by Candace Camp
“I will marry her!” Birkshaw declaimed dramatically.
“Over my dead body,” Ravenscar snarled. “You have ruined us with your silly posing! Do you understand me? Ruined us! Do you honestly think that after what you have done I would allow you to marry my daughter? And how do you propose to take care of her? Did you think of that before you swayed her to run away with you? Eh? What will you do, take her back to your bachelor’s rooms? Live on some paltry allowance you get from your father?”
“I will find employment, my lord,” the younger man replied stiffly.
“Oh, yes, of course! Secretary to some lord, no doubt. Hah! You couldn’t live on the pittance they pay, and even if you could, what man would hire you? Secretaries are responsible men, not the sort who run off with another man’s fiancée in the middle of the night. The same is true for any government job. If you had the sense God gave a kitten, you would know it. No one in the Ton would have anything to do with either one of you after this. You will be lucky if you’re able to find a job clerking. I know your situation. You have to marry money. I’ll wager you’re living on borrowed funds now. Did you think she had money? Did you think, if you blackened her name, I would have no choice but to allow you to marry her, and you would batten onto me for the rest of your life?”
“It was not like that, my lord.” Birkshaw’s jaw clenched. “I realize that my prospects are not very good….”
“Not good? They are miserable!” Ravenscar roared. “And you intend to drag my daughter into that? You propose to house her in some tenement in the East End? How will you feed her? How will you provide for the luckless children you will have?”
“I—I don’t know,” Birkshaw faltered.
“You don’t know,” Ravenscar repeated with heavy sarcasm. “And for that you have ruined my family.”
A little sob escaped Rachel at her father’s words. He turned his harsh gaze on her. “Well, miss, I never expected this of you,” he said bitterly. “I always thought that Dev would be the one who destroyed our good name. It was his licentious ways I feared. What a fool I was not to see that you were cut from the same cloth. You are a wanton! A trollop!”
“Father, no, please!” Tears streamed from Rachel’s eyes, and her entire body shook with sobs. “I have done nothing wrong!”
“Ravenscar!” Michael swung back around. “That’s hardly necessary.”
“It is the truth!” Ravenscar thundered, his eyes flashing with the fire of a biblical prophet. He pointed an accusing finger at his daughter. “For the sake of your fleshly desires, you have trampled the good name of your family. It is not only that you will never be received in decent company again. Neither will your mother. I will be too ashamed to set foot in White’s again. You are a stain upon the name of Aincourt.”
“I am sorry. I am sorry!” Rachel cried, looking at her father pleadingly. “I did not think! I was—it was just—” She covered her face with her hands, unable to go on.
“It’s obvious that you did not think,” her father retorted disgustedly. “Dragging both our names through the dirt just so you could have your pleasure with this boy! There is no way we can keep this quiet. The house is full of wedding guests. The entire Ton will know that you left Westhampton standing at the altar.”
Rachel’s hand dropped from her face, and she stared at her father with rising horror. It was obvious that until this moment she had not considered the consequences her actions would have for Michael. “No, I did not mean—”
“You have made him look a proper fool,” Ravenscar thundered on, disregarding her comment. “You have dishonored an excellent man, broken your trust—”
“Enough!” Michael exclaimed, striding forward. “That is enough, my lord. She will not be ruined, and I will not be dishonored. Because no one will know of this.”
“What?” Everyone else in the room turned to look at Michael in astonishment. Ravenscar frowned. “What are you talking about? We cannot keep this hidden.”
“Yes, we can. No one will know that Miss Aincourt jilted me if we are married two days hence, as planned.”
Ravenscar stared at him. “You would still be willing to marry her? After this?”
Michael carefully refrained from looking at Rachel. “If Miss Aincourt agrees to it. It is the only way to keep it a secret. I am sure Mr. Birkshaw, if he loves Miss Aincourt as he says he does, will ride away and never speak of this.” Michael cast a long, intent look at the other man.
Birkshaw’s gaze dropped, and he nodded.
“My servants will never breathe a word,” Michael went on. “They are loyal to me. I think we can count on you and Lady Ravenscar not to reveal it.”
“I should think not!” Ravenscar exclaimed.
“Then the only way it would be revealed is if I repudiate our marriage contract. If we return to the house quietly, and Miss Aincourt and I are married day after tomorrow, no one will be the wiser.”
There was a long moment of silence. Michael turned to Rachel. She was wiping tears from her cheeks, her face averted. “Well, Miss Aincourt? Are you willing to wed me Friday?”
“Of course she is,” Lord Ravenscar inserted quickly. “She should count herself a fortunate woman that you would even consider allying yourself with her after this.”
“No. Let the lady speak for herself,” Michael said firmly, his eyes still fastened on Rachel. “Obviously she accepted me unwillingly before. I do not want that to happen again. It is entirely your decision, Miss Aincourt.”
Rachel raised her eyes, still damp with tears, to his. “Yes,” she said in a low voice. “I will marry you Friday. I am so sorry. My behavior has been inexcusable. I—thank you for your generosity.”
Michael nodded once, gravely. He had spoken up because he could not bear to hear Rachel’s father harangue her any longer; the thought of her having to return to live with the man, forever the object of his anger and scorn, filled him with disgust. This was the only way, he knew, for Rachel to survive this episode with her reputation intact. But he was also aware, with a touch of self-disdain, that his motives had been largely selfish. He had made his offer because he could not bear to let her go. He had to bind her to him, even knowing that she loved another.
Birkshaw let out an inarticulate sound of frustration and pain and, turning on his heel, left the room. Rachel cast an anguished glance after him but did not move to stop him. Shortly after, the three of them left the inn and rode silently back to Westhampton, Rachel riding on her father’s horse behind him. On Friday, as scheduled, she became Lady Westhampton.
* * *
They had been married for seven years now, and she had never been truly his wife.
Michael had still hoped—foolishly, he soon found—that somehow, someday, Rachel would grow to love him, or at least to like him well enough that her innate desire for a normal life, with intimacy and children, would lead her to ease into a true marriage with him. He had reassured her, of course, the afternoon before their wedding, that he would not press her or expect a physical relationship with her, knowing her feelings. But inside, he had still believed that in time, with care and consideration on his part, she would change in her regard for him.
But over the years, their relationship had scarcely changed. They had begun their marriage in a careful, polite way, and they had continued that way. Hurt and still somewhat stunned, not wanting to rush her and cause her any pain, Michael had been scrupulously courteous and restrained with Rachel. They had spent their honeymoon in Paris, once again open to the English now that the war with Napoleon was over. Their rooms had been separate, joined by a door in the common wall that was never opened. They went to operas and plays, and to a ball at the British ambassador’s.
They returned home to London, to a life that was much the same. Rachel made her cautious entry into the life of a Society matron, starting with small card parties and dinners, and growing to a spectacular ball by the end of her first Season. Michael helped her through the sometimes treacherous shoals of a
Society life, and she responded with gratitude and, he thought, a certain degree of liking. But there was always between them a certain awkwardness, a formality. Though they learned sundry small facts about one another, they remained, on an important level, strangers. It seemed as though the more awkward he felt, the more polite and restrained he grew, and Rachel responded in kind, until at last he realized in despair that there would never be any love between them. He did not know if Rachel still loved Anthony Birkshaw. He would not have dreamed of violating her privacy by asking her; he knew only that she had not seen the man again after they had wed, for that was the only stipulation he had made regarding their marriage. But whether she loved Birkshaw or not, it was clear to Michael that she did not love him.
After a year of marriage, he decided that it was worse to live with Rachel, loving her, wanting her, and receiving no love or desire in return, than it was to live without her. Their parting, as in all things, was polite, even amicable. He reminded her of his liking for the country and quiet calm, but assured her that he had no intention of making her suffer a country existence. She could remain in London, living the life she enjoyed, while he would retire to the estate in the Lake District. There had been in him, he thought, some small, lingering hope that she would protest that she did not want to live alone in London, that she would go with him, or that they must split their time between the two homes. But she did not. She merely agreed, polite and passionless.
That had been a lonely, bitter trip north for him, and an even harder winter in the snowy landscape of Cumbria. There was all the beauty he had always loved; there were his books, his studies, repairs to the house and gardens, experiments to try in the fields, letters to write and read—in short, all the things that had made up his life before Rachel. But none of them satisfied.
But so it had been for over five years now. He and Rachel lived separate lives. He visited London sometimes during the Season, just to make an appearance; she returned to Westhampton for Christmas. They were married. And they weren’t. He had grown accustomed to it, if not reconciled.
There was a discreet tap at the door; then his valet opened it and carried in the tray containing his breakfast. He set the tray on the small table in front of the pair of chairs in the sitting area of the bedroom, then proceeded to pour Michael’s tea and remove the covers of the dishes.
“Good morning, my lord,” the valet said politely. Garson was a person of rigid ideas concerning etiquette, and he was careful never to cross the line into friendliness with his employer, despite the fact that he had been Michael’s valet for almost fifteen years.
He bustled about the room, opening the drapes and letting in the morning glow, then paused beside Michael’s chair, waiting until Michael had taken several sips of tea. Michael looked up at him inquiringly.
“You had something to say to me?”
Garson folded his hands prissily at his waist. “There is a person who arrived here this morning. A groom, I believe, from Lord Ravenscar’s estate. He left there yesterday morning, as I understand, and rode straight through.”
“Lord Ravenscar!” Michael set the cup of tea down with a clank and jumped to his feet. “Why? Is something wrong? Did something happen to Lady Westhampton?”
“He said that all was fine, my lord, or I would have delivered the note he carried to you immediately.” With this, he produced a small note from his pocket.
Michael snatched the missive from his valet’s hands. “Good God, man, why didn’t you?”
Garson looked pained. “I thought to give you a moment to take your tea first, my lord.”
Michael grimaced. He broke the seal, unfolded the letter and began to read Rachel’s familiar hand. A moment later an oath burst from him, then he sat back down in his seat and read through the note again. “Bloody hell!”
Garson had remained in the room, ostensibly laying out Michael’s clothes for the day, but in reality waiting, Michael knew, to find out why Lady Westhampton had sent a letter winging swiftly back to the house she had just left. He paused now beside Michael’s chair. When Michael said nothing, he prompted, “Everything is all right, I trust, with her ladyship?”
Michael tapped an irritated tattoo on the arm of his chair. “No,” he snapped. “Everything is most definitely not all right.” He paused, then added, “Pack my bags, Garson. We will be joining Lady Westhampton at Darkwater.”
CHAPTER 5
Rachel glanced across the sitting room to where Jessica stood looking down at the bit of knitting in Miranda’s hands. Jessica pressed her lips together, then pursed them.
Miranda looked up at her and sighed. “Oh, go ahead and laugh. I know it looks absurd.”
“No, it—” Jessica glanced at Miranda, and a laugh escaped her lips. “Actually, you’re right. It does look absurd. Whatever did you do?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Miranda confessed, chuckling, too. “Obviously my education was sadly neglected. I cannot do any of these things that you and Rachel do so easily.”
“Ah, but I cannot shoot a gun,” Rachel pointed out with a smile at her sister-in-law.
Miranda, the daughter of an American who had grown wealthy in the fur trade, had been raised in a manner almost inconceivable to Rachel. She had accompanied her father on fur-buying trips to the wilds, where she had met Indians and trappers, and learned not only how to shoot but also how to use a knife to advantage. As her father’s business had grown, she had moved naturally into it, keeping track of his accounts and investing his money in real estate in the raw, burgeoning city of New York, so that his fortune—and her own—doubled and even tripled. Although Rachel had quickly come to love her sister-in-law dearly—not the least because she had brought Dev back from the edge of ruining his life—there were times when Miranda’s bustling energy left her feeling rather breathless and inadequate.
“That’s true,” Miranda agreed, but added, “However, that is hardly a useful skill when one is trying to prepare for the arrival of a baby. Right now, a blanket would be more practical.” She looked over a trifle wistfully at the soft pale-yellow blanket that lay on Jessica’s chair. “How did you learn to knit so well?”
“Actually, my father’s batman taught me,” Jessica, the daughter of a soldier, replied with a small laugh. “He was quite good at darning, mending, and knitting socks. “But fine sewing was not his forte. That is why, while I will knit you oodles of little caps and booties and blankets, you will have to depend on Rachel for the christening gown and the fine embroidery.”
Rachel smiled at the other two women. “And I will be delighted to do it. I have been stitching away, Miranda, ever since you told me about your good news.”
It was odd, she thought, that only a year ago, she had not even met these two women, yet now she counted them among her best friends.
Miranda smiled, and Rachel was a little surprised to hear Miranda echoing her own thoughts. “Who would have thought that when I married Devin I would also acquire such wonderful friends?” She went on thoughtfully. “You know, I never really had many friends—certainly not ones I can confide in as I can the two of you.”
Rachel was not surprised. She suspected that most women Miranda’s age would have found her rather too intimidating to make friends with. It was easy to see why Miranda and Jessica had become fast friends in just a few days; they had similarly strong personalities and an open, even blunt, manner. She was rather less certain why either one of them had been drawn to her. She did not have their strength; neither of them would have made the mistakes she had made.
She returned to the sewing in her lap, a long christening robe for Miranda’s future child. It was made of elegant white satin, put together with careful dainty stitches. She had finished sewing the plainer underdress and the robe, and now she was adding the rows and rows of delicate white Belgian lace that would decorate the hem and sleeves and edge the yoke of the elegant robe. Inside the yoke she planned to embroider flowers in white thread, giving it a subtly rich look. The f
inishing touch would be matching satin booties and a cap, both also edged in lace and tied with the same narrow satin ribbons as the front of the robe.
Rachel had been working on the outfit this winter at Westhampton, as well as some other everyday gowns and cotton receiving blankets for the baby’s layette. Miranda had told Rachel of her lack of expertise at sewing, and Rachel had been happy to apply her skills to the task.
Rachel carefully stitched along the pinned lace, then removed the pins. Jessica, coming over to her side, gazed down at the gown.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “You do such lovely work.”
“Thank you.” Rachel smiled, smoothing out the line of lace. She was aware of a small ache of loss in the area of her heart. It happened now and then as she worked on the baby things—the stab of knowledge that she had never had a child for whom to make such things and probably never would. It was part of the price she paid—the worst part, she supposed—for having behaved so foolishly before her wedding.
But she was practiced enough at dealing with it that her smile did not waver as she thanked Jessica for her compliment, and she looked composed as she began to ply her needle again.
Then the sound of men’s voices in the house broke the quiet of the room, and all three women looked up expectantly.
“They’re back!” Jessica said happily. Devin and Richard had gone out riding that afternoon, and the house had seemed rather empty without them.
“Good. I was afraid that I was going to have to tell Cook to delay supper,” Miranda said, but the glow that lit up her face belied the asperity of her tone.
Dev was the first to enter the room, his handsome face wreathed in smiles. “Guess whom we happened upon as we were riding home!”
