Page 13 of Tall, Dark & Wicked
Though time had tempered the wound, Brendan had seen the pain his mother experienced at the loss of Reggie. The price one paid for loving so deeply. He shied away from any meaningful commitment to a woman, determined to only enjoy the physical delights of the opposite sex. Brendan had mostly been successful, except for Katherine. His affair with Pendleton’s sister had been fiery and combustible, and he’d felt a great deal of affection for her. They’d grown up together after all, and he’d known her his whole life. Thankfully, when she had married, Brendan’s heart had remained surprisingly intact. So many years later, he wasn’t even sure he was capable of such emotion. Nor did he seek love.
Perfect Petra should not have inspired the least interest in him. Proper, well-bred and so self-contained, Brendan found her enticing beyond words. Why, he wasn’t sure. Lust should have fled as she had become ill and puked on his boots; instead, he’d wanted to cradle her smaller form close to his chest and care for her. Petra was a beautiful,dangerousthing.
Mother started chattering away to Petra about London and some improvement his cousin Arabella was making to her town house. Once the discussion turned to the decoration of the nursery, Brendan stopped listening. He was too taken by the sight of Petra’s graceful hands as they held her cup of tea. What would those fingers feel like as they touched him?
Jesus.He needed to stop thinking such things least he burst the seams of his pants.
At last, Petra discarded what remained of her biscuit and excused herself to return to her room, claiming fatigue. In truth she was still pale and exhausted, with dark shadows beneath her eyes.
He stood, watching her leave, the desire for her coursing through his veins.
When he turned back to his mother, he found her calmly sipping her tea, a tiny smile tugging at her lips.
5
Petra declined another tray in her room and ventured down the stairs to breakfast. If she had to spend yet another day in her room, Petra would go mad. She had just slathered butter onto a piece of toast when Lady Cupps-Foster bustled in, her lovely face distressed and worried.
For a moment, the toast hovered above Petra’s lips. Honey dripped onto the table. Her first thought was something had happened to Morwick. He’d fallen climbing or disappeared much like his father had, into the earth never to be found again. Her chest tightened painfully at the thought of his loss.
But Lady Cupps-Foster wasdistressed, not…anguished.
Petra lowered her toast. Dear God, had Simon come from Brushbriar to fetch her? Was he waiting in the foyer? Petra sincerely hoped not. He’d not written her since their arrival, and, truthfully, Petra hadn’t longed for him to do so. The lack of his regard should have bothered her more, she supposed.
“Oh my dear, I’m sorry to tell you your mother has taken ill.” She placed a hand on Petra’s shoulder. “I don’t want you to worry. You shall stay here as long as need be until she is well. I’ve already summoned Dr. Stubbins. I am afraid your departure to Brushbriar will be delayed yet again. It is unfortunate, but one cannot predict illness.”
Mother was ill. Stricken by the very same stomach distress Petra experienced. She couldn’t help gloating just a tiny bit over the fact Mother was abed with a chamber pot in her lap. Even after Dr. Stubbins pronouncement, Mother had continued to insist a fuss had been made for nothing. Petra was only the victim of nerves.
It appeared Mother was nervous as well.
That was a terribly unkind thought, but Petra was so relieved. The trip to Brushbriar, already ominous as she had left London, had grown more so with each passing day. “Thank you, my lady. You are kindness itself.” She took Lady Cupps-Foster’s hand. “I’ll go up and check on her.”
“I’ll direct Dr. Stubbins up as soon as he arrives,” Lady Cupps-Foster assured Petra. “He should be along soon.”
Petra thanked her again and moved up the stairs toward the bedchamber her mother occupied, halting as she heard the sound of retching coming from within. The door cracked open to reveal a long beak of a nose situated between eyes dark like bits of onyx.
“Good morning, Agnes,” Petra greeted her.
“Lady Petra,” Agnes sniffed, “I am happy to see you up and about.”
The maid’s tone led Petra to think otherwise. “How is mother? Lady Cupps-Foster informed me she’d fallen ill?” She’d never liked Agnes, though the woman certainly took excellent care of Lady Marsh. Bitter and unpleasant, Agnes delighted in reporting infractions by the other Marsh servants to Lady Marsh. The rest of the household staff detested Agnes, who seemed to care little for their opinion.
“The stew, I’m sure, at thathorribleinn we stayed, though why she didn’t fall ill earlier is a mystery.” Her tone was slightly accusatory, as if Petra had done something to purposefully make her mother ill. “We’ve only that Dr. Stubbins to rely on instead of my lady’s physician in London.” Her opinion of Dr. Stubbins was obvious. “I’ll take excellent care of your mother, my lady.”
“Agnes!” Mother wailed from behind the door. “Is that Petra?”
“Yes, Mother.” Petra tried to peek into the room.
Agnes pulled the door closed. “You’ll not want to become ill again, Lady Petra. Your mother wishes nothing more to delay our arrival at Brushbriar. Perhaps it would be best if you return later.”
“Of course. Please fetch me once Dr. Stubbins has examined her.” Petra gratefully retreated. Maybe her mother would be more sympathetic the next time Petra became ill. She sailed back down the stairs whistling a jaunty tune.
With Mother ensconced in her room, unable to leave her bed, Petra was free of her dubious supervision for the day. Or possibly longer. Petra had been ill for a couple days; perhaps Mother’s stomach distress would be lengthy as well. The thought made her giddy.
She spent the next hour or so exploring Morwick’s home. Somerton was old, in a way the Marsh town house and estate were not. Many of the walls were constructed of limestone from the nearby countryside, and Petra suspected what she was seeing were the original castle walls. The manor house, though far from modern, had been built around a large, ancient tower, spiraling out in a jumble of stone and brick. As Petra became lost for the fifth time, she decided Somerton’s architect had designed a maze and not a house. She half expected to find the bones of some former guest who’d gotten lost and expired without ever finding the main hall again.
“Bollocks,” Petra whispered under her breath, staring at yet another dead end. Morwick really should post signs on the walls or pass out breadcrumbs. However would one find their way around Somerton on a consistent basis? She wondered if Morwick was even at home today, or was he busy exploring caves?
“I find him very intriguing,” she said in passing as she stopped before a group of portraits lining the wall.
