by Mary Balogh
She felt deeply ashamed.
She drew back her head and looked warily up into his face, hoping that he was asleep. But he was looking back steadily from beneath half-closed eyelids, and she knew somehow that he had not slept at all. She knew that he had been lying there for an hour or longer. She had kept him from rejoining his mother and the others or from sending down an explanation. She had kept them from an obligation to their neighbors. Luke took his obligations seriously. She had kept him by begging him to go to bed with her, to make love to her.
What could she say? I was feeling unwell? I was feeling depressed because I am growing fat and heavy? I did not have energy enough to dress for the Wilkeses’? I am sorry? She opened her mouth to speak, but she could not decide which to say or what else she might say instead. He gazed back silently so that eventually she hid her face in his shoulder again.
“Are you afraid, Anna?” he asked quietly. “Is there something or someone you fear?”
Losing you. Sir Lovatt Blaydon. A prison cell. Hanging by the neck until I am dead. Losing you.
“No,” she said.
“Something happened today,” he said. “Something that upset you.”
Someone knows how I dress in a private garden and what happens to me indoors—someone who is not even there. He is watching me. Who knows when?
“No,” she said.
He held her a few moments longer and then drew free of her and got out of bed. He buttoned his breeches with his back to her, slipped his feet into his shoes, and stooped to pick up his coat. His gloriously embroidered waistcoat was horribly creased. He turned to look down at her.
“I will protect what is my own, Anna,” he said, “with my life if necessary. I do not boast, perhaps, when I assure you that my reputation as a superior shot and swordsman has been well-earned. You are my own. You need have no fears for your safety. Unless it is childbirth that you fear. That is the only danger against which I cannot protect you, alas. Do you fear it?”
Not pain. Or death. Only losing her child. She feared losing the child.
“Only a stillbirth,” she said. “I would . . . For a while I would want to die too, I think.”
He nodded, watching her. “Sleep again if you can,” he said. “You have not been having enough rest. I am going to have to insist on more in future.” His eyes were keen on her.
She bit her lip. “Perhaps I will,” she said. “Thank you, Luke.”
There was the ghost of a smile about his lips for a moment. “’Twas my pleasure, madam,” he said. “’Tis always my pleasure to be of service to you.” He turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Yes, it had been better at Elm Court, when she had been alone. She had not been so prone to self-pity then. She lay on her back now, unmoving, trying to ignore the hot tears that had squeezed past her eyelids and were trickling down her cheeks and dripping onto the pillow on either side of her head.
You are my own. You are my own. He had not meant the words in that way. He had been talking strictly about possession. But oh, the longing for his love was an unbearably painful ache in her.
Anna lay still with closed eyes. She was frightened again without him. She felt eyes watching her. It was impossible. There was nowhere to hide in her room. But if she got up to stand at the window, where she had been standing when Luke came earlier, she would feel the eyes again, watching her from behind every tree.
She was afraid to get out of bed.
How much longer would it be, she wondered, before there was another letter and another demand for money or something else? How much longer would she be “on loan” to Luke? Until after the birth of their child? Longer? And then what? Would she go meekly when the time came? Or would she fight?
I will protect what is my own . . . with my life if necessary. You are my own.
What would have happened if she had confided in him? If she had blurted the whole truth as she had been on the verge of doing? But she had never fooled herself into thinking that physical passion and the protectiveness a man felt for his possession indicated affection or more. He would have to love her dearly to accept what she had to tell. And even then . . . But Luke was no longer capable of love. It was something he had killed in himself years ago.
Besides, Luke would not be able to protect her.
I will protect what is my own . . . with my life if necessary.
• • •
The visit to the Wilkeses’ had been made. The ladies from Bowden Abbey had arrived half an hour late. Tea had been held back for them. And then the dowager duchess had had the unspeakable humiliation of having to make excuses for the absence of the duke and duchess, who were, understandably, to have been the guests of honor. She had explained that her daughter-in-law was indisposed, an excuse that would be easily accepted since her delicate condition was generally known, though of course most women of her rank would have made the effort to overcome indisposition. But how could she excuse her son’s absence? That he was tending his sick wife? Such an excuse would be an insult.
Luke listened, tight-lipped, to his mother’s tirade. It was the first confrontation they had had since his return.
“And so I said nothing,” she concluded coldly when the family was all gathered in the drawing room before dinner—everyone with the exception of Anna, who was late again. “I allowed them to draw their own conclusions. I was and am most displeased, Lucas.”
He allowed her her say. But cold fury, far in excess of the provocation, balled in his stomach. How dared she? How dared she censure Anna. But the time when he might have exploded with uncontrolled anger was long past.
“Madam.” He favored his mother with the direct force of his coldest gaze. “My wife had need of me this afternoon. That is all the explanation that needs to be made to you or to anyone else. ’Tis the explanation I sent to the Wilkeses an hour ago.”
Luke’s acquaintances in Paris would have recognized the look and the tone of voice. They would have been wise enough to hold their peace.
“Anna is in a delicate state of health,” the dowager said, her face stern, “as she doubtless will be at regular intervals during the next ten years or so. There is nothing unusual in that. Her maid is quite able to minister to her needs, and the physician if necessary. You need to understand, Lucas, that your duties are primarily to your position and that personal inclination and the imagined needs of a weak woman must be denied when they conflict with your responsibilities as Duke of Harndon. And you need to teach your wife the same lesson. Regrettably it appears to be something that was not taught as part of her upbringing.”
The rest of the family had fallen silent and were listening to the altercation with varying degrees of interest and trepidation. Agnes was gazing at Luke with terrified eyes—and with a flush of indignation on her cheeks.
“I beg your pardon, madam.” Luke’s voice was soft and quite icy. “My wife is answerable only to me for her behavior. Only to me. As for myself, I will always place personal inclination before duty to my position if seeing to my wife’s needs and safeguarding her well-being are to be so described. It must be remembered that I am responsible for the delicate state of her health.”
“Lucas!” She glared at him coldly. “Remember, if you will, that you speak in the hearing of two unmarried young ladies. But ’tis what I would expect of you. Self-indulgence has always been your besetting weakness.”
“Madam,” he said quietly, “I came home against my inclinations to take up my responsibilities here. I came because my uncle suggested that my presence was necessary here and my visit with you in London persuaded me that you all had need of me. I married Anna because a duchess was needed here, my own duchess, and sons for my nursery. I wish it to be understood that she will always be first in my life, before any other member of my family or hers and before all my other duties. I will not tolerate criticism of that fact even from
you. I will hear none from you ever again.”
He listened to his own words almost as if someone else were speaking them. He was surprised by the truth of them. He had not wanted to leave Paris. He had not wanted to change his way of life. He had done both. And if there was something—or someone—who was making his present life bearable, it was Anna.
His mother stared at him in shocked disbelief, proud and haughty as he.
“And I will have it understood,” he continued, “that for better or worse I am the Duke of Harndon and Anna is my duchess. She is mistress of Bowden Abbey. As such her behavior is irreproachable by anyone except me. There can be only one mistress in any home, I believe, if there is not to be constant conflict and bickering. Anna is mistress here.”
His mother had nothing to say. Neither did anyone else for a few tense, uncomfortable moments. But Luke was not sorry he had had his say. He had come, against his will, because he was needed. They had thought to use him, all of them—his mother, Doris and Ashley, even Henrietta—to get the life they wanted. And so they were all in varying degrees responsible for his coming. Well, he had come and he would stay. But it would be on his own terms. Those terms had now been stated, not just for his mother but for all of them.
Anna came into the room before anyone had found anything to say. She was still rather pale, Luke thought, but she was immaculately dressed—and tightly laced—and she was smiling her usual sunny smile.
“Am I very late?” she asked. “I am so sorry. I slept longer than I intended. And I am very sorry about this afternoon, Mother. Did Luke tell you I was not feeling well? I hope our absence did not upset Mrs. Wilkes. I will call on her tomorrow.”
Luke crossed the room to her, took her hand, and raised it to his lips. “You are not late at all, my dear,” he said. “And if you were, then we would simply wait for you. Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said, “much better.” She smiled warmly at him and then about the room at each of its occupants. “You must tell us both what we missed at the Wilkeses’. Were the London cousins entertaining? And, Ashley, you played truant, as we did? For shame. You must tell us about your afternoon.”
Tension seemed to drain away almost visibly. Luke wondered if Anna had even noticed it. But she had a gift for bringing sunshine into a room with her and for setting everyone at ease. Only his mother was still tight-lipped.
And Anna was pale. Holding on to her secret. Another secret—unless it was linked somehow with the other. But within their marriage this time.
Oh no, he must remember not to begin setting her on any pedestal. He must remember not to expect perfection of her. He must not grow too fond of her. He must not allow himself to depend upon her or to trust her too deeply.
She kept secrets from him. And not trivial secrets, he believed.
18
HENRIETTA was bitter. Nothing in her life had turned out well. Like everyone else, she had striven all her life to achieve happiness. Yet it seemed to her that she had never been happy.
And now Luke had rejected her. She had expected that they would become lovers. She had fully expected it even after the shattering news of his marriage had reached her. Marriages between aristocrats rarely meant anything in terms of sentiment, after all. Even after she met Anna and saw her beauty and vitality, she expected it. She remembered the power of Luke’s love for her and the terrible depths of his anger and grief when he lost her.
But he had rejected her. For now, anyway. Perhaps in time . . .
Henrietta had had lovers. How could she not have when George had never once bedded her after their marriage? She had needs. It would have been impossible to remain celibate all those years. George had taken her frequently to London and she had taken lovers there. He must have known but he had not cared. Not George.
She had never had a lover in the country. And never a lover outside a comfortable bed in a comfortable boudoir. And certainly never a lover whose face and body she had not seen and approved. Looks and physique mattered a great deal to Henrietta.
Her masked highwayman made love to her for the first time—it was during their third weekly tryst—on a pile of not perfectly clean straw in a drafty barn. The day was chilly. He remained fully clothed apart from the essential adjustment to his breeches. He even wore his boots and his mask. And she remained clothed, the skirt of her riding habit bunched rather untidily at her waist.
He made love without foreplay and without finesse, pumping swiftly, almost violently into her, his whole weight bearing her downward.
She really was not sure why she enjoyed it so greatly and why over the coming weeks she went back eagerly for more. He would never tell her his name. He never removed his mask or his cloak. She knew nothing about him except that he was an older man—ten or fifteen years her senior at a guess—and that he knew how to flatter and that he favored swift and lusty sexual encounters.
Of course, she recognized almost from the start, it was the very mystery of the man that was his main attraction. Perhaps if she saw him, if she knew his name, if she knew something about him, she would lose interest.
She did try. “How do you know Anna?” she asked him. “What is your interest in her?”
“’Tis nothing to concern you, Henrietta,” he told her. “’Tis in your interest, my dear, to work with me so that you may in time gain back the position you so covet.”
Working with him meant supplying him with trivial and seemingly meaningless details about Anna’s appearance and daily activities. And yet perhaps not meaningless either. She had noted a change in Anna. Her smiles were fewer, her complexion was paler, she was more reluctant to go outside the house or even from room to room. Her eyes sometimes darted about as if she thought herself observed.
“And yet,” Henrietta said, “you say you have no personal interest in her.”
He laughed softly. “You have no reason for jealousy, madam,” he said.
“Jealousy!” She bristled. “La, sir, ’tis not likely I would ever be jealous of such as Anna. What has she done that you stalk her?”
“’Tis not your concern,” he said again. “But I will rid you of her, Henrietta. You wish that, do you not? And more to the point, I will rid Harndon of her. By the time I take her away he will be ready to turn back to you again and you will once again be the Duchess of Harndon. ’Tis what you want more than him, I believe. And in the meantime you have our weekly trysts to comfort you.”
“Oh, la,” she said, “I can live without that, sir, I am sure.”
But he backed her against the trunk of an ancient oak, lifted her skirts, adjusted his own clothing, and proceeded to prove her wrong. He laughed at her panting eagerness.
And so her appetites were fed, and her pride and her hopes. Only her curiosity was not—curiosity about her highwayman and about Anna. And her as-yet-unsatisfied curiosity was in itself an appetite that took her back to him week after week, to meet in whatever place he had appointed.
She began to play games with Anna. She contrived to be seen alone with Luke and then excused herself anxiously to her sister – in-law.
“’Tis just that we grew up together,” she explained on one occasion, “and that we always enjoyed each other’s company. We still do. There is no more to it than that, Anna, I promise you. You do not mind? If you do, I will stay away from him even at the expense of good manners.”
“Oh, do not be foolish,” Anna said, linking her arm through Henrietta’s. “Come up to my sitting room and have tea with me.”
“I do not want you to think that I have anything to hide, Anna,” Henrietta said on another occasion. “You must know Luke loves you. He talks incessantly about his love for you. He loved me once but that is long in the past.”
“You must not feel guilty, Henrietta,” Anna said. “Come to see Emmy with me?”
Henrietta made careful mental notes of various trinkets displayed i
n Anna’s sitting room and of the sort of gestures she and Emily made to communicate with each other.
Anna’s eyes were beginning to look haunted.
When would her highwayman take Anna away? Henrietta wondered. But she was not sure she wanted it to be soon. He excited her.
• • •
The letters kept coming, as she had known they would. Sometimes they confined themselves to reminders of the past and assurances of future happiness and a demand for payment of an outstanding bill. Sometimes their sole purpose appeared to be to blind her with terror—and they always succeeded. He knew the inside of her home, even the inside of her sitting room. He knew her clothes and her trinkets. He knew what she said and what she did. He knew what others said to her.
It was pointless to remain indoors, though she did so as much as possible. He was indoors with her. He was in every room with her. He was always just behind her shoulder. Sometimes she even opened her eyes when Luke was making love to her to look furtively and fearfully about the bedchamber beyond the bed. She imagined—she felt—that he saw everything. Everything.
She preferred the letters that demanded money, even when she did not have enough with which to pay. Once she had to go to Luke to ask for an advance.
“Certainly,” he said, crossing the room to unlock a drawer. He handed her the full sum of next quarter’s allowance. “But not an advance, Anna. A gift if you will. Might I be permitted to know the occasion?”
She had come prepared with a story about a wedding gift for Victor and new dresses for Agnes and Emily. But she could not lie. She stared at the money in his outstretched hand.