by Mary Balogh
Helena found herself carrying the rosy-cheeked little boy, who gazed at her in the hope that this new playmate would prove as entertaining as the last. The innocence of babyhood shone out at her from his eyes and the total trust of a child who had not yet learned the treachery of the world or of those he most loved.
She was terrified. And fascinated. And very close to tears. She smiled and kissed him and made a play out of stealing the apples from his cheeks. He chuckled and bounced and invited a repetition of the game. He was soft and warm and surprisingly light. He had tiny white baby teeth.
Helena drew in a deep breath. She had a surprising memory of wanting children of her own during the early years of her first marriage, of her disappointment each month when she had discovered that she had not conceived. She had been so relieved later and ever since to be childless that she had forgotten that once upon a time she had craved the experience of motherhood. There was a child in her womb—now. This time next year, if all went well, she could be holding her own baby like this, though hers would be somewhat younger.
A surge of yearning hit her low in her womb, almost like a pain. And then an equivalent dose of panic made her want to drop the Bridgwater child and run as far and as fast as she could go. She was being seduced by domesticity.
“Let me take him from you, ma’am.” The Duke of Bridgwater was a coldly handsome man, whom she would have considered austere if she had not occasionally glimpsed the warmth of his relations with his wife and son. “He entertains the erroneous belief that the arms of adults were made to be bounced in. Come along, rascal.”
The child was perfectly happy to be back with his papa. He proceeded to bounce and gurgle.
“Ah, the memories, Daughter,” Mr. Downes said. “Having my children small was the happiest time of my life. I would have had more if my dear Mrs. Downes had not died giving birth to Cora. After that, I did not have the heart to remarry and have children with another wife.”
If Christian had lived, Helena thought, he would be older than her father-in-law was now. He would have been seventy-one. It was a fascinating thought. “Children like you,” she said.
“It is because I like them,” he said with a chuckle. “There is no child so naughty that I do not like him. And now I have grandchildren. I see Cora’s children as often as I can. I will see yours more frequently. I will lure you from Bristol on every slight pretext. Be warned.”
“I believe it will always be a pleasure to be at Mobley, sir,” she said.
He looked at her with raised eyebrows.
“Papa,” she added.
“I believe,” he said as he turned onto a different path, leading the group downhill in the direction of what appeared to be extensive woods, “you will do very well for my son. He has waited perhaps overlong to choose a bride. His character has become set over the years and has grown in strength, in proportion to his successes in life. I was successful, Daughter, as witness Mobley Abbey, which I purchased rather than inherited. My son is many more times successful than I. It will take a strong woman to give him the sort of marriage he needs.”
“You think I am a strong woman?” Helena asked.
“You were a widow for many years,” he said, “when you have the beauty and the rank and wealth to have made an advantageous match at any time. You have traveled and been independent. Edgar reported to me that he had the devil’s own time persuading you to marry him, despite the fact that you are with child. Yes, I believe you are a strong woman.”
How looks could deceive, she thought.
A lake had come into view through the trees. A lake that was iced over.
“This will be the scene of some of our Christmas frolics,” her father-in-law said. “There will be skating, I do believe. And the greenery will be gathered among these trees. We will make a great ritual of that, Daughter. Christmas is important in this family. Love and giving and peace and the birth of a child. It is a good time to have a houseful of children and other guests.”
“Yes,” she said.
“And a good time to have a new marriage,” he said. “There are worse things to be than a Christmas bride.”
The children were whooping and heading either for the lake or for the nearest climbable trees.
IT SEEMED THAT he was fated to have a very prickly wife, Edgar thought the morning after his wedding. He had had hopes after their wedding night that, if they could not exactly expect to find themselves embarking on a happily-ever-after, at least they would be able to enjoy a new rapport, a starting ground for the growth of understanding and affection. But as soon as she entered the breakfast parlor he had known that she had retreated once more behind her mask. She had looked beautiful and proud and aloof—and slightly mocking. He had known that she had no intention of allowing last night to soften their relations. Her rebuff as they left the breakfast room had not taken him at all by surprise.
He watched with interest as they walked outside and he made conversation with Mrs. Cross. He watched both his father and his wife. His father, he knew, though he had said nothing to his son, was deeply disturbed by his marriage and the manner in which it had been brought about. Yet he talked jovially with Helena and involved her with the children who kept running up to him for attention and approval.
Helena disliked children, a fact that Edgar had come to realize with cold dread. And yet he learned during the course of the walk that it was not strictly the truth. When his father first deposited the Duke of Bridgwater’s young son in her arms, she looked alarmed as if she did not know quite what to do with him. What she proceeded to do was amuse the child—and herself. Edgar watched, fascinated, as all the aloof mask came away and left simply a lovely woman playing with a child. The mask came back on as soon as Bridgwater took the baby away from her.
And then they were at the lake and everyone dispersed on various courses—the children to find the likeliest playgrounds, the adults to supervise and keep them from breaking something essential, like a neck. Cora was testing the ice with a stout stick, his father with the toe of his boot. Francis was bellowing at his youngest son to get off the ice—now! One group of children proceeded to play hide-and-seek among the tree trunks. The more adventurous took to the branches. Helena stood alone, looking as if she would sneak off back home if she could. Mrs. Cross had first bent to listen to something Thornhill’s daughter was saying to her and had then allowed herself to be led away.
Edgar was about to close the distance between himself and his wife, though she looked quite unapproachable. Why could she not simply relax like everyone else and enjoy the outing? Was she so determined not to enjoy it? He felt a certain annoyance. But then Cora’s youngest son, who had escaped both the ice and his father’s wrath, tugged on his greatcoat and demanded that Uncle Edgar do up a button that had come undone at his neck. Edgar removed his gloves, went down on his haunches, and wrestled with the stubborn buttonhole.
When he stood up again, he could not immediately see Helena. But then he did. She was helping one of the Earl of Greenwald’s young sons climb a tree. Edgar had noticed the lad standing forlornly watching some larger, bolder children, but lacking the courage to climb himself. Helena had gone to help him. She did so for all of ten minutes, patiently helping him find his footing on the bark and then slide out along one of the lower branches, encouraging him, congratulating him, laughing at his pleasure, catching him when he jumped, coaxing him when he lost his courage, starting all over again when he scampered back to the starting point.
She was that woman unmasked again—the one who forgot to be the dignified, cynical Lady Stapleton, the one who had forgotten her surroundings, the one who clearly loved children with a patient, compassionate warmth.
Edgar stood with his shoulder against a tree, watching, fascinated.
And then the child jumped with a bold lunge and bowled her right off her feet in his descent so that they both went down on the ground, the child squealing first with fright and then with delight when he realized he was not hurt, Hel
ena laughing with sheer amusement.
She turned her head and caught herself being watched.
She lifted the child to his feet, dusted him off with one hand, directed him to his father, and sent him scampering away. She dusted herself off, her face like marble, and turned to walk away into the trees, in a direction no one else had taken. She did not look at Edgar or anyone else.
He sighed and stood where he was for a moment. Should he go after her? Or should he leave her alone to sulk? But sulk about what? That he had watched her? There was nothing secret in what she had been doing. She had been amongst the crowd, playing with one of the children. But her awareness that he was watching her had made her self-conscious or angry for some reason. It was impossible to know what was wrong.
He knew his wife as little today, Edgar thought, as he had known her that first evening, when he had looked up from his conversation with the Graingers and had seen her standing in the doorway, dressed in scarlet. She was a mystery to him—a prickly mystery. Sometimes he wondered if the mystery was worth probing.
But she was his wife.
And he was in love with her, even if he did not love or even particularly like her.
He pushed his shoulder away from the tree and went after her.
12
SHE HAD NOT WANDERED FAR. BUT SHE WAS HALF hidden behind the tree trunk against which she leaned. She was staring straight ahead and did not shift her gaze when Edgar came in sight. But he cut into it when he went to stand before her. He set one hand against the trunk beside her head and waited for her eyes to focus on his.
“Tired?” he asked.
“No.”
“It has been a long walk for you,” he said, “with the added strain of having to converse with a new father-in-law.”
“Would you make a wilting violet of me, Edgar?” she asked, one corner of her mouth tilting upward. “It cannot be done. You should have married one of the young virgins.”
“You are good with children,” he said.
“Nonsense!” Her answer was surprisingly sharp. “I dislike them intensely.”
“Greenwald’s little boy had been abandoned by the older tree climbers,” he said. “He would have been left in his loneliness if you had not noticed. You made him happy.”
“Oh, how easy it is to make a child happy,” she said impatiently, “and how tedious for the adult.”
“You looked happy,” he said.
“Edgar.” She looked fully into his eyes. “You would possess me body and soul, would you not? It is in your nature to want total control over what is in your power. You possess my body and I suppose I will continue to allow you to do so, though I did resolve this morning to remind you of your promise and to force you on your honor to keep it. But there is that damnable detail of a shared bed, and I never could resist an available man. You will not possess my soul. You may prod and probe as much as you will, but you will not succeed. Be thankful that I will not allow you to do so.”
He was hurt. Partly by her careless dismissal of him as merely an available man—but then such carelessness was characteristic of her. Mainly he was hurt to know that she was quite determined to keep him out of her life. He might possess her body but nothing else. More than ever she seemed like a stranger to him—a stranger who was not easy to like, but one he craved to know and longed to love.
“Is the reality of your soul so ugly, then?” he asked.
She smiled at him and lifted her gloved hands to rest on his chest. “You have no idea how appealing you look in this greatcoat with all its capes,” she said, “and with that frown on your face. You look as if you could hold the world on your shoulders, Edgar, and solve all its problems while you did so.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “I could help solve your problems if you would share them with me, Helena.”
She laughed. “Very well, then,” she said. “Help me solve this one. How do I persuade a massive, masterly, frowning man to kiss me?”
He searched her eyes, frustrated and irritated.
She pulled a face and then favored him with her most mocking smile. “You like only more difficult problems, Edgar?” she asked him. “Or is it that you have no wish to kiss me? How dreadfully lowering.”
He kissed her—hard and open-mouthed. Her hands came to his shoulders, her body came against his, and for a few moments hot passion flared between them. Then he set his hands at her waist, moved her back against the tree, and set some space between them. Irritation had turned to anger.
“I do not like to be played with like a toy, Helena,” he said, “to be used for your pleasure at your pleasure, to be seduced as a convenient way of changing the subject. I do not like to be mocked.”
“You are very foolish, Edgar,” she said. “You have just handed me a marvelous weapon. Do you not like to be mocked, my dear? I am an expert at mockery. I cannot be expected to resist the challenge you have just set to me.”
“Do you hate me so much then?” he asked her.
She smiled. “I lust after you, Edgar,” she said. “Even with your child in my womb, I still lust after you. Is it not enough?”
“What have I done to make you hate me?” he asked. “Must I take sole blame for your condition?”
“What have you done?” She raised her eyebrows. “You have married me, Edgar. You have made me respectable and safe and secure and rich. You are very wealthy, are you not? Wealthier than your father even before you inherit what is his? You have made me part of an eminently respectable family. You have brought me to this—to Mobley Abbey at Christmastime and surrounded me with respectable families and children. Children wherever I turn. It is to be what your father calls a good old-fashioned Christmas. I do not doubt it, if today is any indication—yet today Christmas has not even started. And if all this is not bad enough, you have tried to take my soul into yourself. You have suffocated me. I cannot breathe. This is what you have done to me.”
“My God.” His hand was back on the tree trunk beside her head. He had moved closer to her though he did not touch her. “My God, Helena, who was he? What did he do to you? Who was it who hurt you so badly?”
“You are a fool, Edgar,” she said coldly. “No one has hurt me. No one ever has. It is I who have done all the hurting. It is in my nature. I am an evil creation. You do not want to know me. Be content with my body. It is yours. You do not want to know me.”
He did not believe her. Oh, yes, she hurt people. He did not doubt that he was not the first man she had used and scorned. But he did not believe it was in her very nature to behave thus. There would not be the bitterness in her smile and behind her eyes if she were simply amoral. Nor that something more than bitterness that he sometimes almost glimpsed, almost grasped. What was that other something? Despair? Something or someone had started it all. Probably someone. Some man. She had been very badly hurt at some time in her past. So badly that she had been unable to function as her real self ever since.
But how was he to find out, to help her when she had shut herself off so entirely from help?
There was a glimmering of hope, perhaps. The things that suffocated her must also frighten her—her marriage to him, his family, his father’s guests and their children, Christmas. Why would she fear such benevolent things? Because they threatened her bitterness, her masks? The masks had come off briefly already this morning—first with the Bridgwater baby and then with the Greenwald child. And perhaps even last night when she had allowed herself to be comforted.
“You were right about one thing,” she said. “I am tired. Take me home, Edgar. Fuss over your pregnant wife.”
He took her arm in his and led her back to the others so that he could signal to his father that he was taking Helena back to the house. His father smiled and nodded and then bent down to give his attention to Jonathan, the Thornhills’ youngest son. Greenwald’s little boy briefly danced up to Helena and told her that he was going skating as soon as the ice was thick enough.
“I am going to skate like the wind,” he
told her.
“Oh, goodness,” she said, touching a hand lightly to his woolly cap. “That is fast. Perhaps all we will see is a streak of light and it will be Stephen skating by.”
He chuckled happily and danced away.
Her voice had been warm and tender. She might believe that she disliked children, but in reality she loved them altogether too well.
They walked in silence through the woods and up the slope to the wider path. She leaned on him rather heavily. He should not, he thought, have allowed her to make such a lengthy walk when only a week or so ago she had still been suffering from nausea and fatigue.
“Tell me about your first marriage,” he said.
She laughed. “You will find nothing there,” she said. “It lasted for seven years. He was older than your father. He treated me well. He adored me. That is not surprising, is it? I am reputed to have some beauty even now, but I was a pretty girl, Edgar. I turned heads wherever I went. I was his prize, his pet.”
“You were never—with child?” he asked.
“No.” She laughed again. “Never once, though not for lack of trying on his part. You can imagine my astonishment when you impregnated me, Edgar. Seven years of marriage and a million lovers since then had convinced me that I was safely barren.”
Did she realize, he wondered, how her open and careless mention of those lovers cut into him? But he had no cause for complaint. He had never been deceived about her promiscuous past, of which he had been a part. She had never even tried to keep it a secret.
“His poor first wife suffered annual stillbirths and miscarriages for years and years,” she said. “Was not I fortunate to be barren?”
“There was only one survivor?” he asked.
“Only Gerald, yes,” she said. “Though why he survived when none of the others did was a mystery—or so Christian always said. He was neither tall nor robust nor handsome; he was shy and timid; he was not overly intelligent. He excelled at nothing he was supposed to excel at. He had only one talent—a girlish talent, according to his father. He played the pianoforte. I believe Christian would have been just as happy if none of his offspring had survived.”