But as tired as he was, he always came to her. He had spoken in earnest on their wedding night when he’d told her they would share the same bed every night.
Martha listened to the sounds of him moving around his dressing room and imagined his reaction to her news. She laid a hand over her midriff; it was far too early to feel anything, of course, but it just made her feel close to her baby to touch her stomach. Which was silly since she was already as close to her unborn child as a person could get.
She smiled at that thought and yawned yet again. Her eyelids were so heavy she couldn’t keep them up. She’d just sleep for a minute, until Hugo came in…
Martha jerked, awakened from a deep sleep by … something. She opened her eyes to darkness and silence and felt the bed beside her; it was empty. She pushed herself up and leaned close to the clock: it was after three. And she was alone in their bed. Not once since they’d married had they not slept together.
Martha chewed her lip. She’d just take a peek in his room; she wouldn’t wake him if he were sleeping. He’d barely had any sleep last night and was probably exhausted.
She pushed back the covers, swung her legs off the bed, and shoved her feet into her slippers before shrugging into her dressing gown and tiptoeing toward the connecting door. She laid her ear against it for a moment; all was quiet.
Martha twisted the knob and pushed. Nothing happened. She twisted harder and leaned her shoulder against the door. It didn’t budge.
That was … odd. Perhaps one of the servants had accidentally locked it and that’s why Hugo hadn’t come in. He knew that she always locked the door to the corridor because he found it amusing that she was so worried about servants walking in on them when they were in flagrante, as he liked to say.
That’s what must have happened.
She unlocked the door to the corridor and padded down the hall to Hugo’s bedchamber. His door wasn’t locked so Martha slowly pushed it open. Hugo hadn’t drawn the drapes and the faint light from the square illuminated the room.
“Hugo?” she whispered, shuffling toward the bed, which was in the shadows. Only when she reached the foot end could she see it was empty.
Martha frowned. Had he not come home? Then who would have been in his room at two o’clock in the morning? Her skin prickled. What if somebody had broken into the house? What if they were still in the house—still in this room somewhere? Martha backed toward the door.
“What are you doing in here?”
She yelped and spun around.
Hugo was standing in the doorway, backlit by the dim light in the corridor.
“You scared the life out of me.” When he didn’t answer, she stepped closer until she could see his face. He looked haggard, far older than he’d looked only this morning. “Hugo? Is something wrong?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you come to bed?”
“I went downstairs to the bookroom.” He tossed several folded and sealed sheets of parchment onto a nearby table.
“You look so very tired. Perhaps—” Martha reached out to touch his face, but he jerked back.
“I’m glad you’re awake.”
He didn’t sound glad; he sounded … grim.
“What’s going on?”
He brushed passed her, his eyes turned away as he headed to his dressing room. “I just came home to get some things,” he said, lighting several candles in the big holder as well as a candlestick.
“Things? Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes, I am.” His broad shoulders were tense beneath his shirtsleeves as he carried the candlestick into his dressing room.
Martha stood like a statue, waiting for … something.
When he came out of the dressing room, he had a valise in one hand and a coat in the other.
“What is going on?”
“I told you, I’m leaving. And tomorrow you’ll be leaving, too.”
Martha gaped; who was this stranger? His eyes were hard and cold, his mouth thin and mean. She reached for him, as if touching him would help her understand.
Hugo knocked her hand away. “Don’t,” he snapped, his jaws flexing. “This isn’t working, Martha.”
“Wh-what isn’t working?”
“This. Us. This marriage.” He looked away. “I can’t do this—I’m not made for it.”
“But—I don’t understand.”
He turned on her in a way that reminded her of Lily’s male otter—vicious and feral. “Do you know where I really work every day?”
She opened her mouth.
“I’m a whore, Martha.”
Martha felt as though she’d opened a door to a raging furnace. She took a step back. “I don’t—”
“I don’t go to work at the Exchange; I go to work at a brothel. I’ve been working there for over a decade—that’s the business I co-owned with Laura Maitland, my business partner.” He snorted, as if the words amused him. “I’ve been whoring since I was fourteen. That is how I’ve earned all my money, Martha: having sex with anyone who will pay enough—man or woman.” His dark eyes glittered as he glared at her, clearly waiting for a reaction.
Martha heard what he was saying—heard the actual words—but they made no sense.
“Cat got your tongue?” His face twisted into a sneer. “Don’t worry, I don’t want you here any more than you want to stay. The good news is that I spent the day arranging your travel.” He pointed to one of the letters he’d just thrown onto the table. “All the details are in there. I already spoke to Albert several hours ago and he will come tomorrow and help you and Cailean prepare to leave.”
“Leave? And go where?”
“To France. Joss and his wife will help you find a suitable house. I’ve already set up an account for you. Joss will explain everything when you arrive. You will just have to—”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
It was his turn to blink. And then his expression turned cold—so cold that she shivered under his gaze. “You are my wife and will do as you are told.” He raked body her body with a hard, dismissive look before settling on her face. “You can go willingly or unwillingly. But you will go.” His mouth flexed into a nasty smile. “And don’t think that crying will change my mind.”
Martha hadn’t even known she was crying, but when she felt her cheeks, they were wet.
“All those nights you’ve been gone you were d-doing—” she swallowed “that?”
He laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound. “Are you trying to say fucking, sweetheart, because—”
“Don’t! Don’t you ever call me sweetheart using that tone—making the word sound so, so ugly.”
“I am ugly. So is what I do for a living; you’d better face the truth, sweetheart.”
“Why did you marry me?” she asked hoarsely.
“Haven’t you figured that out yet? Your father bribed me to take you off Stroma. In return, he saved me from McCoy. That was our agreement. At first, I’d hoped that I could fob you off on Clark, but you ruined that escape for me so I was forced to marry you. I might be a whore, Martha, but I don’t go back on my word.” He gave her a look of pure distaste. “But I’m sick of it—sick of you—sick of this life, and I’m finished pretending, about all of it.”
“Why are you saying—”
His eyes glinted dangerously, and he grabbed her upper arms, squeezing her so hard that she whimpered. “Don’t you understand, you little fool? I love my job, Martha—all aspects of it. I love spending my days and nights fucking beautiful women”—he grinned evilly—“and also beautiful men, sometimes both at the same time.” He snorted when she flinched. “You wouldn’t believe the things I do—the perversions I enjoy. That’s who I am. How could you ever believe I would enjoy such bland, milk and water sex with you after I’ve had some of the most gorgeous, sensual women in Britain?”
His words pummeled her like fists, and it was hard to breathe. “You’ve done this while we were married?”
“Oh, yes, darling. To
night, I was with two women—exquisite, skilled women who were a pleasure to service. Every single night I’ve come from some other lover’s bed before doing my duty with you.” He shoved her away. “But I’m done pretending to be happy in this farce of a marriage and I’m done with you. Your father coerced me to marry you, but he said nothing about having to live with you.”
“Ev—” She choked, swallowed, and tried again, “Everything you told me on Stroma—and since then—was all a lie?”
“Every single word of it, from what I like and who I am to where I came from. I don’t have a loving family.” He gave a bark of bitter, almost wild, laughter. “Although I didn’t lie about how many of them there were. I did have eight brothers and sisters and not one of them ever gave a damn about me.
“Either did my mother or father. I haven’t seen any of them since my father sold me to my first lover—an old man with a penchant for whippings, by the way—when I was fourteen. Not even my name is real; I changed it when I was eighteen.” He smirked. “You’re actually Mrs. Brian Dinwiddy.”
Martha could only stare.
He spun away from her, as if too repulsed to even look at her, and strode back into his dressing room. “Only pack one small valise for both you and Cailean. I’ll send the rest of your belongings separately. Joss will meet your packet and—”
“I’m not going to France. We’ve just signed the papers for the new house and—”
He stepped out of the dressing room and stared at her. “I’ll tell Duncan we don’t want it.”
Her head spun. “Why are you doing all this?”
He flung an armful of clothing onto the floor and stalked toward her. “Haven’t you been listening to me? I cannot live this dual life any longer. This was never meant to be, Martha. But I will take care of you—you never need to worry that you will be in want—”
“Something must have happened today. You were fine earlier—we were fine—”
His eyes blazed. “Don’t bloody argue with me!” he thundered.
Fear and confusion threatened to choke her, but she refused to step back—to flee. She held her ground. “No. I won’t leave. I took vows before God, Hugo. Those vows mean something to—”
He grabbed her by the arms again, but this time he shook her so hard her teeth rattled. “Goddammit, Martha! I don’t want you. Is that so hard for you to understand? You sicken me! The best thing you can do is get the hell away from me.” He dragged her by one arm toward the connecting door, unlocked it, and then flung it open. “Don’t you dare defy me, Martha,” he said, glaring down at her. “Be ready to leave tomorrow or there will be the devil to pay.” He thrust her into her room—their room—and then slammed the door hard enough to rattle her teeth. She heard the tumbler turn as he locked the door.
Martha stood where she was, rooted to the floor; this couldn’t be happening to her.
Except … it just had.
She clutched her belly—where their baby was even now growing—and stared at the connecting door. His words from only moments before rained down on her like a hail of sharp stones, over and over and over.
Martha slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the piteous cry that broke out of her, but it was no use, her tears would not be contained or controlled. She sank to her knees as sobs racked her body.
As she wept, she willed the connecting door to open, silently begging Hugo to come back. If not to apologize, then at least to explain. If she could only have a few more minutes to talk to him…
Surely he wouldn’t just leave—
Somewhere a door slammed hard enough that she could feel it through her knees. Bootsteps passed by her bedchamber and receded down the corridor, until, once again, the house was shrouded in silence.
He wasn’t coming back.
◆◆◆
Hugo barely made it to the chamber pot behind the attractive screen before dropping to his knees and casting up the contents of his stomach.
He continued to heave until there was nothing left, and then he pushed himself to his feet and slumped against the wall.
He could hear Martha’s sobbing through the connecting door and took three steps toward it, his hand reaching for the handle before he knew what he was doing.
No. You think you are being cruel, but you are saving her life, Hugo. This is the only way.
The sour taste of bile coated his tongue and burned his throat. His stomach clenched and he retched again. But nothing came up. His hands shook and the pounding in his head was so severe that his vision tinged with red, as if the blood vessels in his eyes had exploded.
Hugo snatched up his valise and all but ran from the room; he had to leave now, before he broke down and begged her to forgive him for all his cruel, brutal lies. But that would be as good as a death sentence for the only person he had ever loved. He’d been selfish when he took her off Stroma; he needed to be strong now.
A hysterical, half-mad laugh broke from him at the exquisite irony of it all. He finally loved somebody—somebody who loved him in return—and he’d just destroyed everything in order to save her life.
You could have gone with her.
Hugo scoffed. Sure he could go with her, and when the paltry amount of money he’d saved was gone a year or two years from now then he could drop to his knees to earn more.
Solange’s was his. He’d sweated and bled for it. There was no way in hell he was giving up everything he’d worked for. Not without a fight.
And what will you have if you win this fight?
He’d have a way to support his wife in comfort for the rest of her life.
But you won’t have Martha.
“Goddammit!” he yelled, slamming his valise to the ground, his voice echoing up and down the empty street. He grabbed his aching temples and squeezed, slumping against the nearby lamp post.
He had no idea how long he stood there before his head no longer felt like it would explode. Once he could see without red blurring his vision, he picked up his bag and walked. And walked.
But the time he stopped—an hour and a half later by his watch—he was several miles away from his destination. Only then did he realize that he’d forgotten his overcoat, his hat, his walking stick, and his gloves.
The early morning was cold, but it was nothing compared to the chill inside him. He’d spent yesterday making sure that he decimated any possible future with Martha. Everything that he’d loved about his life—everything—was now gone. Hugo swallowed down his horror; he’d done what he had to do, and this was the last time he’d allow himself to wallow in his pain and self-loathing.
It would be dawn in another hour, so Hugo turned and trudged toward Solange’s and the life he’d always known he’d end up with.
Chapter 34
“Martha?”
She startled at the sound of her name and looked up into Albert’s concerned green eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said, forcing a smile—not a very good one if Albert’s expression was anything to go by. “I missed what you said.”
“I said that Fergus just bit Butterbank.”
“Oh, dear. Where is Fergus now?”
“Cailean took him out to the carriage house.”
“Is the bite bad? Should I go fetch the medicine chest and—”
“No, no,” he soothed. “It’s just a nip, but he said Fergus wasn’t allowed back into the house.”
“Well, I can’t blame him,” Martha said, abstractedly. “I’ll tell Cailean to keep him outside until we leave.”
Albert dropped to his haunches in front of her chair and took her hands in his. “What happened, Martha? Hugo seemed so very grim when he came to me yesterday. I’ve never seen him like that before—not even when we were in the hold of that horrible ship.”
Martha was grateful that Hugo hadn’t told Albert the truth. She didn’t care if Albert knew what Hugo did for a living, but she didn’t want to face his pitying looks at being abandoned.
She swallowed and thrust the unbearable thoughts aw
ay. “You don’t have to accompany me, Albert. I know this must be hard on you. You’ve only just found a new job and—”
“You took care of me when I needed help—remember? And I owe Hugo everything, Martha, so if he wants any favor in the world then he has it. Besides, the lawyer says I’ll not be needed here for weeks—perhaps months—and Mr. Haskins says I’m the best clerk he’s ever had and that he’ll take me back whenever I return.”
Martha nodded. Not because she agreed, but because she simply didn’t have the energy to argue.
“But won’t you tell me what went wrong?” Albert persisted. “You both seemed so hap—”
The door opened. “Excuse me,” Butterbank said, “but there is a Jonathan Buckingham here to see you, ma’am.”
Martha stared blankly, her mind stumbling like a drunken sailor. Just what in the world was this?
“That must be Hugo’s brother,” Albert said when she failed to respond to the waiting butler. “I know now isn’t the best of times, but don’t you want to meet him, Martha?”
Martha shook herself from her daze. “Yes, Albert. I’d like to meet Hugo’s favorite brother. Show him in, Butterbank.”
The man who walked in the door a moment later had the same dark coloring as Hugo, but other than that, the men couldn’t have been more different. Jonathan Buckingham—or whatever his name was—was one of the most gorgeous men she had ever seen. As much as she loved Hugo—and she did, despite the horrid things he’d said to her—her husband was not classically handsome. This man was a veritable god.
“What a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” he said, bowing over her hand in a courtly fashion. “Hugo has told me so much about you in his letters.”
Martha turned to Butterbank, who was hovering in the open doorway. “Would you have tea sent up, please?”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Once the butler was gone, the smile dropped from her mouth and Martha locked eyes with the handsome stranger. “Now, perhaps you might tell me who you really are, Jonathan.”
A short time later …
“—and so he asked me to be here on Monday at noon,” Daniel finished, sliding a finger between his immaculately tied neckcloth and muscular neck and gently tugging, as if he’d tied it too tight.
Hugo and the Maiden: A Steamy Virgin and Rake Regency Romance (The Seducers Book 3) Page 29