"How long will you wait?" she asked in a small voice.
"I was not aware that I was allowed a choice in the matter," said Alaric coldly. "Is it for me to set the date of our first...encounter?"
"No, no of course not," said Rowena hastily. "I merely wondered how--how--" she stopped, unable to continue.
"How patient I am?" asked Alaric. "You tell me, Rowena. What do you feel is a suitable period of time?"
"A month?" said Rowena, aware that her voice was uncertain. Now that she had made her proposal and Alaric had agreed to it, she found that the victory seemed a little hollow. He was very attractive after all, and she remembered with a tingle of pleasure the way his kisses had made her feel before. It was beginning to seem a lot to sacrifice in order to make a principled stand.
Alaric blinked. He couldn't imagine waiting an entire month, living in the same house as Rowena, before touching her. He would have to convince her, and very soon, of the need to change her mind.
"A month will be fine," he said softly,
Rowena sighed. She was not at all sure that she had actually won this battle. She looked up at him and attempted to smile.
"Thank you, my lord."
There was a long silence as Alaric watched Rowena broodingly and she looked at everything in the room except for her husband.
"What shall we do now, my lord?" she asked, attempting a bright tone.
"Surely you jest?" Alaric raised an eyebrow. "If we were a typical married couple, I have a fair idea. But as we are not, I have no notion at all. Perhaps you would care to examine your rooms. I will send for Mrs. Pynchon."
He went to ring the bell, and Rowena watched his powerful movements with a certain wistfulness. "Perhaps we might discuss later what more we shall do to clear Malcolm's name," she volunteered.
Alaric stopped short and stared at her. "Clear Malcolm's name? My dear, do not tell me that you mean to go on with that scheme."
"Why not? Now that we are married, we can work more closely together than we could in the past. It will be an excellent way to get to know each other."
Alaric shook his head. "Rowena, if you will not spend time with me as my wife, I have no intention of wasting my energy pursuing the hopeless task of clearing your foolish brother."
Rowena felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. "Do you mean that you believe Malcolm is guilty?"
"Of course Malcolm is guilty. If you believe that I did not kill Ingram, you must believe that your brother did. It is quite simple, Rowena. I indulged you previously, but these ridiculous fantasies of yours must stop."
Rowena's toe began to tap dangerously. "You were merely indulging me, my lord?"
Alaric had the grace to look slightly shame-faced. "It was a way to spend time with you." His voice softened. "Rowena, you must face facts. Either your brother or I killed Ingram. You cannot believe us both innocent."
"Then perhaps you are guilty." Rowena's voice rose, her anger fueled by her frustration and hurt. "For I shall never believe Malcolm to be a killer. And Lady Bingham assured me that you are. Who should know better than the woman who was your mistress?"
Alaric's hand shot out and seized her wrist. "When did Lady Bingham tell you this?"
Rowena tried to wrench her arm away and failed. Alaric's grip was like iron. "At the masquerade," she answered, her voice small.
"That damn masquerade. Listen to me, Rowena. You will not speak to Marguerite again. Do you understand me?" His eyes bored into hers.
Rowena's lip lifted in a delicate expression of distaste. "Are you afraid of what she might tell me?"
Alaric let go of her suddenly and shrugged. "If you wish to believe her instead of me, there is nothing I can do. But trust me, Rowena, she is evil."
"That's odd. She says the same of you. Perhaps you are a matched pair." Rowena rubbed her wrist.
"Perhaps we are," agreed Alaric angrily. "She at least never refused to sleep with me."
Rowena gasped. "That is unjust. She was your mistress, I am your wife, Alaric."
"You just told me you are not my wife, and will not be my wife, Rowena. Which is it to be?"
Rowena flushed. Their talk had not gone as she had envisioned it. She had meant to regain control of her life, but now her situation seemed more out of her control than it had been before.
"We need to know one another better," she repeated, the words sounding weak to her own ears. "You tricked me into marriage, and one of the things I believed we had in common, a belief in Malcolm's innocence, was no more than another of your lies. Can you blame me for being uncertain?"
"You should trust me, Rowena." Alaric's face was very serious. "You know you can. You know how you feel when I hold you, when I kiss you. Is it so hard to believe that I want only the best for you?"
Rowena's eyes met his, and she grew very still. She badly wanted to give in to him, to tell him that she hadn't meant what she had said. But that would mean that he had won, that she would surrender to him although he didn't love her. She couldn't allow her desire for him to swamp her self-respect. He had toyed with her and tricked her, and she still had no idea why he had married her. She needed desperately to know that he cared for her.
"I'm sorry, my lord," she whispered.
"Very well." Alaric's voice was brisk. He rang the bell and they waited in silence until a trim little woman entered and bobbed a curtsey.
"My lord. My lady, welcome. May I congratulate you on your marriage?"
"Thank you, Mrs. Pynchon." Alaric's voice was cool and unruffled. "Please show Lady Brayleigh to her room and make her familiar with anything she needs to know."
"Certainly, my lord. If your ladyship will follow me?"
Mrs. Pynchon moved to the door and waited as Rowena looked up anxiously into Alaric's face.
"Will I see you later?" she asked softly.
"Certainly."
"When?"
"That can hardly matter to you, considering our recent conversation." Alaric raised her cold hand and touched it briefly to his lips. "Please, make yourself at home."
Rowena, unwilling to press the point in front of a servant, walked slowly to the door. When she glanced back over her shoulder, Alaric was not looking at her, but instead had turned his back and was gazing out the window. She followed Mrs. Pynchon forlornly out of the room.
Chapter 13
After Rowena left the room, Alaric stood silently for some minutes, staring absently in front of him. He remembered with a certain irony the feeling of lightness he had experienced that morning when he had arisen, knowing he was about to be married. It had been not unlike the emotions he felt whenever a long-sought-after item was added to his collection; a clear sense of accomplishment, a glow of triumph, and a touch of relief. It had buoyed him throughout the ceremony, and he had looked forward with great anticipation to the coming pleasures of the night.
But it seemed now that marriage was somewhat different than collecting. Rowena appeared to be reluctant to sit quietly and be admired. She had startled him with her defiance, and he had found her insistence on sticking to her point irritating. Surely she realized that they belonged together. He knew she responded to him with exquisite passion, and was certain that other men did not elicit the same reaction. He had seen her turn from Voxley in disgust. What did it matter if he had pushed the issue, backing her into the marriage despite her expressed dislike of it? Rowena should realize by now that he knew what was best for her.
Alaric's fingers began to beat an impatient rhythm on the top of the desk. This bargain he had made with his wife was a great mistake, he thought savagely. He was quite certain he would not be able to retain his sanity for even a week living in the same house with her and not touching her. That had been his primary motive behind the rushed marriage; while he had indeed wished to bind Rowena to him quickly so that she could not think of a good reason to break the engagement, even more than that he had desperately wanted her.
"Damn," he muttered, striding across the room and pouri
ng himself a glass of brandy from a crystal decanter. He tossed the drink back. His thoughts of Rowena had driven him to dismiss Lily weeks ago; he was no longer interested in any woman except the one who was now his wife. And then Rowena had suddenly declared that they should wait to be intimate! If she had tried for a year, she could not have thought of a more fitting punishment for him.
He poured himself another glass and glared into it. Alaric was not accustomed to waiting. His parents had not been affectionate people. Their arranged marriage had not been loving, and they had lived separate lives, completely wrapped up in their own affairs. They had viewed Alaric simply as an heir, the payment the Countess of Brayleigh had owed her husband in exchange for his bestowing his title upon her. The Countess had been a distant figure, beautiful and unobtainable, viewed only from afar as she departed for teas and balls escorted by her beaux, her gowns and jewels glittering. His father had immersed himself in his horses and gaming, losing thousands of pounds a night at the tables, going off for days with the lower-bred ladies he preferred to his cold and stately wife. Alaric had seen his parents together only on rare occasions when his presence was required for family reasons, and he had been sent off to school at a young age, followed by time at Oxford and the Grand Tour of the Continent. When he had received a letter while he was in France informing him both his mother and father had died in a carriage accident and he was the new Earl, he had felt almost no emotion at all; they were strangers to him, his memories of them hazy, dim, and filled with an inchoate longing.
But if his parents had not offered their love to Alaric, they had at least provided him with every material thing he might wish for; the boy had only to express a desire for it to be immediately met. He had owned toys and clothing and animals of every description. They were produced when he asked for them and disposed of when he wearied of them, without his ever having to ask from whence they came or where they went. The servants who raised him had been instructed that Alaric was never to be crossed, never to be contradicted, and they had followed their instructions to the letter. Brayleigh was totally unfamiliar with the emotions associated with unfulfilled desire.
When he had grown and begun collecting rare objets d'art the results had been the same; he set his mind on acquiring something and did so in the quickest way possible, without thought as to who might be hurt in the process. Only Malcolm Arlingby had ever been able to stand in the way of the Earl of Brayleigh. And now another Arlingby, and a mere woman at that, was defying him as well.
Alaric tossed back the brandy. Rowena would be made to see quickly that her course of action was foolish. If she wanted to be left alone, then she would be. He strode out into the hallway, surprising the footmen, who jumped to attention.
"Where is my wife?" he demanded.
"Upstairs with Mrs. Pynchon, my lord," a footman answered nervously. His lordship looked as though he could murder someone.
"I am going out. Tell the Countess that I am not sure when I will be back." Alaric seized his hat and stalked out of the house, leaving the servants staring after him. None of them were eager to convey such a message to a newly wed bride.
Brayleigh strode rapidly through the streets of London, no set destination in mind. He was aware that if he was seen it would cause comment; Society was already titillated enough by the news that he and his bride were not going on a honeymoon but would instead remain in London. Alaric had wondered why Rowena had insisted so fiercely that they not go away, and now he thought he knew the answer; there was no need for them to be alone together, and indeed she wished to surround herself with as many people as possible so as to avoid any intimacy with him.
Tomorrow would surely consist of a whirl of visits from well-wishers and the merely curious, anxious to get a glimpse of the couple. It would be hell, he thought fiercely, to stand at Rowena's side and take congratulations, knowing that he had not spent the previous night enjoying the marriage bed with her. Alaric gritted his teeth. He knew that she wanted him as much as he wanted her; if she could stand it, so could he.
He reached the steps of his club and stood looking up at it. It would cause comment if he was seen there, but he had never been one to follow the conventions or skirt scandal. It would serve Rowena right, he reflected, if Society did talk of her a little. She would learn that being a good wife to him was the best way to avoid such things. With a determined air he mounted the stairs and entered the main rooms, standing defiantly in the door.
A gentleman looked around casually and then turned back to the group he was talking to, surprise on his face. A low buzz went about the room and heads turned. Alaric scowled as he stalked to a large leather chair and sank down into it. The scandalous Earl of Brayleigh had given the ton yet another topic of conversation, showing up in his club only hours after his wedding. Speculation was sure to be rife as to what his reasons for it might be.
No one seemed to have the courage to approach him, but he picked up a broadsheet and held it in front of him as a shield nonetheless. His thoughts turned back to Rowena and what her reaction might be to his absence. Did she miss him? Did she wonder where he was? Or was she merely annoyed that she was unable to use him to continue her foolish search for Ingram's murderer? Alaric's hands tightened on the paper. Malcolm Arlingby seemed to be his nemesis. He had come between Alaric and the Pearl of Sirsi, and now he seemed to be a chief obstacle between Alaric and Rowena. Would the man never cease to torment him? His lips twitched slightly. It was a pity that whoever had dispatched Ingram all those years ago had not done the same to Arlingby.
"Alaric?"
Alaric lowered the paper slowly, wondering who was brave enough to approach him. It must be someone with nerves of steel, he reflected as he looked up, a forbidding glare on his face. His cousin Charles stood before him, his eyebrows raised in surprise.
"I was told you were here, but I could scarcely believe it. Whatever are you doing, Alaric?"
"Reading, I thought," answered Alaric smoothly. "Did I appear to be doing something else?"
Charles shook his head and sat down in the chair opposite his cousin. "No, of course not. But it looks very odd."
Alaric looked down at himself. "Am I dressed improperly?"
Charles made an impatient sound. "Don't be annoying, Alaric. Everyone is talking about you. Why aren't you with your wife?"
Alaric frowned. "That, dear Charles, is none of your business."
Charles laughed easily, his handsome face lighting up. "Is married life a bit more complicated than you thought it would be, Cousin?"
Alaric's eyelids dropped, shuttering his feelings. "What makes you think that?"
"I can't imagine why else you'd be here. And it's not as though Lady Rowena is a biddable young female," answered Charles with a smile. "Confess, Alaric. You were too autocratic with the girl and you've had a quarrel."
"Why would a quarrel have to be my fault?" complained Alaric. "Isn't it possible that Rowena might have precipitated it?"
"Impossible," said Charles. "No one would have the courage to begin a quarrel with you, Alaric. Everyone is terrified of you. Your reputation is fearsome."
"Apparently not everyone is cowed by it," observed Alaric in an ironic tone. He folded the newspaper neatly.
Charles gaped at him. "Do you mean to tell me Lady Rowena picked a fight with you? Why, I admire her more than ever now. I thought it took great courage to marry you, but to actually stand up to you? I don't believe it."
Alaric smiled slightly despite himself at Charles' exaggerated air. "You are ridiculous. And I don't believe I admitted that an argument is the reason for my presence. You're imagining things, Charles."
Charles lounged back in his chair and fixed his cousin with a hard stare. "You're determined to teach the girl a lesson, aren't you? Did you actually leave her all alone? Alaric, that's cruel."
"The subject is closed, Charles." Alaric brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve. "I don't discuss my marriage with anyone, even you."
Charles shook h
is head. "You're a deep one, Alaric. And I wouldn't presume to interfere in your affairs. I'm sure you know what you're doing."
"Thank you, Charles. You reassure me."
A slow smile spread across Charles' face. "So what will you do today then? I take it you aren't returning to your house?"
"Not immediately, no. I thought I might read the paper, if I could find some solitude." He gave Charles a pointed look.
Charles ignored it. "No, you can't sit in this chair all day, Alaric. It's been ages since I've seen you for more than a few seconds. You've been pursuing Lady Rowena for so long I've almost forgotten what you look like. Your old haunts miss you. You'll have to come with me and we'll have some fun."
Alaric grimaced. He was well aware of what Charles considered fun to be. "I believe I'll stay here, Charles."
Charles stood up. "I'll not take no for an answer. A new gaming house opened up just last week. The wine is fair, the food tolerable, and the stakes high."
"It doesn't sound remotely interesting," said Alaric coldly.
"But I didn't tell you the best part." Charles leaned forward with a conspiratorial air. "The proprietress, Mrs. Blackmore, is lovely. She presides over the tables herself. I think you will be fascinated by her."
Alaric shook his head. "Women who run gaming houses are not my style, Charles."
"No, your new wife is. But you seem to not wish to spend time with her. What harm can it do to accompany me, Alaric? It's better than sitting in this stuffy club. If you're going to cause people to gossip, you might as well do something truly scandalous."
Alaric shrugged. His cousin had a point. He had no intention of soothing Rowena's vanity by returning home, so he might as well amuse himself. And if word should get to Rowena that he had been sighted in Mrs. Blackmore's gaming house, that would be all the better. It would show her that he had ways to entertain himself.
"Very well," he said, standing up. "I will go with you. I suppose it can do no harm."
"That's the spirit," said Charles jovially. "You'll see, Alaric. We will have a very entertaining evening. Mrs. Blackmore will be delighted to meet you."
That Infamous Pearl Page 12