Nothing but Trouble

by Allegra Gray

  “And today, Master Nathan?” the governess prompted.

  “Today…” He thought for a moment, trying not to look at Mac, who was now nosing about a tree trunk. A birds’ nest balanced on a branch well above his head. The nest’s resident hopped along the branch, chattering down at him disapprovingly.

  “Oh!” Nathan remembered. “We talked about the names of the flowers. And the heather, even though it isn’t in bloom yet. Do you know the story about the heather, Aunt Charity?”

  “No, I cannot say I do.”

  He puffed up at the idea he knew something she didn’t. “Well, there’s a story that when God was searching for a plant to cover the slopes of the Scottish mountains, he first asked the oak, the rose, and the honeysuckle. But they all said ‘no.’ The heather said yes, and so God gave the heather the strength of an oak, the…” he paused, trying to remember, “the sweetness of the rose, and the fragrance of the honeysuckle. And that’s why it’s so wonderful!”

  Charity clapped her hands. “Well done, Nathan.”

  He grinned, then turned immediately to the governess. “May we be finished for today, please? Mac needs me!”

  Charity stifled a giggle. “Please forgive me for interrupting your efforts. I can tell you are doing good work.”

  The governess waived off her apology. “Nay, my lady. We are just starting out, trying to whet his appetite for learning. There’s nothing about today’s lesson that cannot wait until tomorrow. A few hours with a new puppy will do more good for that boy than anything else I can think of. What a lovely idea to bring him such a gift. He’ll have a playmate and companion for years to come.”

  Charity grew warm. “I thought Nathan and, well, the whole house, really, could use a bit of cheer.”

  “Aye, my lady. That they could.” She looked up at the manor home. “I haven’t been here but a few days and—” She broke off, settling instead for a repeated, “That they could.”

  Chapter 16:

  “Absence from those we love is self from self—a deadly banishment.”

  —William Shakespeare

  If she ever saw Graeme Ramsey Maxwell again, she’d kill him. She was getting stronger. Sleeping better. She could do it. Except that she wasn’t given to acts of violence. But even on her good days, Graeme’s absence was a gaping wound that refused to heal.

  After one week, she figured he’d had enough time to calm down, to think things over. He’d be back any day.

  When a second week passed, her anger started to build. She was doing so much better, and Nathan had absolutely blossomed overnight. Between his lessons, the puppy, and the games she made sure to engage him in, he’d confided one afternoon that he was happy, truly happy, for the first time since his parents died. She’d had to turn away to hide her tears. Even the dowager countess had begun joining their outings and meals more often. And Graeme was missing it all.

  When she’d finally caved and asked his mother if she knew where he’d gone, she’d learned almost nothing, except that he had a number of friends with whom he enjoyed hunting. He hadn’t even indicated to her whether he was leaving on business or pleasure. Knowing how Lady Eleanor’s memory sometimes slipped, she’d asked the head groom as well. He hadn’t known, either. Graeme could be nearly anywhere.

  But why, oh why, would he stay away so long?

  The answer hit her like a wave of icy water. Another woman. Did he have a mistress? Had he, upon realizing his wife was not all he’d hoped, simply abandoned her in favor of some woman he’d preferred all along but, for whatever reason, could not marry?

  No. Her heart, wounded though it was, insisted this couldn’t be true. She might not have known her husband for long, but she knew him. That wasn’t his character. He’d planned for a life together with her.

  The insidious thing about worries like that was, no matter how much her heart argued that Graeme was true, her mind could not shake free of the idea. Charity instinctively hated the woman she viewed as competition—never mind that the woman likely did not even exist.

  But if she didn’t, then why was her husband still gone? She couldn’t think of another reason. Nor could she think of any way to bring him back.

  Her menses arrived on day ten of what she’d begun to think of as “Life Without Graeme.” Upon seeing the blood, she broke down crying once more. It was totally impractical, she knew, but she’d so hoped to be pregnant. After all, they’d made the most of their opportunities, up until his departure. Maybe it wasn’t the best time to be pregnant, but that didn’t stop her from wanting it. She’d be a better mother if she had more time to make peace with the past, and to learn to accept herself in the process. But Charity had always struggled with being practical. Now that she felt the improvement like a great weight lifting, she wanted everything all at once. Love, marriage, children… after all, weren’t those the very things a young lady was supposed to want? The thought made her chuckle. For the first time in her life, she was being compliant, and yet the things she longed for hovered still just out of reach.

  Well, fie upon him. At the very least, she could give her husband a taste of his own medicine when he finally did come back. Ignore him. Make him wonder if she’d even noticed his extended absence. Yes, she could do that. Maybe. If she could stay far enough away from him, physically, not to remember the smell of his skin, or the gentle roughness in his touch.

  Charity grimaced. She was stronger than that, surely. Oh, who was she fooling? She’d fling herself into his arms the moment she saw him.

  After one week, Graeme had had his fill of hunting. After two weeks, he was just plain bored.

  At night, dreams of a blond temptress haunted his sleep. Quite a few of his waking hours, too. He hadn’t thought of a solution, though. More doctors? Medicine? She’d had all that in London, he now realized. Had it been helping? Was that why she’d asked for a longer engagement? So she could continue treatment? Of course she wouldn’t have told him, if that were true. She’d hoped never to need to. Had he, in whisking her away to Scotland, done her harm?

  Guilt plagued him. Maybe he should offer to let her return to London. His chest felt hollow at the idea. Would they live separately? What if she couldn’t be cured? What if he got her pregnant, and then found out she couldn’t be cured? This was the fear that kept him from acting. He’d never before considered himself a coward. But he’d never before faced a problem that tore him apart like this. Even when his father that died, he’d known what needed to be done to carry on.

  Thinking the races in Edinburgh would provide a better distraction, he traveled there next. The days on the road were a tortured reminder of the journey he and Charity had taken. But instead of the pleasurable distraction of her kisses, of her infectious laughter, and of the whimper of need she made just before he made her come, he bumped along the road alone, with only Tom Brevis, reticent even on his chatty days, for company.

  Along the way he composed a letter to Miss Boyd, the nurse he’d hired for his estranged wife. Bloody hell. Estranged. Wife. The words were so wrong. But Miss Boyd had come highly recommended. Perhaps she could keep him apprised of Charity’s condition. He kept his words simple, not knowing whether her skill at reading matched her skill at nursing. Then he crumpled the letter. Even if Miss Boyd received it and was able to write back, where would she send her response? He’d set no plans in stone. Besides, he was starting to think no amount of distraction was going to solve his problems. He knew his choices—either set her aside, seeing to it she had adequate medical care, of course, or take her as she was, and to hell with the consequences. Only one of those choices offered even a chance at happiness. Choosing recklessly had landed him here in the first place. This time, he was forcing himself to wait. Whatever his decision, he would make it with his eyes open, and he would live with it. He didn’t need much longer. A few days more, and he’d be on his way.

  The Edinburgh races were a great to-do, with noble and commoner alike in attendance. People traveled from far and wide to match t
heir fastest thoroughbreds against one another, or, for proven but aging racehorses, to mate them. For two weeks at the end of spring each year, people in town could speak of little else.

  The best vantage spots for the key races had been claimed long ago, but one benefit to being an earl was that when one wished to attend an event, seats usually opened up. Upon arriving at the grounds, Graeme was able to secure a good place with relative ease. He studied the board where the schedule of events was listed. Two hours, still, until the first heat of any interest. Time enough to wander the grounds. The bustle of activity—grooms, owners, water boys, regal animals, all on their way to somewhere important—kept his mind off his troubles far better than the solitude of hunting.

  Turning a corner, he found himself face to face with a familiar figure. The Duke of Beaufort. Behind him stood Charity’s sister, and next to her, a man Graeme did not recognize. Bollocks. Of course the duke would be here. Half of England’s nobility probably was. It was just his luck to run into him.

  His chest tightened. “Your Grace.”

  “Leventhal.” The duke raised his brows. “May I safely assume you are now a married man?”

  “I am.” What else was there to say? Of all the barmy moves Graeme could recall making in his thirty-three years, his hasty marriage surely took the prize.

  Elizabeth Bainbridge raised herself on tiptoe to look past Graeme’s shoulder. “Oh! Is she here?” Her gaze flew to Graeme. “Is Charity here?”

  Graeme briefly closed his eyes. “Nay, Your Grace.”

  “Where are you staying? Is she there? Can I see her?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Her face fell. “But—where is she?”

  “At Leventhal House. My family’s seat. Near Grantown on Spey.”

  “You left her there, alone?” the duke asked. “Shouldn’t the two of you be honeymooning?”

  Graeme straightened his shoulders. How dare the duke try to turn this back on him, make him look like the one at fault. He didn’t want to argue in front of Charity’s sister. It took him several seconds to control his frustration. “Not alone. My mother is there, and my nephew, and the house is full of servants. With all the tumult of the past few weeks, I’m afraid she was not feeling up to another trip so soon.” Harmless, as far as lies went.

  The duke narrowed his eyes. “You were in a terrible hurry to marry her, to have turned around and left again so quickly. Are you in the business of horse racing?”

  Now that would be a convenient excuse. But, unfortunately, not a sustainable lie. “Not exactly.” He cast a meaningful glance at the duke’s wife. “Perhaps we could discuss this later?”

  Beaufort met his eye for a lengthy moment, his expression unreadable. “We will most definitely be discussing this later, Leventhal. Directly after this afternoon’s race, I think.” He gave Graeme the address of the location they were staying. He opened his mouth a second time, as though to issue some sort of warning, but shut it again without speaking. Giving Graeme a curt nod, he directed his party toward the racetrack.

  Graeme spent the next few hours paying very little heed to the event he’d sought out as a distraction. He had half a mind to ignore the duke’s summons, being fairly certain Beaufort intended to issue him the verbal equivalent of a good hiding. But Graeme was no school boy to be called to task. Especially not on personal matters. Then again, it was not generally advisable to ignore a duke, especially if you were related to him. Which he now was—a fact Beaufort had played a role in, albeit indirectly, by leading him to believe Charity was merely irresponsible and flighty, as opposed to truly troubled. A few honest words, spoken man-to-man, would have served them both better.

  Well, he’d get those words in now. He might be outranked, but he would not go unheard.

  Graeme was well-steamed by the time he arrived at the duke’s lodging and was shown in to the salon. Decorated in rich wood and dark green velvet, he had the definite sense of stepping in to a man’s abode. To his surprise, the fair-haired man from earlier in the afternoon lolled in a large chair across from the duke, though both men stood as he entered.

  “Leventhal,” the duke greeted him. “May I present Monsieur Philippe Durand, the artist.”

  The name sounded vaguely familiar, though art was not among his stronger subjects. “Paintings?”

  “Yes,” the Frenchman acknowledged, pleased by the recognition.

  “Monsieur Durand,” the duke continued the introductions, “this is Lord Maxwell, Earl of Leventhal, and my sister-in-law’s newly wedded husband.”

  “A pleasure.”

  Graeme wasn’t so sure. He’d assumed he and Beaufort would meet alone. He glanced meaningfully from the artist to the duke, eyebrows raised.

  “Monsieur Durand is a most interesting man. You may find that he is quite pertinent to this discussion,” Beaufort said. “Please, why don’t we all sit down.”

  Uncertain now, Graeme selected a leather chair that would allow him to see both men. Why would a French painter be relevant to the discussion of his sham of a marriage?

  Unless…nay. Had this man been a beau of Charity’s? Had she held some tendré for him? Had Charity held some misguided notion of winning him back? Graeme didn’t attempt to hid his scowl.

  “Let me get straight to the point. It disturbs me to know you left Charity alone so soon after your wedding,” the duke said.

  Again, Graeme wished Monsieur Durand would have the grace to leave. Unfortunately, the other man indicated no such intention.

  Keeping his tone civil, he stated, “I think that ceased to be your concern when she became my wife.”

  “She is my sister in law. Of course I care for her well being. Your decision to elope made it difficult to ascertain her happiness.”

  “I assure you, she came willingly. And I would point out that no one, including yourself, attempted to stop us. You could have, you know. In fact, I gave you more than one opportunity to say what needed to be said. Your silence did me a disservice.”

  “Has your memory failed? I gave you far more leniency than her father would have, were the man alive. You were the one pressing for marriage.”

  “True enough. But as it turns out, I lacked a critical piece of information about my future wife—one you obviously were aware of, but chose not to share. Charity is at my home because it is the best place I could think to leave her in her state.”

  Monsieur Durand looked on with an expression of mild interest, while Beaufort’s scowl was starting to match Graeme’s own.

  “Her state?”

  “Aye, her state. Her…condition. I may be frustrated at having been hamstrung with an unsuitable wife, but I would not treat her with cruelty. She is safe at home. I even hired her a nurse.”

  “You did what?” the duke was half out of his seat, the Frenchman just behind him. “A nurse? As though she were a child or an invalid?”

  Graeme sneered. “Isn’t she?” He was tired of playing games.

  “Bloody hell. Is she injured?”

  “Injured? That’s an interesting way of putting it.”

  “Why, exactly,” the duke enunciated, “is your bride rusticating in the highlands while you are here?”

  “I discovered her little secret. After which, I told her she was unfit to be either wife or mother. Don’t worry, Your Grace, the nurse will ensure she comes to no harm. Nay, it is I who have been harmed, for now I am saddled with a wife who cannot fully fill that role.”

  The duke and the Frenchman frowned at one another, then at him. “Speak plainly, Leventhal. You said Charity was ‘unfit.’ Was she not a virgin? Or was she—” he wriggled a hand, “deformed in some way that makes the two of you unable to…”

  “No, no.” He swallowed, as images of Charity’s lithe body beneath his sprang unbidden to her mind. Her body was perfect. Utterly perfect. Damn. “It’s not her body that’s the problem, it’s her mind.”

  “Her mind.”

  “Aye.” Graeme shoved his lustful thoughts away, re
-warming to his anger. “How did you keep her secret for so long? Or did you simply hope that face of hers, combined with a dowry befitting a duchess, would be enough for most men to overlook her defect?”

  “Defect? What in God’s name is he raving about?” the Frenchman asked the duke.

  “I assure you…”

  But Graeme wasn’t interested in hearing any more. “I wondered, I admit, why none of Charity’s relatives rode after us, given our rather, ah, unconventional means of marriage. Hah. More the fool am I. No, instead of riding to her rescue, you were home, laughing and toasting to your good luck. Not only was she married off, but to a Scot—tucked conveniently away in the country where she would trouble you no longer.” He stalked across the room to the table bearing the decanter and poured himself a brandy. Rude, but no more so than the duke failing to offer it to him in the first place. He lifted the glass toward the other men in a mock toast, and tossed it back.

  “Leventhal, you begin to irritate me. Exactly what ‘defect’ do you find in my sister in law?”

  The duke’s tone was icy, but Graeme wasn’t backing down. “She’s mad, Your Grace. A lunatic. Raves incoherently. I’d have sworn she was awake, but she acted as though she didn’t recognize me at all. Don’t tell me you did not know.”

  The duke blew out a long breath. The Frenchman watched them both, now with concern in his eyes.

  “Mad,” Beaufort stated.

  “Aye, mad.”

  “Tell me,” asked the duke, “these ravings, as you call them. When do they occur? At night?”

  “Aye, at night.”

  “Only then?”

  Graeme shrugged. “That is when I have observed them. Of course, I have not known her as long as you. But I assume, in order for her ailment to have remained hidden so long, it must not often affect her during the day.”

  The duke looked thoughtful. “And it is this condition of…madness, that has led you to abandon your wife?”

  “It pains me to stay away,” he admitted. “Much of the time she is simply the woman who so enraptured me as to inspire our elopement in the first place. But other times…one would believe the devil himself had hold of her.”