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.