Page 14 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
“Oh, my love. What a splendid wedding gift. I thank you, oh, a hundred times.”
But instead of the urbane smile she had come to expect, Ewan flashed her a look of anger and hatred. He yanked the cloak from her hands, nearly spinning her off-balance.
“Don’t you ever touch this again,” he had slurred. He reeked of whiskey. Phaedra shrank back, the smile withering upon her lips. “I-I am most dreadfully sorry. I thought it was meant for me.”
“You?” He gave a vicious bark of laughter. “This little cloak for a great horse like you?” He shoved the fabric in her face, and she stepped back, wincing.
“Then whose is it?” she had whispered.
“This, my little Irish bitch, belonged to the woman I loved.”
Hugging the cloak as if he embraced a lover, Ewan wove his way across the room. He attempted to seat himself in the wing-backed chair, missed, and sank into a heap by the fire.
Phaedra had tried to reach out to him, but he waved her away, shaking his fist. “You stay away from me. Don’t want you. Never did.” He buried his face in the cloak. “Oh, Anne, my lovely Anne.”
Phaedra’s hand fell limp to her side. She quavered. “Is she your mistress?”
Ewan had raised his head long enough to roar at her. “No! She would have been my wife! My true wife!” His voice grew thick with weeping and his entire frame shook with sobs. Numbly, Phaedra had retreated to her own bedchamber, but the heavy oak door could not block out the sound of his dreadful sobs, which continued far into the night. It was then that Phaedra had fled to the top of the house and found the abandoned attic chamber that would become her retreat-a place to shed quiet tears of her own for a love lost, for a love that she had never truly had.
The memory of that night faded as Phaedra folded up the cloak her husband had wept over so long ago. She had never asked Ewan what had become of his Anne, whether the woman had died or married someone else. The manner in which Ewan had cherished that cloak had told Phaedra all she cared to know. She could see now what a fool she had been, becoming infatuated by a handsome face. How many times had she met Ewan before their wedding day? Perhaps thrice. She had been nothing but a pawn, caught between two ruthless men: her ambitious grandfather, who wished to marry a member of his family into the nobility, and Ewan Grantham, in needof Weylin’s money to settle his debts. Never, Phaedra vowed, would she permit herself to be so used again.
She resolutely put the garment from her. She had had to endure Ewan’s keeping the cloak about, but now that he was dead, she was not going to be haunted by it anymore. She regarded the fireplace grate, longing for the courage to stuff the cloak in and watch it burn to ashes. After all these years, the dove-colored wool still seemed to exercise a spell upon her. But, at least, she would have it boxed up, sent someplace where she never had to lay eyes upon it again.
Stuffing Anne’s cloak under her arm, she retreated down the stairs to the hall below, directing her steps toward that wing of Sawyer Weylin’s mansion that she had shared with her late husband. The carpeted floors seemed unnaturally quiet now without the constant stream of tradesmen, barbers, and other servants who had ceaselessly attended upon Ewan’s demands.
Although Sawyer Weylin was generous about paying Grantham’s debts, there had been conditions attached. The one that had irked Ewan the most was her grandfather’s’ insistence that the newlywed couple live under his roof, where Sawyer could maintain control over her spendthrift husband. Too weak to defy the old man, Ewan had directed his bitterness at Phaedra. He had felt as trapped by their marriage as she. His dying had released them both.
Phaedra’s step faltered as she passed the door to Ewan’s bedchamber, locked now in accordance with the mourning custom, which dictated that the deceased’s chambers be shut up for a lengthy period of time. Not that Phaedra cared a whit for that. She had no desire ever to set foot again in that room, which held for her only memories of humiliation. On those infrequent occasions when she had had to submit to Ewan in his bed, his lovemaking had been brief, almost savage, as though he sought to punish her for not being Anne.
But her own bedchamber was linked to his by a connecting door, and Phaedra was disturbed by the tomblike silence that now emanated from Ewan’s room. It was like living next to a mausoleum.
Clutching Anne’s cloak a little tighter, Phaedra prepared to skirt past that still, forbidding doorway. Then she froze, hearing a sound where there should have been none. The light padding of a footfall, a whisper of silk.
Not even the housemaids were permitted to enter Ewan’s room. Then who would dare? The door had remained locked since the day of Ewan’s burial. Stretching out a hand, she tried the knob.
It turned easily. Phaedra scowled. The housekeeper was the only person with a key. Phaedra ground her teeth as she inched the door noiselessly open. If Hester were up to more of her tricks, she would-
Phaedra paused on the threshold, taken aback by the flood of sunlight. She had expected to find the room shrouded in darkness, but the curtains were flung wide. All the furniture was gleaming with a fresh polish of beeswax from the mahogany dressing table to the four-poster bed where where a strange man stood with his back to her, shrugging himself into a pair of breeches. Phaedra caught a glimpse of muscular buttocks before the man eased the tanned cloth over his lean hips. Stunned, her eyes roved upwards past a trim waistline to a broad back, as hard-muscled as any strapping farm laborer’s. Shagged lengths of sable-colored hair covered the nape of his neck.
“Who are you? What are you doing in my husband’s room?” Phaedra managed to ask at last.
The man started at the sound of her voice. As he spun around, a gasp escaped Phaedra. Her arms went slack, dropping Anne’s cloak in a heap.
“You!” she cried.
The elegant satins might be stripped away, along with the mask and white-powdered wig. But there was no mistaking the lean, jawline, the sensual mouth, the chilling blue eyes. The half-naked man who now stalked toward her was undoubtedly Armande de LeCroix, the most noble Marquis de Varnais.
Four
Varnais halted inches from where Phaedra stood, immobile, on the threshold. She had but to raise her hand and she could have touched the dark mat of hair that clung with sweat-sheened dampness to his bare chest. With unshaken aplomb, LeCroix worked to close the last button on his breeches. Phaedra forced herself to wrench her eyes away from the deft movement of those long, tanned fingers.
“Bon jour, Lady Grantham.” He inclined his head toward her in an ironic bow. “An unexpected pleasure. Is this another of your unusual English customs?”
His light mockery roused Phaedra, flooding her with anger at the shock he’d given her.
“Damn you! What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” he said dryly.
