The Marriage Act

by Alyssa Everett

  “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

  John waved a hand in a careless gesture. “No need to apologize. I’d forgotten all about it.”

  “Except clearly you hadn’t.”

  He considered a moment, then gave a humorless laugh. “No, I suppose I hadn’t.”

  She leaned her chin on her palm and gazed at him with compassion in her eyes. “I’m sorry your stepmother treated you so coldly. When I look at you, from your appearance to the kind of work you do—well, if we all got our just deserts, she should have doted on you.”

  Either his ears were playing tricks on him, or Caro had just given him a compliment—an exceedingly warm compliment—and her family wasn’t even there to hear it. It was almost enough to make a man blush. “Is that a much nicer way of saying that my rectitude makes you want to scream?”

  Caro leaned forward. “Something made me want to scream last night,” she said in a naughty, playful tone, “and it certainly wasn’t your rectitude.”

  Good lord. If he wasn’t blushing before, he was surely blushing now.

  “So,” she said before he could decide what to say to such a remark, “you were going to tell me how you made a fool of yourself on your twenty-first birthday.”

  “Ah, yes. So I was.” As much as he’d enjoyed the compliment and the flirtation, it was already growing late for breakfast. “I have a proposal for you. Leitner informs me it’s chilly outside, but if you don’t mind a little nip in the air, I wonder if you might like to take a walk with me once you’ve dressed and had your breakfast. I can tell you the story of my birthday then.”

  “I’d love to take a walk, but would you mind if I check with my father first to see if he requires anything?”

  “Not at all. I’ll see how Ronnie’s getting on with his Logic, and we can meet in the front hall.”

  He took his leave, though as he walked away he had the distinct feeling he was wasting an opportunity, letting himself out into the corridor while Caro remained in bed, naked and lighthearted beneath the sheets.

  * * *

  When Caro found her father in the drawing room, he wasn’t in his usual chair by the fire but was sitting sideways on a stool opposite the window. Sophia had hung a sheet of paper on the wall behind him and was tracing his shadow on the paper with a pencil, preparing to cut out his silhouette.

  Her father broke into a delighted smile when he caught sight of her. “Caro, my love. Don’t you look radiant this morning.”

  “Good morning, Papa.” Grinning, Caro kissed his cheek. “Good morning, Sophia. What an excellent idea! Might I prevail upon you to make a copy of Papa’s silhouette for me?”

  “If you like. I was hoping to do yours and Lord Welford’s as well, if you’ll agree to sit for it.”

  “The advantage of a silhouette,” Caro’s father said, “is that it doesn’t show one’s gray hair or wrinkles.”

  “As if you have wrinkles,” Caro objected. “In any case, John has no need to worry about such things.”

  “No,” Sophia agreed with a sigh. “He doesn’t.”

  “How are you feeling this morning, Papa?” Caro asked. Her father’s symptoms seemed to vary from day to day and even from hour to hour, swinging from terribly worrisome to barely perceptible. He appeared to be having one of his better days, and not just because he was clearly in a sunny mood—after all, he was rarely blue-deviled. His color looked healthy, and he sounded not at all breathless.

  “Now don’t go fretting about me, cara mia. I couldn’t be better.”

  “You’re certainly in good spirits.”

  “And why shouldn’t I be? My beautiful daughter is here, and my clever son-in-law as well, and I can see how happy they are together.”

  Sophia shot Caro a dubious look.

  Caro did feel happy, though it wouldn’t do to reflect too long on the reason why, not in the presence of her cousin and her father. She might have told John the night before that she wouldn’t mind if her family heard them together in bed, but at the time she’d said it, she’d assumed any sounds she might make would be little more than acting. She’d expected John’s lovemaking to be as correct and self-controlled as he was. Certainly their encounter in the hunting box had been far from abandoned. But she’d been completely wrong.

  And John’s unexpected enthusiasm in bed was only one more discovery that had her wondering if she’d been largely mistaken about him. Since the moment he’d announced his intention to go to Vienna without her, she’d considered him cold and aloof—a perfectionist who disapproved of everything about her, humorless and condescending. But how could he do such a convincing job of playing the warm, doting, occasionally naughty husband unless he had at least some version of that man buried inside him?

  And something he’d said that morning had her looking with new eyes at his treatment of her after their wedding night, banishing her to Halewick, ignoring her for five years except to dole out the occasional disdainful remark. She’d thought it irrefutable proof that he was coldhearted. But his answer when she’d asked how he’d responded to his stepmother’s cruelty had surprised her—What could I do, except walk away?

  She’d never given John’s childhood much thought, not even since learning his stepmother had been hateful and insulting to him, but now she realized it must have left a lasting mark. As a powerless boy living with a stepmama who disliked him, what choice had he had except to keep his emotions under tight control? Perhaps detachment and an obstinate sense of his own worth had been his only defenses.

  Was that where John had learned to punish the people who hurt him in dribs and drabs, with frosty silences and icy superiority? Was chilly disregard the only way he knew how to deal with more painful emotions?

  Caro wasn’t entirely convinced yet that after five years she could have been so wrong about her own husband, but it was a possibility worth exploring. After all, Papa had always liked John, and though her father was customarily charitable in his view of others, he was rarely far off.

  She smiled at her father. “Is there anything you’d like me to do for you this morning, Papa? Anything I might fetch for you or read to you?”

  “No, my dear, you run along and please yourself. Once Sophia finishes tracing my silhouette, I have letters to answer in the library, and then I may rest for a while. Some of us have been awake longer than others.”

  She ignored the teasing. “In that case, John and I are going to take a walk.”

  “A walk?” Sophia said. “May I come along?”

  Caro had an unfamiliar urge to be alone with her husband, but she was afraid to refuse Sophia when she was counting on her not to tell Papa the truth about the past five years. “But you’re busy working on my father’s silhouette,” she hedged.

  “I’m nearly finished with the tracing, and I can always cut it out later.”

  “I doubt you’d find the outing very interesting. We were only planning to walk about the Priory grounds, and you’ve seen it all a hundred times.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t signify. I could do with the exercise.”

  Her father looked faintly amused at Sophia’s failure to comprehend that two was company, three a crowd. “I hate to spoil your plans, Sophia my dear, but I hope you won’t mind putting off your walk until another time. I could use your help with...” He paused, and Caro was certain he was racking his brain for some pretext to keep Sophia at home when he’d just told Caro to run along. “With trying to talk your father into bringing you to London a few days early in the spring, so you have time to do some shopping before your come-out.”

  Caro wanted to laugh at the transparency of her father’s stratagem, so clearly calculated to appeal to Sophia’s weaknesses. Darling Papa!

  Fortunately, Sophia saw nothing unusual in the request. “All right. But I do hope Caro and Lord Welford will sit for their silhouettes wh
en they get back.”

  “I certainly will.” Caro put her arms around her father’s neck and pressed her cheek to his. “Take care not to tire yourself, Papa.” She breezed out to join John.

  She was halfway through the house when Sophia called after her, “Caro, just a moment.”

  She turned and waited for her cousin to catch up to her. “What is it?”

  “You’re not going for a long walk with him, are you?”

  There was a challenging glint in Sophia’s eyes that Caro didn’t like. “With whom, Welford? Why?”

  “Because I’ll be waiting for him, that’s why.”

  Caro frowned at the possessive note in her cousin’s voice. “You shouldn’t do that, Sophia.”

  “Why not?”

  Why not? Because she was beginning to have feelings for John, and seeing Sophia eager to throw herself at him made Caro itch to give her cousin a good shaking. “Because it’s unseemly to take that much interest in him, that’s why. He’s a married man.”

  “You and I both know it’s not a real marriage and you’re merely putting on a show for Uncle Matthew. Besides, Welford doesn’t seem to mind.”

  Was that true? Was John enjoying Sophia’s attentions? He’d complained about her forwardness after he’d accompanied Ronnie and Sophia to the village, but Sophia was young and pretty...”Not that it’s any of your business, but our marriage is real enough. You overheard a scrap of conversation our first night here. That doesn’t make you an expert on my feelings for him, or his for me.”

  Sophia flushed. “I may not be an expert, but I can tell when a man is unhappy.”

  Was Sophia right—was John unhappy? The past few days had left Caro suspecting he felt a good deal more than he let on—his story about when he’d had his fortune told in Vienna, the poignant note in his voice the first time he’d sung for her family, the way he’d suggested that strange German word, Torschlusspanik, to capture so precisely her fear that the future was slipping through her fingers. And if John was unhappy, was she the reason?

  She didn’t want him to be unhappy, not anymore. The very thought of his unhappiness made her stomach hurt.

  The protectiveness she felt for him surprised her. Only days before, she’d resented him. Now she no longer saw him as a distant, unreasonable authority figure who disapproved of everything about her, but as someone she’d wronged, perhaps even hurt very badly, and she regretted it.

  And now her pretty, willing, eighteen-year-old cousin was panting after him, because Sophia had been smart enough to see how attractive John was even when Caro hadn’t.

  She cast a look of appeal at her cousin. “Leave him alone, Sophia, please.”

  “Or what? We both know you’re not going to do anything, not when I could go to Uncle Matthew and tell him you were only pretending to live with Welford in Vienna.”

  “I wasn’t threatening you,” Caro said. “I only mean it isn’t fitting, the way you’re making up to Welford. He deserves better than to be toyed with.”

  “I’m not toying with him! There is nothing insincere about my attentions.”

  “Except that he’s my husband, not yours.”

  Sophia raised one eyebrow. “Technically that may be true, but it’s not as if he’s happily married.”

  “Just leave him alone,” Caro said again. “Please.”

  * * *

  After breakfast, John knocked on the door of Ronnie’s room. There was no response. He knocked again, and Ronnie’s voice, sleepy and indistinct, answered from behind the closed door, “Yes?”

  “Caro and I are going for a walk, but first I wanted to see how you’re faring with your Logic. Or are you just waking up?”

  “I’m...I was up late last night.”

  John took that to mean that Ronnie was still half-asleep. He would’ve liked to find his brother being a bit more industrious, but he was only nineteen, and if he’d stayed up into the wee hours working his way through Watts’ Logic, John was satisfied. He had to admit the text made for slow going. “Well, keep at it, and after dinner I’ll give you my best approximation of an examination.”

  “What if...”

  “What if what?”

  Ronnie’s sigh was audible through the door. “Never mind.”

  John headed for the front hall to wait for Caro, wondering if he ought to have said more. How much pushing amounted to helpful encouragement, and how much was likely to make Ronnie dig in his heels?

  Caro came hurrying in a few minutes later, dressed in a slim-fitting burgundy pelisse and tying the strings of a plumed poke bonnet in a bow under one ear. He had the vague sense that something about her had changed—that she was wearing her hair in a new way, or walking with a bounce in her step he’d never noticed before.

  It took him a moment to realize what the difference really was. For years now, the least reminder of her had prompted two competing emotions—an eager leap of his heart and then, in almost the same instant, the bitter awareness of how badly his marriage had turned out. This time, he’d experienced the first reaction—the happy bound—but the sense of disillusionment had lagged behind, emerging only upon conscious reflection.

  “I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” she said, her apologetic smile bringing out the dimples in her cheeks.

  “No, not at all.” He helped her on with her cloak. “Is there anything of interest we should be sure to see on our walk? A folly, perhaps, or a cave with an ornamental hermit?”

  “Nothing so interesting as a hermit, though the Priory grounds do include a charming bridge over the River Soar.”

  “Is it picturesque or just very old?”

  “Neither, really, but there’s a legend that King Richard III’s bones were thrown into the river, so when my cousin Anne and I were girls we used to imagine his ghost lived under the bridge. Anne was always very taken with ghosts. Sometimes one of us would pretend to be the ghost to scare the other, but since we never thought of anything more clever for him to say than ‘Oooooh’ and ‘A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse,’ neither of us was very convincing.”

  Obviously her acting skills had improved with age, for he was finding it increasingly difficult to think of her as anything but the charming, affectionate young woman she’d been pretending to be since their arrival at Stanling Priory. Was he foolish to hope it was more than just an act?

  Donning his greatcoat, he heard footsteps in one of the rooms nearby. “How convincing do you want to be?” he asked in a low voice.

  “What?”

  “Someone’s coming. Are you still determined to make them think we’re blissfully happy and we can’t keep our hands off each other?”

  A look of confusion crossed her face. “Of course.”

  Without wasting any more time on words, he swept her into his arms and kissed her. She seemed surprised at first, tensing for a second, but then her own arms went around his neck and she pressed up against him, her eyes drifting closed.

  They hadn’t kissed nearly enough in their marriage, including these past few days at the Priory, and that was a shame, because it was even better than he remembered, equal parts sexual and spiritual. He kissed her deeply and slowly, openmouthed, enjoying the delicate feel of her body in his arms. It was totally improper and totally convincing, though he didn’t know or much care whether they were seen. The footsteps he’d heard grew nearer and then receded into the distance.

  By the time he raised his head and smiled down at Caro, her breathing had turned fast and shallow. Blue eyes gazed up at him in wonder. She looked so exquisitely pretty and flustered, his chest ached.

  She gave a shaky laugh. “Goodness.”

  He grinned. “Just carrying out my assignment.”

  Pleased with himself, he donned his hat and offered her his arm, and they set out to brave the late October chil
l.

  Chapter Nineteen

  He who has so little knowledge of human nature as to seek happiness by changing anything but his own disposition will waste his life in fruitless efforts.

  —Samuel Johnson

  It was chilly outside—though it wasn’t cold enough for him to see his breath, there was a nip in the air that promised colder weather to come. “If you’ll point us in the right direction, I’d like to see your haunted bridge for myself.”

  Caro laughed. “It’s this way.”

  They strolled arm in arm together, the gravel drive crunching under John’s boots. He felt closer to her than he’d felt in a long time, and that included the aftermath of their encounter the night before.

  “Now, then,” Caro said, clinging to his arm with both hands, “you promised to finish your story. How did you make a fool of yourself on your twenty-first birthday?”

  “As I mentioned, I didn’t have a coming-of-age party. I was at Oxford at the time, and three of my friends decided they would remedy the oversight by staging a private celebration. They kept urging more and more drink on me, until I could scarcely stand up.” He raised one eyebrow. “Then they took me to a brothel, paid to engage one of the girls’ services for the entire night, and left the room. Reportedly, I started to undress—and promptly passed out. The next thing I knew, I was waking up with the most wretched headache of my life, stretched out under a tree near the cloisters and wearing not a stitch of clothing.” He slanted a glance at her. “I trust it goes without saying that none of this was normal behavior for me.”

  “Oh dear. Isn’t your birthday in March? It’s a wonder you didn’t freeze to death.”

  “I was fortunate in that the month had reached the ‘out like a lamb’ stage.”

  She laughed. “I must say, it’s hard to imagine you doing anything so outré.”

  “Ah, but that wasn’t the end of my adventure. To make matters worse, I tried to slink back to my room, as naked as the day I was born, only to encounter my bedmaker, a respectable matron of sixty. The eyeful I gave the poor woman was the second surprise she received from me that morning, as it turned out I’d also cast up my accounts all over my room the night before.” He shook his head. “I vowed then and there that I would never drink that much again.”