A blessing for whom, Lottie wondered, eyeing the woman askance. Surely not for Hayden, who had been left all alone to face society's censure.
Martha seemed to have no qualms about usurping the head housekeeper's duties. Duties such as escorting a new bride to her chambers after she'd been soundly slighted by her groom.
Although the old woman's faded brown hair was streaked with white, she had an abundance of energy for her age. Even when she was standing still, she seemed to bustle. With her leading the charge, there was no time for Lottie to get her bearings as they traversed the winding maze of galleries and corridors, no time to examine the heavily carved mahogany cornices or faded portraits that scowled down at her from the landings. Even the footman following them was forced to trot to keep up or risk being left all alone with the trunk containing Allegra's doll and a basket of angry cats.
"Did Allegra inherit her father's temper?" Lottie asked.
Martha snorted. "Along with her mother's temperament, I'm afraid. Although there's some that might try, no one could argue that the child is a changeling."
At the end of a long corridor, the woman threw open a door, revealing a room so stuffed with trunks, hatboxes, valises and other assorted items that there was very little room left to walk.
Clucking like a mother hen, she used her broad hips to clear a path. "This is just what I feared. When the baggage carts arrived, Mrs. Cavendish, the housekeeper, had your things sent to this room because it was next to the schoolroom. I'll ring for the maids and have them removed to the marchioness's chambers immediately."
"Just where would those chambers be?"
Martha blinked at her. "Why, adjoining the marquess's, of course."
Lottie gazed around the room. From what little she could see of its whitewashed iron bedstead, castoff furniture, and faded ivy-patterned wallpaper, it bore a comforting resemblance to the chamber she had shared with her sister in Hertfordshire before Sterling had swept them all into the lap of luxury.
"That won't be necessary, Martha," she said firmly. "I believe this chamber will suit me just fine."
It was the woman's turn to look at her askance. "Very well, my lady," she said slowly. "Then I'll have Mrs. Cavendish send up some of the maids to help you unpack."
"That won't be necessary either," Lottie assured her. She didn't believe her raw pride could withstand their giggling scrutiny. "I'm quite accustomed to looking after myself," she lied. "I can manage very well on my own."
"As you wish, my lady." Although a trace of reproach darkened Martha's nut-brown eyes, she dutifully departed, shooing the footman ahead of her.
* * *
Three hours later as the sky outside the window faded from gray to black and a shy moon came peeking out from between the scudding clouds, Lottie was still exactly where she'd claimed she wanted to be — on her own. She was perched on one of the many trunks she had yet to unpack, wearing one of her most elegant dinner dresses and awaiting a summons to supper.
After a brief romp in a small roof garden Lottie had discovered at the opposite end of her corridor, Pumpkin had laid claim to a fluffy bolster while Mr. Wiggles went exploring among the maze of luggage with Mirabella nipping at his heels. The kitten was still young enough to employ only two modes of locomotion — bouncing and pouncing. Her chief source of amusement was derived from jumping out at unsuspecting passersby and snagging their stockings, which was why Lottie kept her feet drawn up and resting on one of the trunk's hinges.
She smoothed the watered silk of her skirt. She had already changed her gown three times — no easy feat without a maid to assist her. But she'd been too proud to ring for one after rejecting Martha's earlier offer. She'd finally settled on a dinner dress with a square-cut bodice and full skirts the same shade as her eyes. Although it had taken an entire paper of hairpins and several oaths that would have made her pious father turn over in his grave, she had finally managed to wind her curls into a passablechignon, leaving only a few stubborn tendrils free to tumble about her cheeks.
She pinched a bloom of color into those cheeks, determined to look every inch the lady of the manor when her husband laid eyes on her again. He would soon see that she was no precocious child, but a woman to be reckoned with.
Her stomach rumbled. She consulted the watch suspended from the delicate gold chain worn around her neck. Surely there were more practical ways to dispatch an unwanted wife than by starving her to death. Resting her chin in her hand, she pictured Laura and Sterling's consternation when they received a package that contained nothing but her bleached bones and her husband's regrets. Given that she'd never willingly missed a meal in her twenty years of existence, at least they'd know it was murder.
A knock sounded on the door, startling Lottie so badly she nearly went tumbling off the back of the trunk. She rushed to the door, then paused to steady her breathing and smooth her hair before opening it, not wanting to betray her eagerness to the footman who had been sent to escort her to dinner. After all, there was no need for her to be nervous. Hayden was the one who should be hanging his head in shame after giving her the cut direct.
She swung open the door. It wasn't a footman, but a red-haired, freckle-faced young maid who stood there, carrying a tray laden with food and wearing an apologetic smile. "Miss Martha thought you might be hungry after your journey, m'lady."
"How very kind of her." Smiling wanly, Lottie accepted the offering.
The girl bustled around the room, lighting several tall beeswax candles and kindling the fire that had been laid in the hearth. She offered to help Lottie dress for bed, but Lottie declined and soon she was all alone again.
It seemed her bridegroom was perfectly content to let a servant see to her comfort. Perhaps somewhere in the manor in some elegantly appointed dining salon, he and his daughter were enjoying an opulent supper. Refusing to let him spoil her appetite, Lottie ate with savage relish, choking down every last bite of the freshly baked bread and hearty bean soup. Martha had even been thoughtful enough to send up a generous portion of shredded kippers and chicken for the cats. At least her heartless husband hadn't yet ordered them banished to the barn. Or summoned his tailor to measure him for three new pairs of gloves.
After she'd eaten, Lottie tore down her chignon and struggled her way out of the dinner dress, carelessly ripping an expensive tatting of Venetian lace from the hem. She dug through the trunks one by one until she finally located the one that contained her nightclothes.
Resting on top was a gown she'd never seen before. As she held it up to the candlelight, the diaphanous silk ran like a waterfall through her fingers, a sensual delight to the touch. It was a garment fashioned for one purpose and one purpose only — the pleasures of loving between a man and a woman.
Overcome by a wave of loneliness, Lottie pressed the gown to her cheek. She could just see Laura and Diana tenderly folding it into the trunk, along with all of their hopes and dreams for her future.
Shoving the garment deep into the trunk, she fished out one of her oldest and rattiest night-dresses. The familiar fabric enveloped her as she blew out all the candles but one and climbed into the cold, strange bed. While Pumpkin and Mr. Wiggles curled up at her feet, Mirabella hunkered down on the pillow behind Lottie, indulging in another of her favorite pastimes — biting Lottie's hair. The kitten was still so small that half the time Lottie was afraid she'd roll over and smother her and so vexatious that half the time she was afraid she wouldn't.
Lottie lay there, watching the flickering shadows cast by the firelight dance on the walls. The wind soughed mournfully around the windows, rattling the beveled panes.
Her gaze strayed to the unlocked door.
What if Hayden wasn't neglecting her, but was simply biding his time until the rest of the household fell asleep? Perhaps that was why he'd denied himself her bed at the inn last night. Perhaps he was waiting until they arrived at his kingdom by the sea where both his word and his will were law.
Now that he was finally free of
the constraints of society, what if he was making his way to her room at that very moment, intent upon ravishing her? Lottie shuddered, the thought making her blood run both hot and cold. For the first time, she realized how truly at his mercy she was. Here in this place, there would be no Laura to warn her away from danger, no George to rush to her rescue, no Sterling to protect her from herself. She had only her own wits to rely on.
Throwing herself to her side, she squeezed her eyes shut, wishing desperately for sleep.
She lay there for a long time, listening to the house creak and sigh around her. She was just beginning to doze off when an unearthly wail sent her bolting upright in the bed. For a long moment, all she could hear was her heart pounding in her ears. Then the eerie cry came again, so fraught with anguish that there was no mistaking it for the wind.
As if from another, far more innocent, lifetime, Lottie heard her own voice: The Tatler ran a very cryptic tidbit implying that his wife's ghost still roams the halls of Oakwylde Manor, wailing for her dead lover.
She jerked the covers over her head, her teeth chattering with fright. Although she'd been reading and writing about them for most of her life, Lottie wasn't even sure she had believed in ghosts until that very moment. But it was impossible to imagine that mournful sound coming from a human throat.
She cowered beneath the blankets for what felt like an eternity before a thread of shame came creeping through her terror. She was hardly behaving like the intrepid heroine she had always fancied herself to be. If this were a Gothic novel or even one of her very own stories, the plucky young heroine would be only too eager to take up her candlestick and go exploring the menacing shadows of the gloom-shrouded manor.
Summoning every ounce of her will, Lottie threw back the blankets and slid her icy feet to the floor. Harriet might quail before the prospect of encountering a ghost in the flesh, or lack thereof, but she, the marchioness of Oakleigh, was made of sterner stuff.
* * *
Hayden wandered the deserted corridors of Oakwylde Manor like a phantom. Full dark had fallen hours ago. By now even the boldest of the servants would be safely barricaded behind the locked doors of their quarters. He would not encounter another soul until morning — at least not a living one.
He was already wondering what madness had possessed him to bring his bride to this place. He should have allowed her to set up housekeeping in the rented house in Mayfair where she could have remained safe and secure in the bosom of her family. They certainly wouldn't have been the first married couple in the ton to maintain separate households.
Or separate beds.
Martha's eyes had glinted with disapproval when she'd come to inform him that Lottie had rejected the marchioness's luxurious chambers in favor of a lowly bedroom near the schoolroom. When he had ordered that a hearty supper be sent to her room, along with some choice morsels for her cats, he'd almost thought the old nurse was going to defy him. What did Martha expect him to do? Starve his bride out? Or march to the east wing and drag her back to his chambers by the hair?
Martha might not realize it, but Lottie was right where she needed to be. Far away from the west wing of the house. And far away from him.
But that still didn't ease his temptation. Lottie's chamber might be out of earshot of the west wing, but it was also out of earshot of the servants' quarters. If he was so inclined, he could go to her there and take his pleasure at his leisure with no one, not even the ever-vigilant Martha, ever the wiser.
Hayden rubbed his brow, trying to clear it of the images that thought provoked. Images of Lottie's rosy limbs entwined with his own, her shimmering golden curls spread across his pillow, her generous lips parted in a gasp of pleasure.
His fantasies had only been fueled by spending most of his wedding night watching her sleep, admiring the abandon with which she had kicked at the blankets and thrown one lithe thigh over her pillow as if it were a lover. It had taken every ounce of his meager control not to drag those blankets off of her and slide into the place of that pillow. It hadn't helped his embattled resolve to know that some might consider bedding her both his right and his duty.
But he had more pressing duties, he reminded himself, as his long strides slowed outside Allegra's chamber. A thin sliver of light shone from beneath the door. Ever since she was a tiny child, his daughter had been prone to nightmares. He had ordered that a lamp always be kept burning in her bedchamber in case she woke in the night and was afraid. Once she might have come running to him. Once she would have trusted him to chase away her monsters. But that was before he'd become one of them.
He touched his fingertips to the burnished oak. He wanted to imagine her snuggled safely in her bed with her new doll tucked in her arms. But she had rejected his offering and any comfort it might have provided. He listened outside her door for several minutes, but didn't hear so much as a restless whimper.
As he turned away, determined to seek the cold comfort of his own bed, the first wild wail shattered the sleeping silence of the house.
Hayden froze, the hackles on his neck rising. Was it his imagination or was the cry louder than usual? More agonized? Angrier? Or had his fortnight in London simply sharpened his senses? Made his every nerve ending even more exquisitely attuned to the subtle nuances of loss and pain? When the second wail came, he didn't even flinch. Because he knew that as jarring as those unearthly cries were, the worst was still to come.
* * *
Someone was playing the piano. Lottie's steps faltered as the distant melody drifted to her ears, slow and haunting and sweet. At first she couldn't place the piece, but then she recognized it as the first movement of a Beethoven sonata, the one they'd began calling the "Moonlight Sonata" after his death.
The song was beautiful, yet seemed to be mourning some unspeakable loss. Lottie felt her throat tighten. For a disjointed moment, she wondered if perhaps she had never left her bed to go in search of a ghost, but had somehow drifted into a dream. A dream where she was doomed to wander the lonely corridors of Oakwylde Manor forever with only the flickering flame of her candle and that haunting melody to guide her.
Following its siren song, she glided down a curving flight of steps to the main floor. She hadn't heard a single wail since she'd come creeping out of her bedchamber, clutching the candlestick in her trembling fingers. She drifted through the moonlight-dappled entrance hall and turned to the right, wandering for several minutes until she finally found herself in a broad corridor lined on both sides with closed doors. She paused to listen, cocking her head to the side. The plaintive notes seemed to be coming from both everywhere and nowhere all at the same time. Cupping a hand around the guttering flame of her candle, she worked her way down the hall, trying each door in turn. They all opened effortlessly to her touch, revealing rooms that were dark and silent.
Just as the movement climbed to its passionate crescendo, she reached the double door at the far end of the corridor. As soon as her fingers curled around the brass doorknob, the music abruptly stopped. Lottie jerked back her hand. The silence cut a dark hole in the fabric of the night, leaving nothing but the ragged sound of her own breathing.
She slowly reached for the doorknob again, holding her breath as it began to turn. Then stopped. She gave it a sharp rattle. Nothing. The door was locked. She slumped against it, thinking that if she were as brave as she'd always fancied herself to be, she would be feeling disappointment, not relief.
She drew in her first even breath only to find it clouded with the perfume of night-blooming jasmine, heavy and cloying. A chill draft whipped through the corridor, snuffing the flame from the candle and leaving Lottie in darkness.
She had feared being alone in the dark. But not being alone was far worse. She could sense a presence lurking just behind her, dangerous and feral.
A low growl came out of the shadows. "Damn you to hell! Why can't you stay where you belong?"
The candlestick clattered to the floor as a pair of hands seized her and spun her around, pinn
ing her roughly against the door.
Chapter 9
If I was to survive his treachery, I would have to take matters into my own hands…
THERE WAS NOTHING SPECTRAL ABOUT THE hands that gripped her. They dug into her shoulders, radiating a raw heat that stirred the gooseflesh on Lottie's arms more surely than any icy draft.
It took her a dazed moment to realize she hadn't been abandoned to complete darkness. Moonlight spun a pale web through a stained-glass fanlight set high in the wall above the double doors. But until her eyes adjusted, it was only enough light to reflect the wild gleam of her husband's eyes.
Hayden looked more than capable of doing murder in that moment. With each ragged breath, his nostrils flared and his heaving chest brushed hers. His knee was flexed between her thighs, making escape, or even struggle, impossible. As his gaze slid down to her trembling lips, all she could do was hang limp in his embrace and wait for him to either kiss her or kill her.
Reason slowly returned to his eyes, chasing the shadows of madness before it. "You?" he rasped, shaking his head. When he lowered his mouth to her throat, she could only turn her head aside, helpless to resist. He nuzzled the silky flesh of her throat, breathing her in like a stallion scenting a mare he was about to mount. "I don't understand. Why are you wearing that cursed perfume?"
Lottie shook her head, her own breath growing short. He seemed to be consuming all of the air in the corridor. Instead of pushing him away, her traitorous fingers clung to the front of his shirt, drawing him even closer. "What perfume? I'm not wearing any scent at all."
He released her abruptly and took a step backward. For some reason, she felt even more vulnerable without his hands on her.
He swiped an unsteady hand over his face. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice gruff. "Why aren't you in your bed where you belong?"