A Notorious Vow (The Four Hundred #3)

by Joanna Shupe

  Perhaps he had grown tired of writing in his ledger to communicate. Or, had he used his voice? I know it sounds strange, he’d once told her. I try not to talk unless absolutely necessary. Had someone once insulted his voice? She hoped not. She quite liked the sound of it.

  Suddenly, she realized how unfair it was to expect him to write everything down for her all the time. She would need to learn his manual language, no matter how long it took. She had practiced the few signs he’d taught her, but that would not be enough. “Does the staff know the sign language Mr. Hawkes uses to communicate?” she asked.

  “Most of us have picked up a tiny bit,” Shannon said. “Mr. Gill knows the most, seeing how Mr. Hawkes uses him to translate. I would be happy to show your ladyship what I have learned, if you like.”

  “Thank you, I would appreciate that.” Maybe she would ask Gill to teach her as well. The idea excited her. She had never been much for talking, much preferring to stand in the background and listen to others. Perhaps using her hands would be easier. Thank goodness Oliver had pushed for a private wedding with only a few guests. Reciting vows in front of hundreds of people in a big church would have caused her to hyperventilate.

  Speaking of guests, she had another question for her maid. “Does anyone come to dine or visit with Mr. Hawkes?”

  “No, ma’am. The only visitors I have ever seen are Miss Sarah, Dr. Jacobs, and Mr. Hawkes’s cousin.”

  Oliver had a cousin? She was not certain why she found that piece of news surprising, especially when she knew next to nothing about her new husband. Shannon had proved quite indispensable on Christina’s first night in the house. “Do you know much about this cousin?”

  “Only that Mr. Hawkes does not care for him. The two of them argue something fierce whenever he visits.”

  Servants often knew more than they let on about their employers. Christina hoped Shannon fell in this group. “Have you an inkling what the arguments were regarding?”

  “It has to do with money, usually. Mr. Hawkes refuses to give his cousin a larger allowance. Makes his cousin spitting mad.”

  Interesting. It seemed they both had impoverished family members. Learning about Oliver’s cousin made Christina feel a tiny amount better about her parents. “Thank you, Shannon.”

  The maid smiled. “No need to thank me, ma’am. Like I said, we are all so happy you have allowed Mr. Hawkes to sweep you off your feet. It is the most romantic thing we’ve ever heard.”

  Christina could feel her skin heating. Romantic? More like desperation on her part. She could not say why Oliver had agreed to the marriage. All Patricia had said was, “I shall make him understand.” Understand what, exactly?

  Unfortunately she would not arrive at an answer until she could get Patricia alone.

  Shannon excused herself for the night, a knowing look in her eye as she closed the door. Christina had no clue on what to do while she waited for Oliver. Would he expect her to be waiting under the covers? She tried to breathe through her nerves and uncertainty. People did this nightly, correct? She would be fine. Hopefully.

  A small band of light shone from under Oliver’s door. He was there. She’d heard him moving about not too long ago. What was he dawdling for? Her heart pounded as she stood there, watching the partition in anticipation.

  When fifteen minutes passed, she sat on the edge of her mattress. After another thirty minutes, she smothered a yawn and brushed her hair again. Once an hour had gone by, she grew alarmed. Had she done something wrong?

  He had bid her good night after taking great care in showing her the adjoining door to his suites. If you need anything, anything at all, I am right here, he had written.

  Was she supposed to go to him tonight?

  Her knees knocking with trepidation, she glared at the door in the hopes it would suddenly provide answers. Lord, no one had told her a wedding night would be so dashed complicated. Obviously she’d gotten this part wrong.

  You are a vessel for his lust. Go, do your duty.

  And still she waited, praying for a miracle. A sign. Locusts, a plague—anything to save her the embarrassment of having to enter his bedroom.

  The fire in Oliver’s bedroom blazed, orange-and-red shadows bouncing off the walls, as he relaxed with a healthy glass of brandy, trying to forget the evening’s events. Christina’s parents had been nothing short of awful.

  No wonder Christina had been so eager to marry him, a man she hardly knew. Tomorrow, he’d send a message to the earl and offer him a tidy sum of money to take his wife and leave New York. Perhaps then Christina could breathe easier.

  She had appeared exhausted so he escorted her to her new chambers, leaving the staff to see her settled. Tomorrow he would give her a tour and explain the way their marriage would work. It was best they respected each other’s privacy from the start—

  Movement along the wall caught his eye and he started, his body tense and ready. Christina. Oh, Christ. He exhaled, fighting the ever-present fear of never knowing when someone was sneaking up on him. She froze at his expression, instantly contrite, and he tried to keep from showing his irritation.

  “Oliver, I am sorry.”

  “It is fine,” he signed. He was unused to anyone other than longtime servants in the house. The staff was well trained on not startling him. Besides, everyone should be abed at this time of night . . .

  So what was she doing here?

  He studied her as he came to his feet. A dark blue wrapper engulfed her from head to toe, dragging the ground like a train. Was that . . . ? Ah, they had given her his dressing gown until her things were brought over.

  Waves of brown hair cascaded past her shoulders. The long strands were lovely, thick and lush, as if recently brushed. His fingers itched to touch the silken length, to feel it on his skin. Bare feet peeked out from the silk edges of the dressing gown, revealing delicate, pretty toes. Merely seeing them was too intimate by half. It had him thinking about the heat and wetness he could find higher between her legs . . . It had been ages for him, eons it seemed, since he’d last felt a woman’s slick warmth. Tasted the sweet tang of her arousal on his tongue. And he had not missed it, not really, until this woman came into his life a week ago.

  Yet he could not bed his wife. She is not really your wife. She is living under the same roof with you for the next year. That is all.

  Even more reason not to bed her.

  He set down his glass and clasped his hands. Why was she so pale? Even in the dim light he could see her pallor. “Are you all right?” he signed.

  She pushed off the wall and straightened, her neck elongated. “Fine. I . . .” He saw her throat work as she swallowed. “I have been waiting for you.”

  Waiting for him? He searched his brain for anything he’d promised. What could she possibly think at this hour—

  Oh, God almighty. She thought they would consummate the marriage tonight. No wonder she looked on the verge of fainting. “No, we are not doing that,” he said, moving closer, his hands signing in time with his voice. He needed her to understand now and his pencil was nowhere close by.

  She cast a quick glance at his enormous bed and then frowned at him. “I am afraid I do not understand.”

  “Please, sit.” He held out an arm toward the chairs by the fire. As much as he wanted her out of his bedroom, he needed to ease her mind first. Perhaps it was best to have this conversation now. “Please, Christina,” he signed.

  She glided gracefully to the chairs and lowered herself into one. Folding her hands, she waited patiently as he retrieved his ledger and pencil from the dresser and then settled.

  “Brandy?” he asked, pointing to his glass.

  “No, thank you.”

  He flipped to a blank page and wrote, There is no need to consummate our marriage. I think it is best if we remain married for only a year. Then you may still find a decent husband after we separate.

  She accepted the ledger and read. He was not surprised when she reached for the pencil instead
of speaking a reply. He sensed she was better able to communicate her thoughts this way, as when explaining about Van Peet. Her hand began to move quickly over the paper. I do not understand. Married for one year?

  He nodded. The point was to remove you out from under your parents. We have done that. Now you shall have some time to acclimate to America and decide where you would like to live. I am prepared to give you an obscene amount of money when we annul our marriage. You need not ever worry again.

  He was surprised when her brow furrowed even further. Had she not found his statement reassuring? I understand, she wrote. That probably makes the most sense. I know you never wanted to marry me. Patricia likely guilted you into it.

  Partially, but guilt had not been the only reason. No use admitting the truth, however, that he’d hated to see her given to another man, especially one like Van Peet. She deserved better. She deserved happiness and love, everything the world could offer. And when she and Oliver separated, she would have the means to find it all.

  I never wanted to marry anyone. It had nothing to do with you. However, we are now married so we should discuss how to carry on.

  After she finished reading, she wrote. But I thought for it to be legal . . . ?

  No, he said. This is not medieval Scotland. No one will inspect the bedsheets in the morning.

  Her skin turned a bright pink at those words. Oh. You must think I am silly.

  “Absolutely not.” He motioned for the ledger, which she promptly returned. But while you are here, we should discuss our marriage honestly and openly. I do not expect you to cater to me as your real husband. Instead, while we are under the same roof for the next year, I think it best if we live totally separate lives.

  A flash of something crossed her face—annoyance? disappointment?—but then she quickly masked it. “How shall that work?”

  He continued pouring his thoughts onto the page. I keep odd hours and prefer to be by myself. You are free to roam about the house and the grounds, of course, while all I ask is that you respect the privacy of my chambers and the greenhouse. Also, we needn’t schedule dinners or outings together. You may come and go as you please. I shall have a healthy allowance set up for you.

  She showed no reaction as she read. This puzzled him. He’d expected relief, to be honest. Especially since she’d come into his room a few minutes ago as if on a march to the guillotine. Clearly, bedding him was not something she yearned to do. So why was not she happy at this news?

  “I understand,” she said and pushed to her feet.

  Something was off, he was certain of it. Over the years, he had learned to watch faces carefully and read into what people did not say. Christina was holding back, bottling up whatever thoughts and feelings she had. “Wait.” He stood and took her elbow, turning her to where he could better see her face. “Tell me what is wrong.”

  “Nothing.” She shook her head. “I am quite tired. I shall see you . . . well, at some point, I suppose. Good night, Oliver. Thank you again for rescuing me.”

  The back of his neck itched as she picked her way across the carpets toward the door. He thought about calling to her, taking it all back. Tossing her on his bed and throwing open her dressing gown. Dragging his tongue across her nipples and down her flat stomach . . .

  But where would that leave them?

  He hated that she’d been forced to defend him to her parents. He’s deformed. An imbecile, I understand. The countess’s words replayed in his head. How long before Christina tired of making excuses for him, grew tired of trying to force him into her world?

  He was too practical, too different to flit about New York society. A deaf man who once possessed hearing was a bit of an anomaly, not quite fitting in anywhere. At deaf school, he’d been the odd one out, always reminded that his late onset deafness made him different than everyone else. He remembered sounds and tones, could speak when he wanted, yet he struggled in the hearing world, too. A few gestures and misspoken words would have others snickering at him, humiliation burning his insides.

  No, he no longer needed their acceptance or approval. He liked his life, his pursuits. His home. Therefore, it was better to keep his distance from his new wife. They were friends who would separate after a year. He’d done her this favor, but he had no intention of making it permanent.

  The sooner she came to terms with that, the better.

  Chapter Eight

  For the first time in her life, Christina overslept.

  The morning after the wedding, she awoke completely on her own, without her mother or a maid rousing her. Oliver, she soon learned, had sent instructions to the staff not to disturb her. She planned to thank him—that is, if she ever saw him.

  Perhaps not seeing him this morning was a blessing, considering the humiliation of last night. First, the incident with Van Peet, then her parents. Those paled in comparison, however, to bursting into her new husband’s chambers and begging to consummate the marriage.

  Lord above, she wanted to die from the embarrassment.

  As if that were not awful enough, he’d turned her down. Not that she blamed him, considering he had married her out of pity. She let out a deep breath as she came down the stairs. Pity or not, Oliver had rescued her from a fate worse than death. So if the price was a lonely twelve months inside this huge house she would gladly endure it.

  A footman was kind enough to point her in the direction of the breakfast room. As she wandered, she soaked in her surroundings. Oliver’s home was stunning, the interior bright and cheery with gleaming wood and shining gold accents. French furniture and Eastern rugs, with flowers every which way one turned. He must have them brought in—unless there was another greenhouse hidden on the property somewhere.

  A comfortable house, it was stately without being too ostentatious. The sort of place where children played and laughter could be heard throughout the day. Certainly nothing like her childhood home.

  There had been no laughter in the Barclay residence or other children with whom to play. Dark draperies and old, worn furniture had comprised the decor. Anything of value sold off, it was a house in decline, its best years long passed, the only saving grace its location in Mayfair.

  Gill was waiting in the breakfast room, along with another footman. “Good morning, madam. Would you care for breakfast?”

  She replied in the affirmative and soon she had a steaming cup of tea in front of her, along with a plate piled high with food from the sideboard.

  “Was there any place in particular you wished to go today, madam?” Gill asked.

  She sipped her tea and considered this. An entire city awaited her. She could do anything. Go anywhere. There wasn’t a soul to stop her or tell her what to do. No one to criticize her or even keep track of her whereabouts.

  So why was she not more excited at the prospect of leaving the house?

  Her stomach clenched at the thought of aimlessly wandering through crowds and street traffic today. Was it wrong to stay in and explore inside instead? “I have a confession,” she said. “I believe I would rather—”

  A footman entered the room just then, a stocky older man on his heels. “Mr. Milton Hawkes, madam.”

  Milton Hawkes? Hawkes, as in Oliver’s cousin, the one Shannon had mentioned last night?

  “And just who are you?” Mr. Hawkes stopped short and put his hands on his hips. “Some doxy he hired who’s overstayed her welcome?”

  Christina’s jaw fell open, but she quickly recovered. “I am Mrs. Oliver Hawkes.”

  The man’s skin turned the color of snow as his mouth worked. “Did . . . did you say Mrs. Oliver Hawkes?”

  “Yes. Mr. Hawkes and I are married.”

  He staggered and grabbed a chair back. “No, this cannot be. It absolutely cannot be. Oliver would not marry. He’s quite determined to remain alone to focus on his inventions.”

  “The lady speaks the truth.” Gill’s voice cut through the elegant dining room like a blade. “Mr. Hawkes has taken a bride.”

&n
bsp; Milton Hawkes raked her with dull greenish brown eyes that were similar to Oliver’s but not nearly as beautiful. “What kind of game are you playing, madam?”

  “I—There is no game, sir.”

  The man drew himself up, standing taller. “I am Oliver’s only living relative, his first cousin. And I am certain you would not have married him unless you have some sort of angle. What, do you hope to bilk him out of his fortune?”

  She nearly snorted. If all she cared about was money she would have married Van Peet.

  “Mr. Hawkes,” Gill snapped. “You must speak to her ladyship with respect, or else Mr. Hawkes shall—”

  “Or else Oliver shall what? Make a bunch of hand movements to frighten me?” Milton then sneered at her, his tone frosty. “You may think you are clever, but you will never get that money—”

  The terrace doors flew open and Oliver rushed inside, his hair rumpled and windblown. He wore his customary shirtsleeves with the cuffs rolled over his forearms, and she took a moment to appreciate the dusting of dark hair atop rough skin, the muscles and tendons conveying strength. Her chest fluttered, even though she knew he was not hers to ogle.

  You are not really married. He made his wishes perfectly clear last night.

  His face flushed and taut, Oliver began signing, with Gill translating for Milton. “What are you doing here? We discussed my aversion to unannounced visits the last time you dropped by.”

  “I have something I wish to discuss with you, cousin. Yet imagine my surprise when I arrive and find that you have married.”

  The two men stared at one another intently and Oliver’s jaw twitched unhappily. He obviously did not care for his cousin and the same could be said for Milton. Oliver’s hands moved rapidly and Gill said, “My personal life is hardly your concern.”

  “Come now, is that any way to treat family? I am your only relative, after all. Should I not be friendly with my cousin’s wife?”

  That seemed to make Oliver angrier. “I do not want you talking to my wife. Do not even breathe her name. She does not exist. Do we understand one another?”