“It does not seem to be a case for doctors,” he said finally. “It’s an, ah, affliction brought on by experiences from her childhood. She has shared with me some of the details of her last days in India, and they were harrowing. I’ll beg you not to tell another, not even Gus.”
“You have my word,” Harry said, setting his coffee down to listen more attentively. “Was it so bad?”
“It was,” Geoffrey said, his voice reflecting the grimness of what she’d described to him. “Most of her household was dead or dying with one of those rainy-season fevers. The native servants abandoned them, and Serena was perilously ill herself, surrounded by rotting corpses that had attracted wild beasts from the forests outside. The horror of it haunts her still in her dreams, or rather, nightmares. To watch her in the throes of one is nearly as terrifying. It’s as if she’s in the grip of some inescapable phantom paroxysm.”
“I’d no idea,” Harry said. “Poor Serena! She must have been very young, still a girl.”
“She was only thirteen,” Geoffrey said, “far too young to endure such an experience. Apparently she had a half sister, too, who she regarded with great fondness. One of her father’s by-blows with a native woman.”
Harry smiled wryly. “So what’s said of her libertine father and his private harem is true.”
Geoffrey nodded. It was difficult to speak plainly of such appalling subjects in this sunny, genteel room, on the other side of the world from where they’d taken place.
“I suspect there are even more sordid details that Serena has not shared,” he admitted. “Her father must have been a rogue, pure and simple. But Serena loved the half sister dearly, and lay beside her as she died. I’m not surprised it affects her still. There seems to be no way to free her from the nightmare except to let her wake on her own. For that reason she refuses to consider laudanum, saying that it only prolongs the dream.”
“I recall the same myself, when they tried to dose me for my broken leg,” Harry said thoughtfully, rubbing his thigh as he remembered. “Laudanum lessens one pain, yet creates another.”
“But what in blazes can I do to help her?” Geoffrey struck his palm flat on the edge of the table in frustration, hard enough to make the china and silverware dance in protest. “She turns to me in our bed to ease her suffering, as a wife should, yet I’m helpless to offer any real aid. How can I fight a demon that only she can see?”
“You can’t,” Harry said. “All you can do is let her know how much you love her. If she comes to feel that security during the day, then perhaps she won’t feel threatened in her dreams.”
“That, and to keep her free of any mention of India.” Grimly Geoffrey shook his head. “The irony is that her past in India is what first drew me to her, and yet it is the same India that seems most likely to inspire the nightmares. Yesterday I took her to watch a Punch in the park that had an Indian flavor to it, thinking it would amuse her. She was charmed by it, laughing and cheering and as free of care as any of the urchins on the benches. But as soon as she slept, the nightmare returned, and I could do nothing.”
Harry sighed, pushing his chair back from the table and looking away, out the window to the garden beyond.
“It may soon become more difficult than you think, Geoffrey,” he said. “That vile uncle of hers is telling anyone who’ll listen—and as you know, there are plenty of fools about the town who will—that he’ll soon have fresh proof that Serena is some sort of an imposter foisted on his family.”
Geoffrey swore, his fist tightening. “That’s the same sort of rubbish Radnor has always used to threaten Serena. Is it what Father had heard?”
“No one dared say it to his face,” Harry said, “but yes, he has heard that rumor, as have I.”
“Blast Radnor,” Geoffrey said. “What sort of proof could he have after all these years? Serena was a sickly child when she was brought to this country by those who only meant her well. How could she have contrived any sort of malicious intent toward her own family?”
“So you’ve never wondered if there’s a kernel of truth to the rumors?”
Aghast, Geoffrey looked sharply at his brother. “I cannot believe you would doubt my wife like that, Harry, and suggest that she—”
“I’m not suggesting anything about Serena,” Harry said mildly. “Nor do I believe any of the tattle, either. I’m only saying that there’s often a small, hidden truth behind even the most malicious of rumors. Would it make a difference to you as Serena’s husband if some aspect of her past was not exactly as we’ve believed?”
Geoffrey stared, stunned that Harry would dare ask such a question of him. Yet now that he had, Geoffrey realized it was a question that deserved an answer, at least to himself. Part of the answer he already had, for even before they were wed, he’d come to understand that Serena was not the gently bred English lady in an exotic package that he’d first imagined. She had warned him herself that she was far more complicated than that, and she’d been right. There were parts of her, like the nightmares and the end of her life in India, that were forbiddingly dark and full of shadows.
Yet there were far more facets to her that he would never wish to part with—her warmth; her daring; her laughter; her kindness; her innate, sensual elegance—and with each day of marriage he looked forward to discovering and sharing more. He’d freely accept the dark corners to be able to bask in her warmth as well, and perhaps, in time, to find the key that would finally free her.
“It would not,” he said, deliberately and without doubt. “I love her, and she is my wife, and nothing that Radnor or anyone else can say will ever change that. But if Radnor intends to injure her with words or actions, then by the Heavens, I will make him answer for it.”
Harry leaned forward, resting a restraining hand on Geoffrey’s arm.
“I meant it only as a caution, brother,” he said. “You humiliated the man, and denied his ambitions. Now in return he’s trying to do the same to you, and to Serena.”
“Then he must be compelled to answer for his words.” Geoffrey shook off Harry’s hand and rose, too agitated to sit any longer. “He must be made to stop his lies about my wife.”
“But not by you,” Harry said firmly. “You’ve done enough by force already. Better to take the high road, Geoffrey, for Serena’s sake as well as your own. You’re a Fitzroy, and now so is she. No more brawling like drunken sailors, or, God forbid, a duel. Hold your temper in check. Let Radnor produce his trumped-up witness, this long-lost uncle, and see how swiftly he’ll be dismissed in court.”
Geoffrey frowned and rolled his shoulders, unwilling to accept his brother’s advice. He knew Harry was right about this, as he too often was, but the afternoon he’d fought Radnor had been the one time that he believed he’d actually defended Serena as she deserved. For her sake, he’d felt strong and invincible, freed of the ineffectual helplessness that her nightmares left him with.
“Radnor is not behaving as a gentleman should,” he insisted. “His actions do not deserve the decency of a court of law.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t deserve a civilized day in court,” Harry said, “but Serena would prefer it. I’d wager she loves you far too well to see you risk your life brawling like ruffians over something as ridiculous as this.”
Blast, Harry was right. He remembered how Serena had pleaded with him not to do exactly this. Afterward he’d teased her into saying it had excited her, but her conscience—and his—knew that there was nothing to be gained by danger and violence, and everything to lose.
As he stood at the window, he saw Gus and her two daughters in the sun-washed garden. Emily was chasing butterflies among the flowers with more enthusiasm than success, while Gus swayed gently from side to side as she held baby Penelope in her arms: a scene that was peaceful and bright and full of love. That was what he wanted with Serena, and for her as well. That was what she deserved, and he wasn’t going to let Radnor or anyone else steal it from her.
“Damnation, Harry, you are righ
t,” he grumbled. “As you know you are.”
“How seldom I hear you admit it.” Harry rose and came to stand beside him, his hand on his shoulder not in restraint, but in support.
“Say nothing of any of this to Serena,” Geoffrey said. “Especially not the part regarding Radnor. I don’t want her to worry.”
“You have my word,” Harry said. “All you need do is love her, Geoffrey. That’s what she needs from you. Let the truth fight your battles, and trust love to do the rest.”
“Hurry, Martha, I beg you,” Serena said, scarcely able to stand still as the maid pinned her into her gown. At Geoffrey’s insistence, she’d spent all of the previous day lying idle in bed, and she’d had enough. She’d had a nightmare; she wasn’t an invalid.
She’d also had time enough staring at the pink pleated silk inside the canopy of her bed to make sense of recognizing the soldier at the puppet-box. She’d been shocked by seeing him in her dream, but still she could not be sure that this was the same man, the Corporal Abbot who’d carried her. After he had looked at her so closely in the park, it was entirely possible that her imagination had given his face to the soldier in her dream. So much time had passed since that last day at Sundara Manōra, she honestly couldn’t be certain.
Besides, it could not be possible. The ladies in the Calcutta hospital had assured her that all her rescuers had sickened and died from the same fever. The odds that one soldier could have survived and returned here to London to haunt her now were very slim indeed. And even if he were the long-ago Corporal Abbot, what could it matter? The doctor had been the first to mistake her for Asha, and there was no reason the soldier should believe otherwise. She was still safe, at least from him, and her secret was as well.
This morning she was determined to join her husband for breakfast to prove that she was perfectly recovered and well—if, that is, Martha could manage to dress her. “His lordship is already dressed and at breakfast, and I do not wish to keep him waiting.”
“Yes, my lady,” Martha said, her cheeks red from exertion. “As you wish, my lady.”
Serena sighed, watching the maid attempt to tug the two halves of her bodice together, to overlap and be pinned into place. She did not understand why Martha was having such trouble this morning. It was usually such a simple process to dress her.
“May I suggest a different gown, my lady?” Martha said finally, uncharacteristically ready to give up. The gap between the two bodice fronts stubbornly remained nearly two inches apart, with Serena’s stays and shift on full display in between.
“I’d rather wear this one,” Serena said, disappointed. “It’s one of Lord Geoffrey’s favorites. Perhaps lacing my stays more tightly would help.”
“Forgive me, my lady, but I do not believe that will do,” Martha said, philosophically standing with her hands on her hips. “Nor will it for many months to come.”
“Stop speaking in riddles, Martha,” Serena said, attempting to pull her bodice closed herself. “I’m certain it can be closed.”
“No, my lady, it cannot,” the maid said, then lowered her voice with kindness. “Do you truly not understand the reason, my lady? You haven’t asked for rags for your courses since two weeks before you wed, and his lordship has not let you from his bed. It’s the way of women and men, my lady. You’re breeding.”
“Breeding!” Serena repeated with horror. “A baby?”
“A baby, my lady,” Martha repeated. “It’s early days, aye, but there are signs enough.”
“But it—it cannot be.” Serena fluttered her hands anxiously over her still-slender waist. “I’ve not been ill in the morning, the way breeding women are. I see no signs.”
Martha smiled. “Not all women are poorly, my lady,” she said. “Everyone is different. As for signs: why else does that gown no longer close, my lady? The breasts swell long before the waist. No doubt they feel tender, too.”
“But so soon!” Serena cried miserably. She should have realized it herself, but she’d been so swept away with being Geoffrey’s wife that she’d lost count of the weeks. Here she’d been worrying about Uncle Radnor’s plotting and the soldier with the puppets when she was carrying the most dangerous threat to her secret within herself. “We’ve scarcely been married a month.”
“It doesn’t take long, my lady,” Martha said, stepping behind Serena to help slip the too-small gown from her shoulders. “Babies are determined to be gotten and born, no matter what their parents may wish.”
Serena closed her eyes, the idea of a child slowly becoming real.
“His lordship’s manservant swears that every single gentleman in that family has gotten his wife with child in the first month of marriage, my lady,” Martha continued. “I’d venture his lordship will be the latest to crow when he learns of it.”
“Not yet,” Serena said sharply. “I do not wish you speaking of this to anyone in this house or outside it, most especially his lordship. I will tell him when I am certain, and not before.”
Martha flushed and dropped her gaze, curtseying. “Yes, my lady,” she murmured. “If it pleases you, my lady, I shall find another gown for you.”
Alone, Serena sank onto the bench beside her dressing table. Lightly she pressed her hand over her flat belly, trying to picture the child now growing within her. If it weren’t for the chance that a baby would betray her blood, then she would be overjoyed. To bear Geoffrey’s child, a child born of their love, would be the sweetest thing on earth.
But not like this. Heaven preserve her, not like this.
“Good morning, love,” Geoffrey said, smiling, his entire mood improving mightily as soon as Serena appeared in the parlor door. He shoved aside his newspaper and rose to greet her. “I thought you’d keep to your bed another day, and now here you are, as lovely as the dawn itself.”
She grinned and blushed, and he kissed her warmly, passionately, which made her blush more. He wasn’t exaggerating: she did look lovely this morning, and thoroughly delectable in a rustling, ruffled silk dressing gown that displayed her breasts to tempting advantage. He loved all of her dearly, but he’d a special love for her breasts, and having her present them to him like this, framed by lace and silk ruffles, was making it increasingly difficult for him to keep his resolution to let her have another day in her own bed to recover from her nightmare.
He settled her in her armchair at the table himself, not wanting to give up even that small task to a footman, and then sat across the table from her.
“I told you I wasn’t ill, Geoffrey,” she said as he poured her tea. “As soon as the sun rises, the nightmares are gone. I don’t want you to fuss over me on their account.”
“I cannot help it, Jēsamina.” It was impossible to reconcile her as she was now, blooming and cheerful, with the memory of her pale and wild-eyed and quaking with terror. “It’s a difficult thing to witness, without being able to help you.”
“But you did,” she said softly, reaching across the table to place her hand over his. “You do. You were there when I woke, and you held me, and loved me. I could never want for anything more.”
“Because I love you,” he said. He turned his hand and linked his fingers into hers. “Words I never tire of saying to you.”
“Words I never tire of hearing,” she said, so wistfully that he had to kiss her again. Even when everything seemed so perfect between them, there was always that little hint of uncertainty, of insecurity, that he could not make go away. But he was resolved to follow his brother’s advice, and love her regardless of everything else. Considering he already did, it was not difficult advice to heed.
“When I thought you’d be resting, I’d planned to meet my brothers to view a stallion at Tattersalls that Harry has his eye on,” he said, hoping that such mundane talk would lighten her mood. “But now perhaps I should stay home and keep you company instead.”
She smiled, twining her fingers around his. “I’m quite flattered that you’d prefer me to a horse,” she teased. “Truly. But y
ou should go with your brothers. If I may have the carriage this afternoon, I should like to visit my mantua-maker, which I doubt would have much interest for you.”
“I’d find it most interesting if the visit involved you being undressed,” he said, imagining exactly that. But as he did, Colburn brought a silver salver, piled with notes, invitations, and letters, and set it on the table beside Serena.
“Oh, dear,” she said, sighing as she gazed down at it. “The obligation of being Lady Geoffrey! I suppose I must set aside time to answer these as well. The lady-grandees will expect replies.”
“Shall I stay at home and help you?” he asked gallantly, knowing if he did there would be little actual letter-writing in the process.
She knew it, too, glancing at him over the rim of her teacup. “Not if I truly wish to reply to any of these,” she said ruefully. “Better you should go with your brothers, and leave me to this. But tonight …”
“Tonight,” he said, the single word vibrating with promise as he rose from his chair to kiss her once again.
Nearly two hours later—for it was a leisurely breakfast—he finally left the house to join his brothers. As soon as he was gone, Serena took the salver with the letters and retreated to her own parlor upstairs, leaving word that she was not to be disturbed.
Resolutely she sat at her desk with pen and paper before her, then buried her face in her hands and wept, silently, so the servants wouldn’t hear her. The secret that had been with her for so long now felt like an insupportable burden, a weight she could scarcely bear. She could go on pretending as she had this morning, as if nothing had changed and nothing was different, but that could last only so long.
The secret wasn’t merely hers now. It belonged both to Geoffrey and their unborn baby, too. She longed to tell Geoffrey she was with child and share the joy she knew he’d feel. She knew, too, that her baby could be born as fair-skinned as she was herself, and no one would ever know the truth.
But what if that poor innocent was a dark-skinned baby thrust into the midst of the noble Fitzroys? She was certain the truth would end her marriage. Geoffrey was such a strong believer in trust between them that he’d be sure to regard this as an unforgivable betrayal. No amount of love could balance that. Her uncle would claim back the inheritance that had never been truly hers. She’d forfeit all the jewels and money that her father had meant for her sister, and she and her child would be penniless.
A Sinful Deception Page 30
