“Yes, we do,” Shilton interrupted. “Because you’ve imprisoned yourself in guilt and it’s spoiling things for you. I was in the bedchamber when you quarreled this afternoon.”
Cecily glanced at Patrick, but didn’t speak.
Shilton was looking at him, too. “We all know his late lordship wasn’t right, wasn’t responsible at the end, and you thought you should have known what he would do, should have been able to stop it. That’s the guilt that eats you up, isn’t it?”
Verne closed his eyes.
“Stop, Shilton,” Cecily said uneasily at last. “His lordship isn’t strong enough for this conversation right now.”
“It will give him strength,” Shilton insisted. “Because the guilt isn’t his. It wasn’t even his late lordship’s, so it can’t be his.”
Verne opened his eyes, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I saw her do it,” Shilton said. “Your brother didn’t set the house on fire. His wife did, quite deliberately. She thought it would kill him, and that you and I and everyone else would save her. No thought for her daughter or for you. Only herself.”
Verne stared at her, his lips falling open.
She nodded once to him, curtseyed to Cecily, and walked out of the room.
Slowly, Verne turned his eyes from the door and looked at his wife, baffled. “That was a large secret. Why tell us now?”
“Because it’s coming between us, your belief that you are too guilty to deserve love.” She brushed his hair back from his face with tender fingertips. “You are not a bad man, Patrick. Like everyone else, you only behave badly sometimes. But do you know the funny thing? It never mattered to me if you were bad or not. Because love isn’t about what you deserve. It just is. And I love you.”
She kissed his lips. After a surprised moment they responded, opening and taking control, kissing her back until she was breathless.
“And I love you,” he whispered against her lips. “With everything I am and could be. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t think I was capable of it, but God help me, I do. I don’t want anyone or anything else. Just you. Always you.” He drew her on to the pillow, his kiss more urgent as her tears flowed with happiness, dampening her face and his. “Let me love you before the doctor comes,” he whispered.
And suddenly, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry some more. In the end, she did both at once, but the huge strength of her emotion, like his, seemed to need more of an outlet, and so she surrendered to his loving, with gladness and joy.
“But your poor arm,” she whispered once, in distress.
“I can make love with one arm,” he insisted. “See?”
She gasped, holding him closer. “Oh, yes. I see!”
*
After the doctor’s excruciating ministrations, Patrick fell into exhausted sleep.
When he woke, he sensed another presence in the room. But it was not Cecily who now occupied the chair by his bed. It was Torbridge. Perhaps he’d dreamed Cecily and their stolen moments of sweet delights.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded of Torbridge.
“I’ve nowhere else to be since I retrieved the letter to Hobbes from your coat.” Torbridge smiled faintly. “I sent your wife to eat breakfast and rest, but I imagine she will be back at any moment. How are you?”
“My arm throbs like a steam engine, so I suspect the laudanum has worn off. Which means I can at least think. What does the letter say?”
“Among other things, that it was Renarde who betrayed Jerome and is in the pay of the French government. And that Bonaparte will never defeat the Russians. He is not equipped or supplied for a Russian winter.”
Verne absorbed that while Torbridge poured him some fresh water and handed him the glass.
“Then Renarde tried to kill Jerome when he escaped back to England,” Verne said. “But he had left the Hart before someone shot at us the next day.”
“Only officially. He must have been hiding, waiting for you in case Jerome had recognized him. For he didn’t reach London until very late that night.”
Verne nodded thoughtfully. “And it was he who attacked me near Mooreton Hall.”
“Ill-judged. He was half drunk.”
“And not wearing his spectacles,” Verne guessed. “What a fine fellow I am to have scared off a blind and intoxicated man in a fist fight.”
Torbridge grinned. “He was a slippery villain, drunk or sober. We are well shot of him.” He rose to his feet. “And here, if I am not mistaken, is your wife returning. I shall take my leave and return to London. A speedy recovery to you, Verne.”
Verne held out his good hand. “Did I say thank you for saving my life?”
Torbridge took his hand. “You are welcome.” His lips curved, half rueful. “Thank you for your invaluable service.”
And then the door opened and Cecily came in, smiling with delight when she saw that he was awake and talking. Torbridge bowed to her and was included in her smile, but she didn’t seem to notice that he left the room.
“You look better,” she said warmly, perching on the end of the bed, and smoothing his forehead with her cool palm. “We are to watch for fever and keep you in bed for the rest of the day and tomorrow.”
“Dashed quack,” Verne said ungratefully.
“Are you so anxious to get home?”
“I like home better now you are there.” He took her hand. “You know I would not have left last night had it not been urgent. There were so many things I meant to say, to try and make things right between us again.”
Her fingers squeezed his. “I know. The light on the marsh. Isabelle came. She told me Renarde was looking for you, that he was the traitor. So we all came flying over here to find you. I was afraid we were too late. Compared to that, silly suspicions, chambermaids, dreams, none of that matters.”
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “For what it is worth, you have no need to be suspicious. The chambermaid had been sent by the Longstones to seduce me and sour things between us so that we were less likely to produce an heir. They were clutching at straws. What you saw, was me proving the point. I would not have touched her with more than one finger.”
“I know. And I know you are right. For one thing, Mrs. Longstone would never have dismissed a chambermaid when she has guests staying.”
“And Marjorie,” he said.
Cecily flushed. “Don’t. I had no business saying what I did.”
“You had every right to ask. It is my fault for keeping secrets from you. You’re my wife, my love, and I want you to understand.” He held her hand to his chest. “Marjorie had a difficult life which she made worse by refusing to admit the problem. Instead, she convinced herself she loved me and all would be well if only we were lovers. Only I did not love her and I wouldn’t have touched her if I did. She was Arthur’s wife, the mother of his child. If you sense some guilt in me, if I speak her name at odd times, that is the reason. Because my brother’s wife wanted me, because just occasionally I was so low I was almost tempted. But I never, ever let anything happen between us.”
She tugged their joined hands to her cheek. He felt the drop of a tear, but she was smiling.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
*
Two days later, their carriage pulled up at Finmarsh House. Verne, looking very dashing with his arm in a sling, stepped down from the carriage unaided, and held out his hand to his wife.
The servants, old and new, came out to welcome them back. From the open windows of the north wing, the plasterers cheered and waved their knives and brushes.
Verne and Cecily walked in together.
“Mrs. Shilton,” Cecily greeted her newly promoted housekeeper, who smiled at her with pride.
“Mrs. Longstone is here to welcome you home,” William murmured at the front door. “With Mr. Longstone.”
“Excellent,” Verne said at once. “Would you like me to see them off?” he asked Cecily.
“No. I believe I would lik
e the privilege.”
Mrs. Longstone came rushing downstairs to greet them, Henry at her heels. “How wonderful to see you both home,” she exclaimed. “You could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard the news! Thank God your injury is no worse, Verne. Poor Renarde has disappeared altogether, so there are clearly some shocking footpads in the area.”
“Shocking,” Verne agreed.
“Don’t worry, we aren’t staying,” Henry said with a quick smile to Cecily. “We only called to inquire, and when we heard you were expected home, stopped only to give you our best wishes.”
“How very thoughtful,” Cecily said politely. “Thank you. As you see, Verne is still very tired. He lost a lot of blood.”
“Of course. Well, we shall hope to see you soon. What an eventful start to your marriage, Lady Cecily! Lady Verne, I should say.”
“Oh, we need not stand on ceremony,” Cecily said. “I’m sure we understand each other very well.”
Henry cast her a quick, uncertain glance, though his mother seemed oblivious.
“We shall leave you now to look after your patient,” Mrs. Longstone said, patting her hand kindly.
“Thank you,” Cecily said, and looked around the still congregated servants until she found the chambermaid and beckoned to her. “Anne Wilson will be going with you.”
Mrs. Longstone blinked in surprise, looking more than a little flustered. “Anne? My old chambermaid? Does she not give satisfaction?”
“No,” Cecily said baldly. “I believe it is perfectly clear where her loyalties lie. We’ll send her things on, along with the pay she has earned.”
“Oh. Well, whatever you like, my dear,” Mrs. Longstone said, faintly. “Perhaps we can afford her after all.”
Anne, flushing scarlet to the roots of her hair, followed her employers from the house. Cecily accompanied them as far as the front steps.
“It was all in vain, you know,” she murmured, “as I have just discovered, I was already with child when we returned from Scotland. And if,” she continued relentlessly through the false congratulations of both Longstones, “if anything happens to either me or my child, whether or not your machinations have anything to do with it, Verne will undoubtedly kill you. And trust me, my brother will see that no jury of his peers will convict. Goodbye, Mrs. Longstone. Mr. Longstone.”
While they gawped at her in a jumbled mix of fear and guilt, she strolled back into the house, resisting the temptation to dust off her hands.
“I doubt they will be back,” she said with satisfaction to Verne who grinned, and ushered her toward the library door.
“Then I suggest we shove all the recent nonsense aside and enjoy the beginning of our married life,” Verne said. He opened the library door, then paused, laying his good hand on her flat stomach. “I heard every word. Is it true?”
She flushed, smiling because she couldn’t contain her delight any longer. “Yes, it’s true,” she whispered. “Are you pleased?”
“Oh, my dear, I could not be happier,” he breathed.
Cecily laughed and drew him inside. “Let us see if that is true…”
The Vulgar Heart
Unmarriageable
Book 3
Mary Lancaster
Chapter One
Miss Henrietta Maybury fanned herself vigorously. The heat inside the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, was intense that July evening, not least because of the thousands of candles which lit the stage and the auditorium with equal brightness. A faint, smoky mist blurred Henrietta’s view of the play, but it made little difference to her understanding, for she couldn’t hear the dialogue either. The noise of the chatter from her own and surrounding boxes drowned most of that out. Then, there was the general background hum from more distant voices and the occasional shout from the cheap seats in the pit.
The whole oppressive atmosphere combined to make Henrietta feel just a little dizzy. A few twinges behind her eyes warned a headache was not far away. To distract herself, she transferred her attention to the audience—which was, after all, the main reason most people of her class attended the theatre. There was always a wonderful new fashion to observe, or gossip to acquire from seeing who accompanied or visited whom in their box. Or one could look down on the hoi polloi who rubbed shoulders with the few single gentlemen ogling the ladies from the pit.
Henrietta’s slightly blurred vision was drawn to the boxes opposite, particularly to one in the row above her own, where she picked out a gown of such a vibrant shade of puce that it cut through the haze. Worn by a stout, middle-aged lady, it was indeed an extraordinary garment, trimmed with feathers of the same shade. A puce turban, sporting plumes so tall they bent against the ceiling of the box completed the awe-inspiring ensemble. Henrietta wanted to applaud the lady’s courage, if not her taste, for the sight quite cheered her up.
The lady’s companions were an older gentleman with bushy side whiskers, and a younger, elegantly dressed man with short, dark hair…who gazed directly at her. Of course, she should have immediately lowered her eyes and pretended not to see, but Henrietta was bored with the stifling conformity of her first London season, and some devil prompted her merely to stare back in order to put him rather than herself out of countenance.
He was not even a handsome man, nor particularly young, she guessed, but his harsh, weather-beaten face held a certain rough attraction, particularly when an intrigued smile began to form on his lips. Far from being embarrassed by her haughty glare, he inclined his head. Of course, even she could not acknowledge such a sign from a stranger. Recognizing with some pique that this was one staring contest she was not going to win, she let her gaze drift out of focus. Then she glanced along the rest of the row before returning casually to the stage.
It was still hot, still oppressive, and the incipient headache behind her eyes had intensified. After a further ten minutes, she leaned closer to her mother. “Mama, it’s so hot in here, I’m just going to put my head out of the door for some fresher air.”
“Well, don’t go out into the passage,” her mother warned. “At least, not alone. Do you feel faint?”
“No, no, I just need a breath of cool air.” Henrietta slipped past her sister Thomasina, now Lady Dunstan, to the back of the box and opened the door.
A waft of slightly cooler air greeted her, and she stuck her head out into the corridor in search of more. Fortunately, it was empty, so she slipped outside and lifted her head and arms to catch as much breeze as she could. She closed her eyes, willing away the headache.
A small, high-pitched whine disturbed her. Opening her eyes in some surprise, she looked around her. A tiny puppy wobbled along the passage toward her, sniffing at the wall as it went, all but tripping over its too-large feet.
Henrietta smiled, surprised to realize how much she’d been missing Spring, her sister’s pet dog, who’d gone with Charlotte to Lincolnshire since her marriage. She could not resist hurrying toward the little creature. “Hello there, little fellow, where did you come from?” she murmured, pausing at the stairs and holding out her hand.
The puppy wagged its tail but backed off, clearly unsure.
“Has someone hurt you, poor little thing?” Henrietta murmured in quick sympathy. She remained still, with her gloved hand held out. “I won’t. Come and greet me civilly, which is more than Spring ever did.”
The pup pranced forward a little, sniffed once at the very tip of her finger, and then bolted down the stairs, bouncing and tumbling.
“Oh, silly creature!” Impulsively, she ran after it. But her attention was more on the dog than her own clothing, and her foot caught in the tumbling train of her gown. She gasped, grabbing for the bannister to save herself.
Vaguely, she was aware of a male figure bounding upstairs toward her. Her floundering hand missed the bannister and then she was falling, head first.
She slammed into a man’s hard chest. His arms closed around her, catching her and hauling her upright.
Bemused, unable to quite
believe her inevitable disaster had been prevented, she gazed up into the face of the man who had bowed to her from the opposite box.
“You,” she uttered in confusion.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was deep, his speech clear and clipped, like a man used to giving orders. He had eyes the color of the sea. Her hands still clung to his thick arms.
Hastily, she released him. “No…no, I don’t believe I am, thanks to you.”
She flushed, just because she could feel the heat of his body, and tried to step back. He released her, but slowly, perhaps to be sure she wouldn’t fall again, and stepped down on to the stair below.
She smiled a little uncertainly, smoothing her ruffled gown. “I’m most grateful, sir. Oh! The pup! Where did it go?”
“What pup?”
“A tiny little thing with a floppy ear. I was following it downstairs… I’ve no idea how it got into the theatre, but I fear someone has mistreated him because he seems very thin and timid for a puppy. Though, of course, there’s no point in comparing him to Spring.”
“To what?” A faint frown of bafflement tugged at the man’s brows.
“My sister’s dog,” Henrietta said, starting down the stairs again, this time looping her train over her arm as she should have done in the first place. “He bounces—” She broke off as she caught sight of the puppy watching her through the spars of the bannister from the landing. “Ah, there you are!”
It seemed to be playing, in a nervous kind of way, because although it waited for her, as soon as she offered her hand, it made to scamper off again. But she was ready for it this time and merely scooped it up.
Triumph turned quickly to concern. “Oh, dear, he’s mere skin and bones. The poor little thing is starving.”
The pup wriggled, licking her detaining hand and then chewing her finger with needle-sharp teeth. Henrietta laughed.
Her savior stood at the foot of the stairs, regarding them with amusement. “Now what do you plan to do with it? Take it to the play?”
“Oh, the devil, the play!” she uttered, quite improperly. “It will be the interval any moment and Mama will scold me into next week! Perhaps I could give the pup to the doorman to look after until we leave…”
The Unmarriageable Collection (Books 1–3) Page 44
