This time he sat on the bed next to her. “I do.” Then he drew in a shuddering breath. “In your writing, you have a real gift for expressing and touching the pain within. I honestly thought you might have told that story about me.”
Now things were becoming clear. “Let’s order some tea and then you can tell me about your childhood. It’s time.”
Chapter Twelve
Emotions pinged about in Malice’s head, and he struggled to order them. He wanted to share, and yet he already felt vulnerable. Cordelia really saw him and she’d recognize his pain for the insecurity it was.
This was why he stayed away from women. Until now, he’d carefully concealed his heart and all its emotions and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to open that vault.
“Can’t we continue discussing you? Why did it take two days for your family to notice you were gone?”
She sighed. “I stayed in my room a great deal.”
Then his gaze narrowed. “And the beating?”
She reached for his hand, slipping her fingers through his. “I got a spanking with a paddle. Nothing more. Though it did hurt quite a bit.” She pressed her lips together. “I suppose I had the boy in the story receive a real beating because that was how I felt emotionally. At the time, I wasn’t certain boys felt that same hurt of being neglected so I gave him a more tangible, physical pain.”
He winced even as he gently massaged the palm of her hand. “They do feel that pain, they’re just better at hiding it.”
Cordelia nodded. “What did your father do to you?”
He closed his eyes, his throat sticking together. “My father hated me. I didn’t want to believe it for the longest time. In fact, I dreamed as a child that he’d change his mind. I tried to be good so that he’d love me.”
“Oh, Chad.”
“Do you know that he never used that name? Only my nanny did before she was fired for caring about me. I thought no one would ever use it again. Until you.” Somehow that thought soothed him. “I like it when you say it, though.”
“What did he call you?” Her voice was soft and soothing but he heard the tremor.
“Mostly ‘boy’ but occasionally, when he was drunk and angry, ‘bastard.’”
“You know that this conversation is just between us but are you a bastard?”
That actually made him smile. Just a small upturn of his lips. “I think I’d actually prefer that. It would explain so much but alas, I am the spitting image of my father.”
“Then how could he not have a kind word for you? I lamented being the lost child at times but my parents loved me.” She tightened her fingers around his.
“I wish I had an answer. If I were to guess, I’d say he blamed me for the loss of my mother, but he never said.”
She brought his hand to her chest, resting it against her chemise. “And how badly did he hurt you…physically?”
His jaw clenched. “After he fired the nanny, I was angry and became belligerent. There were times our relationship was very volatile.”
“How old were you?”
He swallowed down the bile that had risen in his throat. “Five.”
“So from the age of five on he did what? He beat you?”
Her voice shook though he didn’t look at her face. He was trying very hard to keep the emotion out of the conversation. He needed to understand why he had to guard his heart, which meant he could never fully give it to her.
“Well, I left for school at the age of six and then I was only home for holidays.” He picked a point at the wall to stare at.
She slipped her hand out from under his and pressed his open palm to her chest. He could feel the swell of her breast under his thumb and fingers. He had to confess that her soft warmth was comforting beyond measure. “I understand now.”
“Good,” he answered giving a tight nod. “I don’t want to mislead you in anyway. I never have.”
“I know that. I can’t tell you how much I’ve appreciated your honesty. I have to confess, that it’s part of the reason we ended up engaged. I don’t have to wonder what you’re thinking. I’m truly grateful.”
“And what are the other reasons we are engaged?” He leaned down, resting his head next to her shoulder.
“Well, the fact that you’re a marquess helped.”
He chuckled. “Usually does.” Then he pressed a kiss onto her shoulder. “You don’t feel as though I’ve forced you into this match?”
His hand was still on her chest and she laid hers over his. “No. I don’t. But you have opened my eyes to what you will need from our marriage.” If he was being honest with himself, she’d shown him what he needed. He hadn’t wanted affection and love, but he’d found it and needed it more than ever.
“I’ve already told you what I’ll need.” He sat up then. “I need an heir. And I’ve agreed that I will not leave you in the country, we will remain together as a committed couple. A concession on my part considering my past.”
Her eyes fluttered closed, her long lashes resting on her cheeks. “You’ll need more than an heir. I do believe that you will need my affection. It’s the only thing that heals wounds like you have.”
She didn’t open her eyes but he started to speak several times and then stopped again. Was she serious? Her solution was to give him more affection? Part of him rebelled. He’d only hurt her. But another deeper part cried that she was right. The only solution was to bask in the glow of her affection.
He’d have to work doubly hard to keep up some barriers between them. If he didn’t, he’d only hurt her in the end, or even worse, wound their child, when he couldn’t return the sentiment they so willingly gave.
* * *
Three days passed without incident. More precisely, Cordelia reflected, not one single thing of any interest whatsoever had happened. She let out a loud sigh that no one heard, of course. She’d been in her room. Alone.
That wasn’t entirely true. Her sisters had been in and out for several visits but they were busy and their stays were often brief.
Diana was acting strange to be certain, disappearing for large chunks of time, and Grace kept a full social calendar.
At least another letter had arrived from Emily. The couple was on their way home to explain their elopement. Relief flooded Cordelia at the knowledge their eldest sister was returning home. As she’d married an earl, her mother would most definitely forgive the offense and already planned to host another English ceremony to see the union recognized. Her father was furious but he’d come around. Her mother would see to that.
Cordelia picked at the covers and, finding them stifling, tossed them off and climbed gingerly from the bed. She was tired of laying around doing nothing.
The ache in her hand was slowly receding, which was nice, but she still couldn’t use the blasted thing for much.
Crossing the room, she pulled the cord to call her maid. She desperately needed a bath and to dress in real clothing. And she needed to find people, or if everyone was occupied, lose herself in a story. She could read one, or have someone help her to write?
An hour later, she was dressed in a simple high-waisted gown of French cotton in a soft pink color. It was one of her favorite shades, bringing color to her face. The dress made her feel fresher even if her arm ached.
Picking up the quill with her left hand, she sat for an hour, not writing her story but making notes about the next several scenes. She knew the story was about her courtship with Chad but what she hadn’t decided was whether or not the ending would mimic the truth. Despite her feelings, she doubted Chad would ever profess his undying love. Would her heroine get the happily ever after that Cordelia might never experience?
Her thoughts, along with the laborious task, soon sapped her of energy and she pushed back from the desk. All the same, she was satisfied with the results. She used the feather tip of the quill and brushed it along her cheek as she pictured Chad. He hadn’t been to see her since he’d left the morning after her injury.
H
is absence did little to improve her mood. She should be happy—she was engaged—but the truth was, she was far from secure in the knowledge. She’d meant what she’d said. She would try her best to heal his past.
But she needed to actually see him and spend time with him in order to do that. And his absence made her doubt his word. Would he change his mind and ship her off to the country to live alone after they were married? Perhaps, she’d made a mistake after all.
Rising again, she left her room and headed toward the family salon.
She could hear feminine voices floating down the hall and she stopped for just a moment to listen to her mother and sisters.
“I dare say, I can’t believe how quickly this has all happened,” Grace said, her voice rising higher. “A few days ago I didn’t think Cordelia even liked the man.”
Cordelia pressed her lips together to keep from making noise then covered her mouth with her hand. They were discussing her.
“What’s not to like,” her mother replied. “He’s handsome in his own way and well-titled.”
“Mother.” Grace clicked her tongue. “There’s more than a title to a good marriage.”
“Don’t tell me what makes a good match. I’m a married woman with four children.”
Cordelia had to smile at that, her hand dropping from her mouth. She walked toward the door to enter, meaning to join the conversation that was, after all, about her.
“Well, all the same, do you really think that he’s the right man for Cordelia?” Grace sniffed. “She’s sensitive, you know, even if she doesn’t say it.”
Cordelia stopped in the doorway. Diana was there too and she dropped her crochet, her eyes looking up in thought. “He is protective of her. I’ll give him that.”
Her mother nodded. “And he’s clearly invested in the wedding preparation.”
Cordelia stopped cold. “What does that mean?”
All the eyes of the room turned to her. “What does what mean?” her mother asked, fiddling with the needlepoint in her lap.
She huffed a breath. “How is he invested in the wedding plans?”
“Well.” Her mother continued fiddling with her thread. “I mean he’s asked for an expedited wedding and he’s already acquired the license and made plans for the wedding breakfast.”
“Without me?” She swallowed a lump. He’d found time for all that but not for a visit.
“Well dear, you’ve been injured.” Her mother stood, setting her work to the side. “Really, you should thank him for taking care of all the details. And you know my taste is excellent—”
“Your taste?” A churning began in her stomach. “You’ve been helping him?”
“Of course, I have.” Her mother smiled brightly. “You’ve been in bed and someone had to speak for you.”
She drew in a deep breath, trying to control the anger that threatened to bubble out from inside her. “Why didn’t you just come ask me? I’ve been laying upstairs alone and in pain. Did it occur to you or my future husband to include me as a distraction or just a form of company?”
Her mother held up her hands. “You needed your rest, dear. You were badly injured.”
She stared at her mother. She knew that the woman loved her. But how had it occurred to no one to include her the past few days? Their actions made her feel like a ghost in her own family. “I needed love and support.”
“Corde.” Grace started standing as well. “You usually like your quiet time.”
Diana grimaced. “I’m sorry, dear. I’ve been distracted.”
“Thank you, Diana, for understanding that an apology is appropriate here. Just because I am quiet doesn’t mean you can treat me like I don’t exist.”
“We’re not doing that. You have your stories and—”
Cordelia stomped her foot, which made her arm jolt with pain that she ignored. “My hand is broken, mother. I can’t write. And besides, I write the stories because they fill my time and in them, my family doesn’t ignore me.”
“That’s not fair.” Grace stepped forward. “You like to be by yourself.”
“Not for days,” Cordelia huffed. “Did he even ask about me? Where are the letters?”
“Letters?” Her mother crinkled her brow. “What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? How else did you do all that planning?” Her good hand, holding up her sore one, tightened on the skin.
“We didn’t write, dear. He came here. It’s where the breakfast will be after all.”
Her eyes blurred with tears. “He was here? Today?”
“Just for a little while.” Her mother took a few steps toward her. “We did most of the planning yesterday.”
He’d been here multiple days? And he hadn’t visited her or even sent a note? Was her marriage going to be exactly as her relationship with her family was? Did she really want that? The answer was no.
Chapter Thirteen
Malice sat in the seedy back room of their club with his head propped on his elbow as he allowed coins to drop from his hand one at a time. He wasn’t sure when he’d decided he hated the club but somewhere during the past week his feelings had changed.
He didn’t want to be here. Instead, he’d like to be curled against Cordelia’s side, cradling her hurt arm. Pathetic.
Naturally, he’d stayed as far from her as he could. He fully intended to continue on with the wedding and he’d promised to keep her in London with him. Which meant he’d spend even more time here. He grimaced at the smoke-covered walls. When had this place become so dreadful?
“I swear, you are single-handedly creating an air of gloom about the place.” Bad, the Baron of Baderness, frowned around the cigar tucked between his teeth. “And that’s coming from me.”
Bad was a quiet and intense man, not that Malice cared. Except for right this moment when his friend insinuated that Malice was being morose. “I’m not making it gloomy. That is thanks to the damn cigar. Where did you get that thing? It stinks to high heaven and is blackening the walls.”
Exile laughed as he stacked another pile of coins. “First it’s the cigar smoke, then it’s the drinking men. Next thing you know, we’ll be losing yet another member of our little tribe.”
“Bloody hell,” Bad spit out between his teeth. “You’re not falling for a Chase woman, are you?”
“Don’t be so dramatic, it doesn’t suit you.” Malice grimaced over the table. The truth was, he began to wonder if he had fallen in love with her. The past three days without Cordelia had been…miserable. He’d moped about like a lovestruck lad with his first crush. But that couldn’t be true. How could he have any heart left to give and what would he do when Cordelia realized he wasn’t worth loving in return?
Bad smacked the table. “Thank God. I thought you’d been laid low by a clumsy, four-eyed bluestocking who isn’t even that pret—”
He surged to his feet in a second, his chair hitting the floor with a thud that echoed about the small room. “Finish that sentence and I’ll hit you so hard that you won’t wake for a fortnight.”
Bad tipped his chair back, taking a long pull from his cigar before he plucked the smoking stick from his mouth. “I thought insults might draw out the truth. You’ve fallen in love.”
Malice’s chest was still puffed out and he drew back his chin. “How I feel has little regard in the matter. I’m marrying her.”
“When will you take her to the country?” Exile asked, moving a neat stack of coins next to the others.
He hesitated, dropping his arms a bit. “I’m not taking her at all. She’s staying here with me. We made a deal.”
Exile raised a brow. “So you are in love then.”
“I’m not.” He cut his hand through the air. “I can’t be. I’m not capable of the emotion and even if I was, I wouldn’t want to feel it. It’s nothing but trouble. A hinderance that leaves you open for hurt.”
Exile nodded. “I agree. I feel the same.”
Bad shrugged, bringing his cigar back to his lips. “We
are all of the same mind, but I think you might be of a different heart. You can’t marry her, live with her every day, and not develop an attachment. It’s impossible. You either have to resign yourself to emotional involvement, marry her and send her away, or not marry her at all.”
Malice grimaced as he reached down to pick up his chair and then sat back down in the seat. “I’m afraid you’re right about that.”
Exile started a new stack. “You can’t back out of the wedding. She’d be ruined, which is exactly what we’re trying to avoid. Out of sheer spite, she might very well share that we are owners of the club.”
Malice ran his hands through his hair. “She wouldn’t accept the proposal without a promise that she stay in London.”
Bad coughed. “And you conceded? Why?”
Malice scrubbed his face. He knew why. He loved her. He bent his head, staring at the floor. When had this happened and how had he not realized. He wanted nothing more than to stay by Cordelia’s side forever. “This other fellow, Lord McKenzie, was sniffing about her. He only wants her dowry and I—”
“McKenzie?” Bad growled. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“What do you mean?” Malice sat up straight as an arrow.
“He’s in my boxing club. Dirty fellow, never fights fair. He gambles here too. A great deal. In fact, he owes us a sizable debt.” Bad leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “But worst of all, I’ve seen him on several occasions with the Countess of Abernath on his arm.”
“The Countess of Abernath?” His heart thudded in his chest. “She was supposed to be at the ball the other night.”
“So?” Exile sat straighter. “You were with Cordelia and Diana. The countess never came.”
“Yes, but McKenzie did. And he made his way directly to Diana and Cordelia. When Diana refused his dance, he immediately went to Cordelia and he’s been hanging about her ever since.” His hands shook. “It can’t be a coincidence that the Countess of Abernath’s lover is now sniffing about a Chase girl.”
Marquess of Malice: Lords of Scandal Book 2 Page 8
