by Eloisa James
“He advised me to put blisters behind my ears during an attack,” Quill said with a sarcastic twist of his lips. “You can judge the efficacy of that remedy from the lack of blisters around my person. He then tried to push opium on me, but I have a persistent dislike of the idea that addiction is an appropriate substitute for sexual activity. After that, I decided that I had better live with the malady as it is. In fact, the last medicine I took was a miracle drug my mother bought from a quack located in the Blackfriars. Doctors informed me two weeks later, after I recovered from a prolonged attack of delirium, that the drug almost killed me. It did not, however, cure my migraines.”
Gabby thought of mentioning her letter to Sudhakar, but dismissed it. Quill had a fiercesomely stubborn look to him.
“I have vowed not to take any further medicines, Gabby.” He cleared his throat. “I realize that my weakness impinges on your happiness. I probably shouldn’t have married you.”
“Well, that’s just it,” she said.
Quill’s heart sank to his knees. He could feel the sarcastic smile on his face turn to stone. She was right, of course. She had every reason to scream at him, to leave him, to divorce him. All justifications were flimsy before her well-earned reproach.
“You did marry me,” Gabby pointed out. “And now the problem is ours, not yours.”
“I fail to follow your reasoning,” Quill said with deadly courtesy. “I shall be quite happy not to bother you with invalidish behavior. I assure you that I will not require nor request your presence during these episodes.” His heart was beating so slowly and heavily that he felt rooted to the ground.
Gabby scowled at him. “I said nothing concerning your behavior during migraines. I merely said the problem is now ours rather than yours alone. What I meant is that we should approach the question of remedies together.”
“No one—and certainly not a wife—is going to dictate my decisions,” Quill said between clenched teeth. “I refuse to take any more half-baked remedies. The situation stands, and you will have to live with it.”
Gabby felt a slow burn up her neck, but she grappled with her temper. “Your attitude is not a gracious one. Surely you can see that this is a decision to be made between us?”
“No, it is not.” Quill spaced his words with brutal precision. “When I first had my accident, my mother dictated everything in my sickroom. Had I continued to listen to her, I would be malingering in that bed to this day. She almost killed me with spurious cures, and then she fought tooth and nail against Trankelstein’s ideas—and it was Trankelstein’s massage and exercises that got me out of bed.”
Gabby pressed her lips together. “I fail to see what your mother’s error in judgment has to do with our current situation.”
“I—and I alone—will make all decisions to do with medicine, Gabby. I have no wish to half kill myself by taking a cure given to me by a deranged doctor whom you have heard about over tea.” He folded his arms across his chest, ignoring her frown. “My decision is final.”
“Well,” Gabby said after a moment of silence, “in that case, I must inform you that all decisions pertaining to my body are also my own.”
“Naturally.” Quill nodded.
“Good. Then you will not mind if I have this door”—Gabby pointed to the door leading to the viscount’s bedchamber—“sealed. We have no further use for it.”
“What are you attempting to say?”
“I attempt nothing.” She shrugged. “I merely point out to you, husband”—she gave it a delicate emphasis—“that my body is no longer at your disposal. Thus you will suffer no more migraines and will have no need for deranged cures.” She turned about briskly and began pulling pins from her coronet.
“And if I visit a concubine?” Quill’s voice was dangerously steely and came from somewhere behind her left shoulder.
Gabby didn’t look. “That is your choice, as it always will be. I may sympathize with the migraine you incur, but at least I won’t be responsible for it.”
“And as for yourself?” His voice was a sneer. “How will you achieve satisfaction, Gabby? Are you planning to make me a cuckold?”
She bit her lip hard. Her throat was closing with tears. But she had to do this right, or Quill would incur that pain again—and it would be her fault.
“Oh, no,” she said, managing an airy tone. She shook out her hair and began brushing it. “While I enjoyed our night together”—she paused just enough to lend doubt to that statement—“I see no particular reason to engage in that kind of behavior again. It was pleasant, but not…necessary.” Some part of her was amazed at how difficult it was to tell Quill this particular lie. It felt as if she were stamping on her own heart to say so.
She turned around and met his eyes. She had always found that her father was more likely to swallow a fib when she looked straight into his eyes. “It was rather messy, wasn’t it, Quill?” She gave a delicate shudder. “I’m afraid I greatly disliked the fact that my sheets were untidily marked. Not to mention that I did not like being naked in the open room, nor that you looked at me so freely.”
“For God’s sake, Gabby! You bled because it was your first time. It will not happen again.”
“Hmmm,” she replied. “My point is only that I will not make you a cuckold, Quill. I am not interested, and I would never resort to other men. You are my husband, but why on earth would I allow a stranger to use my body?” Well, that was true enough, Gabby thought. She had no interest in other men. She only wanted Quill.
Quill’s teeth hurt from clenching his jaw. He knew that ladies disliked sexual congress, of course. And he’d seen for himself how much Gabby feared being naked. He must have misunderstood. He thought she had put that dislike aside in the pleasure of the moment. He must have been blinded by lust.
He turned to leave, but paused with his hand on the doorknob. “And if I try various cures, will you allow me to use your body?” He hated himself for asking, loathed himself for exposing his vulnerability. He didn’t turn around so that he wouldn’t see pity in her eyes.
Gabby couldn’t answer. The windowpane blurred before her eyes.
He waited and then repeated himself. “So, Gabby, do I get one bout of marital intercourse for every draught of Peruvian bark I drink? Or do I have to resort to the leeches in order to get access to my wife’s bed?”
Somehow she wrenched her voice out. “Do we have to—”
“Well, yes, we do,” Quill replied. His voice was frigid. “In order to try a cure, Gabby my wife, I must incur a migraine. So I gather we’ll wait until a quack presents a concoction of stewed insects, and then I shall beg you for permission to engage in a bout of marital activity.”
A sob tore its way up her throat. She pressed her hands hard over her eyes. “I”—she gasped—“I don’t want to do that again, Quill! Can’t you understand?”
“Quite,” her husband said. His voice was even and, oh, so icy. “I will not intrude on your chambers again, madam. You may instruct the servants to do as you wish regarding the door leading to my room. Nail it shut, by all means.”
He bowed, but Gabby didn’t turn around. Tears were spilling hotly over the hands pressed to her eyes.
She heard the door open and then close. Sobs ripped from her throat. Oh, God, what a liar she had become! She had told him that—and he believed her. He believed she was indifferent.
It was so far from the truth. Every finger longed to touch him. At night, lying between cool linen sheets, she thought of nothing but the heavy pleasure of his body, of the way he pounded into her, of the hoarse moan that broke from his lips. And even…she even remembered how he spread her legs and touched her until she writhed before him, naked as the day she was born. Shamelessly raising her hips to his hand.
That was how absorbed by wicked desire she was, how far she was in sin. How far she was from indifferent.
When the bathwater arrived, Gabby told Margaret that she had a headache and would not join her husband for dinner. Then s
he lay curled in misery while the bathwater steamed and finally cooled. Only when it was stone-cold did she lower herself into it. Punishment, she thought dimly. For lying and for desiring—which was worse? But she knew the answer. Quill was right about desire. There could be nothing wrong about the way their bodies met and loved each other, in daylight or at night. But there was everything wrong about telling him that she disliked the act.
And so she sat in chill water and watched her nipples turn a dark cherry red, as they had for her husband. As they did when she thought of him.
And she sobbed. Because she loved him and she wanted him. And the two could not go together. Because she loved him, loved the way he laughed with his eyes but not out loud, the way he looked at her silently, the way he touched her, as if she were beautiful and worth cherishing.
She loved him more than she loved herself, and thus they could not make love.
The cold bath worked. Other memories replaced the heated memory of lovemaking. During his migraine, Quill’s skin became deathly pale, as if the honey had leached from his skin. His face looked ashen, haggard, and his eyes were sunken. And the vomiting…No.
She was right to lie. It was horrible to deceive Quill, but it was for his own good. Instinctively she knew that he would rise from a migraine attack and come back to her bed. He would suffer that pain over and over again.
Because he loves me, Gabby said to herself. He had not said so, not since asking her to marry him, but Quill was shy with words. Since he loves me, he would always make love to me. He would not wish me to be deprived of pleasure, no matter the toll it took on his own health. But now…he would not think to make love to her. He wouldn’t even wish to do so, coldhearted jade that she seemed.
And that was the most important thing.
LUCIEN WAS IN HIS CARRIAGE, heading with something less than enthusiasm to a champagne breakfast being given by the Duke and Duchess of Gisle, when he realized that it was a Tuesday morning. To be exact, it was Tuesday just after ten o’clock, and if he sent the carriage in the opposite direction, he might arrive on Emily’s doorstep at the same time as Bartholomew Hislop, thereby making it absolutely clear to Hislop that Emily was no straw damsel for his taking.
He rapped sharply on the carriage roof. But when they drew up before the small house, there was no sign of Hislop. Perhaps he should drive on. Emily had repeatedly refused to see him. Every time he presented himself at the house, Sally told him that Mrs. Ewing was not at home.
The memory steeled his backbone and Lucien almost motioned to his waiting footman to close the carriage door again. Undoubtedly Hislop was already in Emily’s study, breathing on her shoulder or committing some such other gross indelicacy.
Lucien gritted his teeth and stepped out of the carriage, drawing on his gloves. He’d be damned if Emily would deny him and be at home to Hislop.
Sure enough, when he rang the doorbell the little maid, Sally, once again stammered some nonsense about Mrs. Ewing not being at home. He gave her a look and a sovereign; she fled back down the hallway.
Lucien hesitated for a moment outside Emily’s study and then pushed open the door without knocking. Immediately he knew he had made a mistake. Emily and Hislop were standing just before her desk, with their backs to him. They looked cozily intimate, and Lucien saw distaste on Emily’s face when she looked around.
“Forgive me for disturbing you,” he said, his French accent particularly marked due to embarrassment. Clearly Emily did not mind Hislop’s company. Why, he had a hand on her wrist.
Hislop casually let go of Emily and bowed to Lucien. “Fancy seeing you again,” he said, not as genially as he had when they first met. “Odd coincidence, that.”
“I visit frequently,” Lucien said grimly. His black eyes were narrowed.
“So do I, so do I,” Hislop replied, seeming to have no sense of his personal danger.
Emily rustled forward. “Mr. Boch, how lovely to see you again.” She had a delicate flush in her cheeks that Lucien could only think was due to delight at Mr. Hislop’s touch.
He bowed formally. “I regret to have interrupted you,” he said mendaciously. “I am afraid that I quite forgot Mr. Hislop’s weekly appointments to discuss fashion.”
“Appointment is not the right word,” Hislop said. “It sounds too businesslike. I prefer to think of myself as Mrs. Ewing’s good friend. In fact, I have asked her to spend this evening at the theater with me.”
Lucien’s jaw tensed. Did Emily have any idea of the connotations of what Mr. Hislop had just said? He looked at her, but she seemed impervious to the insult. Moreover, he himself had asked Emily to the theater, and she had refused. “Perhaps I shall see you both there,” he said politely, and bowed again. “I will ask you to excuse me, Mrs. Ewing, Mr. Hislop. I have an engagement this morning.”
Hislop strolled forward, blocking Lucien’s view of Emily. “Going to the Duke of Gisle’s breakfast, are you? I was invited—I am sure of that, because I’m the best of friends with Gisle, you know—but my invitation must have gone astray. It happens, it happens.”
“Quite.” Lucien turned to go.
“Mr. Boch!” The words sounded torn from Emily’s throat.
He turned. “Yes?”
“I …” She faltered.
He waited.
“Once when you visited,” Emily said in a half whisper, “you offered me aid. I should like to take advantage of your expertise.”
Lucien paused. What the devil was she talking about? Then he suddenly remembered that he had told her he came to slay dragons.
“Mr. Hislop,” he said with a casual, thin-lipped smile, “since your invitation so unaccountably went astray, why don’t you accompany me to Gisle’s breakfast? I am certain that Patrick will be delighted to see you.”
Hislop didn’t hesitate for a moment. He turned to Emily and made a hasty bow. “I’m sure you will understand if I leave, Mrs. Ewing. Perhaps I can find time to return to you later.”
Lucien’s eyes narrowed at the offense in Hislop’s farewell. But a look at Emily’s embarrassed eyes reassured him. Whatever Hislop thought was happening between them, she was not partner to it. In a way it was comforting: at least she hadn’t chosen Hislop over him.
The moment the carriage door closed, Lucien lunged forward and twisted Hislop’s neckcloth in his hand, jerking him forward and out of his seat.
“What are you doing?” Hislop shouted, but the rest of his sentence was unintelligible. Lucien kicked his boots out from under him, and he fell heavily into the well between the seats as Lucien let go of his neckcloth.
He sat on the carriage floor, staring at Lucien in horror. “What the devil did you do that for? You’ve wrecked my neckcloth, damned if you haven’t!” He felt the folds of cloth with trembling fingers. “Wrecked!” he half shrieked. “The arrangement cost me three cloths this morning. And what will the duke and duchess think of me now?”
Lucien noted with amusement that Hislop seemed to take irrational violence in stride. Perhaps his acquaintances were often driven to commit such outrages.
“You will stay away from Mrs. Ewing,” he said in a gentle voice. “If I ever hear that you have been seen near her or her house, I will personally make certain that you are never again invited to an event given by the haut ton.”
Hislop pushed himself up and sat down on the opposite seat, looking at Lucien as if he were a rabid dog. “I don’t know what you’re so excited about. It isn’t as if I’ve done anything the woman disliked! I’ve been the perfect gentleman, if you want to know.”
“I don’t give a damn,” Lucien said through his clenched teeth. “As long as you understand that your ‘friendship’ with Mrs. Ewing is over.”
Hislop’s full lips formed a pout. “I’ve been working on this for months,” he complained. “And you only showed up the last few weeks. Wouldn’t it be more of a gentlemanly thing to allow that I have a prior claim?
“All right!” he shrieked, as Lucien made a sudden violent mov
ement. “For God’s sake, I’m not that interested anyway. She’s a beauty, but a bit somber for my tastes. I was thinking of trying the sister—but I won’t,” he exclaimed, meeting Lucien’s wrath-filled eyes. “Won’t go anywhere near the house, since that’s what you wish.”
Lucien leaned back on his seat, which seemed to give Hislop courage.
“Don’t see why you’d mind if I made a play for the sister,” he complained. “You can take Emily, and I’ll back out like a gentleman, even though I do have the prior claim. So why not let me have the sister? I can set her up, you know,” he said generously. “I’ve got a little house out in Chelsea that’s perfect for this sort of thing, and it’s been empty for all of two months now.”
Lucien knocked on the roof so hard that the carriage shook. It swayed to a halt.
“What’re you doing?” Hislop asked in some alarm. “You said you’d take me to Gisle’s breakfast! And I want to go!”
“Get out,” Lucien said as the door swung open.
“Well, I’m not going to,” Hislop said indignantly. “You promised to take me. And you’ve gone and stolen my ladybird from me, without so much as a by-your-leave, and with a good deal of unnecessary personal violence. The least you can do is keep your promise.”
To his own surprise, Lucien heard himself break into a snort of laughter.
Hislop stared at him.
“You’d better straighten your neckcloth,” Lucien said.
PERHAPS AN HOUR LATER, Patrick Foakes, the Duke of Gisle, poked his friend in the ribs. “Who’s that little mushroom you brought to our breakfast?” he said, nodding toward Hislop, who was happily chatting with the duchess.
“Bartholomew Hislop,” Lucien said lazily. “Lovely, isn’t he? He’s been trying to turn my future wife into his chérie amie”
“What!”
Lucien hadn’t known until the sentence left his lips. But he liked the sound of it. “I’m planning to marry Mrs. Emily Ewing,” he explained. “But I had to slay her dragon first.”
Patrick blinked, looking at Hislop and his crumpled neckcloth. “That’s a dragon?”