Firelight
Page 6The second, a glass of port to be imbibed while sitting in his favorite chair before the fire. Today was no different. He settled down with a satisfied sigh, his old bones aching yet comforted by the warm hearth, and picked up the morning edition of the Times. The fire popped, and the paper rattled in the quiet. A peaceful moment shattered as a shout of pure incredulity broke from his lips upon reading the wedding announcement of Lord Benjamin Aldo Fitzwilliam Wallace Archer, Fifth Baron Archer of Umberslade, to Miss Miranda Rose Ellis.
“Son of a bitch!” He slammed the paper down in a rare display of temper. That bastard. Returning to England when he had promised to stay away. After all the work Percival had done to hush things up, the countless times he had covered Archer’s tracks, for the sake of all their reputations. Now in jeopardy because Archer had a twitch in his cock. Impertinent lot, the Archers. One and all. By God, it was not to be borne. The impudent whelp would have to be spoken to, firmly.
A cold wind touched his back, an icy caress from an open window. The oddity of it barely touched his mind before an arm slammed around his chest, pinning him to the chair. Heart in his mouth, he caught the sight of a black mask at the corner of his eye.
“Archer?” he rasped. Blood thundered through his ears. His bladder had let loose, the thick briny smell cutting through the cold air as the warmth seeped over his skin.
“Forgive me,” said a familiar voice that caused Percival to convulse against the chair. “But I need you to send a message.”
Steel flashed white in the soft light. A sharp burn shot across Percival’s throat. He gagged, hot blood splashing his shaking hands, splattering across the white marble mantle and the faded daguerreotype of Bea on her fortieth birthday. He took a rattling breath, tasted salt and blood upon his tongue. Bea.
“Are you well settled?” Lord Archer led Miranda to a table long enough to seat twenty, with silver candelabrums running down its long center. The mirror-paneled table was laden with food enough for a party. The sight of numerous silver-domed serving dishes perplexed her as the table was set for one. A single, lonely place setting next to the head of the table.
He held out the chair in front of the setting and bid her to sit.
“Yes, thank you.” She eyed the food with amazement as he proceeded to lift the lids himself. Wafts of steam rose from the dishes and, with it, the scent of rich warm food, too much to distinguish any one component but rather a miasma of such delectability that her mouth watered. “You are not eating?”
“Alas, I cannot dine with you,” he said with a touch of asperity, for the reason was obvious. “I dined earlier.”
She glanced away from the mask, wondering with chagrin if they were ever to dine together. “Then all of this bounty is for my benefit?”
“As I understand, you have forgone the pleasure of eating such foods for some time.” He reached for her soup bowl. “Oyster stew or chicken soup?”
“Oyster, please.” A happy smile pulled her lips. She hadn’t had oyster stew in years.
Lord Archer ladled the fragrant white broth into the bowl and set it down. “Whereas I have been blessed with endless bounty, yet no one with whom to share it,” he finished, handing her a small silver bowl filled with oyster crackers.
“But I could not eat all of this.”
“Well, I certainly hope you shall try a little. Careful consideration has gone into the planning of this meal,” he said lightly. “I shall be thoroughly put out should you waste away from lack of effort.”
“Wish to fatten me up, do you?”
“Mmm.” Gray eyes skimmed over her form. “How does the fairy tale go?” He rested an elbow on his chair arm. “Ah yes, I have lured you into my luscious house of candy and gingerbread to tempt you with sugared delights. And when you are nice and plump, I shall gobble you up.”
A flush of tangible heat washed like the tide over her skin. There was only light laughter in his tone yet the force of his gaze made her turn away. Stomach fluttering, she tried to look stern. “I suppose you have forgotten that Gretel outwitted the old witch in the end and roasted her alive.”
“Yes, quite,” Miranda agreed with a smile. Ah, but he was charming. Unexpected, but decidedly so. “Very well, I shall do my part. Only what of the rest?”
“The servants shall have it.” He looked at her with some amusement. “Does that appease you?”
“It does.”
The creamy soup, ripe with plump oysters and golden puddles of butter, tasted like heaven on a spoon. She nearly groaned with pleasure and forced herself to eat slowly, aware that Lord Archer watched with rapt interest.
“Wine?” He poured with the deft ease of a seasoned servant.
“Is this how we shall normally dine?” The service was like nothing she’d seen before. While resembling a familiar meal served a la française, there were no removes. Everything was simply on the table, including a large platter of fruit, overflowing with velvety figs, glossy pears, and crisp apples, cut open and saturated with rich color.
“No.” A touch of humor lifted his voice as his eyes continued their watch. “Call this…”—his hand waved toward the table—“a bit of fancy on my part. I wanted you to have a wedding feast of sorts.”
She lowered her wineglass, her gaze catching his, and a strange sensation of longing rushed through her. Perhaps he felt it too, for he looked away and toyed with a silver salt cellar with his long, be-gloved fingers. A footman entered as if by magic, whisked away her bowl, and left while Lord Archer lifted more lids.
“We needn’t stand on ceremony,” he said. “I’ve never understood why one must have soup, then fish, then fowl or meat.”
She had to laugh. “Or food that isn’t too highly spiced. At least not for ladies.”
He laughed as well. “Indeed. And all very properly served. Why not eat what we want when we want?” He took her plate. “Although, now that I’ve had a look, might I suggest the sole? My cook is quite gifted, I have to say.”
“Yes, please.”
“Food is the one thing I did not miss when I was away from England.” He handed her the plate and sat. “I should think I’d find myself much aggrieved should I have to partake in a proper English dinner any time soon.”
“Is our cuisine really so awful?”
“When you’ve sampled what the rest of the world has to offer, yes. Although we do breakfast spectacularly well.”
Miranda glanced at her husband. A person’s skin, she realized just then, was an indispensable clue as to one’s true age. As Lord Archer’s attire revealed none of his, she could only guess at his age. His voice was of no help; rich and rumbling, it could belong to a man aged twenty-five to sixty. Her eyes trailed over the lean, muscular body of a man in his prime. With such a physique, he could not be older than forty-five. But the quick, light way in which he moved gave the impression of youth. In his thirties, perhaps? It must be so, as he was too much in command of himself to be a man in his early twenties.
“Have you been abroad all this time, Lord Archer?”
He sat back, resting one arm on his chair. “I haven’t lived in England for many years. I returned briefly three years ago and then set back out to travel the world over.”
“At times. Though I did settle in America for a decade before I began to roam again.”
A light came into his eyes that Miranda recognized. “You liked it there, didn’t you?”
“I like it here better,” he said softly, and Miranda’s skin went tight and warm. They stared at each other for a slow moment before he cleared his throat and spoke in a lighter tone. “I like Americans. They do not think as we do. A man is what he makes of himself, and should he make a name for himself, the journey that brought him to his fortune is very admirable to Americans. They praise achievement, not the past. I took the idea to heart.”
She eyed him speculatively. “You became a man of industry.”
“Of oil and steel,” he said.
Food forgotten, she leaned forward, almost afraid to ask, but compelled. “How fortunate were you?”
His eyes flicked to hers. “On last accounting, I am worth fifty-two million dollars.” He gave a little laugh. “Ten years in America and I irrevocably think of money in terms of dollars. Hmm… I did not factor in my English revenue. So perhaps it is more to the effect of seventy million…” He looked at her in alarm when she made a strangled gasp. “Are you quite well?”
“God in heaven,” she managed at last. The room spun for a moment. She pressed a palm to her heated cheek. “Yes… I’m all right.” She looked up at him. “Seventy million? I cannot begin to fathom.”
“It is rather daunting.” He poured her some white wine before drawing away. “Though I can assure you, our wealth comes nowhere near that of some of my associates. Mr. Rockefeller and Mr. Carnegie, for example, are much more voracious in their quest for capital.”
That he tried to downplay his achievement made her smile.
“At any rate, I have decided to retire from my American activities.” He hesitated. “Er, that will increase our holdings a bit when I sell things off,” he said wryly.
Her laughter felt unhinged. “A bit, eh? You might as well be Croesus.” She looked at him sharply. “Our holdings?”
“Of course ours. You are my wife.” He gave a little bow of his head. “What is mine is yours.” His casual stance on the chair shifted to stiffness. “You are making a face,” he remarked.
She touched her cheek again. “Was I?”
“The idea of us being so linked does not appeal to you?”
Miranda shook her head to clear it. “To tell you the truth, I find the whole idea rather mercenary on my part. It hardly seems fair that I should gain access to your fortune simply for speaking a few vows in a church.” She took a sip of tart wine. “I think you got the short end of the stick in this venture.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “I believe you are the first woman in history to think so.” He laughed again. “And you are quite wrong.”
Their eyes met, and that spark of something hot and sharp ripped through her again. Awareness. It took a moment to realize, but that was it. She was utterly aware of him. Of the breadth of his shoulders, the deep even way he breathed, the force of his gaze. Bloody hell, but she was beset by the craving to touch him, test the strength in those shoulders.
Unaccountably flushed, she set her attention to the lamb. “I think you’re cracked, but whatever you wish to believe, Lord Archer.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” His voice was still soft but there was an edge beneath it.
She looked up to find him glaring down upon the empty place in front of him.
“What? Lord Archer?” she asked, surprised.
“Yes.” He moved to touch his brow, but finding the mask upon his face, flung his hand down. “It is too formal. You are my wife, not an acquaintance. Husbands and wives are partners in life, are they not? The one person who will support you when all hope seems lost.” He blinked suddenly, as though he hadn’t meant to speak such things aloud, then straightened his spine. “Or so one hears.”
Emotion clogged her throat. Partners. She’d always been alone. Something tender and precious welled up within her chest, and she fought the urge to clutch her hand to her breast to hold onto the feeling.
“Well, in that case,” she said when she could speak again, “I suppose I had better think of something more suitable.” She worried her lip considering. She ought to call him Benjamin. But it was too intimate, too soft.
“My lord?” she ventured, only half serious.
“Good God, no.”
She bit back a smile. “Husband?” She took a sip of wine.
He grunted. “Are we to become Quakers?”
Miranda set her glass down quickly, nearly choking. His eyes crinkled at the corners, a sure sign of him smiling. She sat back in her seat.
“Archer, then.” Something queer went through her. A lock had been turned, as though her use of his name had unleashed something untamed inside of her. She wanted to say it again. If only to revel in the odd little thumps it elicited in her heart.
He was quiet for a moment. “Archer sounds well upon your lips.”
She took a hasty bite of curried lamb. Perhaps she had drunk too much wine.
Behind him, the fire snapped, the warmth of it heating her bare arms. He must have been positively flushed sitting so close to it, but he didn’t seem so. His long frame subtly stretched back toward it, like a cat luxuriating in the heat of the sun.
Fire: her greatest comfort and source of her deepest shame. The great log in the middle suddenly snapped in half, and the fire flared hotter for one brief instant. Immediately, he uttered a nearly soundless sigh, his stiff shoulders easing a touch. Yes, he craved the warmth of the fire. It sparked an odd feeling of kinship.
Indeed, for the first time in memory, she felt… not comfortable, precisely—he affected her too much for her to relax into that emotion—but safe. She felt she might say anything she wished and not be ridiculed for her opinion, nor forced to justify her existence or usefulness. The sensation was a breath of clean air in the deepest of London fogs.