Foster stared at her in disbelief and confusion. Why was she suddenly making demands on him? When had she turned so ugly? Had she always been this way or had the distance and years apart done this to her?
He supposed that Rose had been almost pretty once, years ago, before her own bitterness and sourness had ruined her, before the scowl lines and frowns had marked her face permanently, causing her to look much older than her twenty-eight years. Her thick brown hair, once lustrous and shiny, now was held severely back from her face in a tight knot, giving her features a somber and pinched look. There was not an ounce of softness about the woman.
“Don’t fret, Foster, I shall be out of your way first thing in the morning. You can go back to whatever it is you do with your time and all your women. You do not need to worry about me.” Her brittle words did nothing to mask the accusatory undertone.
Ignoring her remark about his women, he said, “I do worry about you, Rose.”
Oddly enough, he did. There certainly was no love lost between them, but Foster did worry over her from time to time when he managed to think of her at all. Rose cultivated jealousy, spite, and misery around her as devotedly as a gardener tended his prized orchids. Foster pitied her, actually. The poor woman never learned how to enjoy life because she was too preoccupied with being afraid of living.
“Don’t make me laugh.” She presented him with a withering gaze. “You would do a jig on my coffin tomorrow if I died tonight.”
“No.” Slowly he shook his head, appalled by her words. He would never rejoice in her death. “No, I would not. In spite of what you may think of me.”
“It’s not what I think, Foster.” Her cold blue eyes pierced his. “It’s what I know.”
The venom in her words took him aback. Again, he sighed. It was pointless talking with her. Rose believed what she wanted to believe and there was no changing her mind. And she always believed the worst of people. There was nothing he had ever been able to say to convince her otherwise. Especially where Foster himself was concerned. She believed him to be the most wretched of all men.
“You’re being rather dramatic this evening, Rose, don’t you think?”
“I’m being honest,” she retorted without missing a beat. “But I’ll be on my way first thing in the morning.”
“Back to Yorkshire?”
“Yes. Of course back to Yorkshire. Where else would I be going?”
She had a point there. He couldn’t imagine Rose venturing anywhere besides London and their estate in Yorkshire, near where she grew up. She was nothing if not a homebody, and traveling and going abroad was not something she aspired to do. Her dislike and fear of meeting people and having new experiences kept her trapped in her own narrow little world where she felt comfortable and superior to those around her.
He ignored her sarcasm. “Have you concluded whatever business brought you to London in the first place?”
Foster had no idea why she’d come to town, and she had not volunteered the information when she arrived that afternoon. Not that he was all that interested, but she hadn’t come to London in years, so whatever brought her here had to have been important.
“Yes,” she said briskly. “Not that you would care what I do while I’m in town.”
“You’re quite right. It’s immaterial to me what you do or where you go. Is that what you want me to say, Rose?” His words came out harsher than he’d intended, but she had provoked him. He had been trying to be decent with her, but as always, she made that impossible. The woman never gave an inch.
“I’d expect you to at least have an interest as to why I’m here.”
“Why would I?” he remarked. “We set the precedent for that years ago, at your request. We don’t get involved in each other’s lives.”
Rose Sheridan laughed then. A brittle, mocking laugh. “No, we don’t get involved in each other’s lives, do we, Foster? You are correct on that score. I suppose I don’t care what you do any more than you care what I do. But I thought you’d at least put up a pretense for the one day I’m in town. I’d expected you to at least show a little respect to your wife.”
Wife. The reference made him shudder. Rose had never been a true wife to him.
“I have always been respectful of you, if nothing else.” He took another drink of scotch and then set the glass down, so hard it almost shattered. What the hell did she want from him? He’d given her everything she wanted. Everything she had demanded.
“Please,” she scoffed in derision, her icy blue eyes hard. “Don’t add more lies to your list of husbandly virtues.”
Foster stared at the woman he had married ten years earlier, hardly recognizing the girl she had been. At eighteen years old, Rose Davenport had been somewhat attractive then, with soft skin and blue eyes. At least she’d had youth on her side then, to offset her morose and rancorous nature. He had not loved her when they wed, and he certainly did not love her now. He could barely muster the memory of the slightest bit of fondness for her, for Rose was not the type of woman who invited affection of any kind.
“What is it you want from me now? After all these years? Is there something in particular you want or need? Lord knows I’ve given you everything I can. And we are long past pretenses.”
“This is our marriage.” She spat the words at him.
“What we have is not a marriage.” His words hung over the two of them.
Of course it wasn’t. A marriage was supposed to be a union of two people who made a life and a home and a family together. Theirs had never been a union at all. From the very start, it had been nothing short of a dreadful mistake.
“Yet, this was what you asked for, remember?” he continued. “What you begged for . . . For me to leave you alone. So I did. I gave you exactly what you demanded of me. So just what in the hell do you want from me now?”
Really, what more did she expect from him? He’d left her to her own life. He’d forgone everything that had mattered to him. He’d given up all hope of the prospect of a happy home or children to continue his family name. His only cousin was all set to take over the earldom, for Foster would never have legal heirs of his own.
“What do you want, Rose? A divorce? After all these years, is that it?” He flung the words at her scornfully, adding a cruel taunt. “Don’t tell me you have finally taken a lover?”
In an instant Rose moved toward him and in one swift motion struck him hard across the face. She made a motion to strike again. On instinct, Foster grabbed her bony wrist and held it tight, preventing her from hitting again.
“That’s enough,” he ground out between clenched teeth, angrier with her than he could ever recall being before. As he held her arm, suspended tensely between them, he fought the overwhelming urge to hit her back.
She didn’t usually inspire this kind of fury in him, even when she’d become violent with him in the past. Usually he felt a benign disinterest in her, as if she were a distant relative he barely knew and rarely saw, but was obligated to support. Which was a pretty accurate summation of the current status of their matrimonial affairs.
The unspeakable topic of a divorce had come up very early on after the wedding, during that first miserable year together. He’d even suggested an annulment. But Rose had been adamantly against it. They were married, and married forever as far as she was concerned.
As the years fell away and Foster saw less and less of her, he’d resigned himself to the disastrous state of his so-called marriage and got on with his life without her. She lived on the estate in Yorkshire and he lived in the townhouse in London. It was not an unusual arrangement as far as some society marriages went, oddly enough. He could easily name two other men he knew who were in similar circumstances with their wives.
But they had at least been able to have children.
And now . . . Now he just wanted Rose out of his sight. He thrust her arm away with a little more force than necessary.
“Don’t ever say that word to me again,” she threatened, but
she took a step back from him as she said it.
“Why the hell not?” he spat out. “We don’t have a real marriage. We don’t even like each other, so what is the point of carrying on this blasted charade anymore? Why not get a divorce? We’re not fooling anyone. We have no life together. We have no children.”
God, it pained him to say it aloud. What he was missing. What he would never have. Usually he managed to keep those agonizing thoughts at bay.
Seeing her again only reinforced what he already knew deep in his soul. Rose would never change. She would never want the things he wanted. Her selfishness had ruined his life. And it was too late to rectify it.
Her blue eyes glittered with malice. “Because we are married, like it or not. You married me. I am your wife, Foster, and you are my husband and that’s all there is to it. I am your wife until the day I die.” She spun around and stalked from the room, slamming the door behind her.
It was Rose’s signature exit. A slamming door.
Foster picked up his glass and poured more scotch into it. He downed it in one shot. Then he sank into the deep leather chair near the fireplace. More than a little shocked by their almost violent altercation, he was surprised that he’d brought up the prospect of divorce when he’d resigned himself to his married fate years ago.
He’d made a decent enough life for himself in London over the years. He fulfilled his obligations and maintained the earldom. And of course, he had kept himself entertained with lovely women and good friends. But more importantly he pursued a business he’d started which invested in modern innovations. Foster considered himself a forward-looking man and it was an exciting time with so many wonderful new inventions. He loved obtaining the newest and most modern conveniences and was even about to have electric lights installed in his townhouse. All these new devices, like the telephone, were the way of the future.
Yet what about his own future? Suddenly this life seemed hollow and lonely and he had the urge to be free of Rose. To be free to live a real life.
He sighed heavily.
He was legally tied to Rose and being with her was hellish.
That truth stung even more so tonight because he’d just gotten a glimpse of heaven on earth . . . in the form of Lady Mara Reeves.
3
Variations
“Do you mean to say that you don’t wish to go to Ireland with us next week?” Declan Reeves, the Earl of Cashelmore, stared at his only daughter in confusion. “I don’t understand, darlin’.”
“I’d just rather stay in London for a little while longer, Papa.” Mara attempted to sound nonchalant, but she heard her voice quaver.
She simply couldn’t leave London. Not now. Not after meeting Lord Sterling last night. Not after what had happened to her. She just could not go, but she couldn’t explain the real reason to her parents without sounding like a simpleton. They would believe her to be utterly crazy.
She feared they already knew that she was.
Her whole life had changed last night and it was absolutely impossible to tell them that. She had met a man who turned her world upside down by being the center of her premonition, and she had to stay to figure out why. She had to see him again. That feeling! That feeling in her premonition was indescribable. Powerful. All-consuming. She had to find out what it meant! Leaving now was completely out of the question.
But being allowed to stay was another matter altogether.
Their family spent every summer in Ireland and she had always loved going. Mara was born in Ireland and felt at home there in a way that was almost magical. She loved the green hills, the rocky gray walls, the misty rain and all. But she could not possibly go there now.
“Well, I still want to go!” Her younger brother chimed in. At seventeen Thomas Reeves’s boyish spirit loved any kind of adventure, and sailing to Ireland was one of his favorite things to do. At the moment he was piling a second helping of scrambled eggs, sausage, and toast onto his breakfast plate with gusto. Eating was one of her brother’s other favorite pastimes.
“I don’t understand, Mara . . .” Paulette looked across the table at her with growing concern. “We’ve had these plans for the last month. I have things to attend to at the Dublin bookshop, in addition to the house. Your father has his duties at Cashelmore Manor to manage as well. We postponed our trip when Aunt Juliette arrived, and then with Sara’s wedding and Jeffrey’s party and everything else, we’ve really put off going as long as we can. We’ve missed the entire summer as it is.”
Mara avoided her mother’s eyes. Paulette could always read Mara better than anyone, and she did not want to have to explain what happened to her last night. Yet she did not want to arouse any suspicion either. They were certain to refuse her request if they knew the reason she wanted to stay. And oh, how she wanted to stay! She simply had to remain in London.
“You can all still go without me,” Mara offered casually. “I’m twenty-two years old, almost twenty-three now. That seems reasonably old enough to remain here in London on my own.”
The breakfast table grew silent as her father set down the letters he’d been idly scanning. Mara noted the brief glance exchanged between her parents. Even Thomas stopped eating and sat up straighter, the conversation having suddenly become more interesting to him than eating. Mara held her breath as her family stared at her with varying looks of confusion and surprise.
“You’re not going to let Mara stay here alone, are you?” Thomas finally asked, his blue eyes wide.
“No, we’re not,” Declan answered most emphatically. “Honestly, Mara, what is this nonsense all about? We’ve always gone home together.”
With all of their eyes upon her, Mara lost her nerve. “I just . . . I just don’t feel like going is all . . .” she offered up feebly. She stared down at the uneaten eggs on her plate. With the knot in her stomach, the thought of food made her feel queasy.
It had been a lost cause from the start. She should have known that her parents would never let her stay in London by herself. At least she had tried, which is more than she would have usually done. She could never explain to them why she needed to stay in London so desperately. Mara could barely explain it to herself. But there was no hope now. With a sigh of resignation, she slowly picked up her fork and began to push the eggs around on the plate, more for the need of something to do rather than from any desire to eat.
Well, there it was.
In less than a week she would be sailing to Ireland. Away from Lord Sterling. A heavy blanket of disappointment filled her chest. Just what she thought would happen with Lord Sterling if she stayed, she was not sure. But now she would never find out, would she?
The awkward quiet that had fallen over the breakfast table was interrupted by Paulette’s soft voice. “I think perhaps Mara has a point. Maybe we should discuss this a little more, Declan.”
Mara froze, her heart suddenly surging with renewed hope, and stared up at her mother with a grateful smile. That was one of the reasons Mara loved Paulette so much and called her Mother. Paulette understood Mara and she always had, from the very first day they had met in the bookshop.
Paulette Hamilton had married Mara’s father when Mara was only five years old, and she was the only mother Mara had ever really known. Paulette had changed their lives for the better and Mara loved her all the more for it. Beautiful Paulette, with her enchanting bookstore and her large and wonderful family, had transformed Mara’s world and brought her out of the silence and darkness that had enveloped her since her own mother had tragically died.
“You cannot be serious, Paulette!” Declan exclaimed in surprise, his gaze now fixed upon his wife.
“I think we should at least consider it before we make a decision. She is an adult after all.” Paulette stood her ground.
Mara cheered for joy in her heart. Oh, Paulette was simply magnificent! Her mother could be quite determined when she thought she was right.
“I am not leaving my young, unmarried daughter alone in London!” Decla
n protested heatedly. His brows drew together in disapproval, giving his usually handsome face a dark scowl.
“I agree with Papa,” Thomas interjected excitedly. “Mara should come to Ireland with us.”
“You may be excused, Thomas,” Paulette said briskly. “Leave us to discuss this with your sister.”
“But I’m not done with my breakfast!” he cried, food always foremost on his mind. His wide blue eyes filled with confusion. “Besides, I’m part of this family too, aren’t I? We always make decisions together.”
“Not this time, Thomas,” Paulette said in the manner that meant the conversation was at an end. “You can take your plate with you. Go finish your breakfast in the garden. It’s a lovely morning, sweetheart.”
With a last-ditch look at their father, who offered no help, Thomas gave up. He knew better than to cross their mother when she used that tone. Amid quite a bit of grumbling, her brother took his breakfast and left the dining room, but not without a parting comment about how unfair it was to be ousted from the discussion.
As Mara set down her fork, her hand trembled slightly. Was it possible? Were they actually considering allowing her to stay? All last night she’d lain in bed thinking of how she would broach the topic with them. She certainly couldn’t sleep after all that had happened with Lord Sterling. It had been a dreamlike and extraordinary meeting and she wasn’t about to leave the country after such an event.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, Paulette,” Declan began, looking quite annoyed by the whole incident. “You must be daft if you think I’m going to allow Mara—”
“Declan,” Paulette interrupted her husband calmly. “I think we should listen to her. She’s trying to tell us something.” She paused for effect and gave him a knowing look, adding softly, “When has Mara ever asked us for anything?”
Mara watched the change come over her father. He turned to face her, and his entire expression softened as he looked at her. They had always had a very special bond between them and she was not unaware of the tender spot he had for her. She knew it was because he feared losing her again, as he had when she was a little girl after the great fire.
The Irish Heiress Page 3