by Darcy Burke
“Yes, my lord.” Faint color rose in Haddock’s cheeks. “Perhaps you mentioned it to me, and I forgot.”
Constantine nearly laughed at the preposterousness of that occurrence. “You know that didn’t happen. I’m surprised too. Did she say why she arrived unannounced?”
“She did not.”
“I’m sure I’ll find out in the morning. Good night, Haddock.” Constantine left the entry hall and climbed the stairs. Passing the drawing room, he made his way to the sitting room that served as a sort of antechamber to his and his wife’s bedrooms.
Upon entering, he stopped cold. Seated in a chair before the fire was his wife.
Sabrina Westbrook was the most beautiful woman in England. Or so many had called her during her debut Season two years ago, including him. With her red-gold hair that made one think of honey glistening in the sun, her brilliant sky-blue eyes, and warm cream complexion, she was an ideal. To Constantine, she was the only woman who’d taken his breath away the moment he’d seen her. That she was the young lady his father wanted him to wed had seemed an impossible dream.
Too bad his dream wife had tried to avoid marrying him and was clearly filled with so much loathing that their union was damned from the start. Oh, she could be pleasant and polite, but there was no question that she detested being forced into this marriage and despised his nearness and his touch. Constantine had done a fair job of burying the hurt he’d felt then. So much so that he could almost forget it. Almost.
“What happened to your hand?” She came toward him, jolting him from his reverie. The skirt of her dark green dressing gown swirled about her ankles. Without waiting for his answer, she reached for him.
He took a step back, shocked by her approach. “I think the more important question, madam, is what are you doing here?”
Chapter 2
Sabrina froze, her mind arresting on the fact that she’d almost touched him. They only ever touched in her bedchamber, on the rare occasions that he’d visited her in the not yet two years of their marriage. She hadn’t even realized she was going to touch him, and if she’d thought about it, she would not have tried. But she’d seen that he was hurt, and her instinct to care for him—for anything or anyone who needed help—had taken over.
“I live here.” She met his gaze with a haughtiness she’d never managed before and was proud that she’d been able to do it. Her anxiety with people, particularly strangers—and her husband was little better than a stranger—had always been crippling. But no more. She needed to emerge from the shadows, to claim her role as countess, both in public and in private.
His expression flickered with surprise, and she felt a flare of satisfaction along with her pride. He was expecting the shy, malleable wife he’d married.
“You could have sent word that you were coming so that the household was prepared.”
She really should have, particularly since she was in need of a new ladies’ maid. Hers had married last year and was now expecting her first child. She’d resigned her employment before Sabrina had left for London, and one of the upstairs maids here at Aldington House had been unceremoniously thrust into the position upon Sabrina’s arrival.
“My decision to come was made rather hastily.” Once she’d decided to make a change, she’d moved quickly before she could lose her courage. “I apologize if I’ve upset you or the household.” She used a neutral tone just as he had.
“You could never do that,” he said.
Sabrina wasn’t sure how that made her feel. On the one hand, she liked to be amenable and would hate to cause trouble for anyone. On the other, her husband’s easy insistence that she would never be a bother made her want to be. If only to prove that he barely knew her.
Except he was right. Did that mean he did know her? At least a little?
His valet, Peale, entered the sitting room bearing a tray with what looked to be supplies to care for Aldington’s wound. Summoning the bravado and steel she knew she needed for this entire trip, Sabrina strode toward him and took the tray. “I’ll take care of his lordship. Thank you, Peale.”
The valet’s auburn brows arched briefly before he inclined his head. “Of course, my lady. May I say what a pleasure it is to see you.”
“Thank you. I’m glad to be back in London.” She clutched the tray in front of her.
Peale flicked a glance toward Aldington. “Just ring if you require anything further.” He bid them good night before departing the sitting room.
Sabrina set the tray on a nearby table and went back to her husband. Her gaze dipped to the triangle of dark ivory flesh that was exposed at his throat due to his lack of cravat. She wasn’t used to seeing him like that. Her mouth suddenly felt a bit dry, so she licked her lips. “May I see your hand?”
As he unwrapped the cloth, she realized what had happened to his cravat. Moving toward her, he held his hand out, palm up. The uneven gash was midway between his thumb and forefinger. Dried blood clung to his flesh.
“This needs to be cleaned first.” She lifted her gaze, passing over that taunting triangle of his exposed chest. She’d barely seen him without clothing. When he came to her bedchamber, he wore a banyan, then closed the curtain around the bed so that they were always cloaked in darkness. “Do you have water in your chamber?”
“Yes.” He turned his body and waited for her to pick up the tray. “After you.”
She’d never been in his room. Decorated in a rich, vibrant blue and accented with golds and browns, it was surprisingly warm. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but perhaps she’d assumed his bedchamber would be cool and austere, like his personality much of the time.
Aside from the bed, which she studiously avoided looking at, there was a small desk, a pair of dressers, and a cozy seating area with two wingback chairs in front of the hearth. The latter drew her attention as she wondered who would join him there. He’d certainly never invited her.
He went to one of the dressers and poured water from a pitcher into the basin beside it. Picking up the basin with his uninjured left hand, he carried it to the small table near the door and set it down. It was as if he didn’t want her coming too far inside.
She nearly said so, but her newfound courage failed her. Setting the tray beside the basin, she plucked up a small piece of cloth and dipped it into the water. “Your hand, please,” she murmured softly.
He extended it again, palm up. Now she had to touch him. Keeping her gaze averted from his, she put her palm beneath his hand and gingerly clasped him. The connection made her breath stall in her lungs. She dabbed at the dried blood, working as quickly as possible but gently too, lest she cause him further harm.
“What happened?” she asked.
“A glass broke in my hand at White’s.”
“Bad luck.” She finished cleaning his flesh and set the soiled cloth back on the tray, letting go of his hand. At last, she exhaled as she reached for the small jar of poultice.
“I can apply that,” he said, his voice neither rising nor falling. He nearly always spoke to her in a monotone. When he spoke to her, which wasn’t often. That required them to be in the same physical vicinity.
“Yes, but I’m going to do it,” she asserted.
She glanced at his face, just catching the arch of his brow and the flash of surprise in his eyes. Busying herself with her task instead of looking at him, she took the lid from the jar of poultice and set it onto the tray. She dipped a fingertip into the salve, then clasped his hand again to smooth the medicine onto the cut.
The barest intake of breath—his—prompted her to look back to his face. Faint lines fanned from his hazel eyes, marring the perfect planes of his countenance. He was an exceptionally handsome man, with his aquiline nose and sharp jawline that looked as though they’d been chiseled from granite to be displayed in a palace somewhere. A face for people to look upon and admire but that masked an empty shell.
Only he wasn’t a statue, even if it was easier for her to think of him as such. He
was a man, and he was her husband. For better or worse.
Forever.
“It hurts,” she noted, as she carefully applied the salve.
He barely nodded in response.
“I’m sorry,” she added.
“It’s fine.” The words were low and clipped, and they irritated her. Everything was always fine. Except that it had never been. Perhaps for a short time after their betrothal, when he’d been charming and attentive. Then, just before the wedding, he’d seemed to grow more distant, less charming and far less attentive. As if he regretted their engagement. She assumed he had. Then her mother had told her quite plainly that Aldington didn’t care for the union but that he would see his duty done.
That had set the stage for a thoroughly awful wedding night and subsequent marriage. It was bad enough that Sabrina suffered from an excess of nerves and anxiety. Add in a husband who had no desire to marry her, and the result was a union of polite detachment. She supposed it could be worse, that they could openly despise each other. Yes, she was grateful for polite detachment and hoped they could move beyond that, if only to do what was necessary to have a child—something she wanted and he needed.
She exhaled as she took the bandaging from the tray. “Do you think we could try to be pleasant?” Her gaze fixed on the small area of his exposed chest once more, and a peculiar heat flushed her neck.
“Am I not pleasant? Ow!”
She’d begun to wrap his hand and realized she’d pulled the cloth too tightly against the cut. “My apologies.”
He frowned, his brow creasing. “Should I call for Peale?”
“No.” She continued, moving more slowly and gently. “Do not call for Peale. And no, you aren’t pleasant. You are… dispassionate.”
His hand twitched, and she feared she’d struck a nerve. She finished wrapping his wound and tied the ends of the cloth together. “There.” She put her hands around his, holding him for a moment as she looked into his eyes.
There was a wariness in his gaze. Not quite vulnerability, but that seemed…not far off. Her breath snagged again.
“I don’t mean to be,” he said softly. “Dispassionate.”
“I know.” Did she? How could she know anything about him? “Actually, I don’t know, but I’ll give you a chance to prove it.” This was the moment.
He took his hand from between hers and stepped back. His wariness intensified, and it was as if he’d stepped back behind the wall he kept around himself. “What do you mean?”
“I wish to share your bedchamber. Or we can share mine. However, yours is larger.”
His jaw tightened. “I told you when we wed that I expected us to retain separate bedchambers. I have not changed my mind about that.”
He’d stated that quite clearly not long after the ceremony. It was not a strange request—many married couples, including his parents and hers, slept separately. “Then I would like you to visit mine more often. Starting with tonight.” She sounded so bold, so confident. She prayed she could maintain that attitude when he actually arrived at her bed. In the past, she’d shrank from him, her anxiety and apprehension getting the better of her. Their wedding night in particular had been ghastly, a dark, quick encounter during which she’d lain practically immobile, paralyzed with fear. After which, he’d apologized and hadn’t visited her again for some months—not until they’d gone to Hampton Lodge later in the summer.
He held up his hand with a grimace. “I’m afraid I’m indisposed.”
She’d been prepared for prevarication—this was a dance at which they were both very accomplished. It was time, however, to change the steps.
Sabrina moved toward him so that they were as close as when she’d tended his hand. “You need an heir. We’ve been married almost two years. My mother is certain there’s something wrong with me, that I can’t bear children, and I know there is speculation as to my…ability to give you a child. The sad fact is that I daresay we haven’t tried enough to ascertain if any of that is true.”
A small burst of exultation at having made it through saying all that resonated in her chest. It was short-lived, however, since his face had turned ever increasing shades of white until he looked like the alabaster bust of David in her father’s library.
“Er, well, we will keep trying.” He pivoted slightly, his gaze focused on the hearth and the low fire burning in the grate.
It was time—past time—to make her mission clear. Perhaps then his attitude would change. If he could bring himself to want her, and Sabrina wasn’t sure he could. Nothing he had ever said or done had led her to think he found her desirable. Her shoulders twitched with the discomfort she’d come to accept, that her husband would never be pleased with her. When she had a child to love, none of that would matter. She wouldn’t be lonely anymore. “I’ve come to London to get with child, and I’m not leaving until I am.”
His head snapped toward hers, his eyes goggling. “What has happened to you?” His shocked reaction was at least better than one of disgust. She hadn’t been sure what to expect.
“Nothing has happened to me. I am merely trying to be a proper countess. You need an heir, and I want a child.”
He continued to stare at her, and it took him a moment to respond. “That will come. In time.”
Not disgust then, but apathy. Which was worse? “We’ve had plenty of time. I expect you to visit my bed every night until I’m certain I’m with child.”
He didn’t meet her gaze. “I can’t commit to every night. I’m a very busy man.”
“What are you doing when you should be sleeping? Have you taken a mistress?”
“No!” He answered quickly and vehemently, a look of sheer horror arresting his features for the barest moment. The reaction was so stark and so swift that she was certain it had to be a lie.
And why wouldn’t he have a mistress? That’s what men in his position did, particularly men who weren’t remotely interested in their wives. At least, that’s what she’d been told. It made no difference to her how he spent his time, so long as he gave her a child. Mistress or no mistress, he had a responsibility as a husband, and especially as a future duke, to produce an heir.
Irritated that he didn’t seem to see the urgency, she fisted a hand on her hip. “I’m not asking you to be a husband, just to do your husbandly duty. Do you think you can manage that?” Now she was shocking even herself. She’d planned to confront him; it was her entire purpose for coming to town. However, she hadn’t expected to lose her temper. She hadn’t even realized she had one to lose.
“You—you…,” he sputtered, his forehead furrowing with deep lines as the muscles of his jaw worked. “Who are you?”
She straightened her spine, rising to her not unimpressive height of five feet and five inches. He might have a mistress, but she was his wife and only she could give him an heir. “I am the Countess of Aldington, and I demand my marital rights.”
“Good God,” he muttered, walking away from her toward the fireplace. He gripped the back of a chair, then immediately lifted his right hand while whispering something else. A curse perhaps, because that likely hurt his wound. After a moment, he faced her, his features tightly drawn. “I will do my duty, but I will visit you in your chamber, as usual.”
“When?” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“When my hand is better.” He scowled at her.
“Didn’t you marry me in order to carry out your duty to produce an heir?” She knew it wasn’t because he’d fallen in love with her. Or even that he liked her. And he certainly didn’t desire her.
His jaw clenched again, and she swore she could almost hear the grinding of his teeth. “I did.”
The temper she’d just realized she possessed took rein once more. “Don’t take too long, because I’m going to have a child whether you participate or not.”
His eyes darkened, and he stalked to her, standing even closer than when she’d bandaged his hand. “Did you just threaten to allow another man into your b
ed?” Oh, this was new. It seemed he had a temper too.
She ought to be frightened—and part of her was, the part that was still reserved and soft-spoken, afraid of her own shadow, no matter how badly she didn’t want to be. This new part of her, however, the one that was tired of being alone and desperate for someone to care for, wasn’t scared. She was emboldened. Or perhaps even…excited. A reaction from him meant she was gaining ground. She hoped so anyway.
She arched a brow and gave him what she hoped was a saucy look. “Would that encourage you to do your duty?” How she hated that word. As if she were a required task instead of a woman. His wife.
But wasn’t a wife—and a husband—merely a duty personified? Her mother would say so, and everything her husband had said and done led her to acknowledge that he would believe the same.
He frowned. “I don’t find your attempt at lightheartedness or flirtation remotely amusing or enticing. Indeed, I am shocked by this change in your behavior. Where is the woman I married?”
“Gone.” She leaned forward and inhaled, catching his scent—an elusive combination of cedar and spice. The heat she’d felt earlier returned, climbing into her face but also spreading lower and making her body…tingle.
He jerked back from her. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to retire. I have an early morning appointment.”
Sabrina’s body, taut with apprehension and expectation, relaxed. The battle was over for now. A draw, which was better than a defeat. Uncrossing her arms, she turned and left his chamber, closing the door gently behind her.
Now that she was gone from his presence, all the bravado slipped from her body like jelly sliding from a spoon. She gripped the doorframe of her chamber as she staggered inside. She swung the door closed, more forcefully and loudly than she had her husband’s.
Then she slumped back against the wood, closing her eyes and taking deep, rapid breaths.
Slower.
It was a mantra she’d often repeated since the first time her breathing had become too fast, her head had gone dizzy, and her chest had felt as if a horse were standing on it. She’d collapsed to the floor, terrifying her mother. That had been the day before she’d been presented to the Queen two years ago.
