Unsuitable Wife

by Kruger, Mary

  She held a small, square box out to him. Justin looked at it for a moment without speaking, and then took the box. Still without words, he opened it, and pulled out a fine gold hunter’s watch, hanging on a chain.

  “It was my father’s,” Melissa said, “given him by Wellington. Harry and I think you should have it.”

  “I see.” Justin held the watch up to read the inscription on the back, and then replaced it in the box. “And is this supposed to make me change my mind about London?”

  Melissa drew back as if she’d been struck. “Must every gift have a price, my lord?”

  “It generally does.”

  She got to her feet. “Then I pity you,” she said, and walked out of the room.

  “Not well done of you, boy,” Augusta said into the heavy silence that followed Melissa’s departure.

  Justin put the box into his pocket, avoiding Harry’s hurt gaze, and rose. “Stay out of it,” he said to Augusta crisply, and stalked out of the room.

  Early the following day Justin came down the stairs and paused in the hall, tapping his riding crop against his leg. “Where is everyone, Phelps?”

  Phelps stood stiff and still near the door. “Her ladyship and Master Harry have left already, my lord,” he said.

  “The devil they have!” Justin stared at him, noticing the butler’s stiffness and coolness. In the mysterious way that servants had, the entire staff seemed to have learned of what had transpired yesterday morning. “They were to meet me here and we were to go together.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Justin looked at him again, and then turned. “Never mind,” he said, as he walked towards the breakfast room. Not that it really mattered, he thought, sitting at the table, but he had wanted the party from the Hall to arrive at Sir Percival’s for the Boxing Day hunt together. Absurd to feel as if he had been abandoned.

  “There you are, Master Justin,” Mrs. Barnes said, bustling into the room when he was nearly done with his breakfast.

  “Here I am, Nanny,” he said, mildly.

  “I’ve been wanting a word with you.”

  Justin put down his fork. “If it’s about yesterday, Nanny, it’s not necessary.”

  “How could you, Master Justin?” she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Surely I taught you better than that.”

  “You did, Nanny, but—”

  “The poor girl was in tears, so I heard.”

  “Who told you that?” he said, startled.

  “Her maid. At least,” she said, scrupulously honest, “she said she thought her ladyship had been crying.”

  “Huh.” Justin rose to his feet. “Her ladyship is tougher than anyone thinks.”

  “But not as tough as you think, Master Justin. If you’re not careful, you’ll lose her.”

  Justin’s shoulders stiffened as he stalked out. Damn, everyone thought they could meddle in his business, he thought as he strode towards the stables. Only he really knew what the situation was; only he knew why he had been so churlish about the gift.

  Slowing down, he put a hand in his pocket and withdrew the watch, letting it dangle on its chain. Fine piece of jewelry, but what made it more valuable to him was the fact that his wife had thought enough of him to give it to him. And he had thrown it back into her face, but not for the reasons anyone had thought, not for the reason he had given. He had refused it, because, damn it! It meant too much to him, and he didn’t want to be caught in his wife’s toils.

  Alfred was just finishing saddling Diablo when Justin walked into the stables. “Morning, Alfred.”

  “Morning, sir.” Alfred didn’t look up at him, and Justin frowned. It was unusual for Alfred to act as a groom, now that there were others to perform that function, but Justin knew from long experience that Alfred liked to work with horses when he was upset.

  “Well, Alfred?” he said, when the silence had stretched quite long enough.

  “Well, sir?”

  “Out with it, man. What’s troubling you?”

  “You shouldn’t have done it, sir!” Alfred burst out.

  “Oh, God, not you, too?” Justin swung up into the saddle, and Diablo, sensing his annoyance, danced about.

  “It was wrong, sir.” Alfred stood his ground. “Her ladyship didn’t deserve it.”

  “For God’s sake, Alfred, whose side are you on?”

  “Yours, sir. You’re wrong about her. She’s Major Selby’s daughter.”

  “Doesn’t make her perfect, Alfred.”

  “No, sir, but she’s not what you think, either.”

  “I wish everyone would mind his own business,” Justin said, wheeling around.

  “Only thinking of you, sir,” Alfred called after him as he rode out of the stable yard, and Justin gritted his teeth. God save him from well-meaning people! Still, he supposed, drawing back on the reins to slow Diablo’s pace, he would have to apologize. Alfred had been right about one thing. Melissa hadn’t deserved it.

  Sir Percival Dutton’s stableyard was a scene of noise and confusion when Justin reached it. Melissa and Harry were nowhere in sight as he joined the milling restless crowd of men in pink coats and ladies in riding habits, fine horseflesh, and baying hounds. By God, he’d forgotten how stirring a good hunt could be. Conditions were perfect for it, too, cold enough for the ground to be hard, and clear enough. For the first time since returning home Justin felt his blood leap to life.

  He was talking to Sir Percival when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw three riders emerge from the stables. There was Harry, astride a roan gelding that looked big for him; Richard Dutton, the squire’s son; and a woman Justin didn’t recognize immediately, until she turned her head. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. It was Melissa.

  Good God, he thought, blankly, staring at her. Good God, he hadn’t realized she was so pretty, but then, he’d never seen her in anything besides black before. Her high-waisted riding habit of forest green velvet, trimmed with epaulets and frogs of gold braid, clung to her curves, and changed the color of her eyes to bright, vibrant emerald. Her skin glowed from the cold and from the excitement of again being astride a horse, which, he noted, she sat very well, and against the dark green of her hat, a dashing military shako, her auburn curls blazed like flame. Justin wondered why redheads had never come into style, and then Melissa, responding to something her companion had said, turned, and the moment was gone.

  Justin shook his head, much as a man awakened from a dream, and then, clucking softly to Diablo, made his way through the crowd. “Good morning, sir!” Harry called when he spotted him, yesterday’s hurt and disappointment apparently forgotten. “Capital day for a hunt!”

  “It will do,” Justin agreed, turning Diablo so that he was next to Melissa. She was mounted on a sweet-tempered, fine-boned chestnut mare, whose glossy mane was only several shades darker than her hair. “Morning, my lady. Dutton.”

  “Good morning, Chatleigh,” Melissa said, easily, but the smile that had been on her face a moment before was gone, replaced by a wary, shuttered look.

  “Morning, Chatleigh,” Richard Dutton said, across Melissa. “Glad to have you back with us.”

  “Glad to be here. Must thank you for mounting m’wife and her brother. Stables at the Hall aren’t what they should be.”

  “Our pleasure. In fact, I’ve told Lady Chatleigh she may have free use of our stables whenever she wishes.”

  Melissa turned and gave Richard a piercingly sweet smile. A bolt of white hot rage shot through Justin, and he tightened his hands on the reins. Diablo, in response, danced about, and it took Justin a moment to get both his horse and himself under control. Damn, she never smiled at him like that!

  He became aware that Richard was looking at him, awaiting some sort of response, and he pulled himself together. “Of course,” he said, and lightly flicked the reins, setting Diablo to a walk. “Excuse me.”

  “Of course.” Richard’s eyebrows went up a bit. “Taciturn fellow, ain’t he?” he remarked.

&nbs
p; Melissa shrugged, watching Justin with a puzzled frown as he easily maneuvered Diablo through the crowd. Now what had that been about? Certainly there was strain between them just now, but it was not her doing. Chatleigh, she had thought, had better sense than to advertise their problems to the world.

  Sir Percival’s groom blew on his horn at that moment, and the people who had been milling aimlessly about stilled, some leaning forward in their saddles, some straightening in expectation, eyes bright with interest and excitement. Marianne Dutton, Sir Percival’s daughter, turned to say something to Justin, who had just come level with her, and the same anger that had assailed Justin a few moments earlier struck Melissa, as she saw him smile and answer her. She had no time to dwell on it, however, for at that moment the hounds took the scent and were off, with a mighty chorus of barks and howls. Melissa’s mount stirred under her and her hands in their Limeric gloves gripped the reins a little harder as the people began to stream out of the stableyard. The hunt was underway.

  Past the Duttons’ house, through the gate, onto rough, stubbled fields brown and bare with winter. Melissa had forgotten the exhilaration of a hunt, and the camaraderie of riding with a group of people, all intent on the same goal. Occasionally she caught a glimpse ahead of her husband, wearing a black riding jacket instead of a pink, but nevertheless unmistakable because of his height. Marianne Dutton, she noted with malicious satisfaction, had deserted him for the moment.

  There was a fence ahead. She leaned forward, gathering the reins, and they were up and over, flying, soaring, the stone fence passing below, to land with a thud on the turf on the other side, kicking up clods of dirt and grass. The countryside went by in a blur of trees bare of leaves, and a lowering sky. Ahead of her ranged the lead riders, Sir Percival hot in pursuit of his anxious, baying hounds, with Marianne, the witch, not far behind, and Harry, his flaming hair a beacon, bent low over his horse’s neck. Another fence was coming up, the lead riders taking it easily, though some of the ladies turned away to find a gate. Not for her such weakness, Melissa thought, preparing herself to make the leap.

  Justin, several paces ahead, soared over the fence easily, and in spite of her annoyance with him Melissa watched in admiration as he and Diablo seemed to become one. Heavens, he could ride, she thought, aware only on some subconscious level of a sharp crack of noise off to the right. Something happened, then, Justin jerked to the side, and when he landed, Diablo seemed to stumble. Melissa opened her mouth in a silent scream as Justin tumbled from the horse’s back, and she no longer cared about the hunt, no longer cared about keeping up the pace. She wanted only to reach her husband. She gathered her mount to make the leap and they soared over, gracefully and easily. Wheeling around, she dashed for the spot where she had seen Justin fall. There! He lay by the fence, sprawled on the ground, his eyes closed and his face white as death, save for the blood that trickled from the wound on his forehead.

  Chapter Eleven

  “No, oh no!” Melissa gasped, dropping the reins and sliding off her horse. “No, no, no, no, no!” She fell to her knees beside Justin and lifted his shoulders, cradling his injured head to her bosom. “Justin, oh, Justin, no. No.”

  “Lady Chatleigh!” Melissa looked up sharply as a horse loomed up before her, and then Richard Dutton was dropping down next to her. “My God, what happened?”

  “I don’t know, I think he’s dead, oh, Justin!”

  “Good God!” Richard stared blankly at the unconscious man. “He’s been shot!”

  “What?” Melissa snatched her hand, covered with blood, away from Justin’s face, and stared down at the wound. “Oh, no—”

  “He’s alive.” Richard dropped Justin’s wrist and glanced up at the little crowd of people that had gathered around, his eyes fastening on his brother. “Roger, ride back to the house and get a litter, and have someone go for the doctor. And tell them we’ll need a room prepared.”

  “No,” Melissa said, her firmness in sharp contrast to her hysteria of a moment before. Her fingers, probing the wound, had found it to be superficial; the bullet, if there had been one, had only grazed the skin. Justin had had a lucky escape. “We’ll bring him back to Chatleigh.”

  “But, my lady—”

  “Melissa?” Harry threw himself off his mount and raced towards her.

  “Harry, thank God!” Melissa raised her head. “No, I don’t think he’s badly hurt.”

  “But what happened?”

  “I don’t know. Harry, I need you to ride to the Hall and warn everyone. If he can borrow the horse, Mr. Dutton?”

  “Of course,” Richard said, “but I think—”

  “Yes, I know, but he’ll do better in his own home.”

  Richard looked as if he were about to argue, but just then the litter arrived. Melissa stood back as Justin was placed upon it, and she walked by his side as he was carried back to the Duttons’ house. The distance that had flown by on horseback proved to be very long, indeed, and the men carrying the litter were straining under their burden by the time they reached the stableyard. The barouche already stood waiting, the horses put to, and though Sir Percival, who had heard of the incident and actually cut short the hunt, remonstrated with her, Melissa was adamant. Justin would recover in his own home, in his own bed, and she intended to oversee every moment of that recovery. Because, when she had seen him, lying so still and pale upon the ground, when she had thought she had lost him, Melissa had at last realized the truth. She was in love with her husband.

  The fighting raged around him. They had thought to win this battle easily, but Soult, the wily French marshal sent by Napoleon to retake Spain, was close to victory here at the small town of San Sebastian. Wellington had galloped hell-for-leather in time to order his forces where they were needed, a close-run thing. Now Justin rode through the chaos of crashing cannons and the screams of men dying in agony, the precious dispatches from Wellington to General Picton tucked into his saddlebag. Good God, Jocelyn had been hit! He watched in horror as Arthur Jocelyn, his good friend since school days, fell before the determined onslaught of the enemy. And then he felt a jolt, and Diablo buckled under him, and he was falling, falling...

  “Best to keep him quiet for a few days,” a man’s voice was saying. “The wound’s not deep but he’ll have a nasty headache when he awakes.”

  “Should he be on a special diet?” a woman asked. The voice was tantalizingly familiar, and he strained to hear more.

  “Beef broth and gruel would be the best. No spirits, though I expect he’ll argue with you on that.”

  “I suspect he’ll argue about the gruel! But, no matter. You’re certain he will be all right?”

  “Not to worry, my lady. The concussion wasn’t severe, and his constitution is sound. He may not remember what happened, however.”

  “I fell off my damned horse,” Justin said, opening his eyes as memory came back to him. Not a battle, after all.

  “Justin!” Melissa spun around and flew over to the bed, and he realized that it was her voice he’d heard. “My heavens! How are you feeling?”

  “Never saw you in green before,” he said, smiling crookedly at her.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have a black riding habit.” She smiled back at him, briefly erasing the lines of worry from her face. “Does your head hurt?”

  “Damnably. Diablo all right?”

  “Diablo is fine. You’ll have a scar, I fear.” Her smile became strained. “Very dashing. People will wonder how many duels you’ve fought.”

  “Huh.”

  “Must let the patient rest now,” the doctor said, bustling over, and Melissa stepped back.

  “Of course,” she said, and turned to smile at him.

  “Damned leech,” Justin muttered, but he closed his eyes. The truth was, he was very tired. Damn, he thought, as sleep overtook him. Of all the foolish things to do.

  Melissa stood by the side of the bed until Justin’s breathing fell into the easy rhythm of sleep, and then turned away, her shoulde
rs sagging. Thank God, he was going to be all right. Until he had spoken to her, she hadn’t been certain he would be, in spite of what the doctor had said. Now there was the period of convalescence to get through, but she wasn’t concerned about that. Justin was strong and would heal quickly, if he would allow himself. Chances were he would be a very impatient patient.

  Alfred turned from Justin’s wardrobe, where he had just hung up the riding coat. “You don’t mind me saying so, m’lady, you look done in.”

  Melissa looked up in surprise, and then smiled. “I feel done in, Alfred. It’s been quite a day.”

  “Best you get some rest now, m’lady. I’ll look after the master.”

  Melissa hesitated, and then nodded. She would not do Justin any good if she wore herself out, and Alfred was more than capable. Looking down at her husband, she reached out her hand, as if to touch his cheek, and then pulled back. “Very well, Alfred. But you’ll let me know if there’s any change?”

  “Of course I will, ma’am.” He hesitated a moment. “My lady,” he said, just as Melissa reached the door. She turned, a question in her eyes. “Did you see what happened?”

  “No.” She came back into the room, glancing over at the bed, and her voice lowered. “That is, I saw him fall, but I didn’t see anybody aiming a gun at him, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Didn’t hear anything neither, milady?”

  “No. Yes! I don’t know.” Her brow furrowed in concentration. “It seems to me,” she said, slowly, “that I did hear something that could have been a shot, but I’m not sure when. I’m sorry.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “So much happened at once, you see.”

  “Yes, of course, ma’am. Didn’t really think you saw anything.”

  Melissa, heading towards the door again, turned as a nasty suspicion struck her. “Alfred, you don’t think—do you think someone did it deliberately?”