She laughed at his eagerness to be acquainted with his charge. “Yes, this is Percy. He is purebred Arabian. He was brought here from Persia by ship as a colt.”
As she said it, she heard it: the casual brag, and the privilege she had. Poor Percy; how frightening the journey must have been. He had suffered in order to be a birthday gift for a spoiled girl? She was wicked. She ran a hand down the animal’s gleaming neck to say, I’m sorry, so sorry. “I have had him half my life, and he is precious to me. You must be kind to him. I’m sure you’ll do a fine job.”
“He’s a good match for Solomon; they both have the same white blaze. Sir Black’s horse,” Jacob prompted when she looked blank.
“Will finally named his horse,” Angelika said, beaming. “Please make his stable a nameplate.”
“I surely will. Sir, I’ll take him.” He led away the two horses, tying Christopher’s nearby. As he walked off into the darkness, Jacob called out, “And, miss? I’m terribly sorry. For what I did.” He was gone before she could question him.
“Has he already made a blunder?” Angelika pulled off her gloves. “More staff popping up around here. Probably a good thing.”
“Who is Sir Black? An uncle or cousin to impress?” Christopher examined his cuff. “Never fear, I shall attempt it.”
“He is my brother’s colleague,” Angelika said as the front door opened. “Ah, here he is now.”
Will stepped out to join them, and the two men faced each other.
It was like comparing daylight to darkness. Christopher was a bright, blond sunny day; a creaseless sheet on a washing line. But Angelika had always been drawn to the calm, cool, and stars. She liked lightning strikes, and the tawny patterns in owl feathers. The intimacy of what she had done with Will—how she had created him and watched his first breath—could not be matched by any other.
The shock of the two men’s juxtaposition blended into a new concern: this was a huge risk for Will to take if he had indeed originated from the military academy. But a bland silence followed.
“How do you do? I am Commander Christopher Keatings.”
“Will Black. I am well, thank you. Very late to come home, Angelika.” Will spoke like a chiding husband—a role he seemed to take on whenever it suited him. “You are not dressed well enough for the cold.”
She would usually luxuriate in his concern, but it was not done for her benefit. “I’m not a child. Hiring stablehands for me, are you? And a groundskeeper?” She ran a hand over the tamed honeysuckle.
Will’s stare intensified. “I live here, so I see where the household shortcomings are. You also have a cook starting tomorrow.”
Christopher raised his eyebrow. “Hiring staff is a wifely duty.”
Will did not take the bait. “All I want is for Angelika to live comfortably.” The unspoken end to that sentence was when I am gone.
She bristled. “I’ve always been comfortable.”
Will continued answering Christopher. “We don’t rely on rank, and we all contribute. Men and women do things quite equally here.”
“How modern,” Christopher managed. The air between the men was now tense. “What exactly is your acquaintanceship, Angelika?” It was obvious to Christopher that the brother’s colleague label did not fit. When she dithered on a reply, and Will offered nothing, Christopher decided to sidestep the foot soldier and appeal to the general. “I should like to meet your brother.”
Before she could answer, a female voice above them said, “And to think, I’d been worried about the lack of theater in the countryside.”
They all looked up to see Victor and Lizzie both hanging out an open window. He was shirtless, and Lizzie appeared to be wearing bedsheets.
Victor bit into his apple, and said with his mouth full, “So you’re the commander. Jelly has been very coy about you. Handsome blighter,” he added as an aside to Lizzie. “Bloody hell, not a hair out of place, and meanwhile, Jelly looks like she’s waltzed through a hedge.”
“Shut up,” Angelika cursed him. “Lizzie, do I?”
“You look ethereal,” Lizzie assured her. “Moonlight becomes you ever so much.”
“You are truly lovely,” Christopher confirmed.
Will crossed his arms, his face tight with displeasure.
“Hedge,” Victor said again.
Christopher bowed to him. “Lord Frankenstein, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Commander Christopher Keatings.” Meeting a flushed undressed couple, one floor up, did not faze him. “And good evening to you, madam.”
“Hello, I’m Lizzie. Almost-Duchess Lizzie Frankenstein.” This earned her a ravenous love bite on her shoulder, and her husky laugh rang out across the gardens.
Christopher persevered. “I have escorted Angelika home safely. We were enjoying ourselves too much, and afternoon tea became supper.”
“He’d like it to turn into breakfast.” Lizzie’s whispered quip carried beautifully in the night air. “Oh, invite him in, Bear. Let’s all play cards.” Then she whispered something, and Victor whispered back. Then they started kissing.
Angelika huffed at how socially inconsiderate they were. “Did you find that man you were searching for, Vic?”
“I didn’t go out today,” Victor said, after tearing himself away. He did look suitably chagrined. “I was . . . busy.”
“Well, it looks like rain, so well done. He’ll be wet and cold.”
“Perhaps I could be of assistance,” Christopher offered, glancing between the siblings. “Who is it you are looking for?”
Victor hesitated, and then appeared to make a decision. “Come for dinner, Chris, so we can get to know you. We could use some entertainment. Here, Belladonna.” He dropped his apple core into the garden below, which prompted a great deal of rustling and grunting, but Christopher did not blink.
Victor said, “I shall send an invitation to you shortly.”
“I should be delighted,” Christopher said, but his eyes were on Will. “I’d enjoy the chance to get to know you all much better.”
Chapter Thirteen
Shortly after Christopher’s exit, Will had stalked off into the dark, telling Angelika only: “Don’t.”
An afternoon spent drinking had loosened the cork on her emotions, and she desperately needed an ear, but Victor’s bedroom door was closed. Angelika knocked and called softly, “Lizzie?”
“Fuck off, Jelly!” Victor yelled breathlessly from within. “I am showing Lizzie something very, very, very important.”
“Disgusting,” Angelika replied, then cried at various points of the hallway: slumped on the railing, at the top of the stairs, then underneath her mother’s portrait. Receiving absolutely no sympathy there, she slithered snail-like on her trail of salt water to rest against Will’s doorjamb.
The thought of Lizzie becoming mistress of Blackthorne Manor did not specifically bother Angelika. She had no great affection for this house and had spent too much time in it. But Larkspur Lodge was like a forgotten sapphire in a drawer, and the prospect of losing it, even to someone she loved, pricked at her heart.
She thought: Please, Lizzie, if I could have anything, it would be Larkspur.
After more cathartic tears and a cold soapy rinse of her more urgent areas, and once she’d picked the numerous leaves out of her hair (Victor had been right as usual; how terrible), she remembered she was on Will Watch tonight. Given that he was now prone to walking all over the house and his penchant for books, she had earlier volunteered to sleep downstairs in the library.
“He will avoid me, even in sleep,” she said to herself, dressing in one of her mother’s silk gowns, plus a robe and slippers. “Poor Angelika, sleeping on the lumpy chaise,” she grumbled as she went downstairs, dragging a blanket and pillow. “Poor Angelika, after the day I’ve had—”
She was startled by a dark shadow at the foot of the stairs.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said when she recognized the silhouette.
“It is I, your brother’s colleague. Did I hear you correctly just now? Poor Angelika?” Will’s tone was plain: he thought her ridiculous. She passed without a word, the blanket sweeping across his feet like a bridal veil.
He followed. “Poor Angelika? Don’t make me laugh.”
“You’ve finally come to ask me if you are a married man. I’m amazed you’ve restrained yourself this much.” She went into the library and began to make her bed. “Well, go on, then. Ask me if you have a wife called Clara.”
Will closed the door, then added fuel to the dying fire. “That’s not at the top of the list.”
Angelika sat on the chaise and crossed her legs. “Ask your burning question, then.”
He turned his face to her. “How do you expect me to sit through a dinner with him looking at you like that?”
For the first time, Angelika felt afraid of him. She had no idea who he really was, and right now, he had fire in his black eyes. His hair curled into horns. He was demonic, and it was a further contrast to Christopher’s angelic blondness. But he had the gall to ask her this, when he was actively trying to return to his original life?