As it had for him. As he had intended and wanted. He had not wanted more than that.
Why the devil, then, even though his anger had largely dissipated, was there a heavy ball of depression weighting down his stomach?
She would keep at least some of their marriage vows.
So too, heaven help him, would he.
Hedley Dew, he did not doubt, would never be mentioned between them again. She would love him in the secrecy of her heart and give her dutiful loyalty to her second husband.
He bowed again.
“I will take my leave of you, ma’am,” he said. “I have some business to attend to. May I suggest that you bathe your face before showing it to any of the servants? I shall see you at dinner. And later tonight I shall visit your room briefly before returning to my own to sleep.”
“Oh, Elliott,” she said, “I have made a wretched mess of trying to explain to you, have I not? Perhaps because I cannot adequately explain even to myself. All I do know is that it is not quite what you think or quite what I have been able to put into words.”
“Perhaps at some time in the future,” he said, “you will find yourself able to write a book. A lurid novel would suit you—something filled with baseless passion and emotion and bombast.”
He was striding across the room as he spoke. He let himself in to her dressing room and shut the door firmly behind him before crossing into his own dressing room and shutting that door too.
He was angry again. He had the feeling that somehow she had made a fool of him. She had not allowed him to vent his displeasure at finding her thus or to lay down the law to her about what he expected of her and their marriage. Instead she had led him into numerous verbal labyrinths and made him feel like a pompous ass.
Was that what he was?
He frowned ferociously.
Was one supposed to take one’s wife into one’s arms and murmur sweet, soothing nothings into her ear while she wept her heart out over the man she loved—who just happened not to be him?
And dead.
Good Lord!
Devil take it, what was marriage leading him into?
He glanced through the window of his bedchamber and noticed that the rain, if anything, was coming down harder than it had been half an hour before. And the wind was swaying the treetops.
It looked like just the weather he needed.
Ten minutes later, he was riding away from the stables again on a fresh and eager mount.
His destination?
He had no idea. Just somewhere far away from Vanessa and his marriage. And from that wretched portrait of a delicate and pretty boy, against whom he would not wish to compete even if he could.
She might love him with his blessing.
To hell with her.
And Hedley Dew too.
When he recognized the essentially childish bent of his thoughts, he urged his mount into a gallop and decided not to go around the hedgerow that was in front of him but to go straight over it.
If one was going to be childish, one might as well be reckless too.
It was all absolutely awful.
For one thing her face would not seem to return to its normal self. The more she dabbed at it with cold water and smoothed it with cream, the more puffy her eyes seemed to look and the more ruddy her cheeks.
Finally she gave up and sallied forth into the rest of the house with a springy step and a bright smile though there were only the walls and the pictures and marble busts to see her.
He returned home and arrived in the drawing room with only moments to spare before he had to lead her into the dining room for dinner. They made stilted conversation for a whole hour for the benefit of the butler and attendant footman. During all of which time Vanessa did not believe she once let her smile slip.
They sat in the drawing room afterward, one on each side of the fire, reading. She counted the number of times he turned a page during the next hour and a half—four times. Each time she remembered to turn a page of her own book too and change position and smile appreciatively at the page in front of her.
It was only after the first half hour that she realized she had picked up a book of sermons.
She converted her smile into something more thoughtful.
It was at about the same moment that she suddenly wondered exactly why he had walked into her bedchamber without knocking this afternoon—and why he had returned home early. Had he come to—
But when she glanced at him, he was frowning at his book and looking anything but loverlike.
When bedtime finally came, he escorted her to the door of her dressing room, bowed over her hand, and asked—oh, yes, he really did!—if he might be permitted to wait upon her in a short while.
When he came, she was lying in bed, wondering what she could say or do to improve the situation. But all she did was smile at him until he blew out the candle—the first time he had done that.
He proceeded to make love to her without kisses or caresses, swiftly and lustily. It was all over long before she could even think of preparing herself for the pleasure that had always come during their thirteen previous encounters.
All she was left with was the ache of an unfulfilled longing.
He got up from the bed immediately afterward, pulled on his dressing gown, and left via her dressing room.
And before he closed the door he thanked her.
He thanked her.
It felt like the final insult.
And it was insulting. All of it. It was intended to be, she suspected.
If she wanted to be his wife merely for convenience and the procreation of children, his behavior this evening and tonight had told her, then he was quite happy to give her what she wanted.
Men were so foolish.
Or, if that was too much of a generalization and un-just to countless thousands of innocent male persons, then she would amend her thought.
Elliott Wallace, Viscount Lyngate, was foolish!
Except that it was all her fault.
Though he did not know it and would never ever admit to it, he was hurt.
But she did not know quite what to do about it. Do something she must, though. She owed him better than to be crying over another man a mere four days after marrying him.
She owed him what she had promised him. She would owe it even if she had not promised.
Besides, she was not content to let the memory of her honeymoon fade into the past, something sweet that could never be repeated. She had been happy for those three days, and she was as certain as she could be that he had been happy too—though doubtless he would never admit to that particular sentiment even under torture.
They had been happy.
Past tense.
It was up to her to make it present tense with bright prospects for the future too.
For both their sakes.
16
IT WOULD have been quite easy to settle into what was really only half a marriage. Vanessa soon came to suspect that most marriages, at least those of the ton, were little more than that.
It was what one might expect, of course, in a segment of society in which most marriages were arranged.
But she had known a different type of marriage, however briefly, and could not be content now with only half a one.
After they moved to London she saw very little of Elliott. He went out after breakfast and did not return until late afternoon. And even when he was at home, so were his mother and youngest sister.
The only time Vanessa was really alone with him was at night, when they went through the brief ritual of lovemaking—if it could be called that. He was trying to beget an heir with her, and she was trying to enjoy the short encounters. She hoped he was having more success than she was. He always returned to his own room as soon as he had finished. Always he thanked her as he left.
He treated her with civility, but it was cold enough to draw a sigh and a comment from his mother after he had left the breakfast parlor one morning.
�
��I so hoped Elliott would be different,” she said.
“Different?” Vanessa looked at her with raised eyebrows.
“The Wallace men are always as wild as sin before they marry,” the dowager said, “and meticulously respectable afterward, at least as far as outward appearances go. They always choose their brides with care and treat them with unfailing courtesy ever after. They never marry for love. It would be beneath their dignity and would restrict their freedom too much to allow themselves to feel any such emotion. It is difficult for a man to break with family tradition, especially when the family is as illustrious as this one is. I thought Elliott might do it, though. Perhaps one always believes one’s son will be different from his father. And of course one always wishes desperately for his happiness.”
It was a chilling speech.
“I still intend to make him happy,” Vanessa said, leaning forward across the table. “It is I who have made him unhappy, you see. Or at least I have wounded his pride or something else that is important to him. Three days after our wedding he gathered daffodils with me—great armfuls he could hardly see around. And when we returned to the dower house he filled the pots and vases with water for me and helped sort the flowers and carry them into each room and position them in just the right place and at just the right angle.”
“Elliott did this?” The dowager looked surprised.
“And the very next day,” Vanessa said, “he found me in tears. I was weeping over a portrait of my late husband because I had been happy for three whole days and felt guilty and feared I might forget him.”
“Oh, dear,” her mother-in-law said, frowning. “Did you explain to Elliott?”
“I did,” Vanessa said. “At least I think I did. I was not sure how to explain it even to myself. But clearly he did not understand. I will make him happy yet, though. See if I don’t.”
It would have been very easy just to fall into the busy pattern that life took on as soon as they arrived in town. There were a hundred and one things to do every day—go shopping, go to the library, pay afternoon calls with her mother-in-law and sister-in-law, call upon her siblings after they had arrived at Merton House on Berkeley Square, pore over the masses of invitations that arrived at the house every day and ponder which she wished to attend—after her presentation to the queen, of course. And there was that presentation to think about and worry about—and the ball that would follow it in the evening. It was a ball intended primarily for Cecily’s come-out, but in a sense it would be Vanessa’s too—and Meg’s and Kate’s.
There were people to meet and faces and names to memorize.
Most of them were female pursuits. Indeed, it seemed to Vanessa that ladies and gentlemen of the ton lived largely separate existences and came together only for social events like balls and picnics and concerts. The come-out ball would be one such occasion.
She might have thrown herself into the new life and virtually ignored Elliott, who did she knew not what with his days.
But she missed him. They had talked a great deal during the three days of their honeymoon. They had done things together. They had made love frequently and at satisfying length. They had slept together.
It had been a less-than-ideal relationship even then. She had felt his reserve, his unwillingness to unbend and simply enjoy life. She had noticed that he never smiled or laughed. But it had been only a partial reserve. It had seemed to her that those had been happy days for him too, even if he would never have used that exact word.
At the very least then there had been the hope of more.
Now he was not happy—not when he was at home anyway.
And it was all her fault.
She might have been contented with half a marriage, then, and she might have been contented with the busy nature of her days.
But she was not.
On the morning of the day before her presentation, she heard him leave his dressing room. It was still very early. He always got up early in order to spend some time in the office with Mr. Bowen before going about whatever business kept him from home for the rest of the day.
His mother and sometimes even Cecily took breakfast with him. So did she, but there was no chance of any private conversation there.
Vanessa hurried into her dressing room, hauling off her nightgown as she went. She did not ring for her maid. She washed quickly in cold water and dressed hastily in a pale blue day dress. She pulled a brush through her hair, checked herself in the full-length mirror to make sure she did not look an absolute fright, and followed her husband downstairs.
He was in the study next to the library, as she had expected. He had a letter open in one hand though he was not reading it. He was talking with Mr. Bowen. Dressed immaculately in riding clothes and top boots, he looked very handsome indeed.
He turned as she appeared in the doorway and his eyebrows lifted in evident surprise.
“Ah, my dear,” he said. “You are up early this morning.”
He had taken to calling her my dear in public. It seemed ludicrously inappropriate.
“I could not sleep,” she said, and smiled. She nodded to Mr. Bowen, who had risen to his feet behind the desk.
“How may I be of service to you?” Elliott asked.
“You may come into the library or the morning room with me,” she said. “I wish to speak with you.”
He inclined his head.
“I will dictate an answer to this one later, George,” he said, waving the letter in his hand before setting it down on the desk. “There is no particular hurry for it.”
He took her by the elbow and led her into the next room, where a fire was already burning merrily in the hearth.
“What may I do for you, Vanessa?” he asked, indicating a leather chair beside the hearth and going to stand before the fire himself, his back to it. He was all courtesy with a hint of impatience.
She sat down.
“I thought we might talk,” she said. “We hardly ever have the chance to talk to each other anymore.”
He raised his eyebrows again. “Not at dinner?” he asked her. “Or in the drawing room afterward?”
“Your mother and sister are always present too,” she said. “I meant alone, just the two of us.”
He regarded her steadily. “Do you need more money?” he asked. “You may ask George for that anytime. You will not find me tightfisted.”
“No, of course not,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “I have not spent any of what he gave me two days ago. Oh, except for the subscription cost at the library. I looked around the shops, but there was really nothing else I needed that would not have been a pointless extravagance. I already have more dresses than I have ever owned in my life.”
He continued to look down at her and she realized at what a disadvantage he had set her—deliberately? She was seated while he stood. He towered over her.
“It was not about money I wished to speak,” she said. “It was about us—about our marriage. I think I hurt you.”
His eyes grew cold.
“I believe, ma’am,” he said, “you do not possess the power to do that.”
It was proof positive that she was right. People who were hurt often felt the need to strike back—only even more viciously.
“If that was all you wished to say,” he said, “I will bid you—”
“Of course it is not all,” she said. “Good heavens, Elliott, is the rest of our married life to proceed this way, as if we are nothing to each other but coldly polite strangers? Just a few days ago you were skipping stones across the water at Finchley Park and I was rowing us in circles and we were gathering daffodils. Did all that mean nothing to you?”
“You surely did not expect that those days would be more than a mildly pleasant interlude before the real business of the rest of our married days began, did you?” he asked her.
“Of course I did,” she said. “Elliott—”
“I really must bid you good morning,” he said. “May I escort you to the breakfast parl
or? Perhaps my mother will be down by now.”
He offered his arm.
“Those three days and nights—four nights—were the most wonderful of my whole life,” she said, leaning forward a little in her chair and fixing her eyes on him.
She watched him inhale, but she swept onward before he could say anything else.
“I loved Hedley,” she said. “I adored him, in fact. I would have died in his place if I could. But I was never in love with him. I was never—” She swallowed awkwardly and closed her eyes. She had never said any of this aloud before. She had tried very hard not even to think it. “I was never aroused by him. I never wanted him in that way. He was my dearest friend in the world.”
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