Self-serving justification for her hunger? Or truth? She couldn’t say. But he was worth more than this barren bargain they’d struck. She was worth more.
Night had fallen, and she moved around the room lighting candles. There was some relief in the workaday action. As light bloomed, she became conscious of Gideon’s shallow breathing.
“Are you ill?” she asked with deliberate calm, carefully lighting each branch of the candelabra on the sideboard.
“No,” he said hoarsely. His face was paper white. He looked like a man approaching the limits of endurance.
She knew what set that haunted look in his eyes. The prospect of bedding her. She tensed her throat against the agony of that awareness.
Compassion as much as conscience provoked her to speak. “Gideon, we don’t have to do this. The vicar said we’re married right and tight. You’ve already gone to extraordinary lengths to keep me safe.” She extended one hand in a wordless plea for him to lay aside his burdens. If only for one night. “I can never find words to express my thanks. Nothing could repay what your championship of me has cost you. You needn’t make further sacrifices.”
He sucked in a deep breath, then, to her complete shock, he laughed. His dark eyes glinted with self-derisive humor as he straightened away from the hearth.
“Good God, anyone who knew me in my salad days would roll around the floor laughing himself sick to hear you. You’d think I was some shivering virgin.” A cynical expression crossed his face, and he suddenly looked eons older than his twenty-five years. “I have done this before, you know.”
Yes, with his skilled and spectacular Indian bibis. The statement didn’t ease her uncertainty. It just made her jealous and insecure. “I’m well aware of that,” she said starkly.
How she wished she had an ounce of those women’s sensual skills. She’d captivate her husband with such pleasure, he couldn’t help falling in love.
His face filled with sorrow. “I’ll try my best not to hurt you.”
“I know.” She’d trust him with her life. She already had. Just as she’d trusted him with her heart. Even if he didn’t want it.
“With a first time, there can be pain.”
The subject made him uncomfortable. Or perhaps he was merely uncomfortable talking about this with his troublesome bride. His exotic Indian lovers, she was sure, hadn’t made him feel awkward.
Stop it, Charis.
“I know what takes place.” Heat flooded her face. She wasn’t easy with this conversation either. She raised her chin, although the hand holding the taper trembled. “I grew up in the country, and my mother told me what to expect.”
He raised his eyebrows, and his lips curved in another ironic smile. “Quite the expert then.”
She shook her head as nerves set her belly to cramping. “I never kissed anyone until…until yesterday.”
His face hardened in anger. “You must think you’ve married the clumsiest oaf in Christendom.”
Her voice was muted. “You know I don’t think that. I’m prepared for what’s going to happen.”
“Well, that reassures a man.” In an abrupt gesture, he ran a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know what else to say,” she said helplessly, fighting the urge to smooth that unruly dark mass. The need to touch him was a constant fever in her blood. Fighting it left her exhausted, jumpy, nervous. “It’s hardly a normal marriage, is it?”
“No, it’s hardly that.” His voice thickened with regret. “You’ve missed out on so much. There’s nothing I can do to make it up to you.”
Stay with me. Love me.
She stifled the words. Things were difficult enough without her nagging him for what he couldn’t give. She blew out the taper and set it in its holder.
“None of this is your fault,” she said despondently, turning away and slumping into a chair. She was weary, although most of her tiredness was emotional rather than physical.
She went on in the same austere voice. “It’s not my fault either. Hubert and Felix are greedy and corrupt. Lord Desaye is desperate and deceitful. But the amount of money my father left me is obscene. It turns men into monsters.” She paused. “Every man except you.”
He grimaced. “I’m already a monster.” He continued before she could protest. “Lord Desaye, I take it, is the suitor.”
She shuddered. “He gambled away his own fortune and his first wife’s. A shadow hangs over her fate. He was the only witness to the carriage accident that killed her.”
“How did he and your stepbrothers link up?” Gideon seemed relieved to discuss something other than her imminent deflowering.
“Money, of course.” Her voice was flat. She fiddled with her wedding ring. It was old and heavy and sat loose on her finger. A symbol of the weak bond between her and Gideon? “They gambled together. I’m sure Hubert or Felix would have tried to marry me if the church didn’t frown upon unions between stepsiblings.”
“Did they tell you this?”
“On that last day. I’d worked it out already.” She released the ring, and her fingers curled into claws in her lap. “I sometimes wish I’d been born poor. My fortune has only caused misery.”
“You’ll grow into your station. At least as my wife, you’re safe from fortune hunters.”
She looked at him curiously. “Doesn’t the idea of keeping my wealth appeal? You haven’t asked how much I’m worth.”
“I know what you’re worth,” he said sharply, stepping toward her. “It has nothing to do with pounds, shillings, and pence.”
She fought back the traitorous warmth that seeped into her heart at his response. “Few people would agree.”
“The rest have fewer brains than God gave a flea.”
As she gazed into his blazing black eyes, she couldn’t look away, and the breath caught in her throat. Heat flooded her and settled like lava in her belly. The overwhelming emotion that flooded her was heady, uncontrollable…terrifying. He had such power over her, and she was helpless to resist.
He stared at her as if he thought she was a princess. It was cruel. He didn’t want her. She opened her mouth to speak but had no idea what she meant to say.
Someone knocked softly on the door. The charged silence shattered.
She sucked breath into starved lungs. Gideon gave permission for the servants to enter. Everything turned to movement as waiters set out dinner.
She’d seen Gideon leave a substantial tip when they’d registered. He’d explained he and his bride insisted upon privacy. If they left Jersey without undue disturbance, he’d see the staff were suitably rewarded.
With a flourish, one waiter produced a bottle of champagne. “The compliments of the house, Mr. Holloway. To you and the new Mrs. Holloway, our very best wishes for a long and happy life together.”
Charis finally had some idea how Gideon felt when people hailed him as a hero. That he existed in two realities operating side by side but forever disconnected. She kept forgetting that as far as the outside world was concerned, this was the happiest day of her life.
The strain of reconciling the contradictions left her disoriented, sick, detached from any reality at all.
The waiter opened the champagne and poured it into two heavy crystal glasses befitting St. Helier’s finest hostelry. There was more bustle as servants pulled out chairs and unfolded napkins and served the first course, a fish soup fragrant with garlic and herbs.
Finally, she and Gideon were alone. A painful tension tightened around them like a steel net.
“It looks delicious.” She lifted her spoon, then put it down again, the soup untouched.
“Yes.”
There was a pause while they both stared at their plates.
He looked up. “Perhaps I should see what’s next.”
“Perhaps you should,” she murmured, although she knew she wouldn’t eat that either. She felt like a boulder blocked her throat.
He lifted the covers and rich savory aromas drifted into the air. “Poulet
à la persane. Boeuf en daube. Lobster. It’s a feast.”
“Didn’t you order it?”
“I said to send up whatever they recommended. What would you like?”
“Anything.”
She watched as he filled two plates from the serving dishes.
“You know, I used to dream of dinners like this when I was in India.” He slid her plate in front of her and took his place opposite, shaking out his napkin with an elegance that made her breath catch. Even such a simple gesture left her aching with desire.
Could she endure a lifetime of this relentless longing?
“What did you eat there?” It was a neutral enough topic. Would she spend her years making meaningless conversation with the man she’d married? The cold unhappy future stretched before her like an endless steppe.
He shrugged, his hand playing with the stem of his glass. He still wore gloves. “Curry. Delicacies fit for a rajah. Cold rice with weevils.”
Painful memories she couldn’t hope to understand shadowed his face. Before she could inquire further, he raised his glass. “I’m remiss in my husbandly duty. To my lovely bride.”
It was more than she could bear. She shoved her plate away and rose on wobbly legs. “Please don’t.”
He put down the champagne, like his dinner, untasted. “I too find my appetite lacking.” He stood. “I’ll take a walk. There’s a bath coming. No hurry. I’ll be away for several hours.”
Snatching privacy to fortify himself for the onerous task ahead, she guessed with another stab of pain. “I wish you a pleasant stroll,” she said lifelessly.
He bent his head in a courtly salute. “Thank you.”
Only when he’d gone did she realize it was the first time he’d left her unprotected since he’d met her.
Twelve
Gideon held himself together until he closed the door behind him and stood in the deserted corridor. He collapsed, gasping, against the wall. Shivers combed through him like breakers up the beach at Penrhyn.
He couldn’t go through with this.
He had to go through with this.
He closed his eyes and banged his head several times against the wood. But nothing could banish the vivid images in his mind.
Charis watching him across the table, her beautiful hazel eyes brilliant with anguish and a longing he shared but couldn’t fulfill.
Charis standing beside him saying words that made her his wife.
Charis telling him she loved him.
Ah, the forbidden sweetness of that moment.
And the desolation.
She had such courage. What a consort she’d make for the man worthy of her.
Damn it, he could never be that man.
His rejection might hurt now, but she’d get over her infatuation. She’d emerge from this stronger, better, bright as a star. The real tragedy was that she tied herself so irrevocably to a wreck like him.
He groaned through clenched teeth. He’d endured unspeakable pain in India. Already he knew that the hell of watching his wife fall in love with another man would outstrip any devilish torture the Nawab devised.
Bear it, he must.
For Charis’s sake.
The gods clearly laughed at his sufferings. They granted him the one woman he’d want for the rest of his days. Then they made it impossible for him to find joy with her.
He desired her to the depths of his being. His very skin ached for her touch. He’d exchange all the minutes remaining to him for one night of freedom in her arms. Instead, in his clumsiness, he was going to hurt her.
Not, by God, if he could help it.
With grim determination, he straightened from the wall. He turned up his collar and pulled down his hat to conceal his face.
He’d do what was necessary. Whatever it cost. His scheme might seem crack-brained, dangerous, but it was the only solution he had. He’d accept any pain if it saved Charis suffering.
He didn’t deceive himself about the pain his plan promised.
As he trudged downstairs and out onto the street, his heart was heavy. It was cold on the seafront. The breeze from the sea had ice in it. Or perhaps the chill was in his grieving soul.
He knew where to find what he required. Behind the smart façades and bustling respectable thoroughfares, every town had its shadow. Despising what he did but seeing no alternative, he turned away from the lights and plunged into the old town’s maze of streets.
The girl was even younger than Charis. Seventeen or eighteen. Although with the lives these women led, who could tell?
Standing on her corner, she retained a trace of country freshness. She was clean, and her dress hinted that some shred of spirit defiantly survived her profession.
Most of all, though, Gideon chose her because she bore absolutely no resemblance to the wife he’d left at the hotel.
“You, girl, do you have a room?”
She brightened as she looked at him, her light eyes, blue or gray, Gideon could hardly tell in the gloom, sparking as she took in his fine clothes. She patted her untidy blond chignon with a gesture designed to entice.
“Aye. But it will cost ye ten shillings, me handsome gent.”
Ten shillings was a fortune for someone like her. He knew she cheated him, but he didn’t have the heart to haggle. Given what was likely to happen when he came to the business, she’d earn her money before he finished.
“Done.”
She frowned suspiciously. “I want to see yer blunt up front.”
He fumbled in his pocket and withdrew a sovereign. The gold glinted evilly in the faint light. He dropped it into her outstretched hand.
His flesh crawled at the prospect of getting closer to her. God knew if he could go through with this. He hadn’t even touched the chit yet, and already he was a trembling mess. The possibility of failure rose like a dark miasma.
“Let’s go,” he said roughly.
The girl stared at the coin, then glanced up with a smile that made her look older than she was. “An eager beaver, ain’t ye, sir?
She waited for him to respond, but he was busy trying to keep his gorge down. God give him strength. He could do this. He could do this. He hadn’t touched anyone since Rangapindhi. But surely he could perform with a stranger when it didn’t matter if he made an utter disaster of the act. Surely he was man enough for that.
She shrugged. “Don’t ye want to know my name?”
He closed his eyes in agony. Only the knowledge that Charis waited stopped him fleeing back to light and warmth.
“No,” he managed to grit out, opening his eyes to shabby reality. “I don’t want to know your name.”
The girl looked at him strangely and pointed to the filthy stairway behind her. “It’s up here, sir.” She sounded subdued, or perhaps that was just the blood pounding in his ears.
Blindly, Gideon followed the plump blond tart upstairs to her room.
Charis didn’t know what woke her. She couldn’t remember falling asleep. It had been late, and she’d been alone. Just as she knew immediately she was alone in the bedroom now.
She cracked open a swollen eyelid. The room was pitch-dark. The servants had drawn the curtains when they came to collect the uneaten meal and take away the cold bath. But as her sight adjusted, she recognized the heavy furniture. Old French oak pieces like something from a prerevolutionary chateau.
As she shifted experimentally, she muffled a moan. Devils with hobnail boots blundered around her skull. She licked dry lips. Her mouth tasted sour and stale. She shifted again and realized her dress twisted around her as she lay awkwardly across the covers.
With a low groan, she sat up. She raised a trembling hand to her sticky face. She remembered now. Every last pathetic moment until she’d collapsed in a stupor.
She’d waited in a lather of nerves for Gideon to return from his walk. Nerves and genuine alarm. After all Gideon’s subterfuges, it was unlikely Felix and Hubert would burst in on her the first night on Jersey. But she felt lost and defensel
ess now her Galahad abandoned her.
One hour passed. Two. Her apprehension turned to hurt defiance. She knew why he avoided her. Because he couldn’t bear to touch her.
She wanted to send him to the devil. She wanted to beg him to love her the way she loved him.
With rankling hostility, she drank the champagne, as if the act somehow got back at him. Even after she started to feel sick, she kept drinking. She drank until the bottle was empty, and the room whirled in a wayward waltz.
Eventually, inevitably, her empty stomach rebelled, and she was vilely, painfully sick. By then it was past midnight and still no sign of her husband of mere hours.
Tears she’d dammed through the agonizing day welled up. Painful, humiliating, unstoppable tears. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms as she battled for control. But nothing helped. Sobbing in ugly gulps, she’d curled up on the bed. Crying, she must have fallen asleep.
To wake with a headache, a rebellious stomach, and a heart brimming with shame.
Vaguely, she wondered what time it was. A heaviness in her limbs indicated she hadn’t slept long enough to overcome her fatigue. Or perhaps the wine made her ache. She’d never had more than a glass or two at once before. The foul taste in her mouth made her swear one glass was too much in future.
The inn was silent, and no noise rose from the street. She felt suspended in some dark cocoon. Alone forever.
“Stop it,” she whispered. Why she kept her voice down, she couldn’t say. She was on her own.
Except something had disturbed her.
She held her breath and listened.
Not a sound.
Gideon obviously hadn’t returned.
Curse him.
She should lie down. Rest her throbbing head. Still, she sat bristling with awareness, straining to discern the slightest sound through the enveloping darkness.
Very carefully, she edged off the bed.
Nothing stirred in the next room.
Icy fear trickled down her spine. What if Felix and Hubert lurked out there, ready to snatch her back to Holcombe Hall?
With shaking hands, she slid a large china jar from a chest of drawers. Its pale glimmer made it easy to locate. The jar wasn’t much of a weapon, but, armed, she felt less vulnerable.
Captive of Sin Page 18
