He had his faults, certainly, the same as any man. He’d made his mistakes, some of them colossal. But not even what he’d done with Lydia made him deserve this harsh a judgment.
“Yes, failure.” His gaze hardened into a challenge. He expected an argument. Little surprise there, given their past interactions. Unless wine is involved. But even then, they’d begun at cross-purposes.
Yes, but he treated you with care while you were ailing.
That last thought gentled her voice when she replied. “I hardly think—”
He shot to his feet, the force knocking over his chair. “Don’t you? Good God, you’ve seen the state of my finances. And isn’t that your measure of a man?”
“No.” Before her marriage, that single word would have been a lie—one of those acceptable fibs one told to avoid sticky social situations. But she’d seen enough other facets of this man, both good and bad, that she refused to judge him solely on his business acumen. “You are far more skillful at negotiating society than I will ever be. You always know the right thing to say. You know when to smile. You know how to be charming.” The display of the waltz, as he termed it.
“Only because I had the fortune to be born into the right family. None of that is anything you’d term an accomplishment.”
Not a proper masculine accomplishment. But Miss Conklin would have been ecstatic if Emma had mastered such feats. “And yet, no matter the state of your finances, you will always be accepted, in a manner I never will.”
He waved a hand, and she recognized the gesture for what it was. He was brushing her argument aside. “You don’t know the half of it.”
The words settled like a cannonball in her belly. “What haven’t you told me? Are there creditors I don’t know about yet?”
“Nothing like that.”
“What else could there be?”
He turned his gaze toward the desk, fixed his eyes on the expanse. “If I’ve failed at anything, it is on the most fundamental level possible. I did something, the repercussions of which still haunt me. You must have asked yourself by now how I’ve only managed to fulfill my marital duty but twice. Why I’ve never visited you in your bedchamber beyond our wedding night.”
Emma had to remind herself to breathe. Now that she knew he was willing to make it, she wanted to stop his confession. She did not need to hear the details of what had transpired between him and Lydia if the telling was going to be this painful for him.
But she sensed his need to unburden himself, and so she remained still and silent.
“This house used to belong to a close friend of mine.” He said that bit casually, as if he were remarking on something as mundane as the weather. “Viscount Lindenhurst—since he removed to his country estates, he rarely comes to Town.”
“I told you his wife paid me a visit. You were not happy to hear it.”
“No, I wasn’t. You’d think a pair of old friends might get together for some drinks and talk about old times. Only Lindenhurst and I won’t be doing that.” A hint of regret tinged his words. “Did you realize Lindenhurst was the one who attempted to ruin me?”
“No.” At least not until today, but now wasn’t the best time to reveal what Miss Marshall had told her. Best to let Battencliffe tell his story.
—
Rowan could barely credit what he was on the verge of confessing, and to his wife, no less. Beyond the earlier conversation with Sanford, he had never talked about what had happened between him and Lydia. Granted, he’d forgotten some of the baser details, thanks to a bottle of brandy or two consumed on short notice, but he could fill in the blanks well enough.
“It all started with a social call.” An ill-advised one, but at least he remembered this part. “Viscount Lindenhurst and I were good friends in our younger days. Not long after his marriage, he bought a commission. When he didn’t come back after Wellington’s victory with the rest of the army, naturally we feared the worst.”
“You and Lady Lindenhurst.” Damn, but Emma made that sound like an accusation.
“I considered Lydia a friend, as well.” Judging from Emma’s expression that was the wrong thing to say, but Rowan held up a hand. “Please let me tell this. The hellish part was the lack of confirmation.”
He’d scanned every casualty list he could get his hands on. Lind’s name had never appeared on any of them. “Months passed without word. Lydia and I both attempted to contact other men from his regiment. That is how we learned he’d been at Quatre Bras. He’d sustained horrific injuries, according to some accounts. I made a habit of calling on Lydia. Every Monday we’d meet and pore over the lists. Maybe we’d come across something we’d missed.”
“By that time, there couldn’t have been many new casualty lists.” Of course Emma sounded skeptical. She’d every right. Nothing in what he was going to recount exonerated him in the least.
“No, but the habit remained, and I held on to a certain hope the army would notify Lydia of his whereabouts. That one way or another she’d received word and I could properly mourn a friend or rejoice in the news he would eventually return.”
Rowan looked away for a moment, staring at the ceiling. This was Lind’s study, little changed from the old days. How many hours had Rowan spent in here, squinting at the tiny typeface listing name after name of men who weren’t coming home? But for Emma’s presence, it might have been seven and more years ago.
“The worst part was the not knowing, more so for Lydia. I imagine she felt as if she were consigned to limbo, damned to wait, unable to mourn, unable to plan for the future.”
God, and why was he giving Lydia so much credit? It certainly wasn’t helping his case with Emma. Not the way her eyes narrowed behind the lenses of her spectacles. But even now, he had to explain to himself how events had played out. He had to assign some form of motivation to Lydia’s actions that day.
“I called at my usual hour. Lydia received me in the usual room.” This one. “I asked for news. There was none. And so, useless as it might seem, we went through the lists again. Futile action was still action, you see. If we did nothing, that felt too much like admitting defeat.” Or it had to him. He could really never know what was running through Lydia’s mind.
“In the end, the breaking point for Lydia still came—the point where she crumpled a broadsheet and tossed it into the fire, choking back angry sobs and railing against the situation.” What’s the use? He’s never coming back, is he?
“It would have been heartless for me to leave her in that state. Although it would have been better if I had.”
“Please.” Emma advanced on him, one hand outstretched. “You don’t need to tell me any more.”
“Don’t I?” He stepped back. “You don’t wish to know exactly what sort of man you married? One who lacked the fortitude to resist a desperate lady’s advances?” Or so he assumed. The brandy had been his idea, the better to calm both their nerves. Instead, it led to a loss of inhibition and action on a long-denied attraction, one that would have been best left unspoken and unacknowledged.
“Did you…Were you in love with her?” Something about the caution behind those words sparked an impossible hope.
“What? Lust, quite possibly. But when Lydia agreed to Lind’s proposal, I accepted that he’d won. Love? No.” Somehow he’d backed into one corner of the study. “Would it absolve me if I was?”
“No, I don’t suppose it would.”
“What I should really ask is does it make things worse that I wasn’t?” His glance drifted past Emma’s shoulder to the door. No escape there with his wife barring the way.
“Why are you doing this?” God only knew, but somehow her answering his question with one of her own had become important. She didn’t wish to hurt him, and she could have with a direct reply.
He met her gaze full-on. “Because I need to know you’ll forgive the worst in me.”
“Why?” Damn her, why must she probe? That single quiet word stung as badly as a questing finger in an open wo
und.
“It’s not enough to know that I want this?” He up held his hand like a supplicant, waving it in the space between them. “Us?” More than wanted. He needed, but he wasn’t going to admit that much.
“I think you want absolution from someone who won’t give it to you. Or who can’t.” Good Lord, her perception. It was enough to punch him in the gut and leave him breathless. “It is easy to forgive a wrong that was not done to me. I can only ask you not ascribe to me the sins of another. Would that be possible?”
He let out a long breath. He felt like he was venturing onto a frozen lake with only Emma’s hand for support and guidance. If one of them slipped, or the ice proved too fragile, they might both drown. “I can try.”
“Good, because we have society to deal with.” She laced her fingers in front of her, and he found himself wishing they were dancing across his skin, instead. An impossibility now. She could hardly long for his touch now she knew how tainted it was. “It might be easier on both of us if we faced that together.”
“What of society?” That was the least of his worries. His charm, his looks, the unfailingly affable front he wore at his club and in the card room made it easy to navigate that particular labyrinth.
“You must know the gossip will be particularly vicious with Lord Lindenhurst in Town. Only today a caller felt it necessary to come running to me with the tale of how you’re the father of Lindenhurst’s heir.”
Blast. So the old story was still circulating. Naturally Lindenhurst’s presence in Town had dredged it up. “I am—or I assume so. The timing would indicate as much.” The stark truth, as he understood it, and yet he still gritted his teeth to give it voice, even though he wasn’t telling her anything she hadn’t already surmised. Still, he hated to validate the pain in her expression. “Will you be able to weather this storm?”
“If it’s easier, perhaps we ought to decline all future invitations.”
“It’s best if we don’t.” Half expecting her to flinch away, thankful that she remained steady, he reached out and brushed a tendril of hair off her forehead. “Recall the display of the waltz. We must demonstrate that none of the talk affects us. If we run from it, we only appear ashamed.” Ashamed—which he was, certainly, but solely for his own sake. Emma had no reason to hide, and so he’d do this for her.
“And if you come face-to-face with Lord Lindenhurst at one of these functions?”
“I’ll smile and nod, even if doing so cracks my jaw and breaks my neck. But I don’t think we need to concern ourselves with that eventuality. Lindenhurst likely won’t allow himself to run into me.” He captured her gaze, held it. “As for us, we’ll be putting on a very particular display.”
“Which one is that?” Her tone quivered with wariness.
“We shall make everyone believe we are in love.”
Chapter Eighteen
At most, Emma reckoned, she had half an hour left to accomplish her errand. Half an hour to pay her call on Lady Pettifer and trundle back to Cheapside in her carriage, where she would return two of Papa’s burliest day laborers to the warehouse. From there, she’d have to make it back to Mayfair before her husband missed her.
It would be a near-shave, indeed, but if she could reason with an old reclusive lady, Battencliffe might never learn she’d disobeyed him. As long as Hendricks actually was Lady Pettifer’s man of affairs.
Twinges of guilt, along with uncertainty at the mess she’d landed herself in, ate at her nerves—as they had since she’d discovered Hendricks’s most recent message. Heavens, she hated this feeling, as unfamiliar to her as it was discomfiting. Emma planned. She considered, all as a means of avoiding messes, but somehow she’d bemired herself in a true morass.
Staring up at the stately residence on North Audley Street, adjacent to Grosvenor Square, Emma was no longer certain of anything. Surely if Lady Pettifer had run into financial difficulties, the first thing she’d do was sell this house. It would fetch a small fortune, far more than the dowager could possibly have lost due to her misunderstanding of Emma’s advice.
One of the day laborers let down the steps, and Emma alit. The two men flanked her, silent guards, but she’d selected them for the size of their fists and the strength in their arms—insurance should Hendricks prove not to be the person she thought. If he wished her harm, he’d think twice about trying anything with these two brutes about.
Guards in tow, she climbed the well-kept steps to the freshly painted door. Even the bricks of this house seemed to stand out from those of the neighbors, they were so red. Pristine, actually, as if Lady Pettifer ordered them scrubbed on a regular basis. If poverty gave off a particular scent, it lingered nowhere near this residence.
In growing unease, Emma lifted the polished brass knocker and let it fall. Presently, the door swung open on silent hinges. A balding, knob-nosed butler peered at her. “Yes?”
Beset with doubt, Emma fumbled in her reticule for a calling card. Too late, she recalled she’d had no new ones printed in her married name. No matter. If Lady Pettifer was indeed her correspondent, she’d recognize Emma’s maiden name readily enough.
The butler took the card and cast a scowl past Emma’s shoulders. In their nankeen trousers, rough jackets, and heavy boots, the workmen stood in jarring contrast to their genteel surroundings. They belonged belowstairs if they were to come in at all.
“I will see if Lady Pettifer is receiving,” the butler said frostily, before closing the door in Emma’s face.
Despite the relative warmth of the wintry sun, she hugged herself against a sudden chill. And wasn’t this going swimmingly?
In less than a minute, the butler returned. “I am afraid her ladyship is not up to callers today. Perhaps some other time?”
The imperiousness of his tone was sufficient to indicate that nebulous other time would occur the day Emily Marshall hosted a dinner party in Emma’s honor.
“Please.” Emma put out a hand. “The matter is urgent. I am…I’ve been corresponding with her ladyship, you see. The matter is one of strictest confidence, but recent events require a personal audience.”
“I am afraid that is quite impossible. I receive all her ladyship’s mail personally. I would recognize—” He eyed her card for good measure. “—I would have recognized your name immediately.”
The door began to swing shut on its well-oiled hinges, but Emma could not let that happen. She stuck out a foot before it could meet the jamb. “Perhaps if you spoke to Lady Pettifer’s man of affairs. Is Mr. Hendricks in?”
The butler raised his brows. “Hendricks? I know no one by that name.”
—
Emma returned home to a townhouse empty of all but servants.
“I believe Mr. Battencliffe has gone to his club,” Grundy informed her as he helped her out of her pelisse.
Thank the heavens. She would have time to formulate an adequate explanation for her husband. For she saw no other choice now but to admit she’d disobeyed him. But how? No matter what she told him, he was certain to be angry. She understood that much, given the vehemence with which he’d forbidden the correspondence in the first place.
Since he’d confided what had happened with Lydia, she might even accept why he felt so strongly. He’d been a party to adultery, and that might well make him believe any other woman would be just as fickle. He inhabited a world where spouses were regularly unfaithful, where such behavior was even expected after a time.
Emma headed for the staircase, tugging at the fingers of her gloves. “Not me,” she said to the echoing passageway.
Not only was it illogical of him to paint her with the same brush, it was unfair—which was why she preferred not to open this particular door if she could avoid it. The outcome would not be good—and just when they’d managed to deal with each other on agreeable terms.
More than agreeable.
What she wouldn’t give for a few more peaceful days and pleasure-filled nights. What she wouldn’t give for a lifetime of them. Si
nce her illness, he’d shown her how wedded life might play out between them, and she wanted that. Her heart ached for it.
Emma reached her bedchamber and tossed her gloves on the coverlet before sitting in front of her mirror and contemplating her image. A plain and pale face stared back at her, but for some reason, Battencliffe still wanted her.
“Begging your pardon.”
Emma looked up. Hands folded, Mary stood on the threshold.
“Has Mr. Battencliffe returned?” Emma dreaded the reply, but it was best to get the worst out of the way. Not that she had any solid notion of what she would tell him.
“Not that I’m aware. I’ve come to see about your gown for tonight. And will you be wanting a bath?”
Oh, blast. The masquerade was tonight. Her debut performance, with half the ton her audience. She only had to convince the likes of Emily Marshall she was in love with her husband. Which meant they had better not turn up at the Posselthwaites at odds with each other. Any palpable tension would take away from her performance, and when it came to acting, she was already on shaky ground.
“Yes, Mary,” she said absently, “have the footmen bring water for my bath. And lay out my blue silk.”
If she wanted to carry off this charade, her explanations would have to wait.
—
From the carriage seat opposite Emma, Rowan watched as she plucked at her white kid gloves, securing them over her elbows even though they hadn’t budged. Not since the last time she’d pulled at them. Her fingers spread over silk-clad thighs as she smoothed her pristine skirts.
“You can’t possibly be suffering an attack of nerves,” he commented at last.
She flinched, and her fingers stilled on the edges of her gloves yet again. “No, of course not. I’ve been to any number of these events. I know what to expect. Why on earth would I be nervous?”
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