The look of shock on her face made him instantly regret the harsh words.
“Don’t call yourself that!” she cried.
“Why not? It’s what I am.”
“You are so much more than that, if you could only see it.” Her brow furrowed as she rose. She found her shift and put it on. “But before we can marry and have any kind of meaningful future together, I should think you would want to share yourself with me, so I could know you fully, in every aspect of your life.”
In other words, she wanted him to bare his soul, to relive all the painful moments with her. No, thank you.
But when people edge too close, you always start pushing them away, and then, of course, you end up alone.
Damn Beatrice. She was wrong. He had a perfectly legitimate reason not to let Gwyn see his scars. After all, at least one woman had already recoiled from them. The very idea of Gwyn recoiling . . .
No, he wasn’t ready for that.
“Joshua,” she said softly, “you can trust me.”
“The way you trusted me?” he shot back. “Sneaking around, amassing your blackmail money, sending notes to ‘Lionel,’ and arranging secret meetings with him? You could have confided in me, but instead—”
“How did you know I sent Lionel a note?”
One look at her pale face and he groaned. A body would think he’d have learned by now not to speak when he was in a temper. Because this was what happened. He said things he shouldn’t.
He shrugged and started trying to dig himself out of the hole. “Well . . . you did send him a note, didn’t you?”
Her expression hardened. “The only way you could have known that was by spying on me. Following me. You say I don’t trust you? You’re as bad as Thorn. Neither of you trusts me.”
“With good reason, apparently,” he said, having learned in the marines that the best defense of one’s actions was to attack.
But perhaps not so much with ladies, judging from the cold glint in her eyes.
Hastily, he seized on something else Gwyn had said. “You said, ‘Before we can marry.’ Does that mean you’re agreeing to my offer?”
“What offer?” She ducked her head to tie her shift with angry jerks of her fingers. “You haven’t actually made an offer of marriage.” Now she was concentrating on wriggling into her stays, but it was clear she couldn’t tighten them herself.
He went over to help her. “Haven’t I?” he said, though he knew he really hadn’t. He finished with her stays, then waited while she pulled on her gown. That would need buttoning up, too. “I could have sworn I did.”
“You did not. We talked around it, about it, over it.” When he buttoned up her gown, she added, “You told Lionel that if he revealed anything about my past, you would announce our engagement. But you never actually asked.”
“Perhaps not, but you knew what I meant. What I wanted.”
She whirled to face him, her eyes those deep forest pools he could drown in. Was drowning in.
“Because now I read your mind?” she said in a clipped voice. “You offering to announce our engagement was a threat that was conditional upon Lionel’s bad behavior. It didn’t involve actually asking me. Or are you having second thoughts about marrying me now that you’ve bedded me?” She picked up her mobcap and stuffed her hair up inside it. “Is that why you’re choosing to fight with me?”
“I am not choosing to fight with you. I am merely pointing out—”
“And in case you were wondering,” she went on, “the only person pitying you, Joshua, is you.”
She marched toward the door.
He followed her, his temper rising. “Even if I did offer for you in the exact way you wish me to, you wouldn’t accept me, would you?”
She turned to look back at him. “You would never lower your pride enough to risk my saying no, so I guess we’ll never know, will we?”
Then she walked out, shutting the door behind her.
He stood there speechless, his hands curling into fists. She was making him insane! Choosing to fight, indeed. The only person choosing to fight was her. Clearly she desired him, and clearly she had enjoyed their lovemaking. What more did she want from him?
But when people edge too close, you always start pushing them away, and then, of course, you end up alone.
“Shut up, Beatrice!” he cried into the rafters.
The sound of servants running brought him up short. He’d yelled loudly enough to be heard?
Bloody hell. He’d better be fully dressed before they descended on him. He hobbled around to pick up articles of clothing, then finished dressing. By the time a maid and two footmen burst in, he was headed for the door, cane in hand.
“Sir, are you all right?” the maid asked. “We heard screaming.”
“I was looking for something up here and couldn’t find it. Please forgive my frustration. I . . . um . . . tend to talk to myself.”
One of the footmen stepped forward. “If you tell us what you’re looking for, Major, perhaps we could . . .”
But Joshua had already pushed past them and out into the hall. Let them wonder. People always wondered about him anyway. Might as well give them a better reason for it than his battle wounds.
The only person pitying you, Joshua, is you.
Wonderful. Now he had both Beatrice and Gwyn in his head. Time to drown out their voices. And he had the perfect place to do it, too.
It was high time he gave the Duke of Thornstock a piece of his mind.
Gwyn had barely reached her bedchamber on the second floor when she heard Joshua yelling something upstairs. A pox on him! He would bring all the servants running.
She hurried inside, praying that her maid wasn’t there. Thankfully, the room was empty, which was a good thing because she feared she was about to cry. And she never cried. Blast it all! She dared not let anyone see her. She’d never be able to tell the truth about why she was upset.
Tearing off her mobcap, she threw herself across the bed and began to sob. What a coward she was! Instead of being determined to have the last word in their argument, she should have told Joshua she would marry him. But what if she had, and then, when she told him the rest of what had happened between her and Malet, he’d changed his mind? She knew Joshua—he would marry her anyway once she accepted his . . . his nonproposal. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.
That started her crying again, so hard that at first she didn’t hear the firm knocking at her door. But when it was coupled with Beatrice’s voice . . .
Oh, no, she couldn’t let Beatrice see her like this! Beatrice would guess who had caused her distress, and then she would either defend her brother or go give him a lecture. Then again, perhaps he could use a lecture from someone other than her.
She was still trying to decide what to do when Beatrice said, more softly, “Dearest, I’m coming in unless you say otherwise.”
Perhaps talking to Beatrice was a good idea. She might know more about why Joshua was so maddening. She would certainly know if Gwyn had a chance with him, given the peculiarities of her situation.
Gwyn sat up to pull her handkerchief out of her pocket, then saw the blood on it from when she’d wiped Lionel’s blood off Joshua’s face. That started her crying all over again.
The door opened and Beatrice peeked in, then said, “Oh, my dear, what has happened?” She slipped inside and closed the door. “Can I help?”
Gwyn was still staring at her bloody handkerchief through her tears.
When Beatrice hurried over and saw it, she started. “You’ve hurt yourself! Shall I fetch your mother?”
“No!” Gwyn said. “It’s not my blood. And Mama can’t know.”
“All right.” Beatrice whisked the bloody handkerchief from her and placed her own clean one in Gwyn’s hand. “There. I know you don’t want to wipe your nose with a bloody one.”
Gwyn cast her a grateful smile as she dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. Then she sat there staring down at Beatrice’s nicely embroi
dered handkerchief.
Beatrice took a seat on the bed next to her. “Dare I ask whose blood it is?”
“Do you swear not to tell Mama or Grey if I tell you?”
“That sounds ominous.” Beatrice pondered the request for a moment. “I don’t mind keeping secrets from your mother if you think it will hurt her. But Grey . . .”
“Will quite possibly commit murder if he learns what I tell you.”
Beatrice blinked. “He’d murder Joshua?”
“Not Joshua. Well, probably not Joshua. But he might murder Lionel Malet. Actually, he’d have to get in line behind Joshua and Thorn, if they knew the whole story.”
Taking Gwyn’s hand, Beatrice pressed a kiss to it. “Then it sounds as if we should keep them from hearing about it. I don’t fancy seeing either my brother, my brother-in-law, or my husband in gaol.”
Gwyn sighed and squeezed Beatrice’s hand. “That’s the trouble. I have to tell Joshua. Or rather, I don’t have the right to keep it from him if I mean to marry him.”
Beatrice gaped at her, then hugged her. “Oh, my dear, that’s wonderful! I knew the two of you would end up married. We could all tell you were falling in love with each other.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Gwyn said dully. “So far, we haven’t really talked about love.”
And why was that? Probably because they both professed to be cynical about it. And with good reason.
She stiffened. Those were the very words Joshua had used. It still riled her. “We’ve barely talked about marriage. And I don’t know if he’ll marry me once he knows that . . .”
She burst into tears again. Good Lord, when had she turned into such a watering pot? Just look at what the man was doing to her!
Beatrice held her close, patting her back and saying comforting things.
When Gwyn could stop crying, she said, “I do so . . . love having a . . . sister even if . . . you’re only a half sister-in-law.” She blotted her eyes again. “Is that what you are? Is that even a . . . sort of relation?”
Beatrice smiled. “It counts, as far as I’m concerned. Besides, when you marry Joshua—”
“If I marry Joshua. Which looks more unlikely by the moment. Too bad you weren’t around when I met Lionel Malet. You would have given me good advice, and then I wouldn’t be in this . . . this pickle.”
Beatrice drew back to stare at her. “Lionel Malet? Captain Malet? The one who tried to kidnap Heywood’s fiancée and you?”
“The very one.” Gwyn slumped. “It’s a long story.”
“I have plenty of time to listen.” Beatrice rubbed her back. “Your mother sent me up to see how you were, but she’s enjoying her visit with Grey so much, I doubt she’ll notice if I take a while.”
Gwyn sighed. She needed to tell all this to someone who would give her good advice. Or at least keep her from throttling Joshua. Or begging him to marry her. “It all began ten years ago . . .”
She proceeded to tell Beatrice the entire shameful story—about falling for Lionel, being seduced by him, and then being betrayed by him . . . and Thorn.
Beatrice looked more and more shocked as Gwyn’s tale went on, and Gwyn began to worry that perhaps she shouldn’t have revealed quite so much to her friend.
Then Beatrice shook her head. “I swear, men can be absolutely impossible! Thorn paid Mr. Malet off to abandon you? Mr. Malet blackmailed you? The bastard! I hope Thorn gave him what for!”
“No. Joshua did.” She pointed to the bloody handkerchief still sitting on Beatrice’s lap. “That’s Lionel’s blood.”
Beatrice blinked. “How much does my brother know?”
“Nearly all of it.” So Gwyn told her what she’d told Joshua and how he’d reacted—leaving out the part about sharing his bed, of course. She didn’t want her friend knowing she was that much of a harlot.
You’re not a harlot!
Well, that was one thing Joshua had seemed doggedly determined to impress upon her. And she was even beginning to believe it.
When Gwyn finished her tale, Beatrice hugged her. “Oh, my friend, I am so sorry you’re going through this. Leave it to Joshua to make matters harder for you.”
“Well, at least I don’t think Lionel will be trying to blackmail me anymore. Joshua made sure of that.”
Beatrice eyed her closely. “And then he proposed.”
“Sort of. Not really. We left things up in the air. He lost his temper, so I lost mine, and we said things we shouldn’t have.” She twisted the handkerchief in her hand.
“If it helps, I can reassure you that Joshua is surly to everyone, including me. It’s not that unusual for him to lose his temper.”
“Trust me, I know that only too well.” Gwyn ventured a smile. “At the same time, he can be so thoughtful when he wants.” Like lacing up her gown even as they were arguing and without being asked. “And he does say the loveliest things sometimes.”
Beatrice lifted a brow. “We are still talking about my brother, aren’t we? The cranky fellow who snarls at anyone who gets near?”
“He’s not as bad as all that. He was very kind about my past involvement with Lionel. He took my side. Why, he came near to killing Lionel when the man was trying to . . . er . . . renew our acquaintance.”
“That last does sound more like my brother.”
“The thing is, there’s something I haven’t told him. And I can’t consider marrying him until I’m sure how he . . . feels about it. So I was thinking that perhaps because you are already married, and you’re Joshua’s sister . . . Well, you could help me figure out how to tell him and how he might react.”
“You have a right to your secrets, you know.”
“This one involves him, too.” Gwyn dropped her gaze to her hands. “You see, it’s quite possible that I . . . can’t have children.”
Beatrice looked stunned. “Good heavens, what makes you say that?”
Now came the hard part. “It has to do with the fact that after my one time with Lionel, I ended up enceinte.”
“Oh, Gwyn.” To her credit, Beatrice didn’t look shocked at all as she took Gwyn’s hand. “And that made everything worse than it already was, I suppose.”
“It did. I actually wouldn’t have known it until much later, if not for my maid. Having been in service with another woman before coming to my family, she recognized the signs—my morning sickness, my two missed courses, my tender breasts. We had endless discussions about what to do—whether to tell Mama and Papa, whether to tell only Thorn and get him to spirit me away somewhere until I had the baby, whether to go to the nearest army officer in an attempt to find Lionel. I was frantic, as you might imagine.”
“I’m sure you were terrified.”
“Lionel had been missing for months, and I didn’t yet know why. I . . . I didn’t dare tell anyone about the child until I knew.” Just thinking of that time made Gwyn sick to her stomach. “Then I started bleeding badly one morning, and my maid sneaked in a midwife friend to see me, and the midwife told me that I’d indeed been pregnant and had lost the child.”
“Given that Lionel had already gone,” Beatrice said gently, “I suppose that was something of a blessing.”
“That’s what I thought at the time. But later I got to thinking . . . perhaps I caused it in all my terror of bearing a bastard. Perhaps if I had been calmer or had made a better decision or—”
“Dearest, you did not cause it.”
“I don’t know.” She folded her arms about her waist, wishing she could magically heal whatever might have gone wrong there. “The midwife who examined me and took note of the bloody . . . stuff that came out of me said I had the sort of womb that meant I would never be able to bear a child. If that’s true, it was nothing I did that caused me to miscarry. Although that’s little consolation when you consider that it also means I’m made the wrong way for bearing children.”
“Hmm,” Beatrice said, sounding skeptical. “So, until now, no one except your maid and her friend knew abo
ut your miscarriage.”
Gwyn nodded, her throat feeling raw. “She and my maid had a heated argument about why I lost the babe, because my maid didn’t agree with her friend’s assessment. But what if the midwife was right?”
“And what if she wasn’t? Perhaps it was merely an accident of nature, and no one’s fault at all. There’s no way to know for sure. Although I’m not the best person to consult about that, because I don’t have children yet.” Beatrice mused for a moment. “Have you been to any London doctors to ask?”
“How am I to do that? My old maid didn’t travel with us from Prussia, so I would have to find a physician on my own or tell Mama. And I don’t know what physician to trust with such a secret.” She shot Beatrice an anxious look. “If this got out, I wouldn’t be the only one to suffer from the gossip. The whole family would have to endure it.”
“True.” Beatrice eyed her with concern. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you really should talk to your mother about it. She’s had five children by three different husbands. If anyone knows how birthing works, it’s her.”
“But then I’d have to reveal what I did with Lionel.” Despair crept over Gwyn. “She would be horrified.”
“I doubt it. Your mother strikes me as being far more resilient and practical than that.”
How interesting that Joshua had said the same thing. “I don’t know.”
“You ought to at least talk to her before you talk to Joshua.”
“Right. Joshua.” She choked back tears. “How can I tell him I may never be able to give him a child?”
Beatrice put her arm about Gwyn’s shoulders. “If he loves you, it won’t matter to him.”
“Or he’ll say it doesn’t matter to him, but he won’t mean it.”
A skeptical expression crossed Beatrice’s face. “Have you ever known my brother to say one thing but mean another? The man has trouble with the concept of keeping one’s opinion to oneself.”
When Gwyn eyed Beatrice askance, Beatrice said, “I know, I know, it’s our family curse. But Joshua is the most shining—or horrifying, depending on how you look at it—example of it. He says what he thinks. Believe me, if your being unable to have children bothers him, he’ll tell you.”
The Bachelor Page 19
