Regency 01 - Honor

by Jaimey Grant

  Shock at the impropriety of his comment, and wonder that he cared enough to broach the subject, held her tongue immobile for a moment. Dismayed that her words were taken so in error, Verena felt the need to reassure him.

  Donning what she hoped was a tranquil expression, she said, “Connor has never been harsh with me, my lord. He has never even raised his voice although I am sure he has wanted to. I am afraid my reaction earlier was due to some very trying circumstances. I apologize for alarming you unduly, my lord.”

  “I see,” Lord Charteris replied in a tone that went far in conveying how much he did not see.

  Verena couldn’t possibly explain more without revealing things she had never even told Connor. Her husband had every right to know the reasons behind her fear but she was still reluctant to tell him. He had told her he wanted her to always tell him her feelings, but she wondered if perhaps he would rather not learn this particular thing.

  Besides, propriety and her own shame demanded she keep a still tongue.

  One of the footmen on duty began serving the second course, replacing Verena’s plate of eels in cream sauce with an oyster pattie. She looked at it in interest, savoring the delicious aroma. It was more to her taste than the eels.

  “I am told by my godson that you are quite knowledgeable about politics and the economy. Tell me your views of the Corn Laws,” the earl said with a genial smile, cutting into his own pattie.

  Hiding her surprise at the gentleman’s request, Verena was glad of the neutral topic and soon lost herself in a rousing debate with her husband’s godfather. He never gave her an odd look at some of her rather radical ideas and actually agreed with many.

  She realized that some of her thoughts could be taken as an insult and she quickly glanced at the earl to find that man smiling at her in obvious amusement. Thinking he laughed at her, she clamped her mouth shut and resolved to say nothing for the rest of the meal.

  “My dear, Connor was right. You are a delight,” was all the earl said before turning back to Lady Denbigh, who sat on his other side.

  Despite their lowered voices, Connor heard some of his wife’s discussion with the earl. His amusement overcame any insult he may have felt over his godfather’s belief that Connor could ever harm a woman. He’d never in his life touched a woman in anger. Why would he start with his wife?

  Mari prattled on about some stupid poem that some dim-witted dolt had written about her heavenly eyes, a bit of ill-conceived romantic fluff that sounded quite dull to Connor’s highly prejudiced ears. How green eyes could be heavenly was a mystery he did not want to pursue. He wanted Mari to turn her attention to Adam, who sat on her other side, or better yet, to just shut her mouth. He sent a pleading look at his friend and Adam dutifully captured Lady Marigold’s attention.

  Unfortunately, just as Connor was about to address a compliment to his wife, his mother stood up, signaling to the ladies that the time to retire to the drawing room had arrived, leaving the gentlemen to their port and cigars. Connor sent his wife a rueful look as she rose and followed the duchess from the room. Then he sat back and prepared to be completely bored out of his wits while his wife was forced to endure Mari’s viperish tongue.

  He could only hope his mother and sisters would be able to maintain a semblance of control over the situation.

  *

  Nine

  Hell. That was the only way to describe it, Verena thought mildly. There was no other word that told one exactly how unbearable her present situation was. She maintained her calm expression as Lady Marigold launched all sorts of impertinent questions in her direction under the guise of budding friendship.

  The lady smiled brilliantly and patted Verena’s hand. “One cannot help but wonder how you managed to entrap—oops! I mean enchant—such a confirmed bachelor as Lord Connor. I refuse to believe it had anything to do with those ugly rumors I’ve heard.”

  Verena grew tired of cowering before people. She was not afraid of this spiteful woman and she doubted that any of the men in this house were inclined toward beating their women when they got out of line. Despite her earlier words to Connor, she knew, deep inside, he’d never harm her, even if given the chance. Had he not honored their marital arrangement?

  But Lady Marigold…ah, she was an entirely different animal. A jealous female. A creature who lived for drama, thrived on the misery of others. A bully.

  So, with a benign look, Verena said, “On the contrary, Lady Marigold. Our marriage had everything to do with those rumors.”

  Hearing a smothered laugh come from the direction of the duchess, of all people, Verena was hard-pressed to keep her own expression blank. Her lips revealed alarming signs of twitching upward.

  Lady Marigold’s face turned quite red. It was obvious to Verena, at least, that she was intelligent enough to know when someone mocked her. The lady quickly rallied, however.

  “Poor Con. If I had known he was in danger from a common trollop, I would have hurried to his side to save him from such a fate. Gallantly offering myself, of course.” Her voice was low enough for only Verena to hear and the cat’s smile never wavered.

  “It would hardly do to defeat the purpose, now would it?”

  The beauty bristled under the not-so-vague insult. “Ladies are well aware of the respect due to their betters, but you wouldn’t know that would you, Lady Verena?” she said sweetly.

  “Nonsense, my lady,” Verena pointed out reasonably, “As the only daughter of the Earl of Carstairs, I equal you. As the wife of the youngest son of the Duke of Denbigh, I outrank you. I am always respectful of my betters as you call them. I have some trouble, however, respecting those who call themselves ladies while their every action declares them otherwise.”

  Lady Marigold lapsed into a fulminating silence and presently moved away from her nemesis. Verena watched her go with the beginnings of a headache.

  No one could claim intelligence all of the time and Lord Connor was no exception.

  He entered the drawing room with the other gentlemen, his eyes seeking his wife in the sea of femininity. She sat with his sisters, her calm features revealing nothing of her thoughts. He offered a smile, but Lady Mari latched onto his arm. He strained to keep his social expression in place as she launched into a one-sided dialogue about his wife’s supposed bad behavior.

  He glanced over at his beautiful, shy bride. Her face no longer held the composed expression he’d come to expect. Oh no. Her violet eyes shot sparks, fingers clenching in her skirts until her knuckles whitened.

  Connor smiled. Instead of disengaging Mari’s arm as he should have, he smiled down into the lady’s green eyes, conveying an interest in her that existed only in her fertile imagination.

  And Verena’s.

  Jealousy had been known to cause all sorts of unlooked-for responses in people. Connor hoped Verena’s would lead to a passionate outburst.

  So intent was he on making his wife jealous that he failed to realize just how hurtful he was being.

  With quiet dignity, Verena rose to her feet. “Please excuse me, my lady,” she said to the duchess, “but I feel unwell. I believe I shall retire.”

  She left the room with her chin in the air and nary a glance for Connor, who restrained his delight with this recent turn of events.

  Now all he had to do was wait.

  Lady Verena fumed as she paced her room. How could he act so despicably? How could he make love to Lady Mari with his eyes while his wife stood not ten feet from him? She had begun to think he might have come to love her at least a little. The last two days they had spent little actual time apart. Connor had been attentive and entertaining and she could tell he was trying very hard to keep his ever-present desire in check so as not to frighten her. If that was not love, she was unsure what was.

  She clenched her fists, feeling her nails dig into her palms. The pain helped to calm her, outwardly, at least.

  Verena realized she was head-over-ears in love with her husband even after witnessing “proof”
of his unfaithfulness. She was so angry with him she didn’t stop to think how different it was from her fear. Her determination to confront him about his reprehensible behavior grew with every second that passed.

  Her opportunity came ten minutes later. She sat on the sofa by a softly crackling fire in the sitting room, listening for the sounds of her husband’s return.

  She wondered if perhaps he would leave again and make good on the promises his eyes had bestowed on Lady Mari. She discounted that thought. Her husband would never be so lost to propriety. They were in his parents’ home, after all.

  Her belief in his infidelity did not exactly coincide with her faith in his honor, but she ignored this pertinent fact. She was too busy concentrating on the sounds issuing from the adjoining chamber.

  Bridgette had already been called to help her mistress get ready for bed, but she’d been dismissed almost immediately. As soon as the maid had left, Verena paced her bedchamber still fully clothed. Her pacing had then led to the sitting room. Now she listened as Connor dismissed his valet.

  Silence.

  Verena didn’t creep to the door. She threw it open only being careful not to let it bang against the wall. The last thing she needed was the reentry of Meechum or Bridgette.

  Her husband sat up in bed, a book open on his lap. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Verena registered the fact that her husband obviously slept without a stitch of clothing. His very muscular chest rose above the counterpane but his wife’s anger overshadowed any embarrassment she might have felt.

  Her furious steps took her near the end of the bed. “How dare you?” she began with soft fury coloring every word.

  Pale brows rising at her question, he replied, “How dare I…what?”

  She stalked closer, moving around to the side of the bed, the blood pounding through her veins. “How dare you make love to that woman, that…slut, in full view of everyone? How dare you do so with your wife in the room? Have you no shame? No decency? No sense of propriety?”

  One muscular shoulder lifted in a gesture of supreme indifference. “I have done nothing of which I need be ashamed.”

  With those carefully uttered words, Lord Connor proved that everyone does stupid things. At the moment, however, it seemed his ill-thought-out plan worked exactly as he’d anticipated.

  Releasing a growl very much like an angry kitten, Verena hurled herself at him. He caught her flailing hands and used his body to stop her kicking legs. Deftly rolling her beneath him, he lay there gazing down into eyes so dark they were black in the flickering light of the single candle. She drew breath in great angry gulps, her rage-filled eyes glaring right back at him.

  No fear. Only anger. He could detect no hint of fear in her features, just an all-consuming rage at the husband she believed to be unfaithful.

  But would her fear overcome her anger? He was unlikely to find a better opportunity to prove to her that not all men were unconscionable bastards.

  “I was trying to make you jealous,” he whispered, the words brushing over her lips.

  The anger in her dark eyes faded not one whit. If anything, her fury deepened. With every breath she took, her bosom brushed his chest, inevitably drawing his gaze.

  He groaned right before he claimed her lips in a searing kiss. He was too aroused to hold anything back. His lips moved over hers provocatively and he felt glimmerings of a response. Her lips parted slightly and it was all the invitation he needed. He plunged his tongue into her silken mouth and heard her moan deep in her throat. His hand moved over her rib cage to her breast.

  He jerked back at a streak of fire through his left arm. Staring at the woman half beneath him, he saw the eyes of a frightened child. Images flashed and he shook his head, dispelling them.

  Arm throbbing, he raised himself away from her, the last vestiges of passion fleeing at the sight that met his eyes.

  Warm red blood oozed from a deep gash in his upper arm. He stared at his wife. She held her tiny knife loosely as if not even aware of its presence.

  Then, with nothing more than a whimper of fright, she fled. He watched her leave, far too shocked and disheartened by this turn of events to chase after her.

  He stalked to the clothespress and retrieved a cravat, wrapping his arm with little regard for the permanent damage he was doing to the linen. He clenched his fist against the pain. Why the devil did she still carry her blasted knife? Why in hell hadn’t he thought of it before? He had seen her hold Steyne at bay with the sharp little blade. Why wouldn’t she use it on someone she felt equally threatening?

  Connor stared hard at the door, willing her to come back, wondering if he should go after her. He was mortified to realize that what he’d interpreted as passion on her part, was fear.

  With a muttered curse that would have made a stableboy blush, Lord Connor Northwicke returned to his bed.

  *

  Ten

  As though in a trance, Verena moved across her chamber, unerringly arriving at her bed. The dim glow of a candle blinked off the blade in her hand, a discolored spot marring the perfect shine.

  Uttering a low cry, she threw it away from her. It struck the nightstand and landed on the floor with a dull thud.

  Everything was so very wrong. Would Connor now decide to divorce her? Surely his petition would be granted. She’d attacked him! How could she do such a thing to the man she loved?

  He must be furious, she thought with the tremblings of familiar terror.

  The rage she’d felt at his actions with Lady Mari were only intensified at his confession. To think, he’d decided, in some arrogantly male fashion, that jealousy was the best way to “cure” her of her fear!

  Part of her had to acknowledge how nearly that had been true. She had responded to his kiss with anger at first, but that had quickly transformed into something sweeter, deeper. She’d enjoyed the pleasant feelings his lips had evoked, surprised by her own deep longing to be possessed by this man with the laughing blue eyes that turned to deep sapphire with passion.

  But things had suddenly gone horribly, terribly wrong. He’d touched her breast. The action itself was harmless despite the reaction it caused in her. Verena’s terror had blinded her to the fact that she was with her husband, a man whose tenderness and concern proved his sense of honor beyond doubt.

  Tears pooled rapidly in her eyes but she refused to let them fall. When the tears disobeyed her will, she ground her fists into her eyes like a little girl who was awake far past her bedtime.

  In her fearful imaginings, she was transported back in time to a lovely glade by a babbling brook. She had looked up to see a handsome stranger with the same intense look in his eyes that she saw in the face of nearly every man with whom she came in contact. But as a child of fourteen, she had felt no fear. Everyone in the area knew who she was. She knew she was safe.

  She was supposed to be safe.

  Soft cries tore through her body, a pain so deep that it was forever a part of her. She crumpled, falling to the floor in a pool of skirts, and misery.

  Connor stood at the door separating his wife from him. He had heard her cries in the night but he had not gone to her. He’d stood at her door, much as he did now, and listened to the heart-rending sounds on the other side.

  Pure cowardice held him distant. Unsure what his reception would be, he’d stayed away, knowing his heart would shatter if she told him she wanted her freedom. He had no doubt that hearts could actually break. His had a definite crack after last night.

  Her sobs had eventually stopped and he had assumed she was sleeping—finally. Only then had he returned to his bed and managed to find some relief in the arms of Morpheus. And even that bit of sleep had been fitful and filled with nightmares from his past, exaggerated as dreams so often are, showing him things he couldn’t possibly have seen.

  Now he stood by the door like a frightened child called before his father for some prank, dawdling as much as possible to delay the inevitable birching. Verena would not approach him, however
, so he had to approach her.

  He knocked on the door. It swung wide, the pugnacious expression of Bridgette greeting him. The maid’s green eyes were hard as she asked him—quite rudely and with none of the subservience he was used to even from Bridgette—what the devil he wanted.

  “Let him in, Bri.”

  The maid dutifully stepped aside, but with obvious reluctance. Her look told him his life would be short if he hurt Verena. Connor was pleased Bridgette was such a fierce protector and only slightly fazed by her hostility.

  He advanced across the room. Remnants of a breakfast tray lay upon a small table next to a merrily burning fire. Seated with seeming complacency in the chair, his wife stared into the red-orange flames, glancing back at him from time to time, tension in her body and unease in her gaze.

  Standing back, he admired the scene, felt the warmth of the fire dispelling the chill November morning, and gazed at the charming beauty he’d married. Her light blue muslin gown hugged her curves, the pale blue highlighting the sheen in her upswept black hair. Her appearance exuded youth and vitality, a stark contrast to the sense of despair that surrounded her.

  Donning an expression that he hoped was nonthreatening, he asked, “May I join you? I think we should talk.”

  He saw her stiffen, only a slight tension in her neck and shoulders, but she nodded her assent. He seated himself and glanced at the lingering maid. “Would you feel safe enough to talk to me alone, Doll? I think our conversation should be private, but if you would rather have Bridgette here, you may.”

  Verena threw a look at the maid, dismissing her with nothing more than a simple nod. Bridgette hesitated but left without a fuss.

  Connor brushed his fingers over her hand. “Are you sure, my dear?”