She sank down upon a stool. Andrew leaned against his bench, watching her.
‘Why did you not marry me yourself?’ she asked simply, bewilderment showing in her voice. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I told you once, my dear. I took a vow, when my mother died, to devote myself to the sick. When I realised how I felt about you I was torn with opposing emotions. It would have made me so happy to marry you. I wanted it more than anything else on earth. But there were so many reasons why I should forget you. You are almost half my age. Your family would have disliked the match. And, lastly,’ he said, looking at her lengthily, his blue eyes burning, ‘lastly, my dear, you would have destroyed my vow. I knew I would have my energies sapped, my plans warped, if I married you.’
‘No,’ she protested. ‘I would have worked with you. ‘
He shook his head. ‘Cornelia, I could not have borne to see you suffering poverty, working among disease and dirt. You are too young, too beautiful, for the sort of life I can offer you. I would have given up my vow.’
‘Oh, no,’ she protested, again.
He smiled wearily. ‘You do not know how much I love you.’
‘Oh, Andrew.’
She leaned towards him, smiling her own love for him.
For a moment his face lit up, he put out a hand to her. Then he withdrew it and said gently, ‘I think, my dear, that you could learn to love your husband, that you have not been unhappy in your marriage. It was not wise to come here today. You must forget me. Never come to me again.’
He came out with her to the door. Nan, sulky faced, put her head out of the coach window and watched them closely.
Andrew looked down at Cornelia, blue eyes remotely tender. ‘My dear, believe me, I am happy that you are to have a child. I shall think of you often, but I want you to promise not to think of me. It is your duty to love your husband.’
‘Who is the best doctor in Covent Garden?’ she asked him evasively. •
‘You must have the best doctor in London,’ he said. ‘I recommend Master Pillon. He is modern, sensible and clever.’
She nodded. ‘I shall remember the name.’
On the other side of the street a man paused at the mouth of an alley leading up from the river, gazing across at the coach, though they did not seem him. His plumed hat nodded in the wind as he stared.
Cornelia held out her hand to Andrew. ‘Goodbye,’ she said abruptly.
He lifted her hand and kissed it lingeringly, while she watched him, a brooding expression on her face.
The watcher on the other side of the road turned and walked back down to Old Swan stairs, his face dark and sombre, kicking at the cobbles as he went.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cornelia was disappointed when she reached home that evening to find that Rendel had not yet returned. She felt emotionally battered after her meeting with Andrew. Her parents had been pleased to see her, but, absorbed in her secret thoughts, she had been poor company.
Her mood was inconstant. At one moment she felt bitterly ashamed of having gone to Andrew. At another she wished angrily that he had not let her glimpse the pain and need which underlay his calm manner. Then she grew angry with herself for blaming him. He had given her his reasons. She could not fault them.
Or could she?
She paced endlessly around her chamber, the candles flickering as she passed.
Having made his choice, why had Andrew let her discover his love? Too late, too late, she thought bitterly. He had only made her unhappy again.
She felt cheated. She had been given no choice in deciding her future. Andrew had chosen to starve his love for her. Rendel had chosen to marry her for his own hidden reasons. Only she had been left no choice, her feelings over-ridden by everyone, a pawn in a game she did not understand.
Sighing angrily, she waited for Rendel to come home. She craved the excitement of his presence as a drunkard craves the wine which can make him forget his misery.
She wanted to quarrel with him, to rage and stamp her foot. Irritation, discontent, anger boiled inside her, and she must let them out or die.
The sky darkened. The servants waited to serve supper, but Rendel did not come, and Cornelia, disturbed now, felt her mood of restless excitement draining away in an unaccustomed agitation for him. He had never been so late before. Where could he be? He had sent no message to say he would be late. The servants blankly shook their heads when she enquired.
She was too anxious by then to go to bed. She sat in her chamber, listening for the sound of his footsteps.
The silence of the waiting house was suddenly broken by loud voices, laughter, lurching feet.
She turned towards the door, ears pricked. He was home, and had, it seemed, brought friends with him, but, judging by the noise they were making, they were all drunk.
Bitterly angry, she went to the door and listened. Nan, coming in suddenly, made her start away, flushed, pretending to be unaware of what was happening downstairs. Nan was not deceived. Very fiercely she told her to come and see what was afoot. ‘You should put your foot down,’ she advised in an angry tone.
Cornelia hesitated, then went to the top of the stairs and looked down.
The front door stood wide open. Rendel, flushed and dishevelled but still wildly handsome in his black suit, his curls in complete disorder, was below, talking with a crowd of equally dishevelled guests. They were all strangers to Cornelia, but she knew, at a glance, that these were the sort of companions which she had thought he’d abandoned. The men were rakish town gallants, drunken and careless. The women wore shockingly low necklines, a great many feathers and very bright-coloured gowns. Some even had painted faces.
One of them was caressing Rendel’s chin. ‘Rendel, I am in love with your chin—I like a fellow with a chin as big as that.’
His arm wound round her waist, he laughed into her painted face. ‘Kitty, you lie—it’s not my chin you like.’
She shrieked vulgarly and punched him. ‘Damn, but you’re right. It’s not your big chin, but something else as big.’
They all laughed uproariously.
Cornelia stood in frozen shock, staring down at them. Rendel lifted his head and looked up. Their eyes met for a long moment. Then he bowed. ‘Why, good evening, my lady. Will you not come down and greet our guests?’
There was a stunned silence among the others, who all looked up at her with open, staring eyes.
Then the woman called Kitty hurriedly pulled free of Rendel’s embrace, and said, ‘God have mercy, Rendel, you cannot let your wife come down to us.’
One of the men, shaking his head, agreed. ‘No, no, dear fellow. It isn’t done. Not the wife.’
Rendel’s thin mouth curled in mocking cynicism. ‘Oh, she is docile enough. She does not care what company I keep—so long as it is not hers.’
There was another silence. Then a man said, ‘Ah, marriage a la mode.’
The party roared with laughter again. Rendel waved them forward into the dining-room. He snapped an order to a wooden-faced lackey, then came and stared up at Cornelia.
She still stood at the top of the stairs, torn between a desire to lock herself in her chamber and an equal wish to storm down the stairs and slap her husband’s mocking face.
He bowed ironically. ‘We await you, my dear.’
She raised her chin. She would not let him see the hurt she felt.
Slowly, with the utmost dignity she could muster, she descended, head high, and swept past him into the dining room.
Her seat, at the near end of the long table, had been left vacant. She took it, her face carefully blank, and sat upright, staring at the wall.
Rendel sat down at the opposite end and snapped his fingers. The servants hurried forward to serve wine.
Cornelia could imagine what was happening below stairs in the kitchens. The cook would be in a positive ferment, raging and throwing together a haphazard supper from what was available.
What must the servants be thinking? He
r position in this house would be permanently undermined. If her husband could treat her with such insolence, why should her servants offer her any respect?
If I had any courage, she thought, I would refuse to sit here to be humiliated.
But she knew that she could not face the shame of being forced by Rendel to stay if she tried to leave. She felt sure that he would do so. There was a cruel, dark look on his face whenever he glanced at her.
The first dish arrived, a cold collation of dressed meats; fowl, beef and game prettily laid out upon a vast dish.
A footman bent to offer her first choice. She slid an unhappy glance at him as she took a thin slice of chicken, expecting to see mockery or contempt in his face, but was touched to find him regarding her with anxious concern.
It almost made her break out in tears. Relief brought a sting of water to her eyes, but she smiled shyly.
The young man’s eyes gravely reassured her. He backed towards the next guest, still looking at her, his wooden features dissolving into gentleness.
She realised that she did not even know his name. They had so many servants, and she had been too shy to get on close terms with them. Was this Joseph or Will? She never knew which was which, for their well-trained faces looked so much alike above the identical livery they wore.
The guest on her left leaned forward, one elbow on the table, and insolently surveyed her, his glass wavering in his hand. A splash of red wine fell upon the damask cloth. She watched it broaden into a shape like a death’s head.
‘By God, Madame,’ the young man thickly murmured, ‘you’re a damned beauty. Rendel must be mad. Are you lonely here?’
She looked at him with frosty dignity. He was very young, she saw, and she did not fear him.
‘Eat your beef, sir,’ she said coldly, in the tone a nurse uses to a naughty child.
He gazed at her, glazed and uncertain. ‘Cruel she,’ he pronounced lamely, forking up some beef. ‘So beautiful and yet cruel.’
The door opened behind her. The guests looked up and a hush fell upon the noisy room. One by one they struggled to their feet and made bows and curtsies.
Cornelia turned, too, and saw the King sleepily surveying the room with a queer smile on his ugly, crooked mouth. She bent her head and sank to the floor in a curtsy. He stepped forward and raised her.
‘Nay, Madame. We stand on no ceremony when I visit my friends. Rendel, good evening. I heard you had friends to sup and took leave to join you.’ He looked at the chair beside Cornelia. ‘My place?’
Rendel had joined them. He was frowning now. He looked hard at the King, who, dark eyes amused, smiled sleepily back.
‘You will not object if I sit with your wife, friend?’
Rendel hesitated.
One of the guests called out drunkenly, ‘Oh, Rendel is a husband after your heart, your Majesty. He is an easy husband so long as his wife turns a blind eye to his own tricks.’
The King raised one eyebrow and watched Rendel thoughtfully. ‘My dear fellow, is it so?’
Cornelia, angry, flushed, drew out the empty chair. ‘Will your Majesty not join us?’ Her eyes threw defiance at Rendel. He should see that she could play this game as well as he.
Smiling, the King sat down. Rendel stood, indecisive for a moment, then turned on his heel and went back to his own seat.
The footmen hurried to serve the King. One went tearing down to the kitchen to warn the cook to make more of an effort. The King watched as his glass was filled, then smiled at the footman and thanked him. Another, back bent obsequiously, offered a loaded dish of meat. The King gestured easily and turned to smile at Cornelia.
‘I was about to sit down to supper when someone mentioned Rendel’s supper party. I decided to join you all.’ He lounged casually in his chair, watching her face from half-closed eyes. ‘I wondered if I might find you here, you know. Rendel is a friend of mine, but he’s a hot-headed, wild fellow. He needs careful handling.’
She met his eyes frankly. ‘Yes, Sire?’
He surveyed her from beneath those heavy lids. ‘If you suddenly feel faint, I will cover your retreat.’
She shook her head defiantly. ‘You are very kind, but I shall not feel faint.’
He looked amused. ‘Are you quite sure?’
‘Certain,’ she said firmly.
He raised his glass in a toast, smiling intimately at her. ‘You are as brave as you are pretty, my dear.’
She blushed and looked away. As she turned her eyes met those of her husband. He was lying back in his chair, watching her, a heavy frown on his handsome face. As their eyes clashed, he smiled mockingly, leaned over and kissed Kitty’s naked shoulder, his hand fondling her.
The King put his hand over Cornelia’s clenched fingers. ‘Do you know, I have a great desire to see the new portrait of Rendel of which he has spoken. Will you show me your portrait gallery?’
He stood up and offered her his hand.
Flushing, hesitant, she rose too and he led her from the room.
She thought in a sort of panic of what she should do. Did the King think that, unprotected as she seemed, she would permit him to make love to her? How could she rebuff him without bringing both herself and Rendel under his disfavour? She had no idea how to politely dismiss him.
One of the footmen, lounging against the wall, sprang to life as they came out, and hurried to bring candles to light their way.
Her fingertips upon the King’s silken sleeve, Cornelia led him to the gallery. The footman flung the door open and bowed them inside, his curious glance resting on them both.
When the door was closed, Cornelia dropped her hand from the King’s arm and did the only thing which instinct told her would serve her in this predicament. She leant her head upon the mantel shelf and wept softly.
The King watched her, aghast. ‘No, no,’ he mumbled in dismay. ‘Don’t cry, my dear. I cannot bear to hear a woman cry.’
She wept more loudly and felt a relief in letting her tears flow.
The door behind them was flung open and Rendel, unsteady but dangerous, stared across the room at them.
‘Ah, Rendel,’ said the King on a sigh of relief. ‘Your wife seems distressed.’
He hurriedly walked to the door. Cornelia’s sobs redoubled. Rendel, glowering, stood aside. He did not bow as the King passed him and the King averted his glance.
Cornelia, when the door had shut upon the King, scrubbed at her eyes and straightened, turning to face Rendel.
‘What happened?’ Rendel asked brusquely, his voice thickened by drink.
‘Nothing,’ she said coldly.
‘Why were you crying, then?’
‘I was making sure that nothing would happen,’ she retorted.
He crossed the room, his heavy coat open, his shirt wine- stained and ruffled, and grinned down into her face. ‘Clever of you. But then, you are clever, aren’t you? If there is one thing the King detests, it is to have a woman crying on his shoulder. He has paid dearly for that weakness. Madame Barbara plays upon it constantly.’ He sat down heavily beside the half-cold fire, his long legs stretched out, and yawned, his hands behind his head, staring insolently at her. ‘Well, well. Here we are, then.’
‘May I now retire, sir?’ she asked icily.
He grimaced. ‘No, Madame, you may not. I require your presence.’
‘I should have thought you had women enough for your pleasure, sir,’ she said stingingly.
The grey eyes glittered. ‘Pretty little things, aren’t they? Especially Kitty. ‘
Cornelia clenched her fists. She could willingly have slapped his face at that moment, but she would not afford him the pleasure of provoking her. She turned to leave him, head averted. He lunged forward, caught her wrist and pulled her down on to his lap.
Held so tightly that she could not breathe, she struggled half-heartedly, her heart shaking, her senses leaping frantically to life in his arms.
He laughed at her efforts to escape, pushing back her hair so th
at he could see her face clearly. She gave up her attempt and glared at him, scowling.
‘Madame Spitfire,’ he drawled thickly, cupping her chin with his thin fingers. He bent his head, and his lips, hard and ruthless, forced hers to respond. She sighed and relaxed against him, aware with self-disgust that despite all that had happened tonight he could still do as he pleased with her. The physical attraction which bound them held firm.
He pulled away, his voice sharpening. ‘Now, Madame, tell me … Did you enjoy your visit to the city today?’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
She stared up at him, momentarily confused. ‘What?’
The face which stared down, so close to hers, was dark and brooding.
‘You cannot so soon have forgotten? How it would wound the noble doctor to know that you could forget him even for a second.’
She felt her cheeks grow hot again and her eyes slid away in uneasy embarrassment.
‘Oh, yes,’ Rendel murmured ironically, ‘I know that you saw him today. I was fool enough to be glad when I was released from business early and hastened to the city by water. I arrived in time to see you bidding your lover goodbye with such fondness that it was quite touching. For a noble physician, Dr Belgrave contrives to convey his deep and tender emotion in the most subtle fashion, doesn’t he? Long kisses on your fingers. A burning look. An air of tragedy.’ His lip curled. ‘I imagine you find it very effective.’
She gave him a defiant stare. ‘He would not behave as you do, sir. Have you forgotten how you fondled that disgusting creature in front of me? Humiliated and shamed me in front of my servants? Andrew loves me—yes, it is true.’ She glared at him. ‘He told me so today, for the first time.’
He laughed savagely.
‘For the first time,’ she repeated scornfully. ‘I have never pretended that I do not love Andrew. You knew it from the first. I am not ashamed of my feelings for him. He is a very good man. He would not have told me how he felt today had I not surprised it out of him.’
‘How admirable,’ he sneered, pushing her off his lap so that she almost fell.
The Wildest Rake: a stunning, scandalous Restoration romance Page 10