Her eyes widened in surprise and he could tell the thought hadn’t even occurred to her.
“What makes you ask that?”
"You were lightheaded. If I recall correctly it sometimes goes with pregnancy.”
“I don’t know, but even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you now. You’re in a ghastly mood.”
He tried to remember her last menses and couldn’t. “When are your terms due?”
She shrugged. “Sometime this week, I think. I’ve lost track.”
“You should keep track,” he chided. “It’s important.”
She threw her hands up in exasperation. “What does it matter? Whether or not I’ve kept track won’t change anything. You keep track if it’s so important.”
“Maybe you should rest.”
“Oh, good grief,” she muttered. “I don’t want to rest.” She sat down hard on the edge of the bed. “Do you really expect me to stay away from him? I don’t know how to achieve that with any degree of civility.”
“I simply said not to be alone with him.”
“So do I run shrieking down the hall if he comes up to me and no one is around?”
“Of course not. But I do expect you to remove yourself to another part of the house that’s more populated as quickly as is reasonable.” He paused. “I apologize if you found my reaction was too harsh but please don’t fight me on this. I don’t wish to cross swords with you. I’m simply not comfortable with the man. I could be completely wrong, but I don’t think that I am.”
She nodded slightly then sniffed and looked at him with curiosity. “Why do you smell like smoke?”
“One of the cottages caught fire last night. I was out there earlier today with Whitley.” He paused, then added, “Lightning probably struck it.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
He shook his head. “Fortunately, no. We’ll have to completely rebuild the cottage but it could have been much worse.”
“I’m glad no one was hurt.” She looked down at the floor. “Your boots are filthy.”
He glanced down and saw that the brown leather was stained. He had stamped the ash from the bottom of his boots but a layer of the gray powder still clung to the sides. “Davis will have a fit." He shrugged. "It’s a small matter.”
She bit down on her lip and gave a slight nod. “The winds were fierce. Was there any other damage?”
“We lost some fencing and a portion of the roof on one of the barns. Some of the fields are flooded. I’ll know more once the water recedes.”
She nodded again.
Their anger had been replaced with an awkwardness as if neither knew how to behave. Cecelia stared down at her hands while Rand leaned against the door frame and tried to understand what had just happened. He supposed it was largely his fault, but something about André put his back up. Seeing him so close to his wife had unleashed a volatile mix of fear and anger that caught him unawares and he had overreacted. But in the past he had learned to trust his instincts, even when they made no sense, and this was one of those times. He watched as she nervously plucked at the material of her skirt. She was an innocent in so many ways. She trusted too easily. She had little idea what the world could be like.
She raised her head. Her eyes were brimming with tears. It tore at him.
“Are you going back out today?” she asked softly.
“No. I’ll be in my office. The monthly reports from London came in today and I want to look through them before dinner.”
She nodded and they remained silent until sounds of footmen carrying in jugs of hot water came from Rand’s dressing room.
“I should go,” she murmured as she rose. “You’ll want a bath and I need to prepare tomorrow’s lessons.”
He stepped aside to make room for her. “Cecelia,” he touched her shoulder as she tried to pass.
She stopped and looked at him. Her lower lip trembled slightly but her chin jutted out with defiance. She cuffed at her tears. He tipped her chin up and kissed her lightly on the lips. She didn’t return the kiss.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” he murmured.
She continued to keep her eyes on his but said nothing. His hand dropped away and she turned and left the room.
André had returned to his chamber. He stood gazing out a tall window overlooking the terrace as he mulled over what had just happened. A smile tugged at his lips. Clarendon had come in at a most opportune moment. He would do nothing to dispel the marquis of the notion that what he had seen had been an embrace. And in a way it had been. He closed his eyes, reliving the moment. Every facet of the experience lingered on his senses. The lemon fragrance of her hair, the smooth porcelain ivory of her skin, the feel of the straight, supple back resting against his arm. She was a delight. How could a man not be drawn to her?
He shook his head slightly. What a predicament he was in. But fate was at work here. Otherwise, he would have died on the side of the road. If he could only be patient. The answer would come to him.
Crew and cargo are presumed lost. Rand’s heart sank as he continued to read the missive that had just arrived from London. One of his vessels, The Marianne, had been overdue in returning from the West Indies. He hadn’t been concerned as delays were common. But a piece of her hull and the bodies of three seamen had washed up on the island of Curacao and there was little hope anyone had survived. An inventory of the lost cargo as well as a valuation of the ship had been enclosed with the letter but he didn't bother to read it. He tossed the list aside. He didn’t give a damn about the ship, but twenty-seven men had perished. Jack Barlow had been captain of The Marianne for almost twenty years and he had sailed for Danfield Shipping for over thirty. Damn the old man! He should have retired years ago. But Jack had fought tooth and nail against retirement. He said he’d rather die than stop sailing. And now it seemed that he had died anyway.
It was hard to believe he was gone. Even in his sixties, Jack was built like a bull, low to the ground with impossibly wide shoulders and arms and legs like tree trunks. He scraped every bit of gray hair from his head with a razor, had a mermaid tattooed on one arm and an anchor and heart tattooed on the other. As a lad he had been fascinated with this colorful character who seemed more pirate than merchant captain. His mother had not approved. Jack had taught him to play cards like a shark, swear like a sailor and appreciate the taste of dark rum made from the sugar cane of the Caribbean. A sad smiled played on his lips. Jack also made the worst fish chowder he’d ever had in his life.
A knock sounded at the door.
He sighed and looked up at the door. “Come in.”
Winston entered Rand’s office. He bowed then cleared his throat. “Lady Clarendon wished to know if we should set dinner back, my lord.”
“What time is it?” He pulled out his fob watch then swore. Dinner was normally served at six and it was already twenty past. After insisting that Cecelia not be alone with André he had put her in a position where she had no choice. He rose from his chair. “I lost track of time. I’ll be right there.”
Chapter Eighteen
Cecelia flipped over on her back and sunk into the soft mattress. Even Ashley’s rhythmic purring could not lull her to sleep. Unable to stop herself, she went over the events of the day, trying to make sense of them. And failing. Dinner had been just awful. Rand had been polite enough but there was an undercurrent of tension that had made her want to run from the dining room. After dinner, he returned to his office and she hadn’t seen him since.
“This is just famous,” she muttered as she threw off the covers. “We’ve been married less than two months and we’ve already had an enormous row.” Knowing that she wouldn’t sleep until they were in charity with one another she rose from the bed, slipped on her robe and headed for Rand’s office. There she found him sitting in a leather chair nursing a glass of port. He didn’t appear overjoyed to see her. Even so, she would remain until she discovered what troubled him.
He acknowledged her presence with a lift of his eyebrows.
“You’re still up?”
“You hadn’t come to bed.” She looked down at the patterned carpet a moment before continuing. “I thought something might be wrong. Something more than what happened this afternoon.”
He took a generous swallow of his drink. “I’m fine.”
She narrowed her eyes and looked at him a little more closely. “Are you foxed?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it.” He swirled the port in his glass. “Go back to bed, Cecelia.”
“No.”
The corners of his mouth kicked up and he laughed softly. “Stubborn chit, aren’t you?”
“You knew that when you married me.”
“So I did.” He shrugged. “Suit yourself and stay if you wish. But I warn you I’m not in the best of moods.”
“Oh? I hadn’t noticed.” She folded her arms in front of her and made no attempt to hide her scrutiny. “Could you tell me where my husband went?”
“I believe he’s sitting right here.”
“I meant my other husband. The nice one. The one I like.”
“He’s been distracted.” A long sigh escaped his lips. “There was a problem with one of my vessels.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Given my mood, I suppose you’re owed some kind of explanation.” He picked up the letter from the side table and held it out to her.
She took it from him and read through the first two paragraphs. A cold feeling settled in her belly as the contents became clear. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “When did you find this out?”
“Just before dinner.” He drained his glass and set it on the table. “Jack Barlow was the captain. He was a friend. A good friend. I’ll miss him.”
“I’m so sorry,” she repeated. It seemed woefully inadequate but she didn’t know what else to say.
“Twenty-seven men died.” He splashed more port into his glass. “Jack was too old to be sailing. I should have forced him to retire. He fought me on it and I gave in.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Twenty-seven men. I never should have given in.”
“It might have happened no matter who was captain.”
He pushed himself from his chair and came to her. “We’ll never know, will we?” He cupped his hand around the white column of her neck and traced her lower lip with the pad of his thumb. His gaze moved over her. There was something chilling about the darkness of his expression. A long moment of quiet passed before his hoarse whisper broke the silence. “I need you.”
She nodded. Apprehension mingled with desire as she allowed him to lower her to the carpet. He roughly shoved her night rail and robe past her hips and unbuttoned his breeches then spread her thighs apart and knelt between them. With one hard thrust he was inside her. Startled by the suddenness she gasped but he appeared not to have heard her. His eyes were hooded and his jaw clenched. He watched her a moment and then closed his eyes as if he could shut out the pain and guilt that tormented him. He began to move. Other than the point of their joining he did not touch her. She knew there would be no gentle caresses or sweet words. He was not making love but exercising demons and as he thrust into her over and over again. He seemed scarcely aware of her. She was a vessel. A place to rid himself of anger and sorrow and guilt. She could have been anyone and it wouldn’t have mattered.
She listened as his breathing became more ragged, trying hard not to cry and hoping this would soon come to an end. Not because it was painful, but because she didn’t feel anything at all other than an overwhelming emptiness. She waited. She recited poetry in her head. She did whatever she could to distract herself. And when it did end, he came with a cry of anguish rather than joy. Panting, he collapsed on top of her and she struggled to breath beneath his weight. Finally he rolled off of her and lay on his back with his eyes closed.
It was some time before he spoke. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Not that way.” The regret in his voice was heart wrenching. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
“I know you took no pleasure in it.”
She couldn’t deny it so she simply said, “Are you coming to bed?”
“Not yet. There’s still paperwork to be done.”
“But it’s late. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“I need to read the through the claims before I sign them. I won’t sleep until I do. They should be sent to Lloyd’s as quickly as possible. I don’t want to face it in the morning.” He adjusted his clothing and rose. “I’m sorry. This has been an extraordinarily bad day.” He was quiet as he looked down at her. “I haven’t given you much of a honeymoon have I? I promise it will get better. Once things are running smoothly we’ll go somewhere. Anywhere you want.”
She nodded dully knowing it would be a long while before that came to pass.
He held out his hand and helped her to her feet. “You should go on to bed. I’ll see you to our chambers.”
Slowly, she shook her head. At the moment, she simply wanted to be left alone. “No. There’s no need. You said you had work to do. I’ll see you in the morning.” She straightened her gown, took the lamp she had brought with her and left.
Cecelia woke feeling drained and irritable. The morning was half gone and when Mattie came in with her morning chocolate she snapped at her. “Why on earth didn’t you wake me up? It’s well past ten. The children will wonder why I’m not there.”
Mattie’s eyes widened at her mistress’s sour demeanor. “I’m sorry, milady, but milord said you were not to be disturbed. ‘e told Nurse to take Rosie and David to the garden to play if you didn’t wake’n time for lessons.”
“They shouldn’t miss their lessons. You should have woken me, anyway.” She stopped realizing she was being unreasonable in asking Mattie to disregard Rand’s instructions. “Oh, never mind. I’m just a bit cross this morning.” Cecelia took the cup of chocolate her maid offered. “I’m also ravenous.”
“I’ll bring a tray right up.” Mattie pulled a sheet of folded vellum from her apron pocket and held it out. “Milord said I was to give this to you. Should I ‘ave bath water sent up?”
“In a bit.” Cecelia took the missive and waved her out the door. Rand’s side of the bed was undisturbed. For the first time since they’d been married she’d slept alone. Frowning, she looked at the missive and decided that an apology was too much to hope for. She opened the vellum. Cecelia, the kitchen has prepared several baskets of food for the Trawleys and the McGuires. If you feel well enough, I would like you to take them. I’ve told Harris to accompany you. I’ll be home by dinner.
“Very transparent,” she muttered. “But an excellent way to keep me away from Monsieur André, today.” Exhausted, she closed her eyes. What was wrong with her? May be Rand was right. Scowling, she tried to remember when she’d last had her courses. She should have paid more attention. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be pregnant. She did. At least she thought she did. Truth be told, she didn’t know what she wanted. Suddenly, she felt as if she were about to burst into tears. If this was what being pregnant did to one, she wasn’t certain she ever wanted to be pregnant.
Mattie soon returned with a tray of scones and pastries. Cecelia ate two of the pastries then braced herself to ask the question she wasn’t sure she wanted answered. She watched as Mattie went about the room, tidying up and waiting for her mistress to decide about a bath and her ensemble for the day. She swallowed the last of her chocolate and cleared her throat. “Mattie, do you remember when I last had my terms?”
Mattie stopped what she was doing and looked down at the floor. “I wasn’t goin’ to mention it, but it ‘as been awhile.”
Cecelia chewed on her bottom lip. “Does ‘awhile’ mean longer than a month?”
“Yes milady. ‘Bout five weeks I’m thinkin’. Maybe closer to six.”
She took in a deep breath. That sounded about right. She’d had her courses only once since they’d married. “Well, that’s much too soon to be certain of anything. I’d like that bath now
.”
Mattie curtsied and left.
Cecelia took a lock of her hair and twisted it around her index finger as she considered the possibility. I’m never late, I don’t normally feel faint or this tired. Thank God, there isn’t any morning sickness. There wasn’t much doubt in her mind she was carrying. So why did it have to happen when Rand was in such a God-awful state of mind? She fell back on her pillow and groaned. What rotten timing.
“Rosie.” Cecelia and Rosie had just left Miss Mae’s apartments and Cecelia had taken her charge aside for a scolding. “It was very rude of you to put your hands over your ears while Mrs. Halston was talking. After our lessons on how to conduct yourself at an afternoon tea, I know you knew better. It wasn’t well done of you at all.”
Rosie’s lower lip protruded slightly. “But she kept talking and talking and talking and Miss Mae was snoring so loud and I...” She put the back of her hand to her forehead and finished dramatically, “I could bear it no longer.”
Cecelia put her hand to her lips and turned her face away but it was too late to hide her laughter. “Where ever did you learn that?” she managed to get out.
Rosie smoothed down the skirt of her embroidered white pinafore. “Mary Doolittle. She’s friends with Lizzy an’ she wants to be an actress, but she can’t because her papa won’t let her. Do you think I should be an actress?”
“No,” Cecelia said firmly. “I don’t. Now I need you to promise you’ll never do anything like this again. Mrs. Halston had her feelings hurt. And I’m certain Miss Mae and Monsieur André thought you very rude.”
“Miss Mae didn’t. She opened her eyes and winked and smiled at me. I like Miss Mae even if she did snore too loud.” She frowned. “But I don’t like Monsieur André very much.”
Cecelia was surprised. “But why? He was very nice to you.”
Rosie creased her brow as she thought. “Well. I think he’s nice on the outside but I don’t think he’s nice on the inside.”
The Devil's Own Luck (Once a Spy) Page 29
