by Farr, Diane
But Natalie was no shrinking violet. She had seemed forgiving enough afterward. Indeed, he thought with sour humor, her blessed innocence had protected her from knowing just how badly he had performed. Not that that let him off the hook. He would not, he vowed, let his lust run away with him again. She deserved better. She deserved much better.
And he had hoped to make her love him! What an imbecilic way to begin. At that thought he set down his fork, his appetite completely vanished. Damn, damn, damn.
He pushed away from the breakfast table and moodily prowled the house. He was haunted by thoughts of Catherine as well as Natalie. Her ghost dogged his steps, mocking him. Was he doomed to botch his new marriage, as divine punishment for having driven Catherine to her death? He did not deserve happiness, that was certain. But Natalie did. Perhaps God would be merciful, and let him have this last chance at happiness—if he promised to bring Natalie happiness as part of the bargain.
He wouldn’t succeed in that endeavor unless he made her love him. And it became increasingly clear, as the morning progressed, that it would be impossible to court her properly in London.
Shortly after breakfast the knocker began to sound. Malcolm gave orders to refuse admittance to every caller, but it soon was glaringly obvious that he and Natalie would have no peace if they stayed in the metropolis. And on top of the relentless stream of visitors and other diversions, Natalie apparently found the delights of the city overly tempting. She had not been able to wait a single day to spend time with her new husband, so eager had she been to gallivant about the town.
He could never compete with the myriad pleasures London had to offer, that was plain. If they stayed, their lives would become a round of social events. A whirl of shopping and dining and theater and parties. They would have little time alone, and would be constantly interrupted. She would be distracted. Taken from him. Even when she was with him, her mind would be elsewhere. How could he woo her here?
He gave curt orders to the staff: pack up his family’s things and ready the traveling coach. When Lady Malcolm and Miss Chase returned from wherever they had gone, he was taking them home to Larkspur.
Since they had originally planned to stay for several weeks the housekeeper seemed startled by this change of plans—but after one searching look at Malcolm’s face, she hastened to obey. Left to stew in his own uncomfortable thoughts, Lord Malcolm was working himself into a wretched temper.
Time crawled. Where the devil could they be? Noon passed, then one o’clock, then two o’clock. His impatience turned to a formless dread. Natalie knew nothing about London. If anything unspeakable occurred, she would be as helpless as Sarah.
Sarah.
She had taken Sarah with her. Why? He could think of no reason why Natalie would steal Sarah away from him, but it was hard to reason with the anxiety churning in his stomach.
He was not a man who prayed often—he saw no reason why God would hear the prayers of such as Malcolm Chase—but he found himself sending up a silent plea for the safe return of his wife and child, directed at any benevolent spirit who might be listening. If harm befell them, he thought grimly, heads would roll. Beginning with the idiots on his father’s staff who let Natalie and Sarah leave the house without his protection.
He was in the library, pacing like a caged tiger, when he heard the unmistakable sounds of a vehicle pulling to a stop outside the house. He crossed swiftly to the window, filled with hope and fear. It was his father’s town coach. Through the glass, he saw a footman letting down the steps and opening the door. Natalie, her face serene, stepped out. Sarah followed. As he watched, Natalie bent and whispered something teasing to the little girl, who laughed and leaned adoringly against her.
Malcolm sagged with relief—briefly. His relief swiftly transformed into an icy rage. He had spent the day worried sick, and all the while Natalie and Sarah had been perfectly safe! He watched his bride and his little girl, quite cozy together, walk unconcernedly into the house. They were obviously unharmed, and appeared to have given no thought to Malcolm. Not a hint of guilt in either Natalie’s demeanor or Sarah’s! No shred of eagerness to find him and apologize! They appeared, in fact, to have had a pleasant time together on whatever errand—or set of errands—they had run.
Sarah could be pardoned, for she was too young to know better. Natalie, however, must have known the anxiety she would cause by disappearing for the better part of the day. How could she appear so tranquil? He had a few things to say to Natalie Chase, he thought grimly.
He stalked into the hall, where Natalie was untying her stepdaughter’s bonnet. She looked up from this task when she heard his footsteps and her face lit with pleasure at the sight of him. She must have recognized the anger in his face, however, for her glad smile immediately faded. She straightened, her expression wary, and studied him. Rather than speak to him, she leaned down to Sarah. “Sarah, here is your papa,” she said. Her voice was light and pleasant, but Malcolm was not deceived.
Sarah turned, beaming with unalloyed delight, and bounded up to him. “Papa! What did you do today? You should have come with us.”
Malcolm caught his wriggling daughter. “Indeed?” There was a bite in his voice that Sarah would not hear, but Natalie would. “And where have you been? Shopping?”
“A little. At the end.” She turned and waved to indicate the open door behind her, where a footman was carrying in a box. “Miss Whittaker bought me a hat. I wanted the puppy, but she thought you might not like it.”
“Very astute of her,” said Malcolm dryly. It was also astute of her to push Sarah into his arms when she saw he was angry. It forced him to moderate his anger, in order to hide it from the child.
“Does ‘astute’ mean she was right?” Sarah looked crestfallen. “She thought I should have an imaginary puppy instead, to keep Clara company. But I would rather have a real one. Miss Whittaker says—” She halted in mid-sentence, looking shy. “Papa,” she whispered, playing with a button on his coat. “Miss Whittaker says that is not her real name, now that she is married.”
“That’s right, duckie. She is Lady Malcolm Chase, just as your mother was when she was alive.”
Sarah nodded. “I heard people call her that today.” Her whisper was barely audible. “She says I may call her Mama now, if you do not object.” She lifted pleading eyes to his. “May I?”
Malcolm felt his heart lurch. His anger faded, momentarily forgotten. Should he object?
Poor, jealous Catherine. It would grieve her to know that Sarah wanted to call his new wife ‘Mama.’ But Catherine was not here to feel the pangs of jealousy. He had a living wife and child whose needs and desires must take precedence over Catherine’s. And perhaps death brought understanding with it, in which case Catherine would not object at all.
He squatted down to Sarah’s height, bringing their faces level so they could look into each other’s eyes as equals. “How do you feel about that?” he asked her solemnly. “Do you want to call her ‘Mama?’”
Sarah’s eyes were changeable as the sea. At the moment they were green and solemn. “I would like to have a mama again,” she said, with great seriousness. “And I do love Miss Whittaker.”
So do I. He almost said it aloud, but caught himself. Natalie was standing by, quietly observing their exchange. He glanced up at her. She was motionless above them, smiling a little. Her eyes were moist. She nodded to indicate that Sarah was right, and that she had no objection to the nickname. Malcolm returned his gaze to Sarah. He brushed a few strands of her straight, pale hair off her forehead, loving the baby-fine texture. His own precious daughter. And Catherine’s.
And now, Natalie’s.
“Then I think you should call her Mama,” he said.
Sarah beamed. She broke away from him and danced back to Natalie, jumping and frisking like a puppy. “Mama, mama, mama!” she cried, trying the word out.
Natalie caught her and swung her around, laughing. “Yes, very well, that’s enough! Pray be careful of that a
rm of yours. Shall we go and show Nurse your new hat?”
Malcolm straightened. “You’ll find that Mrs. Bigalow is busy,” he said casually. “Packing.”
Natalie’s eyes widened with surprise. “Indeed? Why?”
“We are returning to Larkspur tonight.” His tone was crisp. “Pray make yourself ready. We leave within the hour.”
He turned on his heel and left before Natalie could question him or protest. In his experience, wives questioned and protested even the smallest assertion of husbandly authority. And he was rather guiltily aware that this was not small. But it was necessary, he reminded himself. Necessary. He just didn’t dare explain his reasons to Natalie. He couldn’t say to her, “I want your undivided attention, so I can make you love me.” Such selfishness on his part would drive her further away from him.
Soon he was handing her into the berline. She had changed into a traveling costume of striped rose and cream. It was obviously one of the modiste’s creations. It fit her like a glove, flattered her every curve, and made her look as cool and delicious as a peppermint bon-bon. He wished there were time to admire her in it. Best, however, to maintain his distance. There would be fewer questions to answer that way.
She paused on the step, her hand in his. Her brown eyes lifted to his face. Her expression was grave. “Are you testing me?” she asked, her voice low enough that no one could overhear.
He was taken aback. He hadn’t anticipated such directness. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.” She dropped her eyes. “I think you are punishing me for taking Sarah away this morning. I think you have changed our plans without consulting me, waiting to see if I will defy you or argue with you.” She lifted her eyes again. They were clear and luminous. “I shall do neither, husband. If you are keeping tally in your head, pray chalk this one up. And remember it.”
She climbed into the coach then, leaving him without a word to say.
Natalie yielded to Sarah’s eager entreaty and sat beside her, leaving Malcolm to sit facing them. Mrs. Bigalow was traveling in the second coach with Larkspur’s cook and most of their luggage. He watched in silence as Natalie entertained Sarah during their slow, lurching progress through London. She was really remarkable; endlessly patient when Sarah peppered her with questions, endlessly inventive when Sarah grew restless or bored. He still did not know where they had gone that morning, and still did not ask. But his anger had cooled long ago, leaving room for his heart to swell with appreciation now.
Natalie was a wonder. He had made the right choice. Whether she loved him or no, he had definitely made the right choice.
Soon they were rolling through the countryside and their progress became smoother. He lay back against the squabs, pretending to doze while still watching them through half-closed eyes. They made a lovely picture, his wife and his little girl. They looked nothing alike, of course, and yet they seemed to belong together. Sarah favored Catherine, with her straight, pale hair, fine bones and petite frame. Natalie was tall and lush, with a graceful strength that appealed strongly to a man grown weary of Catherine’s nervous fragility. Dark curls. Warm, brown eyes. Curves (he now knew) designed by their Maker to drive Malcolm mad. No, she looked nothing like Catherine, and nothing like Sarah. But the two had a special bond of intuitive understanding that made them run together like two drops of water. It was easy to imagine that Natalie was indeed Sarah’s mama. He supposed that, eventually, most people would forget that he had ever had a first wife.
He wished he could forget it, as well.
The traitorous thought shot guilt through him. He sat up and stared grimly out the window at the passing scenery. He had no right to resent poor Catherine’s memory. He had married her, failed to love her, and driven her to her death. Her blood was on his head; he felt the burden of it every day. And still, still, he was angry with her! Angry at her manipulative tricks and all the little underhanded games she used to play. Angry at the way she had blamed him for her unhappiness, when in his heart he suspected that Catherine had simply been an unhappy person and that he had had nothing to do with it. And he was angry at her suicide, which some dark corner of his soul believed had been the ultimate manipulation, expressly intended to visit lasting misery upon him.
Was that really possible? The question haunted him to this day. Would anyone, even a madwoman, kill herself merely to punish her husband? Take her own life, in order to ruin his? It sounded incredible, but he could not help wondering if it were true. Because if it were true, it had worked. It had worked like a charm. Damn her. He shifted restlessly on his seat, tortured with shame…and still angry. What a shallow, self-centered rotter he must be, to harbor such bitter resentment toward his poor, dead wife.
He mustn’t think about it any more. He had new concerns, new responsibilities. He shifted his gaze back to Natalie, playing some sort of silly finger game with Sarah. The tightness eased in his chest, and he breathed easier. He must concentrate on the living child, to whom he had dedicated his life. Catherine’s memory was best served by protecting and loving Sarah. And Natalie, his precious Natalie, had miraculously turned out to be the best gift he could give his motherless daughter. Catherine’s ghost would have to be appeased by that, he thought wryly. For he wasn’t giving Natalie up, at any price.
As if hearing his thoughts, Natalie looked at him. He felt the shock of her gaze shoot pleasure along his nerves. Her features softened into the first smile she had offered him since their earlier meeting in the hall, and he smiled back. Awareness tingled in the short space of air between them.
Sarah, oblivious, placed the index finger of one hand carefully against the thumb of the other. “Pop, pop, peep,” she sang under her breath. “Peep, peep, pop.”
Malcolm felt his smile widen. He jerked his chin to indicate Sarah. “What a fascinating game.”
Amusement crinkled the corners of Natalie’s eyes. “Oh, yes. Destined to take the drawing rooms of the ton by storm.”
“What do you call it?”
“I believe it is known as Peep Pop.”
His shoulders shook. Sarah glanced up at Natalie. “Your turn,” she said. Her tone was congratulatory.
“Ah,” said Natalie gravely. “Where did I leave off?”
They continued their strange game as the light faded outside the swaying coach. Malcolm never did decipher the rules of Peep Pop, and he had a strong notion that Natalie did not understand them either. She seemed content to follow Sarah’s lead, letting the little girl correct her when necessary. Eventually Sarah tired of the game and abruptly called a halt, announcing that the match had ended in a tie. With a prodigious yawn, she nestled beneath her new mama’s arm and curled up on the seat, preparing to nap. Natalie took off Sarah’s bonnet and smoothed her hair, then leaned back to make room for her. They snuggled comfortably together.
As Sarah’s eyes drifted closed, Natalie’s eyes lifted to meet Malcolm’s steady gaze. The muted light of evening washed her peppermint-striped costume with a lavender glow. She tilted her head quizzically, bestowing a soft smile on her husband. “You are staring at me,” she observed.
“I like to look at you.”
Surprise widened her eyes. Then she bit her lip, looking both pleased and embarrassed. “I am glad,” she said at last.
He shifted his body against the squabs, easing into a more comfortable position. Sarah seemed to be falling asleep already. The carriage was dim and silent save for the rumble of the wheels and the creaking of the springs. The intimacy of the setting seemed to be binding them together, and yet there were unspoken issues between them. Some of them he could not voice. Some, he decided, he would.
“You don’t really think I changed our plans in a fit of pique, do you?” He kept his voice low, and Sarah did not stir.
Natalie arched a brow at him. “Didn’t you?”
His mouth pulled downward. “You’ve been living with Hector too long. No, Natalie, I did not.”
She seemed to weigh his words car
efully, mulling them over before she spoke. “But I saw that you were angry with me. When I returned from—from shopping.”
“I was angry,” he said. “Why did you not leave me word to tell me where you were going?”
Her eyes slid away from his. She shrugged, staring out the window at the darkening landscape. “I should have, I suppose. I am sorry. In future, I shall try to inform you of my whereabouts.”
“And Sarah’s,” he added dryly.
She looked back at him, shamefaced. “Yes, that was not well done of me.”
“I am not an unreasonable man.”
“Of course not.” She seemed anxious to agree with him. “I have never thought you unreasonable.”
“And yet,” he said softly, “you think me capable of acting spitefully. Dragging you away from London merely to punish you, or assert my authority.”
She took a deep breath. Her eyes narrowed in puzzlement—or challenge. “Perhaps you are right, and I have lived with Hector too long. But I think anyone might have surmised that you were acting out of temper. Why did you change your mind so abruptly? Why bring us away from London two days after our wedding? I am at a loss to understand it.”
How much of the truth should he tell her? Malcolm felt his muscles tense in automatic warning, as if every fiber and sinew knew that he was entering dangerous territory. A misstep would be costly. He had never wooed a woman before—not in any true sense of the word. Not when it mattered. But he had to begin somewhere.