Cherished

by Elizabeth Thornton

  “I want no part of Sara’s fortune!” Peter cut in vehemently. “Tie it up, by all means, so that only her heirs can claim a farthing of it. It was always in my mind that we should manage on my income.”

  “Income?” echoed Rolfe. “You mean…your Army pay?”

  “I am not destitute,” averred Peter stiffly.

  “Well, not precisely, no, but…”

  “I have an income from a trust that came to me through my grandmother’s estate in the sum of a thousand pounds a year.”

  “Oh? Then why was it necessary for Latham to buy your commission? Why didn’t you buy it yourself?”

  Dark color ran across the younger man’s cheekbones. His eyes dropped away from Rolfe’s. In a halting tone, he got out, “I…I was a fool. I got into debt. My brother was kind enough to make me a loan.” His eyes lifted and he squared his shoulders. “George has generously agreed to cancel the debt on the occasion of my marriage.”

  To Rolfe’s way of thinking, it was little enough for Latham to do. Then again, knowing that his younger brother had snagged an heiress, the earl probably saw no need to dip into his own coffers. As for Benson’s income—a thousand pounds a year would scarcely keep Sara in pin money. Rolfe did not have the heart to point this out to the younger man.

  In a reflective mood, Rolfe slowly sipped his brandy. Sara was a handful. It was worse than that. She was almost unmanageable. She didn’t love this boy. Her heart was still set on Leon. For some obscure reason, she had embroiled herself in a scandal, had embroiled them all in a scandal. Whatever one might say about Peter Benson, one must give him his due. He had tried to avert the very catastrophe which had overtaken them. There was no doubt in Rolfe’s mind that Peter Benson was in love with Sara. He did not envy young Benson the lot that had fallen to him. Sara would draw rings around any man who did not have the backbone to stand up to her. Young Benson was his own worst enemy. He was too nice, too malleable. If he were the boy’s guardian and not Sara’s, he was sure he would advise him to leave the girl in the lurch, yes, and snap his fingers at her considerable fortune. Money wasn’t everything. A man must respect himself else…

  That thought gave Rolfe the glimmer of an idea. “I believe you told me your regiment has been posted to Canada?”

  The young man nodded and expelled a long breath. “Yes, the 41st,” he answered without enthusiasm.

  There was no need to elaborate. Rolfe understood perfectly. There was no glamour attaching to Canada, not when the British were waging war against Napoleon’s armies in Spain. Young men hoped to cover themselves with glory serving with Wellington. Canada was a backwater and relatively safe, even supposing the Americans were making a damn nuisance of themselves. Hence Britain’s decision to send some of its crack troops to patrol the American-Canadian border. It was all show, of course. Wellington could not spare the men.

  “Where will you be stationed?”

  “Possibly Montreal, or it could be York.”

  “York?”

  “Sometimes known as Toronto,” Peter clarified.

  “Ah, that York. Mmm, yes…York…may do very well for our purposes,” mused Rolfe.

  “Sir?”

  Breathing deeply, Rolfe began, “I don’t wish to alarm you, Peter, but I do want to forewarn you,” and he went on to describe the attacks which had been made against Sara and Emily.

  They told her that she was a beautiful bride. She could not have cared less. Her heart was breaking. Only pride kept a smile on her face, pride and the knowledge that the man she loved was one of the select group of intimates invited to Rivard Abbey for the wedding. Though she scarcely spared him a glance, she was aware of Leon’s every move, burningly aware of the arm that loosely clasped Emily’s waist, as though it was Emily who must be supported through the frightful ordeal.

  It didn’t seem like a wedding. Everyone was too straight-faced. “Grim” was the word she wanted. Only Rolfe’s boys seemed to take pleasure in the proceedings and that was because they were too young to know any better, did not dream that if Sara had her way, she would have been anywhere rather than here. The actions of Peter’s mother and sisters didn’t improve matters. They were weeping into their lace-edged handkerchiefs as if doomsday had arrived. The harder they cried, the more fixed became Sara’s smile.

  She scarcely recognized Peter. In his dress regimentals and with everyone referring to him as “Major Benson,” he seemed like a stranger to her. The whole experience was an upsetting one—the ceremony, the introduction to Peter’s relations in these unhappy circumstances, the sad, commiserating looks, her young cousins’ artless, embarrassing questions, and the stilted toasts and conversations during the wedding breakfast. Sara knew what they were all dunking. So did Emily, if her heightened color was anything to go by. Their sympathies were all for poor Rivard whose nieces had both betrayed his trust in their time. Nothing could be worse than this, thought Sara as she sipped champagne and blinked back the hot tears of self-pity.

  She was wrong. What followed was infinitely worse. The intimacies of married life were not at all as Aunt Zoë had described. It wasn’t thrilling. It wasn’t nice. It was downright undignified and distasteful. After the first night, Sara wanted no part of it, and so she had sobbed out to her new husband on the second night he came to her bed. He was gentle. He was forbearing. He was also as deaf as a doornail. Some misguided meddler, his elder brother to be precise, had warned him that a husband must expect tears and entreaties from a new bride.

  It came to Sara, then, that a terrible injustice had been perpetrated against her own sex, yes, and married women connived at it! Young girls should be told what awaited them in wedlock. Then there would be no balls, and no flirting, and no babies. If she had only known what was in store for her, she would have resolved to remain unattached for the rest of her life. And, really, there was no necessity for her to marry. She was a woman of independent means.

  Marriage to Peter had changed everything. Her fortune was no longer her own. She did not understand the ins and outs of it, but it seemed that there was a trust and settlements, and goodness knows what else that practically reduced her to penury.

  “Your income is quite substantial,” Rolfe had reassured her.

  “Then what’s to stop me from spending it?”

  “Only your husband. No, it’s no good arguing with me, Sara. Your husband has the management of your affairs. You must be guided by Peter.”

  Sara absorbed this intelligence in smoldering silence. A moment’s reflection reassured her. Peter Benson had always been putty in her hands. For the present, Peter had adopted the role of her trustee. He was taking his responsibilities seriously—too seriously. When the novelty had worn off, he would be more approachable. She knew how to get round Peter.

  There were compensations to marriage, and Sara was resolved to enjoy every one of them. She wasn’t going to be like her sister. She wasn’t going to share her guardian’s roof while her husband was off in foreign parts carving out a career for himself. That would inhibit her ambitions. She was going to set up her own establishment. She was going to give balls and parties and have her own carriage. She was going to become fashionable and sought after. Lady Sara Benson was going to be a somebody.

  Her hopes helped to raise her spirits until Emily and Leon made to depart on the first leg of the journey that would take them to New York. It was an emotional farewell. Emily was loath to tear herself away from her family. Sara thought she understood her sister’s misgivings. New York was on the other side of the world. The society to be found in the colonies was hardly to be compared to the society to be found in England.

  But it was so much more than that. Sara and Emily had never been apart for more than a few weeks at a time, and that only when they were away at school. There had been many upheavals in their young lives, but they had always faced them together. Now, suddenly, they could no longer be confidantes, not because of the distance that was fated to separate them, but because two specimens of the male gen
der had cut them out of the herd. A wife must naturally turn to her husband. It was enjoined on her not only by custom, but also by law and church dogma.

  In that moment of leave-taking, old hurts and rivalries were forgotten.

  “It won’t be for long,” said Emily, clinging to her sister as though her life depended on it. “I shall be back before you know it.”

  Sara could not say a word for her tears.

  At length, their respective husbands separated the two girls. The carriage doors slammed, and it was as if the sound of it signified the end of a chapter in their young lives.

  The future looked very bleak and uncertain.

  Chapter Eleven

  Leon could not believe how easily everything was contrived. With a meekness that astounded him, Emily had allowed him to order their journey to suit himself. She seemed completely oblivious of the unusual number of outriders who accompanied their carriage, had never questioned him on their last stop when he had told her that they must switch coaches since the axle on their own coach had developed a crack. And when he had informed her of his change of plans, that they were not making for Falmouth but for Southampton where a ship of his brother-in-law’s line was docked, she had accepted his explanations without demur. He had heard about the Valclair quite by chance in the taproom of the hostelry where they were dining, he had told her. The long ocean voyage would be much more comfortable aboard the Valclair. What he had not told her was that they were expected and that the Valclair was a merchant vessel carrying no passengers, a circumstance which suited his purposes admirably.

  His methods were extreme, but he was prepared for the worst. If La Compagnie was on his trail, they would never have a better chance to ambush him. He was well aware of it and had taken every precaution. The coach in which they had started out was a decoy. Even now, it was taking the main road to Falmouth as originally planned, while he spirited Emily away to Southampton by back roads. In a day or two, before they sailed, he would have his answer. A report would be made to him. If no ambush had taken place, he must accept that he had allowed his imagination to run away with him. He hoped that was the case, but he very much feared that his instincts were as unerring as they had ever been.

  Yet, he sensed that all was not as it seemed to be. As Rolfe had pointed out, it was years since he had been a member of La Compagnie. He was no threat to the society’s new leaders—not unless there was something he knew that he was not aware he knew. Was it possible, he wondered, that he could identify the mastermind behind the resurrected La Compagnie? He examined that thought from all angles, and decided it was highly improbable. He had never been an important cog in La Compagnie’s wheel. He had known only the members of his own small cell. According to Rolfe, every one of them, barring himself, had perished. And all of that had happened years before, when he was a mere youth.

  Impatient with himself, he forced his thoughts to the future. He was carrying his wife off to his own domain. In New York, they would be safe. There was very little that happened there without his coming to hear of it. At the first hint of trouble, he had already mapped out his course. That thought brought a smile flashing to his lips.

  In silent contemplation, through half-lowered lids, he allowed his eyes to make a slow inspection of his wife. She was involved in reading the latest copy of Ackermann’s, which she had brought with her to while away the long, tedious hours of the journey. From time to time, she glanced out the coach window. Occasionally, she gave a telling sigh.

  They were completely alone in an enclosed carriage. The thought acted on him like a powerful aphrodisiac. Emily was his wife. He could take her if he wanted to. He had that right.

  He reined in that line of logic before he got carried away with it. He wanted more than access to his wife’s lovely body. He could be patient…for a little while longer.

  Soon, he would destroy every last defense she had ever constructed against him. She’d had years in which to arm herself for this final battle. Her arsenal was formidable: her childish antipathy to him, his past indiscretions, Sara’s tendre for him, and now William Addison. Emily could pull arrows for her quiver out of thin air and every one of those arrows would have his name on it. If he tried to storm the citadel, she would make him pay dearly for it. He couldn’t help smiling. He was thinking that he aimed to take the citadel by stealth.

  He had made a beginning. In the last week or two, he had tried to establish normalcy between them. He hoped Emily was getting the message. He was consumed with more than the thought to tumble her in bed and have his way with her. He was at some pains to demonstrate that they could be friends as well as lovers. They could have a good life together.

  And Emily, it seemed, was meeting him halfway. He was glad to note that his wife was putting a good face on it. He knew that she was reluctant to leave England. All the same, she was striving to keep an open mind about a country which, by her lights, must seem almost uncivilized. He studied the faint frown on her brow and wondered what she was thinking.

  The farther the coach carried them away from Rivard Abbey, the more Emily contemplated what lay in her future. She saw at once that Sara’s marriage marked a turning point. For better or worse, Leon was now hers. She tested the thought gingerly and was surprised at the little leap in her pulse.

  She did not love her husband. That conviction was so firmly planted in Emily’s mind, was of such long duration, that she did not have to think about it. Leon had an effect on her, that much she was willing to allow. But that was not love. That was a trick of nature to ensure the survival of the species. She knew she did not love Leon because he had made sure she hated him since the time they were children.

  Yet…there had been a remarkable change in Leon’s manner. He was being nice to her. It had started on the night of Sara’s elopement. Everyone was in shock, Uncle Rolfe especially. The man seemed to have aged ten years. Without warning, he had rounded on her.

  “A fine pair you girls make! Your father must be turning in his grave to see how both his daughters have turned out. God, where do you get it from? That’s what I should like to know! There was never a hint of scandal attaching to any Brockford female before you girls came into the family. Two discreditable matches, one after the other! I don’t know how your aunt will hold up her head for the disgrace.”

  At this tirade, all the color had rushed out of Emily’s face. Aunt Zoë turned furiously on her husband. But it was the ice in Leon’s voice which stayed Rolfe’s spate of words.

  “I don’t permit anyone to talk to my wife in those terms,” he said. Somehow, his arm was around Emily’s shoulders, pressing her into the shield of his body. Grateful for his support, she sagged against him. “Time is wasting.” His manner was as abrupt as his voice. “Do we go after Sara, or do we stand here arguing all night long?”

  As suddenly as it had come upon him, Rolfe’s anger drained away. With a half contrite, half cozening grin, he had apologized profusely, ending with, “Forgive me, kitten. You know I didn’t mean it. Your case is not the same as Sara’s.”

  Emily managed a tremulous smile, but Leon’s tones were no warmer. “No. It is not. Anyone who knows her must know that she was the innocent party when we were forced to wed.”

  For Leon to rush to her defense surprised Emily as much as it warmed her. In the week that followed, when they had all removed to Rivard Abbey for Sara’s wedding, she had occasion to be grateful for Leon’s unfailing support. It seemed to her that the old scandal was resurrected and fingers were pointing at her. It was always thus. Men could commit folly after folly with impunity. A woman’s reputation was fragile and easily destroyed.

  The attack, an oblique one, had come from one of Peter’s female relations. Lady Hester, Peter’s sister, looked as sweet and as pure as bleached sugar. Only those who felt the blade of her tongue would have known that it was coated with poison. Emily soon discovered it for herself.

  Uncle Rolfe had no time for the woman. “Don’t let Lady Hester overset you,” he sa
id to Emily. “She’s one of those who considers herself a guardian of the nation’s morals. She has an opinion on absolutely everything. What she needs is marriage to some man who will trounce her once in a while. That’s not likely to happen, though. She is allowing all the curly-brimmed beavers to pass her by while she holds out for a coronet.”

  Emily took to avoiding Lady Hester and her venomous tongue. Sensing Emily’s discomfort, Leon became her shadow. She would feel his hand at her elbow, his arm loosely clasped around her waist, and those small gestures of ownership conveyed a wealth of meaning. In Leon’s presence, no one dared say a slighting word to his wife.

  She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, then allowed her gaze to settle on him fully when she observed that he had drifted into sleep. It wasn’t true to say that he acted the part of the doting husband. On the other hand, he didn’t act like the old Leon, either. He was like a stranger, though a charming one. It was as if he were trying to establish a new model in their verbal intercourse. In the space of a week, they had not exchanged one cross word. Incredible!

  Nor had he made the slightest move to exercise his conjugal rights. Emily chewed on her bottom lip, wondering what it might all mean. Naturally, she was grateful, she told herself. Sara’s presence at the Abbey was inhibiting, to say the least. Sara and Leon. For years, it had been impossible for her not to think of them as belonging together. Sara’s marriage to Peter had made all the difference in the world.

  Her thoughts had come full circle. She was married to Leon for better for worse. The future was what she would make of it.

  From the opposite banquette, Leon angled his head back and studied his wife through lowered lids. Tears stood on her lashes. She brushed them away with impatient fingers. Leon was not quite sure whether he wanted to shake some sense into her or gather her in his arms and kiss those tears away. If she was pining for the loss of her girlhood home and her family, that was one thing. If she was pining for her lost lover, that was something else.