Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Lord Havelock's ListSaved by the Viking WarriorThe Pirate Hunter

by Annie Burrows

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought you would want to mingle with society people. Or take part in the Season.’

  No. Because he didn’t think she would fit in.

  Which was true enough, but, oh, so insulting.

  ‘It isn’t just for me though, is it? I shall have to start paving the way for Julia to make her come-out, won’t I?’

  ‘I don’t see that at all,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve plenty of aunts and such who have the entrée into the kind of circles where Julia will find a husband, once she gives any sign of wanting to look for one.’

  So, he intended to sideline her even when it came to Julia’s come-out, did he? He was going to get some aunt, with the proper connections, to launch her?

  Setting down her hairbrush, she half turned on her stool and glared at him.

  ‘You promised me I could do as I pleased, as long as I don’t cause a scandal. And I feel like going to London and buying some fashionable clothes. I don’t think that is the slightest bit scandalous. Do you?’

  ‘No. But, hang it, Julia has only just got here. You leaving so soon may well cause talk. Couldn’t you...wait a bit? And we can all go up together?’

  Together? They wouldn’t be together. He would be with Julia and she would be hovering on the fringes. Enduring the pain of being the unwanted, unloved wife in a new location, that was all.

  And the fact that he was bringing Julia’s welfare into the equation was the last straw. Julia. Julia. It was always Julia who mattered. Not her.

  Well, two could play at that game.

  ‘And what sort of state is Durant House in, do you happen to know? Will it be fit for her to move into? I really do think it would be better if I went on ahead and checked. After all, one of the reasons you asked me to marry you was to refurbish the place.’

  * * *

  Hoist with his own petard. He turned and walked over to the fireplace, so she couldn’t see the devastation her words had wrought. He’d known this day would come. Every time he’d knocked on her bedroom door and been turned away, he’d felt it coming closer.

  Even so, he hadn’t expected it to hurt so much. Dammit, he’d taken steps to ensure it wouldn’t! He’d deliberately picked a woman who wouldn’t expect too much from him, who wouldn’t nag him for more than he was willing to give. He’d even sat down and spelled out the terms of their marriage, to make sure neither of them would get hurt.

  What he hadn’t factored in was that Mary would work her way so far under his skin that hearing she wanted to leave him was like having every single bone removed from his body.

  Moodily, he kicked at a smouldering log, sending sparks flying up the chimney, when what he really wanted to do was yell, and rampage up and down, and hit something. But he’d learned his lesson, fighting that second duel. As he’d stood there with the smoking pistol in his hand, watching Wraxton fall to the earth with blood gushing down his neck, he’d known he had to change. Never attempting to keep his temper in check had brought him to the brink of killing a man. He’d grown up, that day. He was no longer a child who might be forgiven for lashing out when people let him down, or hurt him.

  Though this was the very reason he had got into the habit of lashing out. His temper had kept people at bay. He’d learned early on that all people did was hurt him, if he let them get close.

  Lord, what a fool he’d been to have thought his marriage could be any different, because he’d entered into it with such a cool head and with so little expectation. All marriages ended in misery, one way or another.

  Fortunately for Mary, the wave of misery he felt drowned his anger completely. It was no use raging at her and forbidding her to leave. She wouldn’t understand. He had promised her she could come and go as she pleased. That he would let her spend his money as she liked. That he wouldn’t kick up a fuss.

  And lord knew, she’d put up with him far longer than any other woman had, before losing her patience.

  And none of this was Mary’s fault. She had no idea she was wounding him. So he would take her departure like a gentleman, not a savage. He would be cool and calm. Polite.

  When he eventually turned to her, he’d got himself under control. So far under control that he felt as though ice was flowing through his veins, rather than warm, red blood.

  ‘Just as you wish, of course.’ He could hear the ice that was freezing his insides dripping from his words. ‘I will furnish you with the direction of my man of business. You must send all the bills to him.’

  He sauntered past her and made it to the door. Hesitated. Swallowed.

  He couldn’t bear the thought of her travelling alone. Of perhaps running into difficulties and having nobody to take care of her. But since she was so independent, so capable, so used to doing everything for herself, she wouldn’t think there was any need. ‘You will take one of the maids with you,’ he bit out. ‘You have an appearance to keep up now you are my viscountess. You cannot go jauntering off all over the place on your own. It won’t do.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mary didn’t feel as if she’d slept at all. Yet the sound of the maid making up the fire and drawing back the curtains the next morning definitely woke her up, so she must have done.

  She almost groaned at the thought of facing the day. If only she could pull the covers over her head and hide. Actually, she supposed she could. She could have a tray brought up here, to her room, rather than going downstairs and facing a deserted breakfast table.

  While she waited for it to arrive, she heard the sound of hooves trotting past her window. Two sets of hooves. Just as usual. She clenched her fists. While she felt as if her world was coming to an end, her husband and his sister were going out riding. Without a care in the world.

  Lord Havelock had exactly what he wanted. Julia was safely ensconced under his roof. Nobody would think it necessary to investigate her hasty removal from Lady Peverell’s care. He’d quashed the potential for rumours by marrying.

  Yes, he’d got what he wanted, all right. And now she, his wife, was surplus to requirements. In every single way. He’d even made it plain she wouldn’t be of any help whatsoever when it came round to Julia’s Season.

  And very well, it was true that Mary had never had a Season. Didn’t know anyone in society. And had no idea how to handle the bevy of suitors that Julia, with her wealth and vivacity, was bound to attract.

  She supposed Julia would need someone like Lady Peverell, who had at least mingled with the kind of people Lord Havelock would consider eligible, to steer her through that rite of passage. But had it really been necessary for him to rub her nose in all her shortcomings like that?

  She was already dealing with the knowledge she wasn’t of any practical use around the house any longer. Mrs Brownlow and her team had everything running like clockwork. Even when she consulted Mary about menus it only served to emphasise that Mrs Brownlow knew what were his lordship’s favourite dishes, and what was available locally, and who the best suppliers were. While Mary didn’t.

  Making Mary fully aware how useless she really was.

  He’d scarcely notice when she’d gone.

  By the time a knock on the door heralded the arrival of a couple of maids bearing her breakfast, her insides were so churned up that the last thing she wanted to do was eat. Throw something, yes, that might have made her feel better. But since the man she wanted to aim the teapot at was probably halfway across the county by now, she couldn’t have the satisfaction.

  Besides, it hadn’t been that long ago when she hadn’t known where the next meal might come from. She couldn’t squander perfectly good food without suffering a terrible backlash of guilt.

  So she accepted the tray, let the maid pour her tea and set a slice of toast on her plate.

  And in a cold, leaden voice, instructed one of them to pack her clothes.

 
‘Of course, my lady,’ said Susan cheerfully, going to the armoire and lifting down the shabby portmanteau. ‘His lordship has said as how you’d be going up to town to buy some new clothes for the Season.’

  Oh, had he? Mary took a vicious bite of toast and chewed it thoroughly.

  ‘And I’m to go with you,’ she said, setting the portmanteau on the floor in front of the open cupboard. ‘Gilbey is preparing the coach,’ she added, reaching up for a gown and taking it off its hanger.

  Mary’s hand froze halfway to her mouth. Gilbey was preparing the coach? ‘I’m that excited,’ babbled Susan as she draped the gown over the back of a chair. ‘I’ve never been further than Stoney Bottom in my life.’

  Mary threw the toast back on to its plate, her stomach roiling. Her husband had given orders to all the servants to hasten her departure, had he? Couldn’t wait to get her out of his house and out of his life, in fact.

  It felt like a blow to the gut. So real was her pain that she had to fling back the covers and hurry over to the washbasin, over which she heaved for a moment or two before sinking back on to the dressing-table stool, her face clammy with sweat.

  ‘Oh, my lady, are you ill? Shall I cancel the coach? You surely don’t want to go anywhere today, if you’re poorly.’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I shall be fine in a moment.’ She wasn’t ill. Or at least it was only her husband’s rejection of her that was making her sick to her stomach. The nights spent weeping quietly into her pillow. The days spent sitting alone, feeling thoroughly useless.

  And she wasn’t going to get any better by carrying on in the same way. No—the only way she was likely to find a cure was to get as far away from him as she could and lick her wounds in private.

  ‘Carry on with the packing, Susan.’

  ‘Yes, my lady, if you’re sure.’

  Rather more soberly now, Susan folded and stowed Mary’s new clothes into her old portmanteau while Mary got washed and dressed. Rather shakily.

  Her whole body hurt, not just her heart. How could she have let him reduce her to this shivering, quivering wreck of a woman?

  Without even trying, that was the most galling thing. He hadn’t made any pretty speeches, or given her flowers, or anything. He’d just brusquely told her his requirements, more or less snapped his fingers, and she’d gone trotting after him, all eager to please. Had kept on trying to please him, day after day.

  Even though she knew it was pointless.

  Because she’d read that horrid list.

  A list, she recalled on a mounting wave of bitterness, she’d had to fit, to pass muster. When she’d had to accept him exactly as he was.

  Which was completely and totally unfair.

  She came to a dead halt in the middle of the floor, pain and resentment surging through her.

  If he could measure out her worth according to some stupid list, then why shouldn’t she treat him to a dose of his own medicine?

  Uttering a growl of frustration, she stormed over to the table under the window where she’d taken to sitting to write her correspondence, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, trimmed her pen and stabbed it into the inkwell.

  What I want from a husband, she wrote at the top of the page, underlining the I twice.

  Need not have a penny to his name, she wrote first, recalling his stipulation that his bride need not have a dowry.

  Can be plug-ugly, she wrote next, recalling how hurt she’d been by his stipulation she need not be pretty, so long as he will love his wife and treat her like a queen, not a scullery maid.

  Said love will include respecting his wife, being kind to her and listening to her opinions.

  Not only will he listen to her opinions, she wrote, underlining the word listen, he will consider them before he pitches her into a situation she would naturally shrink from.

  Won’t deny his wife the right to feel like a bride on her wedding day.

  Will appreciate having any living relatives—underlining the word any twice.

  Need not have a title. But if he has one, it ought to be one he earned. One lieutenant in his Majesty’s navy, she explained, remembering her own brother’s heroic deeds and his death fighting the enemies of her country, is worth a dozen viscounts.

  By that time, she’d reached the bottom of the page. And splattered as much ink over the writing desk as she’d scored into the paper.

  And had realised what a futile exercise it was.

  She wasn’t married to a plug-ugly man who treated her like a queen. She was married to a handsome, wealthy lord, who thought it was enough to let her spend his money however she wanted.

  She flung the quill aside, got to her feet and went to the bed, on which Susan had laid out her coat and bonnet.

  The coat in which she’d got married. With such high hopes.

  Before she’d read his vile list and discovered what he really thought of her.

  Well, futile it might be, but she was jolly well going to let him know what she thought of him, too. Before she walked out of his house and his life.

  Telling Susan she could go and collect her own things, Mary buttoned up the coat and pinned on her hat.

  Then snatched up the list she’d just written, stormed along the corridor to the horrid blue room where her husband had taken up residence and slapped the list on to the bed.

  And then, recalling the way the list he’d written had ended up fluttering across the floor when the door shut, and knowing she was on the verge of slamming the one to this room on her way out any second now, she wrenched out her hatpin and thrust it through the list, skewering it savagely to his pillow.

  And with head held high, she strode along the corridor, down the stairs and out of his house.

  * * *

  God, but it had been a long day. He’d kept putting off returning to Mayfield, knowing that when he did return, Mary would have gone. But Julia was tired, cold and hungry, and in the end he’d had to bring her back. Had come upstairs to get changed for dinner.

  The first dinner of his married life that he’d have to face without his wife at his table.

  He had at least the satisfaction of knowing he’d done what he could to make sure her journey would be as easy as he could make it, without actually going with her. She’d been able to use the travelling coach, which had only just come back from the workshop. He hadn’t had to hire a chaise, and leave her in the care of strangers. Gilbey was an excellent whip. And she had a maid to save her from impertinent travellers at the stops on the way. He—

  He came to a halt just inside the door to his room, transfixed by the sight of a single sheet of paper, staked to his pillow by what looked remarkably like a hatpin.

  So she had left a farewell note. He’d wondered if she would. Heart pounding, he strode across to the bed, hoping that she... She what? A note that was staked to his bed with a symbolically lethal weapon was hardly going to contain the kinds of fond parting words he wanted to read, was it?

  But it might at least give him a clue as to where he’d gone wrong with her. Why she’d withdrawn from him when, to start with, she’d seemed so eager to please. So eager to please, in fact, that after her first refusal, he’d told himself she must be going through that mysterious time of the month that afflicted every woman of childbearing age. It had only been when she’d kept on refusing to allow him into her bed that the chill reality struck.

  She simply didn’t want him any more.

  Well, hopefully, this note would explain why.

  He snatched it up and carried it to the window, so he could make out the words in the fading light of late afternoon.

  Only to see the words What I want from a husband scrawled across the top of the page.

  With the word I underlined.

  A chill stole down the length of his spine as he scanned the wh
ole page. Because it wasn’t just a damning indictment of all his faults. It was worse, far worse than that.

  The way she’d set it out, even the way she’d underlined certain words, the very choice of words she’d used—all of it meant she must have read the damn stupid list he and his friends had written, the night he’d decided he was going to start looking for a wife.

  A list he’d never meant her to know about, let alone read.

  No wonder she hadn’t wanted to sleep with him any more. She must be so hurt....

  No—that couldn’t be right. Heart hammering, he strode along the corridors to the bureau in his father’s rooms, where he’d taken to stashing his bills and letters. And found the list locked away, exactly where he’d put it when he’d moved here. Since he had the key on a fob on his waistcoat and that key had never been out of his possession, it meant she must have read it before they reached Mayfield.

  And still done her utmost to be a good wife to him. He shut his eyes, grimacing as he recalled one instance after another, when she’d made the best of his blunders while all the while she must have been trying to overlook this.

  Well, he’d just have to go after her. Tell her he’d never meant to hurt her...

  He got as far as the corridor, before it struck him that he’d never done anything but hurt her. Blundering, clumsy fool that he was...he’d watched her growing more and more depressed with every day that passed, wishing he knew what to say, how to reach her.

  And now he saw that it had never been possible. There was no way he could defend the indefensible.

  No wonder she’d left him. He would have left him if he’d been married to such an oaf!

  He staggered back into his father’s rooms, dropped into the nearest chair and put his head in his hands.

  What was he going to do? How was he going to explain this to her? Win her back?

  Win her back? He’d never had her to win back. Because he’d told her he wasn’t looking for affection from marriage.

  And this was why.

  When men fell in love, it made them weak, vulnerable. God, he hadn’t even realised he had fallen in love with Mary, until just now, when he’d read her list and realised how much she must hate him. Felt the pain of her fury pierce his heart the way her hatpin had pierced the soft down of his pillow.