The Marriage Act

by Alyssa Everett

  While Caro waited beside Jane, Lieutenant Howe chatted briefly with Jane’s brother. He looked smart in his scarlet uniform. Caro supposed she’d have no chance to speak with him herself, but to her surprise he slipped up beside her as they continued to the Mainsforths’ waiting carriage.

  “Did you enjoy the show, Miss Fleetwood?”

  “Very much. Did you?”

  “I certainly enjoyed the female equestrian act.” When Lieutenant Howe smiled, his eyes twinkled. “One doesn’t often see a girl in nothing but flesh-colored tights, especially one who can kick up her leg that high.”

  The remark took her by surprise, for it sounded risqué. Gentlemen rarely made risqué remarks to clergymen’s daughters, and never to the daughter of a bishop. “The strong man didn’t seem much concerned with modesty either,” she answered with an arch glance in his direction.

  He laughed. That was another thing gentlemen rarely did around her, as if her father’s position cloaked her in an aura of humorless respectability. Usually when she said something arch, people merely looked confused, as if they weren’t sure whether she’d meant to be saucy or not. She felt witty and sophisticated, making Lieutenant Howe laugh.

  “Cliburne tells me you’re from Chelmsford,” he said.

  “Yes, I divide my time between there and Town, as my father’s obligations require.”

  “What a small world it is. I’m in Town on personal business, but I hail from Ingatestone, and my regiment is quartered in Chelmsford.” He lowered his voice. “Do you know, you smell wonderful.”

  A flutter of excitement ran through her. She often wore the eau d’ange her father had given her for her birthday, but she’d never had a young man comment on it before. She was quite sure it was improper for him to make such a personal remark, especially when they’d only just met, but she liked it just the same. “Thank you.”

  “When you’re in Chelmsford, do you ever attend the public assemblies at the Shire Hall?”

  “Sometimes, when my friends make up a party.”

  “I hope to see you there sometime—next month, perhaps. Will you save your waltzes for me?”

  Caro hesitated. The waltz was a new and rather shocking dance, and though the number of soldiers in Chelmsford had declined since the days when Bonaparte seemed poised to invade, the militia still had a rakish reputation. They drilled only three days a week, leaving them often at leisure. Quite a few soldiers made a second home of the tavern near the barracks, where they indulged in gambling and drinking and—it was rumored—sometimes worse.

  But Lieutenant Howe was an officer and a gentleman, and however forward he might be, it wasn’t every day that she met such a handsome young man, let alone one who shared her corner of the world. “If you wish.”

  “Until then,” Lieutenant Howe said, giving her a sweeping bow before they parted. “I’ll be counting the days.”

  Jane’s brother must have heard the exchange, for on the drive back to Mayfair he sat beside her in the carriage and said in a confidential undertone, his brow wrinkling, “I don’t mean to worry you, Miss Fleetwood, but I’m not sure it was wise to promise to save your dances for Lieutenant Howe.”

  “Why, is he bad ton?”

  “Oh, no, I would never have made the introduction if he were. But if you’ll excuse my telling tales out of school, he’s rather in the petticoat line, and I’m not sure your father would approve.”

  She nodded and tried to look grave, but if it had been Lord Cliburne’s aim to make her change her mind, he might have saved his breath. As much as she loved her father, she wasn’t interested in the kind of men likely to please a bishop.

  Since the moment she’d made her come-out, friends and chaperones had been introducing her to single clergymen, from well-connected young rectors to lowly curates, and every one of those gentlemen seemed more interested in currying favor with her father than in getting to know her. They usually tried to impress her with their dedication to their calling, when she would much rather have talked about the gathering around them or the play they’d just seen. But since admitting she had no interest in church politics would have shocked them to the core, she had to pretend to be fascinated by their tales of power struggles with the vestry and clashes with the altar guild.

  And when would-be matchmakers weren’t presenting an unmarried clergyman to her, they were presenting a grieving widower or a social reformer—all very good, very pious gentlemen, gentlemen Caro wished all the best, but gentlemen without a whiff of fun or audacity about them. All Caro’s friends seemed to think that just because her father was a bishop, she dreamed of marrying a saint.

  No wonder, then, that when she arrived home that day, the marvels she’d seen at Astley’s quickly faded from her memory, while Lieutenant Howe’s twinkling blue eyes remained impossible to forget.

  She kept their rendezvous at the Shire Hall the following month. They danced one and a half waltzes together—the half because midway through the set, he took her by the hand and spirited her from the dance floor.

  “Where are we going?” she asked as he led her to the exit, tucking her hand under his arm.

  “Outside,” he said with a careless grin. “To enjoy a few moments of privacy.”

  She should have dug in her heels and refused to go with him, but her heart raced with anticipation. Once outside, he drew her around the Shire Hall to the back of the building, to where her father’s cathedral stood directly across from them, watching over their encounter like a slumbering chaperone. For the next quarter of an hour, Lieutenant Howe whispered endearments and pressed heated kisses on her. From that night on, she was head over heels for him, and she was sure he felt the same way about her.

  It was supposed to be the beginning of a lifelong passion, that first evening with Lawrence, but she saw him only twice more after that. At their third meeting he not only kissed her behind the Shire Hall but also slipped his hand inside the neckline of her gown as he ground his lean hips against hers. She thought she would die from excitement and happiness. As soon as she arrived home, she dashed off a letter and sent it to him by linkboy, impulsively suggesting they elope to Gretna Green. It was a foolish letter, and monstrously indiscreet, but it was no more unsuitable than the things he’d whispered to her as he’d groped her in the darkness.

  She received his frosty dismissal the next morning—the very day Welford proposed. The humiliation of Lawrence’s rejection had driven reason from her head. And now she was Welford’s wife, until death did them part, with no one to blame but herself.

  It was pitch-black outside, and the rough voices of ostlers called back and forth from the inn yard. Returning from the necessary, Caro quickened her steps on the narrow path that ran between the stables and the door to the inn.

  She was nearly to the entrance when a man appeared before her, directly in her way. It was the blond gentleman from the taproom, the one who’d made no secret of staring at her.

  “Excuse me.” Nervous, she tried to brush past him.

  He blocked her with an arm across her path. “What’s your hurry, sweeting? I’d like to talk with you.”

  “I don’t know you, sir.” She tried his other side, intending to go around him, but he sidestepped along with her. “Let me pass.”

  “I told you, I want to talk to you.” He moved in closer—improperly close. “You’re a fetching little thing.”

  His breath reeked of ale and cheap tobacco. She lowered her eyes but stood her ground. “I’m expected back. Let me by.”

  He seized hold of her arm—not roughly, but that he would dare to touch her at all alarmed her. “Why so hoity-toity, pretty lady? The looks you were giving me inside weren’t half so cold.”

  Caro regretted the childish impulse that had made her want to provoke Welford. “I wasn’t giving you any looks.”

  “Playing hard to get now
, are we? You were eyeing me right enough, and when I smiled at you, you smiled back.”

  “You’ve made a mistake. I’m married.”

  He laughed and leaned in knowingly. “As if married women never smile when they see something they like.”

  “I didn’t smile at you.” Her heart hammered. “Let me go.”

  “Don’t tell me—”

  He gave a strangled yelp. One moment he was leering down at her, his hand heavy on her arm, and the next he seemed to launch backward, his feet flying off the flagstones.

  She gasped. It was Welford. He’d slammed the blond gentleman against the brick wall of the inn and held him pinned there by the throat. “I believe the lady said you were mistaken,” her husband growled in a voice so low it made her shiver.

  Caro gaped at them.

  “Let me go,” the man choked, his face pale with fear. If he was trying to appear insulted and in control, he’d failed miserably. He sounded more like a defiant schoolboy.

  “The only reason I haven’t snapped your miserable neck,” Welford said, every word deliberate and menacing, “is because you’re not worth the delay it would pose in my journey.”

  “She made eyes at me!”

  “I don’t care if she licked your damned face. You’re going to apologize and then you’re going to leave this inn as fast your legs will carry you. Understood?”

  The man shot Caro a poisonous look but nodded in fearful assent.

  “First the apology,” Welford said.

  “I beg your pardon,” the man said, his eyes darting briefly in Caro’s direction. “I misread the situation.”

  “Grievously,” Welford added.

  “Yes. Grievously.”

  Welford released him. The man quickly broke into a run, disappearing around the corner of the inn without a second glance.

  Welford turned to her, unhurriedly straightening his coat, once again his cool, unruffled self. “Did he hurt you?” he asked in his normal tone of voice.

  “No,” Caro answered, shaken. “But he was being impertinent.”

  “If I may offer a piece of advice, the next time you give a man a look of invitation, strive for the discriminating air of an exclusive Cyprian rather than the ready availability of a Covent Garden lightskirt.”

  “I never gave him a look of invitation,” she said angrily. The scowl that flashed quickly across Welford’s face told her it was no use denying it, not when he’d seen her with his own eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. If I took any notice of him at all, it was only meant as a game.”

  “Even games have rules, and some men have a troubling tendency to expect women to play by them.”

  Her cheeks burned. She felt humiliated, vexed with herself, and—despite his having saved her from heaven-knew-what vile jeopardy—even more vexed with Welford. Once again she was at fault, and once again he was making sure she knew it. He treated her as if she were a child and he were her father, except that her actual father would never have spoken to her with half so much condescension after the fright she’d just taken.

  And the most infuriating part was that she couldn’t even defend herself as she longed to, because she had behaved like a child. What had made her give in to such a foolish impulse, trading looks with a strange man purely to annoy Welford? It had been a rash, thoughtless act of mutiny. She would’ve admitted as much, if she hadn’t known Welford would seize on her admission and use it against her like a club.

  She let out her breath in a tension-laden sigh. “I’m tired, and I’d like to get an early start tomorrow. I’m going up to retire.”

  “I was about to do the same.”

  He accompanied her upstairs. Their room was The George’s best, boasting a cozy fire and a wide feather bed. Caro was still surveying the furnishings as Welford began to undress, stripping off his coat.

  She cast a surreptitious glance his way, at his broad shoulders and lean build. What was she to do without her maid to help her? Welford might be able to manage on his own, but his clothes buttoned in the front.

  Perhaps she could sleep fully dressed. No, that made no sense, not when she was going to have to wash up and change at some point. She fumbled for the back of her gown, wishing Mary were not recovering miles away.

  Welford glanced in her direction and caught her struggling to unfasten her bodice. “Do you need help?”

  As much as she wished to deny it, she was finding it impossible to manage alone, and she didn’t relish the idea of sleeping on a row of buttons all night. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  A moment later he was behind her, making an easy job of the task, his hands as quick and impersonal as if he were dealing cards. “There.”

  How many women had he undressed in the years since their wedding? She hadn’t heard any rumors of mistresses or affairs, but then, he’d been half a continent away. She had the sense Vienna was a sophisticated, pleasure-loving city, and Welford was still young and vigorous, whatever her first impression of him had been.

  Her back to him, she drew her dress off over her head, then draped it carefully over a chair. She’d be more comfortable if she took off her petticoat and stays, but she wasn’t about to strip all the way down to her shift with Welford in the room, husband or no.

  He sat on the bed and tugged off his boots. “I’ll take the floor.”

  “No, I’ll sleep on the floor. I said I would.”

  “Whatever was said, you can’t possibly have credited I would leave my w—a lady to sleep on the floor while I occupy the bed. I’ll take the floor.”

  He would enjoy that, wouldn’t he, if she went back on her word? It would be one more shortcoming he could add to the tally he kept, one more way he’d be in the right and she’d be in the wrong. “I said I would sleep on the floor, and I mean to sleep on the floor.”

  He unbuttoned his waistcoat. “I’m not taking the bed.”

  “Neither am I.”

  He snatched up the quilted coverlet without further comment, leaving her the sheets, blanket and feather pillow. He shook out the quilt and settled it on the flagstone floor, between the bed and the door.

  Not to be outdone, Caro stripped off the blanket and spread it out on the opposite side of the bed, near the window. “You can have the pillow.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  She reflected a moment and then took it. She might have promised to sleep on the floor, but the pillow had never been part of their bargain.

  Across from her, Welford rolled his coat into a ball. “Leitner will have my head for treating good tailoring by Weston this way.” Still in his shirt and breeches, he stretched out on the coverlet, tucking the makeshift pillow under his head. “Good night.”

  “Good night.” Caro blew out the candle and likewise got down on the floor, the bed between them. She lay on her back and wrapped the woolen blanket over her.

  The flagstone floor was cold and every bit as uncomfortable as she’d feared. She was tired, but not the least bit sleepy. She closed her eyes and tried to block out all the worrisome thoughts swirling in her head—anxiety for her father, plans for the next day’s journey, the disturbing events of the past half hour, and most of all that Welford was mere feet away.

  He must have been just as uncomfortable as she was, for after a few minutes of silence his voice came from the other side of the bed. “This is ridiculous. Both of us on the floor, allowing a perfectly good bed to go to waste, because you’re too stubborn to give in.”

  “I’m not about to go back on my word.” Drat. She should have thought before she spoke. Now she’d opened the door for one of his acid remarks—Ah yes, we both know how good you are at honoring your promises or I bow to your exalted sense of right and wrong.

  But he only said, “Do as you please. But if you change your mind in the middle of the night, the bed
will be unoccupied.”

  She wasn’t going to change her mind. Still, it was a relief he hadn’t leaped on her blunder, and a relief, too, that he wasn’t going to take the bed and then crow about how much more comfortable he was. The floor was hard enough and drafty enough without his adding to her wretchedness. Not that she’d really expected him to take the bed. Welford might be coldhearted, but he was too set in his ways to do something so ungentlemanly.

  As tired as she was, sleep refused to come. Perhaps if she weren’t in her stays...But it sounded as if her husband was equally restless. Every minute or so, the rustle of his tossing and turning punctuated the silence.

  “Welford,” she said into the darkness, “do you ever worry this is how we’re going to live out the rest of our lives—both of us miserable, because neither of us is willing to let the other win?”

  “Win? I assure you, there’s no winning for me in this marriage.”

  “I suppose win was the wrong word, and I meant...Oh, I don’t know what I meant. Give in or forgive or let go of old wrongs—”

  “All of which apply to me, I notice, while glossing over your own lack of affection, loyalty and respect.”

  She sighed. He really was impossible. “Very well, then, neither of us is willing to change. Is that more to your liking?”

  He deliberated a moment. “I suppose.”

  “Then do you never worry that this is all we have to look forward to for the rest of our days? Resenting each other, living separate lives? Unless one of us dies, you’re not going to have an heir and I’m not going to be a mother and we’re both going to remain angry and alone.”

  “You could always have a baby with one of your—with another man,” he said coldly. “You must know I’d never publicly deny your child.”

  “And you must know by now I’d never do such a thing. Whatever reckless choices I may have made as a girl and whatever foolish missteps I may make on occasion, we’re married and I’ve been faithful to you for more than five years.”