He bent and kissed her hand. He seemed very friendly, maybe too friendly.
Her abigail turned beet red. "I need to go get your shawl, Mrs. Norton. The temperature outside has dropped. Reverend, do keep my lady company?"
"It will be my pleasure." He held the door for Mrs. Gretling. "The babe and I will keep her entertained."
Before she could object, the spry woman was out of the room.
With her gaze settling on the worn floor planks, Amora counted nails heads. Hopefully, Mrs. Gretling wouldn't be long.
His boots pounded. His shadow soon enveloped her, as did the spicy scent of sandalwood. "How are you, Mrs. Norton? I've been most anxious to know."
She took a step backward then gazed at his face. "I am well."
A sigh left him, as if he'd been concerned. "That is good."
She shook her fist at his awful tone. It held nothing but pity. That condescending tone was reserved for Barrington, no one else. "Leave me."
"No, I cannot. The night you miscarried, you said things. Awful things, Mrs. Norton. Things you haven't told anyone, not even your husband."
Amora shrank away until the wall kept her from retreating farther. This stranger knew her secret. "Get away from me."
He stood very still. "I will keep your confidence for now, but you won't know freedom until you tell Mr. Norton. Have faith in him. All will be well when he knows."
Faith? Faith in God or Barrington? Neither was enough. Neither had or would forgive her. "Mr. Norton has no time for a sick wife. His career cannot be beset with scandals."
"You have to tell him. He needs to know so he can help."
She plucked her gloves from her wristlet reticule. "No. No one else needs to know."
He folded his arms. His sunny disposition cleared. Grim lines, thinned lips, and a cloud of angst covered his face. "I'm going to Hampshire at the end of the week to retrieve my children. In a month, I will return. If I haven't heard from you, I will come to Mayfair and I will tell Mr. Norton that you were abducted."
"You must forget this. I'll lie. Tell him you lie."
"The truth always comes out no matter how carefully constructed the lies or the omissions. Your husband would rather hear the truth from you."
He plodded to the door. "You still suffer from the horror of it. No amount of pretense will take away your pain."
"What if he doesn't believe I was abducted? What if he just thinks that was a lie to cover an affair?"
"I believe you." Vicar Wilson leveled his hat and paced from the room. "Tell him, before it is too late."
What would her husband say, hearing the news from Vicar Wilson or Cynthia?
Her stomach soured. Barrington would hate it. And he'd hate Amora for keeping it secret.
A treacherous jade and a determined minister threatened to destroy her world. Nothing else she valued would be left.
Cynthia could be telling Barrington now. She took a breath and tried to find the right words to tell her husband he'd married a liar.
Amora paced out of her bedchamber into the hall. Her bare feet skimming across the silken weave of the carpet. It wasn't grass, but she felt a little like a hoyden. That's what her mother used to call her because she loved nature, and loved being in nature like her father. When was the last time she danced in the wind or even felt rain on her cheeks?
She stopped at the hall mirror and rubbed her eyes. She wished see saw a hoyden, the independent girl who knew her own mind.
Insides twisting, fighting over what words to use to break Barrington's trust, she went to the window and peered at the lonely street below.
From here, she'd waited hundreds of times to spy Barrington's carriage as soon as it arrived. Then she'd dash down to greet him, hear of his day, and entice him to bed. Having his arms about her kept the monster, most nights, from her dreams. Most nights. On those others, shivering against Barr's sleep warmed form made her realize she was safe and the monster hadn't taken Barrington away either as he promised.
She peaked again at the curtains. Always waiting for Barrington. Waiting for him to claim her hand in a dance at one of Mama's balls. Waiting for him to return from the war. Waiting for him to save her.
With a hand to her brow, she thought past this sorry state, but every sound of a horse's hooves shook her to the core. The truth would be out soon, and the rest of her world would be destroyed.
Maybe that was for the best.
The waiting needed to end.
She tugged at the creamy fabric and took one final look. Nothing but night and stars. What if accepting that he'd never come home again, that he'd abandon her for her deception freed Amora from this sorry state? If she lost everything, could she find herself?
"Ma'am." Mrs. Gretling's voice appeared out of nowhere.
Stopping her shakes, Amora turned. "Yes?"
Her abigail climbed the remaining stairs and now stood on the landing. "Would you like some tea? Something to soothe you? You've been anxious since the hospital."
"I, I'm not thirsty. But, can you tell me if Mr. Norton said he was to be on time?"
Mrs. Gretling wiped her hands on her apron. "It's not yet ten, ma'am."
Her brow shot up as she came closer. "Oh, I should've known not to take ye there yet. I'm sorry. I thought it would be good for you to be out, to be with the children. It usually makes you happy."
Amora cinched her robe. The snowy muslin that hugged her neck seemed to choke her. "I just need to be free… to speak to Mr.-–"
The sound of horses' hooves filtered inside. Amora turned to the window and peeked out in time to see Barrington descend from the carriage and head toward the portico. Her heart slowed to a normal rhythm. This was her last chance to tell him. "Inform Mr. Norton that I wish to see him in my chambers."
Creases filled Mrs. Gretling's forehead. "Yes, ma'am."
Amora watched the woman plod down the steps, and then closed her eyes. The fear of Barrington hating her over the truth would be gone. He'd either forgive her or banish her, but at least she'd know and no longer be enslaved to wondering. Only the nightmares of her memories would remain. One source of trepidation had to be better than two. Pulse throbbing, she lifted her chin and plodded to her room. If her marriage must die, it would be with her own hands.
Barrington knocked on Amora's bedchamber then let himself inside. Fumbling with parchment, he took a breath and readied to explain his slight tardiness. "I let the time get away from me pouring through records Beakes located on an old crime. These dates have my head a bit fogged, but I'll be ready for bed once I review this lease for the Dowag…"
Speech robbed, he adjusted his spectacles. His eyes popped wide open at the sight of Amora. A sheer robe draped her long neck. The translucent muslin displayed the lacing of her stays and the flare of her hips beneath a white chemise. His pulse galloped to a higher pace imagining the softness confined beneath.
The papers in his hand fell to the floor. The Dowager's contract would have to fend for itself. "Are you readying for bed?"
She lowered her chin, breaking his stare. "I have to tell you something."
Weeks of sleeping next to Amora, touching but not touching, always abstaining numbered in his head.
Was she ready for that to end?
Did she want him?
He rubbed at his neck, hoping his thoughts would become coherent or at least not choking on longing. "Amora, tell me what you want?"
"I should've told you a long time ago, but I was afraid."
Not exactly the alluring words he hoped, though she didn't need to do much in this period of physical famine to start his heart pumping. "I'm listening."
The lithe goddess wasn't smiling. "I don't want you to hate me, Barrington."
That definitely wasn't an invitation for bliss, but that didn't mean it couldn't lead to one. He stepped fully inside her bedchamber and closed the door with his heel. His gaze never left her, not even for a second.
She started to pace, making the fabric float about her
. Never more alluring, yet she held such a serious pout on her face. What could be the matter? Surely, she couldn't be cross at him. But, she was a woman and her moods changed fast. He drew himself up. Tugging on his lapels, he gazed over his lenses and forced his lips to thin. It was his most contrite and humored look. "Whatever I have done, I'm sorry. Repentant actually. Let me hold you and make amends."
"This is serious."
How was he to listen to anything with her dressed for bed and not bundled up like a mummy. The canopied mattress was five paces from him, maybe three from her stance at the vanity. Oh, what he wouldn't give for a meeting of the minds, bodies, and spirit. He sobered and charged headlong at the problem. "Tell me what makes you frown."
Her bare feet shifted, but her countenance never rose. "I have no peace, it's in my dreams. Vicar Wilson said I should just tell you. He's right."
"The vicar?" Barrington paced to the footboard and allowed his tightened fist to hide behind the knurled pole of the bedframe. "Did he come to Mayfair?"
"No, I saw him on my outing with Mrs. Gretling."
A protective nature was a powerful weapon in Barrington's personal arsenal. It overpowered his senses when it came to Amora. How many noses did he bloody of his fellow soldiers when they taunted him about being faithful to a sweetheart hundreds of miles away? On the day Gerald Miller stepped in front of him, taking a fatal bullet, Barrington had pummeled at least one. Fingers coiling tight like a spring about to burst, he readied for a reason to punch the preacher. "Did the vicar upset you?"
"No, not truly. But he's right in his wisdom." She bit her lip and spun toward the window.
Right about what? "Amora?" His voice sounded too loud, too harsh. Not wanting to provoke an argument when Wilson deserved the censure, he lowered his tone. "Please. It's just you and me here. Tell me what's distressing you."
She shook her head, causing a long dark braid to unravel from her chignon. It fluttered like a flag along her straight posture, down to her waist. Definitely something to pledge allegiance to.
"I didn't tell you, Barr. You deserved to know. You deserved better."
He slid his hands from the canopy and switched his gaze from her satin hair to her curvy hips. Still not a good option if this conversation would lead to continued celibacy. His eyelids shuttered close. He waited for her complaint. "Just say it, Amora."
"A long time ago, eight months before you returned from the Peninsula. I was …" Her voice shook with sobs. She sounded as if she were drowning. "It happened."
The urge to save her, to keep her safe in his arms surged in his veins, but he forced his feet to stay put. "I won't argue. I'll accept what you say. I want to make you happy, more than ever. I lov--"
"Abducted." She pivoted, faced him, and finished. "I was abducted."
She moved toward him. Her gait was slow like the world had stopped. His definitely had.
Something dragged on his arm. Was it her palm? He couldn't tell. His gut stung from an unseen punch. He almost doubled over trying to catch a breath. Everything burned. His chest. His lungs. His heart.
"I was abducted, Barr. Say something."
He watched her lips move. Witnessed sighs, the blinking of eyes pregnant with tears, but he couldn't comprehend any of her words beyond abducted.
"Barrington, I was. And I hid it in lies."
Abducted, taken, forced. Euphemisms for rape. No, that couldn't be what happened. And Amora wouldn't lie. Not his Amora. "Not true."
She shook her head. His gut knotted, and then broke into pieces.
Abducted.
And she lied.
Lied about something so horrible.
Didn't trust him enough to know the truth.
Didn't love him enough and chose a lie.
Unsteady, he shifted his legs and wobbled to the open side of the bedframe. He sat, more like dropped onto the mattress. Another inch and he'd surely have hit the floor.
She followed and knelt at his side. Her eyes mirrored glass. "Say something. I fear your opinions."
Her fears? That was her concern, not destroying the illusion he believed his life.
"Please, Barr. Tell me your thoughts."
Did the memories of the abduction spurn her nervousness, the questioning if he'd ever come home? Did it send her into a fit that killed their child? He wiped his dry mouth and put a hand over his shriveling heart. "I don't…don't know what to say."
"You're a barrister. Asking questions is in your blood." She rubbed at her temples. "Make this a courtroom. Ask, then judge, then condemn."
Fat droplets rolled down her cheeks. She crossed her arms and hugged herself as if chilled, but the window was closed. "Just do it. I've tortured myself for far too long waiting for this day."
Her words sounded brave. But she trembled.
He'd seen witnesses this scared. They had to be handled with great care. He cupped her ice cold hands and coddled it against his knee. "Tell me what happened."
"I fought him. But he, he str-uck m-me." Her shoulders shook. Her voice rose, terror present in each winded syllable. "My… my fault. Should'a been more careful, more watch--ful."
How could he hear any sordid details with her becoming hysterical? His insides stewed, yet he swallowed his own anger and his questions and gathered her into his arms. "You don't have to say any more. Please calm, my love."
She pulled back and put a shaking palm to his cheek. "Mother said you would hate me if you knew. I can't live with you hating me."
"Never. I could never do that. The war shouldn't have lasted so long. Even a good girl can be tricked and made vulnerable."
"I wasn't careful. I was so upset over Papa's death. I didn't think."
What exactly was she admitting to? An abduction or a seduction? All afternoon, he'd read account after account of alleged Dark Walk Abductor victims. More than half of the statements weren't credible. A handful, made his skin crawl. The rest, only a jury could decide. Where would his wife's story fall?
Her arms went about his neck. She squeezed so tight. Maybe she thought he'd disappear.
Part of him wanted to. He didn't know her anymore. All these years he believed her faithful. To show her his gratefulness, he'd accepted her mania about his schedule, learned to sleep with candles burning, sent notes of his whereabouts. He'd accepted the leech because he thought she was all his. Lies.
"I wanted to tell you every day, but I didn't know how. I was to protect our love. It's my fault. You have every right to hate me because of this."
Whom had she sought comfort from and became his prey? "Amora, wh—?"
She wove her hands beneath his waistcoat. Her small palms found every muscle tired from stooping over ledgers. "Let me know I haven't ruined things. You hate deception."
"Why tell me now? Not five years ago, when I returned from war?"
"I thought you wouldn't take me as your wife, if you knew. And I needed you to take away the fear. I couldn't lose you. Mama said I would."
What of her overprotective mother? Why hadn't she watched over Amora?
His nerves jittered like the night before a big trial. Blast it. It was a trial of his manhood and his compassion. She needed him to make everything better. "No more creases under your violet eyes."
With his thumb, he smoothed a tear from her face. Her quiet sobs ripped at what was left of his soul. He'd rather be beat, pummeled, than witness them.
"You've told me, Amora. Now everything will be fine." Did his voice sound even? A thousand questions filled his head but he couldn't be a barrister right now. Just a husband. One desperate to comfort his wife. "All will be well."
"Will it? Things weren't fine before."
True. But maybe his debt of her miscarriage canceled hers over this omission. He needed logic. Nothing in his head felt ordered. Everything swirled out of control pressing him with doubt and grief. Who did it? The faces of every man who ever commented on her beauty flashed into the witness box in his mind. Who abused her?
And did she fanc
y the rake, even for a moment?
Her robe slipped, exposing the creamy silk of her shoulder. Someone else had seen this loveliness. Someone else had possessed her.
Tracing the curve of her neck, Barrington sought the feel of her to fix the disappointment filling him. "You've told me. This is done. You needn't think of it again tonight."
"Can't think past it anymore."
He whipped off his spectacles, tossing them to the table by the bed. Amora would be able to look into his eyes and see the flames torching his innards over someone hurting her. Or worse, his newly formed doubts about her, about their marriage.
He tucked her head beneath his chin and held her. Maybe the Lord would smother the fire lighting his bones. Probably wouldn't since he and God hadn't communicated since the miscarriage. It was up to Barrington alone to make things better.
Minutes, maybe an hour passed. Her cries died down. She lifted from his embrace. "Well, I've said it. I've finally told you." She moved a couple inches away and put a foot on the floor. "You can go work now."
He wasn't going to be dismissed and leave this thing, the omission, and the other man, to remain a gulf between them. Wrenching out of his waistcoat, he wrapped his arms about her, kissing that spot along her throat until she released a raspy giggle.
She curled her fingers about his cravat. "Barr, you forgive me?"
He nodded quickly. He didn't know what to say when he wanted to break bricks. Some fiend took advantage of her. His girl. His betrothed. Why couldn't the war have ended sooner so he could've protected her? Maybe he shouldn't have enlisted at all. Grandfather would have been disappointed, but he could have stayed at her side.
"You still want me? Mama was wrong?"
A tremor set in his jaw at the fear in her voice. His blasted pharaoh want-to-be mother-in-law. The tenuous reign on his emotions snapped. "You are mine, Amora. No matter what."
He lifted her to him and took her mouth. Gentle at first. Soft, so she could send him away. She leaned into him.
Tugging at her robe, he pushed the muslin down her arms. With his record-indexing finger, he hooked the ribbon in her hair and shook free her locks. Raven colored silk now draped her buttermilk skin.
Unveiling Love Page 6
