In the Spinster's Bed

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Mr. Wattles!”

  He looked up to see Wilkinson coming down through the churchyard from the woods—with Belle on his arm.

  Oh, blast. There was no avoiding her now.

  He detoured to meet them, dread and desire making an uncomfortable stew in his gut.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Wilkinson.” He looked at Belle. “Miss Franklin.” Months of practice—and of hearing Belle called that—had trained him to use the name without hesitation.

  “Mr. Wattles.” Belle flushed and examined her skirt.

  “I thought you’d still be at the library.” Zeus, he shouldn’t have said that. It sounded as though he kept track of her schedule.

  Which he did, if only to avoid her.

  “I closed early.”

  “Miss Franklin kindly brought over a book I’d ordered,” Wilkinson said, looking at them rather too intently. “She arrived at the same time this did.” He pulled a folded paper from his coat pocket and handed it to William. “I believe it’s rather urgent.”

  William glanced at it. Damnation. It was another letter from Morton. “Thank you.”

  “Right. Well, then, if you’ll excuse me?” Wilkinson bowed. “I’m afraid I have some business that requires my immediate attention.”

  “Of course.” He couldn’t very well beg the man to stay, though he had to fight the urge to do so. He watched Wilkinson stride away, leaving him alone with Belle for the first time since that dreadful night.

  He owed her an apology, had owed it to her for seven bloody months.

  Did I really call her a tease? Oh, God, no. It was worse than that. I called her a fucking tease.

  He gathered his resolve. Best to get this over with at once. “Miss Franklin, I must beg your pardon. The last time we—”

  Belle raised her hand, though her eyes stayed on the ground, her color even more heightened. “Please. Don’t speak of it. I was very much at fault as well.”

  Yes. He’d tried at first to lay all the blame at her door, but after a while—it had taken rather longer than it should have—he’d realized he was the guiltier party. He’d made the first move. He’d tried to seduce her.

  He was the one who was married.

  “I must speak of it. I should never have taken such liberties with you, Belle.”

  She made an odd little noise, something between a laugh and a sob. “I didn’t exactly fight you off.”

  No, she hadn’t, had she? That almost made it worse. He knew she felt something for him.

  If only he wasn’t tied to Hortense.

  “Perhaps, but I should not have put you in such a position.” He swallowed. It had to be said. “And I should never have called you what I did. That was unpardonable.”

  She shrugged, looking over at the Spinster House. “You were upset.”

  Upset? He’d been mad with lust. His bollocks had been on fire.

  “I brought it on myself. As you pointed out, I am married. My behavior dishonored you and it dishonored me.”

  “And I should have stopped you at once.” She finally looked at him, though her eyes didn’t rise above his chin. “The truth is, as I’m sure you’ve realized, I am not indifferent to you, William. But I will not be your whore or, if you prefer the more polite term, your mistress. I will not come between you and your wife.”

  That was impossible. If she ever read the gossip columns, she’d know there was nothing between him and Hortense but animosity.

  No, that wasn’t true. There were vows, weren’t there? He’d given his word before God and man, and while most of the ton would laugh to think anyone would honor such promises, Belle was not one of them.

  Was he?

  In many ways, he felt as if he owed Hortense nothing more than his disdain. She had taken his happiness, his pride, and his hope for a family. But his honor?

  Only he could strip himself of that.

  “I should be going.” Belle gestured at the letter. “And you should read that. Mr. Wilkinson was quite intent on delivering it to you promptly.”

  “Very well. Wait a moment and I’ll escort you.” He broke the letter’s seal. Likely Morton was writing to tell him again that his father was upset about Hortense’s behavior.

  “That’s not necessary. You’ll want privacy to—oh, William, what is it?”

  He saw Belle’s hand on his arm, but he hardly felt it.

  God.

  He should have expected this, given the life Hortense was living, but it was still a shock.

  “It’s my wife. She’s been in an accident. She’s not expected to survive.” He crumpled the letter in his hand. “I must leave for London immediately.”

  “I’m so sorry. Can I do anything to help?”

  William’s face had gone white. The poor man. Much as she’d spent the last seven months wishing his wife would magically disappear, she didn’t really want anything to happen to her.

  Well, perhaps she did, but she knew that was not well done of her.

  William stuffed the crumpled letter in his pocket. “No. Yes. I suppose so. Could you tell my students their lessons are canceled for the foreseeable future?” He snorted. “That will be a cause for rejoicing. I’m sorry to say there are no budding Bachs in Loves Bridge.”

  “I’m not surprised. I believe Mr. Luntley was on the verge of despair more than once. Of course I’ll tell them. Have you a list?”

  “I can write the names down for you.” His voice was brisk. Obviously his thoughts had already moved on to his journey. “My next lesson isn’t until tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Come along to the Spinster House, then. I’ve got pen and paper there.”

  She had to hurry to keep up with his long, rapid strides, but she didn’t ask him to slow his pace. The Spinster House was just down the hill and across the road. She could run that short distance if she had to.

  It would be the first time he’d been inside it since that terrible night.

  She’d spent the months since avoiding him. At first she’d thought it would be impossible—Loves Bridge was a small village—but fortunately he’d been just as determined to avoid her.

  Does he love his wife? He must have loved her once. He’d married her.

  Poppy met them at the door. She rubbed against William’s leg as if to comfort him while he jotted down the names of his students. Then he bent and patted her absently as he handed Belle the list.

  “Thank you for taking care of this, Belle. I’m sorry to burden you with it.”

  “It’s nothing. I’m happy to do it.”

  She wasn’t certain he heard her. He was frowning, and his eyes had a distant look. He nodded, and then he was out the door and down the walk.

  “Safe journey! I hope you find your wife much improved.” He raised his hand in acknowledgment but didn’t pause. In a moment he was out of sight.

  She sighed, closed the door, and turned to find Poppy sitting on the carpet staring at her.

  “Don’t look at me that way. I’m not happy his wife might die.”

  Poppy blinked at her.

  “All right, so maybe I am a little happy.”

  That was a horrible thing to admit. She sank down onto the worn red settee and stared at the hideous painting of a dog with a dead bird in its mouth that hung on the wall. What had someone been thinking to put that in a spinster’s sitting room?

  Though the painting’s air of gore and gloom did match her current mood.

  Poppy must have sensed her black thoughts, because she jumped up and settled into Belle’s lap. Her warm weight was surprisingly comforting. Belle stroked the cat’s ears.

  She’d tried to hate William these last seven months. It was easier to hate him than hate herself, and he had been very much at fault.

  But he would have stopped if I’d wanted him to. He did stop, and at a point many men would not have.

  To be honest, it wasn’t so much what William had or hadn’t done that was bedeviling her. It was what he’d awakened in her. Desire was now her constant, unco
mfortable companion. She couldn’t see William or hear his voice without this desperate hunger flooding her.

  Poppy butted her head against Belle in sympathy.

  Or perhaps the cat’s ear merely itched.

  She’d known William hadn’t loved her when they’d coupled at Benton. He’d liked her—they were friends; they’d grown up together—but he hadn’t loved her. Marriage had never entered his thoughts, and if it had, his father would not have allowed it. She’d known that, too. A vicar’s daughter wasn’t a suitable match for the Duke of Benton’s son.

  In her heart of hearts, she’d realized that her charming, handsome former playmate had taken her to bed because she’d made herself available.

  Just as she’d almost done seven months ago.

  And I’d wanted it, both at Benton and here. There’d been no question of that. Though the consequences . . .

  Her hand froze, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Merrow.”

  “Sorry, Poppy.” She started stroking the cat again.

  Since that night at the Spinster House, she’d gone back to reading the gossip columns in the London papers when they came to the library. Every one mentioned some scandal William’s wife had been involved in.

  Poor William.

  She frowned. No, not poor William. It took two people to make a marriage and two people to ruin one. He chose to wed his wife. No one had forced him. He must have loved her—

  Her heart ached. Stupid. She should be happy William had found love, no matter how briefly.

  Happiness was not the emotion swirling in her belly. It was desire—hot, insistent desire.

  She sighed and scratched Poppy’s ears. “I hate to say it, but if William comes back to Loves Bridge a widower, I doubt I will turn him away again.”

  Chapter Five

  May 8, 1797—My courses still haven’t begun. Oh, God.

  I must be increasing. Father will kill me. Whatever shall

  I do?

  —from Belle Frost’s diary

  “I can’t believe you held such a shabby funeral.” The Duke of Benton took another swallow of brandy.

  William looked at his father. They were sitting with William’s brothers in the study at Benton, having just laid Hortense to rest in the family plot.

  He still found it hard to comprehend that Hortense was gone. He’d arrived at his London house to find her alive, but only barely. She’d mixed too much alcohol with too much opium and taken a dip in the Serpentine—in January. Her companions, whoever they were, had thoughtfully deposited her, wrapped in a blanket, on his front step. Then they’d knocked on the door and run.

  She’d never regained consciousness and had died within hours of his return to Town.

  “Indeed.” Albert sniffed as if he smelled something distasteful. “Several people mentioned it to me before I left London. They were very shocked there was no funeral procession in Town. They didn’t say it in so many words, of course, but it was clear they were wondering if you’d fallen on hard times, William.”

  Oliver nodded. “My friends said the same. Well, it wouldn’t be surprising if you were under the hatches, would it? Hortense must have been quite expensive.” He poured himself some more brandy.

  In truth, she hadn’t been. He’d made it clear several years into their marriage that he’d not fund her self-destructive behavior any longer. Not that his refusal had mattered. She’d had many “friends” who were all too happy to pave her way to hell with their blunt.

  “Fill my glass, too, will you, Oliver?” Father asked.

  Oliver obliged, even though Father’s doctor had told them in no uncertain terms that the duke should drastically limit his drinking.

  “The gabble grinders feasted on poor Hortense’s actions during her life,” William said. “I wasn’t about to let them gloat over her death and snigger at my hypocrisy.”

  Oliver raised his brows. “Appearances, though, William. Appearances are so important.”

  Oliver knew all about appearances. As the spare, he lived on an allowance, but acted as if he would one day be duke. Which he would be, if he managed to outlive Albert.

  “There were no appearances left to keep up, Oliver. You know that. Not a day went by that the gossip columns didn’t have some mention of Hortense’s scandalous activities.” William shrugged. “The ton long ago declared me a laughingstock.”

  For years he’d tried to ignore the talk, to act as if it was beneath his notice, but he’d finally had enough. And so he’d gone to ground in Loves Bridge—and found Belle.

  “No son of mine is a laughingstock,” his father said indignantly, spraying brandy on his cravat.

  Albert cleared his throat. “You mustn’t blame yourself, William. It’s true your marriage was unfortunate, but you couldn’t have guessed how disastrous it would be. Hortense was an earl’s daughter, after all. And her sisters were all models of proper behavior.”

  Father nodded. “Cunniff did apologize to me a few years after the wedding. Said he had no idea the girl was such a whore. Didn’t blame you at all, William.”

  Perhaps he should have.

  William had courted Hortense as though she were a delicate, easily shocked young woman. He’d never allowed himself more than a chaste kiss, and she’d acted as if even that—the barest brush of his lips on her cheek—was too bold.

  And then on his wedding night, he’d discovered she wasn’t a virgin.

  She’d laughed and told him she hadn’t wanted to marry him, but her father had insisted. William was a duke’s son, after all, if only a younger one, and the man she really loved was a lowly clerk and no longer in London. Her father had had him dispatched to the West Indies when their relationship was discovered.

  Perhaps if he’d been able to see through the red haze of anger, he would have realized her reaction was fueled by nerves and bravado. But instead he’d walked out of the bedroom and out of the house—out of her life—and spent the next several months at his clubs or at brothels. He, not Hortense, had been the one creating the gossip then.

  He’d put her in a very awkward position, opening her to all the worst elements of London. By the time he’d finally started sleeping at home again, too much damage had been done. Hortense had taken up with a very bad set.

  Still, I should have made an attempt to salvage things. The situation wasn’t that unusual. Most of the ton marry for convenience, not love. We might have been able to come to some agreement, especially if I’d taken the time to realize it was my pride and not my heart that was wounded.

  He closed his eyes briefly. How could I have been such an idiot?

  As he’d sat by Hortense’s bed, watching her slip closer and closer to death, he’d finally seen the truth of the matter. He’d never loved his wife.

  Zeus! I married Hortense because she reminded me of Belle.

  “At least you’re finally free of the woman.” Father extended his glass again, and this time Albert refilled it. “I will say the vicar did a good job with the sermon. I hope you gave him a generous contribution, William.”

  “Generous enough.” He’d always thought Belle’s father a pompous bully. He’d got through the fool’s sermon today only by not listening to a word of it.

  Perhaps his father or brothers knew why Belle had ended up in Loves Bridge, though of course he couldn’t ask directly. “Where’s his daughter these days?”

  Oliver’s brows rose. “The man has a daughter?” He snorted. “I was always surprised he had a wife. Seems far too pious to do anything as earthly as bed a woman.”

  “I vaguely remember the girl.” Albert frowned. “She was more your age than ours, wasn’t she, William?”

  William brushed an imaginary speck off his pantaloons. “Yes, I believe she was.”

  Albert shrugged. “I imagine she married and went off with her husband. That’s the way of things, isn’t it?”

  Except that hadn’t been the way of things with Belle. Why?

  Because she wasn’t a vi
rgin.

  Oh, God. Belle had been in the same situation as Hortense, except Belle would never marry a man without telling him her history.

  Had she confessed and been mistreated by some blackguard?

  Anger and guilt cramped his gut.

  “What was the girl’s name again?” Father tried to take another sip of brandy and spilled some on his waistcoat. “Blast! Pour me some more, will you, Albert?”

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” The words were out before William could stop himself. Damnation. Father hated to be challenged.

  “What? Are you my doctor now? I’ll thank you to keep your tongue between your teeth, sir.” The duke extended his glass, and Albert refilled it.

  “My apologies.” If Father wanted to drink himself into the grave, there wasn’t anything he could do about it, especially if his brothers were going to aid and abet him. “As to the vicar’s daughter, her name was Annabelle.”

  Father took a more successful swallow of brandy and nodded, apparently forgiving William because he deigned to answer. “I seem to recall she disappeared shortly after you went back to Oxford”—he scowled—“after I had to grovel to get them to take you back, that is.”

  Unease brushed over the back of William’s neck. Had they been found out?

  “Which scrape was that?” Oliver asked.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Surely Oliver wouldn’t start in on a list of all his misadventures. He’d be the first to admit he hadn’t spent his time at Oxford wisely.

  His father snorted into his brandy. “I think she left under a cloud.” He shrugged. “Vicar said she went off to his wife’s cousin. He never speaks of her, so of course I don’t either.”

  Oh, hell.

  No, they couldn’t have been found out. If they had been, the vicar would have spoken to the duke. Not that Father would have thought of marriage as a solution. In his mind, a vicar’s daughter wasn’t a suitable bride for a duke’s son, even if the son was only the spare’s spare.