“Hmm.”
Frozen outside the door, her heart chilling, sinking, Catriona listened as Worboys continued: “The rooms in Jermyn Street will need freshening, of course. I wondered . . . perhaps you’re thinking of looking in on the Dowager and the duke and duchess? If that were so, I could continue on to town and open up the rooms, ready for your return.”
“Hmm.”
“You’ll want to be well settled before the Richmonds’ ball, naturally. If I might suggest . . . a few new coats might be in order. And your boots, of course—we’ll need to make sure Hoby remembers not to attach those tassles. As for linen . . .”
Deep in a letter from Heathcote Montague, Richard let Worboys’s monologue drift past him. After eight years, Worboys knew perfectly well when he wasn’t attending to him—and he knew perfectly well when his henchman was in a quandary.
In Worboys’s case, the quandary was simple. He liked it here—and couldn’t believe it. He was presently dusting the books on the shelves—in itself a most revealing act—and putting on a good show, trying to convince them both that they were shortly to up stakes and depart, when, in reality, he knew Richard had no such thoughts, and he, himself, did not want to go.
In what he viewed as a primitive backwater, Worboys had discovered heaven.
Not an inamorata in his case, but a household where he fitted in perfectly, like a missing link in a chain. The manor’s household was unusual, without the lines of precedence Worboys had lived with all his professional life. Instead, it was a place that operated on friendship—a sort of kinship in serving their lady. It was a household where people had to rely on each other—have faith and confidence in each other—just to get through the yearly round of harsh weather and the short growing season, made even more difficult by their isolation.
It was a place where people felt valued for themselves; the household, in its rustic innocence, had welcomed Worboys to its bosom—and Worboys had fallen in love.
He was presently in deep denial—Richard recognized the signs. So he let Worboys ramble—he was really only talking to himself and convincing no one. Whenever Worboys paused and insisted on some response, he humphed or hmm’d and let it go at that. He saw no benefit in getting drawn into a discussion of things that were not going to happen.
His letter was far more interesting. Spurred by the Pottses’ visit, he’d written to Montague, inquiring as to the current state of breeding stock, both in the southern and northern counties. He’d also asked Montague to locate the most highly regarded breeder in the Ridings, just south of the border, not too far from the vale.
“So, sir.” Pausing, Worboys drew in a deep breath. “If you just let me know when you’ve decided on the date, I’ll proceed as we’ve discussed.”
Looking up, Richard met Worboys’s gaze. “Indeed. When I decide to leave, you’ll be the first to know.”
Inclining his head gravely, doubtless feeling much better after having got all his useless plans off his chest, Worboys picked up his duster and a pot of wilting flowers, and headed for the door.
Richard waited until it closed before letting his lips curve. Returning to his letter, he read to its end, then, smiling even more, laid it down, and stretched.
And noticed a draft. He glanced around and saw a door, so well fitted in the paneling he hadn’t noticed it before, left ajar. Rising, he rounded the desk and crossed to the panel. Opening it farther, he found a dim secondary corridor. Empty. Inwardly shrugging, Richard closed the door—it could have been ajar for a week for all he knew.
Recrossing to the desk, he sat and pulled out a map of the surrounding counties. A Mister Owen Scroggs, cattle breeder extraordinaire, lived at Hexham. How far, Richard wondered, was Hexham from the vale?
If—when—his wife finally trusted him enough to ask for his assistance, his support, he wanted to have all the answers. All the right answers, at his fingertips.
Chapter 13
He wasn’t, in fact, a patient man.
Ever since receiving the information from Montague, he’d been watching for—waiting for—an opportunity to discuss the matter with his wife. To banish the shadows that seemed to grow, day by day, in her eyes.
Instead, four days later, he’d yet to discover a suitable moment to speak to her. Lounging in an archway not far from her office door, Richard, brooding darkly, kept his gaze on the oak panel and waited some more.
He had a bone-deep aversion to discussing business in their bed. There she remained her usual self, warmly wanton, sweetly taking him in and holding him tight, still insisting on trying to muffle her pleasured screams—he was conscious of a deep reluctance to do anything that might alter the openness that had grown between them there.
But her days were busy; she seemed constantly involved in meetings, or discussions, or in overseeing the household. And if she wasn’t actually engaged in the above, she was surrounded by others—by McArdle, Mrs. Broom, or, worse still, Algaria. Even in the odd moments when he would come upon her alone, she was always rushing to be somewhere else.
Worse yet, he was starting to become seriously worried about her health. He was too well attuned to her not to sense the tension, the fragility, she hid beneath her cloak of serenity. He couldn’t help but wonder if her pregnancy, which she’d yet to mention to him, was the cause of it—the sudden breathlessness that came upon her, and an emotional brittleness she tried hard to hide.
Those symptoms weren’t there when she slid into his arms every night. He couldn’t help wonder if, during the days, she was working herself too hard, rather than letting him ease the load so she could take better care of herself—and their child.
The office door opened; McArdle stumped out.
Richard straightened; he waited until McArdle disappeared down the corridor, then swiftly strolled to the office door. He hesitated for a moment, reminding himself that he couldn’t demand, then opened the door—and strolled languidly in.
Seated behind her desk, Catriona looked up—Richard smiled easily, charmingly. And tried not to notice the clouds dimming her green eyes. “Are you busy?”
Catriona drew in a deep breath and looked down at the papers before her. “I am, actually. Henderson and Huggins—”
“I won’t keep you above a moment.”
The words were drawled, nonchalant—unthreatening. Acutely conscious of him, Catriona forced herself to sit back in her chair and wait while he strolled, all idle elegance, to the window.
“Actually, I wondered if I might help you out, as you seem so rushed these days.”
Drawing a slow, steadying breath, Catriona turned her head and met his gaze. Swiftly—with a hope she could only just bear to acknowledge—she studied his face. It was an indolent mask of polite indifference; there was no hint of real commitment, real passion—of really wanting to help. No hint that the vale—and she—were seriously important to him.
He smiled, charming as ever, although she noticed the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. A languid wave underscored his words: “There’s nothing much for me to do here, so I’ve plenty of time free.”
Catriona fought to keep her expression blank, and succeeded. He was bored and could see she was busy, so he’d done the gentlemanly thing and offered to help. She had no trouble shaking her head brusquely and looking back at her letters. “There’s really no need. I’m quite capable of handling the vale’s business on my own.”
The words, uttered in a hard tone, were as much to convince herself of that fact as to decline his gentlemanly offer.
He hesitated, then said, a trace of steel in his tones: “As you wish.” With a graceful inclination of his head, he strolled out and left her to it.
The thaw arrived.
Two mornings later, Richard lay late in bed, listening to the steady drip of water from the eaves. Catriona had slipped from his arms early, whispering about a confinement, assuring him that she wasn’t going out but that the mother-to-be was safe inside the manor.
Staring up at the dark red
canopy, Richard tried to keep his thoughts from her, from the leaden feeling that, two days ago, had settled in his gut.
And failed.
Inwardly grimacing, he irritably reminded himself that failure was not something Cynsters indulged in—much less on the scale he was presently wallowing in.
He was failing on all fronts.
The new life he’d envisaged for himself at Catriona’s side, once so full of promise and possibilities, had turned into a disappointment. A deep, deadening disappointment—he’d never felt so disillusioned with life as he felt now.
There was nothing for him here—nothing for him to do, nothing for him to be. Boredom now haunted him; his old restlessness—something he’d hoped he’d lost for all time in the kirk at Keltyburn—was growing.
Along with a dark, compelling sense of worthlessness—at least, in this place. In this vale—her vale.
He couldn’t understand her.
From night to cockcrow, they were as close as a man and woman could be, but when morning came and she slipped from his arms, it was as if, along with her clothes, she donned some invisible mantle and became “the lady of the vale”—a woman with a calling, a position and a purpose in life, from all of which he was excluded.
While gentlemen of his station did not customarily share their wives’ lives, he, very definitely, had expected to share hers. Still wanted to share hers. The prospect of sharing her responsibilities, of sharing it all as a mutual endeavor, and thus having a strong and abiding connection on a daily basis—that was certainly a large part of the attraction he felt for her. She was, he had thought, a woman he could share goals with, share achievements with.
Their marriage hadn’t, so far, turned out that way.
He’d been careful of her, careful of pressuring her—he’d given her every chance to ask him for help, for assistance. He’d tried hard not to force her hand—and got nowhere.
For long moments, his gaze locked on the dark red above him, he considered the obvious alternative—the action his Cynster self strongly urged. He could, very easily, take over the reins and steer their marriage into the paths he wanted it to follow. He was not a naturally passive person; he wouldn’t normally endure a situation he didn’t like. Normally, he’d simply change it.
But . . .
He could forsee two difficulties. The first was that, in taking the reins, he would risk damaging the very thing he most wanted to preserve. He wanted Catriona as a willing life-partner, not as one resenting his dominance.
That, however, while quite bad enough, ranked as the more minor of his difficulties.
The larger, most insurmountable problem, was his vow. The vow he’d made to her—twice—that he would not impinge on her independence, would never seek to override her authority. She’d taken him on trust—she trusted him to keep that vow no matter what. To wrest control from her would betray that trust, in the most damning and damaging way.
There were few things he was sure of in this marriage of theirs, but he knew to his soul that he could never endure the look in her green eyes if he ever betrayed her on that front.
Which meant . . .
He was on a narrow track, high up a mountainside, with unbroken rock to one side and a sheer precipice on the other. He could go forward, or retreat.
Heaving a deep sigh, Richard threw back the covers and got up.
Cynsters never retreated.
The concept was totally alien to him—the very thought offended him at some deep level. So he waited, and trapped her once more in her office, at a time when he knew he could wrest at least two minutes from her busy schedule.
After ambling idly in and exchanging a mild comment about the weather, he looked down at her and asked: “Tell me, my dear, do you have any need of me here?”
He wanted to ask the question brutally—wanted to show her how much she was hurting him by shutting him out of her life, by denying him the chance to give what he felt he could—but he couldn’t do it, couldn’t let her see how pathetically vulnerable he’d become. So he kept his social mask intact and asked the question lightly, coolly. As if the answer was of no great moment.
Which was how Catriona heard it—that and rather more. To her, it rang as the prelude to his informing her that he was leaving—the polite patter of the executioner before the axe fell.
So she held her own calm like a shield over her weeping heart and smiled, a little weakly, back up at him. “No. There’s really nothing for you to do.”
Looking down, she forced herself to go on, forced herself to play the role she’d spent hours rehearsing—the role of acquiescent wife. “I daresay you’ll be heading to London soon—Huggins heard this morning that the roads to the south are all open, at least as far as Carlisle.”
Her head throbbed, her stomach churned, but she continued in the same, lightly distant, tone: “You’ll be anxious to see your family, I expect. Your stepmother must be waiting . . .” She nearly choked, but swallowed just in time. “And, of course, there’ll be the balls and parties.”
She continued to enter the figures she’d been transferring from scraps of paper into a ledger—and didn’t look up. She didn’t dare—if she did, the tears she was holding back would spill over, and then he would know.
Know what he mustn’t. Know that she didn’t want him to go—that she wanted him here, forever by her side.
But she’d thought it all through very carefully; she had to—absolutely had to—leave him free to leave her. There was no point in binding him to her—to the vale—with ties that would only be resented.
If she could have, she would have stopped herself from falling in love with him, from being in love with him, but it was far too late for that. Even knowing he was leaving, she still couldn’t help but wish that she had been the one to change him—the one to focus all his inherent, unconscious qualities—his innate care, his protectiveness, his absentminded kindness—so he became the man he could be.
Her consort.
The Lady had been right—he was made for the position—the real position—but no one could force him to take it. That was a decision he had to make himself, and she couldn’t interfere. She had to let him go.
And hope, and pray, that one day he might want what she could give him.
“It must be quite grand,” she said, determined to make it easy for him, and easier, therefore, for her, “being in London with all the swells, going to all the balls and parties.”
She felt his gaze leave her; a moment of silence ensued. Then he shifted. “Indeed.”
She looked up, but he merely inclined his head, his lips lightly curving, and didn’t meet her eyes. “I daresay I’ll enjoy the balls and parties.”
He turned from her and strolled, languid as ever, from the room. Catriona stared at his back, then stared at the door when he closed it behind him. And wondered at his tone, wondered whether her own sensitivity had made her imagine a deep bleakness behind his words.
He’d tried a last throw of the dice—and lost. More than he’d known he had bet.
She had told him there was nothing for him here—and he had to accept her decision. And if he’d needed any urging to leave the field of his defeat, her lightly distant tone as she’d dismissed him and all but wished him on his way had provided it.
Richard didn’t know how they had come to this—to this brittle state where it took effort to remain in each other’s company. He didn’t know—he couldn’t imagine—he couldn’t even think straight. He couldn’t even breathe freely; there was an iron vise locked about his lower chest—every breath was a battle.
How they would get through the night, he hadn’t any idea. For the first time since they had married, she was later to bed than he. He waited in the dimness, lit only by the dying fire, and wondered if she really was tending the recently born child and its mother or . . . avoiding him.
It was nearly midnight before the door opened; she glanced at the bed only fleetingly, then went to the fire. Richard nearly spoke—nearly
called to her—but couldn’t think of what to say.
Then he realized she didn’t intend sleeping in the armchair; she was simply undressing before the fire.
He watched her—hungrily. Let his eyes feast on her neatly rounded limbs, her skin pearlescent in the fire’s flickering light. Drank in the sight of her back, the sleek planes achingly familiar, the globes of her bottom a remembered delight. He stared at her long fire-gold mane as she shook it out, spreading it over her shoulders, as if he could burn the sight into his mind.
Then lost what little breath he had when she turned and, naked—with that glorious unconsciousness she’d displayed from the first—walked to the bed. To where he lay waiting in the dark.
He tensed—expecting her to be tense, too—expecting her to hold herself distantly as she had all day. Instead, she lifted the covers, slid beneath—and slid farther, straight into his arms.
For one moment, his heart stood still, then his arms closed about her. She lifted her lips—he hesitated for only a second before he took them.
Took her—took her mouth as she offered it, took her body as she freely gave it.
If he could have thought, he might have seized the opportunity to ruthlessly, calculatingly, tie her to him with passion—to make her burn so achingly long, so excruciatingly hot, that she would never be able to bid him adieu. Or if she did, would suffer tortures every night without him.
He didn’t think—but yet he did. Loved her with such passion, such distilled, poignant force, that she cried. Cried tears of sheer delight, of bliss too great to contain.
All he wanted was to fill his mind, his senses, his heart and soul with her—so inside, she would always be with him.
As he, wherever he was, would, in his mind, always—ever more—be with her.
Beneath him, Catriona clung to him, opened her body and heart to him, knowing full well this might be the last time. If she could have held him with sheer lust she would have—she burned with her need of him and was too desperate to hide it. Desire, unleashed, gave her strength—strength to challenge him on a field that had hitherto been his. Stroked and caressed and loved to flashpoint, still she urged him on—pushed him back and pressed her own wild caresses on him, placed hot, open-mouthed kisses all over his hard body, then, driven by her wildness, took him into her mouth.
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