Kathleen Woodiwiss - Come Love a Stranger

“That’s understandable, my love. We were together for such a brief period, you barely had time to get accustomed to the idea.”

“And yet,” she murmured thoughtfully, staring at the golden band on her finger, “I wear this ring. Do you recognize it?”

He lifted her hand and considered the circle of gold a long moment before replying: “I had no time to purchase anything but a plain band for you. If my memory serves me correctly, this is the ring I gave you.”

She felt the warmth of his gaze on her face and dared to glance up. “Perhaps we are married, Ashton, and I’m just letting my fears blind me to that fact.”

“Don’t torment yourself, my love,” he urged. “Hopefully, after further rest your memory will come back, and you’ll know the truth.”

“I await that moment anxiously.”

“So do I, my love. So do I.”

THE parlor was the gathering place for the Wingate family before the evening meal. It was a time for conversation and restful pleasantries, a goblet of sherry or a small draft of a stronger beverage, a few more tapestry stitches, or a tinkling melody played on the harpsichord. Sometimes the rich, mellow sounds of the cello flowed through the house, either as part of a duet of the two instruments, or singly, as it was played this evening. Marelda’s hopes soared as she listened to the musical strains, for she knew Ashton was the only one in the household who could make the instrument come alive with such warmth. He was a man of many talents, a perfectionist who strove to succeed in all things.

Marelda paused in front of the hall mirror to give herself a last complimentary appraisal. Her black hair was artfully arranged to set off her sultry facade, having been swept in deep, lush waves to one side, where it was gathered in a cluster of ringlets that dangled prettily from behind her ear. She had worn the gown of dark red taffeta with the hope that Ashton would be at dinner, and now that she knew she would not be disappointed, she smiled smugly to herself. She considered the selection of the gown a stroke of genius on her part. The illusion of voluptuousness had been created by the use of padding sewn inside her chemise where it would press her small breasts upward. The shallow bodice seemed unable to contain the structured fullness and threatened to dip below the line of decency and reveal the darker hues of her bosom. A man would be hard pressed to ignore such a daring décolletage, and since Ashton was very much of that gender, she expected him to be susceptible. Of course, her display might shock the elder ladies, but if it succeeded in winning Ashton’s regard and arousing his manly lusts, then it would be well worth her exposure. She would not sit idly by while the redhead made so much of her invalid state.

Moving steathily to the door of her adversary’s room, she pressed an ear to the smooth panels and listened for any sign of stirring from within. Willabelle’s voice was heard, but her tone was low and muted, making the words inaudible. It hardly mattered. Marelda had not expected the lazy twit to raise herself from her bed and join them for dinner. She had not made the effort all week, seeming rather to dote on the idea of her frailty.

The fool! Marelda smirked. While she languishes weak and pallid amid her lace pillows, I shall have my way with Ashton. He will surely have second thoughts about claiming her as his long-lost wife.

Marelda hummed gaily as she descended the stairs. She was feeling light of spirit with Ashton so close within her grasp. After all, she was quite a beautiful woman, and she was not unknowledgeable about seduction, having used it on other men at her whim. Though she had not been without certain pleasures, she had always been careful to maintain her virginity, gaining for herself the reputation of a tease. It was not that she was averse to yielding herself to such amorous adventures, but knowing the perils of total submission, she had been reluctant to endanger her chances of becoming Ashton’s wife.

Wanting the surprise to be complete, Marelda softened her footsteps upon nearing the parlor and gained a vantage point at the door without being noticed. Amanda and Aunt Jennifer sat in a pair of chairs near the fireplace and were concentrating on their needlework as they listened to the music. Ashton sat closer to the entry and seemed equally absorbed in his effort. The slightly wistful expression that flitted across his profile hinted of some deep, hidden yearning, which she could not fully fathom. She was half-afraid it had something to do with the woman upstairs. That could not be allowed!

“Good evening,” she bade warmly from the doorway and immediately gained the attention she sought. Ashton looked around, and the music stopped abruptly, causing the two siblings to glance up in wonder. Aunt Jennifer’s eyes went to the door and widened, then narrowed with a sudden grimace as the needle pricked her finger. Sucking the abused digit, she stared at the younger woman with a disturbed frown.

“Good heavens,” Amanda exclaimed beneath her breath and pressed a hand to her throat as she sagged back in her chair.

Only Ashton took their guest’s entry in stride and rose to his feet with a smile of mild amusement. “Good evening, Marelda.”

The brunette indicated the harpsichord. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Please do,” Ashton replied, lifting his own hand toward the piece in polite response. He waited until she had seated herself, then settled into his chair again. She ran her fingers over the keys in light practice, then paused, giving him a nod to begin. The entrancing melody began anew, filling the house with haunting refrains. Then the keys of the harpsichord intruded, and the flowing strains were quickly overwhelmed by the loud twanging notes that seemed either half a beat behind or ahead of the cello. Aunt Jennifer cringed as Marelda attacked the keys, and though she tried to concentrate on the tapestry she was creating, her effort won her several more jabs from the sharp needle. Amanda kept her pained frown averted, but her inclination to nod her head in a subconscious effort to urge Marelda into a more timely pace drew Ashton’s notice. He subdued a smile and showed mercy on the two aging siblings by bringing the piece to a graceful end. For a moment he adjusted and tested the strings, feigning dissatisfaction with his own performance. As she waited for him to continue, Marelda left her bench and approached the sideboard where a set of crystal decanters resided on a silver tray. Keeping her back to Ashton, she took up a wineglass and poured herself a liberal brandy, then returned to stand before the man who consumed her interest.

Amanda glanced apprehensively toward their guest and found Marelda’s bosom straining over the top of her gown. Her own cheeks grew warm at the immodest display of a magenta peak rising above the woman’s gown. The huge grandfather clock chimed out the hour, and the elder woman gratefully consulted its face for a diversion. “Wherever is Willabelle? She’s usually been in and out several times by now, fretting about the table or fussing about the slowness of the kitchen help.”

Ashton answered without bothering to lift his gaze. “She’s probably out there now, stirring Bertha into a nervous frenzy.”

Here was a topic that had long roused Marelda’s irritation. “You allow your people far too much latitude, Ashton. Willabelle runs the house as if it were her own.”

Deliberately Ashton made the cello screech, driving the harping woman back a step, and then seeming intent upon his task, he bent closer to lend a careful ear to the tuning of the strings.

Marelda was not willing to dismiss the subject. “You pamper your servants far too much. Why, anyone would think they were family, the way you coddle them.”

“I don’t coddle them, Marelda,” he stated quietly but firmly, “but I did lay out a goodly sum of money to purchase them, and I see no reason to devalue my investments by mistreatment.”

“I’ve heard it rumored that you even allow them a credit for their services, and that after several years they have the chance to buy their freedom. Are you aware of the laws concerning the freeing of slaves?”

Slowly Ashton raised his gaze, briefly noting her display as his eyes traveled upward. He showed neither shock nor interest as he calmly considered her. “Any slave who wants his freedom above everything else ceases to be valuable to me, Marelda. At the first chance he gets, he’s going to run away, and chains would make him useless. If any are set on going, I let them work off their worth, and then I ship them to safety. It’s as simple as that, and I break no laws.”

“It’s a wonder you have anyone working for you.”

“I believe we’ve already discussed the success of Belle Chêne. I see no reason to belabor the point.” Halting further debate, he again stroked the strings with the bow, making them sing. He involved himself in a delicate air, soothing his irritation by slow degrees, while he filled his mind with thoughts of Lierin. He had paused at her door before coming down, only to be told by Willabelle that his wife was indisposed. He had felt a need to see her and, after his failure, had grown pensive, wondering how long she would hide from him and if she would ever accept the fact of their marriage.

He glanced around, and for a moment, he thought he was imagining the vision that had come to stand in the doorway. His hands paused and his breath slowed as the last trembling note of a plucked string slowly died in the sudden silent parlor. It was a sight the likes of which he had formed in his mind many times in the past three years, but now, it was very wonderfully real.

“Lierin!” Did he speak or only think the word?

Marelda swished around in surprise, sloshing the brandy over the rim of the goblet onto her wide skirts. She stared at the one in the doorway, and her mind moaned and roiled in abject frustration.

Just behind Lierin and alert to lend a hand or assistance, stood a grinning Willabelle, obviously proud of this creation and her own part in it. The housekeeper had settled the matter of Lierin’s identity in her own mind, accepting her as mistress without reservation, and wanted to aid in her advancement to that position in whatever fashion she could.

Ashton came to his feet and could feel the quickening thud of his heart as he savored every detail of his wife’s beauty. Her red hair had been gathered on top of her head in a loose swirl and formed soft waves where it had been brushed up and away from her face. The effect was as alluring as her gown, which seemed to float around her in a pale pink cloud. The long, voluminous sleeves were made of sheer silk and were bound at the wrists with satin cuffs that matched the band about her neck. A high, frothy ruff rose from the narrow collar and seemed prim to a fault, but he knew that the fullness beneath the bodice was all woman. Though pale from the exertion of reaching the parlor, she was a living portrait of feminine beauty. All thought of Marelda fled his mind. Indeed, it was as if only two people were in the room. Their eyes met and held, and all he could see was a lovely face with twin green vortices that threatened to engulf him.

A worried smile tugged at her lips, but her gaze never wavered from his, though she addressed them all. “Willabelle said it would be all right if I came down to join you for the evening meal,” she murmured in half-apology. “I don’t wish to impose, so if you’ve planned otherwise, I can dine in my room.”

“I will not hear of it!” Ashton’s words were almost an explosion as he set the cello aside and stepped forward to take her hand. Tucking her arm safely through his, he spoke past her: “Willabelle, see that another place is set.”

“No need, Massa Ashton.” The woman chuckled as she saw her charge delivered into another’s care, and she shuffled off, continuing over her shoulder, “It already been took care of. Yassuh! Yassuh!”

“Please.” Leirin lifted her gaze to the warmth of his. “I heard you playing. Will you continue?”

“If you will join me,” he murmured.

“Join you?” Lierin suffered through a moment of confusion until he indicated the harpsichord; then she hurried to deny the possibility. “Oh, but I can’t…or at least, I don’t think I can….”

“We’ll see if it comes back to you.” Ashton led her to the instrument and picked out a brief, brisk tune on the keyboard as she sank to the tapestry-covered bench. Tentatively she placed her fingers where his had been and ran through the same ditty. She laughed at her accomplishment and glanced up at him. With a growing smile, he played a longer portion, and she repeated it with rising enthusiasm. When he brushed her skirts aside, she quickly slid over on the bench, allowing him more room as he sat beside her. They played a short duet together, Lierin’s pale fingers flicking over the higher keyboard, while Ashton dealt with the lower. Much to her own surprise, an amusing verse came to mind, and she sang it in a lilting voice, shrugging in amazement as the words seemed to flow unbidden from some unknown source. At its conclusion, they dissolved in laughter, and when his arm came around her and brought her close, it seemed a natural reaction to relax against him.