he saw the golden head nestled next to Laura's dark one.
His wife had obviously been waiting for him. Her eyes were bright and unclouded by sleep. "Lottie had a bad dream," she whispered, giving him an apologetic look. "I couldn't very well send her away, could I?"
Sterling gazed down at the child nestled in her arms, at the half-dozen kittens drowsing among the bedclothes in cozy abandon, and felt a keen stab of envy.
"Of course not," he murmured, reaching down to stroke Lottie's hair. He stuffed his balled fists in the pockets of his dressing gown to keep from doing the same thing to Laura's. "She's in good hands. I trust you'll be able to keep her monsters at bay for the rest of the night."
As Sterling headed for the solarium, drawing a cheroot from his pocket, he only
wished she could do the same for his.
Devonbrooke Hall resounded with merriment.
If the dogs weren't bounding through the house in a good-natured romp with one of the kittens, then Lottie was sailing down the banister, squealing at the top of her lungs while George slid across the floor of the foyer in his stocking feet. A beaming Addison proclaimed that both the marble and the mahogany had never been so well polished, and gave several of the maidservants an extra day off.
Cookie swept through the kitchens like a fresh Hertfordshire breeze, brandishing a rolling pin at the haughty French chef when he attempted to order her off his turf. When she fed one of his rich cream sauces to the cats, the tiny man quit in a huff, storming through the dining room and spewing Gallic curses with a flair that impressed even Dower. Cookie simply rescued the apron he had hurled at her head and set about making a fresh batch of gingerbread.
The only person who seemed to be immune to the cheerful chaos that had descended upon the house was its master. Sterling rarely emerged from the paneled gloom of the study, even choosing to take most of his meals there since Laura's family had commandeered the dining room table for their card games and boisterous meals.
He was working at his desk late one evening by the light of a single lamp when his cousin came marching in.
"How remiss of me," he said dryly. "I must not have heard you knock."
As usual, Diana didn't mince words. "You've been wed for nearly a month now, yet you've made no effort whatsoever to introduce your bride to society."
Sterling made a vague gesture with his pen, then resumed scribbling a note to one of his stewards in Lancashire. "Most of the families are visiting the seaside or are away at their country houses right now. Perhaps when they return in September—"
"She thinks you're ashamed of her."
Sterling's head flew up. "Ashamed of her? Where would she get such a ridiculous notion?"
"There have been certain rumors about the unusual circumstances of your marriage which you've done nothing to quash."