“I am sorry,” he said slowly. “If I could undo any of it... But I cannot.” He couldn’t quite wish he had never known his mistresses, but he could wish himself more discreet.
She sidestepped and edged away, putting more distance between them. “No,” she agreed. “You cannot.”
“But we are married,” he pointed out. “That cannot be undone, either.”
“No.” She folded her arms and watched him expectantly.
“So...what shall we do?”
Her brows drew together in a faint frown; apparently he hadn’t said what she wanted to hear. “What did you come home expecting to do?”
“Now that I’m home again,” he began, “it seems time to think of an heir for the Grange.”
Her splendid eyes widened. “Oh? What if I do not feel disposed to give you one?”
“You are my wife.”
“Mm.” She took another step back, but arched her eyebrows in a credible mimicry of mild curiosity. “I just heard you say, not five minutes ago, that you are no rapist.”
“You are my wife,” he repeated. Damn it, he had rights to her body.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll come to your bed willingly. It doesn’t mean I won’t scream or fight you. You condemned this Mannering fellow for laying violent hands upon his wife. Are you prepared to do the same?”
Of course he wasn’t. But how dare she? He was no brute like Mannering. “Why?” The word felt ripped from his gut.
“Because of the last five years. Because of every titter, every pitying look. Because I have been all alone here and you have not.” Her voice rose at last, raw anger slipping free of her careful control.
He’d also been in mortal danger while she had been safe, wounded while she had been whole, and cold and wet or broiled alive under a blazing sun while she had dwelled in temperate English comfort. But he had learned wisdom enough to hold his peace. “I’m sorry,” he said. He hadn’t meant to wound her. It had never occurred to him that his actions so far from England’s shores would touch her life.
“It isn’t enough.”
“Is anything?” he asked. “Are you saying never, that you wish for a separation?”
She didn’t speak for a long moment. Jack wished he knew how to interpret the emotions chasing one another across her face—nothing so obvious as forgiveness or implacable hatred.
“Perhaps. I just don’t know, Jack.”
He took a deep breath. He couldn’t let the fullness of his anger show, for lashing out would only hurt his cause. “You don’t know,” he echoed.
She sighed and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t. Today, when I look at you all I can think of is those women in Canada, and the gossip, and the pity, and Lady Dryden’s sneers.”
Damn Selina Dryden for the horrible old gossip she was! What did he and Elizabeth matter to her now that his mother was dead?
“Oh,” he said. “But will you let me try?”
“Try what?”
“To earn your forgiveness. To make you see something else when you look at me.”
She bit her lip, then nodded. “You may try.”
“Thank you,” he said solemnly.
It wouldn’t be the work of an instant, driving away those years of unhappiness. But it must be done, and not only so there would be an heir for Westerby Grange. No, sometime in the last half hour he’d gone quite mad with desire for his own wife. After all, he had always admired women who had the courage to stand up for themselves in impossible circumstances.
He couldn’t tell her that. She’d never believe it. He couldn’t laugh at himself, for fear she’d think he was mocking her. More words of apology wouldn’t sway her, not yet. “Perhaps you’ll dine with me tonight,” he said, careful to keep any hint of surely you owe me that much out of his voice.
She let out a breath, visibly relaxing. “Certainly. I’ll speak to the cook. We have no fatted calf for the return of the prodigal, not in February, but perhaps a ham?”
“A fatted ham will more than suffice,” he assured her.
She sniffed, refusing to show any amusement at what he acknowledged was a feeble attempt at a joke.
“I’ll see to it,” she promised. “Once the snow stops, perhaps you’d like to walk the estate with me. You should see the sheep, and we’ve a yearling filly I believe you’ll like the look of.”
“Yes, certainly.”
“I’ll have the servants make your room ready.”
Would they always sleep in separate rooms? “I suppose you’re in Mama’s old room now.”
She shook her head. “No, I left it as it was. I’d made the yellow room mine, and...I thought you might like to see hers as it was, before I made any changes.”
“Thank you. That was very kind of you.”
Their eyes met and held for a moment. She bit her lip, shrugged, turned away and walked back to the hearth. “Perhaps you’d like a bath before dinner? I can have water heated.”
She seemed enough at ease that he dared to approach the fire himself, though he stood at the opposite corner. “I see. You’re saying I smell of horse, and a week on the road in inns so cold the most fastidious man in the world would not have ventured more than the minimum splash of water from the washbasin.”
She rolled her eyes. “You twist my words. I only meant that when one is cold to the bone, there is nothing so warming as a hot bath before a hot fire.”
He pictured her then, coming in cold and shivering from a vigil at lambing or foaling time, stripping off her cold, wet things and lowering herself into a steaming tub her maid had thoughtfully prepared against her return. His cock stirred at the image. If only he hadn’t made such a muddle of things, he could suggest that the bath might be made to fit two.
Something of his thoughts must have shown in his eyes, for she colored and backed away, wiping her hands on her skirts with a dismissive air. “I’ll go and speak to the servants.”
With that she hurried out of the room. Jack sagged back against the mantel. “You,” he told himself, “have cocked it up good and proper this time.”
* * *
Elizabeth shut the door to her yellow room behind her and collapsed onto her bed.
Curse Jack for not sending word of his coming! She’d been all set to meet him wearing one of the new dresses she’d bought on her last trip to York, after she’d heard the American war was ending and deduced that her husband most likely would be obliged to come home at last.
She’d visited the dressmaker not out of any delusion that a few new gowns would transform her into some kind of beauty, or that Jack would take one look at her, fall in love and repent of his flagrantly public philandering. She’d only wanted to look the part of a knight’s lady, a woman of rank and dignity, and not one who’d spent the past five years toiling on a farm, for her leisure only dining with the few friends she trusted not to make her feel her husband’s desertion.
Her intent had been to meet Jack in her new blue kerseymere, cut to the exact pattern of a day dress from the most recent edition of the Ladies’ Monthly Museum. She would’ve waited to receive him in the parlor—cool, composed, fashionable and dignified.
Instead, she’d woken that morning without the slightest suspicion her husband might return that day. It had snowed heavily just to the south, so surely if he was on his way home rather than securing a new mistress for himself in London, he would be obliged to wait until the roads cleared to complete his journey. So she’d donned one of her oldest dresses, a warm brown wool, and prepared for a quiet day of planning the spring plantings.
Then she had spotted him from her window. She’d recognized him instantly. He still sat a horse magnificently. Whatever damage his wounds had done to him, they hadn’t taken that away.
There was no question of changing into a more flattering dress. By the time she’d called for her maid Hodgson’s assistance and got herself laced and buttoned into the kerseymere, he’d be inside the house, either cooling his heels an
d growing impatient as he waited for his wife to come to him or, worse still, barging in on her as she dressed. He had the right, after all. The Grange was his house and she was his wife.
No, the most important thing had been to surprise him, to catch him off balance and make her demands clear before he had time to understand what was happening. So she’d set her quill aside and scrambled downstairs, pausing only long enough to seize her old scarlet cloak from its hook near the door. After that, it had all gone according to plan. More or less. She’d taken him to task, as he deserved, for all the humiliation he had dealt her in his absence. And she’d had the courage, assisted by his emphatic declaration that he was no rapist, to go through with her vow to keep him out of her bed until he had paid.
She had won her point. So why was she shaking now, when she had got everything she wanted?
She’d either forgotten how much sheer presence her husband had, or it was something he’d acquired during their separation. He hadn’t been exerting himself to charm her. Far from it—he’d ridden up, tired from his long, cold journey and almost as angry with her as she was with him. But he still managed to carry off such an air of command, of expecting instant obedience, that it was no easy task to stand against him.
And what business had he being even more handsome than before? Those little wings of graying hair above his ears gave him a dignified, distinguished look, and his lined, sun-browned skin only made her think of his service, of the battles he’d fought and places he’d seen. Even his barely discernable limp made her feel a tenderness toward him almost in spite of herself.
Only she didn’t want to admire him, nor even like him, not yet. He needed to do far more than say he was sorry to earn his way back into her good graces. But being in his thoroughly male presence made her aware just how starved she was for any kind of physical contact. All these years. She’d had one week with Giles before he fell ill, just enough to whet her appetite for the pleasures of the flesh. Before she’d learned of Jack’s adultery, she’d begun to imagine what it would feel like to lie with him, but she hadn’t allowed herself such a fantasy in three years. Instead, night after night she’d raged against fate for being so cruel, so unfair, as to give her only one week of bliss when other women had years and years of happiness. And now already some traitorous part of her called out, See how handsome Jack is! And he wants you.
He wants an heir, her wiser self told her foolish body. He wouldn’t want one from you if he had any other choice.
She didn’t know what to do next. She had made him listen to her, she thought, made him see her as an actual person with pains and desires of her own. But she couldn’t make him love her, nor undo those scandalous affairs and the gossip they had caused.
One day at a time. For today, that meant getting through dinner. So she spoke to the cook to augment the simple dinner she’d planned, called for a bath of her own and then had Hodgson dress her in her new green merino. It wasn’t quite the finest of the four gowns she’d had made for evening wear, but the wine-colored kerseymere must be saved for grander occasions, should any arise. In any case, she liked the look of the merino best of all. She fancied that somehow it made her eyes look brighter and her skin creamier, almost as if she was pretty.
Hodgson arranged Elizabeth’s hair as best she could manage. They had long since discarded curling tongs as useless, for her hair was so extremely straight it wouldn’t hold artificial curls for longer than half an hour. But Hodgson coiled and pinned it neatly and wove a satin ribbon through the braids that matched the blond lace trimming the gown.
When, filled with trepidation, Elizabeth opened the door, her husband was waiting for her. He wore the same coat as before, though it bore the marks of a hasty brushing, with fresh linen, and his clean male scent blended agreeably with that of the plain soap her cook, Mrs. Pollard, made for the shepherd and stable hands.
He greeted her with a bow. Elizabeth looked for irony or mockery in the gesture but found none. “You look lovely, my dear,” he said, his voice pitched loudly enough to carry to Hodgson’s eager ears where she stood straightening Elizabeth’s dressing table. “I wish I were better dressed to match you, but all my trunks are with the chaise back in York. My new man will be bringing them once the roads clear.”
Suddenly Elizabeth felt overdressed. “I should have saved this for when we dine in company, I suppose.”
He looked her up and down, slowly enough to take in every detail. “No,” he said at last. “You shouldn’t have. It’s a beautiful dress.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we go down to dinner?”
She took it, gathering her skirts with her free hand to descend the stairs. She didn’t quite believe this courtesy of his, but what could she say against it?
They didn’t speak beyond the basic pleasantries until they were seated across from each other over bowls of cock-a-leekie soup.
“The house and lands look well,” he said, “not that I expected otherwise, from your letters.” His eyebrows climbed a fraction of an inch, his only acknowledgment that there was anything unusual about their correspondence.
“I did my best,” she said. “I’ll be glad to show you more—the sheepfolds, the new horses. That is, if you’re interested.”
“Of course I am.” He actually sounded stung. “Why would I not be?”
He’d shown precious little sign of it in all this time. “You never struck me as a farmer at heart.” Not that she was, either. Yet she’d had no choice but to learn.
“Well, no, I’m not. But I do love horses, and these lands are my responsibility, even if all I’m fit to do is pass their management into more competent hands and keep my eyes open to make sure whomever I choose truly is competent and honest.”
“Good. I wasn’t sure...” She pushed her spoon around the bowl. “That is, you’ve been away more than you’ve been home since you were grown.”
“Yes, I have. But that, too, was my responsibility.”
She frowned across the table at him, searching for the right words of complaint. Few senior officers had stayed away as long as he had, and those women of his had not been responsibilities. But just then Molly arrived bearing the ham, and the moment of tension passed. Jack turned the subject to dinners he’d eaten in Canada, and the general challenges of dining on campaign when one was expected to keep up appearances and give fine dinners to one’s officers. Elizabeth felt she could contribute almost nothing to the conversation. She had never been anywhere, after all, so what could she say on how best to prepare venison or the challenges of serving dinner for twenty in a campaign tent?
Despite her envy, she couldn’t deny her interest in her husband’s experiences, and the rest of the dinner passed smoothly until they were picking over the last bites of seed cake. “I was thinking,” he said, “I should come to your room tonight after—”
“You will not,” she said. “Did you hear nothing I said before? I’ll scream. I’ll fight—”
He held up a staying hand. “Pray let me finish my sentence, ma’am. I heard everything you said, and—good God—I have no intentions of forcing you. The very thought—” He shook his head and shuddered. “I only thought—the servants have been hovering over me since I arrived, and I’m sure they’re as good and honest people as may be found, but do you truly trust them not to gossip if we keep separate beds from the night I return home?”
“It would serve you right if they did,” she said sweetly.
“I daresay. But how do you know their gossip would harm me more than you?”
Oh, God, he was right. If all Selyhaugh knew they were keeping separate beds, no one would think she was having her revenge, they would only pity her for being so mousy and plain her husband couldn’t even bear to lie with her for the sake of an heir. Would her humiliation never end? She felt her face heat and her eyes sting, and she bit her lip and swallowed hard.
“Elizabeth, please. I didn’t mean... I only thought...”
She looked up and met his eyes, brown and troubled and
...kind?
“Just let me come to your room for an hour or so every night, or come to me in mine, if you’d rather. We’ll talk, that’s all. I promise on my honor as an officer. Then the servants will have nothing to gossip about.”
She considered, but only for a moment. She might not like him much, but she thought she trusted him to keep his word—their wedding itself had proved he held his word nothing short of sacred—and she’d had more than enough gossip and humiliation for a lifetime. “Very well.”
Chapter Eight
Jack briefly considered going to his wife’s room clad in nothing but a nightshirt. He wouldn’t have a banyan to wear over it until his trunks caught up with him. If any servants caught sight of him, his mostly unclad state would certainly give credence to the idea that he and his wife were making their marriage a normal one at last.
On the other hand, she was still furious with him, and more than a little skittish in his company. He didn’t want to give the impression of ignoring her wishes or, for that matter, make his more tender parts vulnerable to an angry kick. She was far too unhappy with him to find anything appealing about the sight of his naked legs in proximity to her bed. No, so much bare-skinned intimacy would be too precipitate by half. So he settled for removing his coat, waistcoat, cravat and boots, leaving himself, he hoped, clothed enough in shirt, stockings and pantaloons to avoid startling his wife’s delicate sensibilities. After a moment’s consideration, he took the gifts he had selected in London with him. If nothing else, they would give him subjects for conversation.
He padded down the corridor to Elizabeth’s room. Knock, or just walk in? Surely the former, since he was here to assure her he could keep his word and respect her wishes. He tapped on the door, endeavoring to neither sound tentative nor peremptory and demanding. He couldn’t help but smile ruefully. That he had come to this, worrying over whether he was knocking properly. All unwittingly, he had married a woman like no other.
An Infamous Marriage Page 9