Silk and Secrets(102)

Rationally he had accepted that there was no reason to remain faithful to a marriage that was essentially over, but Ross had never been comfortable with the fact that technically he was committing adultery whenever he sought the solace of a female body. The uneasy balance he had struck between conscience and need had been less than satisfactory both physically and emotionally.

He rolled onto his back so that they were no longer touching. "I don't think you have any right to jealousy, though if it's any comfort, I'm sure that over the years my failures of fidelity were considerably fewer than yours."

"Reports of my debauchery were greatly exaggerated," Juliet said in a choked voice.

"Exaggerated, perhaps, but not invented out of whole cloth," he said tightly. Something dark and dangerous was stirring in the black depths of his mind, a scene he had buried, though he had never been able to forget. The memory forced its way to the surface, and with it came fury. "I don't know how many of the stories were true, but I had to believe the evidence of my eyes."

She sat up and drew away from him, to the edge of the bed. In the predawn light her face was pale and unreadable. "What... what do you mean?"

His hands clenched as he fought to bring his anger under control, but it would no longer be denied. "Do you remember when you stayed at the Hotel Bianca in Malta? I do."

Juliet gasped and drew her legs up, wrapping her arms around them. "What were you doing in Malta?"

He pushed himself up on one elbow and stared at her, his eyes narrowed. "What the hell do you think I was doing? I had come after you. Did you think that you could end our marriage with one cryptic note?"

His pulse began pounding as the past unrolled before his inner eye in all its gut-wrenching agony. It had been late when he had disembarked at the port of Valletta. He had gone direct to the Hotel Bianca, said to be the best hostelry on Malta. He had learned that Juliet had taken ship to the island, but expected that finding her would require a search.

Nonetheless, when he registered he asked, without much hope, if his wife, Lady Ross Carlisle, had arrived yet, for she would be meeting him soon.

When he described her, the concierge's face had lit up. Ah, yes, the beautiful fire-haired English lady, indeed she was here. Ross's bags had already been taken up to his room, but the romantic concierge gave him a knowing smile and another key, along with directions to Juliet's room "in case the English milord did not want to delay his reunion   until morning."

It was very late and Ross knew he should wait, but he had been unable to stop himself from taking advantage of the concierge's indiscreet helpfulness. The room was easy to find, at the south end of the second-floor corridor.

His heart had beat faster at the knowledge that Juliet was just a few feet away from him, but he paused before knocking. Though emotionally he was convinced that if they saw each other everything would be all right, logically he knew that she might be ambivalent about the unexpected arrival of her husband.

But he did not seriously doubt that they could solve the problem, whatever it was. There was too much love between them for their marriage to be over.

While he stood indecisively, the door had unexpectedly swung open and a man emerged. As the door was pulled shut and locked from inside, Ross froze, feeling as if he had been kicked in the belly.

The man's clothing was disheveled, as if pulled on in haste, and he had a sleek smile of tomcat satisfaction on his handsome face. Letters of flame on the wall could not have said more clearly that he had just had a sexual encounter with the woman on the other side of the door.

And Ross had recognized him, which somehow made the whole nightmare worse. It was the Comte d'Auxerre, a French diplomat who had once been pointed out to Ross at a ball in London. A tall fair man in his late thirties, he had been popular with society hostesses.

The count did not know who Ross was, for they had never been introduced, and Ross was not important enough to have been noticed by a distinguished foreign visitor. After a moment of surprise, the Frenchman saw the heavy old key in the newcomer's hand and gave a tolerant chuckle. "Ah, so the young lady is as hot as her hair. Enjoy yourself, my friend. She is worth the loss of a night's sleep."

Then the count had politely circled the younger man, unaware of how close he had just come to death.

Alone again, Ross had stood paralyzed, his body chilled yet drenched with sweat, his hands clenching and unclenching as he realized that his world had just irrevocably shattered.

The pain of his nails digging into his palms brought him back to the present; a present that was almost as painful as the past. Harshly he said, "When I arrived at the Hotel Bianca, I was told you were a guest, so I went up to your room. I was about to knock when one of your lovers walked out, looking very pleased with himself. The Comte d'Auxerre. Do you remember him, or was he just a passing fancy, forgotten by morning?"