by Baird Wells
The dining room was miserable. Aside from beautiful plaster work on the walls and ceiling, there was nothing to look at. Everything was white; the walls, the mantle, the tablecloth. It was a dizzying degree of blank spaces, and combined with the heat of a fireplace directly at her back, it conspired against her stomach. Kate wanted to be sick.
At dinner she sat suspended between Ty and Sir Jonathan Cole. Both vied unflaggingly for her attention, Ty because he was positioned as prey for Mrs. Ridgeworth-Aster and Sir Jonathan, Kate guessed, because she took a genuine interest in his stories.
Wellington commanded the head of the table, with Lady Frances Shelley to his left playing hostess, checking on everyone's comfort with her striking blue eyes. Lady Shelley was the only agreeable woman Kate had encountered thus far, and she was too far away to be of help.
Sir Jonathan, to her right, was taking up the cause. He was one of the few guests who seemed to have taken an immediate liking to her on their introduction in the parlor. His plain-spoken cheer put her at ease just when she desperately needed it.
For some reason he seemed to think she would take delight in hearing about his time serving in America during the revolution. He did not assume for a moment that she might be offended at his victories as a captain or their opposing loyalties on the matter. She wasn't, and adored him for thinking of it all as water under the bridge. His tales, which seemed to grow taller as the telling went on and the brandy went down, had the added benefit of keeping her turned fixedly away from Matthew, seated kitty-corner from her across the table, a hunted man between his wife and Captain Greene.
“Just imagine it, Miss Foster!” Sir Jonathan plucked at the neat angle of one silvery mutton chop cutting across his weathered cheek. “A thousand men against us.”
It was difficult to imagine, when a moment before the opposing force had been comprised of just four hundred. There was a time when Kate guessed it might have been a great honor to be noticed by the man. His glory had faded over four decades, and she was touched by the pleasure he took in the attention of an unknown American girl. There was not a hint of the haughtiness which radiated from other corners of the table. Kate smiled. “You managed your men credibly, Sir Jonathan. With more officers such as you, I believe our two nations would still be united.” He preened, taking an enthusiastic spoonful of soup.
She ventured a look at Matthew. His bowl sat untouched, spoon cradled on his napkin. He had been watching her exchange with Sir Jonathan, and his eyes spoke to her now with resignation. No longer absorbed in her new friend's nostalgia, Kate realized why. Caroline discouraged Matthew's conversation, turning her body almost completely away. She directed most of her remarks to Major Mercier Pitt, a short, darkly handsome fox near the end of the table.
When Caroline was not speaking to him, Pitt invented reasons to seek her input. Observing Caroline arch her chest forward, and Pitt's eyes predatory, darting at her movements, Kate would wager everything she owned that the pair were lovers. A silken thread of thinly veiled lust strung them together, generating palpable anticipation. She glanced back to Matthew, still watching her sadly, and she wanted to convey something with her look but had no idea what.
“Miss Foster.” Captain Greene drawled her name with a bite of acid.
She tensed, apprehension tiptoeing along her spine. Narrowed eyes darted from her, to Matthew, and back again. The corners of his mouth twitched, tasting blood. He had obviously witnessed her silent exchange with Matthew, but Greene would never take pleasure from simply calling it to attention. Greene's pleasure came from prolonging the hunt more than striking his prey. She should have known, from their first exchange at the officers' dinner, that he was not to be trusted.
She straightened in her chair, tossing back the last dry mouthful of wine in her glass. Let him come. She might not emerge victorious, but she could leave him a scar or two as a souvenir. “Captain Greene.”
His tone was sly, matching his sidelong look. “I was telling his Grace just earlier of your work in the field.”
“Were you?” That was a tale she would dearly love to hear. He would not have mentioned Doctor Addison's death. That would risk putting his general, and himself, in a bad spot. All other morsels were undoubtedly fair game.
“Perhaps you could relate to us some of your experiences. You did say you were present at Vitoria...” He tapped a finger to his left shoulder, referencing her scar.
He was a bastard, down to the marrow in his bones. She stole a glance a Ty, strangling his napkin, and then at Wellington leaning forward in his seat. “I am a poor story teller, Captain. A party of such discerning taste could not be entertained by my boorish anecdotes.”
Wellington, taking a well-meaning interest, pounced on Greene's information. “Vitoria was fought under my command, as you may be aware, Miss Foster. What were your duties there?”
“General ones, sir. Medically speaking,” she demurred.
“Come now, Miss Foster. Your modesty does you no service here,” Greene said, baring his teeth. Predator that he was, he reclined against his seat, swirling his brandy with a practiced hand.
“I'm not sure I know how to be more specific, Captain,” she ground out. He was provoking her into saying what he wanted. She wondered if he had the guts to go first.
“Your father, did you not say he apprenticed you? As a doctor, if my memory serves.” His smile was bent with absolute satisfaction.
“And as such Miss Foster cares for our men expertly, despite Bonaparte's efforts.” If a look could have strangled Captain Greene, Matthew would have done the job there and then. He was bold in the face of Wellington's obvious curiosity. He turned fully to the Field Marshal, looking engaged in the room for the first time. “We suffered the recent loss of our Doctor Addison. I have not yet had time to write you on the matter.”
Kate tried to put all of her gratitude into the glance passing between them.
Wellington tapped his knife blade against the china, brows knitting up. “That is an untenable situation. I will have someone sent to you directly. Le Grand Armee moves with ever increasing force against our lines; this is hardly the time to be without a proper doctor.”
While he spoke, the whispering had begun. Lady Aster cocked her head past Ty, then turned to Lord Morely at her elbow to share whatever flaw she had found. Mercier Pitt bent at the waist across the table, manners entirely forgotten in order to hear Caroline's slight, so that they could snicker together.
She suddenly felt very tired, worn out by Greene's successful humiliation and the strange melancholy that had been building since her arrival. Staring at the fork straddling her plate, she raised a hand to Ty's sleeve, clutching desperately. He pressed warm fingers to her frigid ones.
“Miss Foster, it is a good distance back to camp. With respect to the long day you have had, it would not be imposing if you wished to start out now.”
“Yes, please. Thank you.” She murmured it to her chest. Ty stood, she guessed at Wellington's nod of approval. She would have hugged him, in different company.
Kate faced the head of the table, scraping up the last of her composure. “Field Marshal, thank you for the invitation. Your company was a pleasure.” She did not pause for a reply, and she did not meet any other eyes. She pushed away from her seat, and despite an almost consuming need to put distance between herself and the whole hateful room, she didn't flee. Kate turned her back on them, walking slowly out.
Outside, Ty was completely silent, allowing her space to be upset. He did not try to cheer her, or ask if she was all right. Draping her cloak over her shoulders, he cinched up the tie, making Kate feel like a child being dressed. Then he grabbed her hand and lifted her into the coach.
Settling across from her, he stretched his legs out and watched her over folded arms. Watching him watch her from the corner of her eye, against the sway of a rickety suspension, was making her temples pound with even more insistence. It was he who broke the stalemate first.
“How long have
we known each other, Kate?”
“Three years next month.” She did not have to do the math.
He sat forward a little. “You see through all my machinations; so why do you presume I cannot see through yours?”
She stiffened her face, fighting off a tremble that warned of tears, and stared out into the darkness passing by.
She did not have an answer. It refused to be named.
* * *
Hand on the cold brass knob, he paused and mustered some resolve. There were other places in the town where he could sleep. The stable would almost be preferable. Matthew knew he wouldn't be the first officer to avoid his wife's company in favor of other lodgings. Ten years, and each time they had reached one of these crossroads, he hoped desperately that this would be the time that things finally changed. This time, he always told himself, things might be different. He turned the knob and went in.
“Caroline.” She was sitting on a cushioned stool before an oval-mirrored vanity, pulling the last pins from her hair. Curls tumbled wildly over her shoulders and down her back. She turned to face him, clad in only her shift. Lamplight from the mantle slipped through the white muslin, silhouetting every curve. Her nipples strained against the fabric, and Matthew's body betrayed him without hesitation.
Her brows lifted ever so slightly. “My lord.”
Her derision had no effect on tightness spreading down his thighs, and he hated himself for it. He remembered how every inch of her felt, inside and out. Matthew crossed his arms. “Why have you come to Belgium, Caroline?”
She looked him over, and by the hint of color in her cheeks, he knew her body was just as much a traitor. Her tone was syrupy, tinged with a little acid. “To see you, of course.”
He could not help a smirk. “Minding your investment?”
A wet sheen glossed her blue eyes. He could never tell when the tears were real and when they were for sport. Matthew fought his urge to comfort her, moving instead to sit at the foot of the bed. He wanted to talk. If he touched her now, there would be no conversation.
He sat down, refusing to look at her, sweeping together jumbled emotions. Only one thought formed from the mess. It was an impression really, that had nagged at the back of his mind. “I held a baby yesterday, for the first time. It felt...it's something I think I want, Caroline.”
She stared mutely at the window. He could not even tell if she had heard him. He cleared his throat. “Do you not want it also?”
“I suffered the wanting of it,” she hissed. She still wouldn't turn her head. The words barely escaped beautiful lips, trembling with unspent tears and maybe a hint of rage. “Years of want! It is hard to conceive a child, Matthew, when your husband spends his nights in the army's bed.”
The insult doused smoldering tension with lamp oil. His temper flared without warning. “I slept where I was welcome!” He bit off the retort, getting to his feet. “Not that there was room for me in your bed.”
Her foot stomped, fists shaking. “Not with your coldness between us!” She met his eyes, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. Chests heaving, they hung just paces apart.
Now was the time to be unburdened, he supposed, while they were already clearing house. He swallowed away some of the tightness at his throat. “My coldness or your disappointment?”
Caroline tossed her curls with a shake. “My disappointment?”
“How humbling it must have been, forced to marry so far beneath you. The soldiering second son of a wastrel viscount.” Bitterness oozed out with his accusation.
“I should have been happy about the uncertainty of our future?” she cried. “I had already enjoyed poverty thanks to my father, if you recall.”
He answered with a fist into the bedpost, feeling bizarre pleasure at his burning knuckles. “I never felt uncertainty! Together, we were restrained only by our ambition. Anything was ours, if we desired it.”
Her laugh was hollow. “And where did that ambition take us? It took you to Spain and me to an empty house.” Full lips pulled down in a bitter pout. “Your title was a curse.”
“My title was only a curse because I didn't give up the army in favor of sitting about stiff-backed in over-crowded drawing rooms. You couldn't bear the touch of your colonel husband, but my estate was good enough to pay off your family's debts.”
Caroline's hand drew back, ready to strike. He flinched, but she caught herself, arm falling defeated to her side. “That is not fair! I never asked it of you. You took it on because you loved Ned.”
He had loved Ned, but bailing out the Linsley estate was just as much to earn Caroline's love as to save her brother's reputation. Ned's memory raked at an exposed nerve. Matthew knew he was shouting, but he could not check himself or even catch his breath. “Are you just now recalling that? Because when he died in Portugal, under my command, it seemed as though you had the monopoly on anguish, Caroline!”
He could physically feel the divide between them growing, the last of the mortar crumbling as they drifted apart. The words spewed out with no rational thought, propelled by years of festering hurt. “I promised Edward that I would take care of you, but by God Caroline, you make it sodding hard for a man to keep his vows.”
Her laugh was entirely mirthless. “I doubt you've kept your vows with all those doe-eyed glances she affords you.”
“She?” The blood in his veins boiled along its course at her mention of Kate. “Do not so much as mention Miss Foster. She is beyond reproach. In fact,” he jammed a finger at his wound, “you might trouble yourself to send her a note of gratitude, for saving your golden goose.”
Caroline swept an arm toward the door. “If she is such a friend to you, go and be with her. Do not trouble yourself here.” She spun away and stamped to the window. “Good night, Matthew.”
“I trouble myself here because you are my wife!” If anyone in the house had been ignorant of their fighting, his shouting had alerted them now. He would not let her shut the door on their marriage. She had no right to use infidelity as grounds to turn him away. They were damn well going to fight it out until he said they were done. Matthew lowered his voice, swallowing back an ache that filled his throat and ached behind his eyes. “I trouble myself for you.”
She turned and stood, blinking for just a breath. Then her shock was replaced with something softer. Shoulders arched from her shift and it slipped free, puddling at her feet. Firelight painted the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips. Her body was every bit the temptation he remembered.
Matthew swallowed against a dry throat, understanding they had shifted with no idea how. “What are you doing?”
Caroline's hips swayed with each step. Lithe arms slid around his neck, body curving into him. Her sweet floral scent, the way her breasts curved at the nipple, perfectly filling his palm. His body recalled what his memory had forgotten. Her tongue brushed his, wrenching a primal groan from his chest. He buried fingers between her legs, and her arms clutched tighter.
Nothing came off fast enough. He wriggled out of his jacket, wresting the shirt tail from his trousers despite the burn of coarse linen scraping over his stitches. He was bleeding. Matthew felt the slippery heat where his waistband rubbed his hip. He didn't care. Being inside her was all that mattered. Burying fingers in Caroline's curls, he crushed her lips against his own.
How many?
He swept at the voice, shooing it, preoccupied with the fall-front of his trousers. The insidious whisper hinted at her transgressions. It would not allow his pride to be dismissed.
How many others had there been...how many besides the one staying right next door?
Matthew gripped her wrists, pulling Caroline away. He was too disgusted with himself to meet her eyes. Not once tonight had she returned his sentiment or said she loved him.
She had filled the fevered gaps in his sleep on campaign. In the few perilous moments when he had been certain of death, the image of her smile or the warmth of her hand had helped him find peace. And when he had fought,
primitive and bare-handed on the battlefield, he had fought for her. Yet, Caroline's brand of seduction was not what he craved anymore, not in his heart.
His impression of her had been a false one. For years, and perhaps always. Their closeness after the baby was lost, the few tender moments that had punctuated his loneliness – it was all an illusion. An illusion that Kate had broken. He pushed her name away, not in any state to examine his feelings on the matter.
“Matthew?” Caroline's voice trembled, arms pulling gently at his grasp.
“In all these years,” he panted, hunched, still fighting some part of himself for control, “I have never brought another woman into our bed.”
Her hurt was genuine, infusing every word. “What was I to do? I wanted passion, Matthew. Your affection.”
“You had my love!” With four simple words, it was over. The last of the fight left him. He swatted away her knuckles still stroking his shoulder. “Get out.” He handed her the dressing gown from the foot of the bed, trying not to look.
Trembling fingers reached out to claim it. Caroline did not protest or argue. She must have felt the end as keenly as he. “Where should I go?”
“Major Pitt is directly at the end of the hall. Go there. It doesn't matter to me.” He turned his back before his strength faltered again. “Just get out.” He looked to the floor, catching sight of the blood clotting over his stitches. He grabbed his shirt and coat from the rug. “On second thought, do not trouble yourself.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The hackney lurched, breaking apart a miserable string of thoughts. It threw her into to Ty, swayed and then tossed them both against the door. Kate scrambled for a hand-hold. Nearly tipping, the cab bounced back onto four wheels, sprawling them both into the foot well. In the confusion, she could have sworn she caught the crack of a pistol or a whip.
“What in the bloody hell...” Untangling them, Ty knelt on the squabs and peered out the small window. “Well, there's our problem.” His voice was hushed, shoulders tense and squared.