The Wicked Wife (Blackhaven Brides Book 9)

by Mary Lancaster

  She stepped back in panic, but he followed, and his arms went around her. An instant later, she felt his fingers unlacing her gown. “What are you doing?”

  “Undressing you. I have a notion to be your maid for the evening.” He turned her, gently, to make his job easier. She stood rigid, trying not to feel the thrill of his fingers brushing her back. “I believed that if I loved you while you carried our child, I could harm you both.”

  “I find it hard to imagine a man of your experience would believe such arrant rubbish.”

  “I do not discuss such intimacies with my married friends,” he said dryly.

  She twisted her head around to stare up at him. “Then with whom?”

  For a moment he was silent. “It was my mother’s advice,” he said reluctantly. “She also told me I should leave you alone for at least six months after the birth.”

  “Did she also tell you not to discuss the matter with your wife?”

  For the first time that she could remember, color seeped into his cheeks. “No. That was my decision. I knew you would never deny me your bed.”

  The day dress fell around her feet. In her stays and stockings, she faced away from him once more. It seemed easier that way. “And you imagined I would be happier if you took your pleasure elsewhere?”

  His big, tender hands closed over her shoulders, drawing her back against him. “I take pleasure in no one else. I never did, since meeting you, and I never will.”

  She closed her eyes, longing to believe him. But she no longer knew him. She had never known him. Besides, his words were ambiguous. He could have tumbled any number of women in the last year without any great or true pleasure, just to relieve the itch of unspecific lust.

  His lips brushed the sensitive skin joining her neck and shoulder, and her breath shuddered in pleasure. But she forced herself to remain rigid in his hold.

  He stepped back, drawing her by the hand to the bed. “Am I to understand that you would have welcomed my… presence?”

  “Of course,” she managed. “As you said yourself, I would never deny you my bed.”

  “Except tonight, apparently.” He dropped the pale underdress over her head and she thrust her arms through it. He began to fasten the laces. “Would you rather I were the Russian?”

  “You are the Russian,” she said indignantly.

  He reached for the blue gown. “And you were ‘Mrs. Alan.’ We were both pretending. Is there really such a difference?”

  “You were testing me!”

  He turned her to face the looking glass and drew the pins from her hair. “No. I was trying to give you the fun I so foolishly denied you over the last year.”

  Their eyes met in the glass. She could not breathe.

  And then a knock at the door made her jump. She had the feeling Torridon was about to tell whoever it was to go to the devil. He had that look in his eyes as he opened his mouth, and it thrilled her.

  “Come in,” she called perversely, and Kitty the maid stuck her head around the door.

  “Lady Braithwaite sent me, my lady, since your own maid isn’t with you.”

  Torridon stepped back. “You may dress her ladyship’s hair. That is beyond my skills.”

  Tucking his shirt into his pantaloons, he picked a snowy white cravat from the back of a chair and walked away to the smaller mirror.

  Chapter Twelve

  The bedchamber encounter with his wife gave Torridon plenty to think about that evening. For the first time, he began seriously to doubt both his mother’s agenda and his own reliance upon her opinion. Frances had been so precious to him, and he was so conscious of the fact that his eldest sister had died in childbirth, that he had taken his mother’s advice as gospel—which he never had before, not since he was ten years old. He should have discussed such matters with the doctor instead.

  Had he really been so blind that he had not seen how his excessive care hurt Frances in so many other ways? Certainly, there had been a shade of grimness about it, caused by his self-imposed celibacy. And perhaps he’d been influenced after all by the austere Presbyterian attitude of so many of his countrymen, that suffering was good for his soul.

  Without meaning to, he had put spiritual as well as physical distance between them, all because he wanted to keep her and the baby safe. And he had let his mother rule his wife’s house.

  “What in God’s name was I thinking?”

  Since he spoke aloud while walking downstairs with his wife on his arm, she glanced at him askance.

  “I have no idea,” she replied.

  “Are you afraid of me, Frances?”

  She blinked. “No. Though you can be intimidating, you were never so with me.”

  “Then why do you never tell me I’m talking rubbish or that I am just plain wrong? Politeness?”

  A frown flickered on her brow. Her eyes were wary. “It depends which particular rubbish you mean.”

  “About your safety before and after Jamie was born.”

  Her breath caught and she looked away. “I told you. I took it to be your excuse. Your politeness, if you will.”

  To his annoyance, they had reached the bottom of the stairs and were about to meet up with Serena and Tamar who were approaching the drawing room from the other direction. “You thought I was politely tired of you?” he said urgently.

  “Aren’t you?” Frances dropped his arm and went at once to Serena.

  The adult family members had gathered in the drawing room, along with the Wickendens and Tamar’s brother, Lord Sylvester. The next guests to arrive were the famous Captain Alban and his wife Lady Arabella, the Duke of Kelburn’s daughter. They were introduced as Mr. and Mrs. Lamont, since apparently, he was related to one of the local landowners.

  Torridon, who had vaguely expected a loud, swaggering sailor, was surprised to discover a quietly spoken, serious man. On his arm was a pretty but slightly eccentric looking lady in spectacles. She seemed shy, although Frances soon began to draw her out.

  “You’re not driving all the way back to Roseley tonight, are you?” Braithwaite said to Alban.

  “No, I have a ship anchored close to the harbor. We’ll row out there—we sail in the morning anyway.”

  “Are you comfortable with that?” Serena asked Lady Arabella.

  “Oh yes. I hardly ever feel sick, now, and I like being at sea.”

  Only then did Torridon notice the slight bump beneath Lady Arabella’s dress. She was with child. And her husband took her to sea. However, she looked perfectly healthy with such treatment. While Frances, he remembered, had grown pale and listless and increasingly discontented. She hadn’t been ill. She had been bored.

  His speculations were interrupted by the arrival of the Grants and the Daxtons, both of whom he had met before. In fact, he had known Grant in his army days and was still somewhat stunned to find the man the vicar of St. Andrews in Blackhaven. Remembering him, Torridon didn’t share his wife’s wonder that he had tamed the wild Kate Crowmore, the wicked lady herself. Well, not tamed. But he’d married her and she was clearly perfectly happy with her life.

  Daxton was younger, a contemporary of his friend Tamar. A restless, volatile but rather charming man, he could also talk about serious issues, especially land improvement, about which he knew a surprising amount. His wife was a calmer young lady with laughing eyes and a sweet temperament, already, clearly, a friend of Kate’s and Lady Wickenden’s.

  The final guests to arrive were Colonel and Mrs. Benedict. Torridon had met them at the ball, although in fact he had previously known Mrs. Benedict as Miss Grey, the Braithwaite children’s governess. But Benedict was also known to him by reputation: for years he had led an elite troop of fighting men on special tasks behind enemy lines, tasks for which the term “forlorn hope” was never even invoked. A stern man, he also turned out to be humorous and extremely well read for a fighting man. He had even published a new book on botany. And although it was considered an unequal match by some, he and “Miss Grey” seemed perfe
ct for each other.

  It was a jolly company. Even the dowager Lady Braithwaite relaxed into benevolence. And Eleanor was a perfect hostess, leading the guests into dinner on Lord Daxton’s arm. The conversation was lively and informal, full of wit and laughter, the sort Torridon enjoyed and was not above joining in. Indeed, he cast the odd word here and there, but too frequently, he found his attention wandering back to his wife.

  Frances shone. Beautiful, quick-witted, and lively, she charmed the whole company. Torridon found it hard to drag his gaze away from her brilliance. If she was aware of his observation, she gave no sign, although once as he laughed at one of Lady Arabella’s unexpectedly droll remarks, he happened to glance up and meet Frances’s gaze. Spontaneously, his smile widened, and a response quirked her lips as if she couldn’t help it. And then she turned hastily back to her own conversation.

  It was a little like falling in love all over again, wondering if the lovely, spirited girl with all the admirers and suitors would even notice him. And his heart would pound at one glance from her. It still did. And he was still trying to win her.

  Well, perhaps not “still”. That had been the problem. He had stopped trying and risked losing, not his wife, perhaps, but his wife’s love.

  *

  When the dinner guests had departed, Braithwaite proposed a toast to Serena and Tamar, and after that, everyone drifted away, leaving Frances alone with her sister, still talking. Frances knelt on the Persian rug before the fire, while Serena sat in the closest arm chair.

  “I should go and feed my child,” Frances said at last. “He will be screaming at poor Torridon.”

  “Poor Torridon,” Serena quoted, “yet you say it with considerable satisfaction.”

  Frances laughed. “Perhaps I do.”

  Serena leaned forward. “Frances, is everything well between you?”

  Frances opened her mouth to lie. But this was Serena. She would know. She already knew. “Not really, no.”

  “Because of your prank with Ariadne Marshall?”

  “Well, that didn’t help. I… I am so crushed, Serena.”

  Serena slid down onto the rug beside her. “Oh, my dear, how? Why?”

  Frances shook her head. “He looks after me as if I’m porcelain, not flesh and blood. I am all but confined to the house while old Lady Torridon manages the duties I am apparently too weak to cope with. I see no one except her and the minister’s wife. And Torridon only at mealtimes if he happens to be in the house.”

  Serena’s eyes widened in shock. “But how has Torridon let this happen? How have you?”

  Frances sighed. “I don’t know. I suppose I felt precious being coddled, just at first. And then I didn’t want to displease him by making a fuss or quarreling with his mother. It happened so slowly, so gradually… and I have been very involved with Jamie, of course…” Frances drew in her breath. “I think… he no longer loves me. Or that he never did. I merely misunderstood a respectable, civilized marriage of convenience. And I cannot bear that he was merely being polite.”

  “Torridon?” Serena said in a startled voice. “Frances, the man is infamous for saying exactly what he thinks. He is brutally honest. I cannot think for one moment that he would declare his love for you if it were not true.”

  “Well, that’s the thing,” Frances murmured, gazing into the fire rather than her sister’s face. “He never did. I assumed. Because I loved him, and because he was so very… tender.” So much so that there had been times when she had longed for him to lose control, to sweep them both into the wilder passion that she was sure lurked in him… just not for her.

  “But… but he is devoted to you,” Serena said, sounding bewildered. “It’s in his eyes, his face, his every gesture, every time he looks at you. Anyone can see that.”

  “Can they?” she whispered wistfully.

  “He followed you here, didn’t he?”

  Frances shrugged impatiently. “That was different. He was reclaiming what was his, testing what was his to see if I would betray him.”

  “But you wouldn’t!” Serena exclaimed, and then glanced at her askance. “Would you?”

  “Oh, for goodness sake, what do you take me for?” Frances demanded.

  “I take you to be unhappy. You can do anything when you’re unhappy.”

  “Well, I bolted down here incognito just to win a wager I could not pay if I lost. And so, made things worse.”

  Serena contemplated that for a little. “What will you do now?”

  “I don’t know. I’m so angry with him and with me, and still he is so damnably… civil!”

  Serena laughed. “What a monster the man is.”

  Frances gave a reluctant smile. “I am unreasonable, I know. But I can’t help thinking that if he cared, he would shout at me.”

  Serena shook her head. “He would not shout at you.”

  Frances gazed at her in astonishment, waiting for more, but Serena was silent for some time.

  “Do you want my advice, Fran?” she said at last.

  Frances nodded.

  “Seduce him,” Serena said bluntly.

  “Serena!” Somehow, she was shocked by such words from her little sister, but Serena was married now, too, with a child on the way. “Is that how you get around Tamar?”

  “Sometimes,” Serena admitted with a quick smile. “It doesn’t always work, of course, but it is fun trying.”

  Frances laughed and climbed to her feet. “I shall bear it in mind. I must go and feed my little monster, but I’ll be up in the morning to see you off. Goodnight, Serena.”

  They embraced, and then Frances hurried off. She went first to Maria’s chamber and found her sound asleep. With relief, she moved on to the nursery and discovered her younger sisters in the same condition. Satisfied, and with no further excuse to put it off, she returned to the bedchamber she shared with her husband. A lamp still burned there, illuminating a rather charming vignette.

  Torridon was sitting up in bed, bare-chested, and bouncing a grinning, laughing baby on his lap. So much for him screaming at his father.

  “Supper has arrived,” he told the baby. “I suppose that means I shall be ignored now.”

  Jamie turned his wobbly head and focused on Frances as she approached the bed. He smiled and returned to gazing at his father.

  “Apparently not,” she said lightly.

  “Not yet,” Torridon corrected. “Sit on the bed and I’ll unfasten you.”

  She obeyed, telling herself she couldn’t face ringing for a maid at this time. But as he unlaced her gown and her stays, she couldn’t help remembering her sister’s advice. Seduce him.

  There were many reasons she did not feel able to try. And yet her body remembered his touch and reacted without permission.

  She refused to look at him as she walked across the room, so that her back was to him. She let her clothes drop to the floor and slipped her loose night rail over her head before picking up the fallen garments and tossing them on the chair beside Alan’s. He must have dismissed his valet, too.

  She turned back to the bed, trying not to stare at his broad, naked shoulders and chest. Why did he not wear a night shirt? His skin looked golden in the lamp light, and in spite of everything, she ached to touch it, stroke it.

  Torridon reached out one hand and turned back the covers for her. Without fuss, she walked across the room and climbed in, reaching for the baby with rather more calm than she actually felt.

  Jamie gave up his game for his supper quite happily. Stroking his head as she often did while he fed, and gazing into his large, adoring eyes, she was nevertheless very aware of her watching husband. Her night rail was pushed off one shoulder to enable her to feed, and his gaze seemed to burn her naked skin.

  Seduce him…

  Would she not know then if he loved her?

  No, for he would want another heir. That was not love.

  “I am a decisive man by nature,” he said conversationally. “I commanded men, led them into battle wi
th no doubts as to how and when, and I did it well. And yet in normal life, I flounder. I do not know how to be the Earl of Torridon. I have no idea how to care for a wife and child, and so I have relied on the advice of the woman closest to me who has had children of her own. I forgot such advice could be… colored by many things that have nothing to do with you or me or Jamie. I’m sorry. I should have listened to your instincts and my own.”

  Slowly, she raised her gaze to his, searching his serious, dark eyes.

  He said, “I could not bear to lose you.”

  Her heartbeat had quickened. She swallowed, trying to calm it. “Why not?” she asked boldly. “There are other women of birth and property who could give you children.”

  A frown tugged at his brow and vanished. “There is only one you.” His eyes were warm, heart-meltingly tender… surely a man could not simulate such emotion?

  She tilted her chin. “Does that mean you love me?”

  He blinked. “Do you really need to ask that?” he said hoarsely.

  “Yes.”

  His eyes widened. Slowly, he reached out and touched her cheek, letting the backs of his fingers trail down to her lips. “Then yes, I love you. Everyone but you knows I have always loved you.”

  Warm blood seeped into her face. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but some intense, powerful emotion seemed to be trying to burst out of her.

  “Perhaps you told everyone but me,” she managed.

  “I am not good with words,” he said ruefully. “I am too practical. But I do learn from my mistakes, and I will win you again.” Despite Jamie’s presence, he leaned over and kissed her lips.

  Butterflies soared in her stomach. And this time she opened her mouth for him, let her lips cling to his as they wanted. She had been won by his kisses long ago, but she had forgotten the sheer, physical sweetness…

  Jamie detached himself from her breast and squawked in protest at being squashed between them. They broke apart, laughing a little breathlessly at his peremptory ways. But his eyes were already closed, drifting into sleep. Frances rose and padded across to the dressing room, which had been turned into a temporary nursery. He didn’t make a sound as she laid him in the cradle and covered him.