Her Secondhand Groom

by Rose Gordon

  Three sets of wide, unblinking eyes turned toward him.

  “N-nothing, Drake,” Juliet stammered.

  He cocked his head to the side. She’d never seemed so uncomfortable in his presence before. How odd. “Are you sure, Juliet? You’re welcome to ask me anything.”

  She coughed and shook her head. “We can talk later.”

  “All right.”

  Next to Patrick, Marcus idly rubbed his hands together, and stared at the settee. “Uh...ahem... Could I trouble you ladies to go attend Olivia?”

  “Is it time?” Caroline asked.

  Marcus nodded. “That’s what I’ve been told.”

  “Praise the Lord,” Emma said, standing. She walked over to Marcus and exchanged a look with him before he squeezed her shoulder and watched her walk away. Earlier, Marcus had informed Patrick that Olivia had no desire to keep the child, so Marcus and Emma would adopt her baby. Then Olivia could go live in London where he’d made arrangements for her to live in a facility. There was much left unspoken, but Patrick understood well enough. Olivia had always struck him as addled, at least now she’d get the attention she craved. Even if it wasn’t the kind most people would enjoy, Olivia probably would.

  Patrick stepped back so Emma and Caroline could leave, then his eyes narrowed on Juliet. She hadn’t joined her friends yet. Her face, though still slightly colored, looked different. He’d witnessed the many facial expressions she possessed and knew the difference between excitement, anger, fury, and yes, there was a difference between anger and fury, contentment, nervousness, and ecstasy, he’d also seen her look uncertain, confident, doubtful, resigned, or even just emotionless.

  But right now, she had a look he didn’t recognize. Her eyes, though focused on him, were not focused on his. Instead, she was looking at his shoulders or chest. The warm gleam he’d come to know and love was gone; not replaced by the icy glacier that was once there, however, just not as shiny and bright as it had once been, almost dull, perhaps. Her mouth formed a straight line, no hint of a curve in one direction or the other.

  She stood and crossed the room, her posture stiff and her movements rigid.

  Patrick had the strangest urge to wrap his arms around her and ask what happened that had transformed her so. He flickered a glance to Marcus then followed his wife into the hall.

  “Juliet?”

  She stopped her steps, but didn’t turn to face him.

  “Did something happen?”

  “No.” Her voice was clear and confident, but lacking something. What, he didn’t know, but something was off.

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “I need to be going upstairs now to attend Olivia.”

  Patrick stepped in front of her. “Do you want to attend her?” A better understanding of her somber mood now in his mind, he wrapped both of his warm hands around her smaller chilled ones. “If she’s been beastly to you, or you don’t wish to go up there, you don’t have to, Juliet.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?” He squeezed her hands then let go, and took a step closer to her. “Juliet, it is not your duty to be here. I understand your wish to help Emma any way you can, but if you’re not comfortable, going into that room, don’t. I’ll take you home right now if you ask it of me.”

  Juliet’s eyes flashed with some emotion he couldn’t name, but before he had a chance to determine it, the gleam was gone. “I want to help,” she said simply, pulling her hands from his and continuing her stroll down the hall.

  Patrick watched her go, emotion clogging his throat. He shook his head, then with all the force his tension-filled body had, he all but flung himself against the wall. Bracing both hands, palms-down, against the wall, he hung his head, and with a force similar to that of the bulls he’d heard about in Spain, the emotional dam he’d built burst. All the memories of that fateful day more than five years ago flooded his mind...

  ***

  April 2, 1810

  “Patrick!”

  Abigail screaming his name jolted Patrick straight from his seat.

  Heedless to anyone or anything in his path, Patrick bounded through the halls of Briar Creek, not slowing until he reached the viscountess’ room. “Yes?” he choked, gasping for breath.

  “It hurts,” was her only response.

  Patrick nodded his understanding, and walked to his wife’s side. An empty chair was positioned to her right and he sat down. He averted his gaze as the doctor lifted the sheet and pooled it at her waist. Abigail had always been sensitive about him seeing her unclothed. Whenever they’d been intimate, she’d insisted on wearing her nightrail, then had made him snuff all the candles before joining her under the covers. Once they were through, she’d go behind the dressing screen to attend her feminine needs and insist he put his nightshirt back on, too. He didn’t wish to cause her any undue worry at a time like this, so he forced his attention on her chalky face and used his fingers to brush the hair stuck to her damp forehead behind her ear.

  The doctor continued his exam, and Patrick studied Abigail. He may only be a young man of three-and-twenty, with more knowledge of knitting than the process of delivering babies, but if he, the father, was called into the room, something must be wrong, indeed. For both Celia’s and Helena’s births he’d been in the drawing room or his study, waiting to be informed the birth had occurred.

  His eyes did a slow sweep of his wife’s sweaty face. She looked tired—no, not tired—exhausted. She looked positively exhausted. Her red-rimmed eyelids were so heavy they appeared to be almost closed. Her mouth was hanging open a touch. Her skin was nearly translucent, and a dark half-moon rested under each of her eyes.

  Swallowing, Patrick pulled his handkerchief from his breast pocket, dipped it into the pitcher of water resting near him, and then ran the edge of it over her dry, cracked lips.

  “Lord Drakely.”

  The doctor’s scratchy voice startled him. “Yes?”

  “Can I speak to you a moment in the hall, my lord?”

  Patrick glanced down at Abigail. “Can’t we talk in here?”

  The doctor’s shake of his head, coupled with the expression in his eyes, nearly paralyzed him as a whole new meaning of the word fear presented itself.

  Patrick forced himself to stand, and the damp handkerchief he’d been holding slipped from his fingers. Flickering one more glimpse at his sickly wife, Patrick’s brain somehow made his feet carry him to the door.

  “Lord Drakley, I want you to know this is highly unus―”

  “Stop it,” Patrick hissed. “I’ve been acting as viscount since I was thirteen at which time I was made aware my uncle was embezzling from the viscountcy. If you have something to say, say it.”

  “Very well, my lord. Lady Drakely is in grave danger―”

  The rest of the doctor’s sentence would forever remain unknown as panic washed over him, and the blood pounded in his ears. Grave danger? She was going to die? A lump the size of a grapefruit formed in his throat. This was his fault. All of it.

  Abigail hated marital relations. She always had. From the time they had married until only two months later when she’d conceived Celia, she’d allowed him weekly intimacies, then had asked him to allow her a reprieve from her duties until several months after Celia was born. He’d agreed, of course. She was his wife, and he loved her. When it was time to try again, he’d gone slower, touched her, kissed her, asked her what she liked, what she didn’t. But nothing had changed. She still flinched at his touch or ducked from his kisses. She’d trembled at his attempts to see her, and had begged him to just do his part. So he had. He was a viscount and had a title to pass on, thus he had to have an heir. He knew that. He’d known it his whole life. So as gently as he could, he’d done his part, then had spent the night sick with torment, followed by gifting her with expensive jewels the next day.

  After only a few months of that torturous cycle, she announced she’d conceived again. Elation shot though him. He was most likely the only man on ea
rth who was happy at the prospect of not bedding his wife anymore. But he was. Now, they could both sleep more comfortably at night tangled up in the other’s arms, not dreading Friday nights and the painful discomfort it would bring for them both.

  As those months crept by, Patrick hoped and prayed every day he’d have a son.

  But then she had yet another girl.

  Devastated, neither of them spoke of heirs or marital relations for more than two years.

  And then the topic finally came up.

  He’d been in his study chatting with his younger cousins, Sir Wallace Benedict and George Frederick. Apparently Sir Wallace had fallen into the same trap as Patrick had and had given his heart away at eighteen. Unfortunately for Wallace, marriage to his heart’s desire wasn’t an option yet. Her parents wanted her to have at least one Season, and Wallace’s mother pushed him to go to Oxford to get the same education his father had had. Reluctantly, Wallace agreed to go, and now the poor lad was having a hard time of it. What started as just some good-natured fun about Wallace’s current predicament, turned a bit more serious when George made some bawdy comment about Wallace’s current sexual gratification, or the lack thereof.

  Patrick shrugged. “Just use your hand.”

  “Is that what you do, Patrick?”

  The hair stood on end on the back of Patrick’s neck and he stiffened at hearing his wife’s sing-song voice behind him.

  “Well, do you?” she prodded. She strolled across the room to join him on the settee.

  “Of course he does,” George answered for him, oblivious to the thick tension that had settled in the room. “All men do, married or not.”

  Abigail’s hazel eyes pierced Patrick, and he was vaguely aware of Wallace’s words as he and George excused themselves from the room, and consequently the estate.

  “Do you?” Abigail repeated, blinking her big hazel eyes at him.

  He nodded once. “Not often, but I have, yes.”

  A big, round tear slipped from Abigail’s left eye. “Why?”

  He shifted in his seat. Why did it matter? “Because... Well...” He cleared his throat, and raked a hand through his hair. “Just because you don’t enjoy the activity, doesn’t mean I don’t.” There, he’d said it.

  “H-how often?” Her voice hitched and more tears spilled from her eyes.

  “I don’t know, often enough.”

  She blanched, and his stomach clenched. “Have you...have you...been unfaithful?” she stammered through her sobs.

  “No.”

  She didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t care. It was the truth. He’d never once so much as thought about another woman that way. If she didn’t believe him, that was her problem, not his. “Why?”

  “Why what?” he bit off. There was no reason for them to even be having this conversation.

  She didn’t answer, just cried and wrung her hands together.

  He twisted his lips. “Why didn’t I stray?” he ventured, his tone softening considerably. “Because I love you, Abigail. I always have, and always will.” He sighed, and leaned closer to her. “Besides, I made you a promise. Actually, I made you two. I promised you the day we married that I’d love and honor you until death. I meant that, Abigail. I also promised you when you told me you were expecting Helena that no matter what, we were done with that aspect of our marriage. I also meant that. I don’t care that―”

  “Don’t say you don’t care, Patrick. You do, or you wouldn’t do such a repulsive act to replace another repulsive act,” she said, swiping at the tears on her cheeks.

  Fury pumped through him. What was a man to do? Join the monastery, take a vow of celibacy, and deny himself any sort of pleasure because his wife didn’t like relations and considered them repulsive? She should be glad he’d chosen the way he had and not shamed or embarrassed her by forcing himself on her or finding a mistress.

  “Why, Patrick?” she sobbed again, blinking her wide childlike eyes at him.

  His control broke. “Because, Abigail, I’m a man! And as such, I still have needs. As I said, just because you have an aversion to the activity doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy it.” He huffed, out of breath; and his hand came up to rub his throat that was now raw from yelling.

  “Is that what you want?”

  “What?”

  “A careless tumble every now and then?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt,” he shot back.

  “For you, perhaps,” she snapped, stunning him. In more than four years of marriage she’d never once been sharp with him. “You’re not the one who has a hard rod ramming in and out of their unmentionable areas, making them bleed.”

  Shame and a hint of embarrassment flushed over him at the memory of their first joining when he’d naively just pushed right in without touching her first to make sure her body was ready. “I’ve said I was sorry about that, Abigail, and I am. I didn’t know you weren’t ready. I didn’t understand everything yet. Like you, I was unpracticed in such activities. But in all fairness to me, you would have bled that night anyway.”

  She gasped. “Then explain all the other times.”

  “You only bled the once. What more do you want me to explain?”

  “Why it hurt the other times.”

  He blew out a deep breath. “Perhaps it wouldn’t have hurt as bad if you had let me touch you a bit more first. But you didn’t like that. You found it degrading that I’d dare to suggest touching you there, and snarled and tried to push me away when I did.”

  “You were shaming me!”

  “No,” he countered, stepping closer. “I was trying to get your body ready so it wouldn’t hurt when I―”

  “Carelessly jammed your member into my tender regions, then slammed into me until you released that disgusting liquid,” she said acidly. “Fine, Patrick. Since apparently this is a larger interest of yours than you originally led me to believe, I’m sure something can be arranged.” The venom in her voice was unmistakable.

  “No, it can’t,” he countered. He blew out another deep breath and went over to her.

  “Yes, it can. We shall resume our Friday night schedule so you get the fulfillment you crave so dearly.”

  He ground his teeth. “That is not necessary.”

  “Clearly it is, or you wouldn’t resort to such barbaric methods.”

  Though shame was the emotion her words had likely been intended to provoke in him, it was anger that surfaced. “Perhaps I’d accept your offer to share your body with me if I knew you wouldn’t cry and recoil from my touch as if I were nothing more than a footpad trying to molest you.”

  “Well, if you weren’t such a brute, I wouldn’t.”

  “How am I a brute?” He earnestly wanted to know.

  “You just are,” she returned with a shrug.

  “How so?”

  An all too familiar look took her face, and she curled her upper lip as if she’d just seen a chimney sweep dare touch her pristine chemise. “Your midsection is unsightly, covered with all that thick, coarse hair. The calluses on your hands scratch my skin when you touch me. As for your male part, well, it’s just disgusting to look at, Patrick.”

  “I’m not asking you to look at it,” he said through clenched teeth. Why would she think he wanted her to look at him naked? He’d never know. She’d made her disgust for his body quite clear on their wedding night when she’d shrieked and had thrown the covers over her head when he’d removed his dressing robe.

  “No, you aren’t asking me to look at it,” she agreed. “You’re asking me to allow you to touch me with it.”

  He closed his eyes in an attempt to block out her words. He could recall her shrieks, whimpers and cries well enough, he didn’t need her to give her account of the details of their long ago intimacies “And what would you have me do differently, Abigail?” he cut in. “I’ve tried to kiss you and you wiggle away. I’ve tried to touch you and you squirm. I’ve tried to do everything I can think of to do and you want none of it. What could possibly
make it more enjoyable for you?”

  “There’s nothing you can do. Nothing would make it more enjoyable, Patrick. I detest the activity, and cannot understand why you cannot just be content with lying close to me.” The hurt in her voice tore at his heart. She met his eyes again. “But since you don’t love me enough to care about my feelings, the least you could do is just do your rutting and be done with it.”

  Too angry at her outright declaration that his love for her was insincere to care where his shy wife had learned such a term, Patrick crossed his arms, and said, “Perhaps I could be about my rutting a little faster if you’d give me a reason to be excited about bedding you. But since you insist on wearing your nightrail and whimpering the whole time, it’s hard to be quick.”

  “I do not do any of those things.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” She inclined her chin a notch.

  “And how would either of us know that? It’s been more than three years since you’ve allowed any sort of intimacy other than cosseting and the occasional chaste peck on the lips.” An overpowering wave of guilt swept over him at those words. He hadn’t once expressed or even thought an unkind remark about her in this regard. He’d just accepted his wife was one who didn’t enjoy such activities, and chose to handle himself accordingly. So why was it such a pressing matter now? He swallowed. “Abigail, I do love you, and I will no matter what. Can we let this drop now?”

  “No. You wish to bed me, and I shall let you.”

  “No.”

  “And why not? Do you not find me desirable?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You know I do.”

  “Then come to my bed tonight and I’ll prove you’re mistaken.”

  Young and foolish, he’d gone that night only to be reminded one final time of how much his wife hated bed sport. Though she hadn’t made her disgust known verbally, she’d pretended to encourage him with her words while her body tensed and trembled, and her hands clutched the sheet. After she’d endured his attentions one final time, she went behind the dressing screen and sobbed. And for the first time, she’d not been the only one who felt shamed and impure, he did, too. Like all the times before, he bought her the most expensive necklace he could find. Giving it to her, he vowed he’d never again ask her to be intimate with him.