Regency 01 - Honor

by Jaimey Grant

  Connor laughed. “In other words, you hate it.” He placed a slim finger over her lips, stopping her automatic denials. “It’s all right. No one here expects you to reside in a room you don’t care for. While you are not the mistress of Denbigh Castle, you do have complete control over this suite of rooms, namely our bedchambers, dressing rooms, and your sitting room. If you want to redecorate them, my mother will happily supply you with directions to the best places to get furniture, fabric, carpets, and trinkets in Denbigh.”

  “That’s very gracious of her, to be sure,” Verena murmured as his finger slid away from her mouth.

  Oh, why didn’t he step away? Her heart slammed against her ribs, fear rising to the fore. Why did he make her feel nervous all of a sudden? He had never had such a drastic effect on her before. She had always been so comfortable in his presence.

  Until they married. Before they’d married, she’d felt relatively safe under her employer’s protection. Feldspar had been the first man to show any sort of concern for her, as impersonal as that concern had seemed.

  He gazed around the room. Verena got the impression he’d never paid much attention to his own apartment. His gaze lingered on the bed and Verena’s stomach clenched.

  They were married. Despite all his promises, he possessed every right under the law to do as he pleased with her. In the brief time they’d been married, he’d refrained from importuning her with his physical needs. But it was only a matter of time before his patience wore thin.

  She stared at him until he met her eyes. His calm expression showed no trace of threat. He leaned in and kissed her cheek before she had time to react.

  “Dinner is at five,” he said, moving to the door. He paused, turning back to look at her. “We are dining en famille this evening so we will be quite informal and comfortable. But before that, my love, I would like to speak with you about something. I will attend you in your sitting room in half-an-hour, if you will.”

  Connor rose to his feet as his wife appeared in the doorway, her hands pleating her skirts in a compulsive manner. Her teeth peeked out to bite down on her trembling lip. He almost smiled at her brave attempt to rein in her nerves.

  But why was she so nervous? What had he said or done to cause such a reaction?

  Men made her nervous. A halfwit would have noticed her fearful reaction when in the presence of men. Connor was no halfwit.

  He’d conducted himself with honor and forbearance, always thinking of her first and himself last. Young ladies of good family had little to no knowledge of what a husband expected after the wedding.

  Connor understood Verena’s reluctance to make theirs a true marriage. He accepted it and relied on her to overcome it.

  He moved toward her.

  She stepped back. It had appeared involuntary; she wasn’t even aware that she did it.

  He frowned. He would have thought that he had provided her with more than ample proof that he was not a violent man and would never hurt her.

  “What is the matter? I’m not going to eat you,” he said, trying for an avuncular tone.

  “I am sorry I am late,” she blurted out.

  “That is nothing to worry about,” he told her. Mere tardiness caused her distress?

  She breathed an audible sigh of relief at his words. He watched the muscles relax in her shoulders and neck—her slim, white, and frustratingly tempting neck. She released the death grip on her gown and, finally, she smiled.

  Connor reached out and took her hand, raised it to his lips and placed a lingering kiss on her palm, relieved that his salute caused no more than an indrawn breath. Such a reaction could be a very good thing.

  Without knowing exactly what he was about to do, he pressed his lips to hers in a very affectionate and nonthreatening kiss. She gasped and her lips parted. The temptation was too great to resist. He deepened the kiss, gathering her close.

  His lips moved gently over hers, his rising desire held firmly in check. The last thing he needed was to frighten her off with a passion she couldn’t return, or feared to.

  Just when he thought he might have married a woman too frightened to let her own natural desire take over, she released a tiny sigh, her fingers twisting in his waistcoat. Her lips moved against his, parting enough to allow further intimacies.

  Connor resisted the impulse to do so, resisted the overwhelming desire to sweep her up and take her to the bed that stood in the next room.

  Filled with hope but too aware to ignore her reticence, he released her, only retaining his hold on her hand. “That was not why I asked to see you.” He heard the self-mockery in his tone and wondered if she was aware of it.

  “What do you require?” she asked, lingering in the doorway as if eager to flee. Indeed, she even eyed the door with a certain amount of longing. Connor inwardly cringed.

  He ignored his bruised pride. Leading her across the room, he told her, “I wanted to ask you about your brother.”

  Seating her by the empty fireplace, he took the chair opposite, giving her space. Hopefully, she would find comfort in a bit of distance and feel more able to talk to him.

  “Can this not wait? I am wearied from travel and a short rest sounds heavenly.”

  Mentally castigating himself for his inconsideration toward her, Connor nonetheless insisted. “I am sorry but I suspect we shall have little opportunity for private converse. My family does insist on being noticed.”

  Verena sighed in resignation, but her calm was slowly encompassing her, relieving her husband of a certain amount of his earlier concern. She settled herself more comfortably in the chair, smoothing a steady hand over her lavender skirts. Although traditionally a color for half-mourning, it became her well, bringing out the violet of her eyes and glossy blue sheen in her hair.

  “What would you like to know?”

  “I was unaware of Carstairs having a son. Believe me, there is little in Society of which I am unaware. Your brother must be the best-kept secret in history.”

  Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. “My father has many sons, my lord.”

  “Why so formal? Back when you were a maid you called me Con.”

  She smiled. “Connor.”

  He ignored the pleasant sensation of his name on her lips and returned to the subject at hand. “Many sons? One can only assume they are illegitimate. What of the one you mentioned?”

  “Jeremy is the legitimate heir to the earldom, even if my father has tried to forget that fact.” She paused, brow furrowed and lips pursed, battling some inner emotion.

  She continued, her voice carefully blank as if remarking the weather. “Jeremy is exactly ten years older than me; we share a birthday. He joined the army and went to fight Napoleon a few months after he turned four-and-twenty. He died recently at Waterloo, or so I was told.”

  “You sound as if you don’t believe he died.”

  “I don’t. Jeremy is not an easy person to kill.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Verena laughed at his expression. “If you knew Jeremy, you’d understand. Carstairs hated him because he was a constant reminder of his first wife. Believe it or not, my father actually loved Lady Aurelia. My mother was merely a way to add to his coffers,” she ended cynically.

  Connor frowned, desperately seeking to understand what she wasn’t saying. “Are you implying that your father wanted to kill his own heir, his own son?” It was a concept that Connor could never understand.

  Verena’s dark brows rose ever so slightly. “My brother is only heir to the title. The money is willed elsewhere. My father would rather see the title revert to the crown than go to Jeremy. Killing him just seems to be Carstairs’s only option, doesn’t it?”

  As farfetched as her claim sounded, Connor had to admit it had some credence. Carstairs had so far proven to be a most unnatural parent. “Carstairs hated his son so much that he attempted to kill him?” he asked.

  “There’s no proof” was her bland reply.

  “No proo
f?”

  Verena sat back and regarded her husband. Her eyes held a sort of fearful awareness; no doubt she was thinking of her father. Connor wondered if the earl had ever tried to kill his daughter as well.

  “He never attempted to take my life,” she said softly, as if reading his mind and seeking to offer him comfort from the disturbing thought. Shadows of pain and horror darkened the purple of her eyes until the irises were nearly black. She literally shook away whatever memories caused the expression with a sharp movement of her head. She continued before he had a chance to say anything in response.

  “I never saw him try to kill my brother,” she murmured thoughtfully. “By the time I was two years old, he had already stopped trying. That was when my mother died and Carstairs realized he was encumbered with the son he hated and a daughter whose only worth was on the marriage mart. So he had to be happy with Aurelia’s son as the heir to his title.”

  “How did you learn of your father’s machinations?”

  “Servants forever gossip of those deemed their betters. Children listen at keyholes.” She shrugged, as if to say it was no different from any other household in the kingdom.

  Connor had nothing to say. All he could do was watch his wife’s face, observe the emotions that flashed over her beautiful features, and wonder how much hell an ordinary girl could endure before she broke.

  Her story continued in a hard tone, laced with bitterness and anger.

  “I remember the satisfaction on my father’s face when we received word that Jeremy had perished. I wondered if he would actually be willing to bear the expense of a gathering to ‘mourn’ his passing. He did, of course; one must always keep up appearances, you know. He even managed to shed a few tears at the loss of his only son and heir.”

  “And how did you take the news?” he asked softly, wishing he was close enough to touch her, hold her hand, offer any bit of comfort he could in the face of her heartbreak.

  She laughed even as a single tear rolled down her cheek. “I cried for weeks. He was the only one who loved me, you see, and he was always on hand to protect me and comfort me when our father was particularly harsh. We were so very close despite the differences in our ages. Even when he left to fight, I had letters and eventually his return to look forward to. When they said he was dead—” Her voice broke and she squeezed her eyes shut.

  Connor slid from his chair and knelt at her feet, enclosing her small hand within both of his. Her startled eyes met his, swimming with tears and a soulful despair that made Connor wish to slay dragons for her.

  She was back in control in a matter of seconds. “When they said he was dead,” she repeated almost defiantly, “all the hope and light went out of my life. I had no one, nothing. I was completely at the mercy of my father. Only a few months after the news was relayed to us, Carstairs informed me of my betrothal. His news…I panicked. I panicked and I ran.”

  She looked away, her eyes drawn to some unseen image over his shoulder. Connor didn’t turn, knowing instinctively that nothing existed there, just the inner demons persecuting his bride.

  Inner demons he wanted to understand. He thought he already did.

  He frowned, stroking a thumb over her hand. “But now you have doubts that he is dead?”

  Verena’s brow furrowed. She seemed to be looking inside herself for the answer, deep inside to a place she had long since ignored or possibly forgotten. Her tears stopped and even the sadness abated. All that remained was a deep thoughtfulness, punctuated by the rhythmic clenching of her fingers in the folds of her skirt.

  Then her lips curved upward and she said, “You probably won’t believe or understand, but it’s something I feel, in here.” She pressed her free hand to her chest, just over her heart. “I told you we were close. Despite the age difference, we were almost like twins. I would know if he was dead, Connor. I would just know.”

  *

  Six

  En famille meant, as Verena was to learn later, that dinner was only attended by the twenty or so family members who actually lived at the castle. In the drawing room, where they all met before the meal, Connor introduced her to various aunts, uncles and cousins.

  Although everyone tried to make her feel welcome, Verena still couldn’t stifle the anxiety she felt whenever Connor presented her to a new family face.

  The gentlemen especially unnerved her. The duke, while not overly tall, still cut an imposing figure in his perfectly tailored elegance, as did several male cousins. The heir, Lord Beverley, was elsewhere. All assurances that she would meet him ‘ere long were uttered in a tone suggesting the introduction would be less than pleasant.

  The duchess wore her title like a mantle, cloaked in elegance and propriety. Her bearing, manner and dress all stated this fact clearly. Her graciousness, however, outweighed any rigidity her title might have presented to the world.

  It occurred to Verena in that moment that this woman could have had nothing to do with the overbearing furnishings in Connor’s chambers.

  The twins were absolutely delightful in Verena’s opinion. They were so bubbly that one couldn’t help but be drawn in. Their spirits always seemed to be up and their one goal in life appeared to be the drawing of others into their happy world.

  The aunts and uncles and cousins blurred before her vision as the introductions continued, one by one. She felt the stirrings of panic and clutched Connor’s arm. He remained by her side the whole time and for this she was very grateful. She would never remember everyone’s names and she warned her husband of this.

  Her unease surely showed, plain for all to see. In a supreme effort of will, she forced the unease back, forced a social expression to curve her lips and suppressed the moment of panic she felt when her attentive husband patted her hand where it rested on his arm. He pushed a recalcitrant curl behind her ear, saying, “It doesn’t matter. They do not expect you to remember anything other than they are now your family. The names will come in time. Do not fret.”

  He patted her hand again, tucking it into his arm. “Smile for the family and let us go see what Gaston has prepared.”

  Dinner was merely a continuation of what had begun in the drawing room. Course followed course in a blinding array of succulent dishes, meats, vegetables, sauces, and desserts passed before Verena’s eyes as she observed her new family.

  The twins chattered and laughed gaily from further down the long table. Ladies and gentlemen, in the truest sense of the words, spoke across the table to each other rather than limiting themselves to the lady or gentleman on either side of them. Verena marveled at the happy confusion and finally understood what Connor meant when he said they’d be informal and comfortable.

  A question was addressed to her and she answered, smiling and laughing a little with a cousin whose name she couldn’t recall.

  As she conversed with complete strangers, she marveled that they’d come to accept her, knowing almost nothing about her. Gratitude that she’d managed to marry into such a loving, warm family made her heart swell. How lucky Connor was to grow up in this happy environment! If only she added to his joy, instead of causing him grief, as she assuredly would if her past came to light.

  Having informed her husband of her excessive fatigue, Connor escorted Verena to her chamber after dinner despite the early hour. He kissed her cheek and wished her pleasant dreams, then made his way to his father’s study for the interview he knew would be hell. Appearances to the contrary, the Duke of Denbigh had a highly protective streak not often found in the fathers of the ton.

  He saw, to his dismay, that his mother was also present. Worse, his father’s opening greeting did not bode well for the tone of the conversation.

  “Is she pregnant?”

  Connor stared at his father in growing anger. “What business is that of yours?”

  The duke looked discomfited but still stubborn. “As your father and the head of this house, I have the right to ask.”

  Connor could scarcely believe his ears. He had known his f
ather would want to know what led to his precipitate marriage, but he had never imagined the duke could be nearly as unfeeling as Adam had been. Could no one see that the girl had been through hell and now just needed someone to protect her, to love her?

  While he was, for the most part, unsure of Adam’s reason for his ungentlemanly conduct, Connor knew his father probably just had his best interests at heart. Adam seemed to genuinely dislike Verena for some reason. Connor decided that he would try to get some sort of explanation from his friend soon.

  But in that particular moment, he had other things to worry about. Denbigh’s blunt question rankled despite Connor’s assumption that concern prompted it.

  “If you must know,” Lord Connor began in an icy tone that told his father more than words exactly how he felt about this particular line of questioning, “she is not pregnant. Not by me and not by anyone else.”

  The duke stood facing his son in front of a large oak desk. He stared at him for a long, drawn-out moment, clearly debating the veracity of that statement. He gestured to two chairs by the fireplace. “Sit down and tell me the story. Maybe I can help.”

  Connor hesitated, looking away from his sire’s penetrating gaze—only to meet his mother’s. Her expression was pitying but whether it was for him or Verena, Connor couldn’t tell. The very fact that his mother was a part of this discussion indicated just how seriously the duke viewed the situation.

  Connor was unsure of the reasons for his own reluctance to confide in his parents. He had always striven to please his father but there were certain things, according to a duke, that you just did not do.

  He had done one of those things in marrying in such an underhanded fashion.

  “There are things I have yet to fully understand,” he said evasively. “It would be unwise to explain anything now.”

  The duke’s expression darkened, an occurrence Connor had only witnessed once before, when his brother had deliberately broken the arm of another boy.