by Mary Balogh
He shrugged and gave her a rueful smile. “It felt rather like losing my right arm when Lizzie fancied herself in love with him.” he said. “I was very young. I quickly got used to the idea that times were changing and that I had to change with them.”
“Fancied herself,” she said scornfully.
“I liked him,” he said. “I was not really jealous. Envious, perhaps, of their happiness. And lonely. I thought she had made a good choice. I even continued to think so long after everyone else had turned against him. I liked him too well and was too concerned for her happiness to believe all the evidence that began to pile against him.”
“One piece of evidence,” she said, “and it was false. But yes, he did write to say that you had stuck by him until he sailed for Canada, that you were the only defender he had left. For that I thank you.” She spoke grudgingly and was not even convinced that her thanks were justified. Understandably she supposed after what had happened she felt a deep distrust of Martin.
“But you will not forgive me for the other,” he said. “I am truly sorry.”
/
“I hope you mean it,” she said. “Shall we leave it at that?”
She should have turned and hurried away at that point. Certainly she wanted to get away from him. But curiosity held her a little longer. And perhaps fascination with a man she did not understand at all.
“Why are you staying here like a family guest when you must hate Christopher with a passion?” she asked. “Why have you not taken Elizabeth away this morning while he is gone? Why did you not use the gun you brought with you?”
“It was not loaded,” he said. “I cannot even shoot a rabbit, Lady Nancy. How could I shoot a man, even my sister’s kidnapper—and seducer? Elizabeth has to be my main concern. Had she been told the truth as soon as she regained consciousness, of course, I would have taken her away yesterday even if he had tried to prevent me. I will use my fists, you see, even if I cannot bring myself to use a deadlier weapon. But she was not told the truth and so the damage must be undone slowly and gently.”
“And yet,” she said, “you hinted to her this morning that perhaps Christopher is not her husband after all.”
“I did not mean to put doubts in her mind so soon,” he said. “But eventually she must know that he is not. I am not sure that there is any totally gentle way of breaking that news considering the fact that he has been bedding her for two weeks.”
She shot him a startled glance at his choice of words and flushed.
“Do you hate him?” she asked.
“I hate no one,” he said. “I try very hard to see everyone’s point of view, to understand even if I cannot always condone. I think perhaps he is genuinely sorry for what he did in the past and would like to atone for it. Unfortunately he has acted as impulsively now as he did when he ran away. And as disastrously. No, I don’t hate him, Lady Nancy, but I do fear the effect that the repeated rapes of the past weeks will have on Elizabeth when she knows the truth.”
She flinched. And she knew suddenly beyond a doubt that despite his words and his smiles he did hate Christopher. “She appears to have some strength of character,” she said.
“Prolonged suffering in the past has made my sister a strong person,” he said. “I think she can live through this too. And she will have my support.”
“As always,” Nancy said, turning finally and striding back toward the house.
“Yes,” he said. “As always. I am sure you are as supportive of your brother, Lady Nancy. You have not been exactly contradicting his lies in the past two weeks, have you? And I am sure you will do all in your power to comfort him when I take Elizabeth away eventually.”
It was true, she thought reluctantly, walking briskly ahead of him. She did not want him to catch up to her. She did not want to have to walk by his side. If he offered her his arm, she would die. Or at least she would cringe as Elizabeth had done earlier.
“Lady Nancy,” he said when they reached the house and she hurried through the hall to the staircase arch. He was smiling when she looked back, though his eyes were sad. He was again the charming boy she had once known. “Can we not be friends? Won’t you forgive me for a youthful indiscretion?”
Her eyes strayed downward to his hands—short-fingered hands with square clean fingernails. She felt an inward shudder. “I need to tidy up,” she said. “Christopher will be home soon for luncheon.”
“Ah,” he said as she turned to the stairs.
Chapter 11
MARTIN went back outside. He walked briskly down through the rock gardens to the stream and along the valley in the direction of the sea, until he was lost among the trees. Then his footsteps slowed.
Patience, self-control, he told himself, his hands alternately flexing and curling into tight fists. They were what he needed now more than anything else. He drew in deep breaths of salty sea air and released them slowly. But his usual methods of calming himself were not working. Perhaps it would be as well after all, he thought, to order out his carriage and force Elizabeth to leave with him. But she disliked and distrusted him. That fact more than any other had shaken him. She had never done either, even when she had fancied herself in love with Atwell the first time or even when she had planned her marriage to Poole.
What if her memory never returned? He could explain the truth to her, of course. But if he forced her away from that damned villain Trevelyan now, would she ever forgive him? Would she ever love him again? Perhaps he would lose her entirely and forever if he did not exercise patience now. He could not risk that happening.
But to have to stay beneath Trevelyan’s roof and to be forced to act the part of courteous guest! It was almost too much. And to have to put up with the insolence and the contempt of that slut, his sister.
And to know that the two of them had more influence over Elizabeth at the present than he did himself. He did not know if he would be able to bear it for three more days—until Macklin returned from London.
But bear it he would, of course. He would bear it for Elizabeth’s sake. His consolation must be that when she finally knew the truth she would be destroyed even more effectively than she had been seven years before. He would be able to take her back to the peace of Kingston and keep her there for the rest of her life. Even if she did not recover her memory, she would come to depend on him after she knew the truth as she depended upon Trevelyan now.
There was a woman in the flower garden, Martin saw when he was making his way back toward the house. At first he thought she was Lady Nancy—she was picking up the blooms and the scissors and gloves Lady Nancy had left behind. But she was just a maid, with blond curls escaping from beneath her mobcap, her generous breasts accentuated by her bent position. Martin stopped.
He was smiling when she straightened up and turned toward him, startled. “I have been trying to decide,” he said, “which makes the prettier picture, the flowers or you.”
Her face relaxed into a smile. “And what did you decide, sir?” she asked pertly.
Ah, a flirt. “Which am I looking at?” he asked, widening his eyes, and watched her blush. “It is a lovely morning after yesterday’s rain, is it not? Stroll with me a little way and show me this beautiful valley.”
“It is beautiful, sir,” she said, “but her ladyship is waiting for me to bring the flowers. I am to help her arrange them.”
“Her ladyship will wait,” he said, reaching out to take the flowers and scissors and gloves from her arms and laying them on the grass at their feet. “Come.” He took her arm.
At first she was flustered. Then she was indignant. It was only when he increased his pace and she had to trot along at his side to keep up with him that she became alarmed. He stopped briefly when they were out of sight among the trees and smacked her several times sharply on the bottom.
“Quiet!” he ordered her. “Have you never taken a stroll with a gentleman, girl?”
“N-no, sir,” she said, her eyes large with fear.
“You
are a liar,” he said. “Do you think I do not know that you are a slut?”
He took her a little farther into the trees before stopping at one with several low branches. He bent her forward over one of them, grasped her skirt, and threw it up over her head. He had to slap her bare buttocks hard several more times to quieten her cries to blubbering sobs. But he was not interested in giving her a prolonged beating since doubtless she lacked the experience to know how to beat him in return. He loosened his clothing quickly, rammed himself into her, and punished himself inside the body of a woman who resembled Elizabeth only superficially. He ignored her one scream and the subsequent loud moans. They were far enough from the house.
“Listen,” he said when he was finished and had readjusted his clothing. He took her firmly by one arm and hauled her upright. She was sobbing uncontrollably. Her face was red and ugly. “You can bathe away the blood at the stream when I have gone. You must say nothing about this to anyone. Do you understand me? I suppose you value your job?” He waited for her to answer.
She could hardly get the word out. “Ye-e-es.”
“And good jobs are hard to come by in these parts, especially when one is not given a character?”
“Ye-e-es.”
“You will lose your job if your mistress finds out that you are a slut and a whore,” Martin said. “Do you understand me?”
“Ye-e-es, s-sir.”
“Very well, then.” He hesitated for a moment, undecided about whether he would pay the girl. He took some coins from his pocket, dropped them down the front of her dress into her cleavage, and turned to walk away.
His terrible frustration had subsided for a while. The girl had offered a timely diversion. But the familiar self-hatred was taking the place of frustration. Self-hatred over the fact that he had given in to the compulsion to soil himself with a whore because he could not have Elizabeth. This particular whore had not even known how to punish him so that some of the guilt and hatred could be eased.
Christopher went directly upstairs when he arrived home. He had not been able to concentrate on any work all morning. He should not have left, he had been thinking the whole time. How did he know that he could trust Martin not to tell Elizabeth the whole ghastly story? How did he know that Martin would not after all bundle her into his carriage and make off with her back to London as soon as his back was turned?
Would he go after her if that had happened? Would he feel justified in doing so?
She was not in her dressing room. Neither was she in their bedchamber. Panic grabbed at him—a totally unreasonable panic since he had looked in none of the daytime apartments. And she might still be out walking with Martin. He had returned somewhat earlier than usual.
He opened the door to his own dressing room and felt himself almost sag with relief. She was standing at the window, her head turning back over her shoulder. He closed the door, took a few steps forward, and held out his arms to her. She came the rest of the way and walked straight into them. Her face, which she rested against his neckcloth, was pale.
He could think of nothing to say to her. Guilt had been gnawing at him all morning as well as anxiety. He had got himself into a hell of a mess and perhaps had done her irreparable harm.
He closed his arms about her and rocked her.
“Christopher,” she said, “tell me about our wedding.”
He held still. It was all beginning to come out, then, as he and Martin had planned. Soon she would know everything except those hardest of all events to tell. There would be only the seven-year gap in her history. But before they told her, he was going to persuade Martin that he had not been guilty. He was going to persuade him to tell her that, to tell her that he had fled merely because he was too young and inexperienced to cope with adversity. It was after all the simple truth. Together he and Martin would tell her the real truth, not what she had thought was the truth. They would set history straight.
“It was at Kingston,” he said. “Kingston Park in Norfolkshire, your father’s estate. In the chapel there. We would not have it in the village church or at St. George’s in London as your father wanted. The chapel was too small, he said. But we wanted only our families and close friends present.”
“Did we have a long betrothal?” she asked against his neckcloth.
“Only one month,” he said. “We were in love and wanted to be married.”
“And all our family was there?” she said.
“Yes.”
“It must have been wonderful,” she said, “to marry with all our family about us.”
“It was.” He rubbed his cheek against the top of her head. “It was wonderful beyond words, Elizabeth. We were in love, and it was our wedding day, and only the happily ever after was ahead of us.”
She drew back her head and looked into his eyes. “Your father came?” she said. “And Nancy?”
“Yes.” He gazed back at her. “No. Nancy went home just a week before the wedding. She was afraid that Penhallow would run away with no one to keep an eye on it, I suppose. She was homesick and insisted on coming home. I stormed at her and you pleaded with her, but nothing would keep her.”
“Your story matches hers,” she said. “Have you spoken with her since you came home?”
“No.” His eyes searched hers.
“Martin reminded me,” she said, “that I have only your word for it that I belong here, that I am your wife, that we love each other.” She laughed suddenly. “I have only your word for it and Nancy’s and Martin’s that I am who you say I am. If my name were not Elizabeth Atwell, I would be none the wiser. What was my name before I married? It was not Honywood like Martin’s, was it? He is my stepbrother.”
“Ward,” he said. “You were Lady Elizabeth Ward.”
She was quiet for a moment, considering. “Another stranger,” she said.
“Do you believe I am that too, Elizabeth?” he asked her quietly. “A stranger, I mean. Do you believe I was a stranger to you until two weeks ago?”
She looked at him with troubled eyes and said nothing for a while.
Tell her, a voice inside his head instructed him. It was the perfect time. She was doubtful anyway, and the whole question had been opened up conveniently. Tell her.
She shook her head slowly. “No,” she said. “I knew you and I loved you. If there is one thing I am certain of, it is that. Christopher, can’t we send him away? He came out of concern for my health. Well, he has seen that my health is perfect except for the obvious. There is no further reason for him to stay. I am where I belong, and he can see that you are looking after me admirably. He can see that I am coping with the situation, or beginning to anyway. Can’t we ask him to leave?”
“He is your brother, Elizabeth,” he said. How he wished he could just do as she asked. How he wished that life were that simple.
“Stepbrother,” she said. “No blood relation at all. He touched me.”
Christopher frowned.
“He put his arm about me,” she said, “and I panicked. He seemed like a stranger. I don’t want anyone touching me but you. I don’t want him touching me.”
“Brothers put their arms about their sisters,” he said. “I do with Nancy.”
“But he is a stranger to me,” she said.
“I was a stranger to you just over two weeks ago,” he said. “You let me make love to you, Elizabeth.”
She sighed deeply and set her face back against his neckcloth. “I can accept the one relationship but not the other,” she said. “It does not make sense, I know. I only know that with you it feels right while with Martin it feels—I don’t know. He made my flesh creep. Let’s go down for luncheon, then, and I will keep practicing to be the affectionate sister. It is easy with Nancy, not so easy with Martin. But no one ever said that life was easy. I will even let him touch me if you say it is right and natural for him to do so.”
Holding her to him, rocking her again, he wondered what would have happened if he had ignored the news that she was to marry
Lord Poole the day after his arrival in London. And he wondered if he would do anything different if he could go back now and react all over again to what Seth Wickenham had told him at the Pulteney.
Somehow he doubted it.
“Yes, let’s go down,” he said. But he hugged her to him again when he should have let her go. “I wish I could shield you from the pain and bewilderment these days are bringing you, Elizabeth.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “You are doing so to a very large degree,” she said. “You cannot know, perhaps, how wonderfully safe I feel with you. That was why I was so shaken when Martin tried to put doubts in my mind.”
She held up her face for his kiss. She did not know that every sexual encounter now, even one as seemingly innocent as a kiss, burned his guilt deeper on his soul. He met her mouth with his, opened it, licked into the warm cavity with his tongue, gave her all the comfort and reassurance for which she was so obviously seeking, Christ, she was going to hate him. Yet he very much feared that he was going to find it impossible ever to hate her again.
Antoine Bouchard was finding England difficult to adjust to. He missed the wide open spaces of the American wilderness. The valley in which Penhallow was built was pleasant, of course. Everything was pretty but so very small and confining. The sea, now, was another matter. The sea fed Antoine’s soul.
And so he was in the habit of getting away from the house as often as possible. He usually took a horse and rode along the valley to the sea and galloped along the open beach, in the opposite direction from that sometimes taken by his employer and the lady the two of them had kidnapped in London. Antoine sometimes wondered what would happen when that lady recovered her memory. She and Lord Trevelyan were very cozy at the moment, but when she knew how she had been tricked . . .
There was that new arrival, of course—the man who had pretended to be Captain Rice and had then greeted Lord Trevelyan in the visitors’ salon with a pistol. Antoine did not entirely trust the man’s smiling face. If it were he, Antoine, and someone had run off with his sister just as she was about to marry someone else and had then proceeded to live with her himself—if it were he, Antoine thought, there would be no smiles. Only a knife straight through the heart.