Vows to Save Her Reputation

by Christine Merrill

  He balled his fists, trying to resist the urge to caress her. Then, he surrendered to just a small part of what he wished to do and cupped his hand at the back of her neck, pressing his mouth to hers, sealing the kiss and thrusting his tongue into her mouth, drinking in the sweetness of her.

  Her hands crept to his waist slowly, as if afraid that she would startle him away. When he did not release her, she grew bolder, pressing her body against his and moving against him as if she was trying to arouse him.

  And it was working. Just as he had feared, now that he had begun, he did not want to stop. Yet, he must.

  He stepped back and dropped his hands to his sides.

  She looked even better for having been kissed. The flush of exercise had deepened to a full blush and her eyes sparkled with pleasure.

  ‘Well,’ she said, and her plumped, pink lips curved into a smile. ‘That was even better than archery.’

  ‘It will not happen again,’ he said firmly. ‘I was momentarily overcome.’

  ‘I see,’ she said and her smile faltered. He wondered if he had hurt her. But there was something other than disappointment in her expression. She suspected he was lying and that there was something more brewing between them. Then, she said the words he hated to hear from her. ‘I am sorry.’

  He should tell her that it was not her fault. What was happening had more to do with his overestimation of his strength than any seduction on her part. But instead of freeing her from any guilt in the incident, he turned and walked away from her.

  * * *

  It will not happen again.

  It was not what Emma had hoped to hear, though she could not say that she was surprised by it. It was what he had promised from the first.

  But he had kissed her. And without noticing it, earlier he had touched her breast. It had been all she could do not to jump in shock when it had happened. But if she had, he might have apologised and released her even sooner.

  What she had not expected to hear was the other announcement.

  I was overcome.

  Never in her life had she thought she might be the sort of girl who drove men to take rash action, against their better judgement. It was the nicest compliment he could have paid her and she had come very near to thanking him for it. Then, she had realised that if reminded, he would likely deny it, and had apologised, again. It was a lie, of course. If she’d done something to cause what had just happened, she wasn’t the least bit sorry.

  Now that the information was out and he had admitted an attraction to her, she might find a way to use it. If she had been husband hunting, her mother might have advised her on what to do to fan a tentative flame. But very few women could counsel on what to do with a husband, once caught, who wished to remain tepid when you harboured warm feelings for him.

  For a moment, she was sure they had been close to something more than just a kiss. But then he had regained control. And before she could think of a way to hold him, Robert had walked away, stiff and formal, as if nothing had happened at all. He had left her with those ordinary bows and arrows, when she needed not target practice but the skill of Cupid to get his attention.

  She had not even bothered with another shot, since there was no point in practising if he was not there to hold her in his arms to correct her aim. Instead, she had instructed the footmen to put the equipment away and walked back to the house to see if she could find him again.

  But when she had arrived there, she had discovered her family’s carriage waiting on the front sweep. Her throat tightened. Her mother had promised her an entire month of privacy before the first visit. But it had not even been a week. Was something the matter at home? Perhaps there was something urgent, something wrong with one of her parents that she needed to hear about.

  But the butler instructed her that her mother was waiting for her in the receiving room and did not seem agitated in any way.

  When Emma came into the room, the woman was as cheerful as ever. She stood and came to gather her close for a hug, then held her away, declaring, ‘Marriage suits you, my dear. Your colour is good. If possible, you look even taller than before.’ This was said with a hint of disapproval, as though her mother had hoped that leaving home would somehow reverse the effects of nature.

  ‘I am just fine,’ Emma assured her, shaking free of her grasp. ‘But what brings you to visit me? When last we talked, we agreed that I would not be ready for company for a few weeks yet.’

  ‘I could not stay away,’ her mother said, smiling eagerly. ‘There was hardly any information in the one letter you sent me.’

  ‘Because nothing had happened, other than the fire,’ she said. Then added, ‘Nothing has happened as yet to warrant more correspondence.’

  ‘Then you must let me help you with your household duties,’ her mother insisted. ‘There are no doubt staff to interview, menus to approve and a gala of some kind to plan.’

  ‘The menus are chosen. The staff is exemplary and does not need adjustment. The house practically runs itself. And as for galas...’ She was not sure what to think of this, but she knew what her reclusive husband would likely say about such a thing. ‘I will let you know the time and the place of our first entertainment, if we decide to have one.’

  ‘A tour of the house, then. There was no time on your wedding day. And since the first moment I saw it, I have been dying to see inside,’ her mother admitted.

  ‘But marrying me off to the owner was a rather drastic way to achieve that end,’ she said, shaking her head in amazement.

  From the hall, she heard a throat cleared in warning and, a moment later, her husband appeared.

  ‘Sir Robert,’ her mother cooed, oblivious to the embarrassing discussion that had been interrupted. ‘How good to see you again.’

  ‘And after so long,’ he said in a dry tone that was also lost on her.

  ‘I was just going to give Mother a tour of the house,’ Emma said, another apology on the tip of her tongue.

  Robert nodded. ‘If you need me, I will be in my study.’ This was said in a way that indicated what room the tour should avoid. Then he continued on down the hall as if nothing had happened.

  I’m sorry.

  She didn’t say it out loud, but she suspected he heard it anyway. Then she led her mother out of the room, in the opposite direction from the one her husband had taken.

  Chapter Ten

  Though she had not seen him at breakfast or luncheon, her husband appeared that night at dinner, but she could tell by the look on his face that he was unhappy with the way the day had gone. Was he annoyed that he had lost control and kissed her? Or was it the visit from her mother that bothered him?

  They ate the entire meal in an awkward silence and as it dragged on, the clink and scratch of utensils on plates seemed deafeningly loud. Emma’s nerves stretched thin as she searched for a topic of conversation that might break the silence. Then she remembered yesterday’s argument and thought the better of it, waiting for her husband to speak first, though he showed no signs of doing so.

  It was not until dinner was over that he seemed ready to unburden himself. He was staring into his wine glass, frowning. Then looked up at her over the rim and there was a change in the air between them, as if he was choosing his next words with care.

  He was about to scold her for something. She hoped it was not the archery, for she did not think that had been her fault. But whatever it was, she wished she had not done it. She was used to her mother’s quick rebukes, not this endless, disappointed silence. ‘I’m...’

  He held up his hand to stop the apology before she could make it. ‘I understand that your mother is interested in this house and eager to see you entertain in it.’

  If there had been any doubt before, he certainly understood it after what he must have heard today.

  ‘Despite what she may think, the fact that I took your dowry does n
ot entitle her to set the social itinerary for my home. My opinion on such things has not changed since the before our marriage. We do not entertain in Gascoyne Manor. There will be no balls, no house parties, no gatherings.’

  She started in surprise. She was used to having her mistakes corrected, but she had not expected to be lectured over a thing she had not actually done. ‘I have not requested any such thing,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Not yet,’ he countered. ‘It is one thing to accept a few invitations and visit the neighbours. But when the time comes that you succumb to your mother’s requests and begin to petition me for the right to throw some gathering or other, the answer will be no.’

  ‘Because of the curse,’ she replied, with a sigh.

  ‘The reason for it does not matter,’ he said. Outside, thunder rumbled as a dramatic punctuation to his words. ‘I am the master of this house and I do not wish you to entertain. That should be reason enough.’

  ‘But without further explanation, your rules appear to be arbitrary,’ she said. ‘It is impossible for me to understand you if you will not explain yourself.’

  Perhaps it was the flickering of a candle, but his face changed, as if he was considering her demand. Then, it was gone. ‘You do not need to understand me to obey.’ There was a flash of lightning and another ominous rumble.

  ‘I have not as yet disobeyed you,’ she said, frustrated. ‘It is not as if I am eager to entertain. I doubt I will be any more successful as a hostess than I am as a guest. But at least I will admit to the things I am afraid of. Now tell me what it is that is truly bothering you.’

  He opened his mouth to speak. But before he could, there was a great flash and a simultaneous boom and crash that sent a shudder through the house. In the following moment of profound silence, Robert rose from the table and went to the window.

  ‘You said that you would believe I was cursed if smote by Zeus,’ he said with a smile and motioned to her to come to his side. Once there, she could see the wreckage of a lightning-struck oak tree, lying on the ground outside.

  ‘I was not personally struck,’ she reminded him, regretting her earlier choice of words.

  ‘But your prediction was startlingly accurate,’ he said.

  ‘It was not meant as a prediction. It was an analogy.’

  ‘But spot on, all the same.’ But he seemed more amused than frightened by this latest problem.

  ‘As she stared out at the tree, rain began to pelt the windows, streaking the glass to hide the smouldering ruins of the oak in the garden. ‘It was certainly dramatic. But I do not see it as evidence of a curse in action. Was there significance to the tree? Was it planted by someone important? Did it hold meaning to you or to your family?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘It was just a tree.’

  ‘And we were startled, but not hurt,’ she reminded him. ‘It is much less severe than the tales of death and ruin that you told me before.’

  ‘Death and destruction are nothing to hope for,’ he reminded her.

  ‘And ordinary problems are not signs of divine retribution,’ she said. ‘You will not be the only man to lose a tree in this storm. But you are the only one trying to attach a meaning to it.’

  Or was he? She could not help feeling that, rather than brooding on doom, in this case he was just toying with her to distract her from something else.

  ‘You are probably right,’ he agreed. ‘Sometimes, a lightning strike is just a coincidence. But now the storm is growing worse and there is nothing more to see from these windows. Let us retire to the sitting room and entertain ourselves in comfort.’ Then he smiled at her.

  The brilliance of it took her breath away and chased all thoughts from her head. Or almost all of them. There was something he had been about to tell her, she was sure. Then lightning had struck and the moment was gone.

  But whatever it was might lead to another argument. Then he would not be looking at her as he was now, as if it would make him the happiest man in England to escort her to the sitting room. So she blushed and nodded, and let him escort her out of the room.

  Once they had settled for the night, she offered him the deck of cards she had been playing with on the previous evening. ‘Do you fancy a game of piquet?’

  His smile faded as he arranged a table between their two chairs. ‘Very well. But you will find I am as unlucky at cards as I claim to be at other things.’

  ‘Living alone you are no doubt out of practice,’ she replied.

  ‘My grandfather forbade it,’ he said. ‘He only took over the raising of us because of Father’s gaming and said it was the ruination of the family.’

  It was then that she remembered his mention of his father’s suicide. ‘We do not have to, if it offends.’

  He shrugged. ‘It is not so serious as that. I am an indifferent player. But it might amuse you to win for an hour or so.’ He spoke as if his losing was a foregone conclusion.

  As play commenced, it appeared he was right. He did not win, no matter how promising the hand he was dealt or how miserable hers might be. At first, she suspected he was letting her best him to bolster her confidence. But then she watched him closer and had to agree with his initial assessment. He was simply not very good at the game.

  While she had been raised by her mother to view cards like business, he had been taught what rules he knew as if they were a necessary evil. Hence, she discarded with care and kept a close eye on his doings to guess the contents of his hand. But his mind was elsewhere. He sometimes lost track of his own cards and paid no mind to hers at all.

  If this was the family method of play, she could see why his father had ended a bankrupt suicide and why his grandfather did not encourage gaming. She could also see why a proud man would rather blame supernatural bad luck than admit that he was unable to bend a deck of cards to his will.

  But if he truly believed he was cursed, there had to be more to the story than downed trees and bad luck. ‘When did the curse begin?’ she asked, dealing out another hand.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, taking his cards and frowning.

  ‘With these things, I am given to understand that there is something instigating a curse,’ she replied, arranging her hand and looking up at him. ‘Did a member of your family offend a fortune teller, or some other person of power?’

  ‘What a ridiculous notion,’ he snapped as they began to play.

  ‘No more so than the curse itself,’ she replied. ‘But if you believe it exists, then surely you have given thought to when and why it began.’

  He paused, as if trying to decide what he wished to tell her. Then, he said, ‘I have felt its effects since I was a child, but my grandfather explained what was happening to me when he took me in. I assume, if there were more to the story, he’d have told me then.’

  ‘And that was when you came to be cared by him,’ she said. ‘How old were you at the time?’

  ‘Twelve,’ he said, frowning down at the cards as she took another hand. ‘And Jack was seven.’

  So, his first introduction to the family legend had been when he was young and still reeling from his father’s suicide. No wonder he clung to it so tightly. ‘Do you mind if I look into the matter?’

  ‘In what way?’ he said, gathering the deck and squaring the corners so he could shuffle it.

  ‘You have the family bible to show me the deaths. But surely there are other journals or diaries from the family that would have some explanation.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Such things are kept in the study.’

  ‘Do you mind if I read them?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Though I doubt you will find any way to stop it, there is no harm in you looking.’ He stared down at the cards. ‘Another hand? Or have we played enough to prove my point?’ She had beaten him five times in a row and it was clear from the look on his face that this was the last
way he wanted to pass the evening.

  ‘I should have chosen the stakes before starting the game,’ she said. ‘I would be quite wealthy by now in the thing I most desire.’

  ‘And what might that be?’ he asked, smiling and laying down his cards.

  ‘Kisses,’ she said, changing the subject to distract him. ‘And they needn’t even be like the one you gave me in the garden. Last night’s kiss was quite nice as well.’

  She was not sure if it was an illusion of the firelight, but it appeared that her husband was blushing. He took a hurried sip of his port before responding. ‘Then you must give me a chance to win them back. Chess, I think. I am much better at that. Do you play?’

  ‘Well enough not to embarrass myself,’ she said, as he poured himself another glass of wine.

  ‘Then I will let you make the first move.’

  * * *

  As the game progressed, he proved that cards were his only weakness in strategy. His chess game was masterful and he gave no quarter on the first game, testing her strengths and weaknesses before declaring checkmate. The second game, he ceded her two pieces to make the play more equal, then beat her again.

  By the time they were ready to retire he had beaten her three times. As they walked towards their rooms, he said, ‘I trust I have won back anything I lost at cards.’

  ‘If you wish,’ she said, disappointed that he was so eager to avoid a goodnight kiss. ‘But I would think that a game like chess would be worth more than a hand of cards. You have earned any forfeit you would like to take.’

  They were standing in front of her door now and he laughed, low in his throat. ‘A forfeit. That is a very dangerous thing to offer me.’ Then, he leaned towards her in a way that was not quite menacing, but frightened her in a way that was hard to explain.

  ‘What do you want?’ she whispered, trying not to hope.