Chapter 3
“Your husband?”
Adrian echoed the words without a thought, and the woman nodded. He had known that the Earl was married, but he had not expected the man’s wife to be so young. Or so… breathtakingly beautiful.
“My name is Lady Bridget Carter, Countess of Winslow,” she said with authority. “I am afraid my husband is not at home to receive you, so you will have to do with me.”
His eyes slid down her barely clad form, drinking in the gentle swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, and—
“Your Grace!” the woman snapped, and Adrian’s eyes flew back up to hers.
The spark in her honey-brown eyes filled his loins with a yearning so intense he nearly forgot why he was there in the first place.
“You? You are the Countess of Winslow? Apologies, my lady,” Adrian offered, scoffing, unable to believe it. His deep voice slipped into a softer, yet still curt, tone. “However, it is pertinent that I see your husband immediately.”
“I believe I just informed you that my husband is not home. Do you doubt me, Your Grace?” the woman asked, crossing her arms. “If that is who you actually are.”
Adrian bristled, caught between lust and annoyance at her equally suspicious nature.
“And pray, who else would I be? Who else has your husband done ill by? Is there a list?” he questioned. He chortled again and rolled his eyes. “Not that I would be surprised.”
The lady’s eyes narrowed at him with distrust.
“I am ill at ease to confess he is my husband at the moment. But as I said, he is not here,” she stated coldly. “If you do not have anything further to say to me, please leave. Do you have any idea how late it is? How improper it is to enter into someone’s home like this?”
“Am I the only one who is indecent here?” he said with a smirk.
As she realized that she was not wearing more than a simple white shift, her hands moved toward her waist as if to cover herself. She stopped halfway through; her pink cheeks turning crimson as she lifted her head high, and dropped her arms back down to her side.
“Eve?” she called.
As if she had been expecting the call, a maid appeared at the top of the grand staircase, holding a silk, rose-hued robe. She brought it to her mistress with a quickness and helped her into it.
Adrian almost smiled. Sharp and beautiful? Delightful. If he were not so engaged with finding his brother’s killer, he might revisit the rakish ways of his youth and see how quickly he could soften that sharp tongue of hers.
“I do apologize for my ill timing,” he offered in a curt tone. “However, my business with your husband is of the most serious nature. I need to see him immediately. Do you know when he will be home?”
The woman’s angry expression softened a little as the flesh above her sculpted cheekbones flushed with the most delightful pink.
“I am afraid I do not,” she answered, only slightly less sharp than before.
“And I am afraid I cannot leave until I see your husband,” he said instead, keeping his tone firm. “I shall wait for him if I must.”
At that, her lips pressed into a thin line, and a faint color rose in her cheeks—not anger alone, but something closer to mortification.
Adrian followed her gaze then, noticing the butler standing stiffly to one side of the hall, the maid lingering near the stairs, both pretending not to stare while very clearly doing exactly that.
Lady Winslow noticed too.
“Leave us,” Bridget ordered the butler and the maid, her eyes still locked on his.
“My lady—”
“Now.”
The butler bowed and retreated without another word, ushering the maid away with him. Only when they were gone did the woman release a breath, her shoulders drawing tight as though she had only just realized how exposed she truly was.
“I will not have my household gossiping about my husband’s affairs,” she said stiffly. “If you insist on speaking of such matters, then you will follow me.”
She turned sharply and strode down the hall without waiting for his agreement. Adrian felt a stir of desire as he matched her step with his own, drawing them closer. His nostrils flared, and his mouth watered as he caught her light scent of rose and honey.
She moved with purpose, spine straight despite her lack of proper attire, as though indignation alone armored her modesty.
Her small, perfectly sculpted cheekbones curved into a sharp jawline and an almost pointed chin, which smoothed into a graceful neckline.
Her button nose and full lips gave her depth, and the shape of her dark brow line created a perfect accent above her honey-brown eyes.
The Earl of Winslow, he knew by reputation, spent most of his time gambling and whoring—but Adrian had to wonder why a man would want to buy women when his wife was as striking as Bridget was.
When she stopped before a heavy oak door and pushed it open, the scent of old books and ink greeted him.
“This is my husband’s study,” Bridget said, coming to a stop in the long hallway. “Say what you came to say, and then you will leave.”
Adrian strode in without fear or pretense and went to the Earl’s desk, opening drawers the moment he sat down. As he did so, Bridget joined him, and he noted how her hands shook as she opened the fine wooden boxes that lay in a neat row atop the Earl’s desk.
“Are you looking for something as well?” he asked, shifting his eyes back down to the task at hand.
So far, there was nothing in the drawers except stationery and invoices.
“That is none of your business, Your Grace,” Bridget answered briskly, upending a second box.
Adrian could not help but look back up as Bridget sifted through the mess of pens and metal book markers she had just made.
The line of her brows drew down as she clearly did not find what she was looking for, and as she reached for the third box, her plump lips drew back in a surprisingly feral snarl.
“Curse it all!” she exclaimed when there were no more boxes left to upturn. “It is not here!”
The urge to find out what it was that Bridget was looking for was overwhelming, but Adrian had his own clues to follow. He continued to rifle through the drawers, and he let out his own curse as he shot up from the chair empty-handed.
“There has to be something here,” he growled, going to the bookshelves.
It has taken me a year to come this far. I cannot fail now!
Feeling his grip on his sanity slip a little further, Adrian began pulling books off the shelf and throwing them off.
“Your Grace, I will have to ask you to behave. That is my husband’s study,” she hissed, moving closer. “You have no right—”
“When is he coming back?”
“If you are one of his debt collectors, you should come back at a more respectable hour. I told you that he is not home. And I have nothing of value to give you.”
For some reason, Adrian believed her. She was a stranger, but something told him she was not as impressed by the finery surrounding her as other women would be. She was also direct. Adrian liked that. So, in respect, he decided to be direct with her.
He closed the distance between them in two measured steps, stopping so near that she could feel the heat of him.
“I am not a debt collector,” he said quietly. “And I do not believe that you have anything of value that you can give me.”
Her pulse skidded violently.
She lifted her chin in defiance, though her body betrayed her, swaying ever so slightly toward him.
“You should step back,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.
“Should I?”
She would still not quite meet his gaze.
That was when his hand came up.
His fingers closed gently but firmly around her chin, tilting her face upward until her eyes were forced to meet his.
“Do not lie to me,” Adrian said, his voice low and dangerous. “You are the Earl’s wife. You know where he is. You are covering for him.”
Her breath trembled against his palm.
“I am not,” she whispered.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes,” she said, shame flickering across her features. “Because it is the truth.”
Her voice wavered then, and something in his expression changed.
“He leaves,” she admitted quietly. “Often. And he does not tell me where he goes. He never has.”
Adrian’s grip loosened.
“If he has done something serious,” she asked, barely above a whisper. “You will tell me, will you not?”
“Yes,” he said. “I believe he murdered my brother.”
The words shattered the moment.
Her face drained of color, her body going rigid beneath his hand. He released her at once as she staggered back, clutching the fabric of her nightgown as though it were the only thing holding her upright.
“No,” she breathed. “He… he could not—”
“He was the last man seen with him,” Adrian said, his voice gentler now. “And he threatened him the day he died.”
“This is a serious accusation, Your Grace.”
“Indeed, it is,” he replied, ignoring his body’s sudden urges. “One I do not fling out carelessly, and this is the reason why I have ignored the lateness of the hour. If your husband is responsible, I want to ensure that he will pay.”
Bridget searched his eyes, and for a moment, he wondered what she saw. He no doubt sounded like a lunatic, so why was she not frightened? Then a thought hit him. If he did not frighten her, then what had her husband done to numb her to such lunacy?
He then turned his back to her to pick up the mess of books and pages on the floor. A soft sob escaped from behind him, and Adrian stopped. Slowly, he turned around, his heart responding strangely to the quiet sound of despair, and felt his anger begin to melt at the sight of Bridget.
The fiery woman he had seen in the foyer was gone.
That hard look in her eyes had melted into honeyed pools brimming with tears.
Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, and she was trembling in her silk robe.
Her throat bobbed, and her plump bottom lip quivered as she took in the ruined room, turning in a slow circle.
“Lady Winslow, I must—”
“Do not call me that,” Bridget demanded in a quivering voice as she looked down at the destruction surrounding her.
Indignation passed through her eyes, and before Adrian could stop himself, he walked through the mess he had left on the floor and gently lifted her chin to make her look at him again. She resisted.
“Is that not your name?” he asked in a gentle tone.
He gave her chin a gentle nudge, but she would not meet his eyes as she shook her head.
“It is,” she begrudgingly admitted. “However, I am too embarrassed to be associated with my husband right now.”
He could hear the hurt in her voice and was taken aback by how it made his own heart ache a little more.
What had this husband of hers done to her?
“Very well. What should I call you then?” he asked.
Her throat bobbed again as her adorable nose and cheeks turned a soft pink.
“Bridget is fine,” she answered, obviously trying very hard to hold in the sob building in her chest.
“Bridget,” he breathed her name, caressing her chin.
Adrian brought his other hand up to her face and cupped her jawline, applying gentle pressure until she finally met his eyes.
“I owe you an apology,” he said. “I let my rage and suspicions get the better of me. I did not mean to frighten you. It is just imperative that I find out what happened to my brother.”
Her brow tensed slightly, but her eyes remained on his as she slightly shook her head.
“It is not you I am afraid of,” she answered in a quivering voice. “It is my husband. My marriage. I have spent the last five years being blind and grateful, as I was taught to be, but tonight I am starting…”
A tear escaped down her cheek as she took a moment to draw in a shaky breath.
“I am starting to accept that I have been married to a monster. To a man who will never love me and probably never has.”
She let out a humorless laugh as another tear escaped.
“Which is terribly selfish of me to realize right now, as you are looking for proof that my husband is a murderer. A murderer!”
Her eyes widened with a mixture of terror and shock as her trembling grew to a worrying intensity.
“A murderer?” she gasped, as if finding it hard to breathe. “I am married to a murderer. Oh, God!”
The ache in Bridget’s voice leeched into Adrian’s bones, washing away his need to find answers in that very moment.
The urge to wrap her in a tight embrace and hold her until she was calm was forceful and surprising, so much so that his hands drifted toward her.
Then, suddenly, he realized what he was about to do and forced his hands back down to his sides.
What are you even doing, Adrian? Get a hold of yourself!