by Thea Devine
For Lujan, it made no difference whom he married—he would never change, he would live his life exactly as he had before, but with the pressure to marry removed, and the freedom to do exactly as he wished until the day Hugo died.
He had been amusing himself with her all these two years, as he would have with any young, beautiful girl who took his fancy. He had no feelings for her; she was nothing more than a convenience, someone with whom a bored rake could dally while he waited for the inevitable conclusion to his mother's illness.
A wrenching anguish knifed through her body. She didn't expect it—not his defection or her cold, clear-sighted comprehension of their union in the aftermath.
Or the tears.
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A gush of tears, welling up like a volcano, unexpected, undeniable. A keening pain tore through her body; she felt as if she would split in two.
She meant nothing to anyone, least of all Lujan; to him, she was a dirty girl for real despite fighting her destiny every inch of the way.
The tears wouldn't stop. The tears poured, her body heaved, the pain came from her gut.
All that obsessive sex. All that naked pleasure—meaningless to him, common for him. Nothing to him. A means to an end for him.
A woman surrendered too much of herself that had no meaning to a man. And what she had given Lujan, she realized sickly, was nothing he couldn't get from any willing woman anywhere, a woman on a street corner, the milkmaid down the road—
What, what had she done in the name of her own futile dreams and desires?
No!—Stop it!—Never cry over a man like Lujan. You knew what he was. You knew what the exchange would be. You had your own plan—he was a means to an end for you, too—
Stop it, stop . . . !
She couldn't stop. It seemed to her that he owned her body now and she could never get it back. She, who had basked in his attention in all the months she was caring for Olivia. She who stupidly, foolishly thought he could even care for her.
Everything had been subsumed to that. Her father's subtle pressure, her realization of what he had wanted all along, which her own growing feelings for Lujan merely enhanced. Her covert desire never to leave Waybury.
She couldn't stop. The sense of betrayal was almost crippling. She wasn't experienced enough to cope with this. She had naively expected some feeling for her to follow Lujan's expert seduction.
No more. Innocence was a precious thing, but when it was used and trampled on, the lesson was hard learned and never forgotten.
It wasn't Lujan's triumph, it was hers.
Another lesson, another secret.
The things tuition girls learned at their mothers' knees, and dirty girls had to discover for themselves. And usually too late.
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Usually after they got a child, usually after their lovers abandoned them.
Hadn't Lujan abandoned her?
The truth was: men were dirty, they had no feelings, and the only way you could ever be safe was never to fall in love, and to use your body as an instrument to manipulate them.
Because otherwise, they would kill you—with their hands, with their kisses, with their promises of love.
A woman couldn't afford to be in love. She couldn't afford anything more than to be on guard and get what she wanted by virtue of surrendering her body.
And so Jancie would do from now on, as well. Tears were banished from this moment forward forever. No one would ever see her cry. And never again would she allow herself to feel anything at all for Lujan, except contempt.
But she couldn't run away from the fact that she had her own purpose in marrying him. She wasn't just another grateful dirty girl, even if he had treated her like one.
He probably thought she was stupid, easy, he probably thought his stamina and prowess enslaved her.
No. She was clear-eyed now, and ready to fight.
She would look at this as a blessing, his walking away so soon. Because otherwise, she might have fallen more deeply in love with him, which would have made his defection that much more devastating, and she would have been much more reluctant to do what she knew must be done.
She wiped the last vestiges of tears away.
It was time to fulfill her destiny, to claim what should have been hers and her father's all along. Time to lay bare the secrets of Waybury House, and uncover the source of Hugo's wealth and her father's penury.
Time to do what Edmund had always meant her to do: marry into the Galliards and root out the truth.
******************
"So he's gone."
Kyger was already at the foot of the steps, already knew Lujan had gone, was waiting and witnessing her moment of humiliation as she stumbled downstairs alone the next morning so early she didn't think anyone would be around.
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This was awful. She shot him a wary look, wondering what he thought. Except she didn't want to know what he thought at all.
Kyger motioned her toward the dining room and shrugged. "He shot out of here like a cannon early this morning."
"He got tired,” Jancie muttered as she followed Kyger. Not tired—scared witless that he had unwittingly taught her to love him. But she didn't say that.
"You look tired," Kyger said. "Have something to eat. Things will look better after a cup of chocolate."
She shot him another look. She saw only sympathy there. But then, he had always been on her side from the first day, always the one she could talk to, and the one whose affection she had put aside as Lujan's attention became more blatant.
"I learned a hard lesson this morning," she said grimly. "You cannot love a Galliard."
Kyger snorted. "I could have told you that months ago and saved you the heartbreak. You should have married me, Jancie."
She made a distressed sound. "You didn't ask."
"You would have said no," Kyger said flatly and she looked at him again. "That's the way it is, when Lujan is around."
"I'm sorry." And she was, and comforted that he was here this morning with her. "I do feel affection for you, if that is any consolation. But it was Lujan, always, from the moment I arrived here." But Kyger knew that.
She wondered if he knew why Lujan had married her. If he had perceived the same thing she did. Or maybe he had some other idea, some other redeeming idea. "The question is," she added softly, "why was it me?"
Kyger held out her chair. "Why not?"
"Because there was every reason for me to say yes—I love him—but no reason at all for him to ask."
"Oh God—" Kyger muttered, as he took plates from the sideboard and began dishing eggs and cereal. "Don't tell me you love him. Don't believe you love him. You only think you do."
Jancie poured some tea. "I must be the only one who does," she murmured.
"So that's why he ran away," Kyger said, as if it were a given. Love Lujan, lose Lujan. He set her plate in front of her and sat
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down beside her. "Eat. It's the only sane thing to do when something like this happens."
She had no appetite but she swallowed two or three forkfuls of eggs and a spoonful of oatmeal.
"No matter how thoroughly he seduced you, you must have known you couldn't hold him," Kyger went on. "Look, this is the only piece of advice I'll ever give you—DON'T love him. And don't ever tell him . .."
She made another anguished sound and he looked at her stricken face. "You told him."
She nodded.
He shook his head. "That was an awful mistake, Jancie. He may never come back."
Jancie blew out a breath. "Fine. But I'm still here and I'm still married to him."
"And he'll make certain everyone in town knows, and he'll go his usual reckless way and ignore you."
That made her feel even more cold and abandoned.
Mroowww . . . I'm here . ..
Emily, sitting haughtily on the threshold of the dining room, a warm knowing presence. She was not aba
ndoned, she was still loved by Emily, and Emily was still there for her to love.
"Where is your father?" she asked idly, fully expecting to hear he was in his office going over accounts.
"Oh. He's to London as well—left shortly after Lujan, as it happens, with no excuse to break mourning like this," Kyger said sourly.
Even Hugo couldn't bear to be around her. None of them could stand the sight of her. Except Kyger, and she'd wager he wished he could leave, too.
"And you?"
"I clean up everyone's messes," Kyger said trenchantly. "And perhaps someday I can go to London, too."
She saw it was true. Kyger was more alone even than she, more responsible than either his father or Lujan, and all for no reward, really. He would marry sometime, someday, never an heiress because he had no prospects but the army, the church, or the life of a country farmer, and he would settle into the same life as he led here, finally master of his own domain.
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And then Lujan would reign supreme—or Waybury would be let go to hell. And Kyger would rescue it once again.
But now there was something more in the picture—someone: her. And she was not going to let Waybury go. Or Lujan. No matter what happened, no matter what she found.
And soon, really soon, she would journey to London to retrieve what was hers. Not yet, though. She had too much to do, too much to learn about being Lujan's proper wife. After that, then she'd go. Then he'd see what love was all about.
"Don't feel sorry for me," she said.
"Nor will I say I could have told you he would leave. I think you knew that anyway ..."
"You have no need to be so brutal."
"You've lived with us for two years. You've seen what he's like. I wouldn't have thought you were so susceptible."
But he wasn't seducing you, she thought. He wasn't fondling and teasing you, working on your body so all you could do was yearn for his touch. How could a man comprehend, when a woman's body was nothing to him but a vessel for his lust?
"Every woman is susceptible," she said.
"I must remember that."
"I would like to believe that so is every man."
"But not him," Kyger said. "He never has been susceptible to anything except his own will and whim. Any of us could have told you. You saw him up close for two years. You knew. I know you knew."
"Women don't want to believe it," she said. She didn't, she meant. It was so much easier to believe he wanted her, for real. And she wanted him, and Waybury, and an answer to the mysteries. "He was so—so ..."
Kyger held up his hand. "Don't tell me. I know all about the 50 ... I have work to do. I don't want to know."
She felt his impatience, and a prickly sense of him pushing her away. He had to. It would be too easy for him to succumb to something dangerous with them alone together in the house, with affection between them already, and her so vulnerable.
But he wasn't Lujan, who would have leapt to take advantage of the situation. Of her.
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Not Kyger. He was too honorable, too respectful of a dirty girl. No matter what he felt.
He would go to the fields. To get away. To clean up everyone's mess.
Even hers.
He pushed out his chair abruptly, and left her there.
******************
Where did one start? The tears were long over, and after the disappointment and the feeling of betrayal subsided in the maw of some mouthfuls of oatmeal and some tea, she felt stronger, more determined, less of a victim. The story wasn't over yet.
She was mistress of Waybury now.
She was where she had wanted so badly to be, placed to take her own revenge on Lujan merely by serving her father's needs. Loving Lujan had been the shock and surprise, and wholly unanticipated. Marrying him was her blessing. Making everything come right, her redemption.
Everything else she could learn, all those things that tuition girls had always known: how to manage a house and servants, how to dress, how to act like the lady of the manor, how to be a chatelaine.
After all, who was in charge now? Bingham, to all intents and purposes? Or the housekeeper—?
No, it was time for Lujan's wife to take charge, even if she had no idea what the chatelaine of a country manor house did.
At this moment, with Hugo and Lujan well away, Waybury was hers to do with as she would.
All she had to do was issue the command. Face Bingham and issue her orders. . . what orders?
She wasn't scared of that paper-thin, desiccated, disapproving old man . . . was she? No. How could she be scared of anything after these three days and nights with Lujan?
Thank you, Lujan.
She reached for the bell pull to summon the butler.
******************
Ass. So what if she said she loves you. Women never mean what they say. You above anyone else know that. But you got so spooked, you just abandoned her.
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You gave up the most luscious piece of tail you've fucked in years for the cold comfort of the road and a cold town house at the other end of it.
Jesus . .. fool. What's in a word—and what could it matter if your wife thinks she loves you? . . . that won't be true for long. You'll pound it out of her—into her . .. in no time—shit.
—Now look. A goddamned hard-on. Go away. Leave me alone. I don't even want to think about her. . .she'll be fine. She'll miss all that fucking. She'll welcome me with open arms whenever I feel like coming back. And that won't be soon. I'll make her want it so bad, she'll be walking around naked just hoping, yearning for my return . . .
No—wait—Kyger is there. Son of a bitch—if he lays one sympathetic finger on her, I'll kill him .. .
And my damned father, who, if he hadn't been so greedy for young cunt, wouldn't have said anything to her, and I wouldn't have had to marry her in the first place.
Shit.. . curse the bitch for chasing me out of my own house when I was ready for another week of hard-bore fucking.
Goddamn . . . I want cunt. . . and not a twat in sight anywhere around here . . .
Shit shit shit—I could be in bed wearing her cunt right now. And instead, I'm halfway between here and nowhere, and not an inn, not a farm in sight. I'd take a .. .
Forget that. Forget her. I can handle things just fine right here . . . that's why nature gave man the ability to jack off. .. like that—and I won't even think about her. .. not a thought—after I come—
******************
Bingham was as intimidating as any headmistress at St. Boniface. It was the prim, disapproving look down his thin, knife-sharp nose, the crepey, downturned lips, the stiff bend of his body. The rusty way he said, "Yes, madam," to every one of her requests.
She knew nothing. That was obvious from his condescending tone of voice. Nevertheless, she pushed forward, making arbitrary decisions just to make the staff aware, through Bingham, that hers was the reigning hand.
"So, you will serve dinner at seven formally in the dining
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room. You will tell Martin to come and attend me at seven o'clock tomorrow morning. You will have Mrs. Ancrum take me through the house this afternoon, prepared to give me everything I will need to take over the running of Waybury. I'll have the mail delivered to the parlor in the afternoon, and I want the bedrooms cleaned and made up by eight in the morning. Have Trask serve tea from now on at four o'clock in the library."
"Yes, madam. Yes, madam, yes, madam ... yes .. ." He hated saying yes to her. He knew she was making it up as she went along . .. "Yes, madam .. ."
"And summon the dressmaker as well." That was inspired. She needed to look the part of Lujan's wife. She didn't have to mourn Olivia forever, did she?
"Yes, madam."
"I think that's all for now. Thank you, Bingham."
He withdrew, his expression still sour and stony, and she let out a deep, relieved breath.
Now what?
Mroww. ..
And Emily, of course.
She stooped down to pick her up, but Emily twisted and pushed out of her arms and leapt to the floor. And sat, waiting. Owww. And then she turned and daintily paced from the room.
Jancie followed her. Up the steps she ran, light as a feather, and waited on the landing for Jancie to come.
Owww . ..
"This had better not turn out to be a mouse," Jancie scolded as she made the landing and Emily ran down the hallway. Down toward the opposite end of the house but stopping midway there, and sitting on her haunches again, her golden eyes slanted up at Jancie.
Mrooww.
"Well, now what?"
"Mrrrowww ..." Very insistent. We search for diamonds.
But it was not going to be that easy, Jancie thought. There were so many rooms, too many hiding places, so many things
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that could have happened to the diamonds and the money in the years since Hugo had abandoned her father at Kaamberoo.
The task she had set herself was daunting. She had no clue where to begin and in the time she had been here, she had been at Olivia's beck and call, and then Lujan's.
The only thing she had accomplished was to fulfill the first of her father's subtle, covert mandates: she had married into the Galliard family, she was living at Waybury.
She wondered fleetingly if he would have cared whether it was Hugo she married or Kyger. She could not imagine doing any of the things with Hugo she had done with Lujan.
But that was neither here nor there right now. This much she knew, she thought as she surveyed the upper hall: Hugo had lived a most comfortable life for the past thirty years and her father had not. Hugo had lost one son through misadventure—Edmund, a wife in childbirth. Hugo's sons had had every privilege, Edmund's daughter had not.
Where had Hugo got that money, if he had been beset by thieves and murderers at the pit in Kaamberoo? And how had he found the wherewithal to escape them and make his way back to England? How much of his wealth, if any, had come through Olivia's family?
