Free The Chadwick Ring by Julia Jeffries Page B

from her person. She looked up again. “Of course, my lord, I am ready when you are.” She laid her small hand in Chadwick’s, and as he assisted her down from the coach, he glanced at her sharply, wondering why she suddenly seemed so much older.
    When she glanced back over her shoulder, the yellow curricle was just disappearing down the drive, and the footman returned to stand stolidly by the front door. Chadwick gave Ginevra his arm and escorted her into the welcome coolness of the vast and obscure entry hall. He patted her hand as he turned to address the manservant. “Her ladyship is tired from the journey, and I think we’ll postpone any tour of the house until tomorrow. Tell Mrs. Timmons to show her to her apartment and send up someone to attend her there until the coach with her own abigail arrives.” The footman quickly left in search of the housekeeper, and Chadwick made as if to go.
    “But ... but, my lord ...” Ginevra stammered, suddenly clinging to him as the one familiar object in this strange new world.
    He smiled down at her, his dark face lined with fatigue or anxiety, she wasn’t sure which. “Go on, little Ginnie,” he urged softly. “Rest awhile. I’ll tell Mrs. Timmons to have our supper sent up to your room later, and we’ll talk then.” He raised her hand to his lips; then he turned and strode away, his heels echoing on the stone floor.
    “Good night, Miss Gin ... my lady.” The dull thud of the sitting-room door as it shut behind Emma echoed through Ginevra, a reverberation of her own unease. She dug her fingers into the dark velvet upholstery of the Queen Anne wing chair whose back she leaned against, clinging to it in an effort to prevent herself from running after the maid, begging her not to abandon her to the man who would come soon, soon... Ginevra sighed. She could not recall Emma now. She must face what was to come alone.
    She sank into the chair, and the gossamer silk of her white negligee fluffed up over her knees, weightless as thistledown. She smoothed down the fabric nervously while she glanced around. She did not like this tenebrous room. The light from candles in a massive floor sconce was absorbed by the dark furnishings. The only bright spots anywhere were the reflections on the silver covers of the supper dishes spread on a low table beside her. A draft caused the yellow flames to flicker, casting distorted, oscillant shadows on the obscure hangings, the drab furniture, the portrait of some dour female Glover over the mantel. It was Lord Chadwick’s fault that she was in this awful place, she thought resentfully. Like Pluto carrying Persephone off to the underworld, he had abducted her from her bower of sunlight and flowers to bring her to this dreary, lifeless chamber that looked as if it had not seen daylight in a century. Oh, certainly the antique furniture was of excellent quality, the very best, and the practical side of Ginevra’s mind did note with mild satisfaction that under the housekeeper’s direction the room had been meticulously aired and dusted. But it was all so dark, so gloomy and ominous, and she hated it, she hated it. She wanted to go home.
    Tired and agitated, Ginevra bowed her head in despair. Her thick gold tresses tumbled loose over her shoulders, flowing in gleaming waves almost to her waist. Home. Now home was wherever her husband chose it to be, whether Queenshaven or London. She pondered the choice, trying to cheer herself. Queenshaven she detested, but London might not be so dreadful. She had never been there, her father had never permitted her to accompany him on his business trips, but she was sure the city had much to commend it. She could frequent the parks, the lending libraries, and perhaps Lord Chadwick would occasionally take her to a theatre on the Tottenham Court Road or to a concert in Vauxhall Gardens...
    Vauxhall. Where he liked to go with his mistress.
    Ginevra shuddered. For hours she had curbed her thoughts, refused to