If Ever I Should Love You

by Cathy Maxwell

  Her mother leaned forward. “You need to remove your glove,” she prodded.

  Leonie pulled at the kid leather, but she acted a bit confused. Perhaps she was so impressed with the ring she was having nerves?

  Her mother stepped in to help. Roman slid the sapphire on Leonie’s ring finger. He liked seeing it there. It was the only thing of value he had to give her, other than his heart.

  He would have appreciated a sign from his bride that she was impressed with the stone. Instead, she heaved a great sigh and looked to Reverend Davis as if wondering what would happen next.

  The reverend took both of their hands, covering them with his own. “With the joining of hands and the giving and receiving of a ring, I pronounce that they are husband and wife.” He then blessed them before announcing, “Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder.”

  It was done.

  Roman was married to Leonie Charnock—no, he corrected himself. She was Leonie, Lady Rochdale. His wife. His countess.

  He smiled down at her. She was studying the ring with great concentration. Finally, she was noticing the gift of the stone. Her lips curved into a slow, lazy smile. “This is truly lovely, my lord.”

  And with the last word, Roman caught a whiff of mint . . . and brandy. His wife had been back in the bottle.

  As if to confirm his suspicions, she started to lean and then began to fall. Instinctively, Roman reached out for her, catching her in his arms.

  She grinned up at him. “Thank you for that,” she whispered on a soft, silly sigh before passing out and turning into dead weight.

  Chapter 9

  Leonie did not wish to open her eyes. Her mind was stirring, but not her body.

  Then, she discovered, she couldn’t lift her lids.

  They seemed to be either sealed shut or too heavy to move.

  She drew a deep breath, released it . . . and realized she was in bed?

  Snuffling against the pillow, she stretched, ready to become more comfortable and fall back to sleep, except she couldn’t. Sleep was uncomfortable, worrisome even. She was also conscious that even her slightest movement created a hammering in the forefront of her brain. Why, even her head on the pillow seemed to annoy it.

  She shifted her weight and discovered her legs seemed to be caught up in the heaviest of nightdresses. Dry drool caked the side of her mouth. To her horror, she had been sleeping with her mouth open. Her throat was dry and she was beyond thirsty.

  Rubbing the drool away, she forced her eyes open—and then immediately shut them again with a groan. The drapes were drawn. The room was dark save for the light from the lamp across the room from her—but even that flickering brightness was too much.

  A male voice said, “Good evening.”

  Every fiber of her being froze.

  She was not alone. Roman was with her.

  What time was it? Was she not in her bedroom—?

  Memory returned. She had gone to the church. St. Anne’s. She was to marry . . . and she had consumed a teapot full of brandy. At the last thought, her stomach suddenly revolted.

  A strong hand pulled her to the edge of the bed. She wanted to warn him that she was going to be ill but he already seemed to know that. He unceremonious twisted her hair out of her way and said, “Use this.”

  Leonie wasn’t certain what “this” was but she no longer had control over her body. She retched in the most unladylike way possible into a chamber pot.

  The spicy sweetness of brandy was not as pleasant coming up as it had been going down. Again and again her stomach roiled until there was nothing left and still the heaving continued.

  Tears ran down her cheeks with her exertions. She would never outlive the embarrassment. Roman kept her hair out of her face but she still managed to make a mess of herself.

  When she was completely spent, she raised a hand and he released his hold. The mattress lifted as he stood. As she weakly pushed herself to sit up on the bed, she was conscious of his walking to the door. He opened it and gave the chamber pot to someone—another person aware of her humiliation!

  She wiped her mouth with the edge of a bedsheet. She was still wearing the exquisite gown she’d worn to her wedding. She even had the diamond band in her hair, although it was askew and the edges of it dug into her scalp. She pulled the band off and attempted to put it on the bedside table but her arm didn’t seem to have any grace. She ended up practically throwing the delicate piece with a force she had not anticipated.

  Roman stood by the door. He was in shirtsleeves and had removed his boots. She remembered that he had looked very fine at the church. He wore the same shirt, the same breeches. Then again, he was the sort of man who could make a drayman’s simple togs appear fashionable.

  Now, he looked down on her, a handsome and disapproving guardian.

  She broke the silence stretching between them first. “You always seem to catch me at my worst.” Her throat hurt to speak.

  “I need to know that I have not married a drunkard.”

  What a terrible word. Drunkard?

  “You haven’t,” she answered, matching his clipped tone.

  It had been the wine. She vowed never to touch wine again.

  Trying to recover some dignity, she glanced around the room. Her room. “What are we doing here?”

  “Instead of at the Pulteney?”

  Leonie nodded, hazily remembering that he had said something about hiring a room at the fashionable hotel the night of their wedding. And then what were they to do?

  She either couldn’t remember or didn’t know—and that bothered her. “What are we doing tomorrow? And the next day?” She glanced up at him. “Did we discuss this?”

  Her line of questioning seemed to catch him off guard, and she rather liked that. She was feeling such a shambles it pleased her to at least pinch one of his nerves.

  “We are going to Bonhomie,” he answered.

  “Bonhomie?” She tasted the word and didn’t like it, although she would not have liked anything in this moment. And then she remembered—oh, yes, he was taking her to be buried alive in the country.

  She realized her skirts were halfway up her legs, offering him an indecent display. She pulled them down. She’d probably embarrassed herself to no end while she slept. “Have you been here the whole time?”

  “It seemed the only thing I could do. In case you haven’t noticed, or perhaps can’t recall”—disdain dripped from each syllable—“there is a wedding party going on downstairs.”

  Leonie listened a moment and realized he was right. She caught the faintest hints of boisterous voices and the plunking of the harpist her mother had insisted upon.

  “I knew there was a wedding party,” she answered. See? She wasn’t completely ignorant. “I don’t feel up to joining it.”

  “I didn’t believe you would.”

  She ignored his tartness. He was out of sorts with her. Well, she was out of sorts with him. Welcome to married life. Her parents were always that way to each other.

  And then she asked the question that puzzled her the most. “So, what happened?”

  If he was surprised by her question, he didn’t show it. “You arrived at the church foxed.”

  The brandy. She’d consumed far more than she normally would have. And very quickly, she recalled. It hadn’t seemed to bother her until, well, she couldn’t remember when she wasn’t all right—but she could not confess as much to him.

  “Foxed?” she challenged, ready to brazen it out. “That is an outrageous charge. I obviously fell ill.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, moving from his stance at the door to a table with covered dishes. “You fell ill with a sickness called being cup-shot.” He picked up a teapot. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

  Her stomach rebelled at the sight of the offending vessel of her intoxication. He knew what she’d done. Guilt led to panic, especially when the memory of draining the teapot threatened her fragile stomach. In a panic, lest she disgrace herself mo
re, she looked around for something to use and didn’t see anything. He rightly interpreted her distress and, reaching down to the floor beside a chair pulled close to the bed, picked up a chamber pot to offer her—from a number, she noticed, that he had stacked there.

  But there was nothing in her body for her to lose. She’d already given it all up. At best, she gave a heave or two and then sat back.

  Seeing that she was going to leave him standing with a chamber pot in his hand, Roman set it down with distaste, a distaste he obviously felt for her, and that bit her pride.

  She found her energy. She kicked aside her skirts and sheets and clambered out the other side of the bed. Standing was almost as difficult as sitting upright. She weaved for the briefest second. Shoving her hair, which was a wild mess, back over her shoulder, she announced in her proudest voice, “I can see that I disgust you. I am thankful, then, that the wedding never took place.”

  Roman’s brow lifted in a quizzing way. “There was a wedding. Didn’t I just say there was a wedding party taking place?”

  That bit of knowledge took the wind out of her. “There was? I don’t remember saying vows.”

  “You did.”

  “I did not.”

  He shrugged. “You did.”

  Leonie wanted to lash out at him. Wouldn’t she know if she had married him or not?

  Or perhaps she wouldn’t?

  Her mouth had a sour taste, her stomach was still tender, and the devil inside every muscle and every joint would not go away.

  “Did I speak clearly?” she wanted to know.

  “Your diction was perfect.”

  She frowned at his offhandedness. “We were pronounced man and wife?” she wanted to clarify.

  “Absolutely. Reverend Davis said the words loud and clear and then you nearly hit the floor.”

  “I fell to the floor?” Certainly, she would have remembered something like that. And wouldn’t she have at least a bump or a bruise?

  “No, I caught you before you could injure yourself.”

  “So gallant,” she muttered to hide the fact that she was appalled by her behavior. She had spoken vows in a ceremony she did not remember, a ceremony that was considered the highlight of one’s life. “Did I walk out of the church on my own?”

  “No,” he said. He poured himself a cup of tea. Apparently there was truly tea in it. It was a small victory that this time the sight of the teapot didn’t make her so much as shudder. “That is why we brought you here instead of the Pulteney. I had no desire to be seen hauling my unconscious bride over my shoulder and up the hotel staircase. Your father thought it wiser to bring you here. I did carry you across the threshold as if I was the most eager of swains. You had your head buried in my shoulder. Everyone was fooled but I believe you feared you were going to be sick.”

  Leonie remembered none of this, and yet she did not question it had happened, especially when she squeezed her hand and then realized something was different. She looked down and was startled to see the ring on her left finger. It was a star sapphire. “I haven’t seen one of these since I was in India.”

  “Yes, well, that is where I’d purchased it.” He didn’t look at her as he spoke but focused on the tea in the cup he held. It must not have been hot because he downed the contents.

  Leonie raised her hand so she could see the ring in the lamplight. This was her wedding ring. The setting was simple and yet elegant. The stone was beautiful. She’d always marveled over the star in sapphires.

  He had chosen this for her—just as if he knew her tastes.

  And she knew nothing about him. Over the past few weeks, she’d been more preoccupied with her own concerns.

  He watched her. There was no humor in his gray eyes, no warmth in the set of his mouth. She deserved his scorn.

  “I don’t remember any of the ceremony,” she confessed. It was a humbling admission. She looked at the ring again and then closed her fingers, feeling the metal circling her finger. It made her nauseous to think she could behave in such a manner. Still . . . “You never answered my question about our future. We are to be a marriage in name only, aren’t we? Of course, you will wish that now?”

  His answer was to set the teacup down on the tray. An angry muscle worked in his jaw—and she knew the answer.

  “I won’t, you know,” she said.

  “Won’t what?” His voice was quiet.

  She knew he understood exactly what she was talking about. It was there in the glint in his eye. He was not one to enjoy being challenged.

  However, this was important to her. The matter should have been settled by now.

  Leonie looked down at the ring and then, squaring her shoulders, met his gaze. “I have no desire to share the marriage bed.” Her boldness frightened her. She’d been bold with Arthur and it had not gone well. However, she was not alone this time. If she screamed, a dozen guests and a harpist would come to her aide.

  “We have no such agreement.”

  “I’ve spoken to you about this from the day you made your offer. In fact, I never accepted your proposal. You dragged me into this marriage because all you want is my dowry.”

  “And for that you felt it necessary to arrive at the church drunk?”

  “Perhaps.” It was taking all her courage to keep facing him, to not look away.

  His brows came together. “And why is that, Leonie? Why do you wish to live separately from your husband?”

  “It is not unusual. We are not a love match. Couples live apart all the time.”

  A shadow crossed his face at the words “love match,” an anger, and in that moment, for some reason, her mind’s eye went back to when she’d first laid eyes on him. She’d noticed him the instant he’d walked into the ballroom during the Colonial Ball. He had seemed so young then to how he was now.

  The years had changed him.

  However, that night had brought out the worst in Arthur. That had been the beginning of his jealousy.

  “It isn’t that I don’t appreciate all you have done for me,” she added. “It really isn’t about you.”

  “What I’ve done for you, Leonie?” he repeated. “Are you talking about the night you ran away with Paccard? The night you shot him and I told everyone it was me? Do you appreciate what would have happened if the truth had come out?”

  Her own culpability shamed her. “I didn’t ask you to take responsibility for Arthur’s death.”

  “No, you did not. I’m my own fool. But hear me well, Leonie, I was there when you needed me. Now, I’m holding you accountable. I have dreams, big dreams. I need you.”

  “You need my dowry,” she corrected.

  “Aye, I do. I want to make something of myself and not just for me, but for my family. I will not waste this opportunity. I will also not support a wife who doesn’t honor her vows, even if she can’t remember repeating them.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You know what that means.”

  Was he saying he would annul the marriage? Set her aside?

  That would be a disastrous turn of events, especially after the Duke of Baynton jilted her last year. The scandal would brand her for life. Her father might even be so furious he would disown her. Especially since he wouldn’t be able to marry her again. She had no illusions about how her father valued her.

  She faced Roman. He had known she had no choice but to remain in the marriage, and as her husband, he now legally controlled her. She was his. A weight settled in her chest. “I am not a drunkard.”

  His answer was a dubious lift of a brow.

  “I’m not.” Her disclaimer sounded silly even to her own ears and her innate honesty forced her to say, “I have had a bit every now and then. I made a mistake this morning. I was not trying to disgrace you or back out of the marriage . . .”

  Her throat tightened. The bile of feelings she struggled to keep at bay threatened to choke.

  And there stood Roman in judgement of her. Roman who felt she had abused him, that she
owed him. That he’d made a bad bargain in this marriage.

  He had no idea how damaged and revolting she truly was. He looked at her face and her body and thought he knew her—just as everyone else did.

  And yet they knew nothing about her. He knew nothing about her.

  Her thoughts came out in a sharp bark of laughter. She sounded mad. She thought she was going mad—

  “He raped me.”

  Words she had never spoken before, that she’d barely allowed herself to think, blew out of her. They took form in the air between them.

  She widened her eyes, startled at her audacity, and then she discovered that now she had started, she could not stop. “He raped me. I told him I’d changed my mind. I said I would take the blame. I wanted to return home. And he would not let me go.” She cut the air with her hands, emphasizing her words, creating space for them. Creating space for herself. Protecting herself—

  “Leonie.” Roman moved toward her.

  She held up her arm as if to ward him off, or was it Arthur? Arthur who had hit her, who had pulled her hair and told to shut her mouth, to stop screaming?

  Roman stopped. He held his hands out as if showing her he had no tricks.

  “Leonie, I know he raped you.”

  She tilted her head, not certain she believed him.

  “I knew that night.” Quietly, in the voice one used to gentle an animal, he said, “He’d been brutal. It was not your fault. He was not a gentleman. You were protecting yourself.”

  Had she been? Suddenly, she could not remember.

  Or recall very much of the aftermath. She tried not to think of those days. She had been thankful when her parents had whisked her away from India. It had been hard to sleep. That is when her mother had started giving her a little brandy.

  There would be no brandy now, not with Roman.

  She looked to him. “You took the gun from me.”

  “I did.”

  For a raw moment, Leonie let herself feel all the ugliness she’d compressed deep inside her. Tears rimmed her eyes. She blinked them back, struggling to be strong. She would not cry. Not for Arthur. Not for herself.

  And then, abruptly, she lost the battle. The tears broke through her defenses and they were not gentle and soft. No, they burned. They were hot, angry, betrayed, and overjoyed for their release.