Sinful in Satin (30 page)

“I do not just think it. I know for certain now.” She stepped closer to him. “Is your looking glass so distorted that you cannot recognize the resemblance?”

For the barest instant his gaze resentfully acknowledged it, then turned cold again. “I only see the bastard of a whore who found a way to extract money from me long after the favors ended. Nothing more.”

Celia felt slapped by every word and insinuation, every distasteful grimace. Her temper strained a bit more with each insult.

“Since I expect never to see you again, Papa, I should disabuse you of your errors now, while I can. If she knew you were my father, it must have meant there was no other patron during the short weeks of that affair. I assume you demanded that of her, and Alessandra was an honest woman. As for your payments, they went to my support. Every penny. Her account shows it coming in and going out.”

“So you say.”

“If Alessandra Northrope intended to bleed you, she would have demanded much more than the paltry amount she received from you twice a year after the affair ended.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “You think she should have gotten more, do you? Have you come to try and get it for yourself now?”

“I can see that I inherited my intelligence from Alessandra, and not you, sir. I did not have to see you to ask for money, or face your scorn in order to threaten scandal to get it. I came so that for once in my life I could look upon my father’s face and hear him address me. I came so that I would know the truth of my parentage, even if you claim you do not.”

He softened not one bit. The scowl never left his expression. “Indeed, I do not. I cannot help what fantasy you have concocted in your mind, nor do I care. I see nothing of myself in you, I am relieved to say. Now, this audience is over. Do not dare to try to repeat it. Do not approach me or my family, and do not spread rumors. If you do, I will use the influence of my station to see that you are made most uncomfortable, and prosecuted as a blackmailer.”

That repudiation was his final utterance. He walked out the door, five minutes after he had arrived.

As soon as he departed, her indignation left her too. Then all that remained in her was scathing disappointment and humiliation.

 

 

T
he opening door jolted Jonathan out of his thoughts. Most of them had been on Celia, and the passing time, which he hoped indicated this meeting was going better than he had dared expect.

Celia stepped across the threshold and the door closed on her, blocking the light from within. She stood there, a dark, unmoving form, so quiet and still that his instincts sharpened.

He held out his hand to her. She seemed not to see it. He went over and, arm around her shoulders, guided her down from the portico. Her carriage came around the house as he did.

He helped her in, and tied his horse to its back. Then he sat beside her and took the reins.

“I want to go home,” she whispered, in a tone so flat and distant that it chilled him.

“London is too far, Celia. I will take you to an inn and—”

“Not London. Home.”

She must mean Mrs. Joyes’s house near Cumberworth. “It is at least four hours, perhaps more with the weather. You are cold, and—”

“Please, Jonathan. There are people who love me there, and who have never scorned me the way that man just did.”

Nor have I
. He did not say it. It did not matter now, nor would she believe it. She had let him help her today, but that did not mean that she had forgiven his deception.

“If you catch a fever, I am going to regret this.”

“If I catch one, it will be from having sat on that stone, and his fault, not yours.” She spoke listlessly. “At least I will be home if I do. I can’t bear the thought of suffering an illness in a strange inn.”

He stood and removed his greatcoat, and wrapped her in it again. At least the rain was stopping. With any luck the clouds would break and permit some moon.

He took the ribbons again, and began what promised to be a long, bitter journey. Celia sat tensely and silently beside him, so unhappy in her thoughts that he doubted she would notice any part of it.

 

 

M
rs. Joyes entered the library where Jonathan dried his sodden self near the fire. He had not seen her since she answered his pounding on her door an hour ago. After handing Celia over to the women here, he had found shelter for the horses and tended to them, then let himself back in and built a fire here.

She surveyed his chair and the table near it. “I am relieved that Katherine finally saw to you, Mr. Albrighton. I know that you will forgive my own lack of appropriate welcome.”

“I am more comfortable than I expected, under the circumstances.” He lifted a glass of the brandy that the quiet, dark-haired young woman named Katherine had found in a low cupboard. “Is Miss Pennifold more herself now?”

Mrs. Joyes sat nearby, and to his surprise took another glass from the tray and poured herself an inch of brandy too. Her long pale hair fell over her blue undressing gown, and her distinctly beautiful face displayed little emotion.

“She is not at all herself. I feared illness had taken her, but she is cool enough, and shows no chill. If she has any malady, I think it is one of the spirit. She expressed great relief in being here and yet—”

He waited for her to finish if she chose. She appeared to be finding her thoughts, or her judgment.

“I do not think she has found the comfort that she sought,” she said. “Certainly my company has not pulled her out of her melancholy.”

“Perhaps once she sleeps, she will feel better.”

“Perhaps. Or not. Celia has always lived life with few illusions, you see. I would have said she had none at all. It appears there was one in the end, however.”

“Do you mean that you fear that she has little practice in overcoming disappointment, and may not conquer this one?”

“How well you put into words the concern I feel in my heart.”

One had to look deeply into this woman’s eyes to see any concern at all. It was there, however. He guessed her cool composure was a mask. Perhaps she removed it for Celia, and the other women in this house.

“She has known more disappointment than you think, Mrs. Joyes. In the past, and perhaps recently. It grieves me that she now knows this one, but I believe she will overcome it.”

“You know her better than I on that point, it appears. Your words reassure me, especially since I believe you have experienced something similar in your own life, and know of what you speak.”

He had not expected that. He did not know where this woman was going with this conversation, but he suspected he did not want to join her in the journey. “I have, and I would have spared her if I could. As would you, I am sure.” He set down his glass. “Now I must take myself off to an inn. I will call tomorrow if you will permit it, to see how she fares.”

Mrs. Joyes considered him, while her slender, long fingers turned the crystal glass that she held with both hands. She stood and set her glass back on the tray.

“It is well past midnight, Mr. Albrighton. Allow me to give you a chamber here, and spare the innkeeper being woken at such an hour. Please do not object. It is no trouble, and the least we can do after you have shown such considerate care of our dear Celia.”

T
he familiarity of her old bed comforted her. So did this chamber in which she had spent five years. Nothing had changed here since she left. Perhaps Daphne had believed she would be back eventually.

She could not blame the house or its occupants if arriving here did not provide the sanctuary she had expected. The house had not changed, nor had the women in it.

She had, however. That must be why coming home had not provided the balm she needed. She had remained a child here, for all of the worldly, practical advice the others gave her credit for giving. She had not lived enough experiences to speak with true authority on the ways of the world, though. She had only been reciting lessons learned from Alessandra.

No more. Her brief time away from here had aged her soul with some bitter lessons. Today’s had perhaps been the most hurtful. She avoided reliving the humiliation only by wrapping her consciousness in a thick, obscuring blanket.

She wished the total escape of sleep would come, but awareness of the chamber and herself, of the window and the house, floated above the deadening mist in which she drifted. And so she heard the sounds in the chamber beside her own.

She struggled to more alertness. Raw hurts began paining her as she did, and she almost retreated. The sounds intrigued her, however. That was Verity’s old chamber next door. Had Verity come for a visit? Surely Daphne would have said so.

Perhaps she had. Everything Daphne had said while getting her out of those wet clothes had sounded far away. It had been almost like listening to a conversation taking place between two people in another room.

She listened to the sounds, relieved that they permitted her to feel normal somehow, but also served as a distraction. She found them increasingly curious and interesting.

Casting off the bedclothes, she padded to her door, opened it, and looked out. The rest of the house was silent. No noises came from Daphne’s chamber on her other side, or the one Katherine used down the passageway.

She opened the door to Verity’s chamber. She looked in. Relief poured through her, one so profound that her spirit ached from trying to contain it.

Jonathan stood at the washstand, stripped to the waist, cleansing himself of the road and rain. He appeared as beautiful to her as he had that morning after she moved into the house on Wells Street, strong and lean and, for all their intimacy, still mysterious enough that her heart fluttered. She had learned that his mystery did not always hide good things, but tonight she did not think about that. She cared only that his presence warmed her in so many ways right now, and revived the Celia who was young and sensual and not afraid of the world.

She watched him while he dried himself. Arousal purred through her, bringing her joy.

He turned, damp, dark locks falling about his brow, and looked at her.

“I heard sounds in here. I thought perhaps Verity had come to visit,” she said.

His dark eyes were as they always had been—too knowing, too seeing, and offering a compelling intimacy that might only go one way.

“You did not think it was Verity, Celia.”

Perhaps not. Maybe she had hoped the chamber was being used by the one other person who did not belong in this home tonight.

“Did you not hear me open the door, Jonathan? I thought you were trained to always be aware of such things.”

“I heard you. I was waiting for you to decide if you were going to stay.”

She had not decided, but she had to now, didn’t she? He had weighted the decision in his favor by letting her watch him. He still did, standing there half-naked, his body sculpted by firelight. The memory of his taut arms surrounding her—embracing, supporting, commanding—sent thrills full of yearning down her core. Not only for pleasure, but also for the safety and comfort she experienced with him.

Only deadening sorrow awaited her if she returned to her bed. She much preferred the way she had come alive in this other chamber. There was still much unresolved between her and him, but she guessed that he understood some of what she was feeling now, in ways that Daphne never would.

“I will stay tonight, I suppose.” She walked over to the bed and climbed in.

He stripped off the rest of his clothes and joined her. He gathered her into his embracing arm and tucked her against him.

“You have not cried, have you?” he said. “All the way here you did not, and you have not since, I think.”

“Tears will not change anything. It is what it is.”

“Perhaps you should anyway. It does not speak well of us, when we begin to accept loss without grieving.”

She thought the advice both odd and potentially wise. Maybe with time that deadening response became alluring because it protected one from grief. Perhaps it left remnants that built up over time, until one had trouble feeling anything at all, ever.

“Do you weep when you grieve, Jonathan?” She could not imagine it.

“Men do not weep so much when they grieve. They get drunk instead. Or they look for a fight and thrash or get thrashed.”

“Then you cannot give advice to me. If you can conquer disappointments without weeping, why should it be different for me?”

“Because you have no experience with getting foxed or with fisticuffs?”

She had to laugh. It felt strange to have that bubble up out of the void inside her.

He kissed her crown. “I last wept about five years ago. I was on the coast, and a mishap in a mission killed a boy who was guiding me. I was so accustomed to the risks that I barely thought about them by then. I had seen enough death that it hardly touched me. But that boy—it was like a shock, how it affected me. Like it penetrated a soul sheathed in iron.”

“It must have been horrible.”

“His death was. My response, however—I am embarrassed to confess that I savored it, Celia, because it meant I had not turned to stone. In that moment I was thoroughly, starkly alive again, in ways I had not known for too long.”

She turned her face up to his. “Is this the personal thing from five years ago that you studied the crests for?”

One of his eyes opened and looked at her. “You are too clever, or else I am too careless with you.”

She snuggled back down. “I will not tell anyone. I really don’t know anything, do I?”

She received no response on that. Instead he checked that the bedclothes covered her back and shoulders well. “You should sleep now. The day has been long and hard for you.”

“I dare not. Daphne may find us together in the morning and she will not take it well.”