Scandal's Bride

by Gibson, Pamela

  He wiped his damp, tousled hair from his forehead. “If you wish, but why the tower? Wouldn’t the sitting room be better?”

  “It has become my special place, and I want to make sure we are not interrupted.”

  “Very well.”

  Afraid her weak legs wouldn’t hold her, she walked carefully to where he’d left his clothes. “I’ll take the piece of metal we found in the debris. Perhaps there are words or designs on it.”

  “Certainly.”

  She’d see if Lionel could polish the piece for her before she took it to the tower.

  She dug into John’s coat pocket, pulled out the object, and fled to her room to change.

  ~ ~ ~

  What had come over him?

  He’d promised he would exercise self-control after treating her like a common trollop on the night he’d consummated the marriage. It hadn’t been his proudest moment, and he regretted embarrassing her.

  And yet you obviously gave her pleasure.

  She’d climaxed, something not all women did, especially on their first bedding. Grabbing her and hauling her into his bath? That was unworthy. But she’d looked adorable, trying not to look at him as she bent over to get his soap.

  He’d given in to an impulse.

  Now she wanted to talk.

  He sank into the cooling water, noting it had shriveled his ardor. He and Gwen had always been able to talk about common things—books, poetry, plans for the estate, the hiring of staff. But they’d both skirted around their feelings. He’d been careful not to lie outright, but he was guilty of keeping uncomfortable subjects away from his wife. He suspected she may be doing the same.

  Can friendship survive without honest communication?

  Not according to Jeremy. He and Miranda had often talked at cross purposes, their separate beliefs fueling their discussions, leading each to erroneous conclusions. When they were finally able to talk about the situation that had kept them apart for five long years, they reached new levels of understanding and intimacy. He needed to do this with Gwen.

  But not yet.

  Jeremy was right. It was time to tell Gwen about Father’s indiscretions and their quest for blood-related offspring. She would embrace their efforts without a second thought.

  The conversation about Mother would have to wait.

  Movement in the next room told him Ranaleigh had returned. Ranaleigh poured a fresh can of hot water into the bath and eyed the wet floor. “Do you wish for more water, my lord?”

  “No. This is sufficient.”

  His valet placed a towel within reach and laid out John’s clothes. After giving himself another few minutes to empty his mind and relax, John climbed out and toweled himself.

  Once dressed, he hurried downstairs to the kitchen where he found Lionel polishing silver pieces that had been locked in a nondescript cupboard in the housekeeping quarters.

  “Mr. John. You’ve returned.” He paused, a silver goblet in his hand. “Milady said you’ve already inspected the ruins. Such a tragedy.”

  “When did you speak to her?”

  “She had me polish a tiny button about a half hour ago.”

  John recalled she was going to examine it more closely. He’d like to see it, too, but for now he must discuss this latest problem with Trevelyan.

  “I’m off to see Trevelyan. I believe Lady Gwen walked to the tower. We’ll both be back in time for dinner.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  He stopped in the kitchen and grabbed a couple of biscuits from a plate, then wandered out through the kitchen garden. Even as the days cooled, neat rows of herbs and vegetables were beginning to bear.

  Gwen’s first gardening project.

  He remembered her nose in countless books as she researched plants that would thrive. At her direction, low walls and a sturdy wooden gate were built to keep rabbits from dining on tender shoots.

  As he opened the gate and headed for the stable, he spied a large gray-and-white tabby curled up in the sun in a corner of the garden.

  What a menagerie we have.

  He saddled a horse and headed down the lane. He passed Elizabeth’s cottage and spied a green phaeton partially hidden behind the lean-to she used as a shelter for her horse.

  Acquainted with one of the baron’s sons, is she?

  Curious to meet the owner of the conveyance, he stopped and knocked. No one answered, and no smoke rose from the chimney. Perhaps she and her guest were out for a walk.

  He climbed onto his horse and continued toward Trevelyan’s home. The recent rains made the hills green, and the streams were full, causing him to be cautious as he crossed the larger one feeding into the Ouse. The water was higher than he thought, and the horse struggled in the current. One day this crossing would require a bridge. One more expense.

  “You saw the damage I take it.” Trevelyan came out as John tied his horse.

  “Any idea how the fire started?”

  “Not by itself.”

  John nodded silently. They speculated on who could have entered the building unseen with enough straw to ignite the wood piled at the base of the stairs. A back entrance, facing the woods, might have given the miscreant access.

  The why was another matter. He and Gwen had not occupied the property long enough to make enemies.

  Late afternoon became evening, and John bid Trevelyan goodbye. He was supposed to meet Gwen in the tower. It was late. She’d probably given up and gone home by now.

  Tomorrow he would go into town and meet with the vicar. He’d like to examine the book that recorded births, deaths, and marriages to discover if any Addersleys had occupied Woodhaven Abbey.

  But now he had an annoyed wife to return home to and a mystery to solve.

  He was not looking forward to either.

  Chapter 19

  Gwen loved the tower. Looking out over the hills calmed her when anxiety clawed at her chest.

  Late afternoon sunlight, filtered by gathering clouds, deepened the shadows over the landscape. A lone rider galloped along the lane leading to the farms. Her fingers curled over the rough stone sill.

  It must be John. He had said he was going to see Trevelyan. And then, he’d gone straight to Elizabeth.

  Pain sliced through her, constricting her breath. She would not cry. Nor would she confront him over this. Not yet. Not while emotions clouded her judgment.

  Perhaps her rebuff of him in the bath had driven him to slake his sexual appetite elsewhere.

  Or your jealous mind is making up scenarios. Remember, Gwen, this was never a love match. You knew what you were agreeing to.

  Did she? She’d been so eager to escape Caulfield, she’d shut out everything else she should have considered. What if she grew to care for him and he did not reciprocate? What if he was the one to care and she was not?

  “Oh! What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.” The quote slid into her mind. One of the poets who attended her salon had recited Sir Walter Scott’s famous poem, “Marmion.” Everyone had nodded in agreement when the statement was made, setting off a lively discussion.

  She fought to bring herself under control, breathing deeply and concentrating on listening to her heartbeats. Miranda had taught her the trick. Calm yourself by focusing on a task, any task—embroidery, the pianoforte, or a passage in a book.

  Brushing away an errant tear, she studied the shiny object in her hand. It could have been in the east wing for days or years, but she thought not. Workmen had partially cleaned the area near the staircase for ease of carrying materials to the inside of the roof. Lionel had said the button was hammered gold. Laborers garments did not have gold buttons.

  She still hadn’t found any books on the history of the abbey beyond its mention in a traveler’s d
iary. Perhaps the abbey had hosted wealthy visitors.

  I shall check the bookshop next time I’m in town.

  Definitely not a coin. Lionel had agreed it was a button. No words could be discerned, but markings on it resembled the eyes and beak of a bird. She put the button in her pocket and slowly followed the winding stone stairwell to the bottom of the tower.

  It was long past time to go back to the house.

  The path to the manor was narrow. She always chose the back way so as not to draw attention to herself. This route led through thick woods for a short distance. Darkness hovered but did not yet obscure the path.

  She hurried along, a vague awareness making the hairs on her neck stand up. Was someone watching her? She shuddered and picked up the pace.

  A rustling in the bushes made her breath catch.

  Do not be fanciful. No one is there.

  A bird fluttered and squawked as it flew out of a tree. Gwen shrieked as something jumped out at her, brushing her skirt.

  “Marmot. You scared me half to death.” She bent and petted the eager dog who followed as she came into the clear, the house looming in the distance. Candles were already lit in the west wing.

  I must be very late indeed.

  John met her at the door. “Were you still in the tower? I was about to come searching for you.”

  “I told you it has become one of my favorite places. I thought you were going to meet me there.”

  “My discussion with Trevelyan took longer than I thought.”

  And you had another stop to make as well.

  Gwen took a deep breath. Her face must look grim. “Did Trevelyan have any thoughts on who might want to harm us?”

  “No. He is as puzzled as we are.” He swiped his fingers through his hair. “Gwen, I wish you wouldn’t go to the tower alone. Take one of the housemaids with you. It’s not in good repair.”

  “Nor is it haunted.”

  He took her arm as they climbed the stairs. “You’ve exorcised the ghost then.”

  “No screeching, no babies crying, no white mist.”

  They reached the landing. “I’m relieved. Perhaps you can exorcise the one that supposedly caused the fire.”

  “You discussed the rumor with Trevelyan?”

  “He mentioned it. Of course, he scoffs as we do. It was not an apparition that lit the debris. It was flesh and blood. Who did it is still a mystery.”

  She remembered the button and brought it out. “Here. I had Lionel polish it. I think I see a bird’s visage, but it might be a smudge on my spectacles. You study it while I change for dinner.”

  “Don’t be too long. I’m famished.”

  She nodded and closed the door behind her. With her earlier dismay at seeing John riding toward the woman’s cottage, and her fright on her way home, all she wanted to do was lie down. Even her appetite was gone.

  “Do you wish to wear something special since his lordship is home?”

  Sadie held the yellow gown, one of John’s favorites.

  “Not tonight. There’s a chill in the air. I shall wear the blue wool.”

  “Very well.” Sadie’s brows furrowed. “Are you feeling well? I am surprised you didn’t catch your death the night of the fire. Perhaps illness is only now setting in.”

  “I’m fine. Merely tired.” She climbed up on the bed and closed her eyes. “Don’t let me fall asleep, Sadie. I’m due downstairs for dinner. But I long to rest for a few minutes.”

  “I’ll put away the yellow gown and see if the blue one needs pressing. Close your eyes. I’ll get you up when I bring it back.”

  “Thank you.”

  She let her body sink into the bed. Her thoughts turned to the bird visage on the button. She’d seen something like it but couldn’t recall where. The village? Surely the recollection would come to her. She cleared her mind and listened to the noises in the room. When footfalls approached, she knew Sadie had returned with the pressed gown.

  “Cook says the first course is ready to be served.”

  She sat up and rubbed her eyes. She must have slept for a few minutes. Sadie dropped the blue dress over her head. “I’ve always liked this gown, milady. The color is the same as your eyes. Very fetching. Shall I do your hair now?”

  “Something simple. A braid twisted at the back, or leave it down and tie it with a ribbon. I don’t want to keep dinner waiting.”

  When her toilette was complete, Gwen descended to the formal dining room. Two days ago the rest of the furnishings had arrived and, with her supervision, had been unloaded and placed in the designated rooms. John rose as she came in, while the footman pulled out her chair and seated her.

  “Have I told you how wonderful it is to be back home.”

  “Wonderful? I wouldn’t use that word, my lord. Intrigued might be a better one. There’s nothing like a fire to ignite one’s interest.”

  “Oh ho! You made a joke.”

  She frowned and stared at her soup. “Did I? It is unlike me.”

  “No, it is the essence of the woman I married.” He sat back and sipped from his wine glass, a tiny smile playing about his mouth. “Superior intellect and a grand sense of humor.” He paused. “But perhaps not in the bath.”

  A slow blush rose in her cheeks.

  They dined on soup, fresh trout, a leg of mutton, and two seasonal vegetables, keeping the array of choices modest. When the dessert course was put in front of her, Gwen clapped her hands.

  “Creme brulee. My favorite. How did Cook know?”

  John grinned. “I believe an observant person in my brother’s household passed information along to me, and then I told the cook.”

  Ah yes. Longley had been her seatmate at a small dinner party where the delicacy was served.

  She dipped her spoon into the creamy dish and brought it to her lips. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the vanilla scent, then let it slide between her pursed lips. She practically moaned it tasted so good. It would be gone far too soon unless she ate it slowly.

  “You closed your eyes.”

  “It enhances the pleasure. You should try it.”

  She tilted her head at her husband, who gazed at her as if she was the edible concoction he was waiting to taste. Raising her spoon, she waved it in front of him. “You haven’t even tried yours. It is heavenly, and I thank you for bringing it to Mrs. Bertram’s attention. But if you don’t want it, pass it to me.”

  He laughed then, and she forgot to be stern. Plenty of time to get back to a serious demeanor. Tonight she would demand answers, if not to all of her questions, to the ones perplexing her the most.

  When they finished, Gwen rose and John came with her to the drawing room. The whist table was set out, but there would be no game tonight. She told the footman to put it away and to bring tea and port to their private sitting room.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to have this conversation here? The drawing room is far more intimidating, my dear, if your intent is to give me a scold.”

  “It is also far less private.”

  He nodded. “As you wish.”

  They made their way upstairs to their sitting room. When the tea and port arrived, Gwen bade John to close the door.

  “This is serious. Is something amiss? Or have you discovered a tidbit relating to the fire suitable only for our ears.”

  Gwen remembered a phrase her father used when hashing through a difficult situation.

  “I believe it is time to throw the skunk on the table.”

  Chapter 20

  Her eyes flashed, and her back stiffened. If he didn’t know otherwise, he would think she’d caught him dallying with a housemaid. He sipped his port and sat back in his chair, his right leg over the left. Whatever had her back up clearly needed to be resolved. He would give
her his full attention.

  She leaned forward in the chair.

  “When we married, we both filled a need for the other. You rescued me from Caulfield, and I came to you with a dowry.”

  “True.”

  “We married, knowing it wasn’t a love match, but few marriages are.”

  He studied her serious face and sipped his port. “Go on.”

  She sat back and took a deep breath, her gaze slipping to the fire in the grate. “You told me we could become friends, and I believed you.”

  “We are friends, Gwennie. Aren’t we?” He set down his glass, removed his neckcloth, and undid the first two buttons of his shirt. The room seemed warmer, but he suspected his own temperature rose with the discomfort gnawing his insides. This discussion was leading somewhere, and he hoped it wasn’t back to Longley and the reasons for not stopping there on their way to Yorkshire.

  She stood and strolled over to the windows, her back straight, her hands clutching her skirt. “We talk, but we don’t communicate. We listen, but we don’t share. Friends—true friends—do not hold back, do not conceal, do not prevaricate.”

  “Are you saying I do these things? Or do you?”

  She turned and strode back to the chair, standing behind it as if it were a shield.

  “Why did you go to Bath?”

  “I told you. Estate business for Jeremy.”

  “In Bath? What kind of business takes you to a place known for its antiquities and its waters? Did you visit a woman there? You can be frank with me. If nothing else, we must have honesty between us.”

  “Wait . . . woman? What are you talking about?”

  She seemed to gather her courage as she faced him. “You left my bed and announced you were leaving. All in the space of a few hours. You are a passionate man. And yet, as you ran out the door, you told me you would not be crossing into my bedchamber anytime soon.”