Her Enemy At the Altar

by Virginia Heath

  She loved Aaron Wincanton.

  It was a revelation that rocked her to her very core. Connie was not entirely sure when it had happened, but it was not something that could be undone. Not like a marriage could be. Soon they would go their separate ways. Even if they could not get an annulment, Aaron had already made plans to give her own household in the Dower House. Why else would he have done that other than to be rid of her? Although it was what she had asked for, now the thought of it broke her heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Aaron woke with a start and took in his surroundings. He was in an unfamiliar bed and the weak winter sun was filtering through the window. His arm was draped over the soft, warm skin of an unmistakable female hip. Connie’s hip. It took a moment or two to orientate himself until it all came back to him in a rush. They had made love. Twice. Once on her sitting-room floor and then, when he had stirred in the small hours, he had carried her into her bed and she had welcomed him into her sleepy body once again.

  Now he felt rested, a peculiar sensation that he had last experienced the last time she had visited him in the night and chased away a nightmare. Clearly she had some sort of power to make them go away. She stirred and shifted on to her back, one hand resting lightly on the arm he still had around her, the other carelessly flung over her head. There was a contented expression on her face, her lips turned up in the corners ever so slightly and still pink and slightly swollen from his kisses. Because he enjoyed looking at her, Aaron propped himself up on to his elbow and looked his fill, searing the image of her on to his memory so that he could revisit it often when she was gone. She was so beautiful and dear, and so much better than his own fevered imagination had constructed her, that she dazzled him.

  One lovely long leg had found its way out of the bedclothes, which were pooled just below her ribs. Her red hair was fanned out over the pillow, a few tangled tendrils fell artlessly over her delicate shoulders and partially covering the acres of satin-smooth, pale skin of her upper body. Her small pert breasts, capped with delectable pink nipples that he now knew were wonderfully sensitive, beckoned to him. Just looking at her made him hard and aching all over again, except the aching was not just in his groin, but in his heart, too.

  Connie had taken hold there. There was no point pretending otherwise. Last night he had been so overwhelmed with affection and tenderness for her that he had had to stop himself from saying things to her that he knew she would not particularly want to hear. Not that he was in a particularly fit state to be making declarations like that, not when his mind was deteriorating so rapidly that he could not close his eyes for more than an hour before his demons came back to haunt him. Except when he was with Connie, of course. Connie the demon slayer.

  She sighed and stretched before opening just one eye. Seeing him looking down at her, she opened the other eye and smiled shyly up at him. ‘Good morning.’

  All at once, Aaron’s throat tightened, strangling any sort of response, and he felt the overwhelming urge to weep, to confess everything to her once and for all and beg her for forgiveness for what he had done. Ask her to love him, the way he loved her, because with her he was a better man, not a broken one. Then make love to her until everything was all better and all of his problems were gone. Lose himself in her so that she could save him. Beg her to stay with him despite his crimes.

  Frustrated by and ashamed of his own vulnerability and his selfish need for her, the only option left to him was to put some distance between them immediately in case he rashly acted on all of those emotions. He could feel them all fighting for release, but knew that she would be horrified by what he had done. He was nothing but a filthy coward and he did not deserve her. It would be best if he remembered that.

  Connie watched the pained expression pass across his features and was instantly uneasy. After last night, she was not entirely sure what she expected of the morning, but she had hoped that it might include a repeat of some of the wonderful things that they had done together during the night. She had hoped that things might change between them. That her feelings might be reciprocated. Now she realised that those hopes had been nothing but besotted foolishness. Aaron certainly did not look like a man enamoured. In fact, she was certain he was as far removed from that as it was possible to be.

  He suddenly turned away from her and sat up stiffly. Because it seemed the right thing to do, Connie sat up, too. ‘Is everything all right, Aaron?’ She dreaded his answer because it was obviously not all right.

  He turned to her, his eyes dropping briefly to her naked breasts. He grabbed the sheet and covered them with it as if he could not bear to look at them in the unforgiving daylight. Connie gripped the sheet to her chest, instinctively covering her bare leg with the bedclothes lest the sight of that offend him further. Clearly her figure displeased him, hardly a surprise when it had always displeased her, too, but the reality of it was like a knife in her back it hurt so much.

  ‘I should go and see my father.’ His tone was flat, almost callous, and he rose quickly from the bed without a backward glance. He scanned the room for his clothes, then, realising that he had left them in the adjacent sitting room, he stalked purposefully towards the door. He hovered there momentarily until he finally spun around, looking completely agonised and filled with remorse.

  Before he could say the inevitable words, Connie did.

  ‘What happened between us last night was a mistake. It changes nothing, Aaron. I still want an annulment.’

  He nodded then closed the door behind him, leaving her feeling stunned and completely humiliated. His cold revulsion was almost too awful to bear—and yet she had to. She had no choice. She had disgusted him. In the cold light of day, she did not tempt him at all—worse, he had clearly regretted that it had happened in the first place. All those things that he had told her about her being the loveliest thing he had ever seen had all been lies to soothe her and like a desperate, needy fool she had wanted to believe them—just as last night she had wanted him to feel the same love for her as she did him.

  No doubt her pride would come to the rescue eventually. She was, or had been, Lady Constance Stuart, so she would cover the hurt with disdain and uninterest as she always did and dare him to believe that she was not unaffected in the slightest by his rejection. But right now, when the wound was so fresh and her fragile heart was completely broken, all Connie could do was wrap her arms around her knees and cry.

  * * *

  Aaron had completely detached himself from her. In the week since they had shared a bed, he had managed to avoid her unless it was absolutely necessary that their paths crossed. The separation suited Connie perfectly. The last thing that she needed was to be reminded of how much she disgusted him. If they did collide, he could barely look at her. Their conversation, if one could call the awkward exchanges they shared that, was stilted and limited to essential information that one or other of them had to impart.

  ‘Your father is asleep. The physician is here. I am going out for a ride.’

  There were no quips or smiles or arguments. No shared looks or companionable silences. Their relationship had been reduced to a cold shell of indifference and a great deal of disappointment on his part and hurt on hers.

  Connie had no idea if he still barricaded himself into his bedchamber at night. She had not allowed herself to check on him and he certainly never attempted to venture into her rooms. Now that he had been there and done that, and had found her so wanting, he had completely lost all interest in her and withdrawn into himself. She did not want to care either way.

  The trouble was, Connie did care. Not a minute went past when she did not want to seek him out, shake and scream at him for being so distant and so cold. She was sick and tired of missing him. Her day now consisted of endless, pointless embroidery, solitary walks and rides and countless hours sitting with the viscount and reading to him. It was a very sad stat
e of affairs that she had grown to enjoy reading to a frail, unresponsive invalid because it was the only thing that she did that made her feel useful. The only sunshine in this depressing week had been her second clandestine meeting with her mother and brother. She had ridden to meet them alone, but unlike their last fraught reconciliation, this time the three of them talked for almost an hour. Had it not been in the middle of a wood in the chill winter air, it had been just the way it had always had between them. When they parted, after promising to meet at the same time every week, her brother had stated that he intended to ride every morning while he was at home and that if she happened to be in this vicinity, then he might well see her. It was a lifeline she intended to grasp with both hands.

  A quick glance at her father-in-law told her that he was asleep again. In the last few days he had spent more time in that state than he did awake, which was a blessing. His incapacity frightened him, she could see it sometimes in his eyes when he looked at her. The most awful thing was that he was incapable of swallowing anything more fortifying than weak broth, so he was literally wasting away in the bed that had become his prison. The physician still came every day and declared it a miracle that he had lasted this long. Everyone expected him to go at any minute, except as time went on Connie was certain that he was clinging on for something and would not give himself over to the peace of death until he was satisfied that it was safe to do so. And she was coming to think that he was waiting for news of a grandchild, that hoping that there might one day be one was not quite enough for him.

  Connie sensed Aaron enter the room quietly. Pride kept her from turning around and looking at him. Looking at him hurt too much. ‘He is asleep.’ She marked her place in her book and stood up, ready to leave. ‘You might use this as an opportunity to get some sleep yourself. You look tired.’ What had made her say that? Connie did not want him thinking that she cared. He needed to know that she was indifferent to him. ‘I have been meaning to talk to you about the Dower House. It needs to be made ready for me to move into, because I should like to do so as soon as...’ Finishing the sentence with his father lying just a few feet away from her seemed unnecessarily cold.

  Aaron appeared to be completely unaffected by the request. He merely nodded and stared at his father. ‘I shall have Deaks and Mrs Poole make the arrangements immediately.’

  As there was apparently nothing else to be said, Connie left him alone, feeling a little unsteady and unexpectedly bilious. At least she would be reunited with her brother, Henry, again in less than two hours. Not everything was lost to her. Just him. Yet he was now the only thing that truly mattered.

  Aaron waited until she was safely out of the room before he slumped into the chair next to his father’s bed. She probably hated him now and rightly so. And probably that was for the best. He was a mess. His life was a mess. And he had already made enough of a mess of her life already without further complicating matters with his own selfish desire to keep her near—even if he could not summon the courage to tell her how he felt. How exactly did one go about telling a woman that he loved her, but that he was unworthy of her? Or telling her that he needed her but had nothing whatsoever to offer her in return? Under the circumstances, and for the sake of his tenuous sanity, it would be kinder all around if she did move out sooner rather than later. Except just thinking about it made him sick to his stomach.

  His father made a strange choking sound that made Aaron turn. His pallor was ashen, his lips a ghostly blue while his breathing sounded shallower than it had been. The fingers on his right hand were curled slightly, the knuckles so white and tense that Aaron knew that something was dreadfully wrong. He ran to the door and called to a footman, ‘Get the doctor!’ Before he could think better of it, Aaron gripped the servant’s arm. ‘And get my wife!’

  If the worst was about to happen, and he had another episode, he would need her strength, he reasoned, although in truth he just needed her beside him.

  By the time he rushed back to the bed his father’s eyes were struggling to open. Aaron held his hand. He had no idea what else to do. His father was apparently fighting for every breath now; the exertion necessary was reflected in the pain in his panicked eyes. Fortunately, Connie burst through the door and took stock of the scene quickly.

  ‘Oh, you are awake,’ she said cheerfully, laying her hand on the old man’s fevered brow. ‘But you must try to calm down. There is nothing wrong. You have just got yourself into a bit of a state.’

  Aaron watched his father’s gaze settle on Connie and saw him calm at her soothing tone.

  ‘I have sent for some more broth—I know how much you hate it, but you have to keep your strength up—and when it comes we will sit you up and I shall read to you whilst you eat.’ She was behaving as if nothing was amiss, as if his father was not on the very cusp of dying, and it was working. The ragged breaths became shallower, his eyes less terrified, but the light in them was dimming. Aaron knew in his gut that his father’s time was imminent and that he should perhaps find the right words to say goodbye. But his mind was blank. All he could think of was all the similar situations he had found himself in, watching good men die on the battlefield. There could be nothing positive about death.

  Feeling impotent, Aaron watched Connie smile knowingly at his father. ‘Whilst I am loathe to admit that you were right, and you have no idea how much saying that sentence to a Wincanton galls me, but apparently your bold claim that you Wincantons are very virile was quite correct...’ she had his father’s full attention, but Aaron had no idea what she was talking about until he saw his father’s eyes flick to Connie’s belly ‘...I am with child.’

  For a moment the room spun until he realised that she could not know that yet. Not in a week. She was simply lying to ease his father’s passing. It was an unbelievably generous and thoughtful act that humbled him. To compound the lie, she grabbed Aaron’s free hand and placed it on her flat tummy and smiled, trying to convince his father that there was love between them and this was not merely her upholding her side of their bargain. Except the love he felt was quite real and he suddenly wanted there to be a child beneath his fingers because a child would bind her to him. For ever.

  A strange peace settled over his father’s face and Aaron felt the faintest flex of his fingers in his hand. When the old man sighed, his eyes fluttered closed, but there was a faint smile on his lips. They stood there silently for several minutes, neither looking at the other, neither moving, one hand still holding his father’s and the other still rested on Connie’s belly. All the while Aaron waited for his mind to fail him and drag him back to that battlefield in Spain. But it didn’t happen.

  His father had died content.

  There had been no screaming or terror. Connie had seen to that. Aaron let his hands drop, feeling strangely empty. Before he could stand, Connie wrapped her arms about his shoulders and hugged him close. She offered him no words of comfort. What was there to say? Nor did she mutter any of those meaningless platitudes that people uttered in times like these and he respected her for that. All she offered him was her strength and the warmth of her embrace, and strangely, that was all he needed.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The next few days whipped by in a blur, taken up by the expected formalities of a funeral. So many people came to pay their respects that Connie felt as though gallons of tea was constantly swishing around in her stomach, while her throat was hoarse from thanking them for their condolences. The viscount had been laid out in one of the formal receiving rooms and practically every visitor expected to see him. Constantly being confronted with his father’s dead body obviously bothered Aaron—each time he came out of the room he was beginning to look more and more like a startled fox—so to shield him from the ordeal Connie had taken on that role under the pretence that Aaron had enough to do writing his father’s eulogy, receiving the guests and sorting out the estate.

  In keeping
with the viscount’s status and social expectations, his funeral took place after dark. Connie had to watch Aaron walk alone at the head of the torchlit procession while she stayed at Ardleigh Manor with the other wives, nervously worrying about him. He had withdrawn to his father’s study immediately after the wake and was still there now, hours afterwards, even though it was well past midnight and he must be exhausted. Connie had sent the worried-looking servants to bed just after eleven and then had taken herself to her own bed shortly afterwards, but trying to sleep was futile. She was too worried about him. So worried, that she had temporarily discarded her mask of indifference and did not care if he knew it.

  Ignoring the cowardly nagging voice in her head, Connie padded downstairs to find him. As she approached the study door she saw the thin strip of light bleeding from the bottom, illuminated proof that he was still up and not resting as he should be. The silly man was apparently incapable of taking care of himself and this was merely a charitable favour and hardly evidence of her unwelcome feelings for him. She dawdled outside for a moment, unsure whether to just barge in or knock and then decided she was being ridiculous. For the time being, she was his wife and she did not need to scratch at his door like a servant. Raising herself up to her full height, Connie opened the door and marched in.

  Aaron was sat in one of the ugly wingback chairs, staring into the dying fire. He had discarded his jacket, waistcoat and cravat, allowing the fine linen shirt to billow loose about his throat. Both sleeves had been pushed up his arms as he lounged, a little haphazardly, in the chair, cradling a barely filled brandy glass in one hand. Connie took one look at the almost empty decanter near his elbow and decided that he was very probably drunk—a state that she had never seen him in despite all of his woes.