The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

Milly bobbed a curtsy to the earl’s back, cast an uncertain glance at the closed door, turned, and fled down the hall to the servants’ quarters. There was a prayer of thanks on her lips.

35

Although Julien forced the sniffing Timmens to go slowly in helping him to change into evening clothes, no word came from Kate that she would join him for dinner. Hunger finally drove him to the library, where Mrs. Cradshaw brought him covered trays, doubtless piled high with every imaginable dish, enough to feed a battalion.

“Has the countess kept to her room all day, Emma?” he asked, uncovering a richly spiced lamb stew.

“Yes, she has, my lord,” Emma said, comfortably, peering over Julien’s shoulder to make sure the kitchen maid had put a salt shaker on the tray.

He swiveled about and looked at her sharply, but was greeted by only a bobbing of her head, for the girl hadn’t forgotten about the salt. “Everything is quite nice, isn’t it? Will that be all, my lord?” There was an odd smile on her broad face that crinkled up the wrinkles about her eyes.

A damned disturbing smile, he thought, searching her eyes for some clue, with no idea of what he expected to find there. No, she just continued to look at him with unnerving complacency. He felt irritation as he waved her from the room and turned his attention to his dinner. The tasty stew did nothing to alleviate his mood, which was brooding, just plain black brooding. Good Lord, to be faced with his lunatic father-in-law, a smug housekeeper, and an absent wife all in one short day was enough to dampen anyone’s spirits. Still hopeful for a message from Kate, he endeavored to while away the long minutes by penning a letter to his fond parent. As no neutral phrases leaped from his quill, he gave up the attempt. With a sigh he rose and stretched, and cast an unenthusiastic eye toward the rows of leather volumes meticulously lined up on endless shelves. He finally selected a volume of Voltaire’s Candide. He made his way upstairs, pausing a moment outside Kate’s door. No light shone beneath the door, and there was no discernible movement from within. He raised a hand to the door, thought better of it, and continued slowly to his own room.

The hands on the mantel clock moved inordinately slowly. It seemed an eternity before they softly chimed twelve strokes. He looked down at the few pages that his fingers had relentlessly turned, but couldn’t seem to recall a word he’d read. He snuffed out a gutted candle and lit a new one. At least he didn’t have to concern himself overly with his wife’s health, since he knew the cause of her illness, which wasn’t an illness at all.

But Sir Oliver— if only he could rid himself of the distorted, leering features, the twisted, damning words. He gave up the attempt to sleep and resolutely turned his wandering attention back to Voltaire.

He didn’t know what caused him to look up, perhaps the veriest whisper of movement or a change in the soft shadows cast by the candlelight on the walls. His book dropped to the covers unnoticed.

She stood motionless at the foot of his bed, clad in a white satin gown that shimmered in the flickering light. Her hair was unbound and cascaded about her face and her shoulders, falling in shiny deep waves nearly to her waist. Her eyes rested calmly and steadily upon his face, the pupils so enlarged in the near-darkness that they seemed black.

“Good God, Kate? Are you all right? What’s the matter?” He sat bolt upright in bed.

Her dark eyes widened, but she remained silent, her pale lips parted only slightly. She began to move stiffly toward him, her gown clinging to her in gentle folds, her eyes never leaving his face. If was as if she were willing him to look at her face, not at her body.

“You had the nightmare again?” He pulled back the covers, realized that he was naked, and covered himself again. He had no intention of scaring her witless. But what the hell was she doing here?