Unsuitable Wife

by Kruger, Mary

  “I don’t know, my lady.”

  “You can’t be serious!” She stared at him in horror. “Who would? In the middle of a hunt—”

  “That’s just it, ma’am. Everyone around here knows about the Boxing Day hunt. Who would be out shooting?”

  “But it had to be a mistake! It had to be.” Her fist was to her mouth. “Couldn’t it have been a poacher? Someone who knew everyone would be too busy to try to stop him?”

  “It could, m’lady,” he said, reluctantly, “but—”

  “It must have been,” she decided. To think otherwise was madness. “Alfred, you won’t say anything of this to his lordship?”

  Alfred hesitated, and then shook his head. “No, ma’am. Not until he’s better. But he’ll have to know,” he said, stopping her at the door again. “If someone’s trying to do for him, he’ll have to be on his guard.”

  Melissa stood still for a moment and then nodded. “Yes, Alfred,” she said, and walked out.

  “Oh, my lady, your pretty riding habit,” Liza said in dismay when Melissa reached her room, and Melissa looked blankly down at herself. On the bodice and the sleeves, where she had cradled Justin to her, the velvet was matted and stained.

  Her first reaction was an instinctive recoil against the dried blood; her second, the realization that this habit was precious to her. Justin had said he liked seeing her in green. No matter that he seemed to need to be out of his head, whether foxed, or hurt, to speak nicely to her, she thought as she peeled the habit off. If something good came out of this morning’s near tragedy, it should be cherished. “See what you can do with it, Liza,” she said, slipping into her dressing gown, “and I’ll require a bath.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Liza said, whisking out of the room. Melissa sank onto the chaise longue, her arm over her eyes as reaction overtook her in long, shuddering waves. The day’s tumultuous events crowded in on her, the excitement of the hunt, the horror when she had seen Justin go down, her own stunning realization of what she felt for him. Dear God, and she had nearly lost him! If whoever had fired the gun had been a better shot, she would be a widow by now, a widow who had realized, too late, what she really felt.

  Liza came back in, carrying cans of hot water, and Melissa rose, glad to be distracted from her thoughts. A few moments later, sinking back into the deliciously warm water of her bath, she let her tired, sore muscles relax. It had been quite a day, and she was exhausted, with the physical activity and the firestorm of emotions. Lord help her, she loved her husband.

  Briefly, she closed her eyes. She loved him, a man who thought only the worst of her, a man she had no desire to love. But then, if she were honest with herself, she had no desire to love any man. What she had seen at home had cured her of that. Papa had been wonderful, a loving husband, an understanding father, but she had since learned that not all men were like him. She had learned that, to her cost, when she had met him.

  Melissa abruptly sat up and reached for the bath sponge, scrubbing herself vigorously, but after a few moments she dropped the sponge back into the water. The stain was there, and nothing she could do would erase it. It was amazing that no one else had noticed it, but someday someone would. Someday, probably, Justin would. Until that day, she would keep quiet about it, holding back the urge to confide in someone. No one must ever know, because the shame was in her.

  Liza came back in with fresh water, and Melissa rinsed her body, staring into space. A hard road lay ahead of her, and there were too many obstacles to overcome, a husband who mistrusted her, a serious flaw within herself, her own very real fears. She didn’t want to love Justin, but the fact remained that she did, and that she would have to do something about it. And that meant, she thought, slipping her arms into the dressing gown Liza held out for her, that Justin had better watch out. She was going to make him love her.

  Several days later, Melissa was wondering about that resolve. As she had suspected, Justin was a very poor patient, and not all the love in the world could dampen her exasperation with him. He tested the limits of her patience, never her strong suit, by insisting on following his usual routine, and then growled at her when his strength failed him. By the second day after his accident, Melissa threw up her hands in defeat and left him to Alfred’s questionably tender mercies. Why in the world, she wondered, striding away from Justin’s room, did she love that man?

  Alfred stared after Melissa as she left, a thoughtful expression on his face, and then turned. Justin, sitting in bed propped up by pillows, looked a most improbable invalid, with his broad shoulders and obviously healthy physique; only the bandage around his head and his pallor proved otherwise. “Well?” he said, sardonically. “Going to scold me, Alfred?”

  Alfred gave him a look, and then went over to the wardrobe, where he had been sorting through Justin’s coats. “Didn’t ought to have ripped up at her ladyship that way, sir,” he said.

  “I will rip up at anyone who insists on feeding me that disgusting stuff.” Justin pushed at the tray that lay across his lap, and the gruel, thin and grey, slopped over the side of the bowl. “That includes you, or her ladyship, or my aunt. Do I make myself clear, Alfred?”

  “Admirably, sir.” Alfred bit back a smile. Unlike Melissa, he had seen Justin through several convalescences, and he could accurately gauge his temper. “Weren’t her ladyship’s fault, though. Just doing what she thinks is right.”

  “Alfred,” Justin said in a dangerously quiet voice, “do not try me.”

  “No, sir.” Alfred smoothed down the arm of the riding jacket Justin had worn during the hunt, and a frown furrowed his forehead. He cast a quick look back at Justin, and then made his decision. His lordship was strong enough to hear the truth. “Sir, who hates you enough to want you dead?”

  Justin, idly stirring the gruel with a spoon, looked up. “Dead?” he said. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  Alfred left the wardrobe and pulled a chair close to the bed. “What happened to you weren’t no accident.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What are you saying? I fell off my horse.”

  “No, sir. You were shot.”

  “The devil I was!” Justin sat bolt upright, an action he immediately regretted. His pallor had deepened when he sank back against the pillows, and his hand was pressed to his forehead, against the sudden pounding.

  “Sorry, sir.” Alfred removed the tray from harm’s way. “No doubt about it, I’m afraid. You didn’t get that wound from the fall.”

  Justin lowered his hand and glared at him. “Who shot me?”

  “Don’t know, sir. I was hoping you’d remember something.”

  “No, damn it, not a thing.” Justin’s brow furrowed in concentration. “We were well away on the hunt. The hounds had a good scent and we were riding fast. There was a fence coming up, a high stone one, and Diablo jumped it, and—good God!” His face was blank with surprise. “Damn, there was a shot, I remember it now. And then, nothing.” No wonder he had dreamed about a battle. “Whoever it was was a damn poor shot.”

  “Or a good one, sir.” Justin stared at him. “Maybe it was meant to miss.”

  “But why? For what reason?” If he had been healthy, he would have risen and paced the room. Being bed-ridden only increased his frustration.

  “Don’t know, sir. You don’t know of anyone you might have crossed?”

  “Since I returned? No.” He thought fleetingly of Sir Stephen and his mention of revenge, but then dismissed the thought. Absurd. “I’ve been gone for five years. Who would hate me that much...” His voice trailed off. “Where was my wife?”

  “Sir, you don’t think—”

  “Where was she?”

  “Behind you, sir,” he said, “and to your left.”

  “I see.” Justin put his hand to the wound at his right temple. “She could have had an accomplice.”

  “Sir!”

  “She didn’t want to marry me, Alfred.”

  “No, sir, I’ll not believe it of Major Selby’s
daughter,” he said, stoutly, and considered telling Justin what he had heard, that Melissa had cried over her husband’s prostrate form. A quick glance at Justin’s face decided him otherwise. “No, I don’t believe it, and I don’t think you do, either.”

  “Who else would it be?” Justin said, and then sighed. “No, I don’t really believe it. But, damn! Who would want to kill me?” He leaned forward, this time ignoring the pounding headache. “Was there any investigation?”

  “Sir Percival sent men into the woods, but they didn’t find anything.”

  “I see.” Justin leaned back. “It must have been a poacher, Alfred.”

  “Take a lot of guts to be out poaching when the hunt’s going by.”

  “Yes, but the hunt wouldn’t necessarily have gone that way. Am I supposed to believe someone was lying in wait in the woods, on the off-chance I’d go by?”

  “No, sir. But perhaps someone followed the hunt. Someone who hasn’t given up.”

  Justin’s head jerked up, and his eyes narrowed again. “You think I’m in danger?”

  “Might be, sir. I think you’d best be on your guard.”

  “Yes, Alfred.” Justin’s face was grim. “I intend to be.”

  “There you are,” Melissa said, walking down the long gallery towards Justin. All the anxiety she had felt when she had found him missing from his room translated itself into annoyance. Here she had been picturing him lying unconscious somewhere, when in reality he looked disgustingly healthy. The fact that she had searched nearly the entire house only exacerbated her feelings. “What do you think you are doing?”

  Justin glanced towards her, and then turned back towards the portrait he had been contemplating. “Desist, madam. I cannot abide your fussing over me.”

  Melissa’s eyebrow rose at that. “Cranky, are we?”

  “Don’t patronize me,” he growled.

  “The fact remains, Justin, that you should be in bed.”

  “I’m fine.” He glanced at her again for her unexpected use of his name. “I don’t need you or Alfred to nursemaid me.”

  “You and your stubborn pride! You’ll make yourself sick before you’d admit to any weakness.”

  “If I get tired, madam, I will return to bed. Will that satisfy you?”

  Melissa stopped a few feet away from him, peering anxiously into his face. He certainly didn’t look sick, but instead exuded an air of almost overpowering masculine strength and power. She had to step back, lest her feelings betray her. “It will have to, won’t it?” she said, her tone softening. “I can’t force you.”

  “No, madam, you cannot,” he said, and turned back to the painting.

  Melissa followed his eyes, and she gave a little gasp of dismay. He was looking at the portrait of his mother. Since he rarely came into the long gallery, where the other family portraits were hung, she had thought it safe to place it here. “I’m sorry, Chatleigh, but I couldn’t relegate it to the attics. She’s much too beautiful.”

  “Yes, a beautiful whore,” he said, absently. “Like you.”

  Pain struck Melissa with such stunning force that for a moment she couldn’t see, and her breath drew in, sharply. Now, when his good opinion meant so much to her, to hear what he really thought hurt with an intensity she had never felt before. Blindly, fighting tears, she turned away.

  “Melissa.” Justin’s hand came down on her shoulder, and though she stiffened, she didn’t struggle when he turned her towards him. “I’m sorry,” he said, with what sounded like genuine regret. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded—”

  “Never mind, I know what you meant. It’s what you’ve thought of me all along.”

  “Maybe once, but I was wrong, God help me. I’m sorry.”

  Melissa stared up at him through wet lashes. “Are you—do you mean that?”

  “Yes, of course.” His hand gestured impatiently, and she realized how difficult this confession was for him. “I was wrong. Of course, you have to admit, the circumstances—”

  “You were foxed.”

  “I was foxed,” he admitted, and turned to look down at her with an odd intentness. “And you were the most—”

  “What?” she said, when he didn’t go on.

  “Nothing.” The most beautiful, enticing thing he had seen in a very long time, he had nearly said. The blow to his head must have addled his brains more than he’d realized. “You’re not like her at all,” he said, more to himself than to her.

  “Did you expect me to be?” Melissa turned to look at the portrait, surprise in her voice.

  “Mm.” He shifted his weight, his hands shoved into his pockets. At the moment he looked so like a guilty little boy that Melissa had to resist the impulse to hug him.

  “Tell me about her.”

  “M’mother? What do you want to know about her for?”

  “Because she was your mother, silly. I don’t know anything about your family.”

  “Then you are lucky.”

  “Surely you don’t mean that!”

  “But I do.”

  “But she was so beautiful.”

  “Do you really think so, madam? You wouldn’t, if you knew her.” He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “It was a famous love match, you see, she and my father. Except the love didn’t last. My mother was incapable of being faithful. So was my father, but she was worse.”

  “Why? Because she did something only men are supposed to do?” Melissa said, tartly.

  “No. Because she did so much more of it, and she didn’t care who knew.” He stared up at the portrait. “She would come into the nursery to see us, m’brother and me, smelling of perfume, and kiss us and then go off to some rout or ball, the only time we saw her all day. And then she and m’father would come home, and there’d be dreadful rows, about who she flirted with, and who she left the ball with, and how long she was gone...” His voice trailed off. “I heard her tell my father once I wasn’t his son.”

  “No!”

  “Then she denied it, but I’m not so sure. My father believed it.”

  “Oh, Justin.” Melissa laid her hand on his arm, her heart aching for the lonely little boy he must have been. “Perhaps she just said it to make him mad.”

  “Oh, undoubtedly. But, I’ve wondered. I’m not much like him, you see.” His eyes flicked over to the portrait of the seventh earl. “I never was the son he wanted.”

  “She must have been a dreadful woman.”

  “Oh, no. She could be quite charming. When she wanted to be.”

  “What a shame.” Melissa studied the portrait. Somehow her mother-in-law no longer looked quite so beautiful, now that she knew the truth. “When did she die?”

  Justin glanced down at her. “What makes you think she is dead?”

  “Isn’t she?”

  “No.”

  “Heavens!” She stared at him. “Then where is she?”

  Justin ran a hand through his hair. “God knows. When I was sixteen, she ran off with the butler. The butler, mind you. When it was over she wanted to come back, but m’father wouldn’t let her. Last I heard, she was living on the Continent with a man who makes his living gambling. Once in a while, she’ll write to me, asking for money.”

  “Dear God,” Melissa breathed. No wonder he had so distrusted her in the beginning. It would be a wonder if he trusted any woman. “Justin, I’m sorry.”

  Justin looked down at the hand she had laid on his arm, and, after a moment, she pulled away. Damn, why had he told her all this? Not even Aunt Augusta knew all of it, and certainly not Philip, whom he had tried to shield from the worst of their mother’s excesses. “Well, no matter, now. But you’d best be prepared, if we go to London. There’ll be people who remember and you might hear whispers.”

  “Are we going to London?” she said, surprised.

  “Don’t know.” He scuffed at the gleaming parquet surface of the floor. “Been thinking, you know, about what they would want me to do.” The jerk of his head indicated the other portr
aits. “Not m’father, of course, but my grandfather, and the others. And I think they’d want me to do it. It’s what we’ve been bred to do, to serve the country.”

  “You’ve already done that, Chatleigh.”

  “Yes. But I wonder if I shouldn’t do more?” He looked down at her. “And I think you might be right. Maybe I should try.”

  “You’ll never know if you’ll like it, if you don’t,” she offered, timidly. “Justin, I do hope you’re not doing this on my account? I’d like to see London, but it doesn’t have to be now. I’m happy here at Chatleigh.”

  “I know.” He smiled down at her. “Very well. London it is, then. On one condition.”

  “What?”

  “Want you to start wearing colors.”

  Melissa’s face sobered. “I can’t. My mother’s recently dead.”

  He studied her face. “And you miss her.”

  “Yes. I miss her.”

  “Well, no matter,” he said, after a few moments. “Think about it.”

  “Perhaps. Justin.” Her brow furrowed, and Justin, who had turned away, looked back at her. “Before we go to London, something will have to be done about Harry.”

  “He’ll go back to Eton soon,” Justin said, and Melissa shook her head.

  “No, I didn’t mean that. I meant, Sir Stephen.”

  “I see.” Justin’s eyes narrowed. “Why does he frighten you so?”

  “I’m not scared of him,” she said, but she didn’t meet his eyes. “At least, not for me, but for Harry.” She looked up then. “I know you don’t want to, but if you could assume Harry’s guardianship—”

  “I’ve tried,” he said, interrupting her, “or, rather, my solicitors have tried.” Melissa stared up at him in surprise. “But we can do nothing so long as Sir Stephen refuses to give up the guardianship.”

  “Oh.” Melissa turned away, her shoulders slumping. “Then he could come and take Harry away whenever he wants.”

  “He could try.” There was such an odd note in Justin’s voice that Melissa turned back, to see him flexing his fists. “Said to be handy with my fives, you know.”