“What did your cousin mean today?”
He turned. Anna had come out of the bedroom, where she had unpinned her hair. It sprawled around her shoulders, roiled in glorious abandon across the pale upper swells of her breasts. She still wore the gown, thank God. He had spent the last hour inventing fantasies of how he would remove it. “What’s that?”
“Mr. Devaliant. As we left, he said he was glad that you’d already made your run on the bank, so nothing would keep us from sailing directly.”
He caught back his black smile. “He said that, did he?” And here he’d thought Stephen had turned a new leaf. His wedding gift had suggested so—but there was always a catch with his cousin.
“What did he mean?” Anna asked.
He stepped inside, pulling shut the balcony door. “Only what it sounds like. We ran into each other this morning, before I went to the church.”
She clasped her hands in front of her, squeezing her fingers, a gesture that looked oddly nervous. “At the bank.”
“Yes,” he said, trying not to frown. Was he the cause of her uneasiness? Did she anticipate he would jump on her? He took a seat, to allay her nerves. “I had some business there.”
“On our wedding day?”
“Yes, why?”
“Oh . . . no reason.” She pulled apart her hands very suddenly, then cupped them around her elbows, prowling restlessly around the cabin. “I suppose our mornings proceeded very differently, then. I spent those hours getting plucked and powdered and pressed and curled and sewn into this dreadful gown.”
“Far from dreadful,” he said. “It’s the loveliest—”
“It weighs three stone and it itches. It’s a wonder I’m still breathing.”
Her quarrelsome tone confused him. But he could not resist the opening she offered. He rose. “Allow me to assist you out of it.”
But she sidestepped his reach, fixing her interest on an enameled lamp that stood bolted to the sideboard; with one finger, she traced the raised design. “What business did you have at the bank?”
A sinking feeling came over him. “Nothing of particular interest.”
“Oh? Nothing to do with my accounts, then?”
He took a deep breath. “Anna—”
She faced him. “For my accounts are certainly of interest to me.”
That waspish tone was not fair. “Our accounts, you mean.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, yes, our accounts now. For a woman, once married, has nothing to call her own.”
He caught himself before he could push out a sharp breath. “Oh, come now. That’s dramatic.”
“But true.”
“Your island, all the lands entailed to the earldom of Forth—none of those are mine.”
She lifted her chin, staring steadily at him. “But the money? I assume your business had to do with that.”
These delicate little jabs were succeeding: he felt hot now, his temper pricking. “Yes, you’re right. The business concerned money. I thought to settle some private debts before we left.”
“Private debts? Debts not disclosed to my lawyers, do you mean?”
He felt a twist of shame, which in turn angered him, for he had done nothing wrong. “Forgive me,” he said sardonically. “I did not think to submit my tailor’s bills to Sir Charles. Would he also like my grocer’s address?”
Her lips compressed into a pale, tense line. She bowed her head, her chest rising and falling dramatically, and he knew a sick feeling of having disappointed her—which was not fair, damn it. He’d forgotten a few damned receipts, that was all. “Why so stricken?” Fifty pounds here, twenty pounds there—should he go down on his knees to make requests for each of these payments? Hadn’t she known from the start that he’d not had a feather to fly with? “I settled my debts, Anna. Was that not the whole point?”
He regretted the remark instantly when she paled, and the more so when she said, softly and steadily, “Yes, that was the whole point.”
For that agreement only made him feel further attacked. “Not the whole point, in fact. If I recall, the other point was to secure ownership of your island.”
Her cheeks suddenly hollowed. She turned away.
“Tell me, will you wait until after our honeymoon to have the deed transferred?”
No reply.
“You already had it recorded,” he said. “The sasine. Didn’t you?”
Her slim shoulders lifted in a jerky shrug.
“And when did you tend to that business?”
“I didn’t tend to it,” she said stiffly. “My lawyer did.”
“Sir Charles? I saw him in the church. Thought it was rather odd that he’d stayed for the wedding. But I suppose it was business that kept him here.”
“He is an old friend of my family,” she said flatly.
“I see. Did he go to the General Register before or after we exchanged vows?”
She faced him, her cheeks blazing. “Afterward. The very moment we were wed.”
Wrong, wrong, to feel a stabbing in his gut—the twist of betrayal, of bitter disappointment. He was a hypocrite, to be sure: he had gone to the bank with their marriage license in hand. Why should her lawyer not have gone to file the sasine the very moment that license was signed?
“Well, then.” He took a ragged breath. “You understand why I went to the bank.”
“Of course.” Her voice was colorless. “We each had business to accomplish. That was the point, as you’ve said.”
But it was not the point. She thought it was the point—clearly it had been the point for her. “Of course, your island could have waited.” No, shut up, he told himself—but now he could not forget how coldly she’d looked at him a minute ago, as though he were some grubbing charlatan, when she herself had not hesitated to enforce her benefits from this marriage. “Your island was not going to drift away, or grow more expensive to keep. But the interest on my debts would have continued to accrue. So I think you’ll see it was sound good sense that drove me to act this morning.”
“Yes,” she spat. “Sound good sense. We are both very sensible.” She sat down heavily on the bed. “Of course, I put the business in the hands of a paid lawyer. I spent the morning doing nothing but thinking of you.”
His laugh felt disbelieving. “My God—that’s not fair.”
“Quite right, fairness doesn’t enter into it. I’m only telling you what I was doing, while you were paying a call to my bankers to instruct them to divert my money south to England.”
Her money—again, she said it.
He dragged in a breath, struggling for calm. “Those were the terms on which we agreed. Were they not?”
She tipped back her head to look down her nose at him, her mouth twisting with distaste, as though he were an overbearing beggar. “Of course.”
He laughed again. This was ludicrous—a fantasy gone wrong in an instant. “I certainly would not have agreed to those terms had I known you would try to shame me with them.”
“Shame? Whatever do you mean?”
“What else do you call this?”
She rose suddenly. To his bafflement, tears seemed to glimmer in her eyes. She dashed at them as she hauled open the door to the balcony.
Tears. Shocked, he followed her outside, into a cool night breeze, thick with the scents of fish and salt water and smoke. The twilight glimmered gently over the Firth of Forth, the lanterns on distant sailing vessels winking like stars. “Anna, what is this? What are we doing?” She was fighting tears. He felt helpless, confused. “Why are you so upset? I would have told you—I should have told you, but it honestly never occurred to me. This was the arrangement we struck. I didn’t think it would . . . distress you so.”
“It doesn’t.” She wiped her eyes once more, then stared fixedly out at the water. “Of course you were right to settle the debts. To act at once, without delay. You were thinking practically. I’m glad of it. It’s good to keep one’s mind on business, even on one’s wedding day. Perhaps especially
on one’s wedding day, when one’s marriage is—what ours is.”
He felt struck. Why, her distress might bode well for him. Suddenly it seemed the most encouraging sign imaginable: she was upset because she, too, wanted more from this marriage than practicality.
He touched her arm, not letting go when she stiffened. “My mind was always on you,” he said urgently. “I wanted to get the business done—out of the way, as quickly as possible. So I would need to think of nothing but you afterward.”
She nodded once. “And the five hundred pounds sterling on your person?”
He recoiled. “I—” Was he to be interrogated in this fashion, and to submit meekly, like a child accounting for his allowance?
Moreover, how did she know about the five hundred pounds? Had she been spying on him?
She saw the question in his face, and offered a cool smile. “Your cousin mentioned that withdrawal as well. I found it rather surprising. More so when you let me tip the porter, half an hour ago.”
He gaped at her, battling a true feeling of outraged pride, the sorer for how handily his cousin had fooled him again.
No. No. Resist it.
“I had no small change,” he said flatly.
That was true: Stephen had only given him banknotes. But it sounded like a petty excuse, and her smile widened, sharp as a blade.
“I see. I suppose you intended that money to defray our expenses on the road?”
“Exactly.”
“Yet you also had a letter of credit issued in your name? Not mine. Mine is nowhere on it—I found it in your jacket. You wore it on you to our wedding.”
“Christ.” He stepped backward. “I am not going to defend myself to you. If you think me a swindling con man—”
“I think you an Englishman with little experience of wealth,” she said coolly. “After all, your father left you nothing but debts. You’ll understand, I hope, if I might wish a small measure of oversight as you begin to avail yourself of my—pardon me, our—funds.”
He turned on his heel.
“Where are you going?” came her demand from behind him.
“Out.” Out to wrestle down this furious mood, this dangerous temptation to shove the five hundred pounds sterling in her face, and leave her to figure out later that his cousin had lied: Liam had not taken it from her account. It had been Stephen’s wedding gift, offered in the church, which Liam had tried to refuse, knowing that nothing from his cousin ever came without strings and hidden blades.
But Stephen had insisted. And he, ever the naïve idiot, had thought that perhaps, just perhaps, his cousin meant the gift as a rapprochement, the mark of a new and more amicable chapter in their relations. He had, after all, spent all day moaning and glooming about his absent family. He’d been ripe for plucking, and his bloody cousin had sensed it.
“Don’t hurry back,” his wife called as he yanked open the door. “The maid can assist me with the gown.”
“I will be back before we sail,” he bit out. But he would not stay here and risk saying things he would forever regret. He would go find some peaceful corner in which to get hold of his temper. Then, on returning, he would explain to her calmly what lay between him and his cousin, and why Stephen might have designed this feud to spite him. The ship did not sail until eight o’clock; there was time.
• • •
Anna watched the door close. On a great gasping breath, she threw herself onto the bed and let the tears fall, hot and fierce, soaking through her fingers and staining the coverlet.
Stupid, stupid.
What harm if he wanted her money? She knew he wanted—needed—her money. That was why she had proposed this marriage in the first place. Why blame him now for what had recommended him to her?
But to see the proof of it, so plainly offered—to know that as she’d dressed for their wedding, dreaming of him, aloft on these secret swelling feelings of love, he’d been at the bank, availing himself leisurely of her credit, her cash, her accounts—
It was humiliating.
More humiliating yet, she had no cause to be angry. They had not married for love. Falling in love with him had been her mistake. She would pay the price for it. He should not be punished.
After a few long minutes, she got hold of herself and sat up. The cabin was exquisite. Decked in roses and sateen, ripe for romance. The sky outside was darkening in layers, fading from amethyst to indigo to black.
The mantel clock chimed seven. An hour remained until they set sail.
When he came back, she would apologize. She rubbed her chest, which felt bruised. He would not know how she ached. She would be bright, and apologetic, and cheerful.
She would try to make him love her. But she would not blame him if she failed. If he wanted only a contract marriage, then she would focus on her island, on Rawsey, that gift he alone had given her, the wonder of which would never be diminished even if he broke her heart. Besides, one day—perhaps soon—they would make a child. These were sureties vouched to her by this marriage. She would never regret wedding him, even if this ache in her chest never eased.
But she could make him love her. He was close—she knew it. She could not be alone in these feelings. She could have sworn, this morning in the cloister, he had been tempted to speak to her of love. If only she had stepped around the pillar and looked into his face!
She could go now and tell him everything. Confess her heart. Be brave.
She rose, staring at the door, then made herself sit again. She would not chase him. They had promised each other freedom, and she did not break her vows.
But tonight, she would seduce him. She would not call the maid after all—she would wear this dress until he came back. He’d professed himself ready for the challenge of the buttons. And in Paris, as they toured through the artworks he liked best, she would listen closely, and try to see them through his eyes. He had so much to teach her. And she could teach him, too, for her money was not the best thing about her. What was money? It had not persuaded her aunts to keep her, and it had not brought her joy. Joy came from other things, which money could not buy: knowledge and learning, the lung-burning exhaustion of a good walk, conversations with dear friends on cold nights, evenings on the beach at Rawsey, his laughter, his company, him . . .
He would come back. And she would apologize and kiss him, and he would smile and apologize, too, and they would fall onto this bed and make a child together. Either way, whether his or the child’s, love would be hers soon enough.
She sat, watching the door, and waited.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
London, 1861
Her husband did know his liquor. He kept an excellent scotch at his bedside—peaty, an Isla variety. Anna had been sipping it as she watched the sunbeams intensify and sprawl across the room, then shrink again, until darkness fell.
The air held a chill. A maid had come earlier to start the fire, but Anna had sent her away. An hour ago, the household had settled into a deeper quiet, the servants having retreated to their beds. Now and then, the grandmother clock in the hall announced the time.
He had been gone for seven hours and forty-five minutes. She had not moved, save to refill her glass. She had promised herself that she would give him eight hours to work through his anger and fear. For, yes, it was fear. His anger was simply a mask for it.
She tried not to be angry in turn. Did he truly imagine she would shrink from him, be repulsed by what he’d endured? That he had wept made him human. That he had begged made him practical. That he had survived made him stronger than anyone she knew.
But running out on her—that was cowardly. Knowing him no coward, she would give him eight hours to remember himself. Then, and only then, she would give chase. She had learned her lesson four years ago. She had failed to hunt for him then. Tonight, after eight hours, if he did not come home, she would start looking—and she would not cease until she found him, no matter how long it took.
As the clock at last began to toll midnight, she re
ached for her shawl—then heard the distant commotion of his return, the slamming, far off, of the front door, and an indecipherable exchange between him and Wilkins.
She sank back into the chair. The breath that burst from her seemed to have been pent up since his departure. A brief dizzy relief swam through her, until she inhaled again sharply and willed it away. It felt too close to weakness, and for what came next, she would only need strength.
But oh, God be thanked, he had come back.
She bolted the remainder of her glass and filled it from the bottle sitting at her feet. She had been drinking very slowly for hours, on an empty stomach, but her senses felt painfully alert. She heard his footsteps on the stairs—scented his approach, the musk of his skin and the astringent soap he used in his hair.
Now came his passage through the sitting room. At the bedroom door, he briefly hesitated. Did he sense her presence? Wilkins would have told him that she had not left the house.
The door opened, the light from the outer room silhouetting his figure and blotting out his features.
“You’re home,” she said casually. “Good. We will finish our conversation now.”
Some slight, abrupt movement suggested his surprise. Perhaps he noticed that she still wore her afternoon dress. Perhaps he smelled the scotch, the decanter uncapped by her foot.
An empty glass sat beside it. She nudged it forward with her stockinged toe. “Have some, if you need it.”
He stepped inside, closing the door. With a soft hiss, the gaslights rose.
Wherever he had gone today, he had not gone gently. A smudge of dirt rode his angular cheekbone. His coat and cravat were missing, and mud encrusted his boots. He stared at her for a long moment, his mouth pressed into a hard, flat line, evidently deciding what to do with her.
He did not want to speak of love. He’d made that plain.
Very well, then. They would speak of revenge.
The Sins of Lord Lockwood Page 22
