The Sleeping Beauty
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But there was a cunning here as well. And something else, something more…urgent. With his chin resting on his thumb and his forefinger caressing his top lip, Adam waited.
“The first,” Rathford began, “is that you must not abandon Helena here. You will swear to visit at least twice a year, before and after the illustrious season, if you wish, so that your enjoyment of high society is not interrupted. You will stay for two months each visit.”
Adam frowned. He hadn’t counted on so frequent a journey up to these cold climes. He hadn’t necessarily intended to return at all.
“You will not leave her all alone—” Rathford broke off, his voice choking a bit. “You will come. The second promise is to be that you will do what you must as a husband to provide my daughter with a child. As many children as she desires. During these visits, you and she will be man and wife in all senses of the term.”
What it cost him to say this was evident in the rapid blinking of his eyes, in the way his jaw worked. His jowls began to tremble, so that his next words warbled more noticeably. “The final promise is that you will always treat her with kindness. Never speak to her in anger, never raise a hand. I will have you not only cut off without a ha’penny to comfort you, but thrown in the darkest of cells in a place where no one will find you. And I’m not talking through legal means, boy. I will—” His voice finally gave way.
This, at least, Adam had no compunctions about. “My lord, I assure you your daughter will be met with kindness. Never will I do a thing to harm her, body or spirit. I am not a cruel or unkind man.”
“Money changes men,” Rathford said prophetically. Bowing his head, he nodded, however, accepting Adam’s vow. “And the rest?”
Shifting in his chair, Adam admitted, “I do not care for so frequent journeying. But I will do it. Twice a year, just as you request. I suppose.” His lack of enthusiasm he didn’t bother to hide. “As for the other…I will provide my duty as husband as long as the girl is well. Her thinness may prevent—”
“No!” Rathford slashed a hand through the air. “No qualifications on it. You will…bed…her. You will give her children.”
Adam would have furthered the argument that the girl’s health might make pregnancy a danger, but the man’s countenance forbade it. Rathford’s eyes blazed; his quivering lips were nearly palsied. “I promise,” Adam said.
Rathford froze for a moment, then like a wax doll held too close to a fire, he melted back into his chair. “Very well. The bargain is done, pup. You shall have Helena as wife, and the bloody money, too.”
In the quiet of her bedchamber, Helena craned her neck to view the pattern of cards laid out before her. “What do you see?” she asked.
“Silence.” Kimberly bowed her head. “Don’t ye be feelin’ it? Yer mother, she’s here.”
Helena froze. The mention of her mother brought an instant chill.
Kimberly opened her eyes and studied the three cards already laid out in front of Helena. “Choose another.”
Helena obeyed, her icy fingers trembling as they selected from the deck. She placed the card where Kimberly indicated.
The servant frowned. “Darkness. Very bad.” She closed her eyes as she concentrated on communing with the long-dead Althea Rathford. “She is very angry. Do ye not feel her anger?”
Helena had always been terrified of her mother, but Althea’s rage when alive was nothing as terrible as the thought of her venom coming from beyond the grave.
Kimberly held her hands over the cards, palms down. Her body stiffened and her head fell back. She was in communion with the other world. She moaned, then said, “Retribution.”
Helena’s breath accelerated, coming in rapid pants, her heart ready to tear out of her chest. Long, elegant fingers clung to the table.
Kimberly went limp. Helena waited with the dull echo of her heartbeat pounding in her ears.
Opening her eyes, Kimberly drilled Helena with her gaze. “This man is yer destiny.”
“No! It can’t be.”
“Yer mother has called him here from across leagues of space.”
“Does she wish to punish me? Is that why you said, ‘Retribution’? Does she hate me?”
“A mother can never hate her child.” Kimberly scooped the cards up, her crafty eyes staring into Helena’s anxious ones. “She has great love for ye, just as she always did.”
That was hardly reassuring. Helena had known all too well the yoke of her mother’s love. She wrung her hands anxiously. “But he is a commoner. And…” She remembered his eyes. Dark, unfathomable and unforgiving. “And he seems so harsh.”
Kimberly didn’t argue further. Pressing her lips together—a sign that she had said all she was going to—she rose to place the cards back in their cupboard. Rising on shaky legs, Helena retreated to the other end of the room. She slid onto the window seat, her little corner where she always went to think.
Helena put no stock in Kimberly’s predictions. She wasn’t a believer. Not exactly. But guilt was a powerful thing. And the servant was clever, if nothing else. Kimberly’s knowledge of the spirit world might or might not be accurate, but she certainly knew her way around the human soul.
How could Helena be expected to marry that arrogant peacock, a virtual stranger who was obviously seeking nothing but a nice fat purse? He did not hold any caring for her—how could he be her destiny?
Helena wrapped her arms around her chest and closed her eyes. She heard Kimberly leave.
Retribution.
It was time to pay for what she had done.
When she received a message from her father to change her dress, brush her hair and come to the conservatory, Helena was shocked. She had held out hope that her father had wished to annoy the man—this Adam Mannion—by playing along with his “suit” for a while. She couldn’t believe that he would actually be interested in speaking to the man genuinely about the prospect of marriage.
But there was Kimberly’s prophesy. And now this summons.
Going to the pier glass by her dressing table, she stared at her reflection as her numb brain assimilated the incredible events of this afternoon.
She had bathed as soon as she had come into her room, fetching the water herself and making do with a hip bath. Long soaks in the tub were a luxury of the past. Her hair was freshly washed, still damp, her face scrubbed clean.
Leaning forward, she concentrated on the stranger whose image she faced. Her hair, a wheat color, had once gleamed with rich luster, falling in a cascade of perfect curls. Each one had seemed to be made of pale ecru satin. Now it hung rather dry and dull, with only the tepid undulations of its natural wave to give it any style. Her skin was still good, but pale. No longer did the blush of roses flame in her cheeks. Her lips looked bloodless.
She was no longer a beauty. Which was how she liked it. She had never wanted to look in the mirror and see that other Helena, her mother’s Helena, again. And yet this drab creature seemed a stranger. Perhaps a reflection of the true Helena she had never bothered to know.
For the first time since she’d pushed herself away from the strictures of beauty and grace that had been drilled into her as a child, she wanted something of her old self back. The thought of going to the conservatory and…and seeing him again was too daunting without it. Her mother had taught her how to use her looks to command attention, admiration. Power. She needed something of that skill now.
She took up her brush and began to pull it through her hair. Years of neglect weren’t going to be cured in one sitting, but the slight sheen that came into the tresses gave her confidence. Pinning it up as best she could, she surveyed the effect. Not bad, she decided. Biting her lips and pinching her cheeks, she went to the wardrobe to inspect its contents.
The dresses were all heavy with dust, dull and limp with age, and in some places, moth-eaten. Even had they been in excellent condition, they were outdated. A yellow muslin wasn’t too bad, she thought, pulling it out and brushing it off. The lace was still good and the stomacher in front boasted beautiful gold embroidery on ivory satin.
She flung it out before her, raising a cloud of dust. Then again and again. Each time it was as if she was shedding more than dirt. She was shedding the years. Her heart quickened. Destiny or not, she was going to give Mr. Adam Mannion a thing or two to reckon with. Namely, that she wasn’t a treasure-laden galleon ripe for a pirate’s plucking.
Her spirits lifted as she rushed about the rest of her toilette.
Chapter Three
The conservatory was magnificent. Adam looked around him, bouncing on his heels.
He wondered what his father would have thought to see him here, poised to marry an heiress. Not yet, he cautioned, checking the dangerous direction of his thoughts. The belle had yet to be won.
Lord Rathford, who had been nursing a drink while slumped in an old wicker settee, stood up when the sharp click of heeled slippers tapped upon the floor tiles. Adam looked over, mastering the sublime excitement that had stolen over him, and donned a sober mask.
The sight of Helena caused his jaw to drop. It gaped open for a moment before he recalled that it should be shut. He did so with such haste his teeth clicked together.
She was…incredibly different. Her hair was brushed and fixed into a neat twist. The simple style flattered her, revealing a face that was well-proportioned and delicate boned, with a pale complexion that needed no powder to enhance it. Her eyes were as vivid as a southern sea, her brow fair and arched, her mouth nicely pinked and prettily formed into a broad curve in the shape of a longbow laid on its side.
Her thinness, however, was disconcerting. In the soft fabric of the dress she now wore, he could see that the bones of her shoulders were acutely pronounced. The stomacher, meant to flatten a woman’s chest and push her breasts upward, nearly sagged. The garment hung on her, even at the pinched waist, which was already shockingly narrow. Yet even in this faded finery, she made a palpable impact on the room as she entered, head held high, eyes straight ahead.
“Father,” she said, pointedly ignoring Adam.
He grinned. She might have transformed her outward self, but she was still determined to bedevil him.
Rathford held out his arms to her. Adam’s complacency vanished when he saw the older man’s hands shaking visibly. Adam turned his head away.
Why all the melodrama? he thought testily. Christ, he wasn’t a beast. And if they thought he was, why not throw him out and have done with it?
She breezed past him, into her father’s embrace. Embarrassed at the intimate way they had their heads together, murmuring to one another, he looked out the dirty, multi-paned windows.
“No!” he heard her say.
Rathford said something back. She protested; he overrode her.
Adam checked his nails. They could use a trim, he supposed. He sighed, waiting. Raising his eyes to the ceiling, he began to count the cobwebs.
A sharp cry and the rustle of skirts told him she had retreated from her father. Adam spied her sulking by some potted plant carcasses in the corner. She glared at him.
Turning to Rathford, Adam found the man red-faced. Biting his lips to hold back whatever emotions churned behind that ruddy facade, he gave Adam a curt nod and made for the door.
Adam supposed Rathford had told her the happy news. The rest was up to him.
Gritting his teeth, he approached Helena carefully, much as he would a skittish horse. Although he was certain she would not be delighted by the analogy, the situations were similar in that they both called for a gentle voice, a firm hand.
He was unprepared for the blaze of her eyes when she whirled on him. “My father says I am to wed you.”
He halted in his tracks. It wasn’t so much her anger—that he might have anticipated—but the stark blaze of fear he saw that stopped him. Holding up his hands in a gesture of peace, he said carefully, “I am certain the idea will be more agreeable to you when we know each other better.”
“Why? Do you improve upon acquaintance?”
He bit back his temper. “I simply believe we got off to a bad start.”
“When precisely was that? When you chased me into the shadows or when you pushed the door in and nearly knocked me down?”
He answered, “I believe it was when you called me a jackanapes.”
Doing her best to flounce, she turned away from him with a sound of disgust. He reined in his mounting anger, reminding himself that he was supposed to be smoothing out their differences, not inflaming them.
He could coddle her pride. For five thousand and another six annually, he could do that. “I admit I thought you a servant,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “It was unforgivable of me, but I can only plead the excuse of ignorance and poor lighting.”
Her head came back around, slowly. Thoughtfully.
Encouraged, he continued. “You are no fool, that one can easily see.” He took a step closer, glad she didn’t skitter away from him. At this distance, he could see her prominent collarbone and the soft pulse that beat at the base of her throat. His gaze dipped lower to where the tiny breasts heaved under the too-large bodice. The slightest tremor stirred inside him. He swallowed, tearing his eyes away from the strangely exciting sight. “You don’t trust me. I think this is fair. However, though I may be a cad, I am an honest one. If you don’t believe me, consider that your father loves you too much to deceive you. He will no doubt share with you every facet of our conversation and the resultant bargain. Therefore, I have no choice but to be truthful.”
She bit her lip with uncertainty, and he felt his stomach clench as the even, white teeth sank into tender flesh.
She said, “If all you want is money, I will pay you to go away.”
“If money was the only consideration, I could pluck an heiress without going farther than the drawing rooms of Belgravia and Mayfair.”
“Then why did you come?”
He hesitated. “There was talk. There was…a legend of sorts. Of a woman who lived in these parts, who was possessed of beauty and charm—”
The blue of her eyes grew icy when she cut him off. “If you wish to flatter me, you must think me indeed a fool.”
“Of beauty and charm,” he insisted, coming even closer, so that it seemed he towered over her. She was so petite, so fragile, like an exquisite doll made of porcelain. “That is the truth.”
“And rich.”
He didn’t flinch. Almost, but he fought it. “And rich. Yes.” There was an awkward silence.
She was the one who broke it. “I trust my father is compensating you well.”
He didn’t like that, not at all. Less so for it being the truth. “I have already admitted as much. You cannot wound me by taunting me with it.”
“Can’t I?”
He gritted his teeth. “You are very clever.”
“Didn’t they tell you that when they were extolling my beauty and wit?”
“Charm. It was beauty and charm. However, they clearly neglected to inform me of a few things.”
Her lips twitched for a moment, then pressed together, extinguishing any hint of amusement. “You must be very angry at whoever sent you up here.”
“Right now, I am concerned with you.”
“Yes, of course. You can hardly kidnap me and force me to marry you.”
“Your father thinks my suit to be a sound one. Should you not consider that?”
Tossing her head, she retorted, “My father is a drunkard whose affection for me has been lost in an intoxicated brain fever.”
“He seemed quite clear thinking. He made me promise to treat you well, not to abandon you, and…to see to your needs.”
“How wonderful.” Her eyes blazed with a renewed flare of anger, blue-green fire coming straight for him. “It seems we’re all set, then.”
“That sort of sarcasm is unflattering.” It wasn’t true. Her features were alive and mobile with the play of emotions. His gaze once again dipped to those meager mounds of flesh, that miniature waist. What was coming over him, to wonder what that slender body would look like naked? Undressed, would it be hard angles and ungiving bone or would her breasts still rise to pinkened peaks and her hips flare with just the right sort of roundness to tempt a man’s hand to slide along the contour?
She smirked. “Oh, heavens! And I do so wish to impress you.”
He blinked, giving himself a mental shake. The direction of his thoughts surprised him. She was not the sort of woman he usually favored. She was haughty and brittle and far too thin. “You are making quite an impression.”
With a brazen flourish, she squared off across from him. “Why should I care the impression you form of me? The days of my living for others’ opinions are long since gone.”
“That is obvious,” he drawled.
“Nothing is obvious, Mr. Mannion. Nothing is what it seems here. If you knew what was best for you, you would leave this house, leave this place and count yourself fortunate to be gone.”
He gritted his teeth. “I’m not leaving, Helena.”
“And I didn’t give you leave to address me by my name.”
“It is only fitting, don’t you agree, as you shall be my wife?”
“I have not agreed to marry you!” She exploded then, breaking away to pace. “You cannot possibly know what you are doing. You don’t know things…. There may come a day when you consider your brilliant bargain not so attractive upon reflection.”
“What don’t I know? The reason why you and your father have chosen to molder here in this rotting mansion? I suppose I shall find the answer to that soon enough.”
Startled, she whirled on him, eyes wide.
Strangely, he wanted to soothe her. Instead, his words came out sharp. “Do you truly want me to leave you to this dreary life? Do you love it so much?”
Her hand came to her throat. He could see it convulse under those long, thin fingers. He didn’t relent. “Perhaps this is why your father accepted my suit, to get you out of this….” He waved his hands around, at a loss for words to describe the stagnant air around him. “So it remains, Helena, whether you will obey him in his wishes. Will you consent to marry me as your father commands? You are a dutiful daughter, aren’t you?”
She looked up at him all of a sudden, startled. A doe cornered. Everything inside her was laid bare, raw and vulnerable. In a stinging moment of clarity, he understood something, something he couldn’t even name, a feeling. That she needed him.
It was an intoxicating realization, filling him with a sense of power. Shoving aside the prickles of conscience, he pressed his advantage. “Will you consent to marry me?” His body tensed, awaiting her response.
Her shoulders weren’t as squared. Her fear had edged out the burst of defiance and there was an air of resignation about her that curled his nostrils like a hound hot after the scent of a tired hare.
“Go away.” It wasn’t a command; it was a plea. “Leave me alone.”
“I want an answer.”
Her jaw worked rebelliously, but she lowered her eyes. Softly, she replied, “I do not believe I have a choice.”
The surge of relief and triumph swept down from shoulders to heels, leaving him trembling with reaction. He’d done it. He’d gotten the money.
Slanting a glance up at him, her tone laced with contempt, she added, “If you are inclined to gloat, I would be grateful if you would do it somewhere else. And while you are congratulating yourself, Mr. Mannion, consider that you may find the fruit you have stolen may prove sour before too long.”
He ignored her, grinning as he snatched her hand. It was so cool. He touched his lips quickly to the slender back. “You taste sweet enough to me.”
Snatching her hand back, she glared at him with prim affront. He laughed, buoyed by his great fortune today. “Now, I am off to have my things brought up from the inn.”
“You are staying here?”
“At your father’s invitation.” He hiked his brows wickedly. “Are you not happy to have me close? All the better to learn all those things a husband should know about a wife, wouldn’t you say?”
She looked like she could claw his eyes out without a moment’s hesitation. Without a word, she stormed off, her too-large dress gaping in the back. It should have made her look silly, like a twelve-year-old in her mother’s gown, and yet she held herself with a dignity that would not allow anything so frivolous to be associated with her magnificent exit.
Narrowing his eyes as he stared after her, he wondered if she were going to prove difficult. He hadn’t bargained on having to actually contend with his new wife.
Shrugging, he turned to other, more pleasant thoughts. Thoughts of money—six thousand a year! He laughed out loud as he jammed his hat on his head and exited the house.
Chapter Four
George Rathford was not nearly as drunk as he wanted to be. Maybe there wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to take him to the oblivion he sought. Damnation, he was tired. Tired of the pain, tired of the hopelessness.
He blamed Althea, though it did him no good. It was useless to fault someone who was dead for one’s problems. A cat chasing his tail was what he was—hating his deceased wife and helpless to do anything about the daughter whom he loved more than anything on this earth.
Had he done the right thing today? It was so hard to know. One rarely acted wisely when one was desperate.
There was little time left.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Kent, came in. “You wished to see me, my lord?”
“Instruct the servants that this man, this Mr. Mannion, is to be treated with all honor and courtesy. I want his room cleaned impeccably, his meals hot. I know there are precious little staff left, Mrs. Kent, but I must urge you to make the best impression possible.”
“Will Kimberly also be expected to work, my lord?”
Rathford paused. The old Irishwoman was a blight on the house. Everyone was terrified of her, of her superstitions and her “powers.” He considered it all foolishness, but he couldn’t quite work up the courage to get rid of her. She was just a part of life in this old place—not a pleasant part, but a part just the same.
Perhaps Kimberly’s presence was Althea’s revenge on him for being happy she was gone.
“Kimberly has her own duties,” he said, and swallowed a large gulp of whiskey to chase away his self-disgust.
Mrs. Kent’s voice was stiff with disapproval. “Very well, my lord.”
“One more thing. There is to be no…talk. That is, the reason for my daughter’s seclusion may be of interest to Mr. Mannion. This might cause him to ask questions of the staff. No one is to speak of the accident. I cannot be more firm about this, Mrs. Kent. Any gossip on this topic will result in an immediate dismissal and no reference.”
“That’s harsh, sir.”
“Indeed. So they will know how serious I am about this matter. My daughter’s secret is to be kept.”
“Very good, then. I’ll tell them.”
“And have Charles fetch another bottle, will you?”
Her frown creased her face. “Yes, my lord.”
Adam spent the better part of the afternoon in the stables, as his room had to be “aired.” Judging from the din coming from the house and the sight of several windows flung open to disgorge huge amounts of dust, the term “aired” was a euphemism for a full-fledged scrubbing.
While they worked, he enjoyed the company of horses and was surprised to find some astonishing specimens of horseflesh housed in the stalls. There were the work animals, and two fine Arabians whose sagging bellies bespoke of overfeeding and no exercise. With nothing better to do, he took them out to the paddock and trotted them a bit, then brushed them down when a quick-rolling thunderstorm drove them inside.
Tired and having worked up an appetite, Adam wandered into the house. The kitchens were deserted. Pilfering a smoked sausage from a string of links hanging on a peg, he munched as he sauntered out of the room and roamed the halls.