Beauty in Black Read online

  She smiled, and it lit up her whole face, giving her a glow that made him long to pull her into his arms and grant her every wish.

  “Oh, yes,” she said simply. “To hear the lions roar at sunset on an African savanna, to glide down the misty canals of Venice and admire the churches and artwork in Florence, to marvel at the wild glory of the Alps, or study the ancient temples of Greece with all their mysteries, who would not wish to enjoy such adventures? I used to dream of such voyages, as a girl. I was going to don my traveling cloak and traverse the world, explore the fabled pyramids in Egypt and its wide trackless deserts! Would you not like to ride a camel?”

  He was surprised into a laugh. “The idea had not occurred to me.”

  She had mentioned traveling to foreign climes before, he remembered, but he had not taken her seriously. Now he saw that this was more than idle conversation.

  “Why did you and your husband not travel abroad?” he asked before he remembered that this might be too personal a question.

  “When we first married, there was the war,” she explained. “And later, when there was talk of peace, Harry wasn’t interested. Even though we had spoken of it when we were young, planned safaris across Africa and sailing trips to the Orient, he said those were childish dreams, and now that we were grown up, not worth taking seriously.”

  Her voice was so sad he wanted to weep for her.

  “As long as there were horse races and cockfights and bare-knuckle matches nearby, Harry was content. He had his male friends in London, and his clubs.” She glanced down to veil those lovely and too revealing eyes. Her tone was matter-of-fact, now; perhaps she felt she had divulged too much.

  But John was swept by a rush of anger.

  “And what did you have?” he demanded. “I can see that your husband was perfectly content in the city.” And if he thought the young man a churlish insensitive lout, John could hardly say so. The other man was dead and could not defend himself, though from the sound of it, he would have been amazed to have been called to do so. “But what about you?”

  She would not meet his gaze. “I had teas and lunches and balls, theater parties and walks in the park, the usual sort of amusements with which ladies entertain themselves.”

  Except that she was not usual, in any sense of the word. She was unique and extraordinary, and it was a tragedy that her thoughtless young husband had known her so little. What a waste, John thought, for such a woman to be condemned to the empty chatter of boring people.

  “There is no need to feel pity for me,” she said suddenly, glancing up at him.

  John felt a jolt of surprise. He was the one too often fending off pity; to be on the other side gave him a new understanding of how helpless an onlooker could be, to see an unfortunate twist of circumstances and be unable to right it.

  The irony was inescapable.

  “I have had a very pleasant life,” she went on, sounding defensive. “Fortunately, when my husband died, I was left with a comfortable income, though not enough—” She paused, and he finished for her.

  “Not enough to travel, now that Napoleon is in exile, the world at peace, and the seas once more safe to journey on.”

  She shrugged and gave the wooden elephant one last gentle touch. “Indeed. So I enjoy strange sights through books and artwork—it could be much worse.”

  He saw the emotion that swirled beneath the serene face she showed to the world. Saw the longings that she would take to her grave, unfulfilled. How had he not glimpsed it before? Such a woman should not live with dreams never satisfied. She had a deep curiosity inside her, a zest for a bigger world, a passion just waiting to be fed.

  But imagining her passion led back to his own . . .

  Without any conscious decision, he took a step closer.

  She looked up at him in surprise, and her eyes widened slightly. He gazed into their smoky blue-gray depths, like the color of deep ocean waters. If only he could bring the gleam of joy back into their somber hues. He could make out each dark lash which fringed her lids so becomingly, the faint flush on her cheeks and the soft luster of her ivory-hued neck. Her chest rose and fell a little too quickly, and he knew that he, too, was breathing fast.

  He wanted her. He felt his blood surge and his heart beat faster, and the ache inside him made him weak with longing. He wanted this woman to be completely his. He wanted to show her what a man’s love could do to brighten her eyes and deepen the throaty laugh she was sometimes surprised into giving. He wanted to make her laugh, wanted to thrill her, wanted to make her blood heat even as his did, right now, though he had not so much as reached for her hand.

  But the air between them seem charged with energy, like a sultry summer day when lightning threatens and heavy clouds hang low on the horizon. He took another step till they were almost touching, and he could see her bosom—its delightful generous swelling making his palms itch to hold the sweet curves—rising and falling as she breathed more quickly. It seemed inevitable now that he lift his hand and—

  A slight sound from the doorway made him freeze.

  The footman stood in the hall, regarding them with an impassive expression. “I have brought the tea tray to the sitting room, ma’am, as you bade me.”

  John bit back a curse at the untimely interruption. He should thank the man, no doubt, for preventing an improvident action, one they both might have regretted—

  Hell, no. He would take his chances on regret. The disappointment he felt now—could it be mirrored in Mrs. Hughes’s lovely eyes? If so, she glanced away quickly.

  “Yes, thank you,” she said. She turned and brushed past him, leaving a hint of her rose scent in the air to tease him even more, to make the taste of discontent in his mouth even more bitter.

  Reluctantly, he followed her out of the room, waiting while she closed the door firmly behind them, shutting her dreams away once again.

  He climbed the steps without speaking, trying to think how to bring up the subject he really wanted to discuss, but he was stymied once more. When they reached the sitting room on the next level, they both paused in surprise.

  Louisa had reappeared. Her hair was a bit tousled, as if she had dressed it in haste, and her eyes still heavy lidded, but she had found her usual bright smile. “My lord,” she said. “When I woke, my maid told me you were here. I am so sorry I was still abed. I had a wretched headache this morning, but it’s much better now.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” John was forced to say, when what he really wanted was to curse. He could already sense Marianne Hughes withdrawing, as she always did in the presence of her niece, so as not to interfere with his pursuit of the younger woman. Damn his courtship, his ill-advised, too hasty courtship.

  He was forced to take a seat and accept a cup of tea, which Miss Crookshank poured. He drank it, as usual, without sugar, and if it tasted more bitter than usual, it was his own disgruntlement that ruined the flavor. He listened while the young lady chattered, and if both he and Mrs. Hughes contributed little to the conversation, Louisa did not remark upon it.

  At last he found that he could sit no longer. He put his cup down with a clatter of the saucer and stood. Miss Crookshank looked up at him, her disappointment seemingly genuine.

  “Must you go already?”

  John frowned, but at himself, not her. He thought of the self-centered young husband whom Marianne had endured and told himself he could not be so unmindful of his actions. He forced himself to smile. “I thought you might enjoy some fresh air,” he said, although it was a belated inspiration, and one that did not excite him. But for once, he would not think of himself. “Perhaps you would feel better for an outing, perhaps an easy drive in the park?”

  She brightened at once. “Oh, I would love it. Let me fetch a shawl.” She rose and crossed the room to ring for her maid. John had the chance to turn to Mrs. Hughes.

  “I trust you will join us? I think that it is safe enough—we will not leave Louisa alone or allow her to wander through the crowds.”<
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  She always accompanied them as the girl’s chaperone, but he hoped for more than a token agreement. After the unexpected revelations in her study, he wanted to give her the world, and all he could offer was a sedate ride through Hyde Park.

  Marianne Hughes smiled slightly. “Of course.”

  She rang for her maid to fetch her gloves and hat, while Louisa made similar preparations. But it was Marianne he watched covertly as she adjusted the ribbons of her bonnet and pulled on her gloves, then picked up a light parasol.

  They descended the stairs. In the front hall, he accepted his wide-brimmed hat from the footman. As he adjusted his hat, John was conscious of the irony. He had to brace himself simply to drive among the crowds in the park; Marianne Hughes was ready to brave a tropical jungle filled with lions. Perhaps he did not deserve to aspire to her hand, even when he was free of any other commitment. What could he offer her, when all he really wanted was to retreat to his own house, with its dim rooms and walled garden?

  Grim-faced from such a quelling thought, he avoided gazing into the gilt-framed looking glass on the wall, although the ladies took a quick glance to check their hats before they went out the door and down the steps.

  Instead, he helped them into his barouche and took his place on the opposite seat, then remained silent as his coachman slapped the reins and the vehicle moved into the usual London traffic.

  Marianne Hughes deserved better than he could offer. And that thought kept him tight-lipped through much of the drive.

  When they reached Hyde Park, they found it already bustling. Pedestrians strolled along the paths and carriages of all description followed the looping drive around the park.

  His coachman had put down the top so that they could enjoy the pleasant mild air and the pale sunshine, mottled by passing clouds. The spring flowers were blooming, and it was no wonder that a large portion of London’s elite seemed to have taken themselves to the park, even though it was not yet the fashionable hour for meeting one’s friends.

  For a few minutes they rode at a sedate pace, the ladies chatting and John sitting in silence, contenting himself with an occasional quick look at Marianne Hughes, watching her eyes gleam and her lips lift when something amused her. If only she could always look so at ease. More, if he could stir her excitement, what a delight it would be to watch her feelings play freely across her face. If she trusted him, she would not always keep her expression guarded, as happened too often, and her eyes would lose their sometimes sad look . . .

  A childish voice interrupted his musings. “Lord Gillingham!”

  Astonished—so few people here in London knew his name—John turned. In a moment he found the source. A stylish chaise was pulled to the side of the park road, and a girl leaned out its half-opened door, waving to him.

  Without reflecting, he called to his coachman to pull up. Who was this child? Then he remembered. That angular face and the straight brown hair pulling free of its ribbon—it was his sister-in-law’s rather peculiar younger sister, what was she called? An odd name—Circe—that was it. It was she who had stared at him so intently during his one disastrous dinner at his brother’s house. Why was she hailing him so loudly in a public place? Had she been taught no manners at all?

  Marianne had turned to stare at the child, too, and now she was frowning. “Something is amiss,” she said quietly. “Louisa, stay here. My lord, if you would?”

  So of course he helped her down and followed as Marianne picked up her skirts and hurried across to the other carriage.

  Circe did indeed look agitated; her cheeks were flushed and her eyes had a suspicious glint as if she blinked back tears. “Please, my sister is ill, and I cannot support her out of the carriage all alone.”

  Then why stop on the side of the park road? John glanced at the team that pulled the carriage and saw that one of the horses had lifted its hoof and stood three legged. It had thrown a shoe, he thought, and likely come up lame. But he had not time to consider the horses—he helped Marianne into the carriage.

  Inside, his fair-haired sister-in-law looked very pale, and he saw at once that, as much as she might try to maintain her composure to avoid frightening her sister, she was gravely distressed.

  “My lord, Mrs. Hughes, I am so pleased to see you. Forgive our lack of ceremony. We sent our coachman to get help for the horse, and while we waited I began—I began to feel unwell. So I sent our groom off, too, but he has not yet had time to return, and I think—I think that time is of the essence.”

  Marianne made a small sound of distress deep in her throat, then turned to him. “Give me your coat, please.”

  He did not understand, but he obeyed at once, shrugging off one of his new tailor’s fashionable creations and handing it over. Not until Marianne wrapped it around Lady Gabriel’s waist did he see the scarlet stains on the skirt of her pale-hued dress.

  She was with child, though she had barely begun to show a gentle swelling. He had heard the ladies whispering about the happy event the night of the dinner party. Something was very wrong.

  It was awkward in the cramped space of the closed carriage, but with two adults to bear her weight, they eased her out. Then he swept up his sister-in-law into his arms and carried her over to his own open barouche, where it was easier to place her carefully onto the rear seat. By now she had gone even paler, if that was possible. Several people on the walkway stopped to gawk at them, and one woman called out, “Here, what’s this, then?”

  Intent on the matter at hand, John ignored the query.

  “Who is your physician?” he asked Lady Gabriel quietly.

  “Sir William Reynolds,” she told him, wincing. Putting one hand to her stomach, she told him the doctor’s location.

  He handed Mrs. Hughes back into the carriage, where Louisa was looking anxious—young Circe clambered in without waiting for any assistance and sat down close to her sister. He beckoned his groom, handing over some coins and repeating the street address.

  “Take a hackney and fetch Sir William Reynolds. Tell him to come to Lord Gabriel Sinclair’s home at once. His wife is very ill.”

  Then, so as not to crowd the women, nor embarrass his sister-in-law any more than was necessary, he swung up beside his coachman and told him where to go. “And hurry,” he said tersely.

  The man flicked the reins and did what he could to make haste through London’s always crowded streets, but their progress seemed woefully slow. Never had John cursed the traffic as he did today.

  Would she lose the baby? He had no experience with such things, but the pallor of her skin, not to mention the obvious signs of bleeding, did not bode well. And could the mother die, too, if it were impossible to check the flow of blood? It must be possible; whether it was likely, again, he had no clue.

  He thought of his own earlier jealousy, his envy of his brother’s happily married condition, and felt a deep sense of guilt that almost bordered on despair. Never, never would he have wished such a calamity upon anyone, not even his wretched sibling.

  After an eternity they at last reached the handsome town house where his brother and family resided. John swung down to the pavement almost before the carriage rolled to a stop. He pulled open the carriage door and reached in to gather up his sister-in-law. He could tell that the bleeding continued; the coat wrapped about her would now be fit only for the dustbin, but he cared not at all. His mind was focused on more weighty concerns.

  Lady Gabriel put her arms about his neck, and he carried her carefully up to her own front door. Circe had run ahead of them and pounded on the tall door.

  A footman opened the door, only to gawk at them.

  “Out of the way, man!” John said, in no mood for ceremony. “Circe, where is your sister’s chamber?”

  “Up here,” the child said, running up the wide stairs and calling, “Simpson, come quickly! My sister needs you.”

  Mrs. Hughes followed them into the house, with Louisa beside her. John did not pause to explain to the bewildered-lookin
g butler what he was about. Instead, he followed Circe up the staircase.

  When he reached the right floor, John carried his sister-in-law into the spacious bedchamber the child indicated and laid her carefully onto her bed. “The physician has been summoned. He should be here soon. Try not to worry,” he told her.

  Under the circumstances it was an inane statement, yet what else could one say? Circe was in tears again, but reinforcements had arrived. A grim-faced lady’s maid of middle years hurried into the room. When she saw the blood, she threw up her hands.

  “Oh, my lady!”

  John hoped she would not fall into hysterics and make the situation even worse, but thankfully, she pulled herself together.

  “We must send for Sir William!” she exclaimed, apparently too flustered to ask John who he was.

  “I have already dispatched my groom to fetch him,” John told her. “I hope—I trust he will be here shortly.”

  She nodded. “Circe, tell the footman to fetch hot water and clean linen, and then take yourself to the schoolroom—this is no place for you.”

  “I want to be with my sister!” The girl sounded truly frightened, and for once, she seemed a child in her manner, not strangely mature as she usually did.

  Lady Gabriel leaned back against the pillows. “Circe, dearest, listen to Simpson. The doctor will be here soon. Send one of the footmen to fetch Gabriel, I think he was having luncheon at his club, then you can keep watch for him from the drawing-room window.”

  “I shall go to the attic; the view is better,” the girl declared with more of her usual self-assurance. “I can see more of the street.” But then a sob seemed to surprise her, overcoming her brief attempt at composure. “Only, I cannot lose you, too, Psyche!”

  “I will be fine,” Lady Gabriel said, reaching out one hand and allowing her sister to cling to it for a moment. “But you must go now.”