Night Fire Read Free

to his father as a young man; even his nose was slightly crooked and hooked in the same fashion, and his lower lip was fuller than his upper. His chin was just as prominent, his gray-blue eyes just as pale, just as piercing. She was afraid of him, she realized, and slowly, very slowly, so as not to gain her husband’s attention, she laid her fork across her plate.
    Etienne had been here for nearly two weeks now. It wasn’t that he appeared to openly admire her, or to show her any excessive courtesy. But still she found herself avoiding him. She was aware that on occasion Paisley would watch her, then his son, and there would be an assessing look in his eyes. Assessing what?
    â€œThe pheasant doesn’t appeal to you, Arielle?”
    He saw everything, which was strange because his eyesight was failing. “It is delicious. It is just that I am not very hungry this evening, Paisley.”
    â€œNevertheless, you will eat your dinner. It would displease me if you did not.”
    She picked up her fork and ate the pheasant. He hadn’t whipped her since the second night of his illegitimate son’s arrival at Rendel Hall. Nor had he forced her to be naked for endless hours in his bedchamber, hanging by that rope attached to the hook in the ceiling, or on her hands and knees in front of him, her hands on his body, her mouth caressing—She shuddered, gagged on the pheasant.
    Paisley said to Etienne, “No, she doesn’t look eighteen, does she? But she is, you know. She’s been a wife for nearly two years now.”
    Why would Etienne care how old she was? She risked a glance at him. He was staring at her. Her heart pounded, her hands grew clammy. “More wine, Etienne?”
    â€œ Non, madame ,” Etienne said easily. He turned back to his father, forcing a pleasant expression as he looked at the filthy old bastard. Surprisingly, he had accepted him with something akin to open arms, asked him to remain, but it worried Etienne because he didn’t know his sire’s motive. The only reason he’d journeyed to England was because his mother had asked it of him on her deathbed. Perhaps Lord Rendel wished him to kill someone? It sounded melodramatic, but he wouldn’t put it past the old degenerate. Perhaps he wanted to legitimize him and make him his heir? Well, that would be something. He wasn’t likely to have children by this wife.
    â€œYou find her acceptable?”
    Etienne looked at the old man’s veiny hand resting near his arm. He imagined that hand on Arielle. “ Oui , she is more than acceptable,” he said. “You wouldn’t have married her, I think, had she not been beautiful.” She was also hearing everything they said. Why was the old man doing this?
    â€œTrue,” said Paisley and returned to his plate.
    After dinner, Paisley told Arielle to play the pianoforte. “She is barely tolerable,” he said to his son. “Since she is lazy and won’t practice, what can one expect? She has a modicum of talent, so I abide listening to her now and then.”
    The pianoforte was out of tune, the keys yellowed, many of them cracked or sticking. She sat down on the swivel stool and essayed a French ballad. It sounded dreadful, but there was nothing she could do about it. She played until Paisley told her to stop. Upon his command, she immediately lifted her hands from the keys and folded them in her lap. And waited.
    Once, she had stopped when she had wished to. He had struck her, not even bothering to look up when the butler, Philfer, had come into the drawing room.
    â€œLet us have tea, my dear girl,” he said to her. “Ring for Philfer.”
    The butler brought in the tea, then looked at his master, not his mistress, for further instructions, which Paisley duly gave him. After Philfer had closed the salon doors, Paisley said, “You will go upstairs now, Arielle. You will have no tea.”
    Immediately, Arielle rose.