Scandal's Bride

by Gibson, Pamela

  He jumped up and rounded the chair. “I was a beast, and I was ashamed. I lost control. You make me lose control. I had to leave . . . to think . . . to decide what to do. The French letters are useful but not guaranteed to prevent conception. I know you don’t want children . . .”

  She stepped back from him, her face a picture of disbelief. “Of course I want children. Lots of them. What gave you the idea I didn’t?”

  Oh my God, how could he have not known this?

  He brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “Miranda said you craved independence. She said you always handed James back to her when he cried.” What else had she said? Bloody hell, he couldn’t remember.

  “Babies want their mothers when they are unhappy.” Her eyes bored into his. Her hands twitched at her sides. “I am appalled you think women who have children cannot be independent. Yes, I love the fact I have no restrictions. You have not forbidden me anything. You’ve encouraged me to be myself, to read and explore and to try new things. I appreciate the fact you are not an ordinary husband because I am not an ordinary woman of the ton.”

  He reached out with both hands and tentatively laid them on her shoulders. When she didn’t shake them off, he spoke, making sure she looked directly at his face.

  “No, Gwen. You are not ordinary. You are unique. But you are right. We do have a problem. You want children, and I do not.”

  There, he’d said it. He waited for her outburst, but instead, she brushed off his hands and sat back down in her chair as if digesting his comments. Her next question would be why, and he was not ready to share his family’s shame. But there were other reasons she might believe. She picked up her tea with both hands and waited.

  He went back to his chair and faced his wife. He reached over to push Gwen’s spectacles—in danger of falling off her nose—firmly back in place. She seemed calmer now, her breathing more regular, and he hated to tell her another lie. He tried something close to the truth.

  “It isn’t that I don’t like children. I’m quite fond of James and Phoebe. It’s just that I’m not ready to be a father.” He swallowed and watched her face, hoping she wouldn’t probe more deeply. “Jeremy and I loved our father. When he had time for us, which wasn’t often, he taught us to ride and hunt and other essentials he deemed manly. But he wasn’t a good role model. He was a bounder, a man who had mistresses as far back as I can remember. He was shameless. He invited them to Longley house parties and danced with them at balls. He threw his philandering in our mother’s face, and she ignored it for propriety’s sake.”

  Gwen shook her head. “Your poor mother. I didn’t know.”

  “Bad behavior has consequences. Phoebe was one of them.”

  She raised her head. “Your brother’s ward?”

  “Yes. She is our half-sister. Both Jeremy and I believe there may be others. We investigate when we hear of a possible sibling. We feel it is our moral duty to care for them. That’s what I was doing in Bath.”

  She chewed her lip and studied her hands, now lying quietly in her lap. “Was it a sibling?”

  “No. The child was the wrong age and seemed happy and well cared for in the orphanage there.”

  She was quiet for a long time, not looking at him at all. Knowing Gwen, she was thinking all this through. “You don’t dislike children. You merely prefer to wait a bit longer before you bring a child into this world?”

  “That’s correct. Jeremy is the earl. He’s the one who has to have heirs. I am a second son. I—we—can afford to wait.”

  “And you weren’t repelled by my behavior when we consummated our marriage. You were, in fact, repelled by yours.”

  His mouth dropped open, and he quickly closed it. “You thought I was upset with your performance and believed that was why I left, to find a more compatible bed partner?”

  Her eyes fluttered downward, and a pretty blush stained her cheeks.

  “I see I was wrong.” She looked up then. “Perhaps we can try again sometime—when you’re ready—and we can both be more circumspect in our comportment. I did find the act . . . pleasant, and I do want to be a mother. But I’m willing to wait to conceive.”

  He wanted to do it now, to take her in his arms, kiss her senseless, and rip off her dress, kissing her all over, making her moan with pleasure. Instead he sat back, put a bit of distance between them, and smiled. “We need to finish the house, have an income from our property, and make friends. We’re both young. We have plenty of time.”

  She reached out and took his hand, looking directly in his eyes. “I am glad we had this frank conversation. Let us vow not to keep any more secrets, and to share our thoughts even if they are uncomfortable.”

  “I can do that, Gwennie, if you can.”

  She stood, then stretched and leaned over to kiss him goodnight. As she walked toward her bedchamber, she paused.

  “One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Who is the single woman in the cottage that is supposed to be vacant?”

  He tensed, knowing exactly who she meant. How she knew was another matter. He didn’t want to discuss Elizabeth, nor foster a friendship between her and his wife, not until he made a decision about what to do with her. But he couldn’t lie and say he didn’t know her, especially now.

  “Her name is Elizabeth Addersley, and she has recently returned to the cottage she shared with her father.”

  Gwen put her hand on the doorframe but didn’t move. “I take it you’ve visited her, but I’m puzzled as to why you didn’t tell me.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “She’s not a tenant. She doesn’t farm or pay rent. She’s a young, beautiful, single woman without a chaperone, and she said you are allowing her to remain.”

  “You visited her?”

  “I stopped one day while out riding. She was not forthcoming. A bit secretive in fact. I cannot say I formed a good opinion of her.”

  “She’s recently lost her father. I assume she’ll be making plans to remove herself. I thought she should have time to grieve.”

  Gwen nodded. “Very charitable of you, my lord.”

  “Do you have anything else you want to discuss?”

  “No, that should do it. Good night.”

  She closed the door, leaving him to finish his port. He grasped his cravat and wound it around his fist. A churning in his gut told him something still wasn’t right. Her tone and posture had not been relaxed.

  She sounds almost jealous.

  If theirs had been a love match, he’d understand. But it wasn’t. While they had never discussed fidelity, he’d always assumed their marriage might be like others in the ton at some point. In the beginning of their relationship, he thought he might want to form a liaison with another woman to save his wife from his unwanted attentions.

  Oddly, he didn’t want anyone else, and the thought of her forming her own attachment made him want to dash his glass against the hearth.

  What is happening to me?

  He missed their comfortable camaraderie, the nights playing whist, telling jokes, discussing books. He never should have left and wouldn’t have if he’d known she was fretting. She thought he’d been repulsed by her response in bed? The opposite had been true. Her eagerness had aroused him. Her moaning had made him want to give her pleasure any way he could, and their coupling had seared him with a satisfaction he’d never known before.

  He leaped up, shed his waistcoat, and stood by her door. Knocking softly, he came in uninvited. She was already abed.

  “Gwen.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry we waited so long to hash things out.”

  “I am, too.”

  “Would you like company tonight? I can just hold you.” He wished he could see her expression, but the fire in her
room was too low and her window curtains were drawn, shutting out the moonlight.

  “I’m fatigued and will fall right to sleep.”

  “All right.” He paused. “I’m going into town tomorrow. Would you like to accompany me?”

  “That would be lovely. I do have a few errands.”

  “Good night, then.”

  He left quietly and closed the door.

  He longed to hold her, to comfort and protect her, to wake up next to her. He’d hurt her and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

  Fighting a constriction in his throat, he shuffled off to his own bed—alone—a fitting circumstance for someone who claimed honesty, but still held secrets.

  Chapter 21

  Gwen’s concerns regarding John’s trip to Bath were satisfied, as was her embarrassment about her behavior the night before he left. But when she woke up, nagging doubts about the woman in the cottage surfaced. The situation was highly unusual. Elizabeth did not act like a grief-stricken woman.

  I must trust John to decide how long she remains.

  He now seemed to understand the need to be more forthcoming.

  His revelations about his desire to put off having a family bothered her, but as he hadn’t closed the door completely, she would let it rest. Both of them had made assumptions, and they both had been wrong.

  Wanting to make Woodhaven Abbey into a real home before starting a family seemed reasonable.

  Sadie brought Gwen’s morning chocolate and helped her dress. Gwen chose a walking dress of gray wool with a plain spencer. No need to be a lady of fashion today. She wanted to spend time at the bookseller’s to see if there was any more information about the abbey.

  She found John in the breakfast room, perusing the contents of a note. He stood until she was seated. “Look what was delivered only moments ago. An invitation. Our first.”

  “Who is it from?”

  “Lady Livesley. It’s a dinner. Shall we go? We’ve been too busy to socialize with our neighbors. It might be interesting.”

  She frowned, thinking back to the day she paid a formal call on the baroness. A forbidding woman. Except for attending church, neither she nor John had been out since arriving in Woodhaven-on-the-Ouse. Dining with neighbors would be a treat.

  “I should be delighted to attend. Shall I pen a response for us?”

  “If you would.”

  They finished their meal, and Gwen put on her spencer and bonnet. The weather was getting cooler now. After they were seated, she wrapped a blanket over their laps as John took the reins. “What do you say to the purchase of a larger, more formal conveyance? Given the weather conditions here, perhaps a small coach suitable for travel as well as visits to the village would be in order.”

  “If we have sufficient funds, by all means. This cart is not comfortable in the least.” As if on cue, the cart hit a huge bump, and Gwen was tossed nearly onto John’s lap.

  “It does have its usefulness, though.”

  I do love having him back home, even if I don’t quite trust him yet.

  It was a sobering thought. The blind trust of the eager new bride was gone. In its place was fondness, a great deal of respect for what he had accomplished, and a tiny kernel of mistrust she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Not enough to ruin their still-developing relationship, but enough to make her wary and hold back—something she’d promised not to do.

  Gwen asked to be dropped off at the book shop. John would return for her in an hour’s time. His meeting with the vicar was to thank him for finding two new renters to occupy vacant cottages as soon as they were put to rights.

  The bookshop was incomplete by London standards, but substantial for a village. Gwen loved to spend time here, and the proprietor had become a friend, scouting for books she might enjoy and notifying her when they arrived.

  As she let herself in, a bell jangled somewhere inside. She usually brought Sadie with her but wanted to enjoy the privacy of her husband’s company today.

  The shelves were close together and the lighting dim. She rubbed smudges off her spectacles, peering at titles as she made her way to the shelf she wanted to peruse. The scent of old leather surrounded her, and she breathed deeply. The proprietor, Mr. Smythe, joined her.

  “I thought I heard someone come in. What can I help you with today, my lady? Another novel? A book of poems?”

  “I’m looking for travel journals that might mention Woodhaven Abbey. I’d like to know more about the history of our property.”

  “You’re in luck. I have one book about the abbeys of Northern England. I don’t recall any other references offhand, but this one is quite complete and should give you the information you seek. Allow me to fetch it for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  She seated herself at a sturdy table with a thick candle and waited for the proprietor to return. When he did, he also brought out a small volume he was sure she would want, a new novel by an author she hadn’t read. “I know how much you enjoy gothic novels. I haven’t read this book, but it seems like one you might like.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Smythe. I adore novels.”

  She opened the book on the abbeys first. The descriptions were a bit dry, but Woodhaven Abbey was listed in the places visited. That would do. She took out her reticule and handed her payment to the waiting proprietor. John made sure she always had pin money, and unlike Lydia, she did not like to leave merchants unpaid.

  Instead of trying to read by candlelight, she took her books over to the window.

  “May I move the chair over here by the light?”

  “I shall do it for you, my lady.”

  She settled down, intending to peruse the chapter on Yorkshire, hoping it might provide insights into the ruins or a coat of arms featuring a bird.

  Maybe I’ll learn about the poor woman who is supposed to be a ghost.

  But instead, she picked up the novel. When the first page drew her attention, she set the travel book aside.

  ~ ~ ~

  John sat across from the vicar, quizzing him about various families in the village. The vicar set the registers in front of John, thick books that chronicled births, marriages, and deaths.

  “I do not recall any Addersleys in the congregation, my lord. But I have only been here two years. Did you ask Lord Livesley? I believe his wife’s family has been here for centuries.”

  “I did mention it to him once.” And he had not answered. Perhaps he should ask again.

  “If, as you say, there were Addersleys in the community, I assure you they have not attended services here. I know all of my parishioners, except for the ones buried in the churchyard.” He guffawed at his little joke, and John smiled.

  “Indeed.”

  “I shall leave these here for you to peruse at your leisure. You may leave them on the table when you depart. I will be in my study preparing the sermon for Sunday. Will you and your lady be in attendance?”

  “You can count on us. We’ve been busy with our refurbishment, but we are eager to become regular members of your flock once we have our home put to rights.”

  “Excellent.” He paused and shook his head. “I heard about the fire. Must have been a bolt of lightning, although I admit I heard little thunder with the storm.”

  “It was a shock to say the least.”

  He nodded and hobbled off. John opened the oldest ledger. Dust motes caught the light and drifted around him. He needed to be more systematic, otherwise Gwen would be stranded at the bookshop longer than an hour. Perhaps Elizabeth’s father and Mama were cousins. Elizabeth had said they were related. He would check births for the years closest to Mama’s birth year. Mama was born in Scotland, but Elizabeth’s father might have been born here.

  He dug out the correct volume and opened it to a few years before
his mother’s date of birth, hoping his assumptions were correct. Running his fingers down the pages, he passed over most of the inscriptions. One finally caught his eye.

  Sean Addersley, male, born to Joseph and Keira Addersley.

  He had not asked Elizabeth her father’s name, but surely Trevelyan would know. The date fit, and Joseph might be the name of one of Mama’s uncles. Not that he or any other members of the family had ever come to call.

  Scanning the rest of the page, he stopped and held his breath. The place of birth was written in a bold hand—Woodhaven Abbey.

  Sean Addersley was born and raised at the Abbey? Then why did Grandmama not leave it to him?

  He closed the book and shoved it aside. There was a mystery here, and he didn’t need another one. He guessed at Elizabeth’s age and picked up the book covering that period. When he found her birth and baptism, he frowned. She, too, had been born at the Abbey.

  Had Sean and Elizabeth known about John’s inheritance beforehand, or did they learn of it only after Grandmother died? Was that when they moved to the cottage?

  Leaving the books, he wandered out to the churchyard. If he had more time, he would search the grave markers, looking for Addersleys. Joseph and Keira might be buried here. If Sean and his daughters had not attended church here, it might be because of his madness.

  John shuddered, glad he’d been able to put Gwen off about having children. In time, he would have to be completely forthright, and he hated it. She would be disappointed, and he loathed saying or doing anything to hurt her.

  An imposing mausoleum stood in the center of the graveyard. It resembled their own family tomb in the churchyard at Longley Village. Wandering over to study its façade, he peered at the name chiseled in the stone on the front of the vault.

  Hawksbury.

  What caught his eye wasn’t only the name, but the engraving under it. The visage of a bird with a sharp beak.