Fortune's Lady

by Patricia Gaffney

  “Yes, I can manage that.”

  A little while later, Riordan carried Cass home in his arms.

  She awoke completely towards dawn, though she’d been swimming in and out of a hazy consciousness for hours. In the light of a single candle at the bedside, she made out that she was in Riordan’s room, in his bed, and that he was sitting beside her with his back to her, his head in his hands. She thought he might be dozing, he was so still. Events of the evening came back to her in short picture-bursts. She knew she was ill, but she couldn’t quite recall the chain of events that had brought her to this moment. Was it the next day? How had she gotten home? She had a memory of being carried…but no, that was preposterous, it must be a hallucination. She raised a tentative hand to her forehead. Her vision wasn’t perfect; she was seeing things through a cloud of little black dots. Her head felt like a hollow glass bowl and ached in the oddest way.

  She must have made a sound or a movement; Riordan swiveled around to look at her. She thought he looked strange in the candlelight, whiter than usual, and haggard. He whispered her name as a question. She had to run her tongue over her teeth before she could speak, her mouth was so dry. “What happened?” Then he did a curious thing. He took her hands in both of his and pressed her knuckles against his forehead hard, just for a second. When he looked up, his eyes were fierce.

  “Most wives just say they have a headache,” he murmured, his tone a failed attempt at lightness. “Must you always go to such extremes?”

  She peered at him, uncomprehending.

  He cleared his throat and blinked something out of his eyes. “Do you remember fainting?”

  She started to shake her head, then reconsidered. “No.”

  “You fell and hit your head on the floor. You were unconscious for a while, then you were sleeping.”

  “Last night?”

  “Yes. At the reception. Do you remember now?”

  “Maybe,” she said after a moment’s thought, then gave it up. “May I have some water?”

  He reached for the glass on the bedside table. With his arm behind her neck, he supported her while she took a few swallows, but he could see the movement pained her. “How do you feel? Head hurt?” She gave a noncommittal hum, and immediately he knew she was one of those sick people who never complain. “The doctor’s coming in a few hours. He says you’re going to be fine.” Her eyelids were drooping; she was falling asleep again. “Cass?”

  “Mmm?”

  “You scared the hell out of me.”

  Her eyes closed. “Serves you right,” she murmured on a tired sigh, and slept.

  When the doctor examined her again, he merely confirmed what he’d said the night before—she’d injured her head, wasn’t in any danger, and needed rest and quiet. Nevertheless, Riordan kept up an almost constant vigil for the next few days, leaving her only to sleep for a couple of hours in her old room next door, and always instructing Clara to come and wake him if there was any change at all. After two days, Cass’s headache faded away, a little of her appetite returned, and she was afflicted with nothing more serious than a profound fatigue. She slept large chunks of the day away and was, perversely, much more awake at night. Riordan liked to come into the room and find her with her knees drawn up, a book on her lap, reading by candlelight. She’d pull her glasses to the end of her nose and look up at him, and she would look so wifely to him, so beautiful. Sometimes she even wore a nightcap, and he would experience a queer feeling in his chest, at once hungry and protective. As much as he could, he kept his hands off her. But when he adjusted her pillows or straightened the sheet for her, it was almost more than he could stand and sometimes he had to touch her—lightly, fleetingly. After, they would both look way, pretending it had been an accident, never speaking of it.

  Their conversation was quiet, calm, designed to keep her tranquil. Yet it wasn’t bland; if anything, it recalled the days before Wade, when they’d enjoyed reading and talking, and simply taken pleasure in each other’s company. For Cass it was a time to put aside bitter thoughts and allow herself to heal, in body and as much in mind as possible. Nothing had been solved, everything was waiting down the hall or around the corner, a little out of sight. But it was peaceful here in the eye of the storm, and she was permitting herself to enjoy it a little longer.

  One evening about a week after the accident, following a solitary meal in the dining room, Riordan climbed the stairs to her room with a slow, measured tread. His tap at the door brought Clara into the hall. “She’s awake, all right. Talkin’ about gettin’ up tomorrow, too. Appears like she’s gettin’ restless. That’s a good sign, ain’t it?”

  He didn’t know. He sent Clara away and went in.

  She was reading the Gentleman’s Quarterly, and she sent him her usual reserved smile in greeting. He startled her by sitting beside her on the bed instead of taking his customary chair. She shifted to give him more room and put her paper down.

  “How are you feeling tonight?”

  “Much better, thank you.”

  It was her standard answer; he no longer set any store by it. He was quiet for a while, fiddling with the coverlet between them. “Cass,” he said presently, then paused again.

  His tentativeness was unusual; she looked at him curiously. All at Once she knew what he wanted to say. A mistress was one thing, but a pathetic invalid was another. He was tired of coddling her and he was going to send her away. An arctic coldness crept through her, along with the stunning realization that she didn’t want to go. As bad as things were between them, not seeing him at all would be a thousand times worse. She turned her face away and focused her body and mind on one thing: not crying.

  “I know our marriage was a bit unconventional,” he was saying, still hesitant, “and we didn’t start out with some of the advantages other couples begin their lives together with.” He forced a little laugh. “Like a few minutes to think it over beforehand.”

  Her head came around and she looked at him in amazement. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m trying to say I want us to make it work, Cass. It was good before, you can’t deny that.” An instinct for self-preservation kept him from saying exactly how good he thought it had been. “But something’s gone wrong, and for the life of me I can’t figure out what it is.”

  She couldn’t believe her ears; she’d thought they were long past this. “You must be mad,” she breathed. “Or you must think I am.”

  His lips tightened, but he kept his tone calm and conciliatory. “Perhaps so, but I still want us to try to start over.” He brought something out of his pocket and reached for her hand, holding it firmly when she tried to pull away. It was a ring. He didn’t put it on her finger, but opened her hand and pressed it into her palm. “I was buying this for you that day you saw me with Claudia in the shop. Our kiss was innocent, Cass, I swear it. Take this for your wedding ring and let’s begin again.”

  The heavy gold seemed to burn in her hand. Tu et nul autre, she read. You and no other. She put the ring down between them carefully. “Philip, is this a joke? Take it back, please, I don’t want it. Your hypocrisy takes my breath away.”

  There was nothing but stunned silence while she kept her eyes on the ring, not able to look at him. It goaded her into saying more. “I told you once I wouldn’t be your mistress. Now I find I have no choice. I suppose I should kill myself, to avoid what a better woman would call a fate worse than death, but I haven’t the courage. I only ask one favor, that you stop calling this squalid thing between us a marriage. For God’s sake, lie to your family and friends, but at least be honest with me!”

  His shock and anger were warring with bewilderment. He took her shoulders, bore her down to the pillow, and brought his face close to hers. “We are married! I’m your husband! Are you saying you don’t think we’re married?”

  “I know we’re not!”

  “We are!”

  “Liar! The tollkeeper wasn’t the tollkeeper, he didn’t live in the town! Damn y
ou, I know everything! Now let me go!”

  “No! What are you talking about? Cass! Cass, for God’s sake—” He controlled himself with an effort and released her, but kept her pinned down by his closeness. His mind was a jumble. “Tell me how you got this notion into your head. Who told you such a thing?”

  Her lips curled. “What difference does it make? I know. And I’m not telling you who told me.”

  He sat up. “Wade!”

  She smiled unpleasantly.

  No, not Wade, she’d been angry before that, gone to Wade after she’d been told this lie. Who, then? He tried to recall the afternoon. Oliver was the only one he knew for certain she’d spoken to, but that was impossible. He disapproved of her, certainly, but he would never do anything like this. Who, then? Someone she’d met in Oxford Street that day? Wally, for a joke? Her aunt! Freddy? He couldn’t think straight.

  He took hold of her again and gave her a little shake. “Whoever told you this was lying, Cass. We are married.”

  She pushed him away. “Where is our marriage certificate, then?” She wouldn’t cry. Oh, she had hoped never to have this humiliating quarrel!

  His brows went up. “I thought it went the way of the wash basin. Didn’t you destroy it?” She shook her head pityingly. “Well, I didn’t do anything with it!” Her expression made it plain she didn’t believe him. “Damn it, Cass, we’re married! Who told you we weren’t? Tell me!”

  Silence.

  “How can I defend myself if I don’t know who’s attacked me?”

  Stubborn silence.

  “Whoever it is, he, she—they’re lying. Why won’t you believe me? This person is a snake, Cass. I’m telling you the truth! Besides, how could I have done anything so devious? Don’t you remember the condition I was in? I could hardly say my own name, much less—”

  “No, but your friend Wally could. The two of you probably arranged it beforehand, before we left Colin’s in the coach. Philip, I can’t stand this conversation—”

  “Wally? Well, Christ, Cass, all you have to do is ask him and he’ll tell you that’s not true! He’s—”

  “Oh, I’m sure of that! He would hardly admit it, would he?”

  Muttering something vile, he stood up and began pacing back and forth between the bed and the fireplace. Suddenly he stopped. “We signed something else there, remember? A paper they kept. They’ll still have it, it’s the permanent record.”

  “Philip, there’s no such thing.”

  “We’ll go and look! As soon as you’re well! We’ll go and—” He broke off, remembering. “I can’t go.” She laughed a bitter laugh and he strode toward her, stifling a string of curses. “The opening of Parliament is a little over three weeks away, my dear wife. You may think I’m nothing but a bounder, that I spend all my time deceiving women, but the fact is I’m sponsoring a bill this session which will save a great many lives if I can get it passed. It’s what I’ve been working on all summer, and there’s still an incredible amount of work to be done—committee meetings, constituents’ meetings, strategy sessions with the men who support me. Damn it all, Cass, I cannot go to Scotland this month!”

  “No, I can see that,” she said mildly. “But then, I never asked you to.”

  With a fearful oath, he turned around and started pacing again. She watched him from beneath her lashes, berating herself for actually having seen, at least for a few seconds, a glimmer of hope at the end of the dark, wretched cave she felt herself to be in.

  Presently he stopped again, struck by another idea. “Walker! We’ll send John! You trust him, don’t you, Cass? He could go, I could send him tomorrow. It would take about a week, there and back, if the weather’s fine. He could get an affidavit from the damn tollkeeper, get a copy of the record.” He went to her and sat down on the edge of the bed, taking her unwilling hands. “Would that satisfy you? I can’t think what else to do. If you can, tell me and I’ll do it.”

  His sincerity almost undid her. All she wanted in the world was to believe him. The very intensity of her desire for it warned her of the danger. He’d called Quinn a snake, but was it reasonable that his oldest and best friend would try to destroy his legitimate marriage? She didn’t think so. She had no experience of treachery that vicious, and could not credit its existence.

  Still, what harm would it do to send Walker?

  She pulled her hands away and folded them in her lap. “I do trust John,” she said slowly, “even though he’s your employee. I don’t think he would do anything dishonorable. But—”

  “But you have no trouble believing I would!” He was blazingly angry, but at the same time a vast, golden relief was rising in him. The mystery was solved. Cass had made an enormous blunder because she’d been lied to. She hated him because she’d been misled. Their marriage wasn’t over—it was only beginning! He felt like shaking the truth into her so they could stop wasting time. Instead he had to go through this stupid business of sending Walker to Gretna Green. “You know, love,” he told her, “when this is resolved and you see what a colossal idiot you’ve been, you’re going to owe me a very large apology.”

  “I doubt that.”

  A slow smile changed his face. “And I’ve just thought of the perfect way for you to show your contrition.”

  She frowned, ignoring this. “As I was saying, I do trust John. But even if I agreed that you should send him, don’t you need him here? Now more than ever? From what you’ve just told me—”

  “Of course I need him here. I’m offering to send him anyway. What do you say?”

  She looked away, thinking, fingertips resting lightly on her lips. Again the possibility that he was telling the truth tempted and beckoned behind the corners of her mind, but she shied away in superstitious fear of the bright, shimmering joy such thoughts summoned. “But how would you tell him?” she fretted. “What would you say?”

  “I’d tell him the truth. I know it’s awkward, but there’s nothing for it, he’d have to know. But he’s the soul of discretion, Cass, I can assure you it would go no further.”

  She closed her eyes a moment. “All right. Send him.” She tried to sound cool and businesslike. “But I must tell you, I expect very little from this.”

  “Do you, love?” he asked softly. “How did you become so cynical, I wonder.” He reached out to touch her cheek, but she turned her face away. He settled for a lock of hair that lay across her breast and rubbed its sleek, dusky softness between his fingers. His anger had dissipated like summer storm clouds. “I expect a miracle from this. I expect to get my wife back.”

  She felt his warm hand faintly brushing her collarbone. Her heart was beating too fast, her body responding to the vibrations in his voice. “If John Walker returns with the proof of our marriage, Philip,” she said as steadily as she could, “I will apologize to you in any way you choose. But until then, I would prefer it if you didn’t touch me.”

  He traced a path down her throat with two fingers, to the top of her nightgown. “Oh, love,” he whispered. “Be sure of that before you say it. Because I’ll do my best to oblige you, and I wouldn’t want you to regret it later. Tomorrow, or the next day. Or now.” His fingers slipped just inside the top of her gown and caressed her with slow, deliberate skill.

  It would have taken so little to give in to him, so little, and she wanted him so very much. “I’m quite sure,” she said in a breathy falsetto that made him smile.

  “What about a kiss, then,” he coaxed. “To seal our agreement to send John.”

  “I hardly think that’s necessary.”

  “I think it is. I think it’s vital.” He ran his forefinger along her bottom lip with light, gentle urgency, leaning close. “Kiss me, Cass. You know you want to.”

  She took a deep breath through her nose. “Perhaps I do, but you always—do more after that, and then I can’t—”

  “I won’t this time. I promise. Just a kiss.” Her lips were an inch away; he could feel her soft breath on his face. He decided not to wait for
her answer. But just as their lips met she whispered yes, and her willingness sent a shock wave of wanting through him. He meant to be gentle, to be true to his word, but he couldn’t stop himself from tasting her with his tongue while his hand pulled the sheet away from her breast and caressed her through her nightgown.

  “No, Philip, you said—”

  “I know, but this is part of it. It all goes together.”

  Specious reasoning, the working part of Cass’s brain noted. Her hand lay on top of his, useless, permissive, maybe subtly encouraging. How could anything so lovely be wrong? And she’d missed him so terribly, this was like being allowed into the sunshine after a bitter cold winter. He was touching her lower now, along her ribs and belly, trailing fire everywhere, still kissing her deeply.

  “I want to give you so much pleasure,” he breathed into her mouth. “I’m dying to be inside you again. I want to hear you say my name, Cass.”

  She was shaking uncontrollably, her fingers clenching and unclenching on his arms. Somehow she managed to turn her face away. “You have to stop,” she told him on something close to a sob. “You said you would.”

  He put his cheek next to hers and discovered she was weeping. “I’m sorry, love.” He drew a long, shuddering breath. “But it doesn’t make sense to me not to love you.”

  It didn’t make sense to her, either. She lay still, waiting for her racing heart to calm, savoring the warmth and rightness of his body against her as long as she could. When he drew away, he took the best part of her with him, and she knew it would be that way always.

  “Will you keep the ring, Cass? You don’t have to wear it,” he hurried on when she started to shake her head. “Just keep it. Anywhere. Under the bed, if you like. Will you?”

  She hesitated. Then, “Yes, all right.”

  They gazed at each other, he smiling, she holding back. He found the ring on the bed. He closed her fingers around it, kissed them, and stood up. “Walker’s still downstairs. I want to catch him before he goes home.” He put his hands in his pockets and rocked a little on his heels. He looked cocky. “One week, Cass. You’ve wronged me terribly, you know. Your apology will have to be very heartfelt, very moving. Very long, too, and drawn out. It might take—”