The Light in the Darkness (13 page)

“Quite true,” Kayne said without any display of false modesty. “I’ve won every race I’ve entered with that stallion. He’s made me a great deal of coin over the years. There are always some fools who don’t mind losing money by betting against me”

“Would you be willing to sell him?”

“Hardly. Not for all the tobacco on your plantation. But I do have a colt by him you might be interested in. He’s black as sin, too. I think he’ll be the spitting image of his sire, and I hope he’ll be as fast.”

“I’d like to see him,” Grey decided. At twenty-one, he considered himself an excellent judge of horseflesh. His mind on horses, he turned around and nearly collided with a young lady. “I—I beg your pardon,” he stammered.

The young lady smiled politely. “Quite all right, sir. Uncle Kayne, Aunt Sapphira sent me out to inquire if you wanted to invite your visitor in for tea. She said to tell you it was quite horribly rude of you to take Mr. Greyson out to the field without offering him refreshment first, after he’s ridden all that way.”

Kayne looked annoyed. “Mr. Greyson insisted on seeing Hurricane first. He said he was more interested in horses than refreshment. Kindly tell your aunt—”

“Actually, Kayne,” Grey broke in, “I find that I am in need of refreshment. I believe tea would be quite welcome, indeed.”

Kayne almost inquired sardonically what had caused this sudden change of heart, but he caught himself in time, observing that Grey’s attention had suddenly been transferred from the stallion to his niece. Well, that was hardly a surprise. Diana was outstandingly beautiful. She had been visiting
them for the past fortnight and in that short time they had already had more visitors than they had had in the past year.

Edward Greyson, however, with his newly inherited wealth, was a better catch than any other young man who had yet come calling. Furthermore, Kayne liked him. Hastily he made introductions. “Grey, this is my niece, Diana Lancaster. Diana, Edward Greyson.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Greyson” she said politely, dimpling as he took her hand.

“Please, call me Grey. Everyone does.”

“Grey?” she repeated. “I like Edward better”

“Then, by all means, call me Edward. And may I have the honor of calling you Diana?”

“Certainly.” Her manner was reserved and ladylike, and yet Grey was attracted more strongly than if she had behaved seductively or wantonly. She was lovely, her silver-and-snow beauty emphasized by the shell pink gown she wore. Her hair was icy blond, her skin luminously pale. As she turned toward the gambrel-roofed house he saw that her patrician profile was elegant and pure, her delicate coloring reminding him of a cameo come to life.

She was everything he wanted in a wife, he mused as they walked back toward the house. Greyson was a man who made decisions quickly. Within five minutes of his first glimpse of her he had already decided to offer for her. But she deserved better than Edgewood, the house where his parents had fought, where he had grown up in the center of the storm that was his parents’ relationship. The house that was forever tainted by his memories of his childhood. At that moment he decided he would build her a new house, a house to surpass any in the colony. A house that would even rival the governor’s mansion in Williamsburg. A house that would set off her beauty like the setting for a precious jewel.

Jennifer put the letter down on the desk and sat back in her chair thoughtfully. Even though this was quite plainly
the first letter Grey had written to Diana, it had been more than obvious that he already loved her. Beneath the politely worded courtesies had been a passion that was evident even to Jennifer.

She sighed. The young man who had written that note—Edward, as he had signed it—had been passionate, loving, and full of life. The man she was married to, Grey, was distant, cold, and imprisoned by his grief.

For just a moment, she allowed herself to indulge in the fantasy of being married to Edward. He would be courteous, holding her chair for her at the dining table and engaging her in animated conversation. Affectionate, spending time with her in the afternoons. Passionate, kissing her in the evenings in his chamber …

She shook her head, aware that she was being ridiculous. Edward was gone. Only Grey remained.

Closing the desk, she left the chamber. It was time for the day’s harpsichord lesson.

That afternoon Catherine emerged from the parlor, where she and Jennifer had been playing the harpsichord, and knocked hesitantly on Grey’s study door.

“What the hell do you want?”

Catherine shook her head in frustration. It was still early in the afternoon, but her brother was obviously even more drunk than usual, judging from the faint slur to the words. Nonetheless, gritting her teeth, she pushed the door open.

“Grey,” she said imperiously, “you must come hear this.”

“Hear what?” Grey said, obviously annoyed. “A beginner at the harpsichord struggling to pick out a tune? Don’t be absurd. You wanted to educate the chit. It is your responsibility. I’ll have nothing to do with it.”

“I wouldn’t call you out of the important work you’re so engrossed in,” Catherine retorted, casting a scornful glance at the decanter of Madeira that sat open on the secretary,
“if I did not believe you would wish to hear this. Get up.”

“I do not wish to get up,” Grey said between bared teeth. Despite himself, he found that he was interested in whatever had Catherine so fascinated, but he certainly wasn’t going to admit it to her. Besides, he resented her authoritarian tone. After all, he was the head of this household. He crossed his arms in a stubborn gesture that indicated he had no intention of leaving his chair.

Catherine promptly switched tactics. “Slovenly creature,” she said. “No wonder you’re fat.”

Grey emitted a sound much like a snarl and came to his feet—six foot three inches of whipcord-lean, solidly muscled, and extremely irritated man. “This had better be interesting,” he warned.

Having won the battle, Catherine smiled sweetly. “I think you will find it so.”

She led the way into the parlor. Jennifer, seated at the harpsichord, glanced up with a hesitant smile, which instantly withered beneath the crushing impact of Grey’s scowl. He flung himself down in a corner chair, and growled, “Very well. Now that you have successfully disturbed my peace and quiet, pray show me what you find to be so intriguing.”

Catherine leaned over Jennifer and pointed at the sheet music. “Play that, my dear. Just the melody.”

Jennifer shot her an imploring look and said quietly, “In front of
him
?” Catherine nodded implacably, and Jennifer, squinting obediently at the page, picked out the notes stumblingly. She hit several painfully wrong notes despite the slow tempo, as was quite usual for beginner keyboard students.

When she had finished, she stared dully at the music, not daring to glance into Grey’s face. But the sardonic amusement was clear enough in his voice as he drawled, “Remarkable, truly remarkable. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought she had six years of lessons.”

Rather than seeming dismayed by her student’s
mediocre performance, Catherine appeared almost as amused as her brother. “Now, Grey,” she instructed, “come over here and play something. A simple melody, please.” Her brother eyed her lazily, and she said sharply, “For heaven’s sake, you can bear to get out of that chair for a moment or two. Humor me.”

Grey, stood up, crossed the room in two long, if slightly unsteady, strides, reached over Jennifer’s shoulder, and played a brief dance tune with his right hand. He had just begun to turn away when the sound of the same melody, flawlessly played, arrested him.

He turned back slowly and regarded Jennifer with something akin to disbelief. “Do that again.”

Obligingly, Jennifer played the tune once again.

Grey regarded her, heavy black eyebrows gathering like storm clouds over his eyes. Thoughtfully he reached across her and played a fragment of a tune, using both harmony and melody. “Try that.”

“I haven’t yet taught her about chords,” Catherine began defensively, but her words were cut off as Jennifer played exactly what Grey had played an instant earlier.

Grey was still watching her with an intent expression. “Now play the first melody I played.” She complied.

He stared at her a moment longer, then crossed the chamber and plucked a book from one of the black walnut bookshelves that stood against the wall. Briefly flipping through the pages, he settled on a relatively simple passage and thrust it curtly under her nose. “Read this out loud.”

Jennifer did not resent this authoritarian tone, for she was incapable of doing so, but she could not see what the book had to do with her harpsichord lesson. Puzzled, she looked up doubtfully into his silver eyes. “Read it,” he repeated implacably.

It happened to be the Bible, opened to Ecclesiastes, a book that Grey read frequently. Though he was a poor Christian indeed, there was something about the gloomy passages of Ecclesiastes which echoed in his soul.

Beginning where his finger indicated, Jennifer read obediently, “To everything there is a season—”

She went on well enough, stumbling every now and then. At last Grey slammed the book shut and returned it to the shelf.

“Very well,” he said curtly, crossing the room once again and looking down upon her from his great height. “Repeat what you just read.”

Jennifer saw nothing particularly odd about the request, though the way he stared at her made her nervous. She recited what she had read, word for word, some thirteen verses, not making a single error despite the repetitive nature of the passage.

When she had finished, Grey studied her in silence, then turned to his sister. Catherine looked bewildered. “How on earth did she—”

“A perfect memory, obviously,” Grey said. “Or as close to perfect as the human memory can be.” Some of the shadow had faded from his eyes, to be replaced by alert interest. He had not been so intrigued by something in years. “Small wonder that she learned to read so quickly.”

He shot Jennifer a quick, assessing glance. “Quite remarkable,” he said softly, as though speaking to himself. “It appears that when I married the child I got more than I bargained for. Much, much more.”

J
ennifer found herself lying awake in the darkness that night, completely unable to sleep. Her husband had finally noticed her, had even looked at her with something resembling newfound respect and admiration. Why he should admire her for a quirk in her character over which she had no control she could not fathom, but it had been evident from the expression in his eyes that he did.

And now that he had noticed her, now that she had earned his attention, possibly, just possibly, he might begin to feel some sort of affection for her. The words she had read this afternoon came back to her with perfect clarity. There was a time to mourn, but there was also a time to love. Perhaps the time for Grey to mourn was finally over. Perhaps, at long last, it was once again time for him to love.

With those hopeful thoughts racing in her mind, she could not sleep. The music of the stars was calling to her. Slipping from her bed and pulling on a loose linsey-woolsey gown that did not require stays, she glided silently downstairs, only to pause at the sight of flickering candlelight in Grey’s study.

“Grey?”

She moved closer to the door, seeing that his head was buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking. The words he had written to Diana darted through her mind, and she felt a stab of pity for her husband, so lost by himself but so completely unable to ask others for guidance.

Last time she had discovered Grey thus, she had only dared to peer around the edge of the door. This time, moved by an impulse she could not explain, she crossed the chamber swiftly and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Grey!” she whispered urgently. “It’s all right. I’m here now.”

Slowly he lifted his head, raking her face with his gaze. What she saw in his stormy gray eyes caught at her heart. Defeated, haunted, they were the eyes of a dying man.

“Don’t cry,” she murmured, brushing the tears from his haggard face as though he were a child. Strange, she thought, how he could be so arrogant and remote by day, yet so terribly vulnerable by night. “Don’t.”

“I can’t help it,” Grey muttered in a voice clogged to hoarseness by tears. As if embarrassed by her clear, level gaze, he lowered his face into his hands once more.

Jennifer had no idea how to deal with his emotions, or with anyone’s emotions, for that matter. She had cried only once in the last eight years. Until she had come to Greyhaven she had not even felt the need for tears. And now, faced with someone else’s grief, she found herself at a complete loss.

She stroked the thick black hair as he bowed his head in abject misery, wishing she could do more to ease his pain. “You mustn’t feel this way,” she said softly, aware that her words were woefully inadequate in the face of his agony. “Please …”

Grey looked up at her through red-rimmed eyes. “Ah, God,” he said tiredly. “You’re right. I should feel nothing, but I’m too full of emotion. All I can feel is love and sorrow and grief, churned together and swirling inside of me until I choke on it.” He clutched her hand to his cheek in a gesture so childlike that a lump came to her throat.

In a moment some of his pain seemed to fade. He looked up in a way that was almost shy and studied her features in the candlelight. She thought there was something strange about the way he looked at her; his expression was intent but oddly blank, as though he were looking through
her somehow. “You’re very beautiful,” he said at last. “Did you know that?”

Startled and shocked by his sudden mercurial change of emotions, Jennifer flushed a brilliant red and started to back away, but he caught her arms in a surprisingly strong grip. “Don’t go,” he pleaded in a desperate, low voice. The agony had faded from his features, replaced by something even more elemental. “I need you. You are so beautiful.…”