Lord Deverill's Heir, Catherine Coulter [the best motivational books .TXT] 📗

she neared her daughter’s bedchamber. She could not help remembering her own wedding night, filled with pain and humiliation. She shook her head even as her steps slowed further. No, it could not have been like that. Justin was so very different from her late husband.

Still, her hands were damp when she knocked lightly on Arabella’s door.

There was no answer. Not that she expected one. She knocked again. Would Arabella refuse to let her come in? Then she heard, “Enter.” Lady Ann was not certain what she expected to find, but when she walked into the bedchamber, she looked at her very normal daughter of yesterday.

Arabella calmly rose to greet her, dressed in her black riding habit, her velvet hat set high above smoothly arranged curls, the black ostrich feather curving over the brim, nearly brushing her cheek.

“Good morning, Mother. Whatever has you up and about so very early? Is Dr. Branyon coming?”

She sounded calm. Laced with that calm was centuries of arrogance that dared Lady Ann to say anything. Had she not seen Justin, not visited the earl’s bedchamber, she would have felt the complete fool.

“You ride as usual?”

“Of course, Mother. Is there any reason why I should not? I always ride early in the morning. Is there something you would like me to do?” There was more arrogance, so much Lady Ann felt she would drown in it.

Lady Ann found that she could not rise to the challenge. If Arabella did not wish to confide in her, she could not press her. She realized then that Arabella had rarely taken her into her confidence over the years.

Only her father had shared her thoughts, her dreams, her fears, if, that is, she’d ever had any.

“No, my dear, if you wish to ride, it is certainly your affair. I simply could not sleep and thought to bid you good morning. That is all. Well, I did see Justin in the breakfast parlor. He did not look quite well rested. He looked a bit tense, even, perhaps despondent for some very odd reason, well—”

An arched black brow shot up in suspicious inquiry. “I suggest that if you are concerned for Justin, you simply ask him how he fares. Now, I fear you will grow overtired if you do not get your rest, Mother. If you will excuse me—” Arabella drew on her gloves, tipped her hat to a more jaunty angle, and walked to where her mother stood. She kissed her lightly on the cheek, her expression softening almost imperceptibly, and walked quickly out of the room.

Lady Ann stood staring after her daughter. Damnation, what had happened?

As Arabella guided Lucifer past the old abbey ruins to the country lane that led to Bury St. Edmunds, her eyes were clear and straight, her gloved hands steady on Lucifer’s reins, her chin raised high.

Poor Mother, she thought, feeling suddenly guilty. She hadn’t treated her well. How had her mother known that something was wrong? And she had known. It was a mystery. So Justin hadn’t looked well rested, had he? He had looked despondent? Damn him to hell! Arabella rather hoped that he would rot, in addition to hell. He deserved to rot. He deserved every bad thing that could happen to him did happen.

Still, how had her mother guessed that something was wrong? Oh dear, had she seen the shambles in the master’s bedchamber? Had Grace not had enough time to burn her nightgown and the sheets? She would ask her when she returned to the abbey.

She flicked Lucifer lightly with the reins on the neck, urging him into a gallop. If only she could leave behind her all the ugliness, the pain, the hatred of the night before. And that horrible cream that had eased her, but still, it hadn’t mattered. Nothing had mattered to him. She felt sick with disappointment, with despair. She wanted to cry. But even as the wish flashed through her mind, she saw her father’s face filled with contempt. It was weakness, cowardice, to deny any experience that touched one’s life. It was utterly unacceptable to cry. Her shoulders straightened from long habit, however difficult, but she managed it, and her firm chin thrust forward.

Touch her life? God, Justin had ripped through her life, doing his utmost to destroy her. The nagging soreness between her thighs was bitter proof that he had violated her body. She would not let him ravage her mind and spirit as well.

His words were clear in her mind, yet they were so absurd that she had difficulty crediting them. She tried to remember his words, to give them some meaning she hadn’t yet comprehended, not to excuse him for what he had done to her, but to allow her to understand. Absurdly, he believed that the comte was her lover. And he’d spoken of seeing them at the barn.

It made no sense at all. She could not fathom how Justin had drawn such a damning conclusion. Someone must have lied to him, convinced him that she had betrayed him.

But who could have done that and, for God’s sake, why?

She frowned between Lucifer’s ears. It was beyond obvious that he had believed the lie. Then why had he gone through with their marriage? Ah, but she was being stupid. If he hadn’t gone through with the wedding, he would have lost the greater portion of his inheritance. And he’d said it himself. He’d been quite clear. She had betrayed him but he couldn’t kill her else he would lose everything. But he was thinking about killing Gervaise. She wondered dispassionately if he would kill the comte. She found that she didn’t care a great deal, except, of course, that the comte was innocent of bedding the earl’s bride.

She pulled Lucifer to a halt. He was breathing hard. She looked about her and realized with a start that she had ridden past the Roman ruins without even noticing. She drew up and patted her horse’s neck. She suddenly remembered a phrase