The Smuggler Wore Silk Read Online Free PDF Page A

his heart began to pound. He shoved open the door, stepped through and snapped it shut, blocking out reality. He craved silence and space as he battled memory.
    The centerpiece of the room was a massive four-poster bed wreathed in dark crimson hangings. He could remember his father taking his mistress to this room well before his mother’s death.
    An elaborate marble fireplace dominated one wall of the room. Again, the ghost of his father hovered. In his mind’s eye, Julian saw him standing near the fireplace, tall and lean, with cruel blue eyes and a sharp-featured face. Memories surfaced of a glass thrown into the fireplace, the shards bouncing back into the room and slicing across his mother’s face. It was only one of a hundred injuries she had suffered.
    Julian turned from the fireplace and scanned the remainder of the room. A tall wardrobe hulked in one corner. Thick, dark rugs covered the floor and bulky curtains hung at the windows. His father had believed the heavy furniture and dark crimson and brown fabrics were masculine. Julian only found them oppressive.
    He pulled open the door leading to the dressing room that adjoined these chambers with the countess’s chambers. He strode through, intent on entering his mother’s old rooms. But when his fingers grasped the handle of the chamber door he stopped, unable to turn the knob and step through.
    His mother’s image flooded his memory. He could remember her eyes bright and laughing, as well as wide with fear and shock. He could see her crying, even pleading with his father. And he could see her lying dead on the cold parquet floor.
    Julian backed away from the countess’s bedchamber, leaving the door shut tight. He couldn’t enter, couldn’t face it. Stumbling through the halls, he retreated to the library where his brandy glass waited. Crystal clinked as his shaking hands refilled the glass.
    He picked up the knife. The hilt was cool against his palm. Solid. As familiar as the fingers gripping it. The symbol of what he’d become to prove he was not his father. To atone. Except death could not be undone.
    If he had been stronger, braver, he might have stopped her death. He would never know, and that tortured him more than the fact that his father murdered his mother.

Chapter 3
    “M ISS G RACIE! M ISS Gracie! He’s done it again.”
    Grace started, spilling powdered comfrey root onto her worktable. “Who’s done what?” Using her fingertips, Grace delicately scraped the fine powder into a pile.
    Cook bustled into Cannon Manor’s stillroom, her flushed and shining face set into disgruntled lines. “His lordship.”
    Grace’s fingers jerked. “His lordship?” Who? The Earl of Langford? What had he done?
    “Your uncle. He’s invited the gentlemen over without any notice.
Again.
How am I to plan dinner for six guests without proper notice?” Cook’s ample bosom heaved with indignity. The ladle she carried sliced through the air, coming perilously close to Grace’s face.
    “I’m sure you’ll manage, Cook. You always do.” Of course it was Uncle. Why on earth had she thought of the earl?
    “Common courtesy, I tell you.” Cook attempted to shove her flaming red hair back into its haphazard bun. “It’s common courtesy to give a body proper notice. What will the gentlemen think if they arrive for dinner and there’s nothing to eat?”
    Grace set aside the mortar and pestle. The comfrey root would have to wait. “What was planned for dinner tonight?”
    “Fresh trout and venison, Miss Gracie, but there isn’t enough trout for all the gentlemen. The gamekeeper offered to go fishing, but he might not catch anything—” The ladle arced again as Cook started tugging at her hair, setting the flames loose.
    “Didn’t farmer Cragman butcher a lamb yesterday?” She used her cotton apron to wipe the powder from her fingers. “As I recall he planned to bring by a leg of lamb.”
    “He brought two, Miss Gracie, in payment for you birthing their