by Rose Gordon
“We can leave,” she whispered, hoping he'd stop playing the role of a gentleman and agree.
“No, no,” he argued. Though his voice said no, those eyes of his had sparked with something—likely excitement—at her suggestion. “It won't last much longer, I promise.”
It had better not. Somewhere out there was a man with only minutes left to his life. He'd probably love to trade places with Regina so those remaining moments could seem like an eternity.
“Naughty thought?”
Regina snapped her head around to face her chuckling husband. “Absolutely not.”
His laughter only continued. “I've been watching you, Regina. I know when that little smile takes your lips that you're up to mischief.”
Regina's hand instinctively flew to her lips. She sighed. “Unlike you, I don't put voice to all of my naughty thoughts.” Not that she'd ever admit that she enjoyed his naughty slips.
He lifted his brows. “Oh, so it was naughty?”
“Not in the way you're thinking, no,” she stammered. Gracious. What was it about him that made her act like a ninny at times?
“That's too bad,” he said with a frown. “I'd rather enjoy hearing your naughty thoughts.”
“I shan't give you the honor,” she teased, inclining her chin.
He gave an exaggerated half-sigh, half-groan. “Then I suppose I shall have to torture you until you do.”
“My, my, have you sunk so low?”
“A man sometimes has to resort to levels of desperation he never thought possible in order to get what he wants,” he said.
She stared at him. There was no denying his sentence was spoken with the intention of being cryptic. But what his code meant, she may never know. She turned her attention back to where two gentlemen were lobbing a ball to each other across a courtyard using wooden rackets. She wasn't what most would consider a scientist, by any means, but even she understood cause and effect; if this was considered an excellent match, she had a very good idea why the sport had a declining interest.
Mercifully, the match ended before Regina died of tedium.
“Our turn,” Edward announced, grinning like a simpleton.
“Pardon me?”
He gestured to the courtyard. “I reserved the court so we could play.”
“Why would you do such a thing?”
He laughed at her question. “You seemed disappointed when we couldn't 'play' the other day, so I thought you might like to play a real game.”
Was he addled? “I think I'd rather be a spectator.”
“Nonsense.” He stood and walked to where two wooden rackets were leaning against a splintered chair. “Come along, Lady Watson. You longed to play, and now you shall.”
Regina thought to protest since she was wearing a gown, but dismissed the thought immediately. Never before had she let a dress hinder her from participating in a game if she truly wanted to play. Not when she'd chased that urchin Jimmy Somers off her aunt's land for pulling her hair, nor when she ran from Toby and Prichard to avoid getting a mud pie thrown at her. She walked to the court and took one of the rackets. “If I injure you with a ball, it is not my fault.”
“Are you intending to lob one at my head?” he asked, frowning.
“No.” She winked. “Not intentionally.”
“Minx.” He picked up the ball and squeezed it. “I hate to dash your dreams of beating me into submission by hitting me with this ball, but it's made of felt wrapped around wool.”
She rolled her eyes. Only her husband would suggest something so ridiculous. “Do you plan to serve sometime today?”
“Momentarily, yes.” He tossed the ball into the air and swung.
The ball flew toward Regina. Too scared to wince, flinch, jump, recoil or move, she stared in awe as the ball flew closer to her and landed just inches from her toe.
“You should swing next time,” he commented.
She scowled at him then scooped up the ball. She tossed it into the air and swung, missing it entirely. She tried again. Then again. On the fifth time, she smacked it with all the force she had, sending it flying in the air directly at Edward.
“Ooof,” he said as the ball hit him in the chest.
“Perhaps you should swing next time,” Regina informed him smartly. What was it about him that made her feel brave enough to say such things? She'd never let her remarks slip so freely to anyone before. Ever. Fortunately, he didn't seem to mind too terribly much.
Edward shook his head. “I'll keep that in mind.” He returned the ball and, much to her surprise, when she swung at it, she hit it. “Good,” he encouraged, hitting it to her again.
The ball came in her direction, but not quite to her. She took two unladylike steps forward then swung.
Edward sidestepped just in time to miss the ball hitting him in a less favorable place than last time.
“Don't forget to swing,” she said in a sing-song voice.
Edward lobbed the ball at her again.
She swung and sent it soaring at him again.
This time, he returned her ball.
With a feminine squeal, Regina shuffled to the left just in time to hit the ball.
“Good swing,” he encouraged, returning her ball.
Without so much as a cursory acknowledgement of his words, Regina rushed up to hit the ball again, this time sending it across the court in the opposite direction of him.
He ran to hit it and missed. “Point.”
“Why do you get a point? I hit it last.”
He picked up the ball and tossed it to her. “I know. It was your point.”
“It was?” She beamed. “Now, do I have to say the score as I toss the ball into the air?”
“Yes. Say, fifteen, love.”
Regina tripped over a clot of dirt on the ground. What is wrong with you, Regina? He wasn't calling you love. That's how they keep score in tennis!
He squinted. “Is something amiss?”
“No,” she assured him, inwardly cursing herself for the hitch in her voice. Striving to remain calm, she heaved the ball into the air and smacked it across the court.
Edward returned it, barely.
She grinned. This was not his game. But then again, he was an academic. “How often do you play?”
He scowled. “I haven't played since they tortured me this way at Eton, claiming it was to help us be 'well-rounded gentlemen'.”
“Actually—” she returned his ball— “one would think playing this would keep one from becoming rounded.”
The ball sailed past him and landed outside the marked court. “Perhaps I should take you to see some of your own kind.”
“My own kind?”
“Jesters.”
~Chapter Seventeen~
Regina trounced Edward at tennis, just like he'd hoped she would. Best yet, he hadn't even had to purposely lose, which was good. It would do her good to know she was better than he was at something.
Sure, she could flawlessly do many things young ladies were expected to do, but she had no pride about it. Besting him in tennis—a real game, not one which depended on twisting a knob—would hopefully give her the pride in herself that she deserved.
“Well done, Regina,” he congratulated, handing her the white handkerchief from his breast pocket.
She dabbed the sweat off her flushed face. “Thank you. You played admirably, too.”
He scoffed. “Did I ever tell you that falsehoods make me unwell?” The words were out before he could stop them. He held his breath, waiting for the tongue lashing he deserved.
“You poor man,” she said, cocking her head to the side and bringing her hand to almost rest on his shoulder before withdrawing it. “You must have been nearing death by the time I found that contract.”
He exhaled, shame washing over him. “I nev
er meant—”
“For me to find out.”
“That's not what I was going to say.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite.”
Her eyes narrowed on him. “Are you feeling ill now?” She gestured to a nearby chair. “Perhaps you ought to sit.”
“Why would I feel ill now?”
“Because you just told another falsehood.”
“What the devil?” he muttered.
“Surely, you were not about to attempt to convince me that you didn't mean to lie to me in the first place. That would be the only logical choice available to you now since you're adamant that it wasn't my finding out that was what you were trying to avoid.”
Damned if she didn't have a way of turning things around on him. “I suppose, I'm feeling unwell, after all.” He blew out a deep breath then gestured to the empty chairs. “It was both,” he said after they'd both taken their seats. “Only an imbecile wouldn't mind if his wife were to find such a damning document.”
“Unless he thought she was the imbecile.”
The way she whispered her retort ate at him. “No. I never doubted your intelligence.”
“Then why did you lie to me? Why did you let me make a fool of myself and—and—and—” She turned her face away. “Edward, my father tricked me. He told me you'd requested my hand, and just like he'd wanted me to, I believed him.” She dropped her gaze to where she was making lazy patterns with the tip of her toe in the dirt. “You could have told me the truth. As soon as you knew I had been misled, you could have told me the truth.”
Edward ached to wrap his arms around her. Everything he'd done to try to protect her had only caused her more pain. “I was afraid of hurting you.”
“But you hurt me more by keeping the truth from me.”
“I know that now,” he whispered. “I didn't know it then.”
“Yes, well, it doesn't matter now.”
“Yes, it does,” he countered, throwing his good sense to the wind and using his fingertips to turn her face toward him. He was rewarded with her easy compliance. “What can I do to make it right?”
“It's not as easy as a simple sentence or a bauble bought to excuse one's misstep, Edward.”
Her words might have been indirect, but her meaning was not. She was all but telling him he'd given a good effort so far, but she wouldn't be so easily swayed.
“Not to worry,” she said with a watery smile. “Feelings mend and pride eventually heals.”
Feelings might mend and pride might heal, but trust was another matter. For the first time since she'd found that blasted betrothal agreement, Edward knew what he'd lost that day, her trust. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to regain it.
An idea came to mind. It wasn't one that would get his name printed into scholarly circulars, but it might be enough to convince his wife to start trusting him again. “Shall we make a truce?”
“Why would we? I thought we'd already agreed never to speak of this again.”
He kicked a rock in front of him, sending it flying toward the tennis courts. “We have. And—” he did his best attempt at the icy stare his father had given him when lecturing him about the importance of being a baron— “I intend to hold you to our vow by means of this truce.” He could no longer hold his composure and grinned despite himself.
“And what does this truce entail?”
“No lying to the other.”
She looked at him as if he were a nodcock. “Is there something else I need to know about?”
“No.”
“Then why would you suggest such a thing?”
“So you'll have to quit telling me that you enjoy sewing, watercolors and embroidery every time I ask.”
She laughed in a deep, throaty laugh that sent a jolt of desire directly to his groin. “And what shall happen to me if I say I enjoy sewing?”
“Let's see.” He cocked his head in mock contemplation and rubbed his chin. “Then I will know you're lying and you shall have to eat gruel.”
Her face contorted as if she'd just tasted a bite. “And the same rules apply to you?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
She sat quiet for a minute, her fingers twisting her wedding ring. “If we each get one per year, then you have a deal.”
Edward took a lock of her auburn hair and tucked it behind her ear. “I don't need that one falsehood per year. I don't intend to lie to you again.”
“Good,” she said. “It wasn't really for your benefit anyway. I might need it.”
***
Regina sank into the steaming tub. From her shoulders to her toes, her muscles ached from playing tennis. But oh how fun it'd been to see his face each time she’d scored a point! His reaction was the only thing that kept her interest. There was far too much running and swinging for her taste. Not to mention her heavy gown getting in the way and making her hot.
As was their arrangement, Georgie helped her in and out of the tub but went behind the screen as Regina bathed. What might be the way of things for some was still uncomfortable. Physical touching was hard enough, but the idea of Georgie helping her bathe was unthinkable.
After she finished bathing, Georgie helped her into that atrocious nightgown. Ever since the day she'd happened upon their betrothal agreement, Edward's visits had become irregular. At first, he came every night, then not at all. She had no idea what nights he planned to join her, and rather than humiliating herself by asking him if he planned to visit her room, she and Georgie had decided it was best to be prepared every night.
“Good night, my lady,” Georgie whispered, slipping out the door.
Regina lay still, waiting to hear any movement from the other side of the door. But it was useless, she couldn't hear anything. She turned over onto her side then quickly blinked to block out the moon's brightness. Georgie must not have shut the curtains all the way. She rolled back over and stood.
Just as she gained her feet, a gentle knock came from the door.
“Come in,” she whispered.
Edward entered, dressed in his typical dark blue dressing robe. “Are you ready for bed?”
Regina blinked at his inane question. “As ready as you are, my lord,” she said, giving a pointed look from her oversized nightgown to his dressing robe.
“Very good,” he said with a nod. He made his way to the dressing screen and removed his dressing robe.
She stood still, her feet planted to the floor.
Edward slung his robe over the screen then started toward her. He placed one large hand on her waist, applying the slightest amount of pressure.
Taking that as a hint to climb into bed, she did just that.
He followed her and waited for her to get settled. Then, without uttering so much as a syllable, Edward wrapped his right arm around her, pulled her against his body, and drifted off to sleep.
~Chapter Eighteen~
Guilt was a powerful emotion. One that had the power to cripple a person with the fear of what they might lose if a wrong they'd done—no matter how right it'd felt at the time—was discovered.
And so, with a mission to assuage her guilt, Regina seized the opportunity of Edward's sudden return to Eton, this time with John, Lord Sinclair and one of Lord Sinclair's younger brothers, to sort out a mess that seemed to involve more people as the days passed. Not that she minded. His absence gave her the opportunity to do her best to set things to rights.
If only it didn't involve her father, she thought bitterly as she stepped out into the light rain. Edward had taken the Watson carriage to Eton this morning, leaving her to walk the three blocks to Olive Street, where her father lived, with only the protection of her parasol. No matter. That was a small price to pay for a happy marriage.
Ten minutes later, her father's townhouse came into view. She took a deep breath as she climbed the sta
irs. Swallowing her pride as best she could, she took hold of the brass knocker and gave three swift bangs.
Much to her surprise, Toby answered the door.
“Where's your husband?” Toby asked, closing the door behind her.
Regina spun around to face her brother. “He's at Eton.”
Toby's jaw dropped. “He is? And here I thought he'd graduated already.”
“He has,” she said between clenched teeth.
“It's no shame to you if your husband was so distracted by the females he was unable to complete his education and had to return to attend to his studies to escape his meddlesome wife.”
Regina stared at him. He must have been drinking because that sentence made absolutely no sense. “I'm here to see Father. Do you know if he's in?”
Toby crossed his arms. “You know he doesn't like to have people arrive uninvited.”
“I know. But I'm not just anyone. I'm his daughter.”
Toby snorted. “He's in a meeting just now.”
“Very well, I'll wait for him in the drawing room.”
Much to her great irritation, Toby followed her, taking out his flask as he walked. “What have you managed to ruin that requires Father's help to mend?”
Regina swallowed the lump in her throat. Toby might be an easily manipulated drunk, but he certainly knew her well enough to know the truth of why she'd come here today.
He took a swig of his whiskey and wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “It must be bad, indeed,” he mused, a smug smile on his lips.
“It's not so bad,” Regina said airily, racking her brain for something to say to change the subject. “I just wish to discuss a matter with him.”
“The breakfast you're hosting, I hope,” Father said from the doorway. He walked into the room. “Toby, out.”
Toby shot to his feet as if he'd been tapped on the bottom with a heated fire poker.
“Why did you come here?” Father demanded. His face was rigid and the muscle in his right jaw ticked.
