Regency 01 - Honor

by Jaimey Grant

  Seeking to forestall a burst of temper, Connor inserted, “I am an adult, Father. As much as I appreciate your concern, there is no need. I have the situation well in hand, I assure you.”

  He rose to his feet. His father followed suit, his silence almost as damning as any angry words would have been. “It grows late. I will bid you good night.” Connor went for the door.

  “As usual, son, you are hasty.”

  Connor froze. Turning back, he stared at the duke, nonplussed by duke’s fatalistic tone. “In what way?”

  His father said one word, the one word that had the power to make Connor curse roundly, albeit silently out of respect for his mother.

  “Mari.”

  How could he have forgotten Lady Marigold Danvers?

  That one thought ran through Connor’s mind as he left his father’s august presence. He marched through the corridors of his childhood home, seeking a place to be alone with his problems.

  He entered the billiards room, a sigh of relief escaping him when he found it empty. A game of billiards was just what he needed to distract himself from his newest contretemps. He shrugged out of his tight-fitting coat and flung it negligently onto the settee by the wall.

  As he leaned forward to take a shot, the door opened. Adam entered, not bothering to ask permission. Connor straightened, half relieved and half annoyed.

  “What are you doing in here, Con?” Adam asked, a snide tone in his voice that Connor did not find amusing.

  “I am trying to find a moment alone in this madhouse,” he replied, taking a shot. The ball went wide. Connor swore with more force than necessary.

  Adam smirked. “Why would you want that? Do you not have a new bride awaiting your pleasure?”

  Connor stopped, laying the cue aside lest he use it as a weapon against his best friend. “I have asked you not to use that tone. If you must dislike my wife, please remain silent on the matter.”

  Adam just grunted, not committing himself to anything. He shrugged out of his jacket and picked up another cue, moving to take a shot. “What has you in such a brown study if it is not your bride?”

  “Mari.”

  Adam looked up, clearly puzzled. “Mari? What about her?”

  “Father has reminded me that she expects an offer of marriage.”

  A short laugh erupted from Adam’s throat. “Marry Lady Marigold Danvers? That’s rich! Only the most desperate fortune hunter would marry that hellcat.”

  Silently, Connor agreed. “Father does not see her the same way. She is still the sweet little girl who giggled at him when he told her farfetched tales of heroism. He doesn’t know how she used to poke fun of him later.”

  “Little bi—” Adam broke off with a shrug at the reproving look on his friend’s face. “All that aside, what has Mari to do with anything?” He handed Connor the other cue, clearly unafraid of any possible injury his friend may have been tempted to inflict. “You have several months before you see her. She will have heard of your marriage from another source by then.”

  Connor leaned down and sank a ball in the corner pocket. Taking a deep breath, he tried to stifle the feeling of near panic clenching at his insides. Lady Mari could frighten the devil himself.

  He felt Adam’s hand on his shoulder before he’d realized the other man had moved. “What is the matter, Con? You are more disturbed than you let on.”

  “Charteris is due for a visit. Mari will be here in three days.”

  Adam’s hand clenched, pain shooting through Connor’s shoulder. He winced.

  Adam’s tone was suitably horrified. “Mari? Coming here? But you’re already married.”

  A smile tugged at Connor’s lips. “Yes. So?”

  “Good Lord, man! That harpy will be after me next.”

  That thought managed to lighten Connor’s mood considerably. “Indeed. You are quite right. So, after the initial discomfort of confessing, I should have no more trouble from her. Splendid.”

  Adam’s response was succinct and did not bear repeating.

  Connor woke, amazed he’d fallen asleep in the first place. His thoughts had been muddled and confusing, the foremost of which was his inability to join his wife in her bed.

  He looked around and realized it was still night, probably close to four o’clock. He wondered what disturbed his sleep when he heard it again.

  At first, he was unsure what it was. A hurt animal perhaps, the sound of fear and pain rolled into one heartbreaking exhalation.

  He stood up and, after shrugging into a dressing gown, lit a candle, intent on investigating. He started for the door, unsure where the noise had come from. The whimpering ceased, replaced with a sound that chilled his blood and sent him back in time to a pretty clearing in a thick wood.

  He shook that memory away.

  Throwing open the doors separating him from his wife, he took one look at her slight body in the huge bed and knew.

  His candle found a perch on the stand by the bed. Verena lay very still in the bed, the only indications of her continued presence in the world the tears streaming down her face and the pain-filled sounds echoing from her throat. Her hands clenched into tight balls at her sides and he was willing to bet that her teeth were clenched just as hard.

  Connor didn’t know what to do. This nightmare seemed far worse than the one she’d had in the posting house. Then, Bri had been on hand to calm her. He had to wake Verena, he knew, but would she scream the house down in her fear?

  She released a particularly frightened cry and he found himself shaking her gently awake. He backed up a step lest she think that he was what she feared.

  Her eyes flew open and locked with his. The scream that issued from her perfect lips was that of a tortured animal. Clearly, she was still caught in the grips of the nightmare.

  He reacted quickly, seeking to save her some embarrassment. He sat down next to her, wondering how much worse it would be if he touched her.

  Bri emerged from the dressing room moments later, shrugging a wrap over her nightrail. She locked the bedroom door, no doubt to deter the curious. Connor castigated himself for not thinking of it himself.

  Turning, she took one look at Verena, marched over, and slapped her mistress across the face.

  Lord Connor was so shocked that at first he didn’t notice the silence that suddenly filled the chamber. His shock turned quickly to anger and he rose from the bed, intent on throttling the maid to within an inch of her life.

  “Connor, please, don’t!”

  Verena sat up in bed. Her eyes were wide with remnants of fear but she held his gaze unwaveringly.

  “She hit you!”

  “It’s the only way to stop her, my lord,” Bridgette said in her own defense. “And I really didn’t hit her hard. Just enough to startle her.” With thinly veiled insolence, the maid glared at her employer and left the room.

  “Truly?”

  “Yes, Connor, truly,” his wife answered wearily. Her face lost much of her fear but her eyes were still haunted. “I am sorry I disturbed your sleep.”

  Connor ignored her apology. He returned to her side, leaning down to examine the faint red mark on her pale face. “Do you want to tell me about it?” His fingers lightly brushed her cheek. He ignored the silky strand of midnight hair that wound around his hand, tamping down the heat that crawled through him.

  She recoiled from him. “It was just a silly dream, nothing more.”

  Connor drew back, hurt but willing to leave her be if that was her wish.

  “A simple dream does not do that.”

  “A nightmare then,” she snapped, her face taking on a pinched look, the anger warring with the fatigue in her eyes.

  Connor opened his mouth, thought better of the blunt query hovering on his lips, and said instead, “If you are well, I will leave you to your slumbers.”

  Searching her face for any sign of a willingness to share confidences, he sighed. His wife had a stubborn side he’d not suspected.

  Taking her hand in
a firm grip, he urged in a gentle whisper, “You may speak to me of this. You needn’t fear me for any reason.”

  Verena felt a smile threaten, an odd occurrence after experiencing the nightmare. She could thank her husband for such an oddity. For a man, Lord Connor Northwicke was quite the most wonderful person she knew. She just wished she hadn’t trapped him into marriage. He deserved the joy of children and she was unsure if she could ever let him touch her that way—even to assuage her own natural desire for children.

  A shiver racked her small frame. The nightmare always served to reinforce her fear. Images still flashed before her mind’s eye and she had to force herself not to draw away from her husband again.

  “Here you are, Doll,” Bridgette said as she returned with a glass in hand. Verena stifled a groan. Laudanum. She hated it, but she knew it was the only way she would get any sleep after the nightmare.

  “What is it?” Connor asked suspiciously. He eyed the maid with distrust and Verena suspected that he was still upset about Bridgette slapping her.

  Bridgette ignored him and handed the glass to her mistress, indicating with a look that it was Verena’s decision to tell his lordship if she wanted him to know.

  “Is no one going to answer me?”

  Verena watched his reaction carefully. “It is laudanum. I have found it is the only way to sleep after my nightmares.”

  “How often do you have this nightmare?”

  Why did he assume—correctly—that it was only one nightmare that plagued her? A distant memory of her angel crept into her mind and in the glowing candlelight, Connor could have been him. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it?

  “Not very often,” she replied, willing Bridgette to keep silent. She didn’t want to lie to her husband, but she didn’t want him to worry. Then she might have to tell him why she had the nightmare. And she couldn’t bear to see the look of disgust on his face if he discovered her secret.

  Bridgette obeyed her unspoken order and Verena relaxed. She wanted to ask Connor to leave but his displeased expression warned her that he would be reluctant to go. She gulped down the bitter drug before he could stop her.

  “I don’t want you taking that stuff anymore,” he said tersely.

  “You don’t understand, Connor,” she replied, her speech already slurring as the drug began to take effect.

  “No, I don’t, Verena. We will talk about this in the morning.” Verena fought the gathering dimness as he turned to Bridgette. “No more drugs. I’ll find another way.”

  Verena tried to tell him there was no other way, that nothing could take away the pain and the fright, the living nightmare she’d suffered once upon a time.

  Through a drug-induced haze, she saw him lean over her. As she struggled to focus, an odd aura seemed to come from him, an otherworldly glow of such magnificence that she blinked.

  Everything went dark.

  *

  Seven

  He should have realized that it was much more than what he’d witnessed at the posting house, Connor thought in self-disgust.

  He reclined at the table in his wife’s sitting room the following morning, awaiting her arrival. The glass of brandy in his hand winked in the early morning sun. Too early for such a strong drink, perhaps, but Connor felt the need. But he hadn’t taken so much as a sip, he just stared into the amber depths, remembering the events of the night just passed.

  The way Verena had quaffed that laudanum, despite the nasty taste and her evident dislike of it, worried him. She relied too heavily upon it. The look on Bridgette’s face as he’d left indicated the maid’s similar worry.

  He strongly suspected that her dreams happened more often and more intensely than she let on. At the posting house, she’d not had the laudanum, and her dream had not seemed to affect her quite so much. He was nearly positive the laudanum caused her nightmare to occur with greater frequency and added terror; Verena didn’t even know it. She was probably taking the stuff without the least knowledge that the drug could actually cause nightmares—ones from which it was difficult to wake.

  Connor swirled the liquid in his glass, slouching down in his chair. He had been up for most of the long hours left of the night after leaving his wife’s chamber. His valet had been shocked to find his master up before him. After profuse apologies for being late—as if the man was required to have some sort of psychic perception enabling him to know when his employer would wake no matter what ungodly hour that happened to be—that sounded more like recriminations to Connor’s new cynical outlook, Meechum had finally shut his mouth long enough to assist his master in dressing. And, mercifully, his silence remained, enabling him to retain his position as Lord Connor Northwicke’s generously paid valet.

  Now Connor was alone. Never had he felt quite so alone. He had always amused himself before with women, drink, and friends, even occasionally escorting his mother and sisters to parties and balls to relieve his ennui. If he was really honest with himself, it had begun to pall a good many years ago.

  About five, actually.

  Connor’s thoughts turned bitterly inward, remembering things he really didn’t want to but knowing it was inevitable. What he saw in his mind’s eye made him curse.

  Tangled curls, black as midnight, pale skin, blood. Oh, the blood.

  He slammed his fist down on the table, an impulse he regretted a second later.

  A frightened inhalation drew his eyes to the door.

  Verena could not prevent the squeak of fright that escaped. Until that moment, she hadn’t considered her husband capable of such a violent motion.

  Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her hands down her white muslin gown. Tiny lavender flowers, painstakingly embroidered all over her skirts, danced before her vision. She’d dressed so carefully, determined to pretend the events of the night had merely been a product of her usual nightmare and not a new embarrassment.

  Feeling her tired muscles ease, she reached up and touched the silver and pearl pendant at her throat. The cheap little bauble served to give her strength when feeling overwhelmed.

  Meeting her husband’s gaze, she forced a smile. She knew that while she was looking as well as possible, there were black smudges under her eyes and the usual careworn appearance in her expression. How she wished her mirror would lie!

  Connor’s gaze swept over her, a tiny frown appearing in his forehead. He said nothing except, “Breakfast, my love?”

  The endearment was casually uttered yet Verena felt as though he’d wrapped his strong arms around her. Pushing the lovely feeling to the back of her mind, she accepted his offer.

  Allowing her husband to seat her at the table, she admitted to herself that her earlier fear was irrational. But she couldn’t help it. He had reminded her so much of her father with the rage distorting his features into a mask of hatred, that she had earnestly considered fleeing. And not just from the room. From his life.

  She suspected he wasn’t angry with her, but how could she be positive? She knew he wanted her in his bed and part of her wanted to be there. Granted, it was only a tiny part, a part that wanted to please her husband and desperately wanted to have certain fears laid to rest. Unfortunately, the fears still ruled.

  If she went to him and admitted that her fear was only worsening with time, would he require an explanation? She closed her mind to the possibility. She knew men and knew what Connor’s reaction would be. She couldn’t bear the thought of his turning away from her in disgust or hearing the condemnation in his voice when telling her she was to blame.

  “Tea or coffee?”

  After shooting an amused glance in the direction of Connor’s brandy glass, Verena looked down at the food he’d set before her and didn’t answer. All amusement fled. He had heaped monstrous portions of eggs, bacon, and—ugh!—kippers on the pretty china plate. Just looking at all that food made her feel ill. She pushed the plate away before realizing he may take insult at such an action. Glancing nervously at him, she reached for the plate but paused when h
er husband chuckled.

  “You don’t have to eat that if you don’t want it, Doll. Do you want something else? Toast, perhaps?” His eyes were warm as he looked at her. She just nodded meekly.

  “And coffee, I think,” she added, mustering up the boldness to ask for something she was never allowed at home, her father believing that particular beverage was only for men.

  Connor chuckled again and filled her cup with the aromatic brew. A plate of toast, a small crock of butter, and a jar of marmalade appeared before her along with a knife. As she ate, her husband chattered about inconsequential things. She wasn’t required to say much, only nod or shake her head at appropriate intervals. She was relieved that he seemed to have forgotten about the nocturnal events just passed. She felt her tension ease some more.

  She had underestimated the sharp memory and sheer stubborness of Lord Connor Northwicke.

  As soon as her breakfast was done, she rose to her feet. Connor placed a hand on her arm and gently pulled her back down into her chair.

  “I told Bridgette not to give you any more laudanum. I don’t want you developing an addiction for it.”

  The blunt words slammed her in the chest. He couldn’t know how important the drug was. He couldn’t know that laudanum kept her sane.

  Another moment passed in which she had to concentrate to force the words past her stiff lips. Even then, she breathed the words as a desperate whisper. “You do not understand!”

  “No, Verena, I don’t,” Connor said patiently, looking deep into her eyes. “Will you explain it to me?” He took her hand.

  Verena panicked. She jerked her hand away, feeling a sense of hysteria. She could not possibly tell him what caused her nightmares.

  To her horror, the light breakfast she’d so recently consumed attempted to return.

  As if sensing her distress—indeed, a blind and deaf man could probably detect it—Connor leaned back and said, “I have something you can take until we find a way to banish the nightmares. It is better than laudanum. Will you trust me?”