by Mary Balogh
“All the better,” his friend said. “The pleasure of bedding willing wenches sometimes palls, Freddie. Not that one would contemplate bedding unwilling ones, of course. But there is a certain challenge in melting virtue and softening opposition. Are you going into Kent?”
“No,” Frederick said.
“A pity.” His friend sighed and turned his attention and his quizzing glass to a female rider who was approaching from a distance, a groom a short way behind her. “A beauty or an antidote do you think, Freddie? Five pounds on it that she is a beauty.”
“Done,” Frederick said. “My five pounds say she is an antidote. Who is to be the judge?”
“Honor,” his friend said. “I will not pretend to see beauty as you will not pretend to see ugliness.”
Frederick lost five pounds and Lord Archibald won a dark frown from the elderly groom for touching his hat and holding the girl’s eyes rather too long with his own.
No, Frederick thought, he would not go back to Ebury Court. He had no reason to go. He did not wish to see her again. And she certainly would not wish to see him. And how would he behave if he went? As autocratic husband? Contrite husband? He grimaced at the thought. Charming husband? She had seen through his charm. He could not use it on her again. No, he was not going back there.
And yet his friend’s words kept coming back to him over the following days. He could not ignore the marriage, it seemed. Was the only alternative, then, to confront it? And something else kept running through his head too. A name. Dr. Graham. The physician who had been Sir Douglas Danford’s friend and had been taken out to Ebury Court to examine Clara. And had left after a loud quarrel.
Frederick had never heard of Dr. Graham. But then he was not much in the habit of consulting physicians. When he made inquiries he found out very quickly that Dr. Henry Graham was one of London’s most prominent and expensive physicians. But then, of course, nothing but the best would have been good enough for Sir Douglas Danford. Frederick made an appointment to see the man in his rooms.
Dr. Graham was reluctant at first to discuss a former patient with someone who was not involved.
“I should have explained,” Frederick said. “Miss Danford is now Mrs. Sullivan. My wife.”
That made all the difference, of course. Frederick was offered a chair and a drink. He accepted the former and declined the latter. “I had not heard that she was married,” Dr. Graham said. “I am glad for her.” Though his eyes, passing over his visitor, indicated that he was not quite sure that he was.
“You examined my wife once at Ebury Court?” Frederick said. “I would be interested to know what your findings were.”
“It was a long time ago,” the doctor said.
“Even so,” Frederick said, “I would like to know. Exactly what is her condition?”
The doctor’s lips tightened with remembered anger. “You did not know Danford?” he said. “He was a stubborn fool, Sullivan, even though he was once my friend. I felt sorry for his daughter, poor girl.”
“Why?” Frederick asked.
“Pale and thin and frail,” the doctor said. “Is she still the same? Danford would have breathed for her too if he could. He did everything else for her.”
“From what she has said,” Frederick said, “I gather that he loved her, sir.”
“There is a certain type of love,” the doctor said, “that kills, Mr. Sullivan. It is amazing that Mrs. Sullivan is still alive. She must have a remarkably strong constitution.”
“Are you telling me that there is nothing wrong with her?” Frederick asked.
“I have not seen her for several years,” Dr. Graham said, “She was undoubtedly ill when in India. Gravely ill, I believe. The months and even years she was forced to spend in bed weakened her. It would have taken time and considerable effort and some discomfort and even pain to get her back on her feet by the time she was brought back to England. It was criminal that she was not sent home a great deal sooner, but I gather that Danford could not bear to be without her.”
“She might have walked again?” Frederick asked.
The doctor shrugged. “If she had wanted to,” he said. “If her will had been strong enough. There was no paralysis, Mr. Sullivan. Only the weakness of having been an invalid for most of her life.”
“And now?” Frederick looked intently at the physician. “Might she still walk?”
“She has lost more years to the weakness,” the doctor said. “She must be closer to thirty than twenty in age.”
“Twenty-six,” Frederick said.
“Who is to say?” the doctor said. “I cannot make a diagnosis from a patient I have not seen in years.”
“Will you see her?” Frederick asked.
“At Ebury Court?” Dr. Graham frowned. “I am a busy man, Mr. Sullivan, and I do not have happy memories of that place. I was insulted. I was told that I wanted to kill my friend’s daughter, that I wanted to cause her unnecessary pain and suffering. A doctor does not like to be told such things.”
“I will bring her to town,” Frederick said. “Will you see her, sir?”
The doctor shrugged. “If it is your wish,” he said. “Provided you do not already know what you wish me to say, Mr. Sullivan. I get mortally tired of fashionable patients wanting me to tell them how fashionably weak their health is. Ladies mostly, wanting an excuse to lie about on sofas looking delicate.”
“I want you to tell me that my wife can walk again,” Frederick said. “I will accept whatever you say. If she cannot walk, then so be it. She has learned to live patiently and courageously with her handicap.”
“Oh, yes,” the doctor said. “I can remember that, Mr. Sullivan. I thought it a pity that there was not also some spirit of rebellion in the poor girl.”
“There is none,” Frederick said. “She was an obedient daughter and is an obedient wife, sir. You will see her?”
Dr. Graham got to his feet and extended his right hand. “Let me know when she is in town,” he said. “It is gratifying to know that she has a husband who seems more concerned for her well-being than his own comfort.”
Frederick did not feel particularly pleased by the compliment. It seemed sometimes that his life was one great deceit. He deceived even when he did not try to do so.
He wrote a letter to his wife the same afternoon, announcing his intention of returning to Ebury Court the following week and bringing her and her companion back to town the following day.
He looked almost unbearably handsome and virile. She had remembered that he was handsome, of course. She had thought she remembered him perfectly. But there was something of a shock to notice again the dark intensity of his eyes, the lock of dark hair that would fall across his forehead, the breadth of his shoulders and chest, the length of his legs. And a certain breathless disbelief to know that this was the man with whom she had enjoyed such intimacies both in the flesh and in her dreams.
He was unsmiling, abrupt, courteous. Charmingly and quite formally courteous after bowing over her hand and raising it to his lips, bowing to Harriet, taking a seat, and accepting a cup of tea. He talked about London and the dismal autumn weather they had been having there. He talked about his journey and the accident of a farmer’s cart overturning and sending the driver of a mail coach into paroxysms of wrath and frustration. It was an amusing account. Both Clara and Harriet laughed at it.
The old charming Freddie. But not trying to impress this time, only to fill in the silence. He had not once looked into her eyes. He glanced at Harriet more than he did at her. He was still angry with her, then. Or still shamed and embarrassed.
She wished that after all she had allowed Harriet to leave the room when her companion had observed his arrival from the drawing room window. Perhaps it would be easier if they were alone. Or perhaps not. She had not been able to bear the thought of being alone with him and had begged Harriet to stay.
“We were fortunate enough to have a drive in the barouche this morning before the rain came down again,”
she said. “We were out for almost a whole hour. Weren’t we, Harriet?”
Harriet dutifully attested to the fact that it must have been very close to an hour.
Clara looked at him to find his eyes focused on her mouth or perhaps her chin. “I am glad to hear it, ma’am,” he said.
He had not forgiven her. He had not come back from inclination. Why, then?
“You are looking well,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “I am feeling well.” She wondered if he had noticed the greater fullness of her face, the lesser paleness. She wondered if she looked one whit less plain to him than she had. As if it mattered.
“I am taking you back to town to consult a physician,” he said. “Dr. Graham.”
“Dr. Graham?” she said. “But I feel well, Freddie. And last time all he could tell Papa was that I must be kept quiet, away from all chills and exertion. I don’t want him telling you the same thing once more. I enjoy going outside every day.”
“Nevertheless,” he said, “you will see him, ma’am. As soon as possible. You are ready to leave tomorrow?”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “You wrote to say that we should be.”
“Perhaps you would prefer it if I did not go, sir,” Harriet said. Clara knew that she wanted to go above all things.
“On the contrary, Miss Pope,” he said. “My wife will need your companionship there as much as she does here.”
Harriet nodded a quiet acquiescence. Clara was wrestling with a new realization that had just come to her. Of course. He wanted Dr. Graham to examine her to see if she could bear a child. Freddie was, after all, to be a baron one day and would want to have a son of his own to succeed. Perhaps she could not give him one. She had been bitterly disappointed, even though she had not known that she was hoping, when she had discovered that she had not conceived in almost two weeks of marital relations after her wedding.
She did not think she would be able to bear being told in cold words that there never could be hope. She could not bear the thought of Freddie knowing it.
“Harriet,” she said, “would you pull the bell rope, if you please? I shall have Robin take me up to my room. It is time to be changing for dinner—unless you would like it set back for half an hour or so, Freddie.”
He got to his feet. “No,” he said. “Leave the bell pull alone, Miss Pope.” And he stooped down and lifted his wife up into his arms.
She had not expected it, though he had always carried her from place to place when he was at Ebury Court before. She had not expected it and had not steeled herself for the sensations caused by his arms and the touch of his body. She set an arm about his neck. His hair was longer than it had been. It looked even more attractive this way.
He said nothing and did not look at her as he climbed the stairs with her, quickly as he had used to do. She wanted to set her cheek on her arm, as she had used to do, but she did not do so. She kept her head away from him, as she always did with Robin.
He set her down on a chair in her dressing room and rang the bell for her maid. He hesitated, perhaps feeling that it would be too abrupt to leave the room without a word.
“Freddie,” she said. Welcome home, she wanted to say. It is good to see you. Forgive me. You have not forgiven me yet, have you? She wanted some sort of peace and ease between them. But she could not find just the right words.
His eyes touched on hers for a moment. Then he bent his head and kissed her firmly and briefly and with closed lips on the mouth. He left the room without waiting for her maid to arrive.
Dinner and the couple of hours in the drawing room afterward passed with greater ease than Clara had feared. He set himself to be entertaining and charming, and succeeded admirably. Even Harriet responded. And yet it was all so very impersonal. Clara thought back with some nostalgia to the week of their honeymoon when he had entertained her in very similar manner but with her hand in his or with an arm about her shoulders. And there had been smiles and kisses and the endearments she had found so irritating.
If only she had swallowed her irritation and said nothing. But perhaps nothing would have been different. He would have tired of charming her after a few weeks anyway and taken himself off to London just as he had. A little later than it had actually happened, perhaps. But it would have come. Nothing would be different. Except that perhaps he would be able to look into her eyes and call her by name.
He carried her to her room at bedtime and summoned her maid. He said nothing about returning later. But she stayed awake waiting for him, hoping that he would come, doubting that he would. She wanted him with a terrible ache. She wanted him next to her. She wanted to feel his weight, the warm of his mouth, the deep and intimate joining of his body to hers.
After a few long and lonely hours she fell asleep.
Frederick paced his room for more than an hour before lying down and remaining awake for another one or two.
She was his wife. He had a right to go to her, to take her. It was not as if she had ever shown reluctance about receiving him. Quite the contrary. Even on their wedding night she had been eager. Her enjoyment of their couplings had only grown after that. She had never failed to come to climax, even during those middle-of-the-night encounters when she had sometimes lain sleepy and only gradually awaking as he had mounted her.
It was easy to bring pleasure to Clara because she anticipated pleasure and never showed anything but delight no matter where he chose to put his hands or his mouth. She was totally without the ladylike shrinking from sexual titillation that he would have expected of her or of any other lady he had chosen to marry.
There was nothing to stop him from going to her. He wanted her, surprisingly enough. Even looking back on the experienced girls he had had in the past two months did not dim the fact that tonight he wanted his wife.
And yet the very thought of all those girls and women he had enjoyed with such vigorous enthusiasm gave him pause. He was not diseased. He chose his women with far too great a care to risk that. But even so, he had only a sullied body to take to his wife. He would be putting inside her what had been in another woman just two nights before. And another the night before that. And so on back over two months.
Clara deserved better.
Besides, she despised him. She knew him for the fortune hunter that he was and the deceiver that he was. She must hate him even while she treated him with quiet courtesy—so quiet and so courteous and so impersonal since his return just that afternoon. And even while she obeyed his every command without question.
She must hate him. How could she not? He hated himself badly enough, heaven knew.
He fought desire, something he was not accustomed to doing and did not do easily at all. He fought it and won. At the expense of several hours of sleep.
Chapter 9
Clara had passed through London a few times, but she had never been there to stay. It was a city she had always yearned to see but had never really seen. Or perhaps it was just a life she had yearned to live but never could, she thought as their carriage drove through the streets on its way to their town house. Everywhere was teeming with life and motion and noise.
“Oh, how wonderful it all is,” she said, craning her neck to see all there was to be seen out of the window. “Look at it, Harriet. Have you ever seen anything like it?”
“No,” Harriet said quietly, though Clara knew that she was excited too. “I always thought that Bath was crowded and busy, but it is nothing compared to this.”
“Neither of you has been to London before?” Frederick asked.
“Only to pass through,” Clara said. “Years ago when we had just returned from India and I was still feeling sickly. Harriet has not been at all.”
“Then I shall have to make sure that you see everything that is to be seen,” he said.
It was the first time there had been any real friendliness in his voice. Were they to stay longer than a day or two, then? Was this not just a brief visit to consult Dr. Graham? Was there to be som
e sightseeing too? Some sort of holiday? Clara looked at her husband and smiled tentatively.
“Everything?” she said. “Not one thing is to be omitted, Freddie?”
“Not one.” There was a suggestion of a smile in his eyes for a moment before he looked away.
What had he been doing alone in London for two months? she wondered. But she did not like to let her thoughts dwell too long on the question. Her father too had sometimes come to town for weeks at a time, “on business.” She had guessed what that business was, just as she had known, even as a girl, why the beautiful young Indian girl, who had no definable function as a servant in their home, had continued to live there.
She did not care to think of Freddie with other women. She had known from the start that he would not be faithful to her. She had accepted the knowledge quite calmly. It was a little more difficult now that she was his wife and had known him herself. It was not pleasant to think of him doing those things to another woman. To other women.
“Is the house attractive?” she asked him.
“You can see for yourself in a moment,” he said. “You will find it considerably smaller than Ebury Court, but I like it.”
The house, four stories high, fronted on the street on one side of a pleasant, quiet square. Frederick carried his wife inside to a high tiled hallway from which an oak staircase rose straight to the first floor. He presented her to the housekeeper, who was smiling and curtsying, and to the butler, who was bowing stiffly from the waist.
“Do you want to see some of the downstairs apartments?” he asked her.
“My chair is with the baggage coach,” she said. “I am too heavy to carry, Freddie.”
For answer he carried her into the first room on his left, after instructing the housekeeper to show Miss Pope to her room.