Lord of Scoundrels - Loretta Chase [117]
He could not even think about the loathsome thing he'd made with Charity Graves without becoming physically ill. How in Lucifer's name was he to go to it and look at it and talk to it and touch it and take the thing into his keeping?
* * *
The Haytor storm followed them back to Athcourt. It pounded on the roof and beat at the windows and flashed demonic bolts that lit the house with blazing white light.
Those who heard His Lordship raging through the house might have easily believed that he was truly Beelzebub, whose wrath had stirred the very elements themselves.
But then, Jessica thought, Dain did not handle his emotional problems well. He had only three methods for dealing with "bother": knock it down, frighten it away, or buy it off. When the methods didn't work, he was at a loss. And so he had a tan-trum.
He raged at the servants because they weren't quick enough in assisting his wife out of her wet outer garments, and then let everything drip on the marble floor of the vestibule— as though sodden garments weren't bound to drip or muddy boots leave dirty footprints.
He was in fits because their baths had not been drawn and weren't steaming and ready the instant they reached their apartments— as though anyone had any idea of the precise moment lord and lady would return. He bellowed because his boots were ruined— as though he hadn't two dozen pairs at least.
Jessica heard his outraged voice rumbling through several walls while she took her bath and changed and wondered whether poor, abused Andrews would give notice at last.
But Dain's own bath must have calmed him down a degree or two, for by the time he stalked into her chambers, the deafening outraged elephant roar had dropped to a growl, and the thunderous expression had softened to a surly glower.
He entered with his crippled arm in a sling. "Adjustments," he said after Bridget had wisely fled without waiting to be chased out. "Marriage requires bloody adjustments. You want a sling, Jess, you get a sling."
"It does not spoil the line of your coat," she said, surveying him with a critical eye. "It looks rather dashing, actually." She didn't add that it also looked as though he were planning to go out, for he was dressed for riding.
"Don't humor me," he said. Then he stalked into her sitting room, took the portrait of his mother from the easel, and carried it out— and kept on walking out the door.
She followed him down the passage, down the south stairs, and into the dining room.
"You want Mama in the dining room," he said. "Mama hangs in the dining room."
He set the painting against a chair and pulled the bell rope. A footman instantly appeared.
"Tell Rodstock I want the bloody landscape down and the portrait in its place," Dain said. "And tell him I want it done now."
The footman instantly vanished.
Dain walked out of the dining room and across the short hall to his study.
Jessica hurried after him.
"The portrait will look very handsome over the mantel," she said. "I found a lovely set of drapes in the North Tower. I'll have them cleaned and hung in the dining room. They'll complement the portrait better than what's there."
He had moved to his desk, but he didn't sit down. He stood before it, half-turned from her. His jaw was set, his eyes hooded.
"I was eight years old," he said tightly. "I sat there." He nodded at the chair in front of the desk. "My father sat there." He indicated his own usual place. "He told me my mother was Jezebel, that the dogs would eat her. He told me she was on her way to Hell. That was all the explanation he gave me of her departure."
Jessica felt the blood draining from her face. She, too, had to turn away while she summoned her composure. That wasn't easy.
She had guessed that his father had been harsh, unforgiving. She had never imagined that he— that any father— could be so brutally cruel…to a little boy…bewildered, frightened, grieving for his lost mother.
"Your father was angry and humiliated, no doubt," she made herself say evenly. "But if