by Jen YatesNZ
Fixing her eyes on these Jassie stood with her back to the door and allowed her memory to transport her back to the day of their wedding. Scarcely aware that the clothes she wore in no way resembled the beautiful gown Rogan had later destroyed or that the handsome, broad-shouldered Earl who walked at her side was a love-wrought projection of her own imagination, she began a slow walk up the aisle.
Every step accented a memory from that day: the intense welling of relief when the horses pounded up the Elm Drive and she knew Windermere was safe—and had kept to his word; the sudden terror that had assailed her as they’d entered the chapel, that she was doing the wrong thing, closely followed by the knowledge that she would not turn back unless God sent her an indisputable sign—like a bolt of lightning; the sensation of everything becoming so light as to fade into nothingness and thinking she might fall on her face at Rogan’s feet—and the welcome support of his hand at her back.
She could still feel the heat, the strength he’d willingly shared with her—when, even though the vows fell clearly from his lips, he’d intended to keep the rest of himself from her. Her vows had been spoken too. She could hear their voices.
Her thoughts brought her to the chancel steps and she sank to her knees and listened to the words echoing in her head again.
I do. One voice deep, clear, as if the two words were deliberately and loudly spoken to eradicate all the terrible doubts he must have been suffering. One voice squeaky with nerves and guilt for forcing Windermere into revoking a vow he clearly wouldn’t have made without some profound and awful reason.
And now she knew what that reason was.
She clasped her hands at her breast, closed her eyes and raised her face to the light shafting in through the high arched windows.
Well God, was this Your plan all along? I thought I’d managed all this on my own but perhaps—I should acknowledge Your Divine Hand in bringing Windermere to me as husband. In a way, I feel as if arriving at this point in our lives was pre-ordained, inevitable from the start. But where do we go from here?
God, You gave me that which I’ve longed for all my life; marriage to Windermere. Please grant me also the wisdom and the strength I need to heal the deep and ugly wounds he carries; to be the wife he needs to bring him the happiness he deserves; the happiness we both deserve.
Because they did! Why should the vice of one depraved human being be allowed to impact their lives to the extent they couldn’t love one another as a husband and wife should? To the extent they might never have children? Never know true happiness?
They could be friends. They’d proved that over all the years of their lives. But they’d be denied the richness, the ultimate shared ecstasy of being lovers.
Parents.
The shafting sunlight seemed to enter the top of her head, flow down her spine with a tingling sensation of empowerment. Slowly she came to her feet again and allowed herself to feel fully energized by the charge of light—and the sense of a Divine Presence.
She would give Windermere space, time to adjust, but she would not give up her dream. They were husband and wife. They would be lovers.
Chapter 8
Sitting at the opposite end of the dinner table from Jassie was as insufferable as he’d thought it would be. Several leaves had been removed and the table reduced in size so that six people could sit around it and converse without having to shout at one another. Jassie was too close. It was too easy to lose himself in the hungry depths of her gaze when their eyes met down the length of the table. She was too far away. If he’d seated her at his side he could have touched her—safely surely—and allowed himself to draw her into conversation.
He wanted all he was entitled to as her husband and yet—he wanted none of it.
How could he face himself—or her—if he allowed himself to indulge in the fullness of their marriage and thereby destroyed that which he held most dear in all his life.
No. She had to understand it could never be more than it now was. He would return to London. The fighting might be over but the War Office would still have need of him—or he could take his place in the House of Lords.
So tomorrow, he would once again tear himself away from her, seek to lose himself in service to King and country. At least he had that. Deep in thoughts of keeping himself occupied and away from Jassie, he was interrupted by his mother, clearly intent on rousing him from the brown study into which he’d fallen.
‘Don’t you think, Windermere?—Rogan!’
The sound of his given name in a tone of voice unusually sharp for his mother, successfully snagged his attention. At his ascension to the title she’d taken to according him the respect due his exalted status and now rarely used his given name.
‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ he responded. ‘I didn’t catch what you said.’
‘That was perfectly obvious, my son. I said I have decided we should celebrate your marriage and the defeat of Bonaparte by having a house party here at the Abbey for the opening of the grouse season and a ball—as we used to when your father was alive. It would allay the gossip about the haste with which you were wed not to mention your absence since.’
A response was beyond him. He wanted to howl at her—his beautiful, gentle mother—and ask her what the hell she was trying to do to him? But of course he couldn’t ask that for she wouldn’t understand to what he was referring. She continued in the face of his silence.
‘I know the Duke of Wolverton has asked repeatedly when you’re going to reinstate the annual Abbey House Party at opening weekend. He’ll attend which will ensure that everyone else you invite will come also. The gentlemen will come for the shooting of course and every mama with an eligible daughter will come hunting a dukedom with a handsome and wealthy Duke thrown in.’
Rogan grimaced. At least his marriage would protect him from that sad mêlée. But would it protect his wife from Wolverton? The Duke was his closest friend but the bastard had offered for Jassie in her first season and again later although she’d turned him down. But he’d offered for none other since, and readily admitted he still carried a torch for her.
His wife. Jassie was his and the thought that she might turn to Wolverton for the satisfaction her husband refused her burned like bile in his gut. He lifted his eyes to the end of the table and she was waiting for him, smiling brightly at the thought of the house party. Or was it the possibility of Wolverton spending a week at the Abbey; a week during which opportunities would abound for clandestine meetings?
Wolverton’s status, experience and reputation had increased during the years since Jassie’s first season, along with his looks, which were divinely enhanced (in women’s eyes, so it seemed) by a scar down his right cheek from a sabre cut incurred at the battle of Badajoz. As the third son his chances of inheriting the title should have been minimal but his eldest brother had died of pneumonia in 1811 and his second brother had been killed at the battle of Toulouse in 1814. Thus, Lord Dominic Beresford had become His Grace, the Duke of Wolverton and arguably the most eligible bachelor in Britain.
Rogan swung his gaze back to his mother.
‘I’ll be returning to London tomorrow. I do not have time for pointless days of idle amusement. I’m needed at the War Office and I also intend to put in an appearance at Parliament. I’ll shoot on opening day with a few close friends as I always do.’
The Dowager sank back into her chair as if he’d slapped her and when he looked back at Jassie her face was white, her gaze shocked. He could easily tell she was wondering when he’d intended telling her of his plans. As for Bart, his eyebrows had risen but he’d immediately dipped his head so none should notice his surprise. No doubt his secretary would berate him later for the coward and fool he undoubtedly was.
Suddenly Jassie looked about the table then said in a strained voice, ‘If everyone is agreeable, ladies, we’ll retire to the salon and leave the gentlemen to their port.’
Without another glance in his direction she rose and swept out of the room, the oth
er females following close behind.
At the door, his mother turned and fixed him with a straight, piercing gaze he remembered well from childhood.
‘Attend me in my rooms in an hour, Windermere, if you will.’
He knew those last three words were not a request he could choose to ignore or not. They were only tacked on for politeness. Mama was everything that was polite but he knew he could not ignore the steely tone of her voice or avoid a discussion that he was naive in thinking he’d never have to face.
‘What the devil are you doing, Windermere?’ Bart exploded the moment they were alone.
For the first time in their association Rogan regretted that Bart was his cousin and therefore not intimidated by either his title or status as his employer. He felt the heat burn in his face and he clamped his jaw against the spate of angry invective that wanted to spew out of his mouth.
When he said nothing, just downed one glass of port then poured another, Bart placed his elbows on the table and leant towards Rogan with an expression calculated to slice him open.
‘Did you tell Jassie why you won’t bed her?’
Rogan flinched at the directness of Bart’s question and had difficulty keeping his expression neutral.
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’ he stalled, taking another swallow of port.
‘And what was her reaction?’
That she loved me unconditionally.
‘She allowed me to send her away. She accepted that things are best left as they are.’
Bart stared at him long and hard then sat back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest.
‘You think?’ he asked softly.
When Rogan continued to sit glaring into his already half empty second glass of port, Bart needled deeper.
‘She’s a married woman now. How long before she realizes the protection that affords her and decides to satisfy her urges elsewhere? How many gentlemen do you know who’d be honorable enough to turn her down if she offered?’
‘She’s never shown any inclination towards another.’
The words were out before he could think better of them.
Bart’s eyes widened with incredulity.
‘One thing I’ve always admired about you, Windermere, is that you were the least selfish person I knew. You’ve just shot that belief to smithereens. Will you also stay celibate?’
He’d had enough. Storming to his feet, he downed the dregs of his port, poured another and carrying it with him, growled, ‘Go drink tea with the ladies. I’m going to my study and I don’t want to be disturbed.’
He left the room without a backward glance. He didn’t need to look back to know Bart was regarding him as if he’d turned into some kind of gargoyle.
Truth to tell it wasn’t far from how he was feeling.
Ugly. Angry ugly. Ashamed ugly. Frustrated ugly.
She could only be lying when she said she loved him. There was nothing about him for a woman to love. And if she didn’t really love him there was nothing to stop her from doing exactly as Bart had suggested; exactly as many elegant, dissatisfied wives of the ton did. Found their satisfaction outside of their marriage.
Dammit! He downed the rest of the port he’d carried into the study, then aimed the crystal glass viciously at the hearth. It shattered into the grate and he stood staring as the flames licked impotently at the gleaming shards.
His love for Jassie was like that. No matter how broken, how shattered, how destroyed, it lived within him still, defying any effort on his part to burn it out.
And it always would. He’d kill any man who came anywhere near her. Dropping into a deep leather armchair, he sat glaring into the flames.
A brief knock on the door followed by Melton’s long, solemn countenance interrupted his ugly inner raging.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, my Lord, but the Dowager Lady Windermere requests your presence in her rooms.’
‘Thank you, Melton,’ he muttered, wondering where that hour had gone. Dragging both hands down his face in an attempt at wiping away the fog of fury that had overtaken him, he said, ‘I’ll attend her presently.’
The butler bowed and withdrew and Rogan tried to work out what he was to say to his mother; how to explain; how to put her off without explaining; how to just slink away somewhere and put a bullet in his worthless head. Only the thought of the pain such an action would cause her, who had suffered enough loss in the last few years, and Jassie—
Goddamn! He’d spent years trying to think his way out of the imbroglio that was his life. Why would he think a solution was suddenly going to appear now?
Wearily he rose and left the study, slamming the door at his back.
Childish, Windermere, he chided himself as he strode along the hallway to his mother’s suite of rooms.
Her door was slightly ajar and he entered without knocking to find her settled in her favorite powder blue wingchair before a glowing fire. A matching chair was pulled up alongside. Perfect for a cozy chat, he thought, the sarcasm feeling good as he shut her door with an equally childish but satisfying thunk before crossing to drop heavily into the chair at her side.
He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t confront the displeasure or unhappiness he would see in her gentle blue eyes. He hated when he fell short of her ideal of him and knew in the darkest places in his soul that it was a long time since he’d truly lived up to that ideal—if ever.
For several moments he sat with his head pressed back against the chair and his eyes tightly closed, aghast at the sudden awareness that it wouldn’t take much to have him at her knees, bawling in her lap.
The feather-like touch of her cool fingers on his hand preceded her softly spoken words.
‘Talk to me, son. If you think you’re succeeding at outrunning this thing that has pursued you for years, I have to tell you, you’re failing. It’s catching up to you, consuming you and all around you. You cannot believe it doesn’t affect all of us. Talk to me. Tell me what drives you—before it—kills you—and Jassie both.’
‘I cannot—to you of all people, Mama—I cannot!’
His voice had little more substance than a whisper but there was nothing wrong with his mother’s hearing. She emitted a soft sigh then sat forward in her chair to suddenly wrap her fragile fingers around his huge hands with a strength that surprised him.
‘Then I will talk and you—will listen.’
There was no response in him, just a sighing gratitude that he didn’t have to find the words that would form the pictures for her. He should’ve withheld on that gratitude, he decided a moment later as her words brought him out in a cold sweat.
‘I’ve long been aware that something happened the second year you were at Oxford, Rogan. You changed. No matter how hard you tried you couldn’t disguise the darkness that lurked in your eyes—that heretofore had always been filled with light and laughter; not from your mother. At first I thought it might have been that your heart was broken but in time I came to see that no matter what it was, your heart was still Jassie’s. Just as it had always been. Then I hoped that when she became of an age to wed, you’d make her your wife and all would be well. But year followed year until it became all too plain you never intended to offer for her, regardless that you kept her heart tied to yours so that she sought no other.
‘Jassie is a remarkable woman and no mother could wish for a better wife for her son. But you’ve not been fair to her, Windermere. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that. Do you think I haven’t seen how you’ve ached and yearned for her, while denying yourself—denying both of you—the happiness marriage could bring? I know my questioning almost drove you away from home in those early years and so I learnt to keep my mouth shut for I couldn’t bear it if you did not come. It’s long past time this canker in your soul was brought out into the open. I’m done with silence, my son.’
‘I don’t have to listen to this, Mama,’ he growled, starting to struggle to his feet. Horror
filled the whole of his being at the thought of exposing the ugliness he carried in his soul to this gentle, loving woman.
‘No, son, you don’t. But I beg that you will.’
The grip of her tiny hands softened but she didn’t relinquish him. Somehow he couldn’t rise out of his chair. He dropped his head back and closed his eyes again. Perhaps that way he could shield her from the ugliness within. Quentin’s untimely and senseless death followed four years later by that of their father had stolen all the strength and animation from her and he’d had to watch her fade to a pale shade of her former vitality in the years since. How could he add to the grief she carried?
By staying—or by going.
A painful sigh shuddered through his chest and he waited, feeling a definite empathy with a convicted man waiting for the moment the hangman’s noose stole his breath with its ugly bite.
‘Jassie told me of your encounter on Neave Tor—and of your—wedding night.’
‘Oh—God!’ His body jerked forward in the chair as if his feet had indeed fallen out from under him and he swung at the end of a rope. ‘Why—in God’s name—Hell!’
And to his shame a deep raking sob erupted out of him. Again he went to rise but this time she pushed him quite hard and the surprise of it was enough to collapse him back into the chair.
‘Just listen to me, son! You don’t have to say anything. All you have to do is listen! Jassie loves you. I love you. This discussion was between her and I—just the two of us—did you expect her to carry it all on her own? Has that tactic served you all these years? And she didn’t come running to me. In fact she tried just as hard as you have to shield me from whatever the unpleasantness you both considered me too frail to face. You need to forget I’m your mother, Rogan. I’m simply a woman—like any other. I too have loved and—fucked—and lived.’
Rogan jolted again at the crass term that fell with such—relish—off his mother’s sainted tongue, but she didn’t stop speaking.
