Bliss River Read online

  And yet she spoke of Aling to her daughter, enough so that Georgiana had felt as if she had a place, as if she be­longed somewhere.

  But now, this close to London, she wasn't so sure. She felt out of place, out of her element. She felt, now that the fog of sensual heat had cleared, that she'd made a big mis­take thinking she could just walk in on her father and ex­pect he would welcome her with open arms.

  And an even bigger mistake letting Charles Elliott fuck her. And thinking more about that than anything else.

  More stops coming closer to London: Westchester, Spawn Hill, Haverford. Almost there, almost there.

  The tension in her escalated. Now she avidly watched for the signs. Heymouth, Windsor, Wandsworth... too fast, too fast. Buildings everywhere, and crowded roads leading into the city, the train tracking right alongside, and then, with a slow long easing down the track and with a great smoky heave, the train steamed into Victoria Station. The journey was over.

  Charles knew London, which was another thing she didn't know about him. He knew it like someone who had lived there. Had no hesitation where to go, or what to do. Just took her arm and propelled her onto the platform to­ward the exit and the nearest hansom cab.

  Outside there was gloomy rnisty twilight as he bundled her into the cab and gave an address for someplace called Wexley. Nor did he explain. There was something grim in his expression, something she didn't wish to question, she was too tired to question.

  It took a little time to get there; traffic was a tangle of carriages, cabs, and pedestrians. Impressions bombarded her. The same crowdedness, the same noise. Streets like valleys with buildings rising up on either side. Gas lights. Drivers yelling curses. Carriages swerving. Whistles and church bells. Clattering across a bridge over a narrow ex­panse of water. Quieter but no less crowded on the other side.

  Everything so different. She would never get used to it.

  The cab pulled up alongside a row of brick houses with wide stoops not far from the bridge.

  Charles thrust some notes into the driver's hand and hustled Georgiana onto the sidewalk, covertly scanning the surroundings. There was nothing else in sight, just the muted gas glow of the streetlights marching in a row down the street and around the corner. A hovering fog. And the familiarity of returning to a place he knew.

  It was a welcome feeling after all these weeks and after the last few hours of feeling as if they were being stalked by an enemy.

  God, for all he knew, Moreton was around the corner.

  He took Georgiana's elbow and mounted the steps of the nearest house. Number thirty-six Wampton Road. Every­thing about it was the same as he remembered, even the worn brass door knocker.

  "Oh, oh mind your horses, I'm comin', I'm comin'." And a minute later, the door was opened by a rotund old woman dressed in purple, carrying a parlor lamp, which she held up to Charles's face, stared at him uncertainly for a moment, and then, "Bless my stars. Mr. Charles."

  "Miss Elmina..." He took her hands. "We need a room for tonight."

  "Come in, come in." She threw open the door and they entered a narrow hallway. To the left, there was a staircase with walnut banisters; to the right, an archway leading into an overstuffed parlor. There was furniture every­where, grouped around an ornate marble fireplace, three or four chairs, two sofas, a parlor table, two chairs by the front window and another table between them, covered in lace. Heavy curtains draped from elaborate cornices. fltageres in the two corners, crowded with ornaments and bric-a-brac.

  It was stuffy as cotton wool, and claustrophobic be­sides.

  "A room you shall have," Miss Elmina was saying, con­sulting a large book that was propped up on a lectern just by the entrance to the parlor. "Will your old room do? It has that little alcove, you remember? Dear me, you are the last person I ever expected to see. Again. I thought you'd gone to South America."

  "So I did," Charles said. "And here I am again. This is Miss Georgiana. I'm escorting her to her father's house."

  Miss Elmina was silent for a moment, and Georgiana saw she was tussling with the idea of them sharing a room on the basis of that minimal information. Then she said, "I see. Well, that's your business, Charles. So go on with you. You and the lady. Dinner as usual, in about a half hour, or Dora can bring you a tray. We'll settle everything else to­morrow."

  "That's satisfactory. I'd appreciate your sending up a tray. Georgiana?"

  She climbed the steep staircase to the third floor like a zombie. "His" room was the front room, the one with the not-so-subtle suggestion that its alcove could serve as a separate sleeping area for her.

  And indeed, there was a sofa in the alcove, as well as a table and lamp. And the bed that took up most of the space in the room proper. There was a fireplace, fronted by a chair and table. And a wash sink, and a built-in cup­board and drawers backed the closet where this room would have connected with the back bedroom.

  Charles walked around the room, lighting the lamps, brusquely checking everything out. "There is a bathroom down the hallway. And a little sink over there. You'll want to wash up."

  Georgiana stared at him. He had no idea how tired she was, and how much that corset hurt. Or how scared she was, of what was to come, and this new permutation—a room in a strange house among people he apparently knew.

  "I don't want to do anything but get out of these clothes. And hear your explanation as to what we are doing here."

  "Oh, that's coming, my lady." He was at the window, drawing curtains. "I just thought we both needed a few minutes' respite." He waved her to the couch. "Sit down."

  She sat, her posture stiff. "I just had no idea this journey would be like this. And this damned corset hurts."

  "I'm sorry to tell you, my lady, the corset goes on for­ever," Charles said, amusement lacing his voice. "Listen. I lived here, after I finished university, and before I went to South America, as you heard Miss Elmina say. It was safest place I could think to come."

  Safest place? Those were two words she never expected to hear, and the words that made the most impact. Safe from what?

  Prom whom?

  "Anywhere else," Charles went on coolly as she said nothing, "someone could track us down. Anywhere in London proper, in any event."

  Georgiana swallowed. "And who would be looking for us, in any event?"

  He didn't want to tell her. He was hoping she wouldn't insist he tell her. "It's just better not to take the chance."

  "Who?"

  Bloody hell. "Moreton. I think Moreton's in England. But by God, I can't figure out why."

  As promised, Dora delivered dinner some forty-five minutes later: some barley broth, lamb chops, mashed potatoes, stewed celery, blancmange and apple pudding for dessert—a boardinghouse dinner, and extremely wel­come at that point.

  Georgiana was ravenously hungry, having gotten out of the undergarments and shrouded herself in her abeya. She sat curled up on the couch, ruminating on the ramifica­tions of Moreton's being in England.

  He'd gotten tired of the Valley? How could he? He was king of the world there.

  Tired of sex, perhaps? Moreton? Never.

  Or maybe he was ready to conquer new worlds. Perhaps he had a master plan to convert the whole of England to his philosophy.

  That she could see. And it would definitely be a long-term plan, so obviously Moreton had to start now.

  She said as much to Charles as she devoured the lamb chops.

  "You have to have imagined it. There's no earthly rea­son for Moreton to come back to England."

  "I know." But he didn't know, and that was what made it so impossible. A mind like Moreton's was unfathom­able. On the surface, there was nothing for him to gain. And life in England had to be too constricting for a man with that depth of depravity in his soul.

  Moreton had everything he'd ever dreamed of in the Valley. Why would he ever think of coming back to England?

  The thing was, talking about him brought back every­thing about Bliss River. Every heated
moment. Every feel­ing. Everything that had happened between them they were both trying to suppress.

  It was always there, bubbling away, waiting for the mo­ment of implosion.

  She was but hours away from being returned to her fa­ther. He was not going to throw her on the floor and fuck her. Not tonight, and especially not in Miss Elmina's house.

  That part was over.

  Tomorrow she would disappear behind the doors of Aling to be cloistered in her father's house. That was the bargain, the barter, the payment for services rendered.

  The end of that chapter.

  And Moreton be damned. The man was too much in everyone's consciousness, the world he created too easily theirs on demand.

  Such an evil genius. So charismatically amoral, you could only fall under his spell or get out of his way. And if you didn't—

  The thought arrested him. You died. ..

  Where was Aling? Georgiana thought it was in Kent. Or Essex.

  By all that was holy—

  Charles was in and out of the room all morning, first with tea and toast, and then back downstairs to confer with Miss Elmina, which gave her the opportunity to dress, and to hide the misbegotten corset deep in the closet where some unfortunate boarder might find it months from now.

  It was so much better without it. She felt more like her­self; she felt as though she could finally breathe, without all that whalebone compressing the life out of her.

  But she couldn't understand Charles's sudden urgency to be on their way so early this morning. If anything, she wanted to prolong the moment when she would see her fa­ther.

  But this was the inevitable end. The second ending. The first was after they'd debarked from the Malabar, and it became clear that she had paid her debt to him in full, nothing more wanted, nothing more owed.

  She didn't like that kind of ending. And she wasn't so sure about a new beginning either; all of it felt like she was on a runaway train, and hanging on for dear life.

  And Charles now thundering up the stairs. "Pack your bag, my lady. We're leaving in ten minutes. I've hired a cab."

  Perhaps an hour outside of London, wasn't that what Olivia had said? And here they were, rolling at a brisk clip down a turnpike east of Wexley, on their way to Aling.

  "I should send a message," Georgiana said fretfully. "I was but two when he left; he won't know me. He'll require some proof, which I don't have, which I never even thought about bringing with me." "He won't refuse to see you."

  Georgiana stared out the cab window. Her hands were cold. And her body. The morning air was as damp and clammy as the day before. And it seemed as if the sun never rose in this place.

  "How can you know that?"

  "He'll be curious at the very least. And there can't have been any other one claiming to be his daughter turning up on his doorstep. I daresay it's not common knowledge that Olivia and he had had a child."

  She thought about that. Her father had willingly gone to Bliss River Valley with Olivia. Stayed because Olivia was pregnant? And gotten out as fast he could, once the baby was delivered?

  If he felt that strongly about leaving her there, as evi­dence did show, he certainly would never have made it known he had family at all.

  What stories had he told then to account for it? Or had he just taken mistresses by the dozen and told some fan­tastic lie about his wife—that she was insane, that he never could marry until she died.

  In her youth, she'd never given him a thought. Moreton acted the father in her life until she got old enough to com­prehend what his role was in the Valley.

  Dear Moreton, the gardener of Eden, planting his seed and spawning no child ...

  Why hadn't her own father come for her? Why hadn't he even tried?

  Or had Olivia prevented him with her own set of lies? There would never be normalcy for her, a child of wickedness, schooled in the Valley. And this dream of re­uniting with her father was about to turn into a night­mare.

  In the rolling landscape of Kent, south of Maidstone and east of Tunbridge Wells, just outside the little village of Medwyn, stood Aling, the country house of Henry Maitland.

  They came to it straight out of the village off the turn­pike going toward King's Lyme—Aling.

  The sun was up by this time, the air warm and the sky clear. And it was quiet, still. Church still, the only sound the carriage wheels crunching up the drive that wound around to Aling.

  She couldn't breathe. Now that they were that close to the house, she thought she would expire right on the floor of the cab. She couldn't absorb anything except that it was quiet and Aling—the house—was dead ahead of them, its crenellated roofline just visible above the trees.

  Slowly, inexorably, the house came into sight. A big stone house, sited low to the ground. Nothing intimidat­ing about Aling, if it weren't your father you were about to confront.

  The drive wound in a circle to the front door. There was not a sound as the carriage pulled to a stop. Just that still peacefulness. Nothing at all to be afraid of.

  She looked at Charles. His expression was grim.

  "Come in with me?"

  "We'll see."

  The carriage drew up to the door. There were two steps leading up to the highly polished front doors. The win­dows on the first floor were low to the foundation. Everything about the house seemed as if the architect had wanted to minimize its grand scale.

  But grand it was nevertheless, with twelve full windows marching along the second floor alone, and that smooth swath of lawn around which the drive curved.

  "Welcome to Aling," Charles said, getting out of the carriage and coming around to her side.

  "Come." He held out his hand. She took it, her own cold and trembling, her eyes locked with his, reading— what?

  The enigma of the man. The strength of his hand, the vigor of his body, now denied to her. If that was the price for this moment, she didn't want to pay it. Now she was here, surely she could make changes.

  He leaned forward suddenly and his lips touched hers. He meant it to be reassuring. He meant it to be a connec­tion between them, that he understood and nothing more.

  And certainly nothing carnal.

  And yet it jolted him, just rocked him to the ground to feel the softness of her lips against his in such a decidedly nonsexual way.

  Because the promise was there. And the heat. And her scent. And the memory of all they had done and every­thing still yet to be done. All there in the touch of her lips, in the faint sound at the back of her throat as he pulled away.

  And then she was out of the carriage somehow and the door was in front of her, and she couldn't move to save her life.

  Don't make anything of it. It was a kiss good-bye, noth­ing more, nothing less. The kind of thing that moves the earth, and yet when you look at it, nothing changes. Just you, because of everything that was, and everything that will not be.

  It was still early. Perhaps even too early to pay a call, she thought, desperately trying not to think about the kiss. They'd left Wexley before eight o'clock, so it couldn't be much past nine. Not a good time for visitors. Probably a very rude time for visitors to call.

  "It's way too early, isn't it? Can't we come back later?"

  "I overestimated how much time it would take to get here," Charles said blandly. "We might as well go in. Are you ready?"

  "No." Not ready for her father, not nearly ready for that soul-destroying kiss.

  "Good." Charles turned to the driver. "We'll be but a few minutes."

  "No never mind on me as long as the tick is running," he muttered. "Take your time."

  Then Charles stepped up to the door and rang the bell. It was a sonorous thing, tolling like a church bell, loud enough to wake the dead.

  "Not even a servant to come to the door?" she mur­mured. "How odd. But then, it is early and nobody re­ceives callers at this hour. Even I know that. Truly, Charles, we should come back later."

  He rang the bell again.

  And again
no one came.

  "Do you suppose—" He tried the door. It was un­latched and swung open easily. Too easily. Which made him very uneasy. "Well, now—"

  "Now I've become Alice," Georgiana said, trying to get a glimpse inside. It was dark, the reception hallway, and she could see nothing beyond Charles's shoulder. She won­dered what he could see.

  "Then I'll go down the rabbit hole," Charles said. "You stay here."

  That, in fact, would have been easier. But not after that kiss. And it was her father. And now she was wildly curi­ous to know why there were no servants to answer the door.

  She gathered up what little courage she could muster. "I'll come."

  Charles led the way. They entered a broad hallway that was sparsely but elegantly furnished with a thick Turkish carpet, a highly polished center table, and a crystal chan­delier.

  There were doors all around the hall, and not easy to tell which led to the hallway, the stairs, or the parlor.

  And it was so quiet. Too quiet. As if the household staff had all been given the day off.

  An impossibility. And Charles didn't like the further thought that occurred to him. "I suppose we'll just try one and see what happens ..." he said, choosing the one di­rectly opposite the front door.

  That proved to lead out to the main hallway, also simi­larly carpeted, and furnished with console tables and paintings. There were more doors along this hall and Charles walked back and forth across the hall, opening them.

  "The parlor. The dining room. Another parlor. The breakfast room. The library. The morning room. Aren't you wondering why no one has come to challenge our being here? The billiard room ..." He stepped inside that room for a moment, and then disappeared.

  Georgiana edged into the room after him.

  "Georgiana?"

  Oh God— "I'm here."

  "I found him . .. Don't come any farther."

  "What does that mean?"

  "What you think it means. He's in his office, back be­yond the billiard room. You do not want to see him. What you want to do is slowly and calmly walk out of here, and get into the carriage. Tell the driver I'll be along in a minute, that we made a mistake, that this is the wrong house after all, and I'm making amends with the butler. Are you clear?"