The Light in the Darkness (18 page)

“Your uncle beat you for no reason at all. I only permit my slaves to be whipped for a good reason.”

“Such as stealing to supplement their meager diet?”

Belatedly, she became aware that his eyes were blazing with rage. He managed to restrain himself, however, saying very calmly indeed, “I will think about it, Jennifer.”

“Will you feed them better?”

“I said,” he repeated slowly, “I will think about it.”

Jennifer looked at his face and wisely decided not to press the issue further at the moment. She inclined her head coolly. Feeling that she had dismissed him as if he were a servant, rather than the master of Greyhaven, Grey whirled his stallion about and galloped toward the stable.

It was, he mused, one of the very few times he had ever seen her angry. Despite her fury—or perhaps because of it—she had looked more beautiful than ever. Her image was burned into his mind. He remembered the way her features had been animated with irritation as she spoke, of the way her green eyes had blazed, and he cursed under his breath.

He really needed a glass or two of Madeira.

“Hello.”

The soft, musical voice startled Jennifer out of her reverie. She had walked a very long way this afternoon, her mind occupied with thoughts of the fight she and Grey had had this morning, and had finally sat down to rest before returning to the house. Blinking, she glanced up and found herself staring into the brilliant eyes of her husband’s mistress.

“Good afternoon,” she replied warily, uncertain of proper etiquette. Was one required to be polite to the lightskirts of one’s husband? She was quite positive Catherine had never mentioned the correct way to handle such a situation!

The other woman said nothing in reply, only studied her intently. Feeling at a distinct disadvantage, Jennifer came to her feet and stared back as insolently as she could manage.

The sight was not reassuring. Melissa was as beautiful as she remembered, unpowdered mahogany hair piled elegantly on her head, topped by a flat, wide-brimmed silk hat. She wore a dark blue gown that emphasized the pale perfection of her skin. Jennifer felt gauche and unattractive in her presence.

Melissa felt much the same way about Jennifer. She saw a graceful young woman, so small and delicate that Melissa felt plump and awkwardly tall by comparison, with amber hair falling free over her shoulders, and a vibrant, golden complexion. Incredibly dark green eyes regarded her intently, yet the girl did not speak. At last, oppressed by the awkward silence, Melissa felt obliged to say something.

“You are beautiful,” she admitted grudgingly. “I wonder that Grey doesn’t see it.”

One of Jennifer’s eyebrows flew upward at this unexpected statement. She had hardly expected to be complimented by the woman. “I do not think beauty matters to Grey,” she said frankly.

“Perhaps not,” Melissa said. “And yet all the women he has been involved with have been beautiful. Diana, you—and myself.”

The stunned reaction she had hoped for was not forthcoming. Jennifer’s expression betrayed no emotion whatsoever. “If you think to horrify me by disclosing that you are his mistress,” she said calmly, “it won’t work. I already know.”

“He
told
you?”

Jennifer shrugged. “He told me he had a mistress. Catherine advised me as to who the woman was.”

Melissa seemed oddly disturbed by this piece of information. “I cannot believe he told you.”

“I will not tell anyone else, if that is your concern,” Jennifer offered, thinking that the woman was afraid of discovery by her husband.

Melissa smiled acerbically. “Half the county knows. They call me Melissa Lightskirts. Even my husband knows, although he doesn’t seem to care. That wasn’t what concerned me. I know better than anyone just how callous Grey can be, but you must have been taken utterly by surprise. Grey told me of your, er, background. When you came to Greyhaven you must have been frightened enough already, without the added pain of discovering that your husband had a mistress he had no intentions of giving up.”

Puzzled by the other woman’s odd mixture of sympathy and hostility, Jennifer stared at her. A faint sense of loyalty to her husband made her explain, “Grey is so wrapped up in his own pain that he has no idea that others can be hurt.”

“He doesn’t
care
that others can be hurt,” Melissa said coolly. “And you would do well to remember that, and not to make excuses for his dreadful behavior. The only way to get along with Grey is to ignore him when he is in a rage—a good ninety percent of the time, I should think.”

Jennifer felt a peculiar flash of resentment. It was as though the other woman knew Grey better than she did, and wanted her to know it. She decided not to let this conversation go further. Assuming that the other woman had been heading toward Greyhaven, she said coldly, “May I walk with you to the house?”

Melissa looked at her in astonishment, then burst out laughing. Her unwonted sympathy was gone, replaced by her amusement at Jennifer’s naïveté. “Are you offering me a bed?”

“What do you mean?”

Melissa pulled a piece of parchment from her pocket and handed it to her, still laughing. “I really do think it would be the height of bad taste for me to make love to your husband in your house, but if you insist, Grey’s nice wide bed would be more comfortable than the tumbledown shack we usually use.”

Puzzled by the other woman’s mirth, Jennifer unfolded the parchment. It said only, “Come see me this afternoon. Two o’clock. Grey.”

The parchment dropped from her nerveless fingers as she stared at the woman.

“I see,” Melissa said merrily, “that it has at last dawned on you why I am on your property.”

Jennifer stared a few moments longer, then tried to speak. Anger, still a new emotion to her, rose in her chest, rendering her incoherent. “Do you mean that you—are you saying that he—in the middle of the
afternoon
?”

Melissa shrugged elegantly. “It’s much easier to sneak out of the house in the afternoon than at night, my dear.” She smiled saucily. “Would you like to come watch and see how it’s done?”

Jennifer barely restrained the urge to slap the other woman. “And you called
him
callous,” she said savagely.

Melissa smiled back at her innocently as she turned away, heading for her tryst in the forest. “Perhaps,” she called back over her shoulder, “Grey and I deserve each other.”

“I rather think you do,” Jennifer agreed, her eyes glittering with fury.

When the other woman had disappeared in the forest, Jennifer sat back down and stared dully at the gleaming expanse of the James River, visible through the trees. Grey had asked his mistress to meet him so that he could put his hands on her, kiss her, do all the intimate things he had done to Jennifer that night so long ago.

How could he spend the morning with her, riding, then spend the afternoon with his mistress? It was incomprehensible,
bewildering, and utterly infuriating. For the first time in her life, Jennifer felt jealousy. Jealousy and anger. She wanted to kill Mistress Lightfoot, and she wanted to kill Grey … not necessarily in that order.

“Do you wish to go for a ride today?”

Jennifer looked around in surprise, seeing Grey leaning casually on the parlor doorjamb. She wondered how long he had been standing there watching her. They rode together every day, but today she had lost track of the time somehow. She felt odd, unfocused, and fuzzy-headed. Although she’d been plunking at the harpischord for some time she had accomplished very little. Perhaps, she thought, she was still upset by her encounter with her husband’s mistress yesterday.

“I don’t think so,” she said at last.

Grey frowned at her. It had taken her a long time to reply, as though her mind was not working as quickly as usual. Or perhaps, he thought, she was angry. Of course, he realized, that was it They had clashed yesterday for the first time, and she was still annoyed with him.

“Are you angry with me?” he inquired, wandering into the chamber.

Jennifer turned to look at him. He looked irresistibly handsome, clad for riding in his usual simple outfit, a shirt of fine Holland linen with a fall of lace down the front and steel gray knee breeches. The riding boots he wore covered his calves, drawing attention to the powerful muscles in his thighs.

Oddly enough, though, she did not feel the little pull of attraction for him that always quivered in her stomach when she looked at him. She felt too hot and uncomfortable to care how he looked. She realized that she had lost the thread of conversation.

“What?”

Now Grey looked at her very curiously indeed. “I said, are you angry with me?”

Jennifer stared at the floor. For some reason it was difficult to frame a response. “I don’t think so,” she said vaguely.

Grey looked irritated. He had never thought that she was the type to play games, but it seemed he had been wrong. “Rot. You
are
angry. Well, Jennifer, you are not going to win this argument by ignoring me. I don’t care a fig for your company, damn it. Don’t fool yourself into believing otherwise.”

He stormed from the chamber, telling himself that he did not care whether she rode with him or not. On the contrary, a ride by himself through the woods would be an enjoyable change. After all, hadn’t he been riding alone for years?

A half hour later, he returned irritably to the house, still telling himself that he had enjoyed his solitary ride. True, he admitted grudgingly, he usually rode for far longer. But he had not missed Jennifer’s company. Not at all.

As he entered the wide central passage, he was surprised to see several of the house slaves bustling about. Catherine stood on the landing next to the enormous tall clock, calling down instructions. Standing in the hall, Grey fixed her with a look of annoyance. “What the hell do you mean by this disturbance?”

“Jennifer is ill,” Catherine said distractedly. “She—” She got no further before Grey dashed past her, leaping up the wide steps three at a time. The expression on his face had changed with almost comical swiftness from irritation to anxiety. She recovered from her surprise as he put a hand on the doorknob to Jennifer’s chamber. “Grey! What do you think you are doing?”

Grey turned his head and regarded her as though she were simple-minded. “I’m going to take care of her,” he said, as though it should be perfectly obvious.

“Nonsense. She has a high fever. I should be the one to nurse her.”

“She is my wife,” Grey said in a tone that suggested it would be unwise to argue. He did not understand the knot
of dread that had coiled itself in his stomach when Catherine had told him that Jennifer was ill, but he knew he could not wait patiently in his study while she suffered. He had to do something to help. The thought of waiting downstairs to find out whether his wife lived or died was intolerable.

“What do you know about illnesses?”

“I took care of you when you had the ague at least three times when you were younger,” Grey pointed out in tones of utter reasonableness. He added briskly, “Don’t argue with me, Catherine. We’ll both look after her.”

“Very well.”

Grey looked at her thoughtfully. “Bring up some of that hot drink made of marigold petals so that we can bring her fever down. And bring cold cloths. And for God’s sake, try to be more quiet.” He disappeared into the chamber.

J
ennifer was indeed very ill. Suffering from a very high fever, she drifted in and out of consciousness for three days. Once she thought she heard a deep voice talking to her softly and a callused hand holding her own, but it might have been delirium. At other times she was vaguely aware of an ice-cold cloth bathing her body, cooling her fevered skin, and a gentle hand forcing a vile-tasting liquid down her throat. She suffered through many hallucinations, murmuring the names of people she thought she saw. On the fourth day she opened her eyes.

Sunlight was streaming in through the two tall windows in her chamber, illuminating a slouched figure, asleep in a mahogany armchair with his long legs sprawled out before him. Squinting through blurry eyes, she saw to her surprise that it was Grey. His jaw was covered with dark stubble, and his clothes were wrinkled, as though he had been sleeping in them for days.

“Grey?”

Her voice was only a faint croak, but Grey stirred instantly. “Jennifer!” he burst out. “You’re awake.” He nodded to a slave who sat across the chamber, and she got to her feet and left the room hurriedly.

Jennifer tried to nod and failed utterly. “Thirsty,” she whispered pitifully.

“Of course you are,” Grey said comfortingly, pouring her a glass of water and lifting her head so that she could
drink it. “You had a high fever, but it broke last night. We were very worried about you, Jennifer.”

“We certainly were,” Catherine said as she limped into the chamber, having been summoned by the slave. Jennifer observed that she did not look any fresher than Grey. Her normally impeccably coiffed chestnut hair was in disarray, and her gown was rumpled. “I wanted to summon the leech to come see you, but Grey would not permit it.”

“The doctor would have bled her,” Grey said tiredly, in the voice of one who has been through this argument a hundred times, “and she could not have borne being weakened further.”

“How fortunate for Jennifer that you know more about medicine than doctors do,” Catherine retorted in her most acerbic tone.

Grey shot her a quenching look and stood up, stretching luxuriously. “Now that you are awake,” he said to Jennifer, “I am going to leave you in Catherine’s capable hands. I need a bath. And a shave.”

“And some clean clothes,” Catherine added, sniffing fastidiously.

Grey grinned, looking more cheerful than he had in days. “I’ll be back in an hour or so,” he told Jennifer. She was too exhausted to make any reply, but her eyes followed him as he strode from the room.

Catherine sat down in the blue damask-upholstered chair that Grey had vacated. “How are you feeling?”

“All right,” Jennifer murmured feebly.

“Liar,” Catherine retorted. “But don’t worry, you will be feeling better soon. I believe the worst is over.”