The Secret to Seduction (24 page)

Sabrina stood in the doorway and saw a man standing near the chancel. For one disorienting moment—his height, the way he held himself, the color of his hair—he recalled Rhys powerfully, and a strange clutch of hope tightened her chest.

Geoffrey turned and saw her then.

“Sabrina.” He sounded startled; he stared for a moment. “Oh, my apologies. Lady
Rawden.
” He bowed deeply.

Sabrina blushed. “Oh, Geoffrey, please don’t. It makes me feel silly. I am always just Sabrina to you.”

He smiled a little at her, and an awkward silence tripped by.

“Geoffrey, I came because…Geoffrey, I’m so sorry for . . .” She paused. What did she intend to say?
For kissing your cousin in the library in front of numerous neighbors and then marrying him?

They approached each other, then; met in the nave, stood a few feet apart.

“No, Sabrina. It’s my fault. I was the one who encouraged you to ingratiate yourself with the earl. I had no idea his lack of scruples ran so very deep, though I should have suspected.”

Sabrina wasn’t inclined to take any of the blame for the change in her circumstances at the moment, though she knew she wasn’t entirely above reproach. She decided not to illuminate matters for Geoffrey any further.

She merely said, “Have you settled in here at the vicarage, then? Is the house comfortable?”

“Yes. It’s comfortable enough. And the surroundings of a vicarage are familiar now, of course. Perhaps I shall never go on my mission, but at least I shan’t be penniless, thanks to Rhys’s largesse.”

There was something else in Geoffrey’s face: a hard sort of resolve and irony, which Sabrina didn’t quite understand and couldn’t quite place, as it seemed somehow unrelated to the disaster at hand. He also didn’t seem heartbroken, and her newly discovered pride chafed a bit at this. She would have liked him to be angry with her, at the very least.

She admitted to herself that she wasn’t precisely heartbroken, either.

Still, it was undeniably good to see Geoffrey. He was familiar; he was of Tinbury; she liked him. He had been her first kiss.

Her life would be considerably different at this moment if only she’d had the sense to allow him to be her
only
kiss.

“I am glad you will be near, Geoffrey. Perhaps we can be friends again one day, if you can forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Sabrina.” He smiled faintly, echoing her words when he’d kissed her in the sitting room. “And I hope we will always be friends. I should have known that someone of your nature would be no match for someone with his, should he determine to behave as…well, as he always has.”

And at this, Sabrina felt a startling but increasingly familiar sizzle in her rearing up:
How could you possibly
know
my nature, Geoffrey?
I didn’t even know it until I arrived here.

She’d never dreamed she had a temper until she’d arrived at La Montagne. She’d never dreamed she was so proud. She’d never dreamed she could be tempted into a passion she’d never known existed, that would open a door onto a life she’d never wanted. A door that could never be closed again.

There was something else, too: no matter what, Rhys was her husband now. And the instincts for loyalty in her stirred. She didn’t precisely wish to defend him, but at the same time it was strangely uncomfortable to hear him criticized.

She offered Geoffrey a conciliatory smile and, hesitating a moment, held out her hand.

He took it in his, looked down at it. He looked up intently into her eyes then, his dark eyes searching for something in hers, or perhaps attempting to silently communicate something of importance.

Sabrina grew puzzled, and considered that Geoffrey might perhaps be more disappointed about her marriage than he thought right to show her. Perhaps his feelings for her were stronger than he’d ever expressed.

She allowed him to hold her fingers a moment longer. He released her hand just as she’d begun to consider giving it a subtle tug.

“Perhaps one day soon you can persuade Rhys of the worthiness of my cause, Sabrina, and he might relent and provide the funds.”

“I shall try, for your sake, Geoffrey,” she promised. “But he will likely be in London much of the time.”

“And will you live at La Montagne?”

“Yes, it’s my home now.”

“Then you shall come often to visit me, so you will not feel lonely,” Geoffrey urged. “I shall always welcome you, and who knows better than the two of us how demanding the life at a vicarage can be? Perhaps you can offer advice.”

Sabrina was uncertain about the propriety of visiting Geoffrey often, though he was a relative now, and she did very much enjoy giving advice.

“I should like that, Geoffrey.”

And she supposed she should feel grateful to have a friend living nearby, since she hadn’t the faintest idea when she’d next see her husband.

She did feel a bit more at peace now that her relationship with Geoffrey was settled. She glanced about the church, and felt the tug of familiarity. Life at a vicarage was a life she knew, a life she would have known how to live. So unlike the one she had now in the grand house over the hill.

“It’s quite chill in here, isn’t it, Geoffrey? The carpets are so tattered, and it smells of mildew. The church seems to have been neglected.”

Geoffrey nodded as he walked alongside her, up the nave to the chancel, and she gestured, pointing at things.

“The parishioners have been making do with a visiting clergyman on occasion or by attending services in other villages, so the church has been a bit neglected, it seems. They were delighted to hear there was a vicar in residence now. They seem to think Rhys is a hero for appointing me.”

Sabrina thought of La Montagne, and all those rooms scarcely used or occupied, filled with beautiful objects.

And then she recalled one particular room.
No one uses it,
Rhys had said about the office of his father’s man of affairs.

Inspiration struck.

“Geoffrey, speaking of advice…I have a splendid idea!”

Rhys had been married for precisely eleven days when the message arrived at his London town house. He’d been invited to a performance Sophia Licari was giving at the home of the Duchess of Caraday, and he was dressing with care for it—black coat, a silver-and-cream-striped waistcoat—as the
ton
hadn’t seen him in a while, and he’d caught wind of murmurs about his retiring from London for a life in the country, and wished to dispel them instantly. He also thought it might be time to ascertain for himself whether the quotient of irate husbands and fawning women had somehow decreased in his absence. It would be pleasant to know he could move about London safely.

He’d returned to London with a certain amount of relief, knowing he need only step outside the door of his town house to lose himself in the universe of amusements on offer. Yet, for some reason, he’d not done much since his return apart from putter about his town house, feeling restless, testing the idea of various amusements in his mind, shying away from them irritably. He read. He drank. He ventured out to his club; everyone and everything there irritated him, too.

It made him uneasy.

There.
The cravat was perfectly tied now.

He’d wondered if perhaps the invitation to Sophia’s performance was tantamount to an apology, which amused him. He hadn’t partaken of her since he’d returned to London.

Nor had he partaken of anyone else, truthfully. Not since he’d partaken of his inconvenient wife.

He hadn’t abstained long enough to actually worry about the reason for it. He had, however, begun to wonder why his thoughts returned again and again to one image: a tiny mole in the shape of a crescent moon above one particularly silky breast.

His thoughts went there now and lingered, almost hesitantly, testing. And yes, again he felt it: the swift tightening of his lungs, the tightening in his loins.

He shrugged roughly, to free himself of the image.
Poetry,
he thought. The image appealed to the poet in him. The man in him would enjoy vigorously reconciling with Sophia tonight, and—yes, he could have sworn loin tightening accompanied that thought as well.

Rhys returned his attention to the message in his hand. He didn’t recognize the handwriting, so he swiftly broke the seal and read it.

Dear Lord Rawden,

I thought it best to inform you that the countess is giving away the carpets.

Yours sincerely,

Mrs. Margaret Bailey

What in God’s name—?

What on earth could this possibly
mean
? Rhys had a sudden chilling vision of Sabrina, his wife who enjoyed helping, holding a biblical sort of bazaar in the courtyard of La Montagne for the villagers of Buckstead Heath.

He swiftly unbuttoned his waistcoat, flung it aside for his valet to attend to, and rang for his butler at the same time to give him a command.

“Send a message to Signora Licari telling her I shan’t see her this evening. I must away to La Montagne.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T
HE JOURNEY FROM London to La Montagne required a day and a half over snowy, difficult roads, a stop at an inn, poor food, and a lumpy bed. Not even an earl could entirely control conditions during a sudden road trip.

Fortunately, no one was holding a bazaar in the courtyard when he arrived. Still, Rhys stood before Mrs. Bailey in a foul humor.

“She’s giving away the carpets.” He said this flatly. A statement, not a question.

“To the vicarage,” Mrs. Bailey confirmed evenly.

“To the
vicara
—” He stopped, and wondered what other sort of largesse Geoffrey might be experiencing. “Which carpets?”

“The office once used by your father’s man of—”

But Rhys was already on his way before Mrs. Bailey could finish her sentence. “Find the countess and send her to me,” he snapped over his shoulder.

Sure enough: the carpet was gone. The bare marble floor was a pristine white, and Rhys’s impatient footsteps echoed across it, and no doubt made marks for a member of the army of servants to clean.

It was a small room, featuring a desk and some modestly stocked bookshelves, a small settee, globe, and of course a clock, because one must always know the time even in a room never used.

Even his thoughts were becoming sarcastic.

Sabrina found her husband standing in the middle of his father’s office, and halted in the doorway.

He bowed low. “Sabrina.” He’d drawled the word by way of greeting, making it nearly an entire sentence long.

Drawling seldom boded well.

“Rawden!” She faltered. “I wasn’t expect . . .”

Of course she wasn’t expecting him. He hadn’t even told her at all that he’d intended to be gone when he’d left her the day after their wedding, and he hadn’t said good-bye to her when he left; why would he tell her when he would return? Her sentence seemed foolish in light of that, so she said nothing more.

They regarded each other in silence. It had been nearly two weeks since she’d been parted from her husband. And now it was difficult to know how to greet him, or what to say to him.

There was an advantage to being parted, to some extent, because despite what seemed to be contained fury emanating from him, his presence, the sheer force and beauty of the man, tugged at her like a fresh wind, as it had from the moment she’d met him.

“Word reached me that you were giving away the carpets.” He said it sardonically.

I missed you, too,
she thought, just as sardonically.

Aloud, she said, “Car
pet.
Not carpets. I gave away only one.” Something devilish in her made her add: “So far.”

He stared at her. His mouth opened a little, then closed. He gave his head a shake, as if to clear it. “Sabrina…that carpet was a
Savonnerie.
” He enunciated every syllable of that last word with pure incredulity.

She studied him warily. No matter how slowly or sarcastically he said it,
Savonnerie
still meant nothing to her.

“It was
one hundred fifty years
old,” he added, his voice going tauter. Like a bowstring being pulled back.

More silence. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something.

“And?” she coaxed, finally, gently.

“
And?
” The arrow flew. “
And?
There is no ‘
and,
’ Sabrina. You gave away a valuable carpet. To the
vicarage.
”

She wondered if he was going to begin waving his arms about. Such passions.

“Nobody was using it,” she said mildly. In the hopes that a calm voice might settle him a bit. It was difficult to maintain a steady voice in the face of this large blazing man, however.

“It was covering the floor in this
room,
Sabrina. One might say the
room
was using it.”

“A room which you said no one,” Sabrina ground out, the temper she’d discovered thanks to him beginning to rise up, “
uses,
and I doubt anyone has used until you decided to use it to bellow at me.”