by Kruger, Mary
Harry looked up from toasting another scone. “You don’t sound happy about it, sir,” he said.
“Well, no matter,” Melissa said quickly. If Harry didn’t know the reason behind Justin’s sudden silence, she had an excellent idea. “It’s a shame none of your family can be here, Chatleigh, but perhaps we could invite your Aunt Helmsley?”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Justin asked, his eyes gleaming.
“I like her.”
“Yes, well, she doesn’t bully you.”
“She tried. She means well, Chatleigh.”
“God save me from people who mean well.”
Melissa smiled. “I know. She does like to have her own way. But I think that underneath she’s a very lonely lady—”
“Ha!”
“Oh, think what you will! I think we should invite her.”
Justin stared at her a moment. He was getting a very different impression of his wife than he had had, and it disconcerted and intrigued him. Perhaps she was not as self-seeking as he had thought. “Oh, very well, madam, you win this round! Invite her, if you will.”
“I shall. It will be good to have guests here. The house is so large, one tends to rattle around.”
“Mm.” Absently Justin raked through his hair, and Melissa had the odd urge to smooth it down. “Been a long time since there were parties here. Not since m’mother’s time.”
“What was she like?” Melissa asked impulsively, and the shuttered look she so disliked came on his face.
“Rather not discuss her.” He stood away from the mantle, dusting his hands together. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have those account books to look over.”
He strode from the room, and Melissa looked after him in dismay. “Oh, dear!”
“What was that all about?” Harry said, looking up from the fire.
“I don’t know, Harry,” she said, frowning, and sat back. Oh, dear, and just when things had been going well between them. He had been friendly, approachable, and in spite of herself hope had risen in her, that perhaps matters could be improved between them. But that wouldn’t happen if he continued to hold her at arm’s length. Something, she decided, would have to be done.
Justin was dozing, sitting upright in a chair in his room, when a noise, the cry of a woman in trouble, jerked him out of his sleep. He stumbled to his feet, bumping against a nearby table, and the bottle of wine that stood there slowly tipped over, falling to the floor with a crash and rolling away. It threatened to trip him as he shambled across the floor, and for a moment he teetered dangerously, his arms flailing. Then, overbalanced, he tripped, stubbing his stockinged foot, and he was hopping on the other foot when at last he managed to open the door that connected his room with his wife’s. He nearly fell through it, and then came up short. The room was empty, except for Melissa, tossing restlessly in her bed.
God, she was just having a bad dream, he thought, plunging his fingers into his hair, and he would have turned to go if she hadn’t cried out again. His lips briefly set in a straight line. Damn, suppose I ought to do something about this. Maybe she wasn’t in danger physically, but a nightmare could be an unpleasant thing.
“Melissa,” he said, calling her name softly. When there was no response he crossed the room, staring helplessly down at her. Why did she have to be so pretty? he wondered, and reached out, finally, reluctantly, to touch her shoulder. “Melissa.”
She jerked awake, her breath drawing in sharply, her whole body pulling back from his hand. “Don’t touch me, don’t you dare touch me—oh! Chatleigh!” She stared up at him with eyes dark and wide with fear.
“Yes, who did you expect?”
“I—no one,” she said, but her eyes refused to meet his. “Just a dream.” She shook her head, and, mesmerized, he watched her curls, unbound and tangled, sway with the motion. “I’m all right, Chatleigh. You can go back to bed.”
He stood uncertainly in the middle of the floor. If he just reached out, just a little bit, he could touch her, feel the soft silk of her skin under his fingers. The urge was so strong that he couldn’t help himself.
She flinched back as he raised his hand, and he let it drop. “Wish you good night, madam,” he said, and stalked back into his room.
His lips twitched with annoyance as he stared at the spilled wine. All that, and it had just been a dream. But he couldn’t help wondering, as he straightened the mess, just what it was his wife feared, to wake her crying from her sleep. And he wondered, now that he had seen her and so nearly touched her, how he would make it through the night.
Sir Stephen was not a forgiving man. He never forgot an insult, and he never missed a chance for revenge. He had expected that evening to be sleeping between fine linen sheets, dining on the choicest of viands and sampling the earl’s wine cellar. Instead, he had eaten a rough supper of brown bread and crumbling cheese, and then sought his bed in the small, rudely furnished room that was all this hedge tavern had to offer. The sheets, he was certain, hadn’t been aired in months, let alone changed, and he feared the bed was infested. He would not soon forgive the Earl of Chatleigh for this.
The rough straw mattress crackled as he turned over, staring into the darkness and fuming at the treatment he had been accorded this afternoon. He was Sir Stephen Barton, damn it! What right had his lordship, the high-and-mighty earl, to treat him so? Were it not for the Jenkinses, Sir Stephen would not have a place to sleep tonight. He had not lied when he told Chatleigh that he stayed with friends; just now the Jenkinses, who had procured these lodgings, were the best allies he had.
But not for long. They would serve his purpose admirably, but once they had, they would have to go. Sir Stephen had no intention of associating with such rough company once his fortunes had been restored. And, restored they would be. Chatleigh would pay, he assured himself, and so would Melissa. And, with more than money.
At last, he thought, grinning evilly, and fell asleep contemplating his revenge.
Chapter Ten
The crunching of gravel on the newly raked drive heralded the arrival of visitors. From his study window Justin glanced out and then raked through his hair with his fingers. “Oh, damn,” he muttered, and pulled on his coat, discarded during his session with the estate books. It was Christmas Eve. Lady Helmsley had arrived, and would be with them until at least Twelfth Night. How Justin was going to survive the next fortnight, he didn’t know.
“Made some changes, haven’t you, girl?” her voice was booming out, accompanied by the thump of her cane, as Justin came into the hall.
“Some. Not many.” Melissa’s voice was light and musical in contrast. “The main thing was getting everything clean.”
“About time. There you are, boy. High time you came to greet me.”
Justin took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Hello, aunt. Good to see you again.”
“Hmph.” Augusta raised her cheek for his kiss. “Look like a country squire. Weston never made that coat.”
“No, as a matter of fact, he didn’t,” Justin said, his affability unimpaired. “Have a pleasant journey?”
“No, I did not, much you care! Just you take care you don’t get too comfortable, here in the country,” she continued as she made her stately progress towards the stairs. “London’s where you should be.”
“London?” Melissa said.
“Of course. Parliament opens next month. High time you took your seat there.”
Justin looked at Melissa before answering. “Been thinking about that, aunt, and—”
“Don’t think, boy. Always get into trouble when you do.”
Justin’s face darkened. Melissa cast a hasty look back at him and then propelled the old lady towards the stairs. “You must be tired after your journey, aunt. Let me show you to your room.”
“Thank you, you’re a good girl. Don’t know what that nevvie of mine did to deserve you.”
There was a stifled expletive from the floor below. Melissa looked down to see her husba
nd turn on his heel, and smiled. Chatleigh, she suspected, was in for a rough time.
Melissa had just reached the bottom of the stairs a few moments later when Justin suddenly loomed up before her. She was briefly annoyed that, in all the space of the hall he still managed to get in her way, and then the annoyance faded. It was rare that she was this close to him, and so she sometimes forgot just how tall he was, and how broad his shoulders were, the strength in his arms…
“Sorry,” Justin said, and stepped back, his voice breaking into her thoughts. Melissa’s face colored furiously. “Got the old dragon settled?”
“Chatleigh!” she exclaimed, but her eyes danced. “Yes, she was going to rest for a while. I think she is not so strong as she pretends.”
“She’ll outlive us all.” His voice was gloomy. “When I’m old she’ll still be bossing me about.”
“Nonsense. Though what was that about London?”
Justin looked down at her for a moment, and then made his decision. “Come,” he said, turning, and Melissa had no choice but to follow.
He led her to his study, indicating a chair by the fire. “I wish you would let me do something with this room,” she said, looking around at the clutter, the shabby furniture, the threadbare carpet. “At least let the maids in to clean.”
“It’s fine. Now.” He sat across from her, feet planted firmly on the floor, elbows resting on his knees. “About London. M’aunt has me pegged for a political career.”
“What? You?”
He stared at her. “Not that funny.”
Melissa controlled her mirth with an effort. “No, of course not. But you don’t like to talk, and isn’t that what politicians do?”
“Damned windy lot, most of ‘em. Never have been too interested in taking it up.” He leaned back, staring into the fire. “Though sometimes I’ve wondered if I could do some good, at least shake ‘em up a bit. The way they behave, wouldn’t even know there was a war on.”
“But surely they’re behind Wellington.”
“Yes. Now, when he’s winning. Where were they when he needed them?”
“Papa used to say the same thing.”
“Your father talked to you about such things?”
“Papa talked to me about a lot. He had to. Mama wouldn’t have understood.” She glanced away, blinking rapidly.
“And how old were you?” he asked, softly.
“I was fourteen when he died. But that’s neither here nor there.” She straightened. “The question now is, are you going to do as your aunt wishes?”
Justin looked into the fire. “Easiest thing, I suppose.”
“That’s no reason!”
“It is if you know my aunt. Once she gets the bit between her teeth, hard to make her stop. She even chose—”
“What?” Melissa asked, when he didn’t go on.
“A bride for me,” he said, unwillingly. “Before I knew you, of course.”
“You were engaged?” She stared at him. “No wonder you were so angry with me!”
Justin shifted in his seat. “Not that at all. Truth is, don’t know if I would have married Helena. Wasn’t a love match, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Melissa let the silence lengthen. Perhaps theirs wasn’t a love match, either, but she felt a sudden, unreasoning jealousy of the unknown Helena. Whoever she was, Melissa was going to prove that she could be just as suitable a wife. “What do you want to do?”
Justin looked up. “Truthfully? Go back to the army.” Melissa didn’t want to analyze the pain that went through her. “But I can’t. I am the earl, now. Owe something to the name.”
Melissa lowered her head to hide the color that flooded into her face. To get an heir, she supposed he meant. “But even so, Chatleigh,” she said, when she had command of herself again, “you couldn’t stay in the army forever. The war will end someday, and what then?”
“I don’t know.” He leaned his head against the back of the chair. “Can’t see myself doing nothing, like some damned dandy. Trouble is, I don’t have any training, except for the military.”
“But you went to university.”
“Yes.” He glanced over at her, deep in thought, gnawing on a fingernail, and unaware of his look. Been a long time since anyone had put so much thought towards what he might want to do, rather than what he should do. It was oddly warming.
“Chatleigh,” she said, and straightened. “You must know a lot of people? From the military, and from school?”
“Yes, so?”
“Well, wouldn’t that help you if you took your seat in Parliament? No, hear me out.” She held up her hand to forestall his protest. “I think you’d be better at it than you believe, and you might like it. At least, perhaps you should try.”
“M’aunt put you up to this?”
“No, of course not, this is my idea. Chatleigh, don’t you see? You owe it to yourself to try. At least go to London—”
“I see,” he said, his voice odd. “You want to go to London.”
“Well, yes, of course I do.” Her eyes grew dreamy. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“And you’d use me to get there.” Foolish of him to have thought, even for a moment, that she was actually concerned about him. He should have remembered what she was, a conniving little witch willing to do anything to achieve her own ends. Like all women.
Melissa was staring at him. “That’s not it at all!”
“Isn’t it?”
“No! Oh, for heaven’s sake, I don’t do things like that!”
“As I recall, you did at the inn, like a common—”
Melissa eyes flashed as she jumped to her feet. “Like a common whore,” she said, bitterly. “Oh, believe what you want. You will, anyway.”
Justin held her gaze for a few seconds, and then turned away, kicking at the fender. “Sorry, princess,” he said. “This time you won’t get what you want.”
Melissa’s hands clenched into fists, and then she whirled, whisking out the door. Justin sank back into the chair, staring into the fire. He had been foolish to let his guard down, to forget what she was, but it was a mistake he wouldn’t make again. He would keep his distance from her. It was better that way, he told himself, and almost believed it. Almost.
Christmas morning dawned frosty and cold. The party from the Hall attended services at St. Mary’s, arriving in Lady Helmsley’s barouche and sitting in the black leather-lined pew that had long been reserved for the Chatleighs. All around them there was the stir of movement and murmuring. That the earl was in residence with his new countess was no longer a source of wonder to the villagers, but they were still curious. The estate, and to a certain extent, the village, had suffered under the old earl’s proprietorship. It remained to be seen just what his successor would do.
The staff was assembled in the hall to greet them when they returned, and for the first time in years Justin felt that this really was his home. It had been a long time since anyone had welcomed him so warmly. It had been a long time, too, since the house had been decorated, with velvet ribbons of red and green festooning long ropes of greens, and the kissing ball hanging in a doorway. Melissa paused briefly under it as she handed her pelisse and gloves to a maid. Justin looked at her speculatively and then turned away, to go to the drawing room.
“The fire feels good,” Augusta admitted, sinking onto the sofa nearest the fireplace. Today her turban was of red and gold brocade, and her gown of cherry red satin, decked with cascades of lace at throat and sleeves, had a holiday air. By contrast Melissa, in the unrelieved black of mourning, looked pale and colorless. “Demmed cold out there. Took down Amelia’s portrait, I see.”
“Who?” Melissa turned from a table in the corner.
“My mother,” Justin said quietly, as he came into the room and sat on the sofa facing his aunt. “Asked her to.”
Augusta favored him with a long look. “I see.”
“Harry, help me with these, please?” Melissa said, and Harry went over
to her. In a moment both were back, their arms piled with gaily wrapped packages. Justin’s heart sank. Presents! Giving presents at Christmas was a custom just recently made popular by the Duchess of York, and he had been away for so long he had forgotten about it.
And what would he have given to his wife, he wondered, watching her as she knelt on the floor, as enthusiastic as a child. He knew nothing about her, her likes or dislikes, her hopes or fears, and though that was by choice, there were times when he was filled with an overwhelming curiosity about her. What was it that had driven her to so desperate an act as trapping a stranger into marriage? Surely she could have found a husband without resorting to such measures. She was warmhearted—one had only to see her with little Georgie Turner, still recovering from his injury, to know that; lively and likable, and too damned attractive for his peace of mind. He had almost begun to believe that he had done well in his choice of a wife. Perhaps that was why yesterday’s reminder of her opportunism, her willingness to use him to get what she wanted, had struck so hard.
“...and this is for you, Lady Helmsley,” Melissa was saying, as she laid a package on Augusta’s lap. “I know it isn’t much, but—”
“On the contrary, child,” Augusta said, with such a note in her voice that Justin looked up, distracted from his thoughts. She lifted a woolly, lacy shawl from the box. “Thank you, child, and how did you know that these old bones are always cold?”
Melissa smiled. “From my grandmother, ma’am.”
“Not Lady Townsend!”
“No, my grandmother Honeywell,” she said, still smiling. “The one who was in trade.”
“Hmph. And did you make this?”
“I did.”
“Hmph. Should be making baby clothes.” Melissa turned pink, and Augusta turned her eyes towards Justin, who was studiously avoiding her gaze. “Well, boy?”
“Sorry, afraid I forgot about presents,” he said, hastily, before his aunt could quiz him on the prospect of an heir.
“Hmph!” Augusta glared at him. “About what I expected, boy.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Melissa said, reaching for a small package. After much debate with herself she had decided she would give him his present, after all, though what he had said to her yesterday still hurt. Withholding his gift would only make her look petty, the greedy opportunist he thought her. “This is for you, Chatleigh. From Harry and me.”