by Jane Feather
He'd suggested duck hunting earlier. Henry had reported that the sport at Webster's Pond was held to be excellent. Apart from a few poachers, it was rarely hunted, since it was on private Stoneridge land.
Maybe the idea of a competition would appeal to her. He'd never known Theo to refuse a challenge of any kind. The thought made him smile, and as he realized how relieved he was, he understood just how desperately anxious he'd been since Crighton had driven up to the door… was it only an hour ago? A lifetime of living with his despicable secret seemed impossible, but he couldn't imagine how he could ever tell her.
He moved to the door just as it opened. Theo came into the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
His words of friendly greeting died on his lips. Her face was paler than he'd ever seen it, and her eyes were depthless caverns.
"So, my lord, your business with Mr. Crighton is concluded?" Her voice was strangely flat.
"Cry peace, Theo," he said, coming toward her, smiling, one hand outstretched. "I know you've been accustomed to participating in these discussions, but -"
"But on this occasion things not for my ears were being discussed," she interrupted in the same expressionless voice. Before he could respond, she continued. "Did you ever consider that I might be too high a price to pay for the estate, my lord? But I imagine no price would be too high."
"You were listening?" His own face now bloodless, Sylvester stared at her, too stunned for the moment to grasp the full horror of this disclosure.
"Yes," Theo said. "I was eavesdropping. Nasty habit, isn't it? But not as nasty as deceit and manipulation, my lord. Did my grandfather know you, I wonder? Did he know what a greedy, dishonorable man he was tempting with his granddaughter's body?"
"Theo, that's enough." He had to take hold of the situation, to stop this dreadful, destructive monologue before something catastrophic was said or done. "You must listen to me."
"Listen to you? Oh, I've listened to you enough, Stoneridge. If I hadn't listened to you, I wouldn't be tied to a despicable, treacherous deceiver."
"Theo, you will stop this instant!" Guilt yielded to anger as her bitter words flew like poison darts across the small room.
"We will talk about this like reasonable people. I understand how you feel -"
"You understand!" she exclaimed, and her eyes were now bright with fury. "You've taken everything from me, and you tell me you understand how I feel." With a sudden inarticulate sound of desperate rage and confusion, she turned and ran from the room.
Sylvester remained where he was, his body immobile, his ears ringing with her accusations. There was a dreadful truth to them, but it was a black-and-white truth, one that ignored the complexities of the decision that he'd made. Theo, headstrong, forthright, free-spirited gypsy that she was, drew her world with the firm strokes of a charcoal pencil, no shading, no wavy lines.
Somehow she had to be persuaded to accept her grandfather's part in all this. Her grandfather had laid out the board, and he himself was as much a goddamned pawn in the old devil's game as Theo.
With a muttered execration he spun on his heel and began to pace the room, the hateful words pounding with his blood in his veins. Dishonorable; treacherous; deceitful. The accusations went round and round in his head until his brain was spinning with them. A dishonorable, treacherous man would give in to the enemy without a fight. Would see his men slaughtered, would surrender the colors, would condemn the survivors of his company to languish in an enemy jail…
He closed his eyes as if he could block out the dreadful images; he covered his ears as if he could erase the voice of General, Lord Feringham at the court-martial, a voice that made no attempt to disguise the general's contempt for the man on trial. What price an acquittal when not even the presiding general had believed in his innocence? They'd turned their backs on him in the court when the verdict had been announced…
And now his wife was hurling the same accusations at his head! Her eyes glittered with the same contempt. And it was not to be borne!
He strode out of the room, hardly knowing what he was doing. "Where's Lady Theo?"
Foster, crossing the hall, paused, looking startled at the violent edge to the abrupt question. What he saw on the earl's face had him stumbling over his words in his haste to answer. "Abovestairs, I believe, my lord. Is something wrong?"
The earl didn't reply, merely stalked past him and took the stairs two at a time. Foster stroked his chin, frowning. The slamming of a door resounded through the late-afternoon stillness of the house. The butler knew immediately it was the door to the countess's apartments. Something was badly wrong, and for once he was at a loss. Should he interfere? Send Lady Theo's maid up on some pretext, perhaps? Go himself? He waited, but stillness had settled over the house again. Uneasily, he returned to the butler's pantry and the silver he was cleaning.
Theo gazed, white-faced, at her husband as the door crashed shut behind him. "Am I to be granted not even the privacy of my own room?" she demanded with icy contempt. "I realize the entire house belongs to you, Lord Stoneridge. I suppose it's too much to expect -"
"Theo, stop!" he ordered, his eyes on the bed where an open portmanteau lay. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"What does it look like?" She pulled a nightgown from a drawer and tossed it into the bag. "I'm going to the dower house. The one part of the estate you didn't manage to get your thieving hands on!" Her voice was thick, and angrily she dashed tears from her eyes with her forearm before hurling her ivory-backed hairbrushes and combs on top of the nightgown.
She didn't look at him and didn't see his expression as she continued, blind in her rage and hurt. "The dower house was left free and clear to my mother, and not even a deceitful, treacherous liar would be cowardly enough to storm into the house of an unprotected woman."
The repeated insults finally unloosed the crimson tide of rage, and Sylvester fought to hold on to his anger even as he determined to compel her retreat. "By God, you're going to take that back," he stated. "That and every other insult you've thrown at me in the last hour."
"Never!" she retorted, shifting her stance imperceptibly, her eyes sharply focused, calculating his next move.
Sylvester came toward her, his eyes blazing in his drawn countenance. Theo snatched her hairbrush from the portmanteau and hurled it at him. It caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder. He swore and ducked as a shoe followed the brush and he found himself in the midst of a veritable tempest of flying objects as Theo grabbed whatever was to hand – cushions, books, shoes, ornaments – and flung them at his head.
"You goddamned termagant!" he bellowed as a glass figurine flew past his ear and crashed in a shiver of crystal against the wall. He lunged for her, coming in low, catching her around the waist, lifting her off her feet before she could counterattack.
Theo cursed him with the vigor and fluency of a stable hand, and he realized that until now he'd only heard the tip of the iceberg when it came to his wife's vocabulary. In other circumstances the realization might have amused him.
Theo found herself in the corner of the room, her face pressed to the wall, her hands gripped at the wrists and pushed up her back, not far enough to hurt, but coercive, nevertheless. Sylvester's body was against hers, holding her into the corner so she had no space, no possibility of independent movement.
"Now," he said, breathing heavily in the aftermath of that struggle, his voice hard with determination. "Take it back, Theo. Every damn word."
She threw another savage oath at him. Tensing her muscles, she tested her strength against the physical wall at her back. She could feel the rigidity of his body, a barrier as hard and invincible as a wall of steel. At her movement he brought one knee up and pushed it into her backside, pressing her even more securely into the corner.
"Take it back, Theo," he repeated, softly now, but his intention still as hard as agate. "We aren't moving from here until you do so."
He could feel her resistance as pulsing wa
ves emanating from the taut body, and he concentrated every fiber of his being on winning this battle of wills. He knew on the most primitive level that he could not tolerate his wife's contempt. He'd endured a lifetime's worth of scorn and opprobrium from men whose opinion he valued, men he'd counted as friends and colleagues, and he didn't think those wounds would ever close.
"Listen to me," he said into the silence. "You have the right to be angry… you have the right to an explanation -"
"You talk of rights, of explanations, when you've taken -"
"Give me a chance!" he interrupted. "You have only half the story, Theo."
"Let me go." She twisted against him, but she knew it was futile.
"When you take back those insults. I'll not tolerate being called a coward by you or anyone."
The intensity in his voice pierced her fury and bewilderment. Vaguely she remembered tossing "cowardly" into the seething cauldron of accusations, but it had been one epithet among many. His hands were warm on her wrists, and she could feel the blood in his thumbs beating against her own pulse. His breath rustled over the top of her head, and the power of his frame seemed to enclose her, to swallow her as it did when they made love, and her confusion grew as her body's memory sprang alive with the knowledge of the hours of pleasure they'd shared.
Sylvester felt the change in her, the confusion tangling now with her anger, the smudging of her hard edges. "Let's be done with this," he said. His thumb moved against her wrist.
His closeness was suddenly more than she could bear. It muddled the clarity of her anger, the absolute knowledge of her betrayal. He'd used her body to betray her, and now it was happening again.
"All right," she said, desperate for release. "All right, I take it back. I've no evidence you're a coward."
Sylvester exhaled slowly and moved them both out of the corner. Theo glanced up at him and saw no satisfaction at this small capitulation. His face was drawn, his eyes strained. He looked like a man on his way to the gallows.
"Let's talk about this now," he said.
Theo shook herself free of his slackened grip. "There's nothing to talk about. I don't even want to be in the same room with you." Pushing past him, she made for the door.
She had her hand on the latch, but Sylvester was on her heels. "No, you don't!" He banged the door closed as she pulled it open. He stood with his shoulders against it and regarded her with near desperate frustration. "Damn it, woman, you're going to listen to me." He closed his eyes wearily for a second, rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger. "It's not going to do any good to run away from it."
"Why should I listen to you?" she demanded. "You're a liar and a hypocrite! Why should I ever believe a word you say?"
"Because I've never told you a lie," he said quietly.
"What? You have the unmitigated gall to deny…" She turned from him with an exclamation of disgust. "I loathe you."
A muscle twitched in his drawn cheek, and there was a white shade around the taut mouth, but he fought to keep his voice moderate. "Just consider for a minute. My actions were dictated by your grandfather. It was your grandfather who concocted the terms of the will. I can only guess at his reasons." He explained the details of the codicil.
Theo stared at him as if he were a piece of primeval slime. "You would blame my grandfather for your greed. You agreed to such a despicable trick. You deprived me of my freedom and my sisters of their share in the estate, just so you could have everything. And you set yourself up as a benevolent benefactor, willing to do the right thing… Oh, I can't bear it another minute. Let me out of here." This last was an impassioned demand, and she pushed at his chest as he still stood in front of the door.
It happened with hideous lack of warning. Jagged flashes of white light tore across his vision, and that dreadful creeping sensation crawled up the back of his neck. Why now? he thought on a silent moan of anguish.
"Move out of the way!" Theo shoved at him again, but even through his dread and frustration, he sensed that she'd lost some of her blind certainty.
Why now? The jagged whiteness exploded across his eyes again, and his heart began to beat fast with the panic that he had to hold down. It only made the coming agony even more intolerable.
Theo was staring at him. She'd seen him look like this once before, but she couldn't remember when. He was shrinking before her eyes, becoming a husk emptied of muscle and sinew.
"All right, go," he said, stumbling away from the door.
"What is it?"
"Get out!"
Just like that? One minute be was insisting they resolve this mess, and the next he was throwing her out of the room without so much as an explanation. And now, perversely, she wasn't sure whether she still wanted to walk away from this confrontation. Perhaps there were aspects that she didn't yet understand. Perhaps there was some kind of an explanation, a reason that might make sense. Her grandfather must have had a reason.
"But I -"
She got no further. He said nothing, but his expression silenced her; his eyes were ghastly as they rested on her face, his mouth a rictus of dread. She wrenched open the door as Sylvester turned and stumbled across the room, disappearing through the connecting door into his own apartment.
Outside her own room, Theo stopped and drew a deep breath. She remembered now when she'd seen him look like that. It was that first meeting, that afternoon by the trout stream. What happened to him? Was it the same indisposition that had kept him in his room for nearly two days?
She heard the sound of his bell ringing urgently, and a minute later Henry came pounding up the stairs. He brushed past Lady Stoneridge with barely a word of apology and disappeared into the earl's bedchamber.
Drained and bewildered, Theo went downstairs. She felt forlorn, as if Sylvester had led her into a dark forest and abandoned her. Her anger had somehow dissipated, and without its prop she was left defenseless against her hurt and confusion.
She went outside, into the soft air of early evening, unsure what to do now. Part of her wanted to run to her mother, but something held her back. It would be the impulse of a hurt child, but there was more to her reluctance than that recognition. At this moment she couldn't face revealing even to her mother that the man who'd pursued and courted her so assiduously would have married her if she'd been a ditch drab. It didn't matter who or what she was, she was merely currency, the price he had had to pay for his inheritance.
Tears burned behind, her eyes, and she blinked them away angrily. She would not cry; neither would she ask for comfort. Maybe later she could tell the story without this searing sense of humiliation, but until then she would find her own strengths.
She wandered toward the rose garden, intending to take the shortcut to the cliff top above the cove. As she reached the springy turf, strewn with bright-blue scabius, she saw a rider coming toward her across the cliff. There was something familiar about him, and she squinted against the setting sun, shading her eyes. Then she was running.
"Edward! Edward!"
The rider urged his horse to a canter and covered the distance between them in a few seconds.
"Theo!" He drew rein. "I was so hoping you'd be in. I was coming to find you."
"Edward." She said his name again, smiling up at him, and for a minute there was silence, but it was filled with so much unspoken emotion, so many thoughts, that the quiet seemed a rush of noise.
He still sat on his horse, the empty left-hand sleeve of his coat pinned across his breast, his right hand holding the reins. Then, with an awkward movement that was so unlike Edward's grace and agility, he swung himself to the ground.
"I still can't get the hang of that," he said. "My whole body's unbalanced, Theo. It makes me mad as fire to be so clumsy and unsteady."
"You'll get used to it," she said, coming into his embrace as he put his arm around her. She hugged him with fierce affection. "Oh, my dear, I have been anguished for you."
"It was my own damn fault," he declared, almost squeezing the
life out of her. "Of all the goddamned arrogant, stupid things to have done. I should be dead, Theo!"
"Oh, don't say that!" She stood back and examined his face. He had aged, lines of suffering etched indelibly around his mouth and eyes, but the humorous light still glimmered in those green eyes, and his mouth retained its wry quirk.
"Have you seen Emily yet?"
Edward shook his head. "I only arrived home last night. I was on my way to the dower house, but I wanted to see you first." He ran his hand over his chin, his eyes suddenly stark. "I wanted you to come with me."
Theo understood immediately. He knew Emily's sensitive soul, and he was afraid to spring himself upon her as he now was.
"Emily was distraught," she said quietly. "But she'll be overjoyed to see you."
"Will she?" Then he dismissed the self-pitying question with typical briskness. "So will you come with me? Shall we fetch Dulcie, or shall we walk?"
"Oh, let's walk," Theo said, realizing that she was unwilling to go back to Stoneridge, to spoil this reunion with a return to the dismal tangle at home.
Edward paused, examining her, and she swore silently. They'd always had an uncanny ability to sense each other's innermost feelings.
"Shouldn't I pay my respects to your husband?" Edward asked.
"Not now," she said. "He's busy."
"Oh?" Edward continued to regard her. "I was surprised to hear your news. It seems very sudden."
"It was," she said, unable to hide the bitterness in her tone. "Four weeks from start to finish. Stoneridge doesn't dawdle when his mind is set."
Edward frowned. "What is it, Theo?"
No, she couldn't even tell Edward… Edward, from whom she'd never had any secrets, before whom she couldn't imagine feeling embarrassed or ashamed. She couldn't tell him, not yet, at least. Besides, he had troubles and insecurities of his own, and she would not lay her burdens on him now, even if they were tellable.
"Nothing serious, Edward. We're just a trifle at outs." The understatement of the year. "Shall I lead Robin? Then you can hold my hand." She smiled at him, and there was no further indication of her own turmoil.
