by Anita Mills
"Go on to sleep."
"I cannot." She could scarce speak for the awful ache in her throat.
"I did not intend to beat you, Elinor."
She had no answer for that. Once again the silence between them was nearly overwhelming. Surely he did not expect her to forgive him.
"On the morrow, I mean to give you your wedding gift," he murmured. When she still said nothing, he continued talking to her. His hand stroked her hair again. "It's emeralds—they will become you."
She did not want them. She did not want anything from him. Not now. Not ever.
"I have engaged a woman from the village to sew for you. While she cannot match the work of a London modiste, she is quite good. If you would like, I shall send for her in the morning. Later, in London—"
"Papa bought me dresses."
"Paltry, my dear. Paltry. When I take you to London, you will be gowned by the best." His hand moved to smooth her nightgown over her hip. "You will gain me the envy of every man in town, Elinor." He felt her stiffen anew, and he drew away. "You think you hate me, don't you?"
"Yes."
"You won't. You will come to realize what I can give you, my dear. When I am done, there will be none to think you are not beautiful. You will attend routs and parties, royal presentations even, and you will be the reigning Toast," he predicted almost smugly.
She didn't care—all she wished was to be rid of him. "I should like that," she responded finally, her voice betraying a decided lack of enthusiasm.
"Your task will not be onerous, my dear. You have but to appear devoted to your husband. And I shall not be demanding, I promise you." He coughed to clear his throat. "I shall not be demanding," he repeated, "but I intend to seek your bed twice each week—shall we say Wednesday and Saturday—to avert unpleasant gossip. I'd not be the butt of servants' jests, do you understand?"
"No."
"You will speak of nothing that has passed here," he said again.
"Do I have to—that is, you will not—?" She could not bring herself to say it.
"No. As long as you are obedient, you need not fear me again, child. I would do nothing to mar your looks."
She breathed an audible sigh of relief that he would not touch her again, not like her mother had told her. For a moment, she dared to hope he would leave her this night. But his next words dashed that.
"Come—let us sleep. I'd have your hand, my dear." , She did not want to touch him either, but neither did she wish to anger him again. Very gingerly, she extended her hand at her side, and his cold fingers curved over hers.
"Why did you wed me?" she managed to ask.
There was a long silence, and for a time, she thought he'd not heard her. Finally, he spoke. "Vanity, my dear. It flatters me to know I am envied. I came into the world but plain Arthur Kingsley, and now there's none as can ignore me. When I had but money, it was not enough. And when I was able to gain a title, it was still the same. But I have had the last jest of all, have I not? Now I shall be envied for you."
"But there were others—"
"Think you I did not look? For years I have surveyed the daughters of the ton, but they were all too good to spend my money—and not a one of them above the common style, mind you." For the briefest moment, his fingers squeezed hers. "You, my dear, are not common at all."
"But—"
"And when I am done, you will be not an Incomparable, but rather the Incomparable. When I am done, we will give each other consequence, my dear. Wealth for beauty—it's a fair exchange, is it not?" When she said nothing, he predicted, "One day you will thank me for what I give you, Elinor."
It was as though her father spoke the words. But it would do no good to tell the old man it was a lie. Instead, she merely murmured, "Good night, sir."
"Arthur. It's 'good night, Arthur,'" he corrected her.
Long after his breathing evened out, long after he began to snore, she lay beside him, her hand in his. Was this marriage? Was this what every girl was supposed to want? To be touched like that? A new shudder of revulsion coursed through her, and for a moment, nausea rose again, forcing her to swallow the awful lump in her throat. No, it could not be. She was surely living a nightmare from which she would waken. Tomorrow, she would find this had not happened to her. But in her heart, she knew it was not a nightmare at all, but rather a dismal, lonely life she'd discover when she wakened. Very gingerly, she eased her fingers from his, and turned to stare into the glowing coals.
Outside, the wind seemed to have died, but the rain still pelted the tiled roof. Still, she could not sleep, thinking of the old man beside her, wondering if one night he would die in her bed. The only thing worse, she knew, would be if he should live until she were no longer young. And as they had so often done in the two months past, her thoughts turned once again to the notorious Earl of Longford—remembering the strength of his arms, the passion of his kiss, she wondered how on earth his wife could have preferred another man. Scoundrel, rake, or whatever, he would have been infinitely preferable to Arthur Kingsley. But she supposed Longford's wife to be quite beautiful, and no doubt she'd had scores of young bucks at her feet. She, on the other hand, had only Arthur.
CHAPTER 4
She was one of the loveliest women he'd ever seen, he admitted that. She was also the biggest mistake of his life, and he was ready to put her behind him. He leaned back in his chair, facing her across the length of the bishop's meeting table, and took stock of the woman who had been his wife for two years.
She was in her best looks, her pale, wheat-blond hair curling delicately beneath the wide brim of a blue velvet bonnet, her porcelain skin infused with the barest tint of rose, her wide blue eyes reflecting an innocence totally at variance with the woman within. Even the prim, braid-edged blue velvet pelisse, unbuttoned to show a demure, lace-trimmed blue muslin gown, had been worn to elicit sympathy from the clergy present, he decided cynically. Blue was her color, and she knew it. It was also a color that was cool, delicate, and devoid of passion, the sort of thing one ought to wear to church.
"Harumph!" The bishop, Lord Quentin Harwell, cleared his throat, shuffled through an untidy stack of papers, and looked to Lucien. "You are unrepresented, my lord?"
"Yes."
He turned to Diana. "Are you, my lady?"
"I have brought my parents, Lord and Lady Fenton, and my solicitor, Mr. Tate," she answered softly.
"Is Lord Townsend present?" he inquired of one of the priests beside him.
"No, he is not. But as you know, he has changed his mind and decided to admit to the charges."
"A pity, for he must surely provide enlightenment."
"You have his deposition," Lucien reminded him curtly. "And I'd get on with this—with your permission, of course."
Harwell flashed him a look of disapproval. "Yes— well—" He cleared his throat again. "Highly irregular, I admit it, but I thought perhaps we could attempt a reconciliation."
"No." Lucien appeared absorbed in a nub of lint on the sleeve of his blue superfine coat for a moment, then he shook his head. "No, I don't think so."
Mr. Tate rose. "My lord bishop, Lady Longford does not desire a separation from her husband."
"What Lady Longford desires is immaterial at this point, Lucien declared coldly. "I intend to press for the divorce." He indicated the stack of papers. "You have more than enough evidence before you to support the charge I have brought against her."
"My lord bishop, if I may speak—" Lord Fenton rose to stand behind his daughter. "There has never been the slightest taint of scandal in this family, and naturally we should not wish to embroil ourselves in a public airing of grievances. Surely Longford himself is not blameless in the matter." He looked down, and resting his hand on Diana's shoulder, he went on, "There is the unfortunate circumstance of a number of"—he covered his mouth and coughed discreetly—"Forgive me for having to say this before the ladies, but it's well known that Longford has engaged in a number of alliances with other females."
"Unfortunately, adultery, reprehensible though it is, is not a crime for a male," Bishop Harwell reminded Diana's father.
"But it was nonetheless devastating to a young wife eager to please her husband," Fenton argued. "Can she be blamed for falling prey to the attentions of an acknowledged rake like Bellamy Townsend when she has been all but deserted by Longford?"
"She does not deny the charge?" Harwell asked, leaning forward.
Diana lowered her head and stared at the table, but not before she summoned a couple of tears to her eyes. "No," she whispered almost inaudibly. "I did but wish to show Lucien the pain he has inflicted on me."
She should have been an actress, Lucien reflected bitterly, for had he not known better, he could almost have believed her himself. But he knew better. He knew if he told the whole truth, the lie that wounded his vanity still, every man in the room must surely feel the revulsion he felt. But for all that he wanted rid of her, he could not bring himself to touch upon that. Two years had not dimmed the bitterness he still felt toward her and Mad Jack. No, he would not tell them that Bell Townsend had been a godsend.
"Her motives are also immaterial," he stated abruptly.
The bishop had hoped to avoid a hearing of record, but he could see that the earl had not the least intention of being amenable to saving anyone's face, not even his own. Succumbing to a certain curiosity, he turned to the young countess.
"Perhaps you can explain yourself to your husband, Lady Longford. Perhaps that would alter—"
"Think you I have not tried?" she cried, dabbing at her welling eyes. "He is but determined to be rid of me!"
"Here now, Diana—" Her father patted her shoulder. "Most irregular," Mr. Tate protested. "My lord bishop—"
"If it will end the matter, I am prepared to listen now," Lucien said. Taking out his watch, he flicked open the case and checked the time. "But whatever is said, I'd see it said quickly. I am promised to Leighton for the holidays, and I mean to leave within the hour." He favored his wife with a sardonic smile. "You behold me all ears, my dear."
She did not look at him. Instead, she focused on the bishop and the local vicar, who was regarding her kindly. "I did not mean to do it—it—it just happened. Lucien was gone so much, and—and I believed he did not care for me—" Her shoulders shook slightly, and she stopped, looking up through wet lashes. "Lord Townsend seemed so kind—so attentive—and Lucien was never there." Turning finally to Lucien, she cried, "You know it's true! You never cared for me, did you?"
"No," he admitted baldly. "But I paid your bills."
"That was not enough! You found me a crushing bore! And Bell—" Her voice dropped. "Bell did not."
Seizing the advantage her tears gave him, Tate rose again. "My lord bishop, Lady Longford is desirous of a reconciliation. Is that not true, my lady?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Very affecting, my dear," Lucien murmured, "but I am not thrice the fool."
"Surely there must have been some measure of affection when you wed her," the parish vicar reminded him.
"No."
"Then why in heaven's name did you offer for her?" the bishop demanded.
"Folly."
It was no use, and they all knew it. Finally, the Fen-tons' solicitor sighed. "Very well, my lord. If we concede that a reconciliation cannot be effected, my client is prepared to return discreetly to her family. She will, however, require a suitable allowance."
"Not a legal separation, of course," Lord Fenton hastily inserted. "Appearances—"
"Appearances be damned," Lucien interrupted coldly. "I shall be satisfied with nothing less than a divorce."
"It will be disastrous for both of you!" Fenton shouted at him. "Speak of folly, will you? This is utter folly!"
The bishop pursed his lips in disapproval, then addressed Lucien heavily, "I beg you will think on this, my lord. There will be unfortunate consequences—it's possible that neither of you will be received in society after the scandal."
"Possible!" Fenton snorted. "It's certain!"
"Perhaps Lord Longford has not considered—" Lady Fenton ventured timidly.
"It's ruination!" her husband insisted. "Ruination!"
Lucien rose and reached for his beaver hat. Turning to face the censure of the others, he shrugged. "It is a risk I am prepared to take. Good day, Diana. Lady Fenton." He bowed slightly toward the three clergymen. "Gentlemen."
Mr. Tate licked his lips nervously. "Wait—what of the settlements? You cannot merely abandon Lady Longford, sir."
"Lucien!" For a moment, Diana's mask slipped. "I shall be destitute! You cannot do this to me! Your father would not have wanted this!" Then, realizing what she'd said, she looked away.
For a moment, he felt betrayed again, and he had to force himself to hold his tongue. For all that Mad Jack was dead, he still hated him.
"The criminal court will assess damages on Town-send, and Longford will be compelled to settle an allowance on his wife before the matter can go before Parliament," the bishop reminded them. "But I cannot say you are being very civil in the matter, my lord," he added, addressing Lucien.
"Bell's solicitor assures me he does not intend to dispute the facts of my suit, and we have agreed to a sum of five thousand pounds."
"I object!" Tate protested. "We were not party to this, sir!"
"Unfortunately, we do not have jurisdiction over that portion of the matter," Bishop Harwell reminded him. "We can but decide if there are grounds for the separation. And," he continued, sighing, "the evidence does support the action Longford has brought against Lady Longford."
"Thank you." Lucien adjusted his hat to a rakish angle and turned to leave.
"I cannot live on five thousand pounds!" Then, perceiving how she must sound, Diana lowered her head and her voice. "That is, I should require an allowance."
"Before the Lords will hear the case, that must be agreed upon," the bishop murmured soothingly.
Lucien swung around. "I am willing to return what she brought to me upon the marriage."
"Paltry, sir!" Fenton howled, outraged.
Lucien's smile deepened. "You did not think so at the time," he murmured.
Knowing that Townsend's guilty plea would make his client's position untenable, Mr. Tate cleared his throat and prepared to sound reasonable. "My lord," he appealed to Lucien, "a small allowance in addition to the lump-sum distribution—" As the earl's smile faded, he went on hastily, "You are a wealthy man, and you would not have it perceived that you are unprepared to do the right thing—" He stopped, aware that Lucien's eyebrows had raised incredulously. "Yes, well—I should think that we could accept two thousand per annum," he finished lamely.
"Two thousand? I shall be in rags!" Diana screeched.
"I have no intention of providing an allowance, gentlemen. When the matter is settled, I mean to cut the connection completely."
"Dash it, but how's she to live?" Fenton demanded angrily.
"I will settle the five thousand from Townsend and the two thousand agreed upon at the marriage. Beyond that, I do not mean to give her a farthing."
"Seven thousand pounds?" The vicar, whose living was not one-tenth that nodded his head. "Most generous, my lord."
"Generous?" Diana wailed. "I shall have to practice the most shocking economies!"
"You can dispute it, of course, but in the process of a lengthy hearing, there is no telling what might come out," Lucien murmured meaningfully. "And neither of us would wish that, would we?" he added silkily.
Her father glanced uneasily to the solicitor, then exhaled heavily. It was all she was going to get, and he knew it. Under the circumstances, he had to admit to himself that it was more than Diana deserved. "Here now—no need to rake old coals, is there? If we accept— if we do not dispute the divorce—"
Lucien nodded. "There will be no need to bring more than the one charge against her."
"Papa!"
But Fenton was wa
tching Lucien. "You will see the matter expedited as quickly and quietly as possible?"
"I cannot see any delay. As I shall be leaving the country after the holidays, and as Bell is prepared to plead guilty, Leighton has assured me he will offer the bill in Lords before spring."
"You do not mean to be there?"
"If it is undisputed, I see no necessity of it."
"We can sue for more," Tate reminded Fenton.
"I should not advise it," Lucien said shortly, his eyes on Diana's father.
"No, of course not. I had hoped for more, but I am prepared to agree."
"I thought you would. You may deal with Leighton in my absence, and George will see the papers are forwarded. Good day."
As he entered the foyer where the viscount awaited him, he could hear the low murmur of dissatisfaction behind him. It didn't matter—he meant to put that portion of his life behind him.
"How'd it go?" Leighton asked soberly.
"As well as could be expected."
"Bad business."
"Yes."
It was not until they were in the viscount's carriage that either spoke again. Leighton wiped the steam from his window and peered outside. "Looks as though it might snow."
Lucien did not answer. Instead, he leaned back, resting his head against the button-tufted velvet squabs. For a long time, he stared absently toward the ceiling. Finally, his friend could stand it no longer.
"Are you going through with the divorce?"
Lucien nodded. "I told them you would tend to everything for me."
"Well, I will, but I still cannot believe you mean to sign up. You are as mad as Mad Jack!"
"I've already done it."
"War's a nasty, uncivilized business. Liable to come home in a box," Leighton declared glumly.
"I doubt many would count it a loss."
"Ain't no reason for you to go! Dash it, but let Diana flee the country! It ain't as if you was the guilty party, is it?"