Because of You

by Cathy Maxwell

  Wayland broke the silence. “I’m disappointed Yale decided to ride. I was hoping to have this time to talk with him.”

  Curious, Samantha asked, “About what?”

  “I do not know if he told you, but we do not know each other very well. I am twelve years older. We rarely spoke when we were boys. I was always off at school while he was growing up. By the time he started school, I was out and gone.”

  Samantha glanced at Fenley, surprised Wayland would talk so freely in front of him.

  The duke smiled. “Don’t ever worry about saying anything in front of Fenley, Samantha. He can be the wisest counsel a person can have in times of indecision. I value his opinion tremendously. He knows all the Carderock family secrets and we’d trust him with our lives.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Fenley said, pleased at the compliment.

  A certain familiarity having been established, Samantha approached a question that had bothered her from the beginning of the trip. “Why is it that you wish Yale to come to London—or myself, for that matter? I admit to a bit of nervousness. I really am nothing more than a country mouse. I would have been happy to stay back in Sproule.”

  Wayland shook his head. “Come, Samantha, there is no reason for you to be nervous. As a member of my household, it is only right that you be introduced properly in Society. Marion will see that you are presented at Court. She’s very smart about all that.”

  “Presented at Court?” she repeated weakly.

  “You will do fine in London, Samantha. You have my name to protect you. As to my reason for wanting both you and Yale close, well, you’re family. Do you have much family?”

  “No, I was an only child and have no living relatives.”

  “Well then, I imagine you realize how important family can be?”

  “There have been times I’ve wished I’d had brothers and sisters.”

  “I’m a parent now, and I cannot imagine the pain of losing one of my sons. Father really did regret his actions. Learning of Yale’s death made him age almost overnight. I want my brother back in the fold. Family is important. Almost more important than money or prestige. I will not let Yale leave again.”

  They could hear Yale outside the coach, laughing with one of the outriders.

  “He always laughed that easily,” Wayland said. “Always so devil-may-care, and without a hat, no less!”

  He fell into silence then. Samantha took a small nap. When she woke, the three of them passed the time playing cards. They did not talk about Yale again.

  That night at the inn, Samantha wondered if her husband would join her as he had the night before. After being ignored by him all day, she perversely anticipated another encounter with him.

  He did come, but it was after she was asleep, and he left before she woke. She knew he’d been there because she could smell his shaving soap in the air. Looking over the side of the bed, she spied a pillow and sheet on the floor.

  They had no private moments between them except for right after breakfast when they met by chance in the hallway. “Yale?”

  He stopped. “Yes?”

  “Your brother would like to spend time with you. I hope our differences don’t prevent you from pleasing him in this small way. He’d like for you to ride in the coach.”

  “Why would he wish to have me near?”

  “Because he is the head of the family, and because you are important to him.”

  Yale snorted his opinion, but later that day, he did spend some time in the coach. He even answered without rancor the questions his older brother put to him about his business interests.

  Samantha found it informative too. Yale was not only rich, but a very shrewd businessman—one who had still not bothered to purchase a hat, much to his brother’s continued impatience.

  That night, Samantha lay in bed wide awake, listening for Yale. He slipped in the door close to what she thought was midnight. He smelled of the rich aroma of tobacco. He must have been in the taproom.

  She listened as he quickly undressed. He was reaching for the pillow when she said his name.

  Yale gave a startled oath and stepped back. He was bare chested but wore his breeches. “Samantha?”

  “Yes?”

  “You scared a year off me. I didn’t expect you to be awake.” He threw the pillow on the floor. “Mind if I take the bedspread?”

  “Please do.” So, he wasn’t planning another seduction attempt. She didn’t know if she was pleased, or a bit piqued.

  She waited until he was settled before saying, “Your brother appreciated the time you spent with him.”

  “Glad to make him happy,” he answered, his voice ending in a yawn.

  “He’s older than you.”

  “Um-hm.”

  Samantha shifted restlessly. “He said you didn’t know each other very well.”

  Yale’s head popped up by the side of the bed. His brows came together in irritation. “What is this, Samantha? An interrogation about my family?”

  “I am just curious,” she said defensively.

  “You are, hm?” He considered her a moment and then sighed. “Actually, you might as well know about the lot of it, since you will be spending a great deal of time with them. Then you’ll realize how absurd Wayland’s protestations of a close family are.”

  He lay down, his hands cupping the back of his head. Samantha positioned her pillow close to the edge of the bed to hear better.

  “The truth is, none of us are close,” Yale began. “My mother was Father’s second wife. He married her to give Wayland and my sister Twyla—you’ll meet her in London, no doubt—a mother. But he also tweaked his own vanity a bit by marrying a much younger woman. My mother was the daughter of an improvised baronet but had enough looks to be the toast of the Season.”

  Having known the old duke, Samantha was not surprised. He’d always had an eye for the ladies.

  “You favor her, don’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes, something that didn’t work to my advantage. The marriage was a disaster. Father and Mother could not agree on anything. Wayland wasn’t set against Mother, but Twyla hated her. She must have been about seven or eight at the time of the marriage. Worse, my mother was the sort of chit who never matured into a woman. Even I could see that. Someone always had to take care of her. Of course, she had servants—wait until you see the house in London. Even the servants have servants—but she demanded Father’s constant attention and he got so he couldn’t stand her silly prattle.”

  “But hadn’t he fallen in love with her?”

  “Love? What a queer notion.” And then he paused. “Ah, yes, I forgot…you believe in love.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I rarely believe in anything I can’t touch, taste, or see.”

  She moved restlessly. “But what of feelings?”

  “Feelings lie, Sam,” he replied brutally. “Remember when you thought you loved me?”

  She did…and she had to agree he was right.

  Hugging the pillow closer, she said, “Finish your story.”

  “There isn’t much else to say. Father hoped for more sons. Mother gave him one, and since he valued reason and intelligence, and she had none of that, she bored him. After I was born, he ignored her until she died of typhus when I was six. End of story.”

  But Samantha heard what he didn’t say. “It was hard losing my mother last year. I can’t imagine losing her when I was a child.” By now, she was close enough to the edge of the bed to see over it.

  He shrugged, studying the fire burning in the hearth. “I lost more than a parent. I was summarily shipped off to school. Father didn’t want any memory of his marriage underfoot. Besides, I was never what he wanted me to be.”

  “And what was that?”

  “What else? The image of Wayland. Wayland always did whatever Father asked of him and never questioned him once.”

  “Whereas you questioned him often?”

  Yale grunted his response before adding, “Ex
perience has finally taught me it is never wise to tweak the tiger’s nose in his lair. Of course, now that I’m older, I understand Father better. He was right about many things, especially those concerning me.”

  He smiled up at Samantha. “He called me a dreamer. It was the worst thing a person could be, to his way of thinking. He always used to say dreamers are fools.”

  “But that’s not true.” Samantha came up on one elbow, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I envy the dreamers. They are the people who can imagine things and see the world as a better place. My father was a dreamer. I’ve always been the sort who does the right thing. No matter how hard I try, I can’t be anything but practical.”

  “People can change, Sam. It’s hard, but it can be done. After all, look at me. I’m a right bloody pragmatist.”

  “And you no longer dream?”

  “Not that I would admit it.”

  “Was it hard, being on your own?” she asked.

  “‘Lonely’ is a better word. When Father printed the disinheritance letter in the papers, all my friends vanished. My landlord turned me out. Even my mistress gave me the boot.”

  Samantha ran her finger along the edge of the mattress. “That’s how I felt when the people of Sproule wanted me out of the vicarage. I’m still angry at how they treated me. How did you cope?”

  “I got drunk and signed up on a merchantman headed for the China Sea. Something I don’t recommend you do.”

  She smiled. “I can’t see me working before the mast, either.”

  “Nor could I back then. When I sobered and realized what I had done, I tried to leave the ship and got a sound beating for my endeavor.”

  At Samantha’s sympathetic gasp, he shook his head. “It was the best thing that could have happened to me. I was an idealist who didn’t understand how the world worked. That night, as I was nursing my wounds, I vowed I would prove everyone wrong about me. I would make my own way in the world, and so I have.”

  Yawning, he rubbed his face with his hand, but she felt wide awake, mulling over his words in her mind.

  She rested her chin on her hand. “Why did come back to England?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why now? Why did you return now?”

  For a moment, she didn’t think he was going to answer her, but then he said, “To show my father I was a worthy son.” His lips curved into a smile. “I was going to sail my ship up the Thames and invite him on board. I wanted him to see me as a wealthy man and know he was wrong about me. But it was all for naught,” he added softly. “None of it matters, now that Father is dead.”

  Samantha reached out and touched his arm. His skin felt warm and smooth. “He was proud of you,” she whispered. “He deeply mourned your death and often came to the vicarage and talk to my father about you. I overheard them.”

  Yale stared at the ceiling. For a second, she thought she saw tears well in his dark eyes. Then he said, “Go to sleep, Sam. Tomorrow we’ll drive until we reach London. It will be a long day.”

  But Samantha didn’t want to go to sleep. She’d liked sharing confidences with him. She sighed.

  “What is it, Sam?” came his low, irritated voice.

  “How did you know I was still awake?”

  “Your squirming is about ready to drive me to madness.” Again he yawned, only this time, she echoed it. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” he asked.

  “I can’t stop thinking.”

  He gave her a slow, knowing grin. “I know of one way to take your mind off your worries.”

  She pulled the bed clothes up around her chin. “You can stay on the floor.”

  He laughed. “Tell me what you were worrying about.”

  She wasn’t about to tell him she just liked talking with him. He would think her silly.

  “Is it London?” he asked.

  His suggestion sounded plausible. “Yes,” she answered. “I’ve never even been as far as Morpeth. I can’t imagine what it is like.”

  “Then let me tell you about it. Or at least as I remember it.”

  He began speaking, his deep voice low and soft. He started off talking about the streets, especially the ones leading to Penhurst, the duke of Ayleborough’s city residence. He took her through the front door and showed her the marble foyer and the heavy chandelier that held a thousand candles. He talked of the last ball he’d attended there, one given in honor of his brother and Marion, shortly after they were married.

  She smiled. “You make it sound lovely. I wonder that you ever left it all.”

  “Ah, but then, you don’t know the wild beauty of Ceylon.”

  “Tell me,” she said.

  She was the first person since he’d set foot on British soil who had asked about his other life.

  “It’s an enchanted place,” he started. “Older than Britain itself, and yet so backward it’s frustrating.” He described to her the rock fortress of Sigiriya with its great carved lion’s feet guarding the entrance.

  “The lion’s feet are taller than two men, one standing on the shoulders of the other.”

  “Who would build such a thing?”

  “I don’t know the complete history,” he said. “But Ceylon is an ancient country full of mysteries.”

  He contrasted the fortress with a story of his swimming in a pool surrounded by a tropical forest and fed by spectacular waterfalls. “There are three of them,” he said. “One larger than the other.”

  “It sounds lovely,” she whispered.

  “It is.”

  “And it is warm enough to swim all the time?”

  “Year round.”

  Slowly, her lids grew heavy, lulled by the sound of his voice.

  Yale watched her eyes close and knew when she’d fallen asleep.

  Funny, but he’d never really spent time just talking to a woman before. Women had had only one place in his life, but now his vicar’s daughter was changing all that. Whether he liked it or not, he valued her opinion.

  The first day of their travels, he had been almost insane with jealousy over her preference of Wayland’s company over his own. That was the reason he’d bought that damn horse, to show both of them that he did have wealth, that he was a man of substance—and to exert his independence.

  The problem was, he had no use for a horse. Any more than he had use for a wife.

  Unfortunately, he was growing attached to both.

  He reached up and lightly touched her relaxed and curled fingers. They flexed at his touch and he wondered if she attracted him because she challenged him. Or was she a challenge because of his attraction for her?

  Yale lay back down, bunching the pillow under his head, uncertain if he wanted to know the answer.

  Chapter 11

  Samantha woke the next morning with her face snuggled in the feather pillow Yale had used the night before. She drew a deep breath. All too well she recognized his scent. Masculine. Distinct. Unmistakable.

  He was already up and gone. It had been his closing of the door that had awakened her. The bedcover was also back on the bed.

  She lay there, imagining him tucking the cover around her.

  A sharp knock sounded at the door. Langston, the maid assigned to her the night before, entered without waiting for admittance.

  “It’s time to be up and about, my lady,” Langston prodded with authority. “His Grace wishes to leave at first light. He is most anxious to arrive in London.”

  Samantha nodded and put her feet over the side of the bed. My lady. She didn’t know if she’d ever become accustomed to the form of address. She felt like a fraud. Not really a wife; not really a lady.

  Or perhaps her husband’s stubborn pride on being a plain commoner was rubbing off on her.

  Langston sniffed as she took Samantha’s black dress from its peg in the wardrobe. She didn’t say anything, but Samantha knew heavy black cotton wasn’t what a lady of means wore. Samantha had sewn it herself last year, right before her mother’s funeral. Even to her unsophisti
cated eye the dress was hopelessly dowdy.

  She was tempted to wear her wedding dress, but common sense warned her she would freeze in it.

  “When you arrive in London,” Langston said, as she brushed out the dress, “you will wish to petition the duchess for a new wardrobe. Her Grace travels in the best circles. Go to a seamstress on Oxford Street, Madame Meilleur. You may use my name.”

  Samantha’s stomach tightened. If the servants were this haughty, what would a duchess be like? She wished she had the pleasant Jenny with her instead of Langston, who was so very aware of all of Samantha’s shortcomings.

  “And there is another issue, my lady,” Langston said, while helping Samantha on with her dress. “You come from the north, and sometimes women have an unfortunate accent. It will make you a laughingstock of polite society, who do not admire the Scots or the northern accent.”

  She smiled as Samantha shook her skirts down around her ankles. “I say this only for your benefit. Do you wish me to style your hair in the latest fashion, my lady?”

  “Um, yes, please,” Samantha mumbled, suddenly self-conscious of her speech. She sat down in front of the vanity.

  Langston deftly divided Samantha’s hair with a comb and wound it into two big buns, one over each ear. She began pinning it in place.

  Samantha stared at herself in the mirror, horrified by the style. “Wait, please, I don’t know what I think about this.”

  “It’s the latest fashion, my lady,” Langston replied. She pushed the last pin in place. “You don’t want to be out of fashion, do you?”

  Samantha met the maid’s challenging gaze in the mirror. “But doesn’t it look a bit silly?” she suggested timidly. She reminded herself of nothing less than a woolly ram.

  “You do not like the latest fashion?” Langston asked with patent disbelief. “I think you look more sophisticated.”

  Samantha didn’t know what to do. She stared at her reflection. “Well, perhaps once I become accustomed to it…and it is the fashion?” She looked to Langston for confirmation.

  “I am certain the duchess of Ayleborough wears her hair in this style,” Langston said.

  Samantha had met the duchess only one time, at the old duke’s funeral. The duchess had said a few words to her and her father. Unfortunately, she’d been swathed in a dark black veil of mourning and Samantha didn’t have any idea what her face looked like, let alone her hair. But she was all the villagers had talked about for days.