suggestion, and you shouldn’t reject it out of hand. Do not be too quick to decline. Marriage is forever.As time goes by, you may be glad you’ve left that door open, Sara.”
He sketched a bow and then left her, striding out without a backward glance. His scent was all around her, spread by the heat of the hearth, and by the drafts that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. She heard the door latch click in the foyer. After a moment, she rushed there and opened it again, leaving it just as she had before. Nicholas wouldn’t be returning, but Nero might, and she climbed back into bed to wait.
Five
Nicholas Walraven prowled the edge of the cliff in the darkness. The sighing wind had risen again, teasing his multi-caped greatcoat: lifting the hem of it, playing with the collars, like the fingers of a curious child. It was still moon dark, and but for an occasional glimpse of whitecaps riding the breast of the water below, the night was black as ink. He needed no moon or stars to light his travels there. He knew every rock, every derelict weed and blade of grass bent low between them in the storm, by heart. This was the only place he felt safe, the only constant in his life that never disappointed, this precipice that welcomed him. He haunted it often—fair weather and foul, he went to it for comfort, like a child to its mother’s breast, like a lover to his mistress—but it couldn’t stop the nightmare. Nothing could.
His valet would be preparing his bath now—a cold bath. Again. It wouldn’t chase the madness, for that is what it was. Sara had named it, by God! A madness in the blood, and he cursed his father for it. He must have been mad to think this marriage of convenience would work, to think he could live like other men lived, have what other men had. It was a mistake,and if he were to pace the seawall until kingdom come, it wouldn’t be put right. He would have to do that himself, and he would have to do it soon. He’d come to that conclusion when he first clapped eyes on Sara, Baroness Walraven, nee Ponsonby, the beautiful, innocent creature he’d plucked out of live coals only to cast into a raging fire . . .
but how to put it right?
She’d already gotten under his skin. He didn’t dare keep her, and he couldn’t bear to send her away. He couldn’t tell her, either, and chance exposure. His was a well-kept secret. He couldn’t compromise that. The repercussions would be catastrophic. Not even Alex Mallory knew, only Mills—his valet, his confidante, protector, and friend, just as he’d been Nicholas’s father’s before him. But Nicholas had already cast into the water the pebble that would damn him. The ripples had begun, and there was no way to stop them from spreading.
He glanced up toward Sara’s windows. They were dark. She was asleep. Finally. It was safe to go back now, but back to what—a cold bath and an empty bed, or the madness again? That was the other constant, the unpredictable constant, the one over which he had no control.
His bath was waiting, just as he knew it would be, and Mills was ready to help him into it. The straight-backed, white-haired valet of indeterminable age stood beside the chiffonier in the master suite dressing room. It was heaped with towels, and littered with herbal jars. Beside them, Nicholas’s nightly cordial waited, brewed of skullcap, linden, and hops sweetened with honey. It was supposed to keep him calm, and bring natural sleep. Its effectiveness was questionable, considering the events of the last two days.
Cold though the water was, the strong, pungent aroma of crushed rue, and the sweet evergreen pleasantness of rosemary, wafted toward him from the tub. Purging inside and out: that was the regimen. Gypsy remedies eons old. He’d thought they might be working . . . until Sara.
“You’re going to catch your death out on that cliff, mylord,” the valet predicted, helping him out of his damp clothing. “It’s penetrated you to the
He sketched a bow and then left her, striding out without a backward glance. His scent was all around her, spread by the heat of the hearth, and by the drafts that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. She heard the door latch click in the foyer. After a moment, she rushed there and opened it again, leaving it just as she had before. Nicholas wouldn’t be returning, but Nero might, and she climbed back into bed to wait.
Five
Nicholas Walraven prowled the edge of the cliff in the darkness. The sighing wind had risen again, teasing his multi-caped greatcoat: lifting the hem of it, playing with the collars, like the fingers of a curious child. It was still moon dark, and but for an occasional glimpse of whitecaps riding the breast of the water below, the night was black as ink. He needed no moon or stars to light his travels there. He knew every rock, every derelict weed and blade of grass bent low between them in the storm, by heart. This was the only place he felt safe, the only constant in his life that never disappointed, this precipice that welcomed him. He haunted it often—fair weather and foul, he went to it for comfort, like a child to its mother’s breast, like a lover to his mistress—but it couldn’t stop the nightmare. Nothing could.
His valet would be preparing his bath now—a cold bath. Again. It wouldn’t chase the madness, for that is what it was. Sara had named it, by God! A madness in the blood, and he cursed his father for it. He must have been mad to think this marriage of convenience would work, to think he could live like other men lived, have what other men had. It was a mistake,and if he were to pace the seawall until kingdom come, it wouldn’t be put right. He would have to do that himself, and he would have to do it soon. He’d come to that conclusion when he first clapped eyes on Sara, Baroness Walraven, nee Ponsonby, the beautiful, innocent creature he’d plucked out of live coals only to cast into a raging fire . . .
but how to put it right?
She’d already gotten under his skin. He didn’t dare keep her, and he couldn’t bear to send her away. He couldn’t tell her, either, and chance exposure. His was a well-kept secret. He couldn’t compromise that. The repercussions would be catastrophic. Not even Alex Mallory knew, only Mills—his valet, his confidante, protector, and friend, just as he’d been Nicholas’s father’s before him. But Nicholas had already cast into the water the pebble that would damn him. The ripples had begun, and there was no way to stop them from spreading.
He glanced up toward Sara’s windows. They were dark. She was asleep. Finally. It was safe to go back now, but back to what—a cold bath and an empty bed, or the madness again? That was the other constant, the unpredictable constant, the one over which he had no control.
His bath was waiting, just as he knew it would be, and Mills was ready to help him into it. The straight-backed, white-haired valet of indeterminable age stood beside the chiffonier in the master suite dressing room. It was heaped with towels, and littered with herbal jars. Beside them, Nicholas’s nightly cordial waited, brewed of skullcap, linden, and hops sweetened with honey. It was supposed to keep him calm, and bring natural sleep. Its effectiveness was questionable, considering the events of the last two days.
Cold though the water was, the strong, pungent aroma of crushed rue, and the sweet evergreen pleasantness of rosemary, wafted toward him from the tub. Purging inside and out: that was the regimen. Gypsy remedies eons old. He’d thought they might be working . . . until Sara.
“You’re going to catch your death out on that cliff, mylord,” the valet predicted, helping him out of his damp clothing. “It’s penetrated you to the
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