by Liz Carlyle
And when he put her down, all she could do was catch her breath, snatch his hand, and stare at the monogram on his signet ring. “Why did you never tell me your real name was Randolph?” she asked on a happy laugh.
During the ceremony, it had struck her as a reassuring, more steady sort of name. She was the Honorable Mrs. Randolph Bentham Rutledge. It was a staid and sober mouthful, harking back, she supposed, to her hopes of safe, dull, and ordinary. But when he kissed her and twirled her around in the churchyard, he became again just Bentley. Her friend. Her lover. Now her husband. And she was suddenly, and quite inordinately, glad.
But she’d had little time to ponder her happiness. Suddenly, Mr. Kemble, Elliot’s former valet, was making her a sweeping bow, kissing her most elegantly on the hand, and waxing even more poetically than Zoë had done as he told her what a sterling example of English manhood she had married. Later, she discovered in her carriage a beautiful wedding gift: a ten-piece rococo tea set made of antique silver, along with a thick ivory envelope on which was written, in perfect copper-plate, “G. J. Kemble’s Infallible Intemperance Remedy.” A recipe for some sort of foul-sounding morning-after cure was tucked inside. That had been a sobering stroke of reality.
No, it had not been her fantasy wedding. But there had been a sense of promise in it, and perhaps that was more realistic than any of her girlish dreams? The question had tormented her as they returned for the wedding breakfast at Strath. There, however, the food had tasted like paste in Frederica’s mouth, and she had begun to feel a little frightened at the thought of leaving her home and her family. Another round of well-wishes, however, and there was no avoiding it. Somewhere near mid-afternoon, she and Jennie had been bundled into a sleek black traveling coach bearing the crest of the Earl of Treyhern and driven away from Strath. And away from the only family Frederica had known since leaving her homeland.
Her husband had traveled beside them, mounted on a fine bay mare who strutted alongside the carriage as if it were she who was newly wed, flicking her ears attentively to Bentley’s every murmur and motion. That prancing horse, Frederica suspected, would not be the last of her competition. Indeed, at every village and crossroads they passed, there seemed to be someone who wished to greet him like a long-lost relative. Even the farmers plowing in the fields and the cottage wives taking in their wash had stopped to wave and sometimes even pass a word or two over the hedge. Near Wallingford, there had even been a band of gypsies, their carts painted up in a wild array of colors and half a dozen black-eyed beauties hanging out of them, calling his name. Bentley just waved and rode on.
Frederica soon realized there was no hope of arriving in Gloucestershire that day. The afternoon clouded over, and a moonless night edged near. Shortly thereafter, they put up at an inn near Little Wittenham. At the reception counter, Bentley behaved like the most courteous of husbands. Too courteous, Frederica decided, when he tactfully arranged a small room for himself and a suite for her and Jennie. It was the polite and proper way for a husband to behave. But it was not, Frederica realized with some embarrassment, the way she had hoped he would behave. She sighed when she locked the door behind her and fell at once onto the bed, wondering if they would ever reach Gloucestershire.
Camden Rutledge, the Earl of Treyhern, was striding through the great hall of Chalcote Court when he heard the horse hooves come thundering into his courtyard shortly after noon on a cool spring day. Someone in a devilish hurry, he mused as a small shower of gravel spattered across a window. His butler went to the door while the earl collapsed into a nearby chair to await what was apparently a pressing matter. He stretched out his heavy work boots and slumped a little, watching dispassionately as Milford paid the messenger and sent him away again.
The earl had been up since long before dawn, having spent the morning with his steward and his employees, who were erecting a new granary on the home farm. The stonework alone had taken better than two months, and the earl had mashed three fingers in the process. Today, he was both bone-weary and irritable. Too irritable, he did not doubt, to deal well with the message Milford was now carrying across the hall, for the butler’s expression was a telling one.
Milford sighed witheringly. “From your brother, my lord.”
“The devil you say!” Awkwardly, Treyhern tore the seal with a finger which was missing its nail. His mood was not improved by what he read:
Dear Cam,
Obliged to pinch your traveling coach from Mortimer Street. Arrive home tomorrow. Have got myself leg-shackled. Bride the former Miss d’Avillez of Essex. Very pretty chit. Can’t think if you know her.
As ever,
yr. servant & brother, R.B.R.
P.S. Do not kill fatted calf. A plucked and scalded rooster more in keeping with the occasion.
“My God!” The earl jerked from his chair, his eyes still on the message. “Helene!” he roared, bolting off in search of his wife. “Helene! My God! I think Bentley has taken up opium smoking!”
* * *
Mr. and Mrs. Rutledge reached Chalcote Court in the early afternoon of the following day, and it took but a moment for chaos to break loose. Frederica was almost relieved when Bentley’s family burst from the front door and into the graveled forecourt, waving and smiling as the carriage circled toward the door. She had not been brought up in a formal household, and really had no wish to live in one with strangers, even for a short while.
A lady and a gentleman, three children, half a dozen servants, and a damp, dirty spaniel darted about as their luggage was unloaded in a flurry of activity. Lord Treyhern tried to subdue the dog, despite the fact that he held a tiny infant in his arms. Lady Treyhern rushed forward to hug Bentley as he leapt down off his horse. Frederica was relieved to see that everyone seemed perfectly…normal. Better than normal, really. Warm and extremely relaxed. And suddenly, her marriage to Bentley Rutledge did not seem quite so dreadful a decision.
Soon she found herself being soundly hugged and kissed by Lord Treyhern and his wife, then passed along to their eldest daughter. Lady Ariane Rutledge was perhaps fifteen years old, blue-eyed and slender, with heavy, almost white-blond hair which put Frederica very much in mind of her cousin Evie. And then there was her smile, which was filled with warmth and mischief, and so much like Zoë’s that Frederica felt her homesickness begin to wane.
Chalcote Court was by no means a large house, but it was old and extraordinarily beautiful. As its name implied, the house was set in a walled garden on a hill just above a quaint village. Beyond the walls, the squat Norman belfry of the village church could be seen. Soon they were shown into a long, sunny parlor, and a tray of tea and sandwiches was carried in behind them. Lady Ariane remained, while her siblings, Gervais, Madeline, and Baby Emmie, went happily away with their nurse.
Frederica was more than a little relieved to realize that Bentley had sent word ahead of their marriage. She was not at all sure that such a thing would occur to him. But perhaps she was not giving him enough credit? After all, he had thrown together a breathtakingly beautiful wedding at the last minute. Still, the warm welcome aside, it was soon quite clear to Frederica that the reality of the situation had not yet been fully absorbed by Bentley’s family.
Lord Treyhern, who was just a leaner, less benevolent-looking version of his brother, smiled tightly but scarcely spoke six words. Lady Treyhern, however, was quite cordial—and quite French, too, though her accent was barely discernible. It was soon evident that there was a deep affection between her and Bentley. As Ariane served sandwiches and Helene poured, the five of them chatted about the warmth of the weather and their uneventful journey from London. But slowly, the conversation ground down to that pregnant silence which so often occurs after all the polite, mundane topics have been exhausted.
“Well!” said Helene brightly as she leaned forward to warm Frederica’s tea. “Now that the niceties are out of the way, Frederica, you must satisfy our appallingly vulgar curiosity and tell us how long you and Bentley have known on
e another.”
Frederica took back the outstretched cup and saucer. How long had she known Bentley? “Why, most all my life, it seems,” she said quite honestly. “He has been my cousin Augustus’s best friend for any number of years.”
And indeed, it surprised her to realize she could scarce remember a time when Bentley hadn’t been drifting in and out of their lives at Chatham Lodge, or a time when she had not enjoyed having him about. Helene settled back into her chair with a relieved expression, but the earl jerked at once from his. “Your pardon, ladies,” he said stiffly. “Bentley, will you join me in my study? There is a most pressing estate matter on which I require your opinion.”
Frederica watched as a dark look passed over her new husband’s face. Stiffly, he rose. “Yes, of course,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t think of depriving you of my bountiful wisdom.” Together, they disappeared through a door at the opposite end of the room.
“His lordship disapproves,” murmured Frederica as soon as the door closed.
Helene put down her teacup. “Oh, no, my dear!” she answered. “My husband is taken aback, that is all. Bentley’s message quite shocked us, for we’d no notion he was contemplating marriage. But it is high time he did, and we are glad, Frederica—exceedingly glad—to welcome you into our family.”
“I am honored.”
Suddenly, Helene leaned intently forward. “Come,” she said impulsively. “Let me show you to the suite of rooms I am having refurbished, and we shall see if they suit you. This is not a large house, but I think we can make you comfortable.”
“Yes, of course.” Frederica forced a smile. “How kind you all are.”
Chalcote’s study was much as Bentley remembered it. It was a large, darkly paneled chamber with a deep bay window, a massive mahogany desk, and enough books to fill a lending library. The only new addition was a litter of kittens, half of whom were asleep by the hearth with their mother, Matilda, a marmalade tabby who stared at him through drowsy, slitted eyes.
The other kittens, three fat balls of fur, were staggering about the coal scuttle on short, unsteady legs beneath the watchful eye of their grandmother, Boadicea, who had settled herself in a sphinxlike pose atop the Times on Cam’s desk. Instinctively, Bentley headed for the fireside and one of the overstuffed wing chairs which flanked it. He was tired, his emotions already worn to a bloody nub, and he meant to take Cam’s sermon sitting down—if he took it at all, which he often didn’t.
“I collect you have ruined the poor girl?” said Cam, throwing down the gauntlet at once.
“Do you?” Bentley stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles, a desultory gesture which never failed to irritate his brother. “Is that your best guess, Cam? There’s always rape, pillage, and kidnapping, you know. Or perhaps I just married her for her money.”
His brother looked little chastened. “Well, whatever else can be said of you, Bentley, I don’t imagine you’d marry a woman for her fortune,” he said gruffly. “You don’t like money well enough to bother.”
“A compliment!” he answered bitterly. “How charitable.”
His brother made an impatient gesture with his hand. “I merely wish to help, Bentley,” he said. “If there is any scandal attached to your marriage, I should like to hear it now.”
“I have no need of your help.” Bentley kept his voice surprisingly calm. “As for scandal, I regret to say that there is a bit. Congratulate me, Cam. I am about to become a father again.”
Bentley watched in mild satisfaction as a little of the color drained from his brother’s face. “Again?” Cam retorted. “You have never been one, Bentley. Not in any meaningful sense of the word.”
For some reason, Cam’s response did not stir his ire as he might have expected. Part of it was Bentley’s sheer fatigue. But there was also the calico kitten which had toddled over and crawled up Cam’s trouser leg. It was hard for a man to seem like an overbearing jackass with a mewling ball of fur hanging off his knee.
“No, I haven’t really been a father before,” Bentley admitted as his brother unhooked the kitten from his trousers and tucked it under his chin. “But that is hardly my fault, Cam. Had I known my mistress had borne me a daughter, I would have cared for both of them as best I could. And I will care for this one to the best of my ability. Now, do you wish me happy, Cam? Or do you wish to continue lecturing me to no good end?”
“I have never wished you anything but happiness.” Cam spoke very gravely. “And now, I wish it for your bride as well. You will, I trust, make her happiness your life’s priority?”
Bentley sneered a little and stared into the morning’s fire which was now dying in the grate. “I shan’t deliberately make her miserable, if that’s what you mean.”
“It isn’t,” said Cam abruptly. “But I am glad to hear it. She seems a good, well-brought-up young lady. And quite remarkably beautiful, too. You are a most fortun—”
“Damn it, I don’t need to you extol my wife’s virtues!” Bentley interjected, jerking from his chair. “Or my good fortune. I have already noticed both. And you had best just stay away from her, do you hear me?”
Cam’s head jerked up. “You brought your bride into this house of your own volition,” he snapped, his eyes cold and hard. “Frederica is now my sister. Good God, Bentley! What kind of man would trifle with his brother’s wife? Can you tell me that? Can you? And don’t tell me I mistook your meaning.”
But Bentley’s heart had begun to race. The room was suddenly hot and airless. What the devil had he meant? What? He couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t breathe. As if to dispel the dreaded sensations, he dragged one hand through his hair. “Cam, I didn’t mean—” he awkwardly began. “That is, what I meant was—oh, hell! I’m damned if I know what I meant. I think marriage makes a man lose his wits.”
Slowly, the chill in Cam’s gaze receded. “Mind the kittens, then,” he murmured, “if you mean to hurl yourself restlessly about the room now.”
Bentley was already halfway to the window. And he was restless, he realized. Worse than restless. And Cam had guessed it easily. But then Bentley was always ill at ease in this house. When he was away from Chalcote, he sometimes longed for it like a wistful schoolboy, yet when he returned, he soon became apprehensive. Anxious. He kept waiting, waiting for something which did not happen, but which felt so near and so threatening it was like standing in a thunderstorm and feeling the anticipatory shiver of a lightning strike.
Aimlessly, he drifted through the room, picking up bits of bric-a-brac and staring through the window as if looking for trouble to come strolling down the carriage drive. On a distant hill, he could see old Angus and one of the younger farmhands plowing a south-facing slope, churning up the soil from a barren shade of dun into brown-black mounds, rich with promise. Was there any such promise, he wondered, in his life? If he churned at it long enough, would he ever reap a crop of real happiness—one which was fairly earned, instead of won on the turn of a card or stolen at someone else’s expense?
He did not feel quite as content as he’d hoped, now that the worry of the wedding was behind him and reality stretched out ahead. And as much as he pretended otherwise, his brother’s questions nagged at him. Could he give Freddie a happy future? Was that his duty? And what was hers? It seemed unfair that she should bear the same obligation toward him. He had thought that in bringing Freddie to Chalcote, he might banish some old ghosts, yet they seemed more alive now than ever. Had it been a mistake to come here?
It was as if his brother read his mind. “You had to bring her here, Bentley,” said Cam in his solemn voice. “There will be talk, you know. It is best the two of you remain here for a long visit. The world must be shown that your marriage and your bride have the overwhelming approval of your family. It will go easier for her that way.”
Bentley still stood, staring out the window. “You know who she is, then.”
“The ward of Lord Rannoch, yes,” said Cam. “And I know, of course, that she is�
�foreign-born.”
“You mean you know she is illegitimate.”
“Yes, that, too.” Cam’s voice was gentle.
Suddenly, Bentley turned from the window to face him. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about all that, Cam,” he said on a rush. “I like her. I always have. And I will take good care of her.”
Contemplatively, Cam stroked the kitten with one finger. “You like her…but you do not love her?”
Bentley shook his head. “Not…love. No, not that. But I am not displeased with my lot. I shall make the best of it.”
“Did Rannoch put a gun to your head?” Cam’s tone was matter-of-fact.
Bentley laughed harshly. “By no means,” he answered. “Indeed, I collect they went to quite some lengths to avoid me.”
Cam made a pensive noise in the back of his throat. “When is the child due?” he asked. “Just how bad, Bentley, is this situation going to look for Frederica?”
The question struck Bentley like a tumbril of stone. “When?” he echoed. “Why, in the winter, I daresay…”
“Count off about forty weeks,” Cam dryly suggested. “I am assuming here, you see, that your better judgment slipped but the once.”
Bentley swallowed hard and did a little mental arithmetic. “Early November, then.”
Cam groaned and seemed to sink a little lower in his chair. Displeased, the kitten began mewling. Bentley reached down and peeled it from Cam’s waistcoat, then put it gently back into Matilda’s basket, where she began to twitch her whiskers at it, as if inspecting it for damage. Even the cat, it seemed, did not trust him. Hell, he did not trust himself.
