Read Online The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance by Alyne de Winter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alyne de Winter
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open.
She moved closer and looked in.
Dark wood, leather easy chairs, bookcases flanking the fireplace, the walls ornamented with the peculiar acquisitions of the world traveler, created an impression of masculine power. Light came in from the left through an archway that hid the bed from view. What must that bed be like? She imagined it to be large, and curtained in barbaric purple hangings.
Veronica turned and walked quie tly back to the hearth. She sat on the edge of the soft cushions of the divan, admiring the sumptuous surroundings. She knew enough about art to recognize the fine quality of the two portraits above the fireplace, a matched pair, painted in the stormy style of Sir Joshua Reynolds. The one on the left could only have been Rafe, and the one at the right was surely his wife, Lady Sovay.
Lovely, sylphlike, her ladyship's small, perfect features had the same eerie cast as the twins’, but the green eyes and lush, flaxen locks were a shade darker, as if seen through smoked glass. A creamy yellow dress and floating violet veil accentuated her fragility. But her eyes drew the most attention. They were large, alm ond-shaped and haunted as if Lady Sovay suffered some dire agony of the soul. With eyes like that, it was not surprising that tragedy had befallen her.
Veronica shifted her gaze to the portrait of Rafe. Dark good looks were the first things that struck her, his coat and cravat worn with flair. He was not the soft, decadent aristocrat one would expect, but appeared alert, interesting, intelligent. His black hair curled lavishly around his chiseled jaw, raven-wing eyebrows framed his clear blue eyes. A patrician nose and refined masculine lips above a strong chin completed the image of a man in control of his destiny. Yet, there was humanity in his expression. Surely he must have compassion to care for a wife as troubled as Lady Sovay appeared, in her portrait, to have been.
Veronica stood up and went closer to Rafe's portrait. What would it be like living around a man like that? Not just some old handyman or a priest, but the real thing? The thought of meeting him was both electrifying and unnerving. What would he think of her? Would she blush and stammer and look at her shoes? If she were to have any self-possession at all, she must learn more about him.
Veronica rose and slipped into Rafe's bedchamber.
The room felt foreign with its heavy silks and leather chairs. The dresser was mahogany. A large mirror hung on the wall above it. The glass was very clear and bright. Veronica looked at her slightly fervid reflection. Sighing, she pulled a stray lock of wavy, brown hair out of her eyes, tucked it behind her ear, and rubbed her frown away. She was always doing that, wrinkling her brow, worrying.
A length of red silk along the top of the dresser, and lying on it, as if they’d been casually cast aside, was a dueling pistol and a box of bullets. Underneath the box was an invoice for a large amount of sheet silver at a price that made her gasp.
It was none of her business of course. She glanced into the mirror again. Behind her, in a little arched antechamber, was the door that led out to the hallway. She had a brief horror of its opening, of someone coming in and finding her here, snooping around. Already there was the sense of a palpable, living presence in the room, as if its owner had left a part of himself behind. It wasn’t a bad feeling, just intense, like God watching.
She should leave; just go. It was getting to be time for class. Anticipating their first meeting, the twins might arrive early, and where was she?
Veronica drew away from the pistol and the bullets, and went back into the sitting room to take another look at Rafe de Grimston and his wife. She didn’t want to speculate about them, nor should she. It wasn’t her place. But still, they drew her. She’d never met people like this before, so stylish, cultured and attractive.
Sunlight shone through an open door to her
She moved closer and looked in.
Dark wood, leather easy chairs, bookcases flanking the fireplace, the walls ornamented with the peculiar acquisitions of the world traveler, created an impression of masculine power. Light came in from the left through an archway that hid the bed from view. What must that bed be like? She imagined it to be large, and curtained in barbaric purple hangings.
Veronica turned and walked quie tly back to the hearth. She sat on the edge of the soft cushions of the divan, admiring the sumptuous surroundings. She knew enough about art to recognize the fine quality of the two portraits above the fireplace, a matched pair, painted in the stormy style of Sir Joshua Reynolds. The one on the left could only have been Rafe, and the one at the right was surely his wife, Lady Sovay.
Lovely, sylphlike, her ladyship's small, perfect features had the same eerie cast as the twins’, but the green eyes and lush, flaxen locks were a shade darker, as if seen through smoked glass. A creamy yellow dress and floating violet veil accentuated her fragility. But her eyes drew the most attention. They were large, alm ond-shaped and haunted as if Lady Sovay suffered some dire agony of the soul. With eyes like that, it was not surprising that tragedy had befallen her.
Veronica shifted her gaze to the portrait of Rafe. Dark good looks were the first things that struck her, his coat and cravat worn with flair. He was not the soft, decadent aristocrat one would expect, but appeared alert, interesting, intelligent. His black hair curled lavishly around his chiseled jaw, raven-wing eyebrows framed his clear blue eyes. A patrician nose and refined masculine lips above a strong chin completed the image of a man in control of his destiny. Yet, there was humanity in his expression. Surely he must have compassion to care for a wife as troubled as Lady Sovay appeared, in her portrait, to have been.
Veronica stood up and went closer to Rafe's portrait. What would it be like living around a man like that? Not just some old handyman or a priest, but the real thing? The thought of meeting him was both electrifying and unnerving. What would he think of her? Would she blush and stammer and look at her shoes? If she were to have any self-possession at all, she must learn more about him.
Veronica rose and slipped into Rafe's bedchamber.
The room felt foreign with its heavy silks and leather chairs. The dresser was mahogany. A large mirror hung on the wall above it. The glass was very clear and bright. Veronica looked at her slightly fervid reflection. Sighing, she pulled a stray lock of wavy, brown hair out of her eyes, tucked it behind her ear, and rubbed her frown away. She was always doing that, wrinkling her brow, worrying.
A length of red silk along the top of the dresser, and lying on it, as if they’d been casually cast aside, was a dueling pistol and a box of bullets. Underneath the box was an invoice for a large amount of sheet silver at a price that made her gasp.
It was none of her business of course. She glanced into the mirror again. Behind her, in a little arched antechamber, was the door that led out to the hallway. She had a brief horror of its opening, of someone coming in and finding her here, snooping around. Already there was the sense of a palpable, living presence in the room, as if its owner had left a part of himself behind. It wasn’t a bad feeling, just intense, like God watching.
She should leave; just go. It was getting to be time for class. Anticipating their first meeting, the twins might arrive early, and where was she?
Veronica drew away from the pistol and the bullets, and went back into the sitting room to take another look at Rafe de Grimston and his wife. She didn’t want to speculate about them, nor should she. It wasn’t her place. But still, they drew her. She’d never met people like this before, so stylish, cultured and attractive.
Sunlight shone through an open door to her
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