“That doesn’t mean you can fix things by destroying somebody else,” Cecelia said carefully.
“I loved her, and it wasn’t enough,” he went on as if he hadn’t heard. And there was the problem. He wasn’t ready to hear. Perhaps he never would be.
“If you were to love me, it would be enough.” The words leapt to her lips before she could stop them. Too late, she pressed her fingers over her mouth.
He watched her from the corner of his eye. “I would not pin my hopes on that eventuality. I married you to protect you from your past, but no one can protect me from mine.”
“That isn’t true. You can. You, yourself, by deciding it’s over. By burying it all.” Did she dare say it? “By giving up this scheme to ruin your friend.”
He glared at her full-on, and approached her, his walking stick hitting the floor in slow rhythmic thuds, thump…thump…thump, like the plod of a horse pulling a funeral wagon. “Who told you about that? Who? By God, I’ll see them gone from this house. If there’s one thing I cannot abide it is gossip.”
In spite of herself, she backed up a step. “Nobody had to tell me anything,” she made herself reply. It wasn’t even a lie, not exactly. Mrs. Carstairs had given her a few hints, but the housekeeper had never come out and told her anything. “I saw the records on your desk. Your awkwardness with my brother, when you’re supposed to be friends, as if you don’t want the honorable Alexander Sanford to realize what you’ve sunk to. And when you told me Jeremy is not your child, I put the two together.”
“And as I have already informed you, it is none of your affair. It does not concern you. Not in the least.”
“That is where you’re mistaken.” She drew in a breath, hoping to calm her pounding heart. “When I was simply your governess, this may not have concerned me, but as your wife, it does. Because it affects you. It affects the person you are. It affects how you see yourself. You claim Lydia made you a better man. That’s utter nonsense. You are the only one who can decide what sort of man you are. And you can determine it by your actions. You can stop at any time.”
He let out a harsh sound that might have passed for laughter. “Good God, you sound just as sanctimonious as your brother.”
“You may think what you like, but I know it for the truth.” She brushed at the sleeve of his banyan as if his comment was another mote of dust. “I’ve done some things I’m not proud of. Mr. Eversham can attest to that. However, once I decided to put that behind me, once I decided I would not allow what I became with him to define me, the future opened up. I could make of myself anything I wished.”
“And now who is spouting nonsense?” He hoisted that infernal brow. “All that is necessary is for him to spring out of the hedge for him to ruin you. He is all too willing to do it.”
“The only people I am ruined for are in the eyes of society. And if I decide I do not care for their opinion, they have no power over me. You’ve given me your name, which also offers a degree of protection. Your pride will prevent you from allowing him to ruin me. And before you claim this is all your doing and none of mine, I will concede you that point. But if you hadn’t insisted on our marriage, I would have found another way.”
He crossed his arms, clearly skeptical.
“At any rate, you are turning this around on me. I am quite willing to leave and live a quiet life, if you feel I’m too much of an embarrassment to you.” Never had she been more thankful for her ability to tell a bald-faced lie without so much as a hitch in her inflection. So calm, she sounded, so casual, when inside, her stomach was churning. “But think of Jeremy. Think of the stability you’re removing from him yet again. If you want there to be any chance of making this work, I beg you to give up your schemes. You are better than that.”
“I have said this to you before,” he grated, eyes narrowed, “but it bears repeating. Some paths, once you go down them so far—there’s no going back.”
She caught his gaze and held it. Understand what I’m saying here. Please. “You can choose to turn about whenever you like. You only need to find the strength for the journey home. You need to give up this grudge.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?” Damn it all. “Why can’t you?”
“Because…” His voice broke. “Because then I’d have to admit Battencliffe didn’t destroy my marriage. And if I admit that, I have to assign blame somewhere. I might have to admit it was my fault. Just like everything else.” The words poured out of him in a torrent, crescendoing to thunder.
“Why does it have to be your fault?”
“Because it can’t be Lydia’s.” As loud as his previous statement had been, this one emerged quiet and croaked.
“Maybe it’s not anybody’s fault.” She laid a hand on his forearm, fingers tightening about taut muscle. “What if you shared the blame equally? And what if part of that belonged to the circumstances? You couldn’t have known you’d be separated so long, that the letters didn’t go through. That you’d be injured so badly and not come home for months. You couldn’t prevent any of those things.”
He stared at her for a long moment and then opened his mouth. But before he could speak, a knock at the door—Lydia’s door—cut him short.
“My lord,” said a muffled voice. “You’ve a caller.”
“A caller?” he barked. “Who in hell calls on me?”
“Perhaps it’s someone who heard of your recent wedding and would like to congratulate you,” Cecelia offered.
“Anyone who might congratulate me already attended the ceremony,” he muttered.
“They’ve sent a card,” came the servant’s voice through the door.
Leaning on his walking stick, Lind shuffled across the room and yanked the door open. “Let’s have it, then.”
A footman held out a calling card on a salver. “Said the name was Battencliffe. Will you see him?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lind took his time as he made his way down the staircase. Let the bastard wait. It made Lind feel more in control. Ideally, he would have chosen the location for this confrontation, but no matter. They were on his terrain. If Battencliffe had come to say his piece, well, to hell with whatever the scoundrel thought.
Smithers had placed him in the larger parlor, a room far too fine for such an undistinguished guest. Lind found Battencliffe pacing in front of the fireplace, light brown hair disheveled, giving him the aspect of a caged lion. His clothes were rumpled as well, as if he’d spent the past several nights sleeping in them.
Hell, he probably had. In the best of weather, the journey from London took days, even on horseback. Given Battencliffe’s finances, he’d probably resorted to the mail coach.
Lind did not announce his presence. He simply crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. Casually, he hoped. In reality, the wall braced him. If Battencliffe had any inkling of Lind’s role in his financial crisis—and Lind could not conceive of another reason why Battencliffe would pay him a personal visit—he’d be certain to attack.
At the far window, Battencliffe performed an about-face. His gaze met Lind’s, and he froze, his expression a mask. But he did not attack. He did not even move.
After a moment, Lind felt obliged to break the heavy silence. “Fancy seeing you here,” he drawled. “I wager it’s been a long time since you’ve been to this part of Cornwall. A whole six years, in fact.”
Needling the man might be childish, but it felt good.
“I’m here to ask you to call off your hounds.”
Better and better. He was going to enjoy listening to Battencliffe beg. “Hounds? I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. I don’t keep hounds. My injuries make hunting difficult, you see. My leg pains me too much.”
Battencliffe crossed to him, his fists opening and closing. Tension hovered in the air about him. “You know what I mean. I saw your man in London.”
“My man? Pray, who do you think is my man?”
“The unnaturally thin one with the odd name.
What is it? Buff? Boff? Is he not your man of affairs?”
“I daresay, but what does that have to do with you? I cannot send my man of affairs to see to my affairs? Funny how that works. One’s man of affairs taking care of one’s affairs. You ought to try it sometime.”
“Damn you.” Battencliffe dug his fists into Lind’s lapels and hauled him away from the door frame. “I know exactly what you are doing.”
“My, my, what is that odor? You smell worse than a Whitechapel whore at three in the morning. Can that be the scent of poverty?” Another verbal jab or two, and he’d provoke Battencliffe into hitting him. And then he could throw the man out. He might even come out of the morning with grounds for assault.
But Battencliffe simply gritted his teeth, tightened his fists, and gave Lind a good shake. “I know what you’re about. Do you think I’ve forgotten how you operate? You won’t press me into doing you bodily harm.”
Lind allowed himself a smile. “Don’t be so certain. I hear you’ve fallen on bad times recently. I do hope you’re not after a loan from me. But never fear, I hear there’s any number of lonely wives among the haut ton. Perhaps you can convince one of them to pay you for your services. A bit like a courtesan.”
A feral growl rumbled from deep in Battencliffe’s throat, and he released Lind with a shove.
“Temper, temper. I hear society ladies like a man with a bit more savoir-vivre than that. They certainly prefer gentlemen to at least give the appearance of having funds. Could you not have changed before you came calling?”
“Lind, was that really necessary?” Cecelia stood at his shoulder. Where had she come from?
“Did I indicate this was any of your affair?” he asked without turning his head. He needed to keep both eyes on Battencliffe in case he changed his mind about attacking.
But Battencliffe craned his neck, and his expression changed to one of confusion. “Miss Sanford? Good heavens, what is she doing here?”
“Her name is no longer Miss Sanford,” Lind drawled. “As of yesterday she is Lady Lindenhurst.”
For the briefest of moments, Battencliffe’s face registered shock, but then his social mask fell back into place. “I’d wish you well, only I can’t imagine a favorable outcome where this…man is concerned.” He nodded at Lind, and no doubt Cecelia caught the implication well enough.
She advanced into the sitting room, as if Battencliffe was an invited guest. Somehow, she’d managed to make herself presentable in record time, although her gown was wrinkled from having passed the night on the floor. The way she carried herself, however, Battencliffe probably didn’t even notice.
“Please, have a seat.” She swept an arm toward the settee. “Shall I order tea? Good heavens, it’s been ages. I don’t believe I’ve seen you since the year my brother left for India.”
“That will do,” Lind ordered. “There will be no tea, and there certainly won’t be any sitting and catching up. This man is not welcome in my home.”
Cecelia cast a glance over her shoulder, and her eyes flashed as if she was trying to communicate silently. Lydia had done the same damned bloody thing, but he was buggered if he ever caught on to what those looks meant. Come-hither he understood. Anything else he relegated to feminine pursuits and not worth his bother.
“He’s taken the time and effort to come all the way from London—you did come from London, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Battencliffe confirmed. At least he wasn’t stupid enough to accept the invitation to sit.
“He’s come all the way from London, so no doubt it’s something important. I suggest we listen to what he has to say.”
“I know what he’s come to say.” Leaning on his walking stick, Lind advanced into the room. And what he wouldn’t give to be whole and uninjured so he might take command as he once had. “He thinks he can call me off.”
“Wouldn’t it be best if you did stop your schemes?” Again that look, or glare was more to the point. For some reason their conversation above stairs replayed in his mind.
You are better than that…You need to give up this grudge.
“He can get down on his knees and beg forgiveness, but it won’t do him any good.”
“I see,” said Cecelia. Only two words, but she’d infused them with an entire encyclopedia of implication. If he didn’t know better, he’d expect he was in deep trouble. Preposterous. Married barely a day, and she thought to rule him. She had another think coming.
“Mr. Battencliffe,” she said, “was your intention in coming here to get down on your knees and beg forgiveness?”
“I know better,” Battencliffe replied. “Lind’s made it quite clear. He has no forgiveness left in him. Although he forgave Lydia readily enough.”
Lind launched himself at Battencliffe, his injured leg be damned. To hell with Battencliffe and to hell with assault charges. How dare the scoundrel deign to even pronounce Lydia’s name? Any regard Lind held for him had ended the moment Battencliffe trespassed on Lind’s bedchamber. His fist landed squarely on the bastard’s chin, and Battencliffe went down. The idiot didn’t even attempt to defend himself. That only proved he saw his own actions as indefensible.
Lind raised his walking stick. He’d break it over Battencliffe’s thick skull. But with a cry, Cecelia jumped in front of him.
“Get out of the way.”
“No. Assaulting him will do nothing. Good heavens, what has happened between the two of you?”
“Some things mean the end of a friendship, no matter what happened before. Seducing a man’s wife is one of those.”
Probing at his chin, Battencliffe picked himself up off the floor. “Whatever you think happened, I did not seduce Lydia.” He said the words quietly and with such finality that he might have shouted them. If he had shouted, it couldn’t have been more effective.
Lind lunged, but Cecelia’s arms about his waist stopped him. “You expect me to believe that? You dare impugn my wife?”
“No matter what you believe, it was nobody’s fault. You were gone. I paid her a visit as a gesture of friendship. She was inconsolable. She thought you were dead, damn it.”
“Get out. Get out of my house. Get out before I kill you. Smithers!”
But Battencliffe was already striding toward the door. Lind didn’t take his eyes off him until he’d vanished down the corridor, and even then he watched the space where he’d disappeared.
Once he heard the thud of the front door he let himself breathe. Only then did he notice the throb in his leg. He’d pay dearly for his exertions, but the pain would be worth it. Too bad he hadn’t had the chance to get in a few more blows. Turning, he was about to shuffle for the nearest seat, when he caught a glimpse of Cecelia’s expression.
Her lips were pressed into a line, her arms crossed over her chest, and her eyes glittered. He could only imagine her turning such hard looks on her brother.
“I suppose this means you’ve made your choice.” She drummed her fingers against her upper arms.
God, his leg. He could use one of her massages, but the odds didn’t appear too favorable for that transpiring anytime…well, in the next decade or two. “What are you talking about?”
“I told you earlier you had to decide what sort of marriage you planned on conducting. That little scene tells me all I need to know.”
“That little scene, as you put it, has nothing to do with you.”
“You’re wrong. It has everything to do with me. It proves to what point you refuse to set the past aside.”
“I can set the past aside,” he protested. And he would. Just as soon as Battencliffe was penniless.
“Then prove it.” Her voice was just as hard as any drill sergeant training raw recruits. “If you want me to be your wife in truth, you will drop this scheme to ruin that man. You’ll start now. Today. You won’t take another pence from him.”
—
The pounding of Cecelia’s pulse drowned out almost every other sound, from Lind’s breathing to her own. Good h
eavens, she was taking an awful chance here, but she would not accept Lind as long as he still clung so adamantly to his first wife. She owed that much to herself after everything Eversham had put her through.
“What is he to you?” Lind replied at last.
“Who? Battencliffe? An old friend of my brother’s. An old friend of yours,for that matter. It goes no further than that. The question you should be asking yourself is, who are you to me.”
He opened his mouth halfway, closed it again, started to smile, and then obviously thought better of it. “What?”
“Who are you to me?” she repeated. “How much does this marriage mean to you? I’ve been trying to drive the notion through your head all blasted morning, and you still don’t understand. And perhaps that’s my answer.” She moved toward the door. “I’ll pack my things. If I forget anything, you can send it along, care of my brother.”
He lunged for her, faster than she expected, given his bad leg and the exertion he’d already placed on it this morning. “You can’t leave. You’re my wife. That kind of arrangement is for life, and nothing can undo it now.”
He’d started out steadily enough, but his voice rose on the final few syllables to a high enough level of desperation to give her hope. Or at least start her heart pounding once more. “I am aware of that, but if we do not suit, we can take the example of any number of society couples and live apart.”
“Do not suit? Us? How can you claim such a thing after the last week?” His voice dropped to a low and dangerous level—dangerous because it was the very embodiment of all the passion he’d drawn out of her that day in his study. On his desk. And all the nights since.
“There is more to us suiting than how we relate to each other in the bedchamber.” Good Lord, she sounded as prim as her sister-in-law expounding on the rights of women.
What a Lady Demands Page 22
