Ginevra brushed a burnished lock of hair from her eyes and glanced up nervously. He was staring at her .In the dimness his eyes were shadowed and inscrutable, his austere features only faintly limned by the wavering candlelight. He had not changed his clothes, but his jacket and waistcoat were gone, and his ruffled white shirt was partially unbuttoned, revealing the triangle of dark hair on his chest Ginevra quickly averted her eyes from that disturbing, intimate sight. Her cheeks grew hot. She pretended great interest in the silver tea service as she waited for him to speak. He did not. At last she stammered without looking up, “G-good evening, my lord.”
“Good evening, Ginevra.” His voice was low and surprisingly husky. He settled onto the couch across the table from her, never taking his eyes off her. In the dark room she seemed ethereal, illuminated. She intensified her scrutiny of the teapot. The silence became unbearable. She quavered, “W-would you care for some tea?”
He smiled. “Yes, thank you. One sugar, no milk.” Ginevra glanced up just long enough to give the cup to him. When she folded her trembling hands diffidently in her lap, he asked, “Are you not having any?”
She shook her head. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. I ... I don’t want anything right now.” She stared at her white knuckles.
Chadwick set his tea aside untasted. “I’m not thirsty either.” He studied her pale face, the downcast eyes with golden lashes fluttering long and silky against ivory skin. He sounded not unsympathetic as he murmured, “Poor little Ginnie, are you very nervous?” She nodded jerkily. He said, “There’s no need to be afraid. I won’t hurt you.” She quaked silently. He stood up and held out his hand. “Come here, Ginevra,” he said softly.
She looked at him then, her amber, eyes travelling up the long, strong length of him until they met and were held, hypnotized, by the dark intensity of his blue gaze. Slowly, almost against her will, her hand reached out to join his. His grip was gentle but irresistible, and he pulled her from her chair. When she stood, her negligee floated down around her, clinging like wisps of mist, and her skin gleamed pearl-like through the sheer silk. He caught his breath. His hands encircled her slender waist, and he drew her toward him until her small breasts brushed the front of his shirt. She was still staring at him, entranced, when he bent his head to kiss her.
It was a light kiss, his warm lips just grazing hers in a fleeting caress, and she blinked with disappointment when he drew away. He sensed her chagrin and smiled complacently. Stepping back, but with one arm still around her, he asked with the neutral air of a concerned host, “Are you settled into your new quarters? I hope they meet with your approval.”
Yet a little dazed from that kiss, she took a moment to adjust to his abrupt change of mood. “Ev-everything is quite ... comfortable,” she said at last.
“How diplomatic,” he drawled, his tone lightening. He gave her waist a squeeze. “I’m sorry, my dear, when I ordered this suite prepared for you I forgot what a horror it is, positively Gothic. I don’t think the rooms have been redecorated since my grandmother’s day. Now I know why my mother has always preferred the London house! Ah, well, your first domestic duty as my lady can be to engage a decorator to do everything over. Mrs. Timmons can give you the names. Do you think you’ll like that?”
“It might be fun,” Ginevra ventured shyly, glancing around and envisioning the grim chamber stripped of its depressing hangings and made light and airy with tones of white, gold, and apricot. “Yes,” she repeated more firmly, “it would be fun.”
“Good,” Lord Chadwick said. “I like amusing you.”
Ginevra paused, frowning, as she caught the nuance of something he had said. Astonished at her own temerity, she questioned, “Did ... did your wife not use this suite?”
Instantly her husband’s face became shuttered. “No,” he said flatly. “My father was still alive then, and he and my mother used this wing. On those rare occasions when Maria honored us with her presence, she stayed in rooms in another part of the house altogether.”
“I ... I see.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” Chadwick’s tone sharpened. “Ginevra, those days are long past. You are my wife now. You would do well to ignore matters that do not concern you.”
Ginevra bridled with irritation. He sounded just like her father! Driven by an impulse she would have been incapable of explaining, she demanded fiercely, “Do those matters include Amalie de Villeneuve?”
The arm clasping her waist became hard and cold, a fetter of iron. Lord Chadwick said, “No, she can be of no importance to you.”
Even in the poor light Ginevra’s face glowed with outrage. She tore herself from his grasp and stuttered indignantly, “How c-can you say that? I ... I am your wife!”
His eyes narrowed, and he bowed mockingly. “As you say. I have endowed you with my name, my title, and all my worldly goods ... What more do you want?”
What more? Ginevra thought wildly, pivoting away from him, her gown afloat. She crossed her arms in a childish attitude of defiance, hurt and confused. Was she being unreasonable to expect fidelity from her husband, fidelity and respect and ... and love? Did such qualities exist in real marriage, or were they just fantasies contrived by the writers of purple romances? Did no one love? She had always thought her parents shared an ideal relationship, full of tenderness and warmth. Was she wrong about that too? The things she had learned recently about her father made her wonder if any man could be trusted. Small wonder he had had no qualms about forcing her to marry Lord Chadwick, condemning her to be used at the man’s convenience and then discarded. Oh, God, she didn’t think she could stand it! She drooped her head and began to tremble.
The marquess watched the small, quivering figure in silence, his face unreadable. He sighed, “Oh, Ginevra, you are so very young ... Now, in addition, you are tired and overwrought.” He wove his fingers through the gleaming mass of her hair and began to massage her nape. “Come, love,” he urged softly, “you need to rest You’ll feel better after you sleep.” He felt the tense muscles in her neck relax reluctantly under his soothing caress. Brushing aside the sheer silk of her gown, he teased her shoulder with his lips. When the tip of his tongue, trailed lightly over her skin, she jerked convulsively. He murmured, “You must rest, little Ginnie. Come to bed.”
“W-with you?”
“Of course with me.”
Ginevra hesitated. “No,” she said.
Chadwick’s stroking fingers stilled. “I beg your pardon?”
She lifted her head and repeated firmly, “I said no, I don’t want to go to bed with you.”
He grasped her shoulders and slowly turned her around to face him. Ginevra met his gaze, her gold eyes rebellious but wary. He said evenly, “Perhaps you’d better explain yourself.”
“What’s there to ... to explain?” she retorted, stumbling over the words. “I’ve told you, I don’t want to share your bed. I don’t want to become one of your ... your women.”
“My women?” he roared, his grip tightening. “You are my wife!”
She sniffled, “Only because my father made me marry you. Only be-because you wanted Dowerwood. Well, now you have Dowerwood.” Her voice dropped to a husky murmur. “But you don’t need to have me as well.”
He stared down at her, his face white under the tan. “Is that how you see it?” he asked, his tone deceptively silky. “And just exactly what makes you think you know anything about my needs?”
Ginevra blushed but continued resolutely, “I ... I am sure there are others who ... who would suit you much better than I could. I don’t care, as long as ... as long as you leave me alone.”
His blue eyes raked her, stripping away her meager defenses. “Why, you little ... How dare you speak to me that way?” His fingers dug viciously into her shoulders. “You are my wife. This morning you vowed to serve and obey me. Do you know what that means, the form that service takes? If you have any doubts, madam wife, perhaps I’d better show you now.” He swung her into his arms and stalked across th
e room.
He carried her high, her face buried against his shoulder, muffled in the linen frills of his open shirt, and she lay stunned, stupefied, until he kicked the bedroom door shut behind him. The sharp explosion of sound went through her like an electric shock, and squealing wildly, she began to fight. She thrashed and flailed frantically, pummeling his bare chest with her fists as he carried her with inexorable purpose toward the curtained darkness of the Glovers’ ancestral bed.
He threw her down across the turned-back coverlet, and her hair sprayed in a golden shower over the cool lavender-scented sheets. Even as she tried to twist away from him his body descended onto hers, the hard length of him pinning her to the mattress, making her hotly aware of his arousal. He caught her wrists in a merciless grip, and she squirmed impotently as his cruel gaze swept over her. Her frenzied movements disarranged her negligee and exposed her breasts to his hungry eyes. She could feel him inhale raggedly at the sight, and she sobbed, “No ... no, my lord!”
“Yes ... yes, my lady,” he mocked, and swooping down, he stopped her pleas with his mouth.
The lips that had brushed hers so gently only moments before were hard now, brutal, crushing the breath from her and bruising her tender lips against her clenched teeth. When she attempted to turn her face away, he released her wrists and wove his fingers into her bright tresses, holding her head immobile. She pushed against him without effect, and her fingers caught in the rough hair on his chest. Even in her panic the intimate feel of his skin was so unexpectedly pleasant that she gasped.
The gasp was her undoing. When her lips parted, his tongue invaded her mouth relentlessly, making no concession for her youth and inexperience, ravishing her innocence. Fiery waves began to flow through Ginevra’s veins, stirred by his devastating assault. She was becoming dizzy, faint, losing all powers of resistance. When one of his hands unwound from her hair and slid down to cup the delicate weight of her young breast, she knew with anguish that she was lost. Her own body was turning traitor, succumbing to his expertise as a lover. He was taking her, taking her, and she could fight no more. He would use her as callously as he had used his first wife and that Frenchwoman and all the other women in between—and his skill was such that he might even make her enjoy his touch—but when he was finished he would discard her. He cared nothing for her, she was just an object, a convenient receptacle for his pleasure—and she thought she would die from the shame of it.
Ginevra began to cry.
Scalding tears of despair welled up in her golden eyes and splashed onto her cheeks as she twisted her face back and forth, and the salt stung her raw lips. Her breast shook with silent sobs under his caressing hands, and at the tremor he raised his head to stare at her.
His eyes were obsidian as they raked her bloodless features, the quivering mouth swollen from his attack. He caught his breath and became a leaden weight pressing her into the bed. Finally he choked in a voice so low she might have imagined she heard it, “Damn you, Ginevra, damn you to hell.”
He lifted himself away from her and towered beside the bed, panting hard and watching with pitiless scorn as she tried with shaking fingers to remedy her dishabille. He rasped, “You needn’t fear that a glimpse of your naked body is going to inflame me past all self-control. I have many faults, but raping children is not one of them.” He spun on his heel and stalked toward his door.
Bewildered, Ginevra stammered, “M-my lord?”
“What now, for God’s sake?” His voice was harsh, and he did not look at her.
She whispered lamely, “I’m sorry.” She saw him stiffen. She asked, “What do we do now?”
He shrugged, but his fists were clenched at his sides. He said coldly, “I am going back to London. As for you, you can remain here until ... until you grow up. I would prefer that my friends there do not discover that I have taken to wife a green girl utterly inadequate for the role of Marchioness of Chadwick.” He moved impatiently toward his bedroom door.
Ginevra cringed under his burning contempt, but she steeled herself to ask one last timorous question. “Wh-when you are in London, will ... will you see Amalie de Villeneuve?”
For a moment she thought he would not answer her, but at the doorway he paused. When he turned, his blue eyes were frosty, his smile wolfish. “As I told you earlier,” he said, his deep voice heavy with disdain, “Madame de Villeneuve—and my relationship with her—are none of your concern whatsoever.” Then he was gone.
4
Sunlight streamed across the bed, and soft scented breezes played over the rich hangings, dispelling the lingering aura of musty velvet and melted candle wax. With eyes shadowed by her sleepless night, Ginevra read for the second time the brief note her husband had left her. Her fingers trembled as she carefully replaced the single sheet of cream-colored paper in the envelope and tucked the flap into place. She stared at the bold black handwriting slashing the face of the envelope. The Lady Richard Glover, Marchioness of Chadwick. Remembering his last hateful words of the night before she was sure that he had addressed the letter that way, with her new and obviously undeserved title, to mock her. And why not? she thought tiredly. Her behavior merited his contempt; it already had her own. She was a coward. During the night she had listened with thudding heart while he stalked back and forth in his room like a caged animal, restless and incensed, and each time his hard footsteps hesitated just on the other side of her door she had held her breath painfully as she waited for him to twist the knob. When he did not, she berated herself for lacking the courage to go to him instead. Finally his movements had stilled, and the ominous silence had been broken by a new sound coming from outside the house, in the direction of the stables: the receding thunder of a powerful stallion as it galloped down the long drive into the warm Surrey night.
Ginevra toyed with the letter. She picked at the red wax of the broken seal until crumbs littered the sheets like drops of blood, and she thought about the virgin stain that should have embellished her marriage bed. No doubt the housemaids who changed the linens would note its absence; probably by nightfall the rumor would be rife belowstairs that the marquess had found his bride unchaste and had abandoned her in his disgust. She winced at the irony of that thought and set the letter on the nightstand.
Two paces back from the bed Emma stood and watched her young mistress impassively. She noted the frown marring Ginevra’s pale face and said in a voice devoid of expression, “My lady, may I say how sorry I am—we all are—that his lordship was called away so suddenly? Of course everyone feels honored to serve a gentleman holding such an important position in the diplomatic corps, yet it seems unfair that he should be forced to curtail his honeymoon...”
Ginevra looked blankly at her maid. “Is that the reason you think he left?”
Emma’s green eyes were frank and cool and revealed : none of the heat with which she had already quelled burgeoning gossip among the staff. “I believe it is the explanation that his lordship asked Hobbs, his valet, to relay to the household.”
“I see,” Ginevra muttered, relaxing against her pillow.
She was filled with reluctant gratitude for the lie. Her husband had covered himself plausibly, with a minimum of embarrassment for either of them; after all, a summons from Whitehall was one that no one could ignore, even on his wedding night. Once the initial rumors subsided, the inhabitants of Queenshaven would accept the marquess’s continued absence stoically. They might even commiserate his neglected young bride.
Ginevra’s amber eyes flickered to the note lying on the stand. Perhaps the more romantic members of the household would imagine that Lord Chadwick had paused in the midst of his hurried leave-taking to pen tender words of consolation before he departed. She alone knew that his letter was a brutally terse outline of the financial arrangements she would need to be aware of in his absence. The lines had been written in an angry scrawl, beginning with an abrupt “Madam” and signed as coldly “Chadwick.” Every period looked as if he had stabbed the paper with his
quill. No affectionate missive this, and yet ... and yet, what other man, so livid with frustration and rage that he deserted his nuptial bed, would still delay long enough to ensure that his recalcitrant bride was informed of the allowance he had established for her? Ginevra sank deeper into the bedclothes, staring at the heavy rings glittering on her finger. Her throat clogged with the galling taste of self-reproach. She had not wanted this marriage, but regardless of her reluctance she had the very morning before pledged in the sight of God and in the face of that company to live with the marquess as his wife. Had she not been hen hearted, had she not offended him with her missishness, they might have come to terms with the awkward situation. But now she had sent him riding off into the welcoming arms of his mistress, and she did not know what to do.
Emma interrupted Ginevra’s troubled thoughts. “My lady—”
The girl gritted, “Don’t call me that!”
Emma’s carefully neutral mask slipped slightly at the unprecedented sound of her lady’s raised voice. “Miss Ginevra?”
Ginevra blushed. Extending her hand in a gesture of supplication, she pleaded, “Forgive me for snapping at you, Emma, but I ... I just can’t stand the thought of you becoming so formal with me. I don’t think I could endure that, not after everything else that has happened.”
“No, miss.” Emma’s eyes moved over the chaotically jumbled bedclothes, and she recalled the tearstains that had been visible on Ginevra’s cheeks when she first drew back the heavy drapes to admit the morning sun. She fought the impulse to pull the girl into her arms and comfort her. “Shall I ring for breakfast now?” When Ginevra shook her head, Emma went on resolutely, “In that case, may I suggest a hot bath? I’ve taken the liberty of ordering one for you. I thought it might ease any ... discomfort you may be suffering this morning.”
The Chadwick Ring Page 7