Surrender To Ruin

by Carolyn Jewel

“A moat.” She faced the house and shaded her eyes. “A moat would be lovely. I wonder why you didn’t think of it sooner.”

  “If we’re to have one,” he said, “we must also have fish and swans, don’t you agree?”

  She threw her arms wide. “All that and a dragon!”

  He laughed. “A dragon would be required.”

  “Knights in armor riding enormous war horses.” She turned around and walked toward the edge of the lawn. “Pike the size of your arms!”

  This must be considered a good start. They weren’t arguing; quite the opposite. Had they a real marriage, based in respect and admiration, he might whisper words of love and encouragement about their future as Lord and Lady Bracebridge. A husband who cared for her might hold her hand or tuck her arm under his. Any other husband might lean in and give her a kiss. Laughter was a start, but it was not enough.

  As they headed through the trees along the path that led to a meadow to their right, he cast about for a less fanciful subject. “You’ve added Pond to your legion of admirers.”

  Her chin came up, and her mouth curved into a smile that could have inspired DaVinci to paint angels in her image. Perfect. So perfect, her beauty hid her every emotion. “I’ve done no such thing.”

  Frieda let out a loud bark and ran to the end of the leash. Bracebridge reeled her back. That done, he lifted one hand, palm out. How long before they learned to converse as a married couple? He was afraid the answer might be never. He knew so little about her and even less about holding a normal conversation with her. “As you do every man who meets you.”

  She fell silent, and that quiet was familiar from much of their journey to Scotland and back.

  “Emily.”

  “Yes?”

  “I had considered us staying in London.” How to say this to her when so many possibilities had been roiling in him since Aldreth had expressed his doubts? “But I thought it best for us to be away from society whilst our situation is so new to us.”

  She bent to pick up a stick, an action that caught Frieda’s rapt attention. She drew off one glove and peeled off a strip of bark. “Because?”

  “We do not know what rumors there are about us. Speculation has surely begun. I don’t expect Mr. Davener to keep quiet. Nor your father, who I fear has likely already told at least three different tales about our marriage. Since we are newly wed, no one will remark if we remain here.”

  “I’m surprised you care what anyone thinks. You never have before.”

  “I care now that I am your husband.”

  Her gaze flicked to him, full of doubt. Again he felt the stirring of physical admiration for her. Other than that first night, he had kept their relations subdued. But they were married. He could take her to bed whenever he pleased. Tonight, even. In his own bed. Or hers. Without any worries about needing to be on the road at some ungodly time of the morning.

  “I should like some private time to learn how to be a married man.”

  She peeled more bark off the stick. “Have I any choice?” She pressed her lips together. “You know I haven’t. Whatever you decide, I must accept. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

  “I’m not pretending anything.”

  “Yes, you are.” She dropped the stick and headed back to the house.

  “Emily.”

  She continued walking. Frieda whined, and he looked at the dog that his wife had rescued from a cruel and short life, and he found that he too couldn’t bear to think of her starving.

  Emily turned a corner, and he hurried after her. “Emily!”

  She faced him with an untroubled expression that by now alarmed him. “Don’t pretend you like me. Don’t pretend you think this marriage will succeed. For pity’s sake, at least consider the worst possible outcome.”

  “That I’ll go mad?”

  “That is farther down the list.”

  “I’d list it first or second.”

  She did not laugh, though he’d hoped to relieve the tension with the remark. She looked at the ground, then back at him. “What does it matter? Do what you will, my lord. It doesn’t matter what I think.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Someone tapped on the door to the parlor where she’d gone to avoid a confrontation with Bracebridge. She was far too on edge to deal with him without saying words she would regret. He’d brought her here, to Corth Abbey, a place that would never be her home because, the moment she stepped in, she’d seen what she hadn’t those years ago. He had made this house into what it was for Anne. Not her. Anne.

  Corth Abbey was a beautiful estate. One wanted to stay forever in such idyllic surroundings. Trees surrounded the house, with its reddish orange brick and its slate grey roof. And every square inch of the house and every acre of the property was a reminder that the former Emily Sinclair would never be the woman Bracebridge loved.

  From the other side of the door, a woman called out, “Lady Bracebridge?”

  Lady Bracebridge. She stared at the polished surface of the desk where she sat. The paper before her bore the Bracebridge crest. She’d intended to write her sisters, but she couldn’t write the truth, and she did not want to tell them lies. Instead of writing, she sat alternately staring at the wall, the floor, and the blotter. She’d filled two pages with sketches of Frieda or the view out the window. Those were now ashes in the fireplace.

  Lady Bracebridge for how long? Until the day came that she wasn’t. If he had any sense, he’d divorce her and put them both out of their misery.

  Whoever was at the door tapped again. “Milady?”

  He’d never divorce her because he’d never allow a hint of scandal to touch Anne, not if he could help it. What a fool she’d been, letting girlish dreams override that truth. What a fool she’d been to dream for even a moment that Bracebridge would ever fall in love with her.

  “Come in,” she called out.

  The young woman who entered was a year or two younger than she, freckled and wide-eyed, with dark brown hair and a warm smile. Even in her despondent state, Emily liked her immediately.

  The young woman curtseyed. “I’m Maggie, your ladyship. From Hinderhead. I’ve come to do for you until your proper maid arrives.”

  Emily was very good at convincing others she was happy, and she had no doubt she would do so now. “Good afternoon, Maggie. I am glad to have you here.”

  The young woman pressed her hands together. “Pond says you’ve been traveling several days.”

  “Forever, it seems.” Good, good. Days of travel were an excuse for her lack of enthusiasm, weren’t they? “I’m exhausted.”

  “I can only imagine,” Maggie said. “When I heard, I thought sure you would be longing for a bath. I ordered one as soon as I arrived. I hope you don’t think that’s too bold of me.”

  “Not at all.” She wanted the familiarity of home, and Mrs. Elliot bringing her tea, and the privacy of dinner in her room, yet what a relief it was not to be at the Cooperage. No matter what happened with her marriage—whether she lived here, pretending for the rest of her life that she and Bracebridge cared for each other, or alone at some other estate—she would never return to the Cooperage. Never. Emily put away the paper and stood. “I should adore a bath.”

  Maggie grinned at her. “Shall we, then?”

  From her previous visit here, Emily knew the location of the rooms that would be assigned to the mistress of the house, but even if she hadn’t, Maggie knew the way. As they came in, Maggie said, “May I ask, ma’am, if you know what they’ve done with your trunks?”

  Emily pointed at the valise Bracebridge had bought for her and that happened to be visible through the open door between the bedchamber and this anteroom. “There was a mishap, and that’s all there is just now.”

  “Oh, you poor thing!” Maggie went into the bedroom and picked up the valise to look inside. The young woman frowned. Yes. Well. There wasn’t much inside, was there? “His lordship will remedy that soon, I’m sure.”

  Would he? Emily had no idea. She
might soon know the answer, for she wasn’t convinced her father would send her things on to Corth Abbey.

  Maggie took out the brush and comb Bracebridge had bought for Emily. “Will you come into the dressing room, milady?”

  She did. Maggie put her brush and comb on the dresser top then brought out the bottle of lavender water Bracebridge had also purchased for her. Maggie quickly emptied the valise of its other, meager contents and put them away in the wardrobe. “I’ll do what I can with what you have, if you don’t mind waiting a bit to be dressed after your bath.”

  “Not at all.” Emily would happily wait a year without leaving this room.

  “I’m good with needle and thread. Now, come sit here.” Maggie stood behind Emily when she’d taken a seat at the dressing table and began taking pins from Emily’s hair. When she’d found the last one, she picked up the brush. She had a light, deft hand. “What a lovely color your hair is, milady. Like gold.”

  “You will find, Maggie, that I do not care for compliments.” Emily half turned on the chair and smiled to mitigate the impact of what amounted to a remonstrance. “I’m vain enough as it is.”

  Maggie continued brushing Emily’s hair, though her cheeks were flushed. “Congratulations on your marriage.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The whole of Hinderhead has been wondering when his lordship would marry. Some were convinced he never would, what with him being so . . .” Maggie cleared her throat.

  “Dignified?”

  In the dresser mirror, Maggie’s smile turned impish. “Yes, milady. Dignified. Mrs. Duncan hoped he’d wed one of her daughters, but she’s the only one who thought that might happen.”

  Emily closed her eyes and savored this moment of repose. But for the hollow malaise of her stomach, she could almost imagine she was home. “How did you meet his lordship? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  Emily could pretend to be happy. She could. She would. She must, for as long as necessary, pretend there was nothing unusual about her marriage. Still with her eyes closed, she said, “Lord Bracebridge has been acquainted with my family for some years. Since I was a girl.”

  “Has he? What took him so long, then?”

  Emily looked at Maggie and saw nothing but curiosity. Her eyes drifted closed again. “He loved my eldest sister, but she married someone else.”

  “Ah.” Maggie repinned Emily’s hair without further conversation. What a relief that Maggie knew when silence was better than chatter.

  Her bath was soon ready, and Emily luxuriated in the water. Somehow, despite this being a household of men, Maggie had procured jasmine oil for the water and had added just the right amount. Emily remembered the jasmine soap from her previous visit, each new bar imprinted with the coat of arms of the Earls of Bracebridge.

  Afterward, Maggie helped Emily into a fresh chemise and a too large robe. Thus clad, she crawled between the sheets of the bed where she and Lucy had once whispered secrets to each other, never dreaming that Anne’s life and theirs were about to change forever. She fell asleep almost immediately.

  Maggie woke her in time to dress for dinner. While she had been sleeping, Maggie had cleaned her gown and, miraculously, obtained several new garments: a mantle, a cashmere shawl, silk stockings, and new linens. She’d even had time to stitch a monogram in one of the chemises: the letter B surrounded by roses.

  Maggie dressed Emily’s hair in a loose style bound with a blue ribbon but primarily held up by the combs Bracebridge had bought for her. “There, milady.” Maggie took a step back to inspect the result of her work. “Quite respectable, I think.”

  Emily did not bother looking in the mirror. “Thank you.”

  When she entered the anteroom where she’d been told Bracebridge was waiting, he was standing at a window overlooking the back portion of Corth Abbey. Even with the hollowness that had taken over her, she shivered at the sight of him. She liked his size, his wild, dark curls, the breadth of his shoulders.

  “During the day,” he said, turning partly toward her, “the view is spectacular.”

  “Is there any here that isn’t?” She seemed to have stumbled onto the correct response, for he smiled. “I have always thought Corth Abbey was a beautiful property.”

  He tugged on the bottom of his waistcoat. He wore a fresh suit in the somber colors he preferred. Tonight was fawn trousers, a charcoal waistcoat, and a starched neckcloth. Looking directly into her eyes, he said, “Already you’ve made changes here.”

  She stiffened and came up with nothing when she cataloged what she’d done since she’d gone upstairs. The answer was nothing but bathe. Did he mean Maggie? Had Maggie done something he objected to? The clothes she’d procured? Having a bath brought to her?

  Emily maintained her smile. “If you mean Maggie—that’s the girl Pond found for me—I assure you, your quarrel is with me, my lord. Anything she’s done, she’s done at my direction.”

  He pointed to a vase of roses on a table near where he stood. “There have never been flowers in this room before.”

  Given that she’d made no such request, the flowers must have been Maggie’s work or Pond’s. Whoever it was, she wasn’t about to let Bracebridge blame any of the servants. “My apologies.” She went to the bell pull. “Since you object to them, I’ll have them removed.”

  “Emily,” he said.

  He was too big, too vital. How had she not seen that before, that a man like him could only overwhelm her? She turned, sick with tension, absolutely sick with it, but she smiled as if she weren’t.

  “I do not object.”

  Here was another difference between her and Anne; her eldest sister possessed a well of patience. She did not, and she refused to even try to be Anne. She knew her own flaws too well to think there was any hope of success in that. “Then why address me as if you do?”

  “Forgive me.” He looked abashed. “A poor attempt at humor.” He took a step back. “The flowers are lovely. I’m pleased the staff thought to put them in here.”

  She drew a steadying breath with little success. “These past days. It’s been . . . difficult. I fear I have temporarily lost my sense of humor. But only temporarily, I hope.” He did not look comfortable at all. What an awful mess this was. “I don’t know how you expect me to behave. I don’t know anything, and . . . and . . .” Oh, this was all just too much. Too much. “I thought you were angry with me.”

  “No.”

  She sank onto a nearby chair and covered her face with her hands until she was certain she could speak normally. Her chest was tight with an excess of emotion that would not be suppressed. “It’s too much!” she said. “Too much. I cannot bear this. Not any of it.”

  “What?”

  “This. Everything.” How dare he look so confused? As if he did not know what a mistake they’d made. As if he did not resent her presence here. “This is your home, not mine.”

  “All this over my jest about the flowers?”

  His dismissive tone focused her anger, a perverse sort of lifeline. “No. Not over flowers.” She sat straighter. “Unlike my sisters, I do not bear my burdens in silence. You shall learn that about me. I am surprised you haven’t already.”

  “That is demonstrably untrue.” He bit off his words. “You most certainly do bear your burdens in silence.”

  So it began. The littlest thing set them to arguing. “You are laughably wrong, sir.”

  “Whom did you tell about your father and what you endured over the last year? Was it Aldreth you told? Cynssyr? Thrale? One of your sisters, perhaps? Or was it no one at all?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “The difference between this marriage, another marriage, or no marriage at all.”

  She gripped the sides of her chair, sick with the realization that he was right. “You blame me.”

  He paced along the windows, shaking his head. “No. No, Em. That’s nonsense.”

  “Is it?”

  “Have you forgotten it was I who prop
osed to you?” He stopped a few feet from her, eyebrows drawn together, but she met his gaze evenly. “Had you told anyone about your father, things might not have come to this pass, true, but I proposed this marriage to you, not the other way round. I’ll take that blame, Em.”

  “Do whatever you like.”

  “Come now.” He smiled in an infuriatingly encouraging manner. “No more talk of blame. It accomplishes nothing. We must learn to get on better, you and I.”

  “Get on better? How? I don’t know how to behave with you, Bracebridge. Not as myself, for plainly that would be disagreeable to you.”

  “That’s not so.”

  “I cannot be Anne. I’m nothing like her. I’d fail if I tried, and you’d hate me more for yet another failure.”

  His cheeks turned a faint pink. “I do not expect that of you.”

  “You’re lying and think I’m too stupid to know.”

  Pond came in to announce dinner was served, and they fell silent. She was hideously aware of Bracebridge staring at her as if she had snakes instead of hair.

  “Thank you,” he said to Pond. “We’ll be in straightaway.”

  Once Pond left, she said, “All this time, I have been asking myself, what would Anne do? She would know exactly the words to use to smooth all this over. But I am not her. I am not. I’m nothing like her.”

  His black, black eyes were on her, and she was dizzy with lust for him. He’d not touched her in days, not really. The difference between that first time and all the others was too marked. She could not stop thinking about that one night. One night of heaven. Once. Only once, and never since.

  “I haven’t asked you to be anyone but yourself.”

  “No, but you wish I were anyone but me.”

  “I have no desire to quarrel.”

  “Nor I.” She bent her head to her lap until she’d mastered the emotions churning through her. “Forgive me. I am tired and out of sorts, and . . .” She straightened, waved a hand, and let it fall to her side again. “I do not mean to be difficult. Truly, I don’t.” She rubbed her face and let out a long sigh. “Tomorrow will be a better day. I promise you.”