by Mary Balogh
Lucky dog, the gentlemen of the ton thought, looking with some envy and some surreptitious lust at his wife. There was more than one thing to be said for being worth upward of fifty thousand a year.
Fortunate woman, the ladies of the ton thought. Her husband was not much of a man, perhaps, but he was wealthy and besotted and kept her on a very loose leash—if there was a leash at all. Give her a year to produce his heir and next spring they would watch with interest to see whom she would take as her first lover. She could hardly have done better for herself.
Samantha was pregnant already. She knew it, even though she was only one week late and her newness to sexual activity might be the reason for the irregularity. But she knew she was pregnant. There was something relaxed—she could not quite put a word to the feeling—deep inside her, rather like the feeling she always had at the end of the marriage act. She knew it was their child starting life in her womb.
She did not know how she would tell him when the time came. She did not know how he would feel about it. He would be glad, she supposed, as she was. She would be able to stay at Highmoor. He would not be able to force her to come back next year for the torture of another Season. Perhaps, if he continued relations with her after the birth of the child, she would conceive again. And again. Perhaps she would be able to stay at Highmoor for the rest of her life.
It seemed to her, perhaps irrationally, that Highmoor was her only hope for any measure of happiness. No, never that. Of peace. She could live out her life if only she could find some peace.
They spent a fair amount of time together, almost all of it in company with other people. Almost the only time they spent alone together was the half hour or so he took to make love to her each night. A silent half hour except for the courteous thanks at the end of it. Thanks for services rendered.
He accompanied her to most evening entertainments. Even balls. He would see her into the ballroom, stand with her until the first set began and she had taken the floor with her first partner, and then disappear into the card room or somewhere else until it was time to escort her home.
He always smiled in public. She always sparkled.
The perfect couple, perfectly in love but perfectly well bred—they did not live in each other’s pockets.
They saw Lionel almost wherever they went. They avoided him and he seemed content to look alternatively amused and lovelorn—the latter if he caught her eye across a room when Hartley was not with her. She perfected the art of moving out of a room or attaching herself to another gentleman—usually poor Francis—if she suspected he was moving her way.
She hated him. And despised him. And she was no longer afraid of the hatred. She knew that it was just that and that it was poles away from love.
She hated him, not so much for what he had done to her—innocent as she had been, she had partly asked for it—but for what he had done to Hartley. His own cousin.
For what he had done to Hartley she could cheerfully kill him. With slow torture.
She did not know how to put right what was wrong with her marriage. If only they could go home to Highmoor, she thought. Somehow it seemed as if everything would be fine if only they could go there. And there would be a baby early in the new year. A new start for them, perhaps. But he had not said anything more about going home.
And she was afraid to ask again. Or perhaps too proud to ask.
THEY WERE TO HAVE attended Lady Gregory’s ball. The invitation had been accepted. But he did not feel like going. He was weary of the constant going, the constant pretense. He told Samantha that he would stay at home, that she should pen a note to Lady Brill to accompany her and he would have it sent over.
He went into the library after dinner—she had gone to dine with Lady Brill. He sat in his favorite chair beside the fire, a book in his hands though he did not open it. He set his head back against the chair and closed his eyes.
He was so weary. He wanted to go home. He did not know what to do about his marriage. It had all been his fault, this estrangement. Perhaps she had not married him for love, but the lie had been inadvertent. And he had not told her of his own feelings until their wedding night. Many people married for reasons other than love and had perfectly successful marriages. And theirs had started well. She had enjoyed his company and his love-making—he had ignored those facts in the first hours of blinding hurt. She was not the sort of woman who would give less than her whole devotion to a marriage. She would have been a good wife to him for the rest of their lives if he had not ruined things.
He did not know how to put things right. He did not know if things could be put right. Perhaps all was ruined forever.
He wanted to go home. Perhaps things would be better there. He would tell her tomorrow to pack again. No, he would ask her. Perhaps she no longer wanted to go there herself. She always seemed happiest when they were in company.
He turned his head when the door opened without there having been a knock. It was Samantha, dressed neatly in an evening dress but not in a ball gown. She was carrying her embroidery bag.
“I did not want to go to the ball,” she said, not quite looking at him. “Do you mind if I sit in here with you, Hartley?”
“Please do,” he said. He felt almost like crying when she sat quietly across from him and drew her work from her bag and began to sew. He had dreamed of evenings like this. Evenings of quiet domestic contentment with his wife. He wanted to say something to her, but he could not think of anything meaningful to say. He pretended to read.
It was only when she got up from her place some time later and left the room without a word that he realized he had been staring into the fire, rubbing his right palm with the thumb of his left hand, straightening the fingers one by one. His hand was stiff and aching.
He should have talked to her. Perhaps she would have stayed. What was the matter with him? Was he determined to drive her away even when she had been perhaps offering an olive branch? But she had left her embroidery and her workbag behind.
And then she returned, something in her hand. She did not say anything to him or even look at him. But she drew a footstool up beside him on his right side, undid the top of the little bottle of oil he could see now in her hand, poured some of it into her palm, and rubbed her hands together. She reached out and took his right hand in her own and began gently massaging the oil into his palm and out along his fingers. Her touch was firm and sure despite the gentleness. He put his head back and closed his eyes.
He thought she was finished, but she was just applying more oil to her hands. The massage was incredibly soothing. No one had ever done that for him before. Not even his mother. His mother had not been able to bear to touch his wounded parts. Or even to look at them. She was the one who had first made him gloves.
Incredibly, he was almost half-asleep when he felt his hand being lifted and felt the softness of her cheek against the back of it. She must have thought him fully asleep. She turned her head and kissed his knuckles. And kept his hand where it was.
She did not move when he rested his left hand very lightly on her curls. He gently smoothed his fingers over her head beneath her hair.
“Samantha,” he said. “Forgive me.”
“You have done nothing,” she said. “It was me.”
“No,” he said. “You were good to me during those three days, and have been patient and gentle since. And you were right—I was cruel. Forgive me.”
“I married you,” she said, “because I wanted to. I really wanted to, Hartley.”
“Shh,” he said. “You never gave me reason to believe otherwise. Shall we go home?”
“To Highmoor?” She looked up at him then, her eyes shining with tears.
He nodded. “Home. Shall we go?”
“Yes.” She smiled at him. “Yes, let’s go home, Hartley.”
“As soon as possible. Three days,” he said. “There are a few things we are really obligated to attend. Three days and then home.” He closed the gap between their mouths and
kissed her softly—for the first time in several weeks.
“Thank you, Hartley,” she said, and laid her cheek against the back of his hand again. It no longer ached or felt stiff, he noticed.
16
LADY STEBBINS WAS THE DUKE OF BRIDGWATER’S aunt. Her ball, always one of the great squeezes of the Season, was one they felt obligated to attend, though neither wished to go. They did not say so to each other—he knew that she enjoyed dancing, and she knew that the duke was a particular friend of his. His grace had been best man at their wedding. They both knew, though, that their longing to be home was mutual. They talked about Highmoor frequently again—it had scarcely been mentioned in the weeks that had succeeded their all-too-short honeymoon.
One more ball could be endured, they both thought, quite separately.
Word had spread once more that they were leaving London early in order to return to Yorkshire. Word always spread among the ton, even if one confided the news to almost no one.
A few people commiserated with Samantha.
“Alas,” Mr. Wishart said. “Have you lost your influence with your husband already, Lady Carew? Is he forcing you to miss what is left of the Season? It is a downright shameful thing.”
“I have not lost my influence at all,” she said, laughing lightly—it was easy to laugh these days. “Why do you think we are going to Highmoor, sir?”
“You want to go?” he asked in some astonishment.
“I want to go,” she said. “Hartley has bowed to my wishes.”
He was no longer in the ballroom. He had gone to observe the proceedings in the card room, as he usually did. But he had not left before signing his name in her card next to the supper dance. She had raised her eyebrows and smiled at him.
“No, I am not going to make a spectacle of myself,” he said, returning her smile. “But I want to be the man to lead you in to supper, Samantha. Will you mind sitting out a set? Or walking it out? Shall we stroll in the garden? The evening is warm.”
“I will look forward to it,” she had said. It would remind her of their first meeting in London—how long ago that seemed now. Perhaps they could relive it with better results. Perhaps she would find a quiet spot to lead him to and would ask him to kiss her again. And perhaps she would—oh, perhaps she would repeat the words she had spoken to him then.
She would mean them. Not quite in the way that she thought of as love, perhaps. But there were many kinds of love. And one of those kinds described her feelings for Hartley. Perhaps she would tell him.
He had kissed her hand in a courtly gesture that she knew was being observed by many people around them. She was glad. She wanted everyone to know that they had a close relationship. She had told herself that she did not mind that people believed she had married for position and wealth, and in many ways she did not mind. But for Hartley’s sake, she would like it to be known that she cared for him. Not for any of his possessions, but only for him.
Sometimes she wished she had told the story of the rather shabby landscape gardener who had come calling and proposed marriage to her. It would have amused the ton. Especially the part about her accepting before she discovered her mistake.
“I will meet you outside?” he had said.
She had nodded and he had taken his leave.
Lionel arrived late. She was dancing a country dance with Jeremy Nicholson at the time and inadvertently met Lionel’s eyes across the room. He gave her a burning glance. She looked hastily away. The next set was a waltz, she knew. A dangerous dance. As soon as Jeremy had escorted her back to the group, she linked her arm through Francis’s and smiled brightly at him.
“Our waltz next?” she said, though in fact no one had yet solicited her hand.
He looked casually about the ballroom. “Ah, yes,” he said lazily. “I would have been out of sorts for the rest of the year if you had forgotten, Samantha.”
“Thank you,” she said later when they were safely dancing.
“If you were my wife,” he said, “I would have challenged the bastard to pistols at dawn long before this, Samantha. Pardon the language.”
“But why?” she asked. “He has done nothing but hover ever since my marriage, Francis. You do look splendid, though a little shocking, in that particular shade of pink, by the way.”
“I wanted to powder my hair the same color,” he said, “but my valet threatened to leave without notice. He is too good a man to squander. I can see my face in my boots when he polishes them.”
“How pleasant for you,” she said, grinning at him.
“Saucy wench,” he said. “And clever wench. You can always divert my thoughts by appealing to my vanity. I do not like the looks he gives you, Samantha. Is Carew willing to tolerate them?”
“We are going home the day after tomorrow,” she said.
“Running away?” he asked.
“How dare you, Francis!” she said indignantly.
“Sorry,” he said. “I am sorry, Sam. Truly. It is none of my business.”
“No,” she said, “it is not. How could you make your hair pink when it is so dark a brown?”
He chuckled. “With a couple of tons of powder,” he said. “I think it rather a shame that we have outlived those days. Men of a few decades ago used to know how to dress, by Jove. I abhor the trend toward black. Ugh!” He shuddered theatrically and almost lost his step.
Samantha laughed. “You almost have me believing you,” she said. “For shame!”
He looked at her with pursed lips, then threw back his head and laughed. “Pink hair,” he said. “And you almost believed me. Sam, Sam.”
The evening seemed interminable. Perhaps if Hartley’s name had not been scrawled—his left-handed writing was anything but elegant—in her card for her to see every time she glanced at it, she could have lived through the evening with greater patience. As things were, she looked forward to their stroll and to having supper with him just as if she were a girl planning her first rendezvous with her first beau. He was her husband of more than a month. She was increasing with his child—surely she could not be wrong about that. There was still no sign of bleeding.
She did not wait for the supper dance to begin. As soon as Mr. Carruthers had led her off the floor following a quadrille, she made an excuse to her group and dashed from the ballroom out onto the balcony and down the steps into the garden. There was no one down there, even though it was quite well lit. Everyone would want to dance the supper dance, she supposed, and stroll outside afterward before the dancing resumed.
Hartley had not come out yet. She found herself smiling in some glee. She would find her secluded spot now and lure him to it as soon as he came down the steps. She would greet him with open arms and ask for his kiss. Would he realize what she was doing? Would he know that she was obliterating old memories and replacing them with new? Would he know that she meant it this time, that she would not be in any way motivated by an upheaval of emotions?
There was a small stone fountain, the water shooting out of the mouth of a fat cherub, in the middle of the garden. A willow tree overhung it on one side. It was the perfect spot. She moved into the shade of the drooping branches and turned to watch the steps from the balcony, just visible from where she stood.
But she had already missed him. He must have come down the steps when she was still moving into her hiding place. He came up almost behind her. She whirled around to face him, a smile on her lips, mischief in her eyes. She half lifted her arms.
“An invitation I have long dreamed of,” he said, his voice husky with mingled amusement and desire. “And one I have had the patience to wait for.”
Her smile froze. She took one step back, but that one step brought the backs of her legs up against the stone wall of the fountain.
“Go away,” she said. “Go away.”
“I believe it is time you stopped fighting it, Samantha,” Lionel said. “It has been me from the start, has it not? You married Hartley because you were afraid of your feelings for me.
But you must have grown mortally tired of him after more than a month of marriage. He is not much of a man, is he? I cannot imagine he has what it takes to satisfy someone of your passions. You need someone like me for that.”
She could not lean back far enough to avoid his long finger stroking along her jaw.
“Go away,” she said.
“After you led me out here?” He laughed softly. “It was in a garden such as this that we shared our first kiss, Samantha. It is time we repeated it.”
“I will vomit,” she said, “if you come any closer.”
For once he looked nonplussed. “You and Hartley,” he said. “I do believe you deserve each other, Samantha. I seem to remember that six years ago, too, you lacked the courage to reach out for what you wanted. I must taste, though, what you have been giving my cousin for the past month.”
He had her backed up against the fountain. She could go no farther. But she was boiling with rage. It had been a foolish threat. Though she might feel like vomiting, and it would serve him right if she did it all over him, it was not something she could do at will. But she was not going to let such a snake steal any kisses without putting up a decent fight.
She brought her knee up sharply before he got quite close enough to make it impossible. He grunted with pain and surprise and folded over, presenting his face as a tempting target before he dipped too low.
“That was for Hartley,” she said, feeling a wonderful sense of exhilaration. “And this is for Jenny.” She stung her hand so sharply across his face that she almost cried out in pain herself. But she was not quite done. “And this one is for me.” She snapped his head the other way with a slap to the other cheek. “Now, what was that you had to say about tasting?”
“I think,” a quiet voice said from the shadows, “my wife has made herself perfectly clear, Lionel.”
Lionel was a little too preoccupied with his pain to respond.
Samantha turned her head, the exhilaration dying as quickly as it had come. “I did not arrange a meeting with him,” she said. “I came out here to meet you, Hartley.”