A Marriage of Equals

by Elizabeth Rolls

  Her smile was slightly cynical. ‘Very well provided for. Uncle Theo persuaded my father to leave me the bulk of his fortune and he set up a trust to ensure that it remained mine no matter what.’

  So he’d been right—Huntercombe had modelled the trust to protect Kit on the trust that protected Psyché’s fortune.

  He remembered something else, too. Something Psyché had once said...

  ‘Once a woman is married, she no longer owns her own body, let alone anything else. She has no rights beyond what her husband chooses to grant her.’

  ‘But by then you had decided against marriage, had you not?’

  ‘Not exactly. I knew I couldn’t be part of the world Uncle Theo and Aunt Grace raised me for, so I needed to make something else.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m really not suited to sitting about in ladylike seclusion watching the world happen. I wanted to be in the world.’

  ‘And marriage would preclude that?’

  ‘How many men want a wife who is running her own business?’

  Not many. But—‘You might find one who didn’t mind.’

  She shook her head. ‘He might say he didn’t. But if he changed his mind, he would have every legal right to order me to stay at home and employ a manager.’

  He wanted to argue, to reassure her that not all marriages were like that. That if a man truly loved her, he would accept her as she was. Not try to circumscribe her independence in any way, let alone with physical force. He wanted to reassure her that he would never...

  ‘Love does not have to mean marriage, Will. Any more than a marriage must include love.’

  ‘And trust?’

  From the sharp intake of breath he knew that had gone home.

  After a moment she spoke. ‘It’s not about trusting you.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No. It’s about trusting my own judgement.’ She sat, pleating creases into her skirts. ‘Hetty fell in love,’ she said at last. ‘As children we were as close as sisters. I attended her wedding, but I sat very discreetly at the back. Hetty cried when she told me, but insisted that it was just for the wedding so Charles’s mother should not be upset.’

  She swallowed. ‘She is barely permitted to see me. He controls that because he has the legal right to do so. He has the right to chastise her, physically, to ensure her obedience and submission. Hetty can do very little about it—we see each other if we meet at Uncle Theo’s house, and...’ a wry smile flickered ‘...she writes me a letter whenever she visits him, which he sends over to me.’

  ‘And you send one back to him for her?’

  ‘Of course.’ Again that faint smile. ‘I doubt it would ever occur to Charles that Hetty might defy him in this way.’

  ‘He’s an idiot, then.’

  ‘Yes. And that’s the man I fancied myself in love with.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘You’ve said it yourself, love.’

  ‘Said what?’

  ‘Fancied yourself in love.’ He smiled. ‘You were very young. Don’t you think you might make a better choice now?’

  * * *

  Later, after they had made love with a fierce, unspoken desperation, he lay sleepless in the bittersweet joy of holding her in his arms and knowing that, despite the precautions she took, the precautions he took, there was one risk that would eventually catch up with them that he was not prepared to take.

  What if they made a child?

  A child would change everything. He couldn’t allow a child to face a censorious world without the protection of his name. Perhaps it might be different if he were sufficiently wealthy, or had a great title. But he was plain Will Barclay and a child born out of wedlock would suffer that stigma. And so would the woman sleeping in his arms.

  As if his troubled mind had breached her dreams, she stirred, crying out.

  ‘Mam! Mam! No!’

  ‘Shhh.’ He drew her closer as he always did when she dreamed of her mother. ‘It’s all right, love. Just a dream.’

  ‘Don’t! It was my fault! Don’t hurt her!’

  Tears poured down her face, and she fought, crying out, struggling. ‘Mam! Please. Let her go! I didn’t mean it. I’ll do it. Anything. Don’t hurt her!’

  He held her close, pressing kisses to her wet cheeks, murmuring nonsense, anything. Gradually she stopped struggling. And that was worse. Because she lay limp and broken, weeping her heart out in a dream that he knew was deeper than any nightmare.

  A nightmare could be banished with the dawn. Memory crouched in the heart and soul, waiting for another chance to strike.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Two nights later a groom brought a note from Huntercombe to say that he had reached Grosvenor Square and would expect Will in a day or so.

  Will re-read the note. It had been addressed to him at the Red Lion. There was nothing to suggest that the Marquess knew exactly where his secretary was...except ‘in a day or so’.

  He would not have written that unless he knew. There had been other notes from Huntercombe over the years asking Will to re-join him ‘at your earliest convenience’. Easy enough for him to know. A single letter from Ignatius would have contained the information.

  He folded the note, slipped it into his pocket and turned back to Psyché.

  ‘Huntercombe is in London. I’ll need to return to Mayfair.’

  Was that pain in her eyes? And was he wrong to hope she felt it?

  ‘At once? Now?’

  He swallowed. ‘In the morning.’

  * * *

  She felt Will leave the bed very early, carefully disentangling himself. She, who liked her own space and privacy, had become used not only to sharing her bed, but sleeping in a man’s arms. Even if she tried to keep to her side of the bed, by morning she was back in Will’s arms. She felt tired as she sat up, her eyes gritty as if she hadn’t slept well. And her stomach was knotted, as it was sometimes if...if she’d had a bad dream.

  Had she? She usually woke from them, crying and disoriented, and she hadn’t woken like that recently. Or had she?

  ‘Did I disturb you last night?’ The question was out before she’d even thought about it.

  He looked over, his head on one side. ‘You had a nightmare. Don’t you remember?’

  She forced her restless hands to be still in her lap. She didn’t need to remember the dream—the reality was all too close. ‘Not really. Has...has it happened before?’

  Slowly he nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  His mouth flattened. ‘Don’t be. Should I have woken you? You always settle without my doing so, but—’

  ‘No. That’s all right.’

  ‘But this morning you remember it.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. But...usually I wake up. So I know what I was dreaming and—’

  ‘About your mother.’

  Words, thought, froze into unspeakable grief.

  ‘You cried out for her,’ he said simply.

  He came back to the bed in his breeches, shirtsleeves and boots, and sat down. When his hand closed over hers, she realised that she was shaking. ‘Sweetheart, if she is still in Jamaica—’

  ‘She is dead.’ Her throat closed on a choking lump.

  He let out an audible breath. ‘I’m sorry.’ Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

  ‘Did you think I would have left her in hell?’ The words burst from her as if something inside had broken, releasing them.

  ‘Not willingly, no, but—’

  ‘I killed her. My stupidity killed her.’ She flung back the covers, snatched up her robe and flung it around her. ‘I should get dressed myself. There’s...there’s a lot to do.’ God only knew what it was, but she’d find something. She had to. Otherwise she would spend the entire day grieving over what she wanted, but could never have.

&
nbsp; She whisked herself behind the screen. ‘I’ll be down shortly. Ask Caleb to get the kitchen fire going.’

  ‘Very well.’

  She heard his footsteps receding, heard the door to the landing open and shut. Part of her shook with relief, but the rest of her curled up in a tight little ball inside to weep.

  * * *

  Since Will’s watch announced it to be some fifteen minutes shy of five o’clock in the morning, he refrained from rousing Caleb and dealt with the fire himself. A month of watching Psyché each morning and he felt reasonably confident in grinding the coffee, sugar and spices ready for her to brew. He also sliced ham, but felt far less confident about cooking eggs so left them alone.

  She appeared downstairs a few minutes later, bright, cheerful and completely unconvincing. Her gown of deep red wool was one he particularly liked on her, but this morning it struck the wrong note. Under her chatter—when was she ever chatty?—lurked a resounding chord of pain. A warning even: Don’t touch!

  When was it right to disregard such a warning sign? Reluctantly he accepted that in this case, perhaps never. He wanted to comfort her, grieve with her—for surely she was still grieving—and reassure her. Yet he could force nothing on her. Certainly not for his own peace of mind.

  Caleb came out to join them, his eyes sleepy. That was something else that had changed—the boy now lived at the shop, using the sleeping closet by the back door. He never intruded, but Will had taken to reading with him after the evening meal, helping him study.

  Psyché poured the boy a cup of coffee and pushed her ham and eggs towards him. ‘You have this. I’m not hungry.’

  Caleb frowned. ‘I was going to eat down at the Lion like usual.’

  ‘Eat here.’

  He smiled. ‘Thanks, miss.’

  The boy polished off the food and carried his plate to the sink. ‘I’ll wash up when I’ve set the tables and chairs out.’

  ‘Thank you, Caleb.’

  Will reached across the counter for Psyché’s hand. ‘Sweetheart, I don’t know when I’ll be able to visit, but—’

  ‘It’s all right, Will. I understand.’

  He drew a frustrated breath. ‘No. I don’t think you do. In fact, I’m damned if I understand. But this isn’t how I want to treat you—sneaking off from here as if you’re something to hide, something I’m ashamed of.’ He rose.

  ‘Will—’

  Leaning across the counter, he kissed her. Hard.

  ‘I love you. That’s all. Think about that.’

  She stared, dark eyes wide and shocked.

  ‘Just that. Promise me?’

  ‘I—all right.’

  ‘Good.’ He kissed her again. Gentler this time, lingering. Not caring in the least that Caleb was right there in the shop making a deliberate clatter with the tables and chairs.

  * * *

  In the following three days Will flung himself into his work. Huntercombe was busy preparing for the Parliamentary session, as well as reviewing the work Will had done for him in the past few weeks. There were letters to be drafted, written and sent. A meeting for one of his Parliamentary committees to arrange and minute. And all the time Will was conscious that, much as he loved his work, he had lost something vital.

  On the fourth morning after his return to Grosvenor Square, Will had sorted the correspondence by the time Huntercombe appeared in the library, accompanied by his spaniel, Fergus. His lordship’s personal correspondence lay in a neat pile on his desk, a letter from Lady Huntercombe on top, and Will was reading the rest and making notes.

  Fergus trotted straight over to greet him, his tail a flurry of pleasure, then went across to the fire and made himself comfortable.

  Will smiled at Huntercombe. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Good morning, Will.’

  Huntercombe had said nothing about Psyché beyond asking how she went on. He’d also asked after Selbourne. No change in his demeanour, no hint of disappointment or disapproval suggested that he was aware that his secretary had been openly living with a woman—it was only when he understood that Huntercombe would not raise the subject that Will realised how much he had dreaded it. He should have known better. Only once in the seven years of his employment had Huntercombe said anything about a woman Will was interested in. And that had been to warn him that the lady was less than discreet and her husband far less than complaisant. No judgement, not even of the indiscreet lady. Just a friendly word of advice. Will put it out of his mind to focus on a letter from one of Huntercombe’s London tenants. He scribbled notes, and a couple of possible solutions to the problem outlined, and went on to the next letter.

  A peculiar noise from Huntercombe made him glance over.

  Reading spectacles perched on his nose, the Marquess was staring at Lady Huntercombe’s letter as if it had bitten him.

  Will frowned. If he needed to know he’d be told, but the Marquess looked up, met Will’s gaze and, to Will’s disbelief, turned crimson.

  ‘Ah, a letter from Isleworth.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He hesitated to ask, but Huntercombe looked dazed. ‘There’s nothing wrong with one of the children, I hope?’ If Lady Huntercombe was writing letters, it was reasonable to assume there was nothing too much wrong with her.

  ‘No, no. Nothing like that. Nothing wrong at all.’ Huntercombe cleared his throat. ‘Er, just some news. Yes, news. Private news.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Slightly startled at this uncharacteristic lapse into babbling, Will went back to his own task. But his mind slid elsewhere. Huntercombe’s remarriage late last year had been contracted as a marriage of convenience to provide an heir. Will had realised fast enough that both Huntercombe and his Marchioness felt a great deal more for each other than mere convenience and Lady Huntercombe’s two children from her previous marriage thought their ‘Uncle Hunt’ to be positively top of the trees. They were all happy, but there was that need for an heir...and since when did the man ever babble?

  Will glanced at Huntercombe again, just as Huntercombe shot him a surreptitious look. The Marquess was still red, which to Will’s mind suggested... No. He wasn’t even going to think it—

  ‘The Sight, allied with discretion.’ Huntercombe shook his head. ‘Say it, Will.’

  Will gulped. ‘Congratulations?’

  Huntercombe laughed a little wildly. ‘It might be a trifle early for that, but thank you. Lady Huntercombe has reason to believe we are expecting an addition to the family later in the year.’ He smiled over his reading spectacles at Will. ‘One day I hope I’ll be congratulating you.’

  ‘I don’t think...ah, that is, thank you, sir.’

  His own cheeks burning, Will dived straight back into Huntercombe’s business correspondence. Psyché was utterly sure of the efficacy of Queen Anne’s Lace, but what if she were wrong? What if—?

  ‘Will? Will!’

  Belatedly he realised that Huntercombe had been speaking to him. ‘I’m sorry, sir. You said something.’

  Huntercombe gave him an amused look. ‘Several somethings. Is there anything in your pile I should look at?’

  ‘There’s a letter from Bickby. He wishes to make some alterations to the buildings to expand his business.’ He passed the letter and his notes across.

  Huntercombe went through them. ‘Good ideas, Will,’ he said at last. ‘I suggest that you—’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come.’

  Mark, the African footman, came in. ‘A visitor for Mr Will, my lord.’

  Will stiffened. ‘For me?’

  Mark came over to him and held out a salver bearing a single visiting card.

  Will took the card. ‘Thank you.’ He glanced at it and his stomach lurched. ‘Mark, please inform Mr Long that I am—’

  ‘Mark—’ Huntercombe’s voice betrayed nothing. ‘Show Mr Long in here.
And add an extra cup to our morning coffee tray, if you would be so good.’

  Mark bowed. ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Sir—’ Will floundered for words as the door closed behind the footman. ‘I—he should not have called like this!’

  Huntercombe leaned back in his chair. ‘He is your godfather, Will, and your mother may have mentioned your injury to him.’

  ‘I know you do not like each other—’

  ‘That’s an understatement, but—’ Huntercombe gave him a quizzical smile ‘—I can probably receive him without succumbing to the temptation of tipping him a leveller.’

  ‘I know that, sir!’

  Huntercombe snorted. ‘I’m glad you’re confident. Frankly I’m stunned that he has brought himself to step across my unhallowed threshold.’

  The door opened again. ‘Mr Long,’ Mark announced.

  Huntercombe rose, and inclined his head. ‘Long. How do you do?’

  ‘My lord.’ Edward Long executed a dignified bow. ‘I beg your indulgence for the intrusion. I had a most worrying note from William’s mother. My cousin, you know.’

  Huntercombe’s smile was his most reserved and formal one. ‘Of course, Long. You need not apologise.’ He began to gather up his papers.

  Long’s hooded gaze slid to Will, who rose to his feet. ‘I am glad to see you recovered, my boy.’

  Did Long have any idea how much he loathed being called, ‘my boy’?

  ‘I am very well now, sir.’ If he ignored the occasional twinges in his side. ‘My mother should not have bothered you. I was well on the way to recovery before she went home.’

  Long smiled. ‘Of course, but mothers, you know. And naturally I wished to assure myself of your recovery. You are hard at work, I see.’

  ‘I’m trying not to overwork him, Long.’

  Huntercombe’s tone held a world of dry amusement.

  ‘Of course not, Huntercombe.’ Long glanced around the room. ‘I see you still have your spaniel.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Huntercombe clicked his fingers at Fergus, who immediately went to him. ‘I find him excellent company. And most discerning.’