Frowning like a thundercloud, Spencer clamped his hands to his waist. “By damn, she has made off again.” He couldn’t decide if he should be in a rage or simply admit he had no idea how to proceed with his own wife. “I have never seen a woman who has less of an idea about how to stay put than she does. Enough is enough.”
Galvanized by a lightning bolt of temper, he stormed … limped … across the room, hung a toe on the fringed end of the Persian area rug next to the bed, staggered but caught himself by cursing and clutching at the narrow nightstand table. Righting himself and standing there a moment, simply breathing, he finally and carefully—he was done with any thought of stalking—made his way over to the closed door that opened onto the second-floor hallway. Though his knuckles were grazed and his fingers ached from hitting those bastards who’d attacked him, Spencer jerked open the door to the bedroom, swung it in toward him and—
Collided with Victoria, who let out a loud squawk of surprise. Standing in the hallway, she’d obviously been in the act of turning the doorknob from her side. She held a full glass of very cold water in her hand, which was no longer full. In fact, it was empty. He knew this—and exactly how cold the water was in Georgia—because all of it, every drop, was now spilled down the front of his trousers.
Shocked, clutching desperately at the door’s opposing jambs, much like Hercules chained, Spencer stood there, gasping, unable to move.
“Oh, Spencer, I’m so sorry,” Victoria cried, stumbling back, her eyes wide with surprise as she looked from his face to his watered-down crotch. She held up the offending glass to him. “We have an icebox.”
He nodded. “I daresay I am fully aware of that already, madam.”
Her smile faltered. “Yes, I suppose you are. I went to get you a drink. I thought you might like a … glass of water.”
“Thank you,” was his frozen reply. “I think I’ve had plenty now.” He let go of the doorjamb and held, as best he could, his dripping pants away from his skin. “If you will excuse me, I will just go change.” Smiling, deadly, he politely indicated the chair he’d expected to find her sitting in a moment ago. “Please. Have a seat.”
“Certainly,” she said a bit breathlessly, perhaps fearfully, as she quickly sidled past him.
Like a brooding madman, though completely aware of exactly how ridiculous, and possibly obscene, he looked standing there holding the crotch of his wet pants, Spencer turned to watch her go. With her full skirt scurrying out behind her and her long mahogany curls swaying to and fro, she hurried to the chair, turned, and sat down with an elegant flourish. Under any other circumstances, he might have found her appearance and her actions adorable. But not this circumstance.
Her spine stiff, her posture perfect, Victoria held the empty glass in both hands in her lap. Then, suddenly, as though holding on to it convicted her of a crime, she plunked it onto a round decorative table, which boasted a green potted plant atop it and was next to her chair. She folded her hands in her lap and looked to him, blue eyes wide and innocent, for approval or perhaps further instructions.
Spencer steadfastly refused to be taken in by her beauty or her obedience. He did not believe her sweet little pose for one moment. To prove it, he let go of his pants long enough to point threateningly at her. “Don’t. Move. Do you understand the concept, Victoria, of ‘don’t move’? Do you really?”
“Yes.” Suspiciously cooperative, she settled herself comfortably on her chair. “I won’t move.”
He remained unconvinced. “Swear it.”
Disbelief widened her eyes. “You wish me to swear it?”
“No, I do not wish you to swear it. I require that you do.”
“But I’ve only just said I would stay—”
“Madam, I chased you across England and an entire ocean because you did not stay where you were told to. And twice, since we’ve been in this most lovely and gracious home, you have disappeared. And both times, when I found you, I suffered terribly. The first time, I was set upon by ruffians and very nearly killed. And now I have had an iceberg dumped in my pants.” He suspected the pained sound she made was to stifle a laugh and was not an expression of pity or remorse. “So, yes, I do, Victoria. I require you to swear it.”
She’d clamped a hand over her mouth and now stared bright-eyed at him above it. As he arched an eyebrow in warning, she quickly lowered her hand to her lap and, very seriously, said, “As you wish. I swear—”
“On your mother’s grave.”
“My mother, not being dead, as you very well know, has no grave.”
Spencer actually felt a vein in his forehead swell and throb. “Very well,” he said through gritted teeth, which did nothing to alleviate the pain in his jaw, “who is dead that you loved and cherished?”
Victoria poked her bottom lip out and frowned, obviously thinking about it. “My grandmother,” she suddenly chirped. “My dear, cherished grandmother is dead. Will she do?”
“Nicely. Swear on her grave.”
Victoria exhaled a sigh. “This is so very unnecessary, but if you require it, I swear on my sainted grandmother’s grave”—in a very singsong voice—“that I will not move from this chair until you tell me I may do so.” She gestured with both hands. “There. I’ve sworn. Now, go change your pants before you catch your death of cold.”
He now had no choice but to trust that she would do as she’d sworn. After all, a man—a woman—was only as good as her word. Spencer determinedly set himself in motion, trying to maintain what dignity he could as he walked stiffly across the room and ignored the cold, soggy feel of the wet fabric that viciously rubbed his thighs and man parts. Given his luck today, the damned underused member and its two close companions would fall off when he stripped out of his clothes. Right now, though, he could honestly say he wouldn’t give a tinker’s damn if they did. What would it matter? At this rate, he wouldn’t be using any of them again, anyway.
Once in his dressing room, Spencer repeated the painful chore of stripping out of his clothes, down to his naked skin. It was with relief, despite his fatalistic thought only moments ago, that he noted he’d lost no vital parts to the cold water. They were a bit shriveled and disgruntled at the moment, but none the worse for having been doused. He rubbed himself dry with his shirt as best he could, tossed it aside, and then carefully reached for suitable replacements out of drawers and off hangers. As quickly as possible, given that he could only move like a creaky-jointed ninety-year-old, he re-dressed and, once again, with his jaw squared, exited the dressing room and stepped into the bedroom.
The chair was empty. He was again alone in the room. This time, the bedroom’s door was open to the hallway. He could not believe the woman. When he realized a welling and uncontrollable shout of frustration was imminent, Spencer pressed a supporting hand to his sore and swollen jaw. “Son of a bitch!”
Making him instantly sorry, and teaching him a resounding lesson, was the shooting pain from chin to ear that had him grimacing.
Far from defeated, Spencer made his way to the door, intent on finding his wife straightaway. The only explanation he would accept for her not being where she’d sworn to stay was the damned house itself was on fire. And he could honestly say he didn’t smell any smoke. For another thing, if the house was on fire, why hadn’t she alerted him? More and more out of sorts, once he was at the door, he changed his mind about chasing after her. Why should he? Instead, he’d make his point by slamming the damned door off its hinges and thereby announce his displeasure.
He grabbed the door and flung it closed with as much force as he could muster. The door did not come off its hinges, but the resounding bang of sharp noise it made brought some gratification. Spencer stood there a moment, watching the door and listening, thinking that, by God, this would bring them running. But it didn’t. Not the first startled cry or sound of hurrying footsteps did he hear. This was outrageous. What if he’d been on fire?
Suddenly tired and not giving a damn if he was on fire, Spencer turn
ed to make his way to his bed. Right now all he wanted was the comfort of that soft bed, his supper, a dose of strong medication, and hours upon hours of soothing sleep. At this moment, he didn’t care where his wife had gone or what she was doing or even what her game was. If she wished to converse with him, she bloody well knew where he was.
Spencer’s stomach growled, reminding him that the supper hour approached and he’d sent Hornsby to bring a tray up to him. Certainly, given his condition, no one here expected him to dress for supper. And it was too damned bad for them if they did. Because, for the rest of this day, he meant to remain in his room with the door solidly, pointedly closed. With his luck, Spencer fumed, the roof would fall in on him. Well, if his jaw and ribs didn’t soon stop hurting so badly, he might welcome such a course of relief.
At the bed’s side now, and barefooted, Spencer shed his collarless shirt and his britches. He left his clothes pooled on the treacherous rug, the same one that had earlier caught his toe and nearly made him fall—no doubt, to his death, had he. Then, and admitting he was all done in, he gratefully crawled into bed, lay back, and pulled a sheet up and over him to his chest. Only then did he exhale a sigh of contentment and relief … and close his eyes.
He had no way of knowing how much time had passed, but he was more than half asleep when he became aware of the door to the bedroom being softly opened. Instantly wide awake, his eyes open, he lay very still, listening, as he stared up at the high ceiling. The shadows in the room, he noted, were longer, but not by much. And whoever entered on cat’s paws obviously meant to do so without his knowing it. Maybe this was Hornsby with that supper tray. Or maybe this was some kind soul who meant to check on him without disturbing him. Or kill him without waking him.
Well, aren’t I the bloody calm victim? Spencer marveled. But what the hell was he supposed to do? Scream? Not very likely, given his ribs, his jaw, and his masculine pride. Fight? Certainly. But not very effectively, he would imagine. Never had he felt so helpless. Where the hell was his pistol? Would he have to resort to sleeping with the damned thing beside his bed?
Just then, he detected a soft rustling of skirts that relaxed him and brought a quick grin to his face. He had identified his visitor. Only one woman who resided in this house would have a reason to enter his bedroom with him in it. Wondering what she was about, but still too mentally tired, as well as physically spent, to deal well with her, even if she meant to kill him, Spencer decided to close his eyes and feign sleep. If she intended to explain her behavior or apologize to him for vanishing again, she could jolly well wait until tomorrow.
No sooner had he closed his eyes than he felt her press up against the bed. He could hear her soft breathing … and feel her body’s warmth. Reason told him she was gazing down at him. For one second, and despite his ribs, Spencer considered grabbing her and tossing her onto the bed with him. He liked the mental image he got of them tussling about under the covers, until it changed to a more realistic picture of his diminutive wife screaming and hitting him and bringing the entire household on the run to witness a woman finishing him off.
Fatalistic to the very end, Spencer forced himself to lie still. What the devil was she doing? Measuring him for his coffin? He wasn’t certain he could stand much more of this mystery. Perhaps he could pretend he was awakening just now—
“Oh, Spencer,” she whispered, nearly startling him into giving himself away. Amazingly, he’d managed not to move a muscle. It was just as well. They were all sore. Then, to his utter shock, he felt her hand on his uninjured cheek. His eyelids fluttered. If she noticed, she gave no sign. Her touch was warm, soft, comforting, and a shiver of reaction sent chills over Spencer’s body. He fought it, knowing that was exactly the last thing he needed to do at this moment—raise the sheet like a circus tent going up. And still she continued her torture … softly caressing his face, her fingers now moving lightly over his bruised and swollen jaw. Sighing softly, she smoothed his hair back from his forehead.
And then, leaning over him—he could tell she did by the shifting of the mattress and also because the sweet scent of her skin suddenly filled his nostrils—she lightly kissed him on his forehead. “I am so sorry,” she added, still whispering.
She pulled away, straightening up and … Spencer strained to detect any sound … apparently moved away from the bed. She had to have tiptoed across the room because he heard no footfalls, only the soft closing of the door behind her.
At last, Spencer sat up, struggling to do so. Frowning, he stared at the same door she’d only just closed. She’d said she was sorry. Sorry for what?
CHAPTER 10
By the next afternoon, it had become abundantly clear to Spencer that if he meant to have a frank discussion with his wife on many subjects, he would need to get her away from the lovely Abercorn Street house that faced Oglethorpe Square with its shading of moss-draped oaks and inviting expanse of green lawn. Since he’d taken breakfast alone in his room and hadn’t dressed until late, he had yet to speak with her. She—and that blasted Edward—were receiving callers in the parlor downstairs. Beautifully attired female visitors, so Hornsby had reported, were parading in and out in accordance with Southern protocol.
Hornsby had also, with evident trepidation, told Spencer at breakfast that Her Grace had informed him to tell Spencer he was excused from receiving callers today, given his soreness and his … appearance. His ghastly bruised appearance, Spencer knew. Still, the word overjoyed best described his reaction. He hated receiving callers and had no desire to meet Savannah’s crop of young ladies and their mamas.
Edward was another story. The very busy Hornsby, who made periodic forays downstairs and then hurried upstairs to report the results to his employer, said the Earl of Roxley thought every lady who showed up at the door more beautiful than the last and truly the love of his life. Spencer had scowled at this. The man was making a fool of himself, yet the giggling young ladies and their mamas were said to be enjoying his fawning attentions tremendously. Of course they would. The man was a titled peer of the realm.
Spencer, however, found his cousin not to be the least bit amusing. When Hornsby had become winded and red in the face from traversing the stairs, Mr. Milton had been dispatched downstairs by Spencer … on an errand in the library, ostensibly. Mr. Milton had duly reported back to him the appalling story that for every lady who asked after the absent duke, Edward was weaving a different and taller tale. Among some of the ones heard by Spencer’s secretary were: the duke, unfortunately, had been stricken with a tropical illness that left him covered with red spots; or the duke had tripped and fallen down the stairs; or the duke had been hit in the head with a falling chandelier. The duke had broken his leg when out in the garden. The duke had been thrown from a horse.
It had been at this point, and outraged, that Spencer had flung back his covers and, with Hornsby’s sniffing disapproval over his patient’s abandoning the sickroom, had dressed and stolen downstairs. There, pausing in the hallway that ran alongside the front parlor, out of sight and around a corner, he stood, fully prepared to pretend to admire the statuary on a round oak table should anyone pass by or notice him. From this vantage point, he could hear how overjoyed the ladies said they were to see Victoria again so soon and looking so well. He suspected most of the women meant nothing of the sort and very likely were the same ones, he would be willing to wager, whose tongues had wagged without end at the time of Victoria’s fall from grace.
And now today, they had come out of rank curiosity, no doubt, regarding Edward, and for fodder to feed the rumor mills. Edward was giving it to them, too, with his exaggerated attentions to them and his ever-changing tales of Spencer’s imaginary woes, none of which he would be able to explain at a later date. And wouldn’t the ladies have ever so much more to talk about when they got together and compared notes, only to find they’d each been told a different tale? That damned Edward. He is only making things worse.
In this whole dismal scenario, though, Spenc
er had found one ray of sunlight: his wife’s comportment. By all reports, and from what he could hear himself, she had remained unfailingly gracious and kind and had told all her childhood friends the same story. She and her husband, the Duke of Moreland—Spencer suspected it amused her to watch these Savannah belles devour themselves with jealousy over her title—were only visiting. She and the duke would not be here very long. And yes, everything was wonderful with her and the duke.
Spencer admitted it: He admired her performance. Had he been her in this polite-society situation, he knew, he would have already bloodied a sugary female viper’s lip or two. But he soon tired of listening to the polite chatter and ordered a carriage readied for an outing. Let the brigand behind the attack on him see him out and about—if indeed there was a brigand behind it. The two ruffians could simply have been common thieves, after all, but Spencer seriously doubted it.
Tearing at the very fabric of him was his suspicion that Victoria could be, directly or indirectly, responsible for the attack. While the very assertion, on the surface, seemed as ridiculous as it was horrifying, he firmly believed he would not be wise to discount it. After all, he did not yet know why she had run away from Wetherington’s Point. But if she’d come back to be with her lover, who could possibly be a nefarious sort, and then he—an inconvenient husband—had shown up? Well, put that way, it wasn’t such a leap, after all, to believe they could quickly come to the conclusion they would be better off with him dead. Such an event would leave Victoria with the title, the duchy, its wealth, and its heir.
A very neat solution, to be sure. But now, the brigand had better beware because Spencer was carrying his gun with him whenever he left the house.
While the carriage was being readied and brought round the back way, so he could escape undetected, Spencer spent his time sorting Mr. Milton and Hornsby out, leaving orders for their afternoon’s activities. Then, when the fine black and gleaming carriage, with a sleek team of matching bays, was ready, he escaped outside and directed the driver—a young and cheerful and talkative black man named Zebediah—to make the circuit of some of the squares.
To Make a Marriage Page 15
