Lord of Secrets

by Alyssa Everett

  Despite her irrational fury, he replied in a calm, reasoning tone. “You’ve been unwell. You’re not thinking clearly.”

  “I wasn’t unwell on our wedding night!”

  He looked as if she’d slapped him. And with good reason. He’d turned her down once. She’d spoiled every one of the days and nights since. He had far more cause to complain than she did.

  But he answered with stiff courtesy, “No, you weren’t unwell then. I apologize if my conduct that night offended you.” He drew a deep breath. “I had my reasons.”

  How could he be so composed and polite when she was behaving as if she belonged in Bedlam? “I know your reasons. I’m no use to you. You don’t need me, and even if you did, I’m not attractive or sophisticated enough to be a proper wife to you. People have told me as much.”

  His face turned thunderous. “Who told you that?”

  “Mrs. Howard, when we were aboard the Neptune’s Fancy. She said I don’t wear paint or dress fashionably, and a man like you couldn’t possibly stay interested in a mouse like me.”

  She’d seen David out of temper before, but this was the first time she’d ever seen him turn white-lipped with anger.

  “Mrs. Howard...! Damn that miserable old harridan. I wish she were here now, so I could show her exactly what I think of her bullying and her small-minded criticism.” He stalked off several paces, clearly struggling to rein in his temper, before returning to stoop down the distance necessary to look Rosalie directly in the eye. “Listen to me. I don’t know where you got the mistaken notion that Mrs. Howard was a reliable judge of character, but if I wanted someone more sophisticated, I would have married that sort of woman, is that clear? I married you precisely because you’re not some spoiled creature in jewels and paint. I can find fashionable, heartless sophisticates on any street corner in Mayfair. I’ve never wanted you to be anything but yourself. Is that understood?”

  Rosalie was too startled to reply.

  “Is that understood?” David said fiercely, his eyes still locked on hers.

  She gulped and nodded.

  “Good.” He jabbed a finger in the direction of her pillow. “Now don’t you dare get out of this bed again until you’ve had a proper meal, Mr. Cousins has pronounced you sufficiently recovered, and I’m satisfied you’re in no danger of swooning.” Still looking more than half furious, he turned and stormed out of her room.

  Rosalie stared after him in astonishment. She’d spent her whole life trying to be as pleasing and accommodating as possible, and she wasn’t used to being lectured or shouted at. Now David had blown up at her, and she had no one to blame but herself. Not only had she foolishly tried to venture downstairs, but she’d raised her voice to him first, when she’d never before raised her voice to anyone.

  She’d thrown a veritable tantrum.

  Still, that wasn’t why she sat speechlessly rooted to the spot. Despite having set out to prove she could be useful and having failed miserably, despite having been horrible to David, she wasn’t the least bit sorry. Instead, flaring up at him and having him answer with an impassioned outburst of his own had left her tingling all over. She’d lost her temper with David, and nothing terrible had happened. In fact, he’d rallied to her defense.

  Surely he wouldn’t have reacted the way he had unless he truly cared for her. Or would he?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Our doubts are traitors,

  And make us lose the good we oft might win

  By fearing to attempt.

  — William Shakespeare

  Rosalie hated to admit it, but David was right about her health. She should never have ventured out of bed so soon. At first, she was so weak that even the minor exertion of sitting up against her pillows left her dizzy.

  But she finished a bowl of broth, and it left her feeling stronger. Later, she ate a meal of tea and toast, and felt stronger still. By the next afternoon she was restless and chafing to be out of her room. Fortunately, Mr. Cousins returned to pronounce her officially on the mend.

  David stopped in to see her, but only for a few minutes. She tried to apologize for the irrational way she’d shouted at him, but he assured her it was already forgotten. He was busy working on some project, meeting with his steward.

  He didn’t come to her room either night, but then, she hadn’t really expected him to. She no longer needed an attendant to watch over her now that she recovering, and she certainly didn’t imagine he’d push to consummate their marriage when she’d so recently been ill. Well, perhaps she did imagine it, but not with any great degree of hope. Even if she was feeling stronger physically, she’d given David good reason to think her temporarily deranged.

  By Tuesday she was allowed to leave her room, though she spent most of the day sewing in the morning room, only taking a slow walk about the garden after breakfast and another before dinner. By Wednesday, she was back to her old self—exactly her old self. She’d been married a week and a half, and she was still every bit as virginal as she’d been before her wedding.

  Wednesday was also the day appointed for their dinner with the Meltons at Radcombe Priory. Rosalie dressed in her new dinner gown—not so grand as her wedding dress, but smart enough to make her feel just the smallest bit polished. She checked her appearance in the mirror as Bridger added the finishing touches to her coiffure. If only her illness hadn’t left her looking so pale and drawn. She’d lost weight, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

  Bridger stepped back to survey her handiwork. “You look lovely, my lady,” she said in her usual undertone.

  Rosalie doubted it was true, but it was nice to hear just the same. Impulsively, she turned away from the mirror to face her abigail. “Bridger, why do the servants here talk so quietly? No one speaks above a whisper.”

  “Why?” Bridger made a puzzled face. “It’s the custom, my lady.”

  “Yes, but why is it the custom? Is it Lord Deal’s wish?”

  “It’s—well, I don’t know, my lady. I believe it goes back to when his lordship was a boy, back in Lord Frederick’s day.” She shrugged. “Mrs. Epperson says Lord Frederick couldn’t abide idle chatter, and liked to have the house as quiet as possible.”

  David’s guardian again. He had the look of a bulldog sucking on a lemon. “And how does Lord Deal feel about the custom now?”

  Bridger frowned thoughtfully. “I can’t say as I know, my lady. I’m not sure his lordship’s ever mentioned it. It’s been like this so long, none of us really thinks on it any more.”

  “Well, I think on it.” Rosalie hugged herself. “It gives me the shivers.”

  “I expect you’ll get used to it, my lady.”

  Turning back to the mirror, Rosalie studied her reflection. Would she? Should she? This was her home now, too. David had said I’ve never wanted you to be anything but yourself. If Lord Frederick Linney could establish a custom, couldn’t she end one?

  Perhaps she might even be doing David a favor, changing the household conventions. The unnatural quiet gave Lyningthorp the gloomy atmosphere of an undertaker’s. It couldn’t be healthy, living this way, not when David was so given to brooding.

  She would speak with Mrs. Epperson about the matter before she and David left for dinner with the Meltons.

  * * *

  As their carriage made its way to Radcombe Priory, David sat across from Rosalie, his eyes fixed on her bright, expressive face. He should have visited her room the night before. She was well again. He really had no excuse to put it off.

  She had yet to say another word about it, aside from that single mention during the abortive quarrel they’d had three days before. Even so, he sensed the issue in the air between them like a living, breathing thing.

  He’d spent the previous evening pacing his room, alternately resolving to go to her and confess and then talking himself out of his resolve. Finally, he’d given up and climbed into bed, feeling both cowardly and relieved. He’d fallen asleep wondering at the irony of finally being in a
relationship sanctioned by the church, the state and society, yet for the first time in his adult life, having no compelling desire to bed a pretty woman.

  Though that wasn’t really true. He did desire Rosalie. Just gazing at her now as she sat across from him, her eyes sparkling and her dark curls framing her face, the pull of attraction had him craving to bridge the distance between them. The gown she wore was cut just low enough to reveal a creamy expanse of white skin, including the tantalizing swell of her breasts. What a simple thing it would be to reach out and cup her cheek in his hand, to move beside her and trail his fingers along the white sweep of her shoulder, perhaps even to kiss her and slip his hand into the bodice of her gown.

  But he couldn’t. He intended to keep the promise he’d made himself not to make love to her until she knew the truth about him. He could hardly confess his shameful past on a twenty-minute carriage ride to a dinner party, then step out of the chaise to greet the Meltons as if nothing had happened. How do you do, Melton? Please pay no attention to Lady Deal’s uncontrollable sobbing.

  Except...that was merely an excuse, and he knew it. He could confess now if he really wanted to. He could have confessed on any of the four days since Rosalie’s fever had broken. He simply wasn’t willing to form the words, not when he knew his admission was bound to destroy whatever respect and affection she felt for him. But he wasn’t going to break his vow to himself, either, and consummate their marriage without telling her the truth. That would be unfair to Rosalie, and he still clung stubbornly to the last few shreds of honor he had left.

  So what was he to do—neglect her and spend the rest of his days living like a monk? He doubted either of them could be happy that way. Yet the alternative—taking up with some willing member of the muslin company while his lovely, trusting bride waited alone and untouched at home—didn’t bear thinking on.

  Rosalie broke the silence. “We don’t have to stay long,” she said on an apologetic note, as if he’d voiced his misgivings about seeing Melton again.

  His brows rose. “I didn’t say a word.”

  “I know. That’s how I can tell you’re only doing this for me.”

  He slanted a sidelong glance in her direction. “You worry too much.”

  Though his tone had been more teasing than critical, she sighed softly. “My cousin Charlie warned me not to mother you.”

  His only reply was a wry smile and a shake of his head, for he rather liked that aspect of her personality. He’d never known his own mother. It was a novel and surprisingly agreeable experience having a woman fuss over him, and for reasons that had nothing to do with sex or money or both.

  He wanted a real marriage with Rosalie. He remembered watching her with her young cousin after the wedding, and thinking what a fine mother she would make. For years, he’d been reluctant to wed, but now that he had a wife, new possibilities lay tantalizingly within reach. They could have children, with all the shared understanding and unquestioned loyalty that close-knit families enjoyed. He needed an heir, of course, but he wanted more than that—the sort of noisy, cheerful brood he’d always envied, growing up as an only child in the care of a cold and taciturn uncle.

  What a devil of a mess he’d landed himself in. No, landed them both in. Poor Rosalie was the real victim in this, while he’d merely discovered another failing to add to an already overlong list.

  Their arrival at Radcombe Priory shook him from his reflections. The Priory was even older than Lyningthorp, a relic of the dissolution of the monasteries, an authentic Gothic pile constructed of yellow Bargate stone. David stepped out of the carriage and handed Rosalie down, unprepared for the pleasant shock of her gloved fingers meeting his.

  As they turned to climb the front steps, the door of the house swung open, and Robert Melton’s astonished face stared out at them from over his butler’s shoulder.

  Melton’s jaw was literally hanging open. “You came,” he said in a tone of disbelief.

  Rosalie stopped on the bottom step. “Yes. Were we not supposed to? We were under the impression we’d rescheduled for this evening.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Melton blinked at them.

  “We can come back another night, if you’d like,” David said, taking in Melton’s half-dress. The man didn’t look at all ready to receive guests. David felt out of place—an unwelcome interloper, decked out in his suit of evening clothes by Weston.

  “Yes, if we’ve mistaken the date, we can go back home to Lyningthorp.” A blush stained Rosalie’s cheeks. It was clearly just as apparent to her that Melton hadn’t had the slightest expectation they would show up.

  Melton mastered his astonishment. “Nothing of the sort. I’m delighted to see you both. Do come in!”

  They continued up the steps, and as the butler threw the doors open wide, Melton ushered them inside. A petite woman with fine ash-blond hair stood uncertainly in the hall. “Lady Deal, may I present my wife? Mary, you’ve met Lord Deal before, I believe.”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Melton darted an apprehensive look at David as he bowed over her hand. “We’ve met a time or two, in passing.”

  He sensed her in passing was a pointed reference to some slight he must have paid her. Well, what did she expect, when her husband’s family had washed their hands of him years ago? David was sure Robert Melton had only extended tonight’s invitation so he and his wife could get a better gawk at Rosalie, and even then they appeared astonished he’d had the effrontery to accept.

  “Dinner will be ready soon.” Mrs. Melton gave them a fleeting, self-conscious smile. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I was just about to run up and kiss the children good-night before they dine with their nurse.”

  “Might I come, too?” Rosalie said. “I’d love to meet your children.”

  Mrs. Melton smiled with the first sign of genuine pleasure she’d shown so far. “Yes, of course.”

  “You don’t mind, do you, David?” Rosalie looked over her shoulder at him as she started up the stairs behind their hostess.

  “Of course not, my dear.” Despite his uneasiness at being plunged into the company of near-strangers, he managed to sound civil. He hoped this wasn’t the beginning of a long evening. He’d intended to put in an appearance, eat and go home, having done his duty to Rosalie. He was sure the Meltons were as eager to be rid of him as he was to be on his way.

  As he waited with his host at the foot of the stairs, Melton propped an elbow on the newel post. “You’ve done yourself proud. Lady Deal is a strikingly lovely young lady.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Melton.”

  “You used to call me Robert.”

  David dredged up a wan smile. “So I did—though I had a different name in those days, too.”

  “Yes, you were Lord Comstock then. It was a long time ago.”

  David made no reply. It was a long time ago, and he preferred not to reflect too much on the intervening years. He glanced up the stairs, wishing Rosalie would hurry back.

  Melton regarded him with a pensive look on his freckled face. “I know we were never close—your tutor kept you too busy for that—but I did miss our friendship. I was a bit wounded, I must confess, when my mother and I called the week your father died and you refused to see us.”

  David must have heard him wrong. He raised one eyebrow. “Refused to see you? Do you mean to say you called at Lyningthorp?”

  Robert Melton stared. “Yes, of course. My mother and I waited alone in your drawing room for half an hour, only to be sent away. I realize now you had a great deal to cope with that week, but at the time I felt rather coldly treated.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it.” Though the episode was more than two decades in the past, David felt a stir of indignation. “Who sent you away—one of the servants?”

  “No, it was your uncle, Lord Frederick. He said visitors would only distress you. I had the impression he was rather embarrassed to deliver the message, though he was very much on his dignity.”

  David didn’t even t
rouble to hide his dissatisfaction. “My uncle may have meant well, but he didn’t speak for me. I had no notion you’d come—in fact, I felt decidedly abandoned by all the neighbors here, when it became evident my family had been cut out of local society.”

  “Cut out?” Melton gaped at him. “My mother and I were far from the only callers who went to Lyningthorp to pay their respects. Everyone in the neighborhood called, and everyone was told the same thing, that you wished only to be left alone.”

  David was tempted to dismiss the story as mere invention, but Melton’s tone was too aggrieved. “I can assure you, I was never informed. Rather, I had the impression everyone was too put off by the circumstances of my father’s death to want anything to do with us.”

  “Good God, what an awful thing to think.” Melton grimaced. “It was no such thing. The entire neighborhood felt for you. Your father was both liked and respected in these parts—’the good marquess,’ I’ve always heard him called, to distinguish him from the colder specimens who came before.”

  “And came after?” David said, a hint of bitterness creeping into his tone.

  Melton flushed. “I won’t lie to you, Deal. We did think you considered yourself too good for the rest of us. Certainly Lord Frederick always carried himself as if he were of that opinion. But I begin to think you and I might both have been laboring under a misapprehension.”

  David shook his head, wondering if the more than twenty years he’d believed himself scorned by the society around Lyningthorp could really have been little more than a misunderstanding. It seemed incredible to him his uncle would have turned away all their neighbors, and without even informing him. But then, he’d been only a child at the time, and his uncle Frederick had never been comfortable with expressions of sympathy. He’d categorically rejected the notion that a Linney could be in any way pitiable.

  David’s brows drew down in a thoughtful frown. “My uncle was a proud man, with me as much as with anyone else. If he turned you away, and if you sensed embarrassment on his part, I can only assume it was because the circumstances of my father’s death shamed and distressed him. It was something he could hardly bring himself to speak of, even within the family. He considered it a blot on the Linney name that my father should have taken his own life.”