The Devil's Web

by Mary Balogh

  “Yes,” he said, “I’ll take you, of course. You don’t need a promise for that. But don’t think I have forgotten yours, Madeline. Your promise, if you please.”

  “Oh, very well, then,” she said, “though I am sure you are being ridiculous. I promise not to ride out onto the moors unless you or someone of whom you approve is with me for—how long?”

  “Five years.”

  “For five years,” she said. “There, are you pleased now? You have a nice docile, obedient wife.”

  She tried to coax a smile from him with her own, but he gazed darkly back at her.

  “Promise me not to get involved with Beasley,” he said.

  She put up a hand and spread her fingers over his mouth. “Let’s leave it at that,” she said. “Let’s not quarrel any more tonight. I get so mortally tired of quarreling.”She grinned. “Especially when you are always in the wrong.”

  He took her by the wrist and gazed into her eyes. She could see deeply into his, to what might have been pain. But his face was expressionless.

  She shook her head slightly. “Don’t say any more,” she said. “Please, James, don’t say any more.”

  By day she could despise herself for the way she always abandoned herself to his lovemaking, for the way she had learned to participate in it and take full pleasure from it. She could despise herself for catering so willingly to his only need for her.

  But by night there was only James and his unhurried, expert lovemaking. And her need to touch and be touched, to love and be loved. She had learned to be naked and unembarrassed with him on the bed, even with the candles burning. And she had learned how and where to touch him, how to arouse him, how to heighten his pleasure when he was in her. She had learned how to move for her own pleasure, how to let tension build, when to let tension go and trust him to bring her to a climax.

  And so instead of quarreling further, they made slow love and found in each other’s body all the harmony, all the rightness, that was absent from the other aspects of their lives.

  And Madeline, lying beneath her husband and moving with his rhythm during the minutes when their desire built to a crest, was as usual beyond all thought except that this man who was loving her was James and that she loved him with all her heart and soul as well as with her body. And as usual she wanted to say his name as she buried her hands in his hair—to say it over and over again against his mouth, into his ear.

  James, James.

  But there was always just enough reason left, just enough pride, that she knew that to do so would be to degrade herself. For as things were, he would know only that she had a physical craving for him as he had for her. She could not hide that so made no attempt to do so. But if she once said his name while he loved her, then he would know. And then he would know too that he had it in his power to make her his slave.

  She would rather die with her love undeclared than become his slave.

  And so they finished their lovemaking with incoherent cries, but with no words at all. And after he had lifted himself away from her, he lay staring up at the canopy above their heads in the flickering light of the single candle that still burned, while she lay turned away from him, staring off into the shadows.

  Both were physically satisfied and very close to sleep. And both were very much alone again. And both were very unhappy.

  JAMES WAS RIDING ALONE along the banks of a stream that divided part of his property from that of the Duke of Peterleigh. He was returning from a visit to one of his tenants, who had complained more and more loudly since he had realized that he was being listened to that his rents were too high. James agreed, though he had not told the man so yet. He wished to consult a little more closely with his bailiff.

  It seemed that every tenant’s rent was too high and every laborer’s wages too low. His instinct was to recognize the injustice and put it right immediately. But of course, when one was the owner of large tracts of land and responsible for every soul who lived upon them, justice was not always an easy thing to detect. For if he should bankrupt himself in order to benefit those dependent upon him, then eventually they would see no benefit at all from his generosity or sense of right.

  It was a tricky business, as he was becoming well aware.

  There were some people ahead of him, on the bank of the stream. Children, probably, fishing. He had come to that particular spot himself as a lad, when he could get away from the house, to fish with Carl Beasley.

  The grass was wet beneath his horse’s hooves. It had rained steadily for four days after their visit to the Hoopers. There had been no chance to keep his promise to take Madeline riding out onto the moors. But she seemed not to have been actively unhappy. She was busy planning the dinner they were to host the following week. Palmer and his sister had called on them one afternoon, the young Trentons on another.

  And she had been busy writing letters. She made a point now of telling him from whom she received every letter, her chin lifted defiantly, but of telling him nothing about the contents of those letters. There had been no more from Penworth, and indeed he felt foolish for the objection he had made to that particular correspondence. Her betrothal to Penworth had been ended the year before, and there had seemed to be no particular attachment on either side during the spring in London. She had had letters from her mother and both brothers, from Ellen, from Anna, and from Jennifer Simpson. There had been letters addressed to both of them from Alex and Jean, whose wedding had been delayed until Christmastime on account of her future sister-in-law’s wedding planned for that month.

  Madeline spent much of each morning writing long letters in reply. She never offered to let him read them. He sometimes wondered what she wrote about. What did she say about her new home? About him? Did she tell the truth? Or did she pretend that all was well? He somehow could not imagine Madeline divulging the true state of their marriage to anyone, except perhaps to her twin.

  There were three children on the bank, the youngest one in tears, the oldest scornfully ignoring him. The middle one, a girl, was patting the infant on the back reassuringly. They had one fishing rod among the three of them. The oldest boy was holding it.

  “What is the matter?” James called across the stream. “Is the little lad not being given his turn?”

  The child wailed more loudly when he realized that he had an adult audience.

  “It is just that he rolled his ball into the water and Jonathan will not get it for him,” the girl said, continuing to pat ineffectively.

  “The water would not reach even to his waist where the ball is,” the boy called Jonathan said, not even looking up from his rod. “Let him get it himself. He was told not to play so near the edge.”

  “Can’t you see that he is frightened?” the girl asked. “And I can’t go in. I’m wearing a dress.”

  James swung down from his horse with a smile, though he was not particularly feeling a smile. “Perhaps I can risk it,” he said. He looked down into the water, which was swollen from the rain. “Hm, I don’t think my boots would survive it, would they?” He sat down on the bank to pull them off one by one.

  The little boy had forgotten to cry. The older boy’s attention had been fully diverted from his fishing. The little girl was giving advice.

  “I would not go in if I were you, sir,” she said. “You will get your breeches and your stockings wet.”

  James winked at her. “But I don’t have a mama at home to scold me,” he said.

  The two little boys laughed.

  The ball was quite visible and easily retrieved. He was soaked to the knees after he had finally handed it back to the smallest child and climbed out on his side of the stream again, and was facing the ticklish problem of whether to pull his boots back on again or go riding home in his stockinged feet with his boots beneath his arm. He shrugged and pulled on the boots much to the amusement of the boys and against the advice of the girl.

  “Where do you come from?” he asked, though he knew the answer very well. He had to hea
r it in words.

  “Mama is visiting Uncle Carl,” the girl said.

  “And who is your mama?” he asked, grimacing with some distaste as he pulled on the second boot.

  “She is Mrs. John Drummond,” the girl said. “But she is a cousin to the Duke of Peterleigh and we have come to live close to here all the time, where Mama and Papa used to live before they moved to Somerset, where we were all born. I am Sylvia Drummond, and this is Patrick. Jonathan is the oldest. And there is Lester too—he is the baby.”

  “Indeed,” James said, vaulting into his saddle again. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Beckworth.”

  “Oh,” the girl said. “You are the one with the new bride. Uncle Carl was telling Mama about her. You had better gallop home, sir, before you catch your death.”

  James smiled again, touched his hat with his riding whip, and turned his horse’s head for home.

  The two younger children were fair and somewhat stocky, like John Drummond. And with the coloring of Dora too, of course. The eldest boy was tall and thin. His thick dark hair fell over his eyes. And the eyes in his thin face were dark.

  His son looked like him.

  Jonathan. He had not known his name.

  He had felt nothing for the boy beyond a certain curiosity and wonder. Wonder that he had fathered a child whom he had not seen until that day. He had wondered if he would feel a rush of paternal love. He had felt nothing.

  But his son! His own flesh and blood.

  He urged his horse into a canter. Not so much because his feet and legs were uncomfortably wet and cold, but because Madeline was at home. He wanted to be with her.

  MADELINE WAS RIDING ALONG the banks of the same stream the following afternoon with Henrietta and Mark Trenton. She rather enjoyed their company, since they were both cheerful and full of conversation. And it was a beautiful late September day after four days of rain and the gloomy clouds of the day before.

  Indeed, she would have been perfectly happy if only James were with them. But he had an appointment at the house with his man of business and had been unable to come.

  And why would she want him with her anyway? she asked herself as she laughed at something Mark said and launched into an anecdote of her own. He would surely have ruined the afternoon with his taciturnity and lack of humor. And she surely would have ended up quarreling with him over something—after they were alone, of course.

  It was better to be away from him.

  But she felt a twinge of guilt, and was immediately annoyed with herself, when a voice hailed them from among the trees on the other side of the stream and the handsome figure of Carl Beasley, also on horseback, appeared.

  “Well met,” he called, sweeping off his hat. “Are you out riding? And you have two lovely ladies to yourself, Trenton? This will never do.”

  He had a very attractive smile, Madeline noticed, responding to it. He had white, even teeth.

  “But a sister does not count,” she called back. “And I am a married lady. Poor Mr. Trenton is not to be envied after all.”

  “Why do you not bring your horses to this side of the stream?” he asked. “We could take a ride up to the house and orchard.”

  Madeline was quite glad afterward that Henrietta was the first to reply. She realized that she had been about to make an excuse. She did not like to consider why she would have done so.

  “May we see the dogs?” Henrietta asked eagerly. “Have the puppies grown much? They were such darling little creatures the last time I saw them.”

  “I believe they can still be classified as puppies,” Carl said with a smile, holding his horse still while Mark led the way across the stream.

  They had to ride in single file through the trees, but when they came within sight of the manor, Carl Beasley drew his horse alongside Madeline’s.

  “This was a fortunate encounter,” he said.

  “Yes.” She smiled. “I promised to go riding with the Trentons when we were at Mr. Hooper’s party, but the weather has not been suitable until today. Unfortunately, my husband is otherwise engaged this afternoon.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “Beckworth was never one to indulge in such frivolities as an afternoon ride for the sake of riding. Are you feeling very dull at Dunstable Hall?”

  “Not at all,” she said hastily. “I have been finding a great deal to do with myself.”

  “Have you?” he said. “But of course, the place and your marriage are all new to you. You must take a firm hand with Beckworth, though, ma’am, and not allow him to keep you closeted at home.” He smiled to take any sting from his words.

  “But he encouraged me to organize next week’s dinner,” she said. “You have had your invitation?”

  He inclined his head. “And have penned an acceptance already,” he said. He turned back to the Trentons. “The dogs are in the stables. Perhaps you would like to look at them while I show Lady Beckworth the orchard.”

  Madeline would have preferred to go to the stables too. Not that she had minded for the past several years being alone with a gentleman. She had scoffed at the idea of chaperones after passing her twentieth birthday. And she was not, absolutely not, going to allow James’s ridiculous notions of what was proper determine her behavior. It was true that Mr. Beasley was a very attractive man, but that made no difference to anything. She smiled determinedly.

  “The house looks quite magnificent,” she said. “Do you live there all alone?”

  “Except on his grace’s rare visits, yes,” he said, dismounting from his horse and lifting her from hers before turning both horses over to a waiting groom. “It has been my home for many years. I had my sister with me, of course, until her marriage.”

  “I still have not met her,” Madeline said.

  “Her husband has been sick for more than a month,” Carl said, taking her arm on his and strolling with her in the direction of the orchard. “They have not been at church or at any entertainment in that time. She was here yesterday with her children. She is curious to meet you.”

  “Is she?” Madeline said. “I shall look forward to the meeting, then. Oh, what splendid apple trees you have.”

  “We are rather proud of them,” he said. He looked at her and laughed. “I wonder if Beckworth will try to prevent your meeting with Dora.”

  “With your sister?” she said in surprise. “Why should he?”

  His eyes twinkled at her. “There was a time when he was somewhat smitten with her charms,” he said. “But I should not be telling tales. They were both very young. Doubtless, he forgot about her long ago.”

  “I daresay,” Madeline said. “When I think of gentlemen I was smitten with years ago, I can scarce put a face to their names.”

  “We sometimes do foolish things when we are young, don’t we?” he said, opening the door of the orangery and allowing her to precede him inside. “Beckworth went quite berserk when Dora married John Drummond and moved away with him. He seemed to think there was some conspiracy against him. He succeeded in blacking one of my eyes and breaking my nose. He might have done the same with John’s older brothers had he not been unwise enough to tackle them both together. The foolishness of youth!” He laughed lightly.

  “Gracious!” Madeline said. “Are you serious, sir? Whyever would he do such a thing?”

  “You have not discovered Beckworth’s violent side?” he asked. But his voice was teasing. “This was many years ago. I am sure he learned long ago to control his impulses. And I suppose he thought himself sufficiently provoked. He seemed to think … But never mind that. It is ancient history, and I must look to my sister’s reputation. Besides, you are Beckworth’s new bride. I would not want to tell tales. I am sure his new attachment far outstrips the old. I have told you all this only because it was a long time ago and you look like a lady with a sense of humor. Now, to change the subject. We have a gardener who has a passion for the orangery. I think he does rather well, don’t you?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Madeline said.
>
  The door of the orangery opened at that moment to admit the Trentons.

  “The puppies have grown,” Henrietta said. “What a shame. I do think they should stay tiny for much longer than they do. A footman stepped out of the house as we passed to tell us that tea will be served at your convenience.”

  Carl smiled. “The housekeeper must have seen that we have visitors, then. Ma’am?” He extended an arm for Madeline’s. “May I lead you to the house?”

  “I really had not expected to stay for tea,” she said. “My husband will be expecting me home.”

  “Ah,” he said, “you show the eagerness of a bride. The chances are that he is so engrossed in business that he has not even missed you. Though he would be a fool if that is true. Half an hour, ma’am?”

  She hesitated. “Half an hour, then,” she said, and felt rather like a child involved in some forbidden activity.

  “It seems that my nephews and niece met your husband yesterday,” Carl said to Madeline during tea when there was a momentary lull in the conversation.

  “Oh,” she said, “is that who they were? He came home very wet after retrieving a child’s ball from the stream.”

  “Patrick has a new hero,” he said, “as well as his ball. Sylvie was only concerned that Beckworth might have caught his death of cold. May I reassure her that he has not?”

  “Oh, no,” Madeline said with a laugh. “The only casualty is one ruined pair of boots.”

  “Mrs. Drummond called upon Mama a few days ago,” Henrietta said. “What a darling the baby is. He has soft blond curls exactly like his older brother and sister. Only the oldest boy looks quite different. Indeed, it is difficult to believe that he has the same parents as the others.”

  “Henrietta!” her brother said beneath his breath.

  “What?” she asked, wide-eyed.

  Carl smiled. “Jonathan is rather different from the other three,” he said. “Tall and thin and dark. He does not look like his mama or papa. It is a good thing that both my father and Drummond’s were dark-haired men, or there might be some embarrassment for my sister.”