by Kruger, Mary
“My lords,” he began. “There is a matter of national importance on which I wish to address you this day.”
His voice was calm and clear, and he didn’t seem in the least nervous. Melissa, sitting on the edge of her seat, restrained from biting her fingernails only by her gloves, was nervous enough for both of them. At last he was making his maiden speech, and she so wanted him to do well. Together they had worked over it, deciding first on his topic, and then how he would phrase what he had to say. Finally had come the hours of rehearsal. All the work had paid off. He stood straight and tall and confident, and though he held a sheaf of papers in his hand, rarely did he refer to it.
His topic was simple, and yet one dear to his heart: the plight of the common soldier in the army. For most of the time Wellington had been fighting, support for the war had been slight, and it had been the soldier who had suffered, Justin said. He went on to talk about such deprivations simply, clearly, and yet eloquently, telling of forced marches with boots that were in tatters, men reduced to foraging off winter-starved lands because needed food hadn’t arrived, and the pitiful condition of field hospitals. Why, he himself had nearly lost a leg because of the ineptitude of the surgeons, and it was only because of his batman that he could stand here today whole, instead of relying on a crutch. He was one of the lucky ones; others were not so fortunate. As he went on to outline the hardships, most of the hubbub died away, and when he finished he was met, briefly, with silence. Then a chorus of “Huzzahs!” split the room. The maiden speech in the House of Lords of Justin, Earl of Chatleigh, was a rousing success.
Melissa met him in the vestibule, bubbling over with enthusiasm and pride. “You were wonderful!” she exclaimed, grabbing his arm, and her grinned down at her. “So eloquent, and you didn’t even need your notes.”
“No. Well, aunt?” he said, looking past Melissa to Augusta.
“Hmph,” Augusta said, but her eyes, too, shone with pride. “You’ll do, boy. Or you would, if you’d stick with it.”
“No.” Justin’s voice was firm. “This was my first, and last, speech.”
“Thank God for that,” someone drawled behind him.
Justin stiffened. “Didn’t realize you were here, Edgewater,” he said, turning.
“Wouldn’t have missed this,” Edgewater said, and held out his hand. “Congratulations. Fine speech.”
“Thank you.” Justin shook his hand, watching him warily.
“I must say, I didn’t think you had it in you, old boy.” Edgewater set his curly brimmed beaver hat on his head and tilted it at the proper angle. “Glad to see you proved me wrong.”
“Really,” Justin said, dryly.
“Yes. But I’m also glad you’re retiring from the field.” For the first time since Melissa had met him, he smiled, a quite genuine smile with no trace of malice. “You’d be tough competition.”
“Thank you, Edgewater,” Justin said, surprised. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”
“Thought it might.” Edgewater inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse me, Chatleigh, ladies,” he said, and turned away. Justin stared after him, his gaze so fixed that Melissa had to shake his arm several times to bring him back to himself.
“Hm? What?” he said, looking down at her.
“I said, even Edgewater!” she said, beaming.
“Yes.” Justin looked after the man again. So it wasn’t Edgewater; his congratulations had sounded sincere. Damn! he thought, clapping his hat on his head. Who, then, wanted him dead?
Several days before Easter the bell in St. Mary’s in the village began peeling wildly. The sound traveled faintly over the fields of Chatleigh Hall, and Justin, astride Diablo as he watched the first crops of the year being planted, glanced up. “What the devil is that?” he wondered aloud.
Tilton, his agent, turned. “Don’t know, my lord, but someone’s coming.”
Justin turned in the saddle, to see Sir Percival Dutton riding wildly down the road. “Chatleigh!” he boomed. “Have you heard the news?”
Some moments later Justin slammed into the Hall, the massive carved door banging behind him. Melissa, arranging a bouquet of daffodils and tulips on the refectory table, looked up. “Heavens, what is it?” she said, mildly. Justin growled something in reply and stomped off to his study, and she and Phelps exchanged startled looks. “Heavens,” she said again, and went after her husband.
He was standing by the window when she went in, one hand in his pocket and the other, surprisingly, clutching a glass of brandy. “Justin?” His shoulders stiffened. “What is it?”
Justin drained the contents of his glass in one long swallow before answering. “News just came. Wellington’s in Paris.”
“What? But that’s wonderful! The war is almost over.”
“Yes.”
Melissa glanced at his back, solid and uncompromising, and a pang of pity went through her. She suspected she knew what was bothering him. “And why you couldn’t have been there,” she said, softly, laying her hand on his shoulder.
“Yes, damn it! I should be there, Melissa, it’s where I belong!”
“I know.” She rested her head against his arm, and he looked down at her in surprise. “It must be hard, after all you went through, not to be in at the victory.”
“Damned hard,” he agreed, and looked down at her again, really seeing her for the first time since he had heard the news. His wife, beside him, at last. If he reached out to touch her, to pull her close, would she let him? Or would she pull away, as she had so often these past weeks? Justin studied her upturned face, the eyes that held a faint sheen of blue from her muslin round gown, the small, freckle-spattered nose, the full lips he ached to fit with his. He had never wanted anyone so much. He was about to reach for her, make her his own, but then she moved, and the moment was past.
“They’ll be needing diplomats,” she said, toying with the inkwell and the silver letter opener on his desk.
“Yes, well?” he said, turning to watch her.
“That’s something you could do.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’m a soldier. And a farmer.”
“Not a bad thing to be,” she said, laying her hand on his arm again.
“No,” he said. “Not bad at all.” He gazed down at her, wanting to answer the unspoken invitation in her eyes, gather her closer and—
The door to the study burst open and Harry, home for the Easter holiday, came in. “Have you heard?” he demanded. “Wellington’s in Paris!”
Justin’s sigh was almost inaudible. “Yes, halfling,” he said. “We’ve heard.”
“It’s capital, isn’t it?”
“Yes. We should do something to celebrate this, Justin, don’t you think?” Melissa said.
“Such as?”
“Oh, a dinner party, perhaps? We’ve been so quiet since we returned.”
“Missing the season, are you?”
“No. But it would be nice to entertain again.”
“Sure you’re up to it?”
Melissa glanced up, surprised. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Justin shook his head. She had changed since they’d left town. The look of strain had left her eyes, and her color had returned. More importantly, she had relaxed, and though she still held him at arm’s length, he thought she was thawing towards him. Whatever had bothered her had been left behind in the city. “No reason,” he said. “Go ahead, plan what you think best.”
“I will. And perhaps we could invite Aunt Augusta.”
“Spare me,” Justin groaned. “She still hasn’t forgiven me for giving up politics.”
“She’ll come around. Well. If I’m to plan a dinner I’d best get started.” She smiled, and Justin turned to watch her go, wanting her so much it hurt, regretting lost opportunities. What, he wondered, was he going to do about her?
What, Melissa wondered, frowning slightly as she walked towards the servants’ quarters to consult with Mrs. Barnes, was she going to do about Just
in? When they had left London, all she had thought about was getting away from her stepfather and the threat he posed. It had been a profound relief to return home and have Justin be safe. Not that she believed Sir Stephen had given up. She knew she would have to face him again someday, but for now, Justin was safe. That was all that mattered.
Or, it should have been. Instead, all her feelings for her husband had surged to the fore again, and lately it seemed she could think of little else. She couldn’t seem to stop watching him: his easy grace when he walked; his smile; or his strong, corded arms in shirt sleeves. She remembered, all too clearly, how they had felt about her, and she wanted to feel them again. She loved him, and she wanted to be his wife. It had nothing to do with the dark, dirty way her stepfather had made her feel. This was clean, and good, but what was distressing was that he didn’t appear to feel the same way.
Melissa stopped for a moment, standing at a window looking out on the drive. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t given him any chances. Heaven knew she had tried, wearing her prettiest dresses and trying always to be present when he was in the house. In a way, it had worked. They were closer now than they had been since before the ball, talking to each other easily and naturally about the estate, or national events. It was a friendly, open relationship, but it was not that of husband and wife, and that was what she wanted.
The question was, how to get it, without risking his rejection again. She would have to be more subtle this time. But what would she do if he wouldn’t respond? She had tried, tentatively, to draw closer to him, and when she had laid her head against his arm just now she had thought he might respond. And perhaps he would have, if Harry hadn’t come in. That couldn’t be helped, but she was not defeated yet. There was all the future ahead of her, and many things she could try. Yes, she thought, nodding her head decisively as she turned and continued on her way to the kitchen. It was time to bring up the heavy guns.
Melissa finished fastening the chain around her neck, and then stepped back to study her reflection. There, she was all ready for their dinner party, to be held that evening. From the chain hung a pear-shaped emerald, a gift from Augusta, nestling in her cleavage, revealed by the decolletage of her ivory satin gown. The strategic placement of a few stitches had lowered the neckline even farther, and the satin glistened and slipped fluidly over her waist and hips to the floor. Melissa carefully draped a gold zephyr scarf about her shoulders and stood back to study her appearance. As she had expected, the sheer, diaphanous scarf tantalized, shrouding the skin beneath, but not covering it. Heavy guns, indeed, she thought in satisfaction, drawing on her gloves. Justin’s reaction would be interesting.
Justin was standing in the hall, ready to greet their guests, when she glided down the stairs. “Good evening, Justin,” she called, her voice clear. Justin turned, and sputtered into the wine glass he had just raised to his lips. “Melissa!” he bellowed, slamming the glass down on the refectory table.
Melissa’s gaze was questioning as she glided towards him, stopping a scant few inches away. “Yes, what is it?”
Justin swallowed, hard. “You will go upstairs and change that gown. Now.”
“Why, what is wrong with it?” Melissa looked down at her décolletage, and his eyes involuntarily followed.
“I will not have every man in the county ogling you.”
“But that is what the shawl is for.” She let it drift lightly across her skin, and he swallowed again.
“I don’t care. You will obey me in this.”
“Oh, pooh! You can be so stuffy, Justin.” She reached up and trailed her fingers lightly across his cheek. “Besides, I suspect that is some of our guests arriving,” she said, as the door knocker sounded. “Now look what you’ve done, you’ve mussed up your hair again!” She reached up to smooth his hair, ruffled from where he had raked it with his fingers, and the shawl fell away from her shoulders. He made a noise that sounded like a groan. “Did you say something? No? Ah, see, I was right. Sir Percival and Lady Catherine.”
“Yes, I see,” he said in a low voice. “I could strangle you for this.”
“Oh, pooh!” she said again, and went forward to greet their guests.
The figure slipped through the shadows leading from the terrace, carefully avoiding the light that streamed out through the French windows. Bent low in a crouch, he ran across the sculpted lawns until he reached the shadows and the safety of the trees. “Some kind o’ party, looks like,” he said in a hoarse whisper, and his companion, Sir Stephen, nodded.
“And my daughter didn’t invite me,” he said, mournfully. “How undutiful of her.”
Jenkins snickered. “She’ll learn. You’ll own the place soon, guv.”
“Yes.” Sir Stephen looked towards the Hall with hungry eyes. The Chatleighs’ removal from town had come as an unwelcome shock, upsetting all his carefully laid plans and forcing him to hire new accomplices. The stable boy he had placed in the Chatleigh town house, for example, had had to go, but he had served his purpose, acting as spy and saboteur. Here in the country there were other things that could be tried, and enough people willing to work for a dishonest wage. On the whole, Sir Stephen was pleased with his new plans. Chatleigh and his bride would get their comeuppance for they way they had treated him, and he would finally get all that he deserved.
“What do you think, Jenkins?” he said now. “Can we still carry the plan through?”
“Not tonight, guv.” Jenkins shook his head regretfully. “Too many people. It’ll never work.”
“Damn. Tomorrow, then. You know your part?”
“Yes, guv, haven’t forgotten. And we’ll meet at the ruined mill.”
“Yes. But not too soon, mind.” There was immense satisfaction in his voice. “My daughter and I have much to settle.”
“Yes, guv.”
Sir Stephen nodded and glanced towards the house again. Tomorrow. It would all come right for him, tomorrow.
Chapter Eighteen
The dinner party broke up late. Everyone was in a festive mood, with the recently arrived news of Napoleon’s abdication, and there had been music and charades after dinner. Justin fidgeted through it all, trying hard not to stare at his wife and not succeeding. Damn! Why did she have to look so beautiful, so enticing? She was driving him crazy, and, what was worse, she knew it. He had seen that in the little glances she tossed at him throughout the evening. Inwardly, he groaned. When they were finally alone and he could get his hands on her he would beat her for what she had put him through tonight. When he got his hands on her—God! he thought, and raked his hand through his hair again.
Melissa glanced at him and bit back a smile. There, it was working. He hadn’t taken his eyes from her all evening. Tonight, she thought, almost singing the word to herself. Tonight, tonight, and when would all these people leave?
“A very nice evening,” Augusta said sometime later, settling back in her chair in the drawing room. The last guests had finally departed, and the house was quiet. “Boy, pour me some claret.”
Justin gritted his teeth, but crossed the room to do as she asked. “Aren’t you tired, aunt?” he said, handing her a goblet.
“Not a bit of it. Life in the country is not at all what I feared.” She held up her glass in a salute to Melissa. “A tolerable evening, child.”
“Thank you, aunt,” Melissa said, glancing up at Justin. He prowled the room like a caged tiger, and she suspected she knew what was wrong with him. She, too, wished Augusta would go to bed, so that they could be alone.
Augusta, however, was in a reminiscing mood, talking about Paris, which now would be opened to them again. She spoke of the gallant cavaliers she had known, the beautiful ladies. Melissa, who would have been fascinated by such tales at any other time, could only listen patiently and try not to fidget. Eventually, however, Augusta wound down, and discovered that she was tired.
“I’m for bed,” she said, getting stiffly to her feet and reaching for her cane. “Walk with me, girl.”
“But…” Melissa looked helplessly at Justin.
“Come. Help a helpless old lady.” Augusta snapped her fingers, and Melissa gave in.
“Helpless is one thing you are not, ma’am,” she said as she took the old lady’s arm.
“Nonsense, I am old. Now be a good girl and come along.”
“Yes, aunt,” Melissa said, and walked beside her out of the room, throwing a look back at Justin.
It took some time to see Augusta settled; the maid Melissa had provided for her didn’t do things just the way Augusta wished, and Melissa had to rectify most of the problems. At last, however, she was free, and she nearly ran down the stairs to the drawing room, pausing at her room only to discard the shawl. But when she reached the drawing room, breathless and flushed, it was empty.
“Oh,” she said, her shoulders slumping in disappointment, and Justin, sitting in a chair in the shadows, rose.
“Yes?” he said.
Melissa’s hand flew to her heart. “Oh! You startled me.”
“Sorry.” He walked a few paces towards her and then stopped, frowning. “Damn.”
“What is it?”
“That damned dress.”
“Justin, there’s nothing wrong with it.”
“Damn it, everyone was staring at your br- chest.”
Melissa bit back a smile. “It is all the crack in town, Justin.”
“Nevertheless, I will not have my wife dressing like that.”
“Why? Don’t you like my br- chest?”
“Of course I—Melissa!” he spluttered, and his face turned a mottled red.
“You seemed to, at the Hart and Hind,” she said, advancing farther into the room. He stood still, watching her. “What was it you said? Oh, yes. ‘Ah, your breasts are so beautiful, m’dear, like two ripe fruits—’“
“Stop it!” He pressed his hand over her mouth.