by Liz Carlyle
“The blame for this delay cannot be laid at my door, Cam,” he said, kneeling down to stroke the tabby. “I offered for Freddie at once. Long before she knew of the child.”
Cam’s brows went up again. “Did you?”
Bentley stood and spun around. “Good God, Cam! What manner of man do you take me for? She is a good girl from a decent family. I never meant to—”
“No, no,” murmured Cam, lifting his hand wearily. “You never do.”
Bentley stood over his brother now. “Damn you, don’t start with me!” he warned, jabbing a finger in Cam’s face. “We have come to blows in this room on more than one occasion, and, given my current mood, I am just itching to break something.”
Cam jerked to his feet. “Just tell me this, Bentley,” he said impatiently. “Have you given any thought to the future? Have you any notion how you mean to support that poor girl? You have no profession. You have been thrown out of every university in the kingdom. Indeed, you haven’t even a roof over your head unless one counts Roselands, which is Helene’s.”
“I don’t need your threats, Cam,” he growled. “Just sod off.”
His brother held up his hands, palms outward. “These are not threats, Bentley,” he said, the strain telling in his voice. “I just need to be sure everyone is provided for.”
“Oh, you need!” echoed Bentley caustically. “You have ever imagined yourself the patron saint of perpetual responsibility, haven’t you? But this woman is my concern, Cam. Not yours. Stay away from her. And let me tell you this whilst I’m at it: card playing and risk taking are a damned sight more lucrative than one might imagine.”
“Easy come, easy go,” warned Cam, setting his work-roughened hands on his hipbones.
“This time, it shan’t go anywhere,” said Bentley grimly. “I’m hardly fool enough to think I can continue to live as I have. Remember, dear brother, I already lost one child to poverty. This time, my child won’t be left in some charity orphanage to die a slow death from fever and starvation. This time, I know. So I won’t be gallivanting off to India or to Italy or to any other damned place out of ignorance. And let me make it plain I do not need your help in supporting Frederica. I can afford, Cam, to keep my wife and child in a very grand style until hell freezes over.”
Cam’s shoulders sagged a little, but, oddly, he did not look surprised. “I am glad, then,” he said, sounding quite sincere. “And so long as you are not looking for some sort of miracle or an improbable turn of fate to provide for her, then I shall refrain from giving advice.”
“Ha!” snorted Bentley. “Now, that would be a miracle.”
Chapter Ten
In the Garden Suite.
When Bentley stalked back into the parlor, Ariane was alone at the harp, plucking out “Scarborough Fair” with fingers which were light and sure. She lifted her gaze and surreptitiously winked at him, never missing a note. Cam came in behind him and bent to kiss Ariane. “What has become of the ladies, poppet?”
“Mama took Frederica up to look at the garden suite,” she answered vaguely.
At that moment, however, both ladies appeared at the door. Helene’s arm was circled lightly about Frederica’s waist, as if they were old friends. “Ah, but we are back,” said Helene, returning to the tea table. “Cam, you will be glad to hear that the work upstairs is progressing splendidly. The gentleman’s bedchamber is finished, and the painters have moved their scaffold into the sitting room. Larkin is taking the baggage up now.”
Bentley’s head whipped around. “What’s this, Helene?”
Frederica caught the sudden tension in her husband’s voice. Everyone settled back into their chairs. “I am moving you and Frederica into the garden suite,” Helene answered, picking over the remaining sandwiches. “I intend you to be frequent visitors here, so—”
“No.” Bentley braced both hands on his chair arms, his knuckles white. “No, I do not want it.”
Helene’s gaze flicked up. “But it’s no trouble, Bentley,” she insisted, a cucumber sandwich pinched daintily between her fingers.
Bentley had half risen from his seat. “Helene, you don’t understand,” he said, his voice tight. “I don’t want it. I want my old room.”
“Your old room!” she echoed, clearly amazed. “But it’s so small!”
“I like it,” he insisted. “I am comfortable there. And that is the room I want.”
Helene looked confused. “But, Bentley, think of the view from the garden suite! And your old room, why, it’s far too cramped for two.”
“I’m sure I shan’t mind,” Frederica interjected. She didn’t care where they slept, but she was beginning to wonder at Bentley’s strident refusal. He looked odd, almost as if he couldn’t get his breath. And his expression, too, seemed stricken.
“Well, this is all rather silly, is it not?” asked Helene, still looking at her brother-in-law. “After all, what is one small gentleman’s bedchamber to a good suite of rooms? Really, Bentley! Ladies require space. Where is Frederica’s maid to sleep?”
“With the other servants,” he said tightly. “Put her with Queenie. I don’t want to be near any workmen. The racket will disturb our rest.”
Frederica leapt to her husband’s defense. “I fear Bentley is merely thinking of my comfort,” she asserted. “You see, I’ve been a bit tired of late, and I often nap in the afternoon.”
As she’d hoped, the tension in Bentley’s expression eased. Helene exchanged a speaking glance with her husband. “Oh, I see,” she murmured. “Well, I’m sure we can make do until the work is finished.”
But Frederica could see from her husband’s dark expression that he had no intention of falling in with Helene’s scheme, now or ever. “Indeed,” he murmured, jerking from his chair. “I’ll just go and save Larkin a wasted effort, then, shall I?”
Bentley never returned to tea. Instead, Frederica and Lord Treyhern passed the time in a rather animated discussion about her travels. Frederica had been fortunate in that regard; Evie’s work as an artist had frequently taken the family across the Continent, once as far as Warsaw. It was clear that his lordship had a fine grasp of history and politics, and he readily confessed his envy of her good fortune. But farming, he explained, kept him fixed at Chalcote for much of the year. The rest of his time was taken up by his Devonshire seat, Treyhern Castle.
Bentley had said that his elder brother was bookish, and clearly, Lord Treyhern had a brilliant mind. But the man she saw before her, with his work-roughened hands and unrefined clothing, looked more like a gentleman farmer than a scholar. He was also a surprisingly good conversationalist. Nonetheless, somewhere in the midst of her third cup of tea, Frederica found herself suppressing a yawn.
Helene noticed it at once. “I am sure, my love, that Frederica is quite worn from her journey,” she interjected. “She should rest before dinner.”
“That would be lovely,” Frederica admitted.
This time, Helene took her up three flights of stairs and down a long, dimly lit corridor. At the end of it lay a large, single bedchamber fitted with masculine furnishings, a dark gold oriental carpet, and a triple window which overlooked the village church. Opposite the window was a massive Jacobean bed with a mattress higher than her waist and a footboard so tall it reached her chest. There was also a bathing closet and a small dressing room.
“This is beautiful,” she said, turning a slow circle on the carpet. “Quite as nice as the garden view. Thank you, Helene.”
Her new sister-in-law kissed her lightly on the cheek and left. Frederica drew in a deep, reassuring breath. Though her husband was nowhere to be seen, his wonderful masculine scent seemed to permeate the bedchamber. It had been his room since leaving the schoolroom, Helene had explained as they mounted the stairs. And, having seen it, Frederica was inordinately glad that this was to be the bedchamber they would share as a married couple.
Just then, Jennie stepped from the dressing room. “Good afternoon, miss,” she said, shaking the wrinkl
es from one of Frederica’s gowns. “Lovely house, ain’t it? I’ve never been to Gloucestershire. It looks all quaint and country-like, don’t it?”
“Yes, doesn’t it?” agreed Frederica, poking through the open trunk. “London has encroached on Richmond, and even Essex. But here, this is like heaven.”
Jennie smiled, but her eyes looked tired. “I’ve put your gowns up to hang just in there, miss. And now I’ll take this dinner dress down for pressing.”
“Thank you, Jennie,” she said. “But first I’m going to take a nap, and I suggest you do the same. I’m told you’re to share a room with someone called Queenie. I gather she’s one of the housemaids?”
Jennie wrinkled her nose. “Aye, I’ve seen her,” she answered darkly. “And a saucy piece she is, too.”
Frederica was taken aback. “Will that be a problem, Jennie?”
Jennie looked slightly ashamed. “Oh, no, miss,” she said reassuringly. “She’s friendly enough, I’m sure. I’ll just go along now.”
But as soon as the door closed, Frederica realized that the dressing case containing her face flannel and toiletries had gone missing. Yet she was sure that she had seen one of the footmen carrying it up the stairs. It had been left, no doubt, in the suite. There was a bell pull in the room, but Frederica had already noticed that Chalcote kept few servants, and she was loath to call Jennie back.
Frederica retraced her steps to the staircase, a twisting, Jacobean monstrosity of carved oak almost black with age. It was no trouble at all to find the suite Helene had shown her. But when she arrived, she saw that the door to the lady’s bedchamber was cracked. How odd. This floor was rarely used, Helene had said, and the suite had lain vacant for some years. Gingerly, she pushed open the door on its well-oiled hinges. As it had earlier, the faint, sweet scent of lilacs floated from the room. Almost at once, however, Frederica sensed someone’s presence and drew back.
Bentley?
Her husband stood at one of the deep, narrow windows, his back to the door, his hands braced wide on the embrasure. His shoulders were hunched as he stared into the garden, yet Frederica could sense the tension in his posture. She started to enter. Suddenly, with a slight strangling sound, Bentley jerked from the window and turned. His expression could only be described as stricken. It was as if his whole body trembled. He strode through the room to a tall mahogany clothes press, ripping open the double doors as if he feared Satan himself might be hidden inside.
The cabinet was quite empty. For a long moment, Bentley simply stood, staring into its depths, his knuckles white against the wood. It was very odd, but even from across the room, Frederica could smell the musty, sickly sweet scent of lilacs grow thicker. With a vile curse, he slammed the doors shut and turned away. But a latch slipped free, and one door fell open again, swinging eerily outward in the fading light. Heedless of it, Bentley began pacing the floor, his tread echoing heavily in the empty room.
Frederica watched, uncertain what she ought to do. She had intruded on some private moment. But she was, after all, Bentley’s wife. Was she not expected to comfort him, both in sickness and in health? And whatever the cause, her husband had the look of a man who was not well.
Suddenly, on another wretched sound, he rushed back to the window. This time, he shoved it wide, braced his hands on the sill, and leaned halfway out. Frederica could see the fabric of his coat stretch taut across his shoulders as he dragged in slow, almost ragged breaths. It was the unmistakable posture of a person fighting down nausea. Alarmed, she pushed the door open another inch. “Bentley?”
His reaction was explosive. “What—?” he snarled, spinning around to stare at her. But it was not Frederica whom he saw; on that, she would have staked her life.
“Bentley?” She stepped from the gloom into what was left of the daylight. “Are you…unwell?”
For a moment, he stood frozen to the floor. His face was devoid of any color, his lips thin and bloodless. And then he shook his head and closed the distance between them. “Freddie?” He settled one big hand on her shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
“My dressing case is missing,” she explained, studying him carefully. “I wanted my face flannel.”
At last, Bentley managed a weak smile. “I sent Larkin up with it,” he answered, taking her by the hand and drawing her back into the corridor. “You just missed him. I shall take you back upstairs.”
Stubbornly, she stopped. “Bentley, are you all right?”
The smile faded. “Wifely concern?” he murmured coolly. “What a novel experience, Freddie. The smell of paint makes me ill.”
The fresh paint was two doors away, but she did not say so. “You looked as though you’d seen a ghost.”
For a moment, he seemed to falter, and then he just laughed. “Darling, this is a moldering old pile of a house.” Casually—almost too casually—he threw one arm about her shoulders and urged her down the corridor. “Has no one told you about the specter of old John Camden? He haunts this place, you know.”
“What, in the clothes press?” she said dryly.
“Ah, Freddie love, one never knows,” he murmured as they rounded a dark corner. Suddenly, something goosed her right in the ribs.
Frederica squealed, almost leaping out of her shoes. “Bentley!”
“Ah, see, there he is!” whispered Bentley, his lips pressed warmly to her ear. “Old John punishes the skeptical!”
He prodded her again, and this time, Frederica shrieked with laughter. “Stop!” she said between gasps. “Let be! People will think me mad.”
But Bentley just kept dragging her along. “Oh, Freddie love, they already do,” he answered as they reached the stairs. “After all, you married me.”
Abruptly, she stopped. “Bentley, why can you never be serious?”
His humor faltered. “Why should I?” he asked. “Don’t you find my brother serious enough for the both of us?” He caught her shoulders and tried to kiss her, but Frederica turned her face away.
“Don’t.” His voice was suddenly sharp.
Frederica turned back again.
His eyes dark and hard, Bentley lifted one hand and skimmed the back of it along her cheek, flesh barely touching flesh. It was a caress of quiet tenderness, even as his other hand gripped her shoulder quite ruthlessly. On a sudden flash of insight, Frederica saw the dichotomy, the potential for both cruelty and kindness which lay hidden in his eyes. There was nothing light about him now, and for an instant, it chilled her.
“Don’t do that,” he rasped. “Don’t turn away from me, Frederica.”
Frederica held his gaze unflinchingly. “Then don’t hide things from me, Bentley.”
He smiled faintly, but it was tinged with bitterness. “You have promised me six months, my dear. Six months of wifely obedience. Do you mean to honor that vow?”
“And you have given your own vows,” she returned. “For example, you have promised to keep only unto me. Where is your honor?”
“Here,” he softly answered, touching his left breast. “Have I given you cause to doubt it?”
Had he? No, not yet. Still, he was being less than honest about something. And eventually, she would discover what. But at this moment, she sensed they were balanced precariously on the fine blade of an argument. Their marriage was too new and too fragile to sustain such a wound. She would have to let it go—for now.
Suddenly, as if he could read her thoughts, Bentley flashed that too-charming smile of his, and all Frederica’s doubts and fears were burnt away by the flame which leapt in her heart. Unable to resist, she closed her eyes and felt his lips brush over hers, as she’d somehow known they would. At once, a hot, sweet heat went swirling through her, just as it had that night in the garden. Bentley’s mouth tasted of temptation and offered up promise. The promise of worldly pleasure, one which she did not want to refuse. He had taught her well in just one night, had he not?
Was he was both sinner and seraph, this beautiful man she had wed? Was she sorry she had
done it? Not yet. Perhaps…soon? Or perhaps never, she decided as he took her mouth again.
At last, she tore her lips from his. “I am going upstairs for a nap, Bentley.” Her words came out low and throaty. “Are you coming? Or am I to sleep alone again?”
She could feel his gaze on her, hot and hungry in the gloom. “Did you miss me last night, my sweet?”
Frederica swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“Upstairs,” he rasped. “Now.”
Helene’s husband and stepdaughter had vanished by the time she returned to the yellow parlor. It took no real gift of prescience to know where her husband had gone. Into the study to lick his wounds, if he had any, and to cool his temper, which he always had after a private meeting with his brother. She found Cam sprawled on his back across the hearth rug, staring at the ceiling as the kittens staggered over him like furry Lilliputians. His coat and waistcoat lay heaped upon the chair.
“Hello, Gulliver,” she said, lightly prodding his ribs with her toe.
Cam frowned up at the ornate plasterwork. “I daresay you mean gullible, don’t you?” he grumbled. “I should have dragged Bentley outside for a bloody good hiding.”
Helene sank down onto the floor, tucking one leg up beneath her skirts in a most unladylike posture. “Don’t argue with him,” she chided, settling one hand on his thigh. “Really, my love, you both quite waste your breath. Now, roll over onto your stomach. Your back aches again, I see.”
Cam set away the kittens and rolled over with a grunt. Helene pulled his shirt loose and slid her hands over muscles which were far too tight. “I thought so,” she murmured. “How many beams or rafters or whatevers did you heft this morning?”
“Not enough,” he muttered into the carpet. “The poor girl is with child, you know.”
“Ah,” said Helene, gently massaging his lower back. “I feared it must be something like that. He was prickly as a hedgehog at Emmie’s christening. But Bentley will make a responsible father, Cam. You’ll see.”
