by Jen YatesNZ
The Duke, whose hand in marriage she’d almost accepted in her second season, sat tall and grimly piratical, at Windermere’s back, the wicked scar down his cheek vivid in the sunlight. As if it wasn’t enough that she knew he suffered as much for her refusal as she’d suffered over Windermere. Would nothing lighten the heaviness of this day?
Then everything stilled, faded from her consciousness except the man, boots and buckskins mud-spattered and dusty, sitting the heaving black stallion and staring at her as if turned to stone. It was only a second’s reaction, just time enough to forget her fright for his safety and for cold anger to surface instead, and then he leapt from the saddle, becoming all urbanity as he bent over her hand and apologized.
She’d been a total mess of opposing sensations then. Fiery hot and icy cold; straight-backed to the point of rigidity and yet her stomach had felt like nothing so much as a bowl of quivering calf’s foot jelly; and while love wanted to burst from every pore of her body, anger had rushed from her head to her toes like a bolt of lightning.
No wonder at all that by the time she reached the altar on Windermere’s arm she was a trembling mess on the verge of collapse.
In his inimitable way he knew. Why did it surprise her? They’d always been totally attuned emotionally. Numbly she released the posy to him to pass to Sheri and settled with relief against the warm strength of his body as his arm slipped round her waist.
It would be all right. They would be all right. They had to be.
When it came time to make her first response Rogan had to squeeze her waist and she managed to squeak out, ‘I do’ loud enough to satisfy the vicar at least. The rest would forever be a hazy blur; the only memory retained that of the pressure of his arm at her waist. He had touched her many times over the years, apart from that one memorable kiss at sixteen, but always since that night they’d been brief courtesies or gallantries such as a woman might expect from any man.
His arm never left her waist during the entire ceremony nor even as they turned to face the congregation and stoop for the Countess’s blessing. It remained as they walked back down the aisle as husband and wife, the Earl and Countess of Windermere, greeting their guests with wide smiles pinned to their faces; he never even removed it as they walked through the ancient cloisters and back towards the east door of the Abbey.
‘Where are we headed?’
Startled out of her swirling inner world of shimmering joy, desperate hope, and leaden terror, Jassie came to a faltering halt.
‘Oh—I forgot—you don’t know what we’ve arranged, do you?’
He shook his head and a faint smile twitched his lips. Lord, she wanted to reach up and kiss him—properly. Not a tense little peck at her lips as he’d offered her in the chapel but a kiss such as he’d given her on Neave Tor. A nervous giggle wanted to erupt out of her when she thought where that had led. Probably better left as it was.
‘We’ve arranged for a meal to be served in the Great Hall. It’s more in the nature of a cold collation since I wanted all the staff to be able to attend the—the service. I hope that meets with your approval, my Lord.’
He stiffened a little and the arm at her waist seemed to clench. Tilting his head in acquiescence, and in a tone bordering on frosty, he said, ‘Anything you’ve arranged meets with my approval—just so long as you haven’t arranged for dancing half the night. The sooner these free-loaders and penny-gawpers disappear the better.’
A slight flush touched his cheek as Jassie lifted her shocked eyes to his and then she turned back to find they were at the threshold of the east door.
‘Better give them something to gawp at,’ he muttered fiercely and on the instant Jassie found herself swept off her feet, one strong arm at her back and the other beneath her knees causing her skirts to billow upwards. Before she’d had time to squawk the smallest protest, he’d lifted her clear over the doorstep and deposited her on her feet in the narrow flagged hallway of the east wing. Cheeks hot, but determined not to scold, for in truth the moment had been straight from her dreams, she kept her face averted while settling her petticoats.
‘Bravo!’ Bart’s voice rumbled from behind them and then Jassie heard him ask Fran, ‘Can I lift you over the threshold like that, Mrs. Lyndon?’
Jassie couldn’t resist a glance back as Fran responded firmly in the negative. Her friend’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes smiling nevertheless. Sheri’s head was down and she was giving every impression of being totally detached from the tall, glowering Duke whose arm supported her elegantly gloved fingers.
Francine at least looked alive. How long had it been, she wondered, since a man had teased Francine and made her feel like an attractive woman? Far too long, Jassie decided, wondering whether, if now they were to spend a lot more time under the same roof, something might be nurtured between her friend and Barton Matthews.
And Wolverton? Perhaps she could try and find him a wife, a woman who could take his mind off the love he thought he’d lost with her. Could Sheri be that woman? Was she trying to hide an attraction to the scowling Duke? Probably not. Sheri never allowed herself to be attracted to any man.
And truly, Jassie rebuked herself, she’d be best advised to just concentrate on nurturing what should be the natural outcome of marriage between herself and Rogan before she set her sights on any further match-making.
‘We should wait for Lady O to catch up. I looked out mother’s old sedan chair for her and the footmen are carrying it. I’d like her to lead the procession into the Great Hall. The meal is not going to pass any faster if we charge ahead like we can’t wait for it to be over.’
‘That’s how it’s supposed to look,’ Rogan muttered and Jassie stole a glance at his taut profile. Of course his eagerness was all for show. He was the quintessential illusionist. Appearing to be something he wasn’t in order to slip into enemy territory to gain the information he’d been sent after, was as natural to him as breathing. She would do well to remember that while he was lulling her into a false sense of anticipation with his lover-like attentions.
At least she felt as if she was back in control of her senses and not about to slide ignominiously into a dead faint. But she’d reveled in the feel of his arm at her waist and so he needn’t know she felt perfectly capable of standing without his support. To that end she emitted a soft sigh and leant against his shoulder. Carefully hiding the smile that wanted to transform into a satisfied smirk, she welcomed his arm back at her waist and then held her skirts back so the footmen could move through with the Countess—now more properly styled the Dowager Countess.
‘I like your mode of travel, Mama,’ Windermere said with a chuckle. ‘Why hadn’t we thought of that before?’
‘I don’t know, Windermere, but I’m very grateful to your wife for thinking of it.’
Her eyes twinkled up at her son and Jassie sighed as she watched his own smile falter and his struggle to reinstate it to his mother’s satisfaction.
‘Lead on,’ he muttered. ‘You’re to be the advance guard, I’m told.’
The tedious meal over at last, Jassie rose to lead the ladies to the Blue Salon and leave the gentlemen to their port. A quick glance round the famous room with its Angelica Kauffman painted ceiling depicting scenes from a Greek mythological tale, assured Jassie all was as she’d ordered. Tea was set out on the heavy ormolu side tables, presided over by her own Mrs. Jolly with Jassie’s maid, Ruby, at her elbow. The familiar faces were so welcome Jassie had to swallow back a gulp of emotion. It was rather an indictment of what a country mouse she’d become when she felt happier in the company of her household staff than with those of her own social standing.
Mrs. Worth, the vicar’s wife, peered censoriously over her lorgnette at the giddy Miss Landon’s and their bright younger friend, Lady Gillian Meredith, who were gasping and chattering incessantly about the wonders of finally being inside Windermere Abbey’s renowned Blue Salon. Their mothers stood a little beyond, no less cat-eyed than their daughters but slightl
y more circumspect with it. Jassie realized there’d been no society events at Windermere since the death of Rogan’s older brother, Quentin Wyldefell, eight years ago. He and two friends, after a night of deep drinking, had made an ill-conceived wager as to who could beat the current speed record for a curricle and four from London to Newmarket.
Quentin’s curricle had locked wheels with that of Lord Alfred Mowbray, who, it was said, was trying to cut him off. Both vehicles were overturned and Quentin died on the side of the road. Lord Mowbray had lived, though rumor had it that it would’ve been kinder for all concerned if he hadn’t. The scandal of that night’s work and the loss of two of society’s most eligible bachelors had rocked the ton and stolen the laughter from the family at Windermere Abbey.
She glanced over to where Jensen was settling Rogan’s mother beside Aunt Gussy and Lady Allerton-Smythe from Neave Manor. Her new mother-in-law was pale and looked tired, but there was a smile in her eyes that Jassie hadn’t seen in many years.
Lady O had put aside her grief to sponsor Jassie’s debut into London Society in 1808. But the death of Rogan’s father, the 7th Earl, in March the following year was the final blow to the Countess’s health. Windermere Abbey had been a place of retirement ever since.
Concerned that the day had over-strained the older woman’s meagre resources of strength, Jassie settled herself on a chair at the Dowager’s side.
‘Would you not prefer to retire and have Lucy bring your tea?’
The faded blue eyes took on a militant sparkle.
‘I do not intend to miss one minute of this miraculous day, daughter.—Do you have any conception of what joy that brings me? To finally have a daughter? And that she is you whom I’ve always thought of as a daughter anyway—I just can’t find the words to express it,’ she finished, squeezing Jassie’s hand.
Jassie found she was still feeling somewhat fragile. Tears threatened and she leant down to kiss her mother-in-law’s cheek.
‘And I could not be more blessed in having you for a mother-in-law,’ she whispered back and they shared a conspiratorial smile.
Fran appeared before her with a cup of tea and Jassie took it gratefully, and set about applying herself to being the gracious hostess and chatting with each of her guests as the afternoon darkened towards evening. A commotion at the doors of the Salon heralded the arrival of the men. Leading the charge was Rogan, still clad in the riding attire he’d first arrived in. Hair in a state of casual disarray and his neck cloth loose as if he’d been tugging at it, his eyes glittered with an emotion Jassie was hard put to read, but was very afraid was similar to that silvery look of horror that had overtaken him on Neave Tor.
Was the battle for her marriage to begin so soon?
Distraction from that panicked thought came in the form of the Duke, similarly attired to Windermere though suavely elegant as always. Immediately taking her hand in his he bent his dark head to place a heated kiss on her fingertips.
‘I’ve come to take my leave of you, Lady Windermere,’ he said, his deep voice oddly constrained. He looked briefly into her eyes, searching, silently saying things that could never be said.
Before Jassie had gathered the wits to respond, he said, ‘Be happy.’
Dropping her hand, he stepped back, said a few words of farewell to the Dowager, shared a punishing handshake and a piercing stare with Rogan, and strode from the room.
While her racing mind tried to process the meaning of the strangely tense, but brief, interlude, Rogan stepped to her side and then there was no room in her mind or any other part of her for anything but her husband.
Wouldn’t these people ever go home? What didn’t they understand about a wedding night? The usual thing would be for the bride and groom to slip away and leave other family members to continue as hosts but his mother was beyond exhausted, her eyes hollow and shadowed.
Feeling an absolute charlatan, Rogan made one of his lightning shifts into character, that of an anticipatory, bride-hungry groom, and addressed the room.
‘Well, ladies, I do believe your gentlemen have come to fetch you home. My wife and I have other business to conduct this night and I’m sure my Lady Mother is craving her bed but is loath to seek it while there is one more drop of pleasure to be wrung from this day.’
‘I say, Windermere, are you throwing us out? That’s a bit boorish, ain’t it?’ rumbled Sir Gresham Landon with a leering grin.
‘Absolutely old chap, and I make no apologies! Bart, don’t we have a whip somewhere hereabouts you can crack?’ Rogan demanded of his cousin and in the general laughter everyone began taking their leave.
Rogan took up a stance by his mother’s chair and drew Jassie into the circle of his left arm, leaving his right free for shaking hands with the gentlemen and bowing over those of the ladies. A few more smiles, a few more polite words, a loving goodnight for his mother and then he’d take Jassie upstairs and—abandon her.
Damn it all to hell! For a split second he actually wished he had the guts to slit his own throat.
As the last guest vanished through the salon door to be ushered down the front steps with grave efficiency by Melton, Rogan turned to his mother, relieved to find he was still capable of a genuine smile.
‘Goodnight Mama,’ he said gently, bending to kiss her forehead.
She caught at his hand with her frail fingers before he could back away and drew him back to her.
‘You’ve made me truly happy this day, Windermere. I pray the same may be said of you.’
Damn this lovely fragile woman who loved him unconditionally and saw through every disguise he could ever hope to try and hide behind. He could lie to her but she’d know and somehow on this night of all nights, he couldn’t.
‘Our happiness is in God’s hands, Mama,’ he said, pressing his lips briefly to her fingertips. ‘Sleep well.’
He could see that she wished to respond to that but he immediately turned away and called for the footmen to carry his mother along the candle-lit corridors to her rooms in the ground floor west wing. She glanced back over her shoulder as her chair passed through the salon doors, her eyes troubled and filled with messages he knew he didn’t want to think about. She’d understand if he could tell her but how did a man go about telling his mother that he’d been abused by a woman to such an extent that when he had any other woman beneath him begging for sexual favors he transmuted into some kind of avenging demon, bent on bondage and punishment? How could he tell her that there was no guarantee he wouldn’t use Jassie in this way, making her pay for the sins of another committed long ago? Why could he never let go of the humiliation, the bitterness, the anger, the need to punish?
Jassie was tugging at his hand.
‘Rogan! Are you all right?’ she whispered and he looked around to find Lady Sherida and Mrs. Lyndon watching him from the doorway.
‘Of course,’ he snapped. ‘Let’s get you upstairs.’
She shot him a startled look and he realized he’d been so distracted by his bitter thoughts that he’d forgotten to censor his words.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Upstairs with you,’ he growled immediately and pulled her from the room before his lifelong habit of honesty with Jassie kicked in and he added, ‘and then I’m leaving.’
Jassie knew Rogan wasn’t being honest with her but she was totally unprepared for him to usher her into the suite of rooms they should henceforth share as husband and wife and then to announce he was leaving immediately for London and did not know when he’d be back. The shock of his bald, toneless announcement temporarily stole her soul. For a long moment it seemed as if all thought, feeling—spirit—had left her body then into the vacuum left behind rushed an anger so intense it seared through her veins and roared in her ears.
Hooped skirt swinging violently, she leapt across the room before he could move, placed her back against the door and let him see the seething cauldron of emotion in her eyes.
‘Oh-no-you-don’t-Windermere! I never
took you for a coward but if you walk out that door I have no choice but to think you one now! Or have I given you such a disgust of me that you can’t stand the thought of sullying your hands with my body? Is that it, my Lord?’
Her voice had risen from a low, ugly snarl to a loud hectoring growl but Jassie was beyond caring how she sounded. This confrontation was long overdue.
A muscle twitched violently along his jaw and his fists clenched at his sides.
‘No, that’s not it.’
He ground his teeth on the words and Jassie felt each one to the pit of her stomach.
‘Then why? I know you desire me. I’ve already proved that. What do I have to do to break through your bone-headed stubbornness, tie you to my bed?’
Rogan Wyldefell, her dearest friend since the day she was born, vanished. In his place stood a deadly, dark-eyed stranger with grimly clenched jaw. A stranger who moved so fast she never even thought to avoid him. In violent silence he gripped her arm, and twisted her round to face the door. His left arm pinned her at the neck, pressing her face hard against the wooden panels of the door. A harsh slicing sound and the terrifying sensation of cold steel against her backbone was followed by the clatter of a knife to the floor swiftly followed by her mother’s beautiful gown and every item she’d worn under it.
Had he gone mad? Terror froze her tongue as he swung her across the room and thrust her face down on the bed, holding her there with his knee in the small of her back.
‘Rogan!’ the word was barely a whisper. It felt as if she’d never be able to unlock her throat again.
Once more he seemed to have forgotten who she was. She certainly didn’t know this madman. What was he doing now? Her mind felt near to exploding through her skull. When he suddenly reached the length of her body, gripped her flailing wrists and bound them together with his neck cloth, she tried to fight, to scratch, to yell obscenities at him, anything to bring him to his senses. But Windermere had learned street-fighting in a dirty school, the dark alleys and filthy slums of almost every major European city. An untrained woman had no chance. Swiftly she was hauled up onto the mound of pillows at the head of the bed and the other end of the cloth secured to the headboard. He rolled her to her back and surveyed his handiwork with an ugly smile that stole all the light from his eyes.
