“But why?”
“Why? Why?” he growled, fishing in the covers for his shirt and shoving his arms inside, “Because I am in no condition to be a decent husband to you! I am . . . adrift.” He laughed bitterly. “Adrift does not begin to describe what I am.” He glanced down at her, and she glared back.
He shook his head at the ceiling. “Everything I ever knew; everything I believed and worked for, everything on which I staked my very identity is now gone. And not simply gone, but stripped from me and strewn in the gutter for everyone to see. The precise spectacle for which they’ve waited all along. Worthless Rainsleigh. Like father, like son. It was only a matter of time.”
“But that’s just it. He was—”
“It makes no difference that Franklin Courtland was not my actual father! I am a bastard now, which is more of the same. Scandal and shame follows this family around like a stench that can never be washed away, no matter how relentlessly I have tried. There’s no surprise that it’s now attached to me. I could only stay ahead of it for so long.” Another bitter laugh.
“You would refuse, entirely, the plan of keeping Mr. Eads’s introduction a private matter, known only to you? If you approach it this way, you may carry on as viscount, and no one else will be the wiser. You are fair, and temperate, and compassionate. You are successful and generous. You are more noble than most gentlemen will ever be. Only a few trusted people need to know what happened, all those years ago.”
“I know,” he said, “and I can barely live with myself for the knowledge. This . . . this is what I now reckon with. How can I reckon with you too?”
“I require no reckoning, Bryson,” she said softly, calmly, “I simply am.”
He rolled away, reaching for his trousers.
“Now who sprints?” she said softly.
“Bloody well better believe I’m sprinting. Look, Elisabeth, after the first night, it became clear that I . . . I wanted you too much. The intensity of my desire for you concerned me enough, but now . . . ” He broke off, moving to the edge of the bed to drag his trousers on. When he spoke again, he forced himself to mimic her calmness. “You needn’t martyr yourself to me after three days as my wife. My identity is vague, at best. I cannot say what I will do, who I will tell, or how it will resonate. I feel broken. It is not your job to put me back together. This is not to be the life for which you signed on when we married.”
“So ironic,” she said, dazed. She sounded as if she was talking to herself. She went on. “Because the life for which I signed—and I mean that quite literally; I signed a document—was really not my preference at all. Together in public, separate in private? No. I would be together with you always. Even when you are adrift. Even when you are broken—especially when you are broken.” She turned to stare at him. “Tell me, what kind of a woman would I be if I deserted you now? When you are reeling from the biggest shock of your life?”
He said nothing, and she went on. “You cleave to everything honorable and noble and pure. Well, what of basic loyalty? Of selflessness? Please tell me that you do not think I would be so invested in my own standing or comfort as to abandon you now.”
“I do not expect you to abandon me. I will go.”
“Go where?” She scrambled up, sitting gloriously naked on her knees in the center of the bed.
He jerked his gaze away. “I’ve told you; I don’t know.”
“Will you come back when you reach some decision?”
“You should not pursue me!” he gritted out, leaving the bed. It killed him to move away from her, like the tide refusing the moon, but distance was the only way.
“You do not dictate what I do,” she declared to his back. “Perhaps I should not want the young women who come to my foundation, but I do. Perhaps I should not want Stoker to go to university, but I do. Perhaps I should not want happiness for my aunt and Quincy, but I do—no, wait!” She stopped suddenly. He heard rustling; the bed curtain slid open. She moved from the bed and stomped in front of him, holding her night rail clutched tightly to her chest.
“Actually, I should want these things,” she said, fumbling with the voluminous gown, shrugging it on. “I will not apologize for being compassionate, and I will not apologize for wanting you.” Now her voice broke. He felt his own throat coil into a knot.
“I am not doing it to punish you,” he said quietly. “I do it to protect you. It is because of my regard for you that I send you away.”
She whispered, “Then you must hate me very much, indeed.”
“Elisabeth,” he growled. He turned away and trudged to the basin, setting his hands wide and leaning over the bowl.
“Where do you intend for me to go?” she said to his back. “I have told you how I feel. But I will not beg you to accept me. If your own pride, or fear, or lack of regard for me is too great to accept my support and . . . ” She faltered, and he gripped the cool marble to keep from going to her. “And my love, then, you win. You have proven that I will always be second to your own embattled pride. And as painful as it may be, I am not capable of being second, not with you. I will fare better alone than to be rejected again and again by my own husband.”
“If only it was that simple.”
“Another vague indifference meant to push me away,” she marveled. “Fine, I am away. And I ask you again: where do you wish me to go? Back to my aunt’s? Shall I remain here and live a separate life, as described in the idiotic contract? Will you set me up somewhere to live as a jilted wife? What do you intend?”
“I do not know!” he said, slapping his hands on the marble and rattling the bowl. It was the truth. He did not know where he wanted her to go, or for how long, or if he would allow himself to indulge in her ever again. He only knew that he could not have her now.
She was silent for a moment, and he had the panicked thought that she had already gone. He craned his neck around. She was walking to the door.
“If you won’t reckon with me, as you put it, at least please talk to your brother.”
“I will not tell my brother until after I’ve spoken to Eads.”
She stopped. “Mr. Eads? You will meet him? When? Today?”
“Meet is too civil of a term for what he and I will do.” He turned back to the basin.
“I would accompany you,” she said, “when you meet Mr. Eads.” She advanced on him, holding the hem of her gown off the floor. “I insist upon it. The man is fragile, and hopeful, and terribly afraid. You are angry at him, which I understand, but please. We must strive for civility and grace. He trusted me.”
Her continued defense of this man made him want to howl. Did she not see that Raymond Eads had stolen away her identity too? She had been Lady Rainsleigh for all of one day!
“Bryson?” she prompted.
He turned to look at her. “How would you designate me?” he asked. “If Mr. Eads is ‘fragile’ and ‘hopeful’ and ‘afraid?’ ”
She narrowed her eyes, crossing her hands over her chest. “I would designate you precisely as I have always known you to be. You, yourself, have not changed, only some small part of your past, entirely out of your control. And I would describe you as capable, and honorable, and, like Mr. Eads, very much afraid.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“You shouldn’t have come, Elisabeth,” Bryson said. He wouldn’t look at her. Instead, he stared at the paneled door to the hotel suite that housed Mr. Raymond Eads.
“It makes no difference that I’ve come,” Elisabeth said. “What matters is that you have come. I’ll go as soon as I’ve seen this through. Someone has to be pleasant to this man. It’s the least I can do. I feel responsible.”
“To him.”
“Do not,” she warned. “You have rejected any responsibility I feel toward you.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll need ten minutes to make introductions, and then I will go. You could not have been more clear.”
“I said that I would go.”
“And leave me alone to look after that massive house of yours? Please, do
not bother.”
It was their first exchange since she had left his chamber in the early morning. She’d asked a maid to inform her when he ordered the carriage brought around. When he climbed in, she was already seated on the opposite bench. He had not ejected her, as she feared, but the short ride to Mr. Eads’s hotel had been silent.
Now he stared down at her with sad blue eyes, distant and distantly angry. There was a new hardness there. It had not wavered, not even when he was drunk, not even when they had made love.
It was why she had finally consented to leave him. The revelation about his parentage would devastate him—this she knew. What she had not known was how he would ascribe her into that devastation. Cleave to her or push her away? The answer was resounding. He pushed, and she was tired of fighting.
She raised her hand to knock a second time, but the heavy door creaked opened just a crack. A uniformed maid peered out. Her eyes flitted over Elisabeth and then fixated on Bryson, growing wide. His resemblance to Mr. Eads would shock anyone, and this girl was no exception.
“Hello,” Elisabeth said, trying to draw her stare from Bryson’s face. “Lord and Lady Rainsleigh, here to see Mr. Eads. I sent a message ahead, but perhaps he has not—”
“Let them in, Nell, let them in!” called a familiar voice from beyond the door. “Do not just, stand there, girl. Let them in!”
As introductions go, this one unfolded slowly, somewhat like a dream. First they heard the voice, then they saw the man. He filled the doorway—as tall as Bryson, his thick hair gone white but otherwise the same. Blue eyes, gentle and soft, met Bryson’s hard stare.
“You’ve come,” Mr. Eads said quietly, his voice cracking with emotion.
She looked at Bryson. No amount of stoicism could disguise the open shock of confronting an aged version of his own face.
She smiled at Mr. Eads, but he saw only his son. He made no effort to hide his appreciation of Bryson’s broad shoulders, his great height, his large hands. Bryson was always impeccably turned out, and today was no different. She could see her reflection in the sheen of his boots. Mr. Eads marveled at it all.
“I hope you’ll forgive our rudeness,” she said. “Please tell me that my boy, Stoker, reached you with our note.”
“No rudeness at all, Lady Rainsleigh, I assure you.” He did not break his gaze from Bryson. “We had been waiting for any word since yesterday. We rejoiced at the message.”
“Lord Rainsleigh,” said Elisabeth, “may I introduce Mr. Raymond Eads? Mr. Eads, Bryson Courtland, Viscount Rainslei—”
“Stop,” gritted out Bryson. “Let us cease with the repeated use of what is now a wildly inaccurate name.”
Mr. Eads reared back as if Bryson had slapped him, and Elisabeth shot Bryson a warning look.
“If you’ll but show us the way, Mr. Eads,” she said, “we should be delighted to join you inside. It might be best, I think.” She looked right and left. “My husband has experienced quite a shock upon learning of your . . . news.” She grabbed hold of Bryson’s arm and tugged.
He stared at her hand.
“Bryson, darling, come inside.”
Mr. Eads finally realized his duty and stepped back, gesturing them in. “My apologies. Of course you should not languish in the hall.” He looked back, watching Bryson remove his gloves and hat. “I have never met a viscount before.”
Bryson’s eyes narrowed into slits, and Elisabeth squeezed his arm.
“Your rooms are very nice, Mr. Eads,” she called.
“We generally take rooms in Knightsbridge,” he said, “but for this . . . just in case . . . I thought, Mayfair. I’ve read all about your new house in Henrietta Place, Lord Rainsleigh.”
Bryson wouldn’t answer, and Elisabeth gritted her teeth.
They followed him down a black-and-white-tiled hallway into a small, well-appointed sitting room with large windows that overlooked the street.
“The maids have the windows up for the morning breeze,” he explained, hurrying to shut them, “but the carriage traffic sends up a cloud of dust and stench. I warned them. They are accustomed to the clean air of the country, I’m afraid—we all are. London is a jolt to the senses every time.” He muscled a window shut.
“You’ve visited London before?” asked Bryson. He stopped in the doorway. Elisabeth tried and failed to pull him into the room.
“Very rarely,” Mr. Eads answered, ducking out from behind a curtain. “I am the owner of four maltings in Berkshire, and my business is mostly with the local barley farmers and the brewers. Only rarely am I required in Town, usually to consider new equipment or settle some banking matter. Once every five years, perhaps? My late wife and I had planned to host our daughter, Lucy, in a London season, but she claims she has no wish for a debut, God love her. She is a country lass, like her mother.” He slammed the last window and dusted his hands together, turning to face them.
“Had you sought me out previously, Mr. Eads,” Bryson asked, “on your infrequent visits to London?”
“Oh, after you began your ship making, I allowed myself to get as close as the road in front of the shipyard gate. Once, perhaps twice, a visit. It’s difficult for an old man to be inconspicuous when he’s hanging out the carriage window for the best view, but I have tried to be so careful, my lord.” He moved to a chair near the fire. “Oh, how I marveled at the size of your operation, the obvious efficiency and success of your company, the grandeur of your ships.”
He paused and looked dreamily into the distance, locking his fingers together beneath his chin. “I did not wish to be selfish with my interest, you see. I knew that you resembled my people—resembled me. Your rise has been well-documented in the papers, and I have read every word. The sketch artists—they bring portraiture to life, do they not? Although, I must say,” he shook his head, pointing at Bryson up and down, “nothing could prepare me for how striking a man you have become.”
Again, Bryson said nothing. Elisabeth rolled her eyes and left him, taking a seat adjacent to Mr. Eads.
“Your parents must have been so proud,” Mr. Eads mused, and Elisabeth cringed.
“What do you want, Mr. Eads?” Bryson asked.
“What do I want?” the older man repeated hollowly, as if he could not understand the words. He shook his head vaguely. “Do you mean today? For our introduction? I want to make your acquaintance, I suppose. I want come to know you, if you are amenable to such a thing—but this would be entirely up to you. Certainly, I will settle on whatever makes you—” He chose his words carefully. “On whatever you require. It will be enough for me,” he declared, “It is everything, just to clap eyes on you. And to meet your lovely wife.”
Mr. Eads went quiet, clearly wanting to say the correct thing. “I should like to tell you that I am proud of all that you have achieved. To tell you that you were loved, even though you did not know me—”
“What tangible thing do you want?” Bryson interrupted. “What are your monetary demands?”
“Bryson,” warned Elisabeth, shutting her eyes.
Mr. Eads said, “Monetarily? Oh, no, you misunderstand. I have all the money I require.” He looked confused. “I hope you did not come here expecting to be extorted. Not by me.”
“That is exactly what I expected. It is what I expect it still.”
“I ask nothing of you, my lord, except that you hear my deep regret for not knowing you until now. In fact, my failures to you are legion.” He laughed sadly. “It is I who should be asking you: what, if anything—anything at all—may I do for you?”
Bryson stared at him, cocking his head to study him from a different angle. He almost appeared to consider the request. Elisabeth had never seen him look so desolate, even at the St. Clare ball.
“What would I like?” Bryson asked facetiously. “For myself? Oh, well, I should like my title back. My legitimacy. My name. My honor. And while you’re at it, I should like these things for my wife as well. I should like to never have to reveal to my younger brother—wh
o abhors establishment, and rules, and society life—that he is suddenly a wealthy viscount, with responsibilities and expectations and boundaries that will hem him in. Oh, but wait. Now the title will come with a sordid scandal that he can never overcome, and all of the respect, and acceptance, and position for which I have worked my entire life will be worthless. It will have . . . no value whatsoever. What, I ask you, has no value? Ashes? Do ashes have value? I am left with the ashes of a great house, burned to the ground. Make that all go away, will you, Mr. Eads?” finished Bryson. “That is what I want.”
Mr. Eads looked back and forth between Elisabeth and Bryson. “This is your allegiance speaking,” the old man said. “The loyalty you feel to the father who raised you.”
“No,” gritted out Bryson, “I abhor the man who raised me. The day he drowned was the happiest day of my life.”
“Because you became viscount.”
Bryson opened his mouth to speak, but then he closed it. The hardness in his face fractured into a scowl. “No. Because my tormentor was dead.”
“So now you abhor me?” It was the tiniest hint of a challenge.
“I do not abhor you, Mr. Eads; I do not know you. I abhor what has been done to me. I conduct my life with an incredible amount of self-control, you see. And the irony of your secret paternity is that it was entirely out of my control.” He closed his eyes, composing himself. “But that is neither here nor there. If you cannot name something that you want, Mr. Eads, then I should like to know what you intend.
“You seem to think I have turned up in your hotel on a social call, but in my mind, I am here to determine how to carry on with my life. In this, I am entirely at your mercy. It is not a position that I enjoy. My wife claims that you are a man of some responsibility and means. If this is true, then surely you understand how difficult this is for me. The sooner I understand what you would do next, the sooner I may begin to pick up what is left of my life and find a way to go on. And the sooner I may release my wife.”
“Release your wife?” Mr. Eads said, gasping. He gestured to Elisabeth. “But surely my presence will not disrupt your relationship with this dear woman?”
A Proper Scandal Page 28
