He grabbed a chair.
“I’ll play,” he said.
A ripple of shock ran around the group of onlookers and Lizzie’s eyes widened in surprise.
“I did not think you approved of gaming,” she said.
“I don’t,” Nat said. He sat back, undid his jacket and loosened his cravat.
Lizzie took a long gulp of the champagne. Nat watched her throat move as she swallowed. The diamonds danced and glittered about her neck. She picked up the pack of cards and started to shuffle it again.
“Basset?” she said.
“Piquet.”
Lizzie shrugged one white shoulder. “Whichever you prefer. The stake?”
“You,” Nat said. “You coming home with me. To our bed.”
Again the group of onlookers rippled with scandalized shock and some moved away, Dexter, Miles and Alice amongst them. Lizzie looked up at Nat, her eyes wide and very bright with the excitement and wildness he had come to recognize. “You’ll lose,” she warned.
“No, I won’t,” Nat said.
Out of the corner of his eye Nat could see that Alice was clasping Miles’s sleeve and speaking to him urgently. Miles’s face was grim, but after a moment he shook his head and they left the card room, Alice throwing one troubled, backward glance at Lizzie. Nat felt the tension tighten within him, straining the muscles across his shoulders, drawing the material of his evening jacket taut. His entire attention was riveted on Lizzie, on the way the silk and net of her gown clung to each line and curve of her body, on the provocative rise and fall of the diamonds at her breast, the slender flick of her fingers as she dealt the cards. Their gazes locked. Hers was vivid and excited and challenged him so that the blood burned fierce within him.
“You have always been a poor card player,” she taunted.
“I have been an indifferent one,” Nat said. He held her gaze with his, intense, direct. “Perhaps I will surprise you.”
“You frequently do.” Lizzie bent her head over her cards and promptly won the first two parties. Nat won the third, then the fourth and the fifth. He could see that after a lapse in concentration Lizzie was trying very hard now, her lower lip pressed between her teeth. Most of their audience had wandered away now in search of fresh entertainment. There was only Lizzie and him left, swept up in their tight little circle of mutual tension and desire. The longer the game ran the more his lust drove him. He was determined to win, and to have her.
“You should not have drunk all that champagne,” he said. “It undermines the concentration.”
Lizzie shot him an irritated look. “You should drink more and then perhaps you would not be such a stuffed shirt.”
“Why the necklace?” Nat said. “Why gamble something that is so important to you?”
She flicked him another look over her hand and put a card down. “Why not? What does it matter?”
“It’s worth twenty thousand pounds.”
Her head was bent, the candlelight playing on the golden, bronze and red strands in her hair.
“It isn’t always about the money,” she said.
“No,” Nat said. “It’s about the fact that your mother gave it to you and that you value inordinately anything that connects you to her.”
She shot him a very sharp look at that. For a moment she looked afraid. Her hand stilled on the cards. “How do you know that?”
“Because no matter what everyone else says of her, you have always idolized her.”
He saw Lizzie swallow hard. Her lashes hid her expression from him. “I miss her.”
“So why gamble away something of value that she left to you?” Nat persisted. “It makes no sense.”
Lizzie slapped a card down onto the pile and leaned forward, her green eyes pinning him with their anger. “Sense! What sense is there in loss? I lost my mother—am I supposed to value a necklace in her place?” She sat back, the anger leaving her as swiftly as it had poured out. “I lost both my parents,” she said. “I lost Monty. None of them were perfect, but they were more valuable than this.” She touched the necklace with her fingertips and it caught the light and blazed with rainbow colors.
“Is that why you came out tonight?” Nat asked. “Because you felt lonely and you wanted to gamble to pass the time?” He could not understand her and with a moment’s surprise and pain he realized that he never had. He had never really tried; she had just been Lizzie and he had indulged her moods and had laughed at her wildness, but now everything seemed different because she was his wife, and he was baffled as well as dazzled by her. Everything that should have been simple—their marriage, his life—suddenly seemed intolerably complicated.
“I was bored.” She played her hand faster now, throwing the cards down as though she did not really care. “It was my wedding night and I was lonely. What about you?”
“I had business—”
“Oh, well.” Lizzie smiled at him, mocking, the smile not reaching her eyes. Her words stung him like tiny thorns. “That makes it all right, then. When men say they have to deal with business it is so important that it excuses all, does it not?”
“You’re angry,” Nat said.
“You’re perceptive.” Her expression was contemptuous. “It is our wedding night, Nat Waterhouse. You gain fifty thousand pounds from me, you have me in your bed—” her gaze, burning and intense, reminded him of how that had been “—you take the things you want,” she continued, “and then you go out on business and leave me alone. You treat me like a possession and then you behave like a single man.” She threw her cards down in a gesture of disgust. “I have carte blanche and no picture cards. I suspect you win.”
“Four games to your two.” Nat looked at her. “You should have declared earlier. You’re reckless.”
“Clearly,” Lizzie said. “How exciting for you to be proved right.” She stood up and the silver net dress rustled softly as it slid over the lines and curves of her body. She looked ice-cool and composed whilst Nat felt so hot he was burning up. It maddened him that she could provoke him and his body would respond to her so violently even when his mind rebelled against the hold she had over him.
“Come with me,” he said roughly. He stood up. “We are going home.”
She looked him up and down slowly like a queen appraising a peasant. Even the tilt of her chin was haughty. Her gaze rested disdainfully on the bulge of his enormous erection. “Home?” she said. “You’ll never last that long. You want me too much.”
Nat was afraid that she was right. He wanted to make love to her here on the card room table or against the wall or anywhere that would soothe this unbearable ache in his body. His desperate arousal was all he could think of. He grabbed Lizzie’s wrist, careless of who was watching.
“I won, so…”
“So you claim your prize.” Lizzie was smiling though her eyes were still cold. He wanted to kindle a matching heat in her, to master her and force a response. He pulled her to him and kissed her. He was not the sort of man to kiss a woman in the very public surroundings of the Fortune’s Folly assembly rooms but one touch of her lips, cool and firm, and he forgot where they were. He almost forgot who he was. He kissed her hard, tasting the champagne on her tongue and the sweet taste that was Lizzie herself and he did not stop kissing her until the Master of Ceremonies approached them to say that their carriage was waiting and if they could leave at once it would be much appreciated because they were creating a public disturbance.
Lizzie was proved right. In the carriage Nat stripped the silver dress off her, leaving her in nothing but the diamond necklace, and took her there and then on the seat, whilst the coach drove around the village in circles until they had finished. Lizzie smiled her cool smile in the summer darkness and her naked body glistened equally as cool and pale and the sight of it just seemed to fire Nat’s lust all the more. He lost himself in her whilst deploring his lack of control. Afterward he felt sated but not happy and Lizzie was silent and withdrawn from him, and the doubts that had shadowe
d his mind earlier in the evening came back and would not be banished. He had feared that marriage to Lizzie would be a disaster and whilst their lovemaking might be spectacular he was starting to see that his misgivings might be justified. There was some devil of unhappiness that drove Lizzie and he did not understand why, and whilst he wanted to help her he did not know how.
When they finally reached Chevrons he took Lizzie to bed and made love to her again, trying to banish the demons, and then he fell into an uneasy sleep, waking only when his valet brought in the hot water and threw the curtains wide. The bed was empty and Lizzie had gone. Nat felt a strange pang of loss.
Lizzie was already in the breakfast parlor when he went downstairs. She was wearing a dress of pale green trimmed with black lace—her concession to mourning, Nat presumed—and she looked exceedingly pretty except that there were dark circles beneath her eyes. Her hair was ruthlessly restrained in a matching green bandeau and she was picking at a piece of toast and honey as though she detested the sight of it.
Nat took a cup of coffee, dismissed the footman and went to sit across from her. He knew he had to speak to her but there was such a strong reserve about her that it seemed to make it impossible to find the right words.
“I trust that you are well this morning?” he said, knowing even as he spoke that he sounded stilted. Lizzie raised her blank, green gaze to his and he had the oddest sensation that there was nothing behind her eyes at all, no thought, no feeling.
“I am quite well.” She sounded as distant as the slightest acquaintance.
Nat cleared his throat. “About last night—”
“I suppose I should apologize for embarrassing you,” Lizzie said. She did not look up from her plate. “I apologize.”
“No,” Nat found himself saying. “No, I don’t want an apology.” He ran a hand over his hair in an agitated gesture. “I just want to know why you did it, why you went out, why you felt you needed to gamble with Tom?”
Her gaze flickered to his face and then she looked away again. “Because I am wild and ungovernable,” she said ironically. “Have you not always said so?”
“Yes, but—” Nat struggled. This, he knew, was not the real answer. There had to be more to her behavior than a simple impulse to be scandalous, yet she offered no explanation. He shook his head, baffled.
“I do not understand why you do these outrageous things,” he said. His mind went back to the previous night. What was it that she had said?
“It is our wedding day. You gain fifty thousand pounds from me, you have me in your bed, you take the things you want and then you go out on business.”
“I am sorry I left you alone last night,” he said. “I should have thought that it was our wedding night and—” He stopped as she turned her face away.
“It does not matter,” she said. She spoke very quietly.
He had the impression that it mattered a great deal but she was refusing to acknowledge it.
“I should apologize for the way that I treated you, too,” he said. “I wanted you and I was not gentle. I had forgotten you have little experience—”
Lizzie shrugged a shoulder with what seemed to be indifference. “You did not hurt me or shock me,” she said. “I am more shocked to discover that we have such a physical affinity when there is nothing else…” She stopped, biting her lip. “Excuse me,” she said, rising to her feet.
Nat put out a hand. He knew that this unsatisfactory conversation should not—could not—end here. There was something very wrong and too many things unsaid to let it go. He could feel his marriage slipping, sliding, down a slope toward the inevitable disaster he had predicted for it. He did not know how to stop it even though he desperately wanted to do something.
“Lizzie,” he said.
She paused and looked at him and once again her gaze was totally blank and Nat felt frustrated and confused as though he had somehow lost her even though she was standing right in front of him.
“I know there is something wrong,” he said. “Lizzie, talk to me.”
Her eyelashes flicked down and a hint of color stole into her cheek. “There is nothing wrong,” she said. “I am perfectly fine.”
“Are you?”
For a moment he caught a flash of the most abject misery in her face and then she raised her chin. “I am going into town,” she said. “I wish to visit the circulating library. I hope that meets with your approval?”
“Perfectly. Of course.” Nat shook his head slightly at the abrupt change of subject. “I shall be working today,” he added. “Dexter has asked me to rejoin him and Miles in the investigation into your brother’s death and there is much to do.”
Lizzie nodded and went out and a moment later Nat heard her speaking to Mrs. Alibone and the sound of her step on the stairs and then all was quiet. Nat finished his breakfast in silence, trying to distract himself with the morning copy of the Leeds Intelligencer, and wondered why he felt worse than before.
Chapter Ten
THEY WERE THE TALK of the town. Nat Waterhouse and his blazing, unconcealed lust for his wife—and hers for him—were the on dit of Fortune’s Folly. Lizzie felt wretched.
She had been the center of gossip many times before and it had never troubled her and if she and Nat had been happy and scandalous together, then the salacious chatter of the village would have meant nothing to her. But they were not. She could not deceive herself. She and Nat were not happy because they wanted different things. He was quite content to use physical passion as a substitute for real intimacy. He wanted nothing more than a dutiful wife in the house and a wanton bride in his bed, whereas she wanted everything: his desire, his love, his very self. In a very short space of time she had learned that the extremes of sensual delight had nothing to do with true love. It was a hard lesson for such a hopeless romantic as she had turned out to be and it made her miserable for with Nat’s lust she also wanted his love and he could not even begin to understand that. When he had apologized for leaving her alone on their wedding night and had asked her what was wrong she had felt helpless, for if he could not see how could he ever understand? She did not want to have to explain to him that it hurt her feelings to be left alone on a night that should have been special and wonderful and just for them. She did not want to have to explain the gap between her romantic imaginings and the reality, and to see his look of incomprehension and feel his pity. She did not want to have to tell him that she loved him heart and soul, and that she now realized she should never have married him because to him she was no more than another responsibility. Certainly she could not tell him that when they made love it broke her heart because it was so passionate, so exciting and yet ultimately so shallow without love.
Lizzie had a cup of chocolate at the Pump Rooms, bought some red ribbons and a new pair of fine kid gloves at Mrs. Morton’s shop and then went to Mr. Tarleton’s circulating library just as she had said she would. The day was fine and bright and the village was busy and she was aware of—but felt strangely isolated from—the stares and whispered asides of those she passed. It was evident that her escapade at the card tables the previous night was already common knowledge, as was Nat’s ravishing of her in the carriage. There were sly winks and smiles that made Lizzie feel all the more miserable.
She felt exhausted, sore from the demands of Nat’s lovemaking but unhappy more from the emotional distress of suppressing her love for him. Her body ached and her mind felt cloudy and dull. She wondered if a hot spa bath would ease her but the thought of taking one seemed too much work. It had been difficult enough to dress that morning.
She looked along the row of books and tried to decide which one to choose. Reading would be good. It would soothe her troubled mind and give her something to do all day. Only she could not seem to decide on a title. All she could see was Nat’s face before her that morning. She knew he had tried to reach out to her, to bridge the gap that was widening between them all the time despite the intimacy of their physical relationship. She had
not been able to respond to his attempt. She was too tired now and she felt too battered and bruised emotionally to make further effort. It was as though she had encased her feelings in ice now and could feel nothing anymore.
She sat down on one of the comfortable armchairs that Mr. Tarleton had placed in an alcove for the benefit of the library’s clientele and stared blankly into space. Last night had been frightening. She had been so unhappy, racked with unexpected grief for Monty and haunted by her memories of the loss of her family. She knew that she had deliberately allowed that misery to turn to anger against Nat because anger and wildness were more familiar to her and more easy to deal with than the deep dark well of grief that reminded her of the last time she had lost all that was dear to her. So she had gone out and behaved badly, drinking too much again and allowing Tom to provoke her into gambling the necklace and then she had taunted Nat and vented her anger and resentment on him. She had welcomed his desperate lust for her because she wanted whatever he could give. And yet somehow what he could give simply was not enough. What she wanted was his love—but that was not on offer.
The murmur of voices roused her. Priscilla Willoughby was on the other side of the bookcase. Lizzie recognized her light, drawling voice and also Lady Wheeler’s fluting tones; Lady Wheeler who not so long ago had flattered her and fawned on her and was now busy ripping her character to shreds.
“Did you hear the on dit? Yes…totally shameless…drinking gallons of champagne and gambling her jewelry, and her brother only dead a few weeks, though no one really mourns him…”
I do, Lizzie thought. Perhaps I am a fool but for all his faults, I miss Monty. I must be the only one who does.
“It amazes me that Nathaniel married that little hoyden.” There was a spiky edge to Priscilla’s dulcet voice. “Though it is no surprise to me that she behaves so badly. Her mother was nothing but a high-class whore. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lady Waterhouse herself had had several men before she wed—John Jerrold for one…”
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