Laura Kinsale (25 page)

Elizabeth wriggled restlessly. “Hush,” Zenia said, “you’re frightening her with such a voice!”

Elizabeth grabbed Zenia’s skirts and crawled out of her arms, sliding to the floor. She toddled happily to her blocks and began to stack them.

“Perhaps it’s you I’m frightening,” he said softly. “Lady Winter.”

She rose, ringing for the nurse. “You don’t frighten me. I can take Elizabeth and go to my father if I wish. He promised me a home with him.”

“No,” he said instantly. “You can’t take my daughter.”
 

“You can’t keep us prisoners here.”
 

“Leave if you like. You don’t take my daughter.”

“Perhaps she is not even yours!” she exclaimed wildly. “How can you be sure?”
 

“She’s mine,” he said.
 

“She does not look at all like you.”
 

“She’s mine.”

“Yours! She doesn’t belong to you, like some possession!”

He turned on her. “Are you saying that you’ve been with other men?”

Zenia took a step back at the blazing violence in his eyes. “No,” she said, “of course not.”

“Then she’s mine, isn’t she? Because you’ve damned well been with me!”

They stared at one another. Zenia’s lips parted. She saw his glance go to them—and vividly, intensely, she remembered him over her and inside her.

For an instant, she thought he would come to her. That it would all change, and this angry constraint between them would dissolve.

“I missed you,” she whispered suddenly. “I grieved for you.”

She astonished herself. She had not known until that moment what she had felt. All of her mind and heart had been occupied with Elizabeth. But before her daughter had come into her life, she had ached with loss.

“Did you!” he said, lifting his brows. “Which one of your many manifestations grieved for me? Not this one, I think.” His eyes held a strange expression, wary and angry as a wounded animal. “Perhaps it was Selim.” He gave a short laugh. “Selim might have missed me a little.”

The nurse scratched at the door. Zenia dropped her eyes and turned to open it. “You will be wanting to dress for dinner, my lord,” she said, careful to cover the hurt of his cutting answer by an expressionless tone. “I must do so now. The nurse will tend to her.”

She held the door open to the hall, inviting him to leave.

He did not. With a sideways smile, he said, “This is my apartment, I am informed.”

Zenia felt her heart contract. “No,” she said, mortifyingly aware of the nurse’s presence as she bent over Elizabeth. “You have misheard—”

“Do you object to my sharing with you, Lady Winter?” he asked. “My father tells me that all the other chambers are closed for renovation. Quite thick with deadly paint fumes.”

Zenia stared at him, sudden understanding washing over her.

“Heavy-handed, isn’t he?” Lord Winter commented. “He is in full cry after a male heir, you know.”

“Oh,” she said stupidly, unable to think of anything more sensible in front of the nurse.

“It will be a trifle overcrowded, I daresay. Please do not suppose that I will disturb you until you’re finished with your toilette, my dear. Elizabeth and I will entertain ourselves here, and then I can take my turn.” He smiled, his eyes glittering. “Very civilized, you see.”

Candles in the chandelier reflected back from huge gilt mirrors on the dining room walls. Arden had known he would require silk knee breeches for dinner at Swanmere. His parents always dined formally. Usually there were numerous guests, but tonight, with none, the table seemed even more huge than usual. Absurdly so, with his mother at the foot and his father at the head, and Arden face to face with Zenia across a snowfield of white damask.

The only concession to dining
en famille
was the absence of a towering silver centerpiece sprouting fruit and candles. He rather regretted that. There were only sets of candelabra at intervals down the table, so that nothing hindered his view of the woman who played at being his wife.

She wore black again. It seemed to place her at a cold distance, emphasizing her perfect beauty. Her dark hair curled smoothly about her throat, diamond earrings glittering against her skin. He could see her profile in one of the mirrors, pale and untouchable as she sipped delicately at the consomme with a silver spoon. The flatware that bore the Belmaine crest seemed too heavy for her hand.

He could think of nothing to say to her. All of his words stopped in his throat, sounding idiotic and churlish.
Did you miss me?
he wanted to ask, like an uncertain ass—to make her say it again, to listen instead of throwing it away. To hear how she said the words, if she meant them, if it was true. It changed everything, and nothing.

Did he want her? He had seen his daughter sitting alone in the middle of the floor, her head down—and he had instantly felt a powerful connection, a soul-deep amazement.
 
He had not blamed her for her doubtful reception, only been shocked to the center of his heart by her smile. The woman in black across the table seemed a stranger, but Elizabeth was infinitely familiar, as if he had known her for all of her short life and his own. Already he was thinking of tonight and tomorrow and the day after, all the things he needed to do with her and know about her.

It did not take much sensibility to perceive that Elizabeth’s mother disliked his regard. He felt it was a certain crack in her facade. He was not sure that she told the truth when she said she had grieved for him, but he was entirely sure that she had meant it when she said she could take Elizabeth and go to Bruce if she wished.

So. Let her mean it, he thought, setting his jaw. She would find that she had put herself in an untenable position. If his father did not explain it to her, Arden certainly would.

“I have been considering what would be suitable to make your return known to our acquaintances,” his mother said over an oyster pâté. “Nothing with dancing. Would you prefer a light supper or an afternoon nuncheon, Arden?”

“Whatever is shortest,” he said.

“Lady Winter has not yet been formally introduced,” Lord Belmaine said. “Perhaps a dinner, to do so.”

“If it is what you would like,” his mother said indifferently. “For a dinner, anything under a fortnight is impossible. Three weeks, really, at this season.”

“The night before Epiphany, perhaps. That will give Lady Winter time to have a gown made in color. I must admit, my dear,” he said to Zenia, “that I would like see you out of blacks, under the circumstances.”

“Very well,” Lady Belmaine said. “Perhaps something in bottle green—a satin, with jet trim to match her eyes.”

“Her eyes are blue,” Arden said. They all looked at him. He turned downward to his plate, taking a bite of the pâté. “Dark blue.”

“Indeed! You must pardon me. I’m afraid I have been unobservant,” his mother said.

“Not nearly as unobservant as I was.” He gave his “wife” a mocking smile.

She lifted her lashes. In the candlelight, her eyes seemed as dark as his mother thought they were.

“She should wear blue,” he said. “Like the afternoon sky. And gold. Not diamonds.”

They were still looking at him, as if he had lost his mind.

“I’m afraid azure is woefully out of season,” his mother said.

“And silk slippers,” Arden said, ignoring her. “Something pretty. She looks like a blasted ebony shrine. Make her something... pretty.”

“I’ve never known you to take an interest in female adornment,” his father said with a touch of amusement. “But perhaps Lady Winter has her own opinions on the subject.”

Lady Winter was staring at her food as if she had never seen it before. “I should like blue,” she said in a barely audible voice. “And gold.”

“I do think you will be sorry with such a choice,” his mother said.

“No doubt whatever you wish can be arranged, Lady Winter,” his father countered.

“How people will talk,” Lady Belmaine said. “Azure in January!”

“Will they?” Arden lifted his hand for another glass of wine. “Then let her wear the green. You must forgive my interference in matters that don’t concern me.”

“You will admit that you know nothing of the mode, I believe, Arden.”

“Yes,” he said. “I will readily admit that.”

“You would not wish your wife to be a laughingstock.”

“No. I don’t wish for it.”

“I truly think you will be more satisfied with the bottle green.”

He took a deep swallow of wine. “If my satisfaction with the bottle green will put an end to this topic, then I certainly shall.”

Lady Winter picked at her turbot and said nothing. She seemed to eat very little. Not that he blamed her; dinner with his parents would damp the keenest appetite.

Do you dislike the fish?
he found himself wanting to ask. It must not be a very familiar taste for her. But he was not going to start any more conversation. He sat through the second remove, mechanically eating roast pheasant and stewed hare.

“What do you think of Miss Elizabeth?” his father asked.

Arden put down his fork, gazing for a moment at the Belmaine crest painted on his dinnerware. Then he looked up at the earl. Over the long distance between them, he said, ‘Thank you, sir.” He held his father’s eyes steadily. “Thank you for bringing her here. Thank you for taking care of her.”

Nothing changed in Lord Belmaine’s expression. His long fingers tapped the tablecloth. Arden had never spoken so emotionally to him, except in anger. He felt strange, his throat tightening on his next breath as he waited for the answer.

Before his father spoke, Zenia said, “Lord Belmaine has been very generous, but I could have taken care of her perfectly well myself.”

She was sitting very straight in her chair. Arden’s expectation turned to annoyance and a queer disappointment. He picked up his knife and cut pheasant into small pieces.

“You are an estimable mother, Lady Winter,” the earl said, surprising Arden with his approving tone. “I do not doubt you for a moment.”

She gave his father a small smile and flashed a defiant look at Arden. “I would do anything for Elizabeth.”

“Very proper feelings,” his mother said. “I hope Arden will learn from your example. With a child, it is time and past that he gave up his heedlessness and remained at home attending to his responsibilities.”

“Not at all,” Arden said lightly. “I’m leaving for Siberia tomorrow, and taking Beth with me. We’ll have a jolly time driving a
troika.”

“You will not!” Zenia gasped. “I forbid it!”

If she had not risen so seriously to such small bait, he wouldn’t have lashed back. But her outrage, his parents, the surroundings, the prolonged torture of this meal at which he was the outsider, always the outsider—they all compounded and coalesced, sparking an old, old, unhappy anger. “And what have you to say to it,
Lady Winter?”
he asked, tossing back his wine and fixing his gaze on her. “You are merely my wife. The mother of my child, over whom I have complete authority and dominion. Has no one informed you of my lawful rights as your husband? You cannot take Beth away, as you have already threatened, not if I deny you permission. On the other hand, madam, I can take her wherever I wish, without consulting you at all in the matter. If you find this an undesirable situation, then you have only yourself to blame, don’t you? We have a saying in English, Lady Winter—perhaps your mother taught it to you; she certainly knew the meaning of it. You cannot have your cake and eat it too.”

She was utterly white, her lips working. Suddenly she pressed her napkin onto the table beside her. “Excuse me, I must see to Elizabeth.” She rose and ran out so quickly that the footman just coming in the door had to make an abrupt step back, the silver vegetable dish rattling in his hands.

Arden did not look at his father or his mother. The vegetable dish appeared at his side—he could not have said at the moment if it was boiled carrots or cauliflower. He took a spoonful and then sat staring at it, revolted.

His father waited until the footman retired. When the servant had closed the door, he said, “I hope, Arden, that you will not regret those words.”