by Sandra Heath
Kathryn looked at the plain golden band, and then remembered something. “But he doesn’t love Rosalind; he’s still in love with his first wife.”
“Elizabeth bequeathed a bitter legacy, my dear. Just be yourself in Rosalind’s guise, that’s all.”
“A bitter legacy? But...”
“Ask no questions, Kathryn, for tonight is to be enjoyed to the full. Dawn will come only too soon.”
Kathryn needed no further bidding, but gathered her skirts to hurry down to him.
Chapter Five
An irresistible eagerness bubbled through Kathryn as she emerged into the courtyard. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t really married to Sir Dane Marchwood, only that she was with him now. She felt as if she were in the early throes of a reckless, wonderful new love, and if he’d extended his hand to her, she’d have taken it readily. But he didn’t. His expression was impossible to gauge. If he was glad to see her, he gave no sign, and if he was displeased, he gave no sign of that either. His face was a mask.
“I trust you’re ready to leave now, madam?” he inquired coolly.
His tone was as chill as the glint in his gray eyes. Oh, such a gray, like the sea in winter, or a mountain stream beneath a stormy sky. But she knew that were he to smile, her very soul would melt. Instead, his remoteness washed soberingly over her, causing her steps to falter. Alice must be wrong to insist that he only suspected about the affair with Thomas. Surely the coldness pervading him now signified his certain knowledge that his wife was being unfaithful? What other interpretation could there be?
She managed to reply. “Yes, I’m ready, sir.”
“Then let us return to Marchwood.” He offered her his arm, but the action wasn’t conciliatory or even attentive, merely a rigid observance of etiquette.
Her fingers slid tentatively over the rich black velvet of his sleeve. He felt so strong and firm, so very exciting, that she knew if he were to take her in his arms and kiss her as Thomas Denham had done, she wouldn’t draw back.
They walked down the alley to the waiting carriage, where the coachman flung open the door and Dane assisted her to her seat. She could smell the leather upholstery, and, more unexpectedly, the fragrance of crushed rosemary leaves. Then she remembered, or at least, the part of her that was Rosalind remembered. She’d walked in the gardens at Marchwood castle earlier in the evening, and picked a sprig of rosemary which she’d dropped underfoot in the carriage when they’d driven to Gloucester. It was lying there still, releasing its perfume into the summer night.
When Dane had taken his seat opposite her, the coachman climbed up onto his perch and roused the team into action. The street was too confined for such a vehicle to turn, so the carriage had to drive around the cathedral precincts, passing George Eden’s fine house before emerging into the street again and coming up to a smart trot through moonlit Gloucester.
It was a very different city from the one she’d seen earlier. The streets were narrow and cobbled, sometimes with buildings right in the middle of the carriageway, and the shops had bow windows with bottle-glass panes. There were watchmen with lanterns and rattles, and galleried inns where stagecoaches came and went.
And there were reminders too of the recent victory at Waterloo. Colorful bunting was threaded across the streets, and occasionally she saw window illuminations of England’s savior, the Duke of Wellington. But beneath the joy of victory, life went on as before. Those who’d been poor remained so, and those who’d been villains, remained so too. She saw ragged figures sleeping in doorways, and others stealing secretively away into shadowy alleys. Beggars existed in every age, and the footpads of the past were only the muggers of the future.
The city she saw now might be alien to Kathryn Vansomeren, but Rosalind knew it well, and both women were blended together in the person now sitting opposite Sir Dane Marchwood. No, Kathryn knew she needed to qualify that somewhat fanciful thought. Old Gloucester was known to her because of whatever book or movie this dream was based on! That was the only reason she and Rosalind had become entwined like this. Even Alice Longney had to be a subliminally remembered character from fiction.
She continued to gaze out, and there was one building in particular that caught her eye as the carriage passed. It was Pendle’s Bank, an ornate half-timbered building on the crossroad in the heart of the city. Jeremiah Pendle was a shrewd and prosperous, but ruthless man who was frequently seen at the door of the bank, a fat figure mopping his forehead with a red-spotted handkerchief. He was Thomas Denham’s uncle, and therefore of the late William Denham as well, which made him no friend of Dane’s, but prominence in Gloucester society frequently thrust them together. She felt a little uneasy as she gazed at the bank, as if it signified something of great portent. But what?
Gloucester slipped away behind as the carriage drove south through the city gates on to the Bristol turnpike. Marchwood castle lay three miles ahead. It had been the home of Dane’s family for over five hundred years, and for the past two years had been Rosalind’s home too. And for this one night Kathryn Vansomeren would live there as well...
She glanced at him, wanting to reach out to establish some sort of harmony, a basis upon which to gain his trust, but his cold demeanor precluded any such advance. The chill that excluded her also served as a reminder that in Regency England, he was one of the most hazardous men to fall foul of, as the three duels he’d fought and won bore witness. But no matter how formidable his reputation, the effect he had upon her was nothing short of overwhelming.
She studied him from beneath lowered lashes, wondering what it would be like to lie naked in his arms. He was handsome and almost mesmerizing in the moonlight. His very name whispered through her like a half-forgotten song, caressing her being. It seemed foolish to say he was her soul mate, but that was how she felt. He was the part of her that Richard had never become, and she wanted him in a way she’d never wanted her absent husband.
She pulled herself up sharply then. What was the matter with her? She was thinking about him as if he were real! He wasn’t real, he—like everything else that was happening tonight—was the product of her frustrated subconscious! She could have dreamed up a Mr. Rochester or a Rhett Butler; instead, she’d dredged Sir Dane Marchwood from some long-forgotten novel or other. What point was there in analyzing her innermost thoughts and reasons? She wasn’t with her therapist, she was in the middle of a wonderful dream, and all she had to do was enjoy it all she could! Enjoy him all she could...
He spoke suddenly. “I trust your ministering to the sick was well received?”
Hastily she collected herself. “Alice was glad to see me, if that’s what you mean.” How weird it was to have an English voice!
He gave the thinnest of smiles. “Of course, that’s what I mean. What other interpretation could there be?”
His tone implied he didn’t believe she’d come here tonight to visit her ailing old nurse. Again she found herself fearing Alice was wrong, and he did know about Thomas, but even as the thought entered her head, she realized it was wrong. He didn’t know; he merely had a strong suspicion. She spoke again, and the words seemed to enter her head from nowhere. “Concerning Alice, it would please me greatly if she could return to my employ. She finds retirement dull.”
“Isn’t she a little old to take up her duties again?”
“Old maybe, but she pines. It does her no good to live on her own. Besides, I wouldn’t expect her to do much, just be there.”
He shrugged. “As you wish. You have no need to ask my permission on such matters.”
“Nevertheless, I ask you.”
He raised a wry eyebrow. “Then you have my consent.”
“Thank you.”
He searched her face in the darkness. “What is this, madam? Since my return I’ve received little from you but moods and excuses—to say you’ve seemed dismayed to see me again would be to put it far too mildly—but now, quite suddenly, you wish to placate me. Why?”
Since his return? Her thoughts raced as
she plucked out the facts she needed. They’d seen little of each other during their marriage. For some time they had been parted completely by his service overseas with Wellington, first as an aide when the duke was ambassador to France, and then, when Napoleon Bonaparte returned from exile, at Waterloo itself. But all that was behind him now.
He studied her. “I await your reply, madam. Or is your silence all the answer I need?”
She decided to catch him off guard by taking a different tack. “I love you, Dane.”
He gave a startled laugh. “You love me? Dear God, what manner of gull do you take me for, Rosalind?”
“It’s the truth!” she cried.
“Oh, how smoothly you play the innocent,” he murmured.
“I’m not playing the innocent, I am the innocent. Dane, I don’t want things to continue like this. You’re my husband and I want to be your wife in every way, if you’ll permit me.”
He looked incredulously at her. “If you mean to astound me, madam, you succeed.”
“I know I haven’t been quite myself since you returned, but—”
“Not quite yourself? What a masterly understatement! At the very least I’d hoped for a friendly welcome, but you were hardly the joyous wife, were you?” He sat forward suddenly and seized her wrist. “Who is he, Rosalind?” he breathed.
Alarm lanced through her. “I... I don’t understand...”
“Enough of this play-acting. I want your lover’s name. It’s Denham, isn’t it? You’ve had that milksop to warm your bed during my absence!”
His fingers were like steel bands digging into her flesh. “You’re hurting me!” she cried as tears sprang to her eyes.
“This is nothing to the pain you’re causing me, Rosalind. I want an answer, and I want it now. Who is your lover?”
“I haven’t got one!” She could say it truthfully, for as Alice pointed out, Kathryn Vansomeren hadn’t betrayed Sir Dane Marchwood.
His eyes burned with distrust. “Would that I could believe you, but I can’t. I suspect Denham, although what in God’s name you see in that mewling stay-at-home carpet knight I can’t begin to guess. He was born a coward, and will remain so for the rest of his worthless life, just as his spineless brother was before him. But the past and Denham’s lily liver won’t prevent me from calling him out if I find he’s touched you. Do I make myself clear?”
“Please let me go, Dane!”
“You’re my wife, Rosalind, and I won’t wear horns because of your whorish infatuation.” He thrust her away.
“I’m not infatuated with him. You must believe me, Dane!” Yes, he had to believe her, or tonight wouldn’t happen as she wanted.
“Why should I believe you when I know you’ve always wanted Denham?”
“That isn’t so!” Her eyes were bright with reproach. “Besides, how can you accuse me when your own conduct doesn’t bear close scrutiny?”
His gaze swung instantly toward her. “My conduct? What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you didn’t love me when we married, and you still don’t. Elizabeth will always be everything to you, and she leaves no room in your heart for me.”
“I forbid you to speak of her,” he said coldly.
“I haven’t made a cuckold of you, Dane, but you make a deceived wife of me every time you think of her. She’ll always come first, won’t she?”
“I said you weren’t to speak of her!” he snapped, his eyes darkening.
He frightened her a little, and she drew back slightly, remembering what Alice had said about Elizabeth’s bitter legacy. “Then let’s not speak of Thomas either,” she said.
He was silent for a moment, as if struggling to quell the anger she’d raised by mentioning his first wife. Then he looked at her again. “If I’m the only one, why have you been so distant and lackluster between the sheets since my return?” he asked dryly. “Oh, I accept that you’ve never been a creature of great sensuality and passion, but your enthusiasm is now conspicuous for its complete absence. I’m not a monster, Rosalind, I will not take my conjugal rights by force, but I do expect an explanation. If you no longer feel anything for me, you must say so, but if the reason is another man, then woe betide you both, especially him. I swear he’ll soon draw his last breath, whoever he is.”
Her voice was a tremulous whisper. “There isn’t anyone, Dane. Upon my honor, I swear there isn’t.” Somehow she met his eyes.
He gazed intently at her in the moonlight and then sat back again. “We shall see,” he murmured.
“I’m yours and only yours,” she said softly.
He averted his gaze to the silhouetted hedgerows as the carriage left the main turnpike and struck west down a narrow country road toward Marchwood village and castle, and beyond them the Severn estuary. “If that is so, madam, I trust you still intend to observe your wifely duties by accompanying me to Cheltenham tomorrow night. Or are you now considering another sudden indisposition?”
The Waterloo ball. “Yes, of course I’m still accompanying you. Mrs. Fowler is putting the final touches to the new gown I’ve ordered for the occasion.” What insignificant details she’d somehow absorbed from that darned plot, even to the name of the dressmaker. It was crazy!
“It would be more suitable if you used a London couturière rather than a rustic seamstress.”
“Hardly a rustic seamstress. Mrs. Fowler is excellent; the Duchess of Beaufort patronizes her occasionally, and so does Lady Berkeley.”
“I daresay what you say is true, but I’m not fool enough to be taken in by the praise you heap on her. The truth is that a local dressmaker gives ample opportunity for assignations.”
She had to look away, for he was right. That was indeed why Rosalind used the obligingly discreet Mrs. Fowler.
The sound of the carriage wheels changed. From drumming over hard-packed stones they rolled over uneven cobbles as the vehicle entered Marchwood village. Everything was quiet, except for the local alehouse, where she heard men singing a bawdy ballad in the taproom. Suddenly she saw the dark medieval towers of the castle looming above the rooftops. They rose among tall trees only yards from the main street, and then vanished from her view as the carriage turned sharply off the road on to the brief gravel drive that led to the beautifully restored drawbridge and gatehouse. For a second or so there was the hollow rumble of hooves and wheels on ancient wood, and then the carriage swept into the wide courtyard where she knew from the Rosalind in her that the doomed Plantagenet king, Richard II, had bestowed a knighthood upon the first Sir Dane Marchwood.
The castle seemed to fold around Kathryn as Dane helped her alight. She could hear the night breeze whispering around the battlements and rustling through the ivy on the walls. Everything was silver from the moon, even Dane’s eyes as they met hers for a moment.
“We’ve played husband and wife long enough today, madam. I bid you good night,” he said abruptly, then released her hand and walked swiftly away toward the immense stone porch that guarded the main doorway in the corner of the courtyard.
She gazed after him and knew that the promised pleasure could only commence if she melted the ice within him. She closed her eyes and raised her face toward the moon. Dream or not, it was her dream, and she intended to indulge in it to the full.
She only had until dawn, for in the words of one of her favorite heroines from fiction, tomorrow was another day.
Chapter Six
She followed Dane into the castle, but as she passed beneath the porch into the wide passageway beyond, there was no sign of him. She guessed he’d gone to his apartment, which adjoined hers, or rather Rosalind’s, and so she made her way in that direction.
It was strange how she knew the layout of the castle. From the moment she entered, she was completely familiar with everything about the ancient fortress. She was also aware of exactly how to conduct herself, so that when she encountered a footman, she inclined her head just sufficiently and then swept on by in a whisper of emerald silk. It was almost
amusing to know how completely she fooled him, but then why should he think of her as anyone other than the real Lady Marchwood? How could a lowly footman from early nineteenth century England possibly detect that beneath her ladyship’s jeweled exterior there was a New Yorker from the future? Indeed, when she caught a glimpse of reflection in a wall mirror, she found it hard to believe herself! But then dreams were like this, weren’t they? The impossible and unlikely happened all the time. She’d once dreamed she walked naked in Fifth Avenue at midday, so why not this?
She crossed the candlelit great hall, from where a grand staircase led up to the private apartments. She paused in the center of the vast chamber, and looked around. History seemed almost tangible in a place like this, where feudal barons had dispensed rough justice, and banquets had been held in honor of kings. But Marchwood now was a gracious aristocratic residence, where medieval weaponry and suits of armor were only decorative.
There was a minstrels’ gallery and a dais, and a beautiful carved screen that still bore traces of its fifteenth-century paintwork. The lower walls were paneled in dark oak, above which the stonework had recently been covered with plaster and painted white, and everything was lit by the candles encircling Tudor wheel-rim chandeliers suspended from a hammerbeam roof. A long table ranged down the center of the stone-flagged floor, and on its highly polished surface there was a vase of beautifully arranged flowers from the castle gardens.
More flowers brightened the hearth of one of the two enormous stone fireplaces that stood on opposite walls, but the second fireplace had been virtually dismantled and was in the process of being rebuilt because some of the Tudor stonework had been damaged. Fresh, newly carved slabs stood in readiness, and the masons’ implements were neatly stacked against the wall. The dust and fragments left by the day’s work had been carefully brushed into a pile to be cleared away by the maids when they commenced their tasks just after sunrise.
She mounted the staircase, but at the half-landing where the stairs divided, she paused again, this time to look at the wall paneling. A dark square marked the place where a painting had recently been removed in readiness for a new portrait of Dane by the fashionable artist, Sir Thomas Lawrence. The portrait had been commenced before Dane left for the Peninsular War, and would be delivered any day now.