by Lisa Campell
“Come in, Eliza,” he called out, closing his book, which he hadn’t been reading anyway. He set it aside, on the side table.
The door opened, and Eliza entered, scandalously clad in only her nightgown. His mouth went dry as he beheld her. Through the sheer fabric, he could see the pink contours of her body—her hipbones, her thighs, her breasts. Her long black hair fell in waves over her shoulders. Had he been a weaker gentleman, he would have lost all of his reserve in the space of one moment.
He kept his eyes on hers, though it took all of his attention to do so. “Do you need something, my darling?”
She reached out, taking his hand in hers. “You,” she implored. “I need you, my husband.” Her voice was husky with need, desire.
“You only think that,” he replied, keeping his tone cool. “I’ve already told you—this is a marriage of convenience, Eliza. I can give you anything that you need, but I cannot give you want you want. We cannot have physical relations. I am sorry.”
“You’re a strange gentleman, Seb,” Eliza murmured, her voice heavy with resigned sadness. “The only gentleman I know who would not delight in having a wife to lay with whenever he pleased.” She bit her lower lip. “I begged you before we were married not to take me as a bride if you were doing it out of pity for me, and you promised. But…” She trailed off.
“I spoke the truth,” he told her. “You are my wife because I care for you, though I know there are duties I cannot fulfill. It is a problem I’ve considered extensively.”
Eliza glanced up, surprised and a little hopeful. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” Sebastian paused. “If you’d like, we can live apart. You can remain at Campden Hall in London, so that you are near your brother and Judith, while I stay at Dain Castle, in the North. Or, I can get myself a small house, elsewhere in the city.”
“But Seb—” Her face fell, and a pang of guilt coursed through him. She didn’t want to be apart from him. He saw it in the way she acted, in the manner in which she stayed around him. He was willing to give her as much freedom as she desired as long as nobody was there to condemn her for it.
“It might be for the best,” he said, instead. After all, he had learned long ago that this was how things had to be. “This way, you can do as you please. Believe it or not, I don’t enjoy seeing you in pain like this.”
She sobbed, softly. He had caught the hurt in her eyes as she turned away and fled the room. Sebastian listened to her footsteps, moving quickly down the hall. There was a painful twinge in his chest. Guilt lay heavy on his shoulders.
He knew that his carefully maintained distance hurt her, despite his promise to her brother. Frankly, it was starting to hurt him too. Each passing day revealed a new facet to Eliza that Sebastian found more appealing. She was charming, she was sweet, she was funny. And she was also smart and talented, fluent in French and Latin.
Eliza held a conversation as easily as she stitched needlepoint or painted a picture. Sebastian could tell how hard she tried to make the best of a situation that wasn’t even close to her ideal. But he could also see when her appetites, her personal longings, threatened to override the boundaries he had set. To his chagrin, he found that stopping her slowly grew more difficult.
The problem, put in its most basic form, was that he really did enjoy spending time with her. The fact that she was his wife only served to endear her to him even more than she had been already. Sometimes when he saw her, something stirred in his heart and he had to force it deep down, beyond the reach of his conscious mind.
Unfortunately, Eliza was both patient and persistent, a deadly combo for Sebastian, who grew more enamored of her every day—perhaps every hour. She started, very gradually, to close the physical distance between them whenever they were together, until he routinely felt the warmth of her body almost touching his.
That was how they were one night in the sitting room together, he reading, she mending a dress. Eliza had inched stealthily ever nearer, and now she was inches away from leaning upon him. Sebastian, taken in by the narrative of his book, had failed to keep up his usual vigilance. When he happened to look up during the turning of a page, she was right up against his body.
“Eliza.” His tone was gently warning, almost playful. It was hard to deny his own reluctant enjoyment of these small encounters, so it was impossible to express real irritation. He empathized with her, truly. Still, he was as yet unwavering.
“Yes?” She turned her beautiful face to him. He realized, with a slight intake of breath, that he could count her long, full lashes, could see speckles of differently-shaded greens in her irises. The lady was a piece of living art above anything else, and she was willing to climb into his bed! For a moment, Sebastian saw his foolishness more clearly than he had ever seen anything before.
“You, my darling wife, are much too close,” was what he said aloud. The urge to kiss her in that fleeting instant had come perilously near to overpowering all his other senses. It was a miracle he’d been able to keep resisting.
She gave him an exasperated sigh. “Sebastian, please. This dance we do is exhausting. All I want is to be your wife.” She laid a tender hand on his chest. “Just talk to me, Seb. What’s the harm in that? Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else.” She hesitated. “Let me know you for the first time in my life. I want to know who you are.”
Sebastian didn’t doubt her claim, nor did he dismiss the growing part of him that wanted to take her up on the offer. But there was something more that kept him from allowing Eliza into his bed or his heart. Something dark that lurked just beneath the surface of his memories, casting a looming shadow.
It was this shadow that drove him day in and day out, and kept the wedge securely fastened between chaste husband and unhappily chaste wife. He did not want to talk about or acknowledge its presence at all, though it kept creeping closer and closer. Were he to give in to his developing emotions for Eliza, he’d have to face this specific demon head on.
And Sebastian didn’t know if he’d ever be ready to do that.
They resumed their dances, kept apart by the dark place in Sebastian’s mind. On the outside, his physical resolve continued to weaken. One night, he let her touch his face, the next, she stroked his hair until he fell asleep in the sitting room. It was deliciously indulgent to enjoy that sort of closeness with another person. A couple of times, he nearly broke down and told her everything, spilled that deep shadow straight out of his head. Each time, he managed to hold back. The dam was cracking, but it was not broken yet down.
They were retiring to their separate chambers one night when Eliza reached out and grabbed his hand. “Come to bed with me, Seb,” she pleaded. “Just to sleep. I want to spend the night close to you.”
The request was as spontaneous as it was heartfelt, and it practically swayed him. Without thinking, Sebastian stepped in closer and drew her into a gentle embrace. There was little passion allowed in it, for fear of showing his true hand, but much tenderness. He noticed, as he eased away, that she was crying silent tears that were running down her cheeks.
He wiped them away with his thumb. “What’s wrong?” He knew what was wrong.
“We’re supposed to be together, aren’t we?” Her emerald eyes were huge and bright in the moonlight. “That’s what I want. To be together with you.” Her lip trembled. A few more tears slipped out.
Sebastian’s first instinct was to kiss her. He had leaned down almost to the point of no return by the time he snapped out of his trance. With true regret, he pulled away. Eliza let out a small, helpless sob. She refused to let go of him, burying her face in his chest.
“I don’t understand you, Sebastian,” she mumbled. “I just don’t understand.”
Again, he felt guilt and remorse. He felt sorrow for putting her through this emotional turmoil. There was no doubt that Eliza genuinely hurt for and because of him. Every one of those tears was real. But Sebastian’s pool of shadowy secrets was well kept, even from himself. He could
not bear to dredge up anything from that abyss.
He went on sorrowfully hurting her. By day, however, Eliza appeared to be thriving in the homestead. Early on in her tenure as the Marchioness of Dain, the manor had gone from a lonely, mostly empty structure to a place that was warm and inviting. Very occasionally, Sebastian opened his doors to guests, gatherings at which he told Eliza she was welcome.
Understandably, she stayed away at first. The recollection of her harsh banishment from society was still rather fresh; the wound still stung. Try as she might, Sebastian knew his wife could not forget the gravity of what the Earl of Wyhurst had done. He knew that she feared others couldn’t either.
But as the daily beat of their lives, together and apart, began to emerge from the chaos that had marked Eliza’s fall, the rare guests at Campden Hall whispered less and less when Eliza flitted in and out of the room. Eventually, they asked Sebastian about her, about how she was faring in domestic life. The compliments on the house, though rarely made to her face, filled Eliza to the brim with joy and pride.
Sebastian was proud of her, too. He had never believed her to be beyond saving, not even at her lowest point. But he had worried that she might not be able to climb back up from the abyss into which she’d spiraled so quickly. And he had dreaded the reintroduction of any part of the ton into their lives. What would Eliza say? What would she do? What kind of judgements would she make?
To the letter, the fiery young lady he had known since her childhood had exceeded his expectations. She fell back on her comprehensive education, polishing every tidbit of etiquette she had ever been taught.
“What a wonderful hostess she is,” the lords and ladies began to say. “It’s such a shame, the things people said about her. I wasn’t sure at first, but I don’t think she deserved to be treated so harshly.”
Sebastian hated the way the elites framed Eliza’s plight in such a way as to make themselves look blameless. The truth was that not a single one of them had tried to help her, not even her brother Matthew. While he acknowledged that condescending benevolence was a few steps up from scorn, he understood that such positive sentiment about her was not exactly widespread. The invitations to his gatherings were exclusive, and there were many who still derided her.
But now, at least, she had one foot across the threshold. The specter of her past was finally receding, covered over by a marriage in good standing combined with the fruits of a stellar upbringing. Eliza could prove that she belonged in the ranks of the ton all along.
This was bittersweet news for Sebastian as well. The closer she got to regaining full acceptance in London’s high society, the sooner his wife would be too busy with her social life to think about him and what he could not give her.
Chapter Seven
Life after Eliza’s marriage to Sebastian was better in many ways—and worse in some she could not have predicted. It was a tangible relief to get out of her brother’s house and away from the tension her debut scandal had caused. She felt as though getting married and going to live with her husband had placed some much-needed distance between her and the awful events of that night.
But sharing a home with Sebastian presented its own challenges, not least of which was his staunch refusal to act as a husband to her in any way other than the barest of flirtations. Eliza thought they’d had more visible chemistry when they were children! Yet, she experienced a growing, aching need every time he came anywhere near her. She wanted this gentleman, whom she feared she might truly love, to be with her in every way possible.
Sebastian remained stubborn and unmoved by her late-night entreaties, her suggestions that perhaps he ought to try letting her be the wife he had asked for. There was a certain freedom of action that Eliza enjoyed to the fullest, since they were married in the eyes of the church and the law. Her tiny, secret thrills came from touching him innocently and brushing the hair from his eyes.
These small pleasures, at least, Seb allowed her. But each time they veered close to a true embrace, he pulled away at the last moment, dashing her hopes. He was never mean about rebuffing her advances, but Eliza’s feelings stung just the same.
She spilled her frustrations in the one safe place still open to her—Judith’s sitting room. The pair met regularly, away from Matthew’s prying eyes, and it was during those hours that Eliza spoke most freely.
“I am certainly not ungrateful,” she told her sister-in-law. “Sebastian has done me a great kindness through his actions, and maybe I shall never be able to repay him. I shudder to think how my days could have looked, had he not come to my aid.”
Judith patted her hand and poured a cup of tea. “It was most generous, I agree,” she said. “But even happy wives aren’t required to be happy all the time.” She rolled her eyes toward the door with a smile. “Lord knows, your brother tries my patience as often as he can. Sometimes multiple times a day.”
“Forgive me if the question is too bold,” Eliza began, “but is there ever any question in your mind that Matthew loves you? That he would do anything in his power to please you or ensure your happiness?”
A warm smile came over Judith’s soft, saintly face. She gazed down at her lap, her cheeks tinted with the faint blush of a girl speaking about her first love. “No. Matthew’s love is the constant guiding light in my world.”
Eliza sighed. “And that is what Sebastian won’t give to me. I don’t understand how a gentleman can pledge to be husband in name only. Should he not desire the lady whose hand he has taken for life?” What she meant to express was her nervousness that the gentleman she so ardently desired might not, in fact, desire her in return. Eliza dreaded the looming reality of more than just a loveless marriage—a loveless marriage to a gentleman she adored.
“I won’t deny that it must be a trial,” Judith agreed. “And I can’t pretend to have the answer to your woes. The most advice I can give is to exercise all the patience in your heart while you wait for him to settle.” She hesitated. “Sebastian is…fickle. His soul has never been bound to a lady before, and he believes it wasn’t meant to be.”
Eliza knew Judith was telling the truth. She only wished it helped her to feel more confident instead of more discouraged. Sebastian’s own slightly tarnished reputation had not been a secret in all the time she had known him. Matthew and his friends often joked about the way women tittered and stared, or even swooned in the street when he passed by. He hadn’t cared for the notion of a traditional family at any point.
Naively, Eliza had hoped she could change his mind. And she understood in her heart that she had no right to be disappointed if she was unsuccessful. It wasn’t like he made her believe in some fairytale romance that wasn’t true. Hadn’t he been admirably straightforward from the start?
Yes, he had. Because, as he said, he cared about her very much. For that, Eliza thought she ought to be grateful, rather than expecting more. But she couldn’t help it. She was just so sad.
Judith’s loving, maternal advice never altered. “Be patient,” she would say. “Sebastian is good at heart. All he needs is time and a lady willing to wait for him.”
Eliza was more than willing, in the sense that she had no choice. As his wedded wife, her chosen path was beside him, wherever he might roam.
Thankful to Judith for listening, but unsatisfied with the gentleness of her wisdom, Eliza searched restlessly for other ways to occupy her mind and body. The redecorated house had become her pride and joy, going so far as to ease her back toward the favor of some of the ton, and she decided to capitalize on her talents. If Sebastian would not permit her to fulfill the most intimate of her wifely responsibilities, she would compensate in all other aspects of their life together.
Thus, Eliza Campden, the newly minted Marchioness of Dain, ascended into a perfect lady of the house by virtue of sheer determination. She headed the servants with compassion, and she faced the ton with grace. At first, visitors to Campden Hall were quite shocked to see her playing an active role as hostess and homemake
r, but her deftness in the home and relentlessly sunny demeanor worked to win them over.
The parties often went late into the night and involved copious amounts of wine. She had never been much of a drinker, but Eliza learned to appreciate a glass or two of good wine. If the company was particularly stressful, she might have a few more, until the room seemed warm and welcoming instead of deliberately uncomfortable.
On this night, she sat at the table in the dining room among the remnants of their meal. There were still plates, with morsels of cake, oyster shells, on them, half-consumed glasses of wine. Sebastian had just finished seeing their guests off and came back to join her. He looked at her closely under the candlelight.
“You’re flushed,” he observed, half laughing. “Is this the first time in your life you’ve properly had too much to drink?”
His wife wanted to be upset with him. The extra volume of wine had become a necessary shield with which she deflected the needling of his friends. Some of Sebastian’s associates, either despite or because of their privileged upbringing, were shameless gossips. They had murmured cutting words under their breaths, malevolent hints at the sour details of Eliza’s alleged tryst. Of course, these things transpired safely outside of Sebastian’s hearing. Eliza had weathered the storm as best she was able, fighting to keep the mask of politeness secured over her face.
