Rutland Place - Anne Perry [93]
“Please forgive my calling upon you without either invitation or having left my card beforehand.” That was ridiculous and he knew it as well as she did, but it afforded her a way to begin.
“I am sure the circumstances are quite unusual,” he said gently. “May I offer you some refreshment—a dish of tea?”
It would give her something to occupy her hands graciously, and would mean that her stay would be at least half an hour.
“Thank you,” she said. “That would be most pleasant.” She sat down on the most comfortable-looking chair, and he rang the bell, gave the maid instructions, and then sat opposite her on a simple dark velvet sofa.
The room was unusually spare of ornament; there were great numbers of leatherbound, gold-tooled books in a mahogany case, a soft gray seascape above the mantel, and a Turkish prayer rug so brilliant it was like a cathedral window. The whole was alien . . . and beautiful.
He was sitting easily, still smiling, one leg crossed over the other, but there was a seriousness about his eyes. He knew she would not have come over any trivial or social matter, and he was waiting for her to begin.
Her mouth was dry; all small talk eluded her.
“Emily and I have been dining with Papa,” she said rather abruptly.
He did not interrupt, still watching her steadily, frankly.
She took a breath and plunged on. “We were obliged to discuss a rather painful subject—quite apart from Mina’s death, or poor Tormod’s injury.”
A shadow of concern crossed his face. “I’m sorry.”
She had very little knowledge how much of the relationship was purely on Caroline’s part. She must be careful, as she had so far seen him display nothing beyond extreme courtesy. Either he was far more discreet than Caroline or—more probably—he was unaware of the depth of her feeling. After all, he did not know Caroline as Charlotte did.
She cleared her throat. Now that she must either commit herself or allow the subject to drop and talk of something else, she found it unexpectedly difficult. She was very conscious of him sitting only a few feet away from her.
Once, she had considered him as the leader of a black magic ritual—that seemed preposterous now. But was she crediting him with less vanity and more compassion than he possessed? Might he not enjoy the fascination he held for them, seemingly without effort?
She swallowed and began again, sounding far more pompous than she wished. “It seems that Papa has been too much engaged in his business lately and has not paid the attention to his domestic life that he should. Poor Mama has felt a little neglected, I think. Of course she has not complained. One cannot ask for small signs of affection from one’s husband, because even if he responds they are then of no value—you feel you have prompted them yourself, and he does not truly mean them.”
“So you and your sister have prompted him?” he suggested, understanding beginning to show in his eyes.
“Quite,” she agreed quickly. “We would be deeply distressed to see our family hurt by a misapprehension. In fact, we do not intend to allow it to happen. These things grow out of hand very quickly—new affections form, other parties are drawn in, and before you can undo it, there is . . .”
He was looking directly at her, and she found herself unable to go on. It was quite obvious now that he knew what she meant.
“A domestic tragedy,” he finished for her. She noticed with surprise that there was a faint color under his skin, a consciousness of himself—a raw and unpleasing light. Suddenly, with a rush of warmth for him, she realized he had been unaware of his power, underrating its depth completely.
Either he had not understood other women in the past or he had considered their own natures the cause and himself merely the unfortunate catalyst.
“I think tragedy is the appropriate word,” she continued. “Perhaps we should look a little more closely at what passions can do. For example, take Mrs. Denbigh. You have seen her? Her despair over Mr. Lagarde would hardly be covered by so gentle and commonplace a term as unhappiness,