Never Less Than A Lady

by Mary J. Putney

  Mac’s face smoothed into amiable blankness. “As you wish.” He turned to leave, but briefly touched Randall’s shoulder as he left. Sympathy from the devil.

  Randall locked the door behind him. The draperies were open and admitted enough light to show that the bed had been stripped of linens, but blankets and counterpane were neatly folded across the foot. Wearily he stretched out on the bare mattress. His leg ached from all the walking, though not as much as his heart ached.

  So Julia had loved Branford. That made everything worse. Randall had believed it was possible for her to overcome her nightmares and become a true wife. For a few fleeting moments, she had seemed willing, even eager. But the nightmares had won.

  Could she ever recover from that betrayal of love so that she could love again? Her past might prove insurmountable.

  He took a long swallow of brandy. The flask didn’t hold enough for drunkenness, but there was probably enough to take the edge off his pain.

  Chapter 15

  Brandy wasn’t enough to warm the chill in Julia’s soul. After Randall left, she lit the fire laid in the fireplace, then curled up in a corner of the small sofa. The idea of crawling under the writing desk was appealing, but that lacked dignity. It was time she began acting like a rational adult rather than a terrified girl.

  A small, cowardly corner of her mind longed to run away to a place where no one knew her and she could start over again. But she hadn’t the energy for that, or the strength to face such loneliness.

  Since suppressing the past hadn’t worked, the only way forward was through the hellish wreckage of her first marriage. Which meant she must look at Branford and how she had felt about him.

  Julia forced herself to pull down the loose fabric of robe and nightgown so she could stare at her scarred breasts. As a girl, she had taken her healthy young body for granted. Despite her lack of inches, it was a good body. Not extraordinary, but graceful and well-proportioned, worthy of male admiration. Nature designed young men and women to appeal to each other.

  That natural acceptance of herself had been destroyed by her first marriage. The occasional sensual pleasure she had experienced in the early days was soon overcome by loathing for his body, and for hers.

  The letters he had carved bloodily into her breasts had set the final seal on her self-hatred. She was ugly, mutilated. No man could want her, just as she wanted no man. For years, she had done her best never to view her scarred body. Her bedroom held no mirror, and she became expert in dressing herself without seeing or thinking about her physical form any more than was absolutely necessary.

  Looking back, she realized that time, life, and her nursing work had mitigated much of her hatred of the human body. She had delivered so many babies who were conceived in love. She’d seen deep, satisfying sexual bonds between husband and wife. And she’d heard her share of bawdy, happily lascivious jokes, because married women didn’t hold their tongues around a widowed midwife.

  Branford’s sprawling, irregularly shaped initials were about two inches long and carved on the upper curves of her breasts. It hadn’t been easy for her to overlook them. Over the years, the angry red letters had faded to dense white ridges of scar tissue.

  She felt no particular sensation when she traced the forms. “B” for Branford, gone from her life and from the world. “D” for Daventry. It was ironic that in the fullness of time, she might still become the Countess of Daventry. But with a mercifully different husband.

  Julia pulled up her nightgown and robe and settled back into the sofa, her absent gaze on the flickering fire. She had been barely sixteen when her father announced that she was to marry Daventry’s heir.

  She’d been raised to expect such an arrangement because of her high rank. Though she would have resisted if she’d met Branford and found him repugnant, she had been delighted by her father’s choice.

  All too clearly she remembered the way Branford smiled when they first met. He was dark, handsome, and fashionable, and he’d professed himself rapturous to have such a beautiful, elegant bride.

  Julia had wanted to believe she was beautiful and elegant. What young girl wouldn’t? By the time he kissed her to seal their betrothal, she was halfway in love with him. Their wedding had been the grandest of the Season, attended by no less than seven members of the royal family. It was no more than the Duke of Castleton’s daughter deserved.

  With the benefit of hindsight, she could see there were early signs that something was very wrong with Branford. His glittering, dagger-edged charm sometimes made her profoundly uneasy. He would be oddly amused for reasons she didn’t understand. Yet she had blindly ignored her instincts.

  Her deflowering had been shockingly painful, but afterward he had held her tenderly and said that was normal. She hadn’t realized until much later that he’d made no attempt to be gentle, and that under his false sympathy was pleasure in her pain.

  She was a normal young woman, and at first there were times when she found some pleasure in intercourse. But more and more often, she had ended up weeping. Branford would apologize with apparent sincerity, and she would be left feeling that the fault was in her. She was too young, too small, too stupid to be a proper wife.

  She found the situation too shameful to discuss with anyone else. She was Lady Julia Raines, Viscountess Branford, and she would not reveal her weaknesses.

  Only gradually had she come to notice the unholy gleam in his eyes when she was suffering. Later yet came the recognition that he’d sometimes exerted himself to pleasure her so that she would become optimistic about their marriage. She would start to believe that her weaknesses were almost cured and that everything would be all right.

  When she believed herself in love with him, she was vulnerable. Easier to hurt.

  Julia had been devastated the first time he told her he’d lain with another woman who was an infinitely more satisfying bedmate. Yet soon she felt relief in the knowledge that he had mistresses. Unfortunately, he couldn’t ignore his legal wife since it was their duty to produce an heir.

  She welcomed his trips to London, when she was left at peace in the country. Alone, she was able to think and to recognize the wrongness of her marriage. She began to avoid him when he returned to their country home. Her growing immunity to his emotional manipulation infuriated him.

  That was when the beatings began.

  Her pregnancy was the breaking point, and also her door to freedom. Praying that she would bear Branford a healthy son and heir—and that she would have most of the raising of the child until he was old enough to be sent to school—she asked for a separation. That request triggered the excruciating violence that left him dead and her close to it.

  Could she have done anything differently? She was too well-bred to cause a scandal so it had never occurred to her that she might run away. It wasn’t uncommon for aristocratic couples to live separate lives. Her duty as a wife was to give her husband an heir. Since Branford despised her, surely he would be happy to allow her to keep her distance once he had a son.

  But he hadn’t wanted that civilized solution, and he’d tried to kill her. She began to shake as scenes from that last horrible night burned across her brain.

  The glowing coals in the fireplace collapsed, and triggered a harsh realization. She was glad he was dead.

  The knowledge that she’d caused his death had been a heavy burden for all these years. She would never have chosen to hurt another living being.

  But if he had survived, her life would never have been her own. Was her guilt because of her relief? Perhaps. But guilt wouldn’t change the past, and if one of them had been fated to die that night, she was glad that it was Branford.

  Vile, tragic, half-mad Branford. She tossed another scoop of coals on the fire and watched sparks flare up the chimney. Her anger and pain were like those burning coals, scorching her soul. She imagined the anger consumed by flame, the ashes flying into the night. One by one, she fed her memories of pain into the flames. Branford could
hurt her no longer, unless Julia allowed it.

  She would allow it no longer.

  A fragile sense of peace unfurled deep within her. She settled back in the sofa, knowing she owed that peace to her new husband’s kindness and his acceptance of her flawed self.

  If she had met Randall when she was sixteen, would she have been drawn to him? She imagined him as thin, blond, quiet, and intense, not yet tempered into the formidable man he would become. How deplorable to think that at sixteen, she might actually have preferred the more dashing Branford.

  But now she a woman grown, seasoned by life. What did her instincts tell her about her new husband? That he was an honorable man who would never intentionally hurt her. Branford had smiled when first they met. Randall had scowled. An honest scowl had served her better than Bran’s charming, lying smile.

  Though she had accepted Randall’s proposal with the intention of bolting out the back door if the marriage went badly, she had underestimated the power of wedding vows. She had pledged him her word, both at the altar and again tonight before he left the room. For better and worse, there would be no easy way out of this marriage.

  Would Randall be better off without her? He said he didn’t mind her barrenness, but that might change now that he had left the army and was settling into a normal life. Perhaps she should leave him so that he could find a whole, undamaged wife.

  No. She didn’t have the right to make that decision for him. For whatever reason, she was his choice, and her abandonment would hurt him. He didn’t deserve that.

  Since she was dealing with truth, she admitted to herself that she would rather have him for a husband than any other man. She liked his dry humor and intelligence, and the companionability growing between them. More surprisingly, she liked his taut, powerful body and that handsome, sculpted face that was so good at hiding his feelings.

  He had scars of his own. Together, they might find healing.

  Since Randall’s belongings had been moved to the bridal suite the day before, he had no choice but to head upstairs the next morning. He wasn’t sure what he’d find, but at least Julia had given her word not to vanish in the middle of the night.

  “Come in.” Julia’s voice seemed normal enough. He entered the room to find her dressed for travel in a neat blue gown. Her expression was calm, with no signs of the previous night’s breakdown.

  “My clothes are here,” he said apologetically.

  “I know. I was expecting you.” She gestured to a tray that held a steaming teapot, cups, and scones. “A maid just delivered this. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Please.” He closed the door, glad that normality had been reestablished. “How are you this morning?” The question was not routine courtesy.

  She reached for the teapot, her mouth curving wryly. “I spent the night wrestling ghosts, but I believe I won.”

  He girded himself for what must be said. “Do you want an annulment? Since the marriage hasn’t been consummated, that wouldn’t be difficult. Our initial agreement was that I could touch you daily, and you could say no when you’d had enough. Perhaps…that was too much to ask.” As his words hung painfully in the air, he added, “Whatever you decide, I will do my best to shield you from Daventry.”

  Julia’s hand froze, halting the teapot in midair. “Do you want an annulment? That would be…understandable under the circumstances.”

  It would be gentlemanly to defer to what the lady wanted, but if ever there was a time for honesty, this was it. Conscious that what he said could change the course of his life, he said, “I most certainly do not want to end our marriage. But if you can’t bear for me to touch you, perhaps that is the only solution.”

  Julia set down the teapot and crossed the room to stand in front of him. Her gaze searching, she cupped his face with one hand. He hadn’t shaved, so whiskers must be rasping her palm. She looked very grave, and unbearably lovely.

  “I’m sorry for last night, Alex,” she said quietly. “It won’t happen again.” Hesitantly she leaned forward and slid her arms around his waist. She shivered a little as she settled against him, one soft section at a time. Her breasts molded against his chest, then her torso gently pressed into him. Finally her head came to rest on his shoulder.

  He was moved to wordless tenderness by her trust. A soldier assaulting a walled city was no more courageous. The top of her head just reached his chin, and when he stroked her hair, it released a tangy scent of lavender. “Last night was interesting in an educational sort of way,” he murmured. “But I’d just as soon not repeat it.”

  She laughed a little, her breath warming the shoulder of his banyan. “There are still hurdles ahead. But I think that one was the worst.”

  After that, neither of them spoke. They just held each other. Randall’s right hand stroked gently down her back, feeling the arcs of her ribs and the steely strength of her spine. He closed his eyes, content to absorb the essence of his wife. Sweetness and lavender.

  This wasn’t the wedding night he’d hoped they would share. But it was a start.

  Chapter 16

  Julia found her return to Rose Cottage anticlimactic. She knocked at the door several times with no response, and the door was locked when she tried to open it. During her years in Hartley, the cottage had almost never been locked.

  “Probably Jenny Watson is just out for a few hours,” Randall said.

  “I hope you’re right.” Julia moved to her left and felt under the sill of the parlor window. Good, the key was still there. She unlocked the door and stepped inside, then gave a sigh of relief. “All looks well.”

  The house was neat and felt lived in. Julia could see bread rising in a bowl back in the kitchen. She smiled when her tabby cat appeared and stropped her ankles. Scooping up the cat, she asked, “How are you, Whiskers?”

  “It doesn’t look as if she’s missed many meals,” Mackenzie observed. The cottage looked very small with two large men in it.

  “Life goes on, and Jenny and Whiskers seem to have adjusted to my departure.” The relief was huge.

  “Is it strange being back here?” Randall asked.

  “Yes.” Julia frowned as she thought about her reaction. “Everything looks the same, but my life has been turned upside down. I was Mrs. Bancroft for so many years, useful and safe. Now Mrs. Bancroft is gone forever.”

  “She never really existed,” he said quietly.

  “I suppose not.” But Mrs. Bancroft had felt very real for years.

  “Will it take long for you to collect your belongings?” he asked.

  Julia shook her head. Few things from her career as a midwife would be needed in her new life. “By the time I’ve finished, Jenny and Molly should be back from wherever they’ve gone so I can reassure them, and say good-bye.”

  Randall hesitated. “I need to go up to Hartley Manor. Everyone there will want to know that you’re safe, and I need to be sure that Grand Turk was returned properly. But I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  They’d all been watchful on the drive between Carlisle and Hartley. Though there had been no sign of Crockett or his men, Julia could see that Randall was still wary.

  “I’ll stay with Lady Julia,” Mackenzie said. “I won’t let her out of my sight.”

  Randall relaxed. “Good. On the way back through the village, I’ll book us rooms at the inn. I won’t be gone long.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Julia reassured him. “No need to worry.”

  “Probably not,” he admitted. “But Hartley is the one place Crockett can watch where there’s a good chance you will return.”

  Mackenzie looked hopeful. “I wouldn’t mind a bit of excitement.”

  Julia shuddered. “I much prefer boredom.”

  Randall grinned. “I shall attempt to make our marriage as boring as possible.”

  As Mackenzie laughed, Randall kissed Julia’s cheek lightly and left. As the carriage rattled away, Julia asked, “Would you like a cup of tea or a draft of my ginger beer, Mr. Macke
nzie?”

  “The ginger beer would be pleasant.” Mackenzie strolled into the kitchen after her. She poured a tall flagon of the fragrant, slightly bubbly brew. When he tasted it, he said, “Excellent. If you ever run away from Randall to start a new life, you could become a brewer.”

  Julia winced as she poured herself a small glass. “I can’t really joke about that.”

  “Sorry. My sense of humor is deplorable.” His voice turned serious. “But I assure you, Randall is nothing like Branford.”

  “You knew my first husband?”

  “Our paths crossed in London occasionally.” Mackenzie grimaced. “Most memorably when I had the bad judgment to beat him at cards in some gambling hell. He accused me of cheating, but I was known there and Branford had made himself unpopular, so he was thrown out. Naturally he blamed me for the humiliation, so he and a couple of his cronies laid in wait and attacked me when I left. Pure luck that they didn’t beat me to death.”

  That sounded horribly like Branford. “How did you escape?”

  “Ashton was driving by on his way home from some more respectable establishment. He saw the fight and recognized me, so he stopped his carriage. Branford and his bully boys ran off.”

  Trust Ashton to be in the right place when needed. “Did you consider reporting the attack to a magistrate?”

  Mackenzie shook his head. “I didn’t think I’d get very far with criminal charges since he was Lord Branford, heir to an earldom, and I was a bastard of dubious reputation. Since I was about to leave London anyhow, I chalked up the incident to education and made a note to steer clear of bad losers.”

  Julia wondered if Branford could have been curbed if he had ever suffered consequences for his bad behavior. But family wealth and influence had protected him from justice. The only man who had the least influence with Branford was his father, and the earl believed his precious son could do no wrong. She finished her ginger beer. “Time I started packing.”

  She set her glass aside and headed to her old bedroom. Nothing had been changed. It looked as if Jenny had hoped Julia would return. Or perhaps she had trouble believing the house was really hers. After today, it truly would be. Julia had bequeathed the cottage in her hasty last will and testament. Since she wasn’t dead, she would legally transfer the title before leaving Hartley. Jenny and her daughter would have the security of a home for the future.