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.
Chapter 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.
"Since when?"
"Since your grandfather most kindly suggested
that I give up my lodgings and become his guest-about a fortnight
ago."
"A fortnight!" Phaedra sputtered. "Then last
night when we met, you knew you already were-would be-" Sleeping
but yards away, divided only by one wall from where she had tossed
in her bed, tormented with dreams of him threatening her, caressing
her. The thought brought heat rushing into her cheeks.
"You did not trouble yourself to inform me of
the fact!" she accused.
The corner of his mouth twitched, a faint
trace of amusement shading his eyes. "It was one of the
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.
Chapter 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.
"Since when?"
"Since your grandfather most kindly suggested
that I give up my lodgings and become his guest-about a fortnight
ago."
"A fortnight!" Phaedra sputtered. "Then last
night when we met, you knew you already were-would be-" Sleeping
but yards away, divided only by one wall from where she had tossed
in her bed, tormented with dreams of him threatening her, caressing
her. The thought brought heat rushing into her cheeks.
"You did not trouble yourself to inform me of
the fact!" she accused.
The corner of his mouth twitched, a faint
trace of amusement shading his eyes. "It was one of the
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