Chapter Fifteen
James sat up, his heart racing. The room was in darkness, save a faint orange glow from the fireplace and a gray light coming from beneath the door.
His eyes adjusting to the poor light, he pulled back the bedsheet, approached the window, and drew back the curtains. A cold-blue light shimmered on the landscape outside, and he caught the faint chirps of the birds readying themselves to herald the onset of a new day.
But it wasn’t the birds that had woken him—not even that persistent mistle thrush who insisted on perching on top of the poplar trees that ran along the driveway and singing his little bollocks off to declare his ownership of the dawn, the world, and his mate.
Mate…
James smiled to himself, then exhaled, his breath misting on the windowpane. Then he traced the outline of a heart.
I have a mate, now, my friend.
Then a scream echoed in the distance and he froze.
A maid, perhaps. He’d overheard Mrs. Case admonishing that young girl—Tilly, was it?—for daydreaming, and those with overly lively minds often feared the dark and suffered nightmares.
But there was nothing wrong with an active imagination: It led to creativity and new ideas. And it was new ideas, not conformity, that fed and nurtured a man’s soul.
James opened his bedchamber door. The hall outside was empty. He held his breath and waited, but no sound came.
Then the scream came again.
It was too close to have come from the servants’ rooms on the floor above. Which meant that it must have come from a chamber along the corridor. And the only occupied chamber in this part of the house was his wife’s.
“No!” a voice cried. “Dear God, no!”
James sprinted along the corridor and thrust open his wife’s door, wincing as it slammed against the wall. The curtains were pulled back, and in the diffused light from outside, he could see a shape in the bed, thrashing from side to side.
He approached the bed, and she let out a wail that split his heart in two.
“Not again, I beg you—please!”
He placed his hands on her shoulders and she let out a scream and sat upright, her eyes glistening. He shivered at the expression in them—wide and colorless, as if she were a phantom.
She grasped his wrists to push him back, but he held her firm.
“Cordelia!” he cried. “It’s just a dream.”
She let out a groan, then blinked and a tear spilled onto her cheek, glistening in the light before it rolled down her face and splashed onto her nightgown.
Her pupils dilated, darkening their color, turning the ghost into a living, breathing woman.
Then she glanced about, her brow furrowing into a frown.
“Wh-where…?”
“You’re at Bedford Hall,” he said. “Your home.”
“M-my home?”
She loosened her grip on his wrists and he took her hand.
Heavens, her fingers were as cold as ice!
He massaged her hand until it had warmed a little, then lifted it to his lips.
“James?” she whispered.
“Yes, my love,” he said. “It is I. Your husband.”
Understanding shimmered in her eyes and she glanced toward the window, the light of the dawn giving her skin a pale-blue hue.
“Dawn,” she said.
“Yes, my love,” he replied, kissing her fingers. “It’s almost dawn.”
“May I see it?”
“You need no permission.”
She climbed out of the bed and approached the window. Her hair hung loose, flowing down her back in thick black waves. Then she reached toward the window and placed her hands on the glass.
Unwilling for anyone to disturb her little ritual, James retreated to the door and closed it, then watched her devour the view as if it were the first time she’d seen the open countryside…like a prisoner who, after a lifetime in the darkness, had been granted the freedom to look into the light.
She shivered and hunched her shoulders. James spotted a shawl draped over the back of a chair and picked it up.
Then he approached, holding his breath lest he scare her off, as if she were a mouse emerging from her burrow, wary of predators, and he the clumsy oaf needing to show that he was friend, rather than foe.
As a man, James was expected to have a greater experience of the world. But his wife must have endured enough suffering for a hundred lifetimes.
Taking care to move slowly lest he spook her, he placed the shawl about her shoulders. She flinched, but remained where she was while he took her hair in his hands and lifted it over the shawl, letting it fall down her back. Then he drew close until their bodies touched, her back against his chest.
She stiffened for a heartbeat, then relaxed, and his heart sighed with contentment as she leaned into him. He placed a hand on her shoulder and she removed her hands from the window and took his, tilting her head back until it rested against his shoulder.
They stood, in silence, while the light on the horizon increased to a warm-yellow glow and the birdsong increased into a chorus. Then he caught a flash of light as the edge of the sun peeked over the top of a distant hill.
Cordelia drew in a sharp breath, then exhaled, shuddering.
“Are you well?” James whispered.
She nodded against his chest. “You cannot begin to imagine how wonderful it is to see the dawn. It may be insignificant to you if you’ve grown up with such a view, but to me…” She sighed, and a smile curved her lips. “It’s an abundance of riches that I cannot believe I’ve been gifted with.”
He swallowed the surge of shame as he compared his pampered upbringing with the life she had endured. While he had indulged in the luxuries and pursuits of a viscount-in-waiting, the woman in his arms was…
Don’t even think of it.
At length, when the initial flush of birdsong abated, she spoke.
“Forgive me, James. I didn’t mean to wake you. I-It was just a bad dream.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he whispered, dipping his head to press a kiss in her hair.
“I don’t have them often, but…”
“I understand.”
She turned to face him, tipping her head up. “Do you?”
He placed his hand on her cheek. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I would never have asked you to relate your history if I’d known how much it would cost you.”
She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, and his soul cried out at the small gesture of trust, even though he’d done nothing to deserve it.
But he could spend the rest of his life trying.
Someone knocked on the door and she stiffened. James pulled her close and called out, “Who is it?”
No response came, apart from receding footsteps. He darted to the door and opened it to see his sister nearing the end of the hallway.
“Stop!” he cried. “What are you doing, Georgiana?”
She turned. “I-I thought I heard a noise.”
“So you came to see my wife?”
“I…” She paused, as if in thought, then sighed. “I didn’t want her disturbing the whole house.”
“Well, she didn’t.”
“She woke me.”
“I’m sure you’ll survive. Get back to your bedchamber. I’ll see you at breakfast. Or, if you find you’re overly tired from the disturbance, you can take breakfast in your chamber. I care not.”
She scowled, then retreated along the hallway and disappeared.
“You were too hard on her, James.”
He turned to see his wife settling onto a sofa beside the window, tucking her legs beneath her body. “She needs to give you the respect you are due.”
“As a viscountess?” Cordelia said, her gaze focused on the view outside. “I’d rather she liked me for myself than merely respected the title.”
He held out his hand, and she took it.
“Do you need me to stay?” he said.
To his shame, a yawn overcame him and he covered his mouth.
She smiled. “I’ll be all right. I want to watch the sunrise and you need your sleep. I’ll see you at breakfast.”
He glanced at her bed. Would it be an imposition to ask if he could sleep there, to be at hand if she needed him, while she watched the dawn?
Yes, perhaps it was. Her choice was to remain alone, accompanied only by the dawn. And the one thing he would never deprive her of again was the power of choice, when so many had taken it from her.
He lifted her hand to his lips. “Then, my love, I shall leave you in peace.”
She squeezed his fingers then shifted her gaze to him, her dilated pupils rendering her eyes the color of charcoal.
“Thank you.”
He bowed, then moved to the door.
It was a damned shame that men and women of his rank took their own bedchambers—that he was obliged to visit her to perform his marital duty, then return to his bedroom as if he were a stallion servicing a mare.
Unlike men of lower rank who—lucky bastards—were scandalous in their habit of remaining in their wives’ beds for the duration of the night.
But perhaps there was some merit in behaving a little scandalously. What could be more fulfilling than being there to soothe his wife at night before her nightmares took hold…
…and what could be more glorious than lying in bed with his wife in his arms while they watched the sun rise together?
But would she ever trust him enough to let him inside her soul?
He watched her for a moment, then glanced about the chamber that had once been his mother’s. His gaze fell on a painting on the far wall. It was not the landscape his mother had purchased, but another painting.
It was the painting he’d made for her—so poorly executed that he caught his breath in shame each time he recalled presenting it at the Lyon’s Den to the laughter of his rivals.
But his wife had not discarded it, or tucked it away in a remote corner. She’d given it pride of place on her bedchamber wall.
With renewed hope, he slipped outside, closing the door quietly behind him, then returned to his bedchamber.