The Sleeping Beauty - Jacqueline Navin Mills & Boon Historical

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the answer to that soon enough.”

      Startled, she whirled on him, eyes wide.

      Strangely, he wanted to soothe her. Instead, his words came out sharp. “Do you truly want me to leave you to this dreary life? Do you love it so much?”

      Her hand came to her throat. He could see it convulse under those long, thin fingers. He didn’t relent. “Perhaps this is why your father accepted my suit, to get you out of this….” He waved his hands around, at a loss for words to describe the stagnant air around him. “So it remains, Helena, whether you will obey him in his wishes. Will you consent to marry me as your father commands? You are a dutiful daughter, aren’t you?”

      She looked up at him all of a sudden, startled. A doe cornered. Everything inside her was laid bare, raw and vulnerable. In a stinging moment of clarity, he understood something, something he couldn’t even name, a feeling. That she needed him.

      It was an intoxicating realization, filling him with a sense of power. Shoving aside the prickles of conscience, he pressed his advantage. “Will you consent to marry me?” His body tensed, awaiting her response.

      Her shoulders weren’t as squared. Her fear had edged out the burst of defiance and there was an air of resignation about her that curled his nostrils like a hound hot after the scent of a tired hare.

      “Go away.” It wasn’t a command; it was a plea. “Leave me alone.”

      “I want an answer.”

      Her jaw worked rebelliously, but she lowered her eyes. Softly, she replied, “I do not believe I have a choice.”

      The surge of relief and triumph swept down from shoulders to heels, leaving him trembling with reaction. He’d done it. He’d gotten the money.

      Slanting a glance up at him, her tone laced with contempt, she added, “If you are inclined to gloat, I would be grateful if you would do it somewhere else. And while you are congratulating yourself, Mr. Mannion, consider that you may find the fruit you have stolen may prove sour before too long.”

      He ignored her, grinning as he snatched her hand. It was so cool. He touched his lips quickly to the slender back. “You taste sweet enough to me.”

      Snatching her hand back, she glared at him with prim affront. He laughed, buoyed by his great fortune today. “Now, I am off to have my things brought up from the inn.”

      “You are staying here?”

      “At your father’s invitation.” He hiked his brows wickedly. “Are you not happy to have me close? All the better to learn all those things a husband should know about a wife, wouldn’t you say?”

      She looked like she could claw his eyes out without a moment’s hesitation. Without a word, she stormed off, her too-large dress gaping in the back. It should have made her look silly, like a twelve-year-old in her mother’s gown, and yet she held herself with a dignity that would not allow anything so frivolous to be associated with her magnificent exit.

      Narrowing his eyes as he stared after her, he wondered if she were going to prove difficult. He hadn’t bargained on having to actually contend with his new wife.

      Shrugging, he turned to other, more pleasant thoughts. Thoughts of money—six thousand a year! He laughed out loud as he jammed his hat on his head and exited the house.

      Chapter Four

      George Rathford was not nearly as drunk as he wanted to be. Maybe there wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to take him to the oblivion he sought. Damnation, he was tired. Tired of the pain, tired of the hopelessness.

      He blamed Althea, though it did him no good. It was useless to fault someone who was dead for one’s problems. A cat chasing his tail was what he was—hating his deceased wife and helpless to do anything about the daughter whom he loved more than anything on this earth.

      Had he done the right thing today? It was so hard to know. One rarely acted wisely when one was desperate.

      There was little time left.

      The housekeeper, Mrs. Kent, came in. “You wished to see me, my lord?”

      “Instruct the servants that this man, this Mr. Mannion, is to be treated with all honor and courtesy. I want his room cleaned impeccably, his meals hot. I know there are precious little staff left, Mrs. Kent, but I must urge you to make the best impression possible.”

      “Will Kimberly also be expected to work, my lord?”

      Rathford paused. The old Irishwoman was a blight on the house. Everyone was terrified of her, of her superstitions and her “powers.” He considered it all foolishness, but he couldn’t quite work up the courage to get rid of her. She was just a part of life in this old place—not a pleasant part, but a part just the same.

      Perhaps Kimberly’s presence was Althea’s revenge on him for being happy she was gone.

      “Kimberly has her own duties,” he said, and swallowed a large gulp of whiskey to chase away his self-disgust.

      Mrs. Kent’s voice was stiff with disapproval. “Very well, my lord.”

      “One more thing. There is to be no…talk. That is, the reason for my daughter’s seclusion may be of interest to Mr. Mannion. This might cause him to ask questions of the staff. No one is to speak of the accident. I cannot be more firm about this, Mrs. Kent. Any gossip on this topic will result in an immediate dismissal and no reference.”

      “That’s harsh, sir.”

      “Indeed. So they will know how serious I am about this matter. My daughter’s secret is to be kept.”

      “Very good, then. I’ll tell them.”

      “And have Charles fetch another bottle, will you?”

      Her frown creased her face. “Yes, my lord.”

      Adam spent the better part of the afternoon in the stables, as his room had to be “aired.” Judging from the din coming from the house and the sight of several windows flung open to disgorge huge amounts of dust, the term “aired” was a euphemism for a full-fledged scrubbing.

      While they worked, he enjoyed the company of horses and was surprised to find some astonishing specimens of horseflesh housed in the stalls. There were the work animals, and two fine Arabians whose sagging bellies bespoke of overfeeding and no exercise. With nothing better to do, he took them out to the paddock and trotted them a bit, then brushed them down when a quick-rolling thunderstorm drove them inside.

      Tired and having worked up an appetite, Adam wandered into the house. The kitchens were deserted. Pilfering a smoked sausage from a string of links hanging on a peg, he munched as he sauntered out of the room and roamed the halls.

      He smothered the smug sense of proprietorship that came over him. The place was nothing short of magnificent—underneath the dirt. It would be his someday. It felt good, and this surprised him. After all, he didn’t even expect to be living in it, save those times he was obligated to visit.

      Yet his mind couldn’t help but create images of what the Romanesque busts would look like without their layer of grime, and just how brilliantly the gold leaf would glimmer if the filth-lined windows actually allowed in some light.

      His good mood dwindled, however, as he passed through room after room of moth-eaten draperies and dust-dulled furniture. The Sleeping Beauty…yes, he felt like he was in an enchanted castle, and it was starting to send creeping tremors of disquiet up his spine.

      The eerie effect was worsened by the loud patter of rain on the windowpanes. It sounded like bony fingers tapping, begging entry. It followed him as he wound his way through the house.

      There was a music room, a portrait gallery, a column-lined portico overlooking a large ballroom that was now used for storage, apparently. In a small parlor, a painting caught his eye.

      He

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