Judging by the laughter around her, the comment was as rude as it sounded. She ignored it. ‘I want a horse. This horse. And I am willing to pay eighty pounds for him.’
‘Her.’ She spun to attack the yokel behind her who dared to point out her ignorance and found herself staring directly into the chest of her new husband. ‘The animal in question is a mare.’
She doubted the men around her knew who was in their midst, but she could tell from the hushed silence that they recognised rank and quality.
‘Begging your pardon, my lord,’ the auctioneer murmured, ‘but the lady... I do not think she understands the principal of an auction, or the worth of the animal.’
‘One hundred!’ she said to the auctioneer. She turned back to St Aldric, staring up at him and daring him to correct her. ‘You said I could make the decision.’
‘So I did,’ he said, with the slightest of sighs. He turned to the owner. ‘How much do you wish for this...horse?’ He seemed almost unwilling to acknowledge the sex of the animal before him.
‘It is an auction, not a sale. And I bid one hundred,’ she reminded him.
‘The beast you have chosen is not worth half of that.’
The farmer was too shocked to speak for himself, but Maddie held her ground, unwilling to be forced into a reasonable price. ‘Fifty? That is far too little for a beauty like this.’ She stroked the animal’s nose and it responded with a sort of confused gratitude, as though unsure of just why a human would touch it so gently. But it submitted, fearful of arousing ire.
She smiled at St Aldric again, who looked as though he was embarrassed to be seen standing next to such a pathetic animal. That was enough to decide her. She gave him an empty-headed, society smile and gushed, ‘I simply must have her.’ She turned the horse’s head so that the mare could display a mouthful of worn, yellow teeth. Perhaps this was what he had been trying to show her in the others, for surely this horse stood as the bad example by which she could measure the others.
‘This is a cart horse,’ the duke said patiently. ‘I wished to buy you a decent mount. Or perhaps some carriage horses. I have no idea what you mean to do with this.’
‘I shall name her Buttercup,’ Maddie said, with evil glee. If only for the colour of those horrible teeth.
The duke gave the same resigned sigh he’d made after each of her outlandish requests and reached for his purse. ‘One hundred pounds it is, then. If my wife wishes.’ He glanced around at the crowd, who were leaning in as though expecting him to buy again. ‘But this is the only purchase she will be making today.’ Then he spoke to the farmer. ‘If my groom gives you direction, can you bring the horse to my stables?’ He glanced at Maddie and said, in an undertone, ‘Or would you prefer that I carry her there on my back?’
It was another sign that he knew exactly want she was doing, but it was delivered in such a benign tone that it was clear no damage had been done to him. ‘No, the delivery shall be enough, I am sure. Settle her in our stables, so that I might visit her at my leisure.’ She stared at St Aldric, blinking innocently. ‘Will she not look magnificent in Rotten Row, next to all the other fine horses of the nobility?’
‘I am certain she will draw just the sort of attention you wish,’ he replied.
‘I shall want a carriage, as well,’ she said, baiting him again.
‘I am sure we can find a vehicle that will suit. A milk wagon, perhaps.’ He turned and walked away and she had to hurry to keep up. For a moment she feared that he might abandon her here, surrounded by strangers and dangerous animals. And then he glanced back at her, offering his arm and proving that, once again, his perfect manners made him impossible to goad.
Chapter Six
Supper was a chilly affair in the main dining room. Michael debated taking it in his room, after making some lame excuse about the busy day and the need for rest. Even if that was true, it would appear that he was running from his wife. And she would think she had won.
Peers were supposed to be made of sterner stuff than that. If he could manage the interminable arguing of Parliament, he could learn to ignore the behaviour of the stranger he had married. With sufficient time and patience, perhaps she would learn to tolerate him, as well.
For now, she was picking at her food, even when there was nobody but him to see it. It made him suspect that, just perhaps, her apathy towards the delicacies of the breakfast was not feigned. When she chose, it was the things that were bland and easy to digest. The roast that had been prepared was going to waste. Her plate held poached fish and potatoes and she’d kept the soup bowl, which held thin broth. With the small breakfast, and the fact that he’d dragged her away from luncheon and tea to stare at horses, she’d eaten close to nothing.
No matter their differences, he could not stand by and watch her starve. But how to get her to eat? He turned to the footman waiting beside his chair. ‘This is all delicious, of course. You can assure cook that I have no complaints. But I am feeling rather unsettled. Perhaps a baked egg or two would do the trick.’ He glanced up as though it was an afterthought. ‘Would you like one as well, my dear?’
She looked at him with relief. ‘Thank you.’
The sincerity seemed to surprise them both. As the servant went to get the dish, they fell into silence again.
* * *
When the eggs arrived, she tasted one cautiously and set her fork aside.
He thought on it, for a moment. If heavy foods did not suit, and plain foods did not interest, what was left? He reached for the tureen of Wow-Wow sauce and ladled it liberally over his eggs, then offered some to her.
She sniffed suspiciously. ‘What is this?’
‘The latest thing. Cook says it is a recipe from a Dr Kitchiner. He seems to take a very scientific approach to cookery.’
‘A doctor, you say?’ She looked hopefully at the ladle.
‘It is probably quite healthy,’ he assured her. By the taste of it, it was a testament to the idea that what did not kill strengthened. But it was devilishly addictive and unlikely to make her feel any worse. He held his breath as she served herself and took the first bite of egg.
She smiled. She chewed. She swallowed. Then she reached for more. He watched with relief as she smothered her food in the stuff and ate with enthusiasm. Then she followed the main course with brown-bread ice cream and a shockingly powerful Stilton.
He felt a little of the tension within him relax. After breakfast, he’d wondered if she meant to starve herself just to spite him. It appeared that, once awakened, her digestion was like her will, made of cast iron.
He was enjoying his port when she pushed the last empty plate away, stifling a yawn.
He stood. ‘It is late and you are, no doubt, tired. May I escort you to your room?’
Her eyes narrowed, suspicious, but she rose and nodded, preceding him from the room. She hesitated at the turn in the hall, and again at the head of the stairs, proving that his help had been necessary. She barely knew her way around the house without help. He made no effort to call attention to it, but did not leave her until they’d arrived at the door to her room, which he opened and held for her.
When she was through, he followed and shut it behind them.
She gasped and he held up a calming hand. ‘I only wish a moment alone to speak with you before you ring for the maid. Then I will be gone.’
‘Very well, then,’ she said, frowning. ‘Speak.’
He ran the risk of undoing the good that had been done over dinner. But life would be easier if they aired their differences sooner, rather than later. ‘I would like to know your intentions towards this marriage and to have an honest explanation for your behaviour.’
Surely she could not pretend ignorance. He gave her a pointed look. ‘For example, are the antics of this morning likely to be repeated?’
‘Antics?’ she said
, with her most wide-eyed, innocent stare.
‘The elaborate and unnecessary gatherings?’
‘You did not think it important to celebrate our marriage?’
‘I am surprised that you did,’ he said. ‘We both know that you did not wish to marry me. This afternoon, the unfortunate horse...’
‘You promised me freedom to do as I wished,’ she reminded him.
‘I did,’ he agreed.
‘I mean to do so.’
‘I see.’ He took a breath. ‘And you may do as you like. But I do not understand it. Are these things truly what you want? Or are you attempting to bother me with them?’
She stared at him, unwilling or unable to answer the question.
‘It matters not one way of the other,’ he assured her. ‘I doubt there is a punishment you could devise that I have not already wished upon myself. The man you met that night in the inn... It was not me.’ It sounded ridiculous when he phrased it that way. But it was the truth as he saw it and he meant to repeat it until she believed him.
‘You deny that you attacked me?’
‘It was not an attack,’ he said. Then he took a moment to calm himself, for he did not wish to appear angry with her for something that had been his fault alone. ‘It was a mistake. It was me in body. I do not deny that. At the time...’ He was pausing again. ‘My behaviour was so out of character that I view the man who was so misguided as to enter your room as a virtual stranger to all I stand for, all I believe and all I hope to emulate.’
‘But it was you all the same,’ she responded, clearly unimpressed. ‘Who you were, before or since, does not matter to me. It is who you were on that night that affected me.’
Of course that was true. It was naive to hope that they could put this behind them so quickly. Had his father not told him that it was a man’s actions that stood after his words were forgotten? Old St Aldric had no right to lecture about character. Father had been guilty of a number of ignoble actions far worse than the night in Dover.
And that was the problem. There was much good his father had done in life. The other, older lords spoke of his speeches with respect and sometimes even awe. But Michael could remember none of that when compared with the man he had seen in Aldricshire.
The same would not be said of him. He bowed his head to his wife, as a show of contrition. ‘I am sorry beyond words. I would take it back in a heartbeat, if there was some way.’
‘To keep me from distrusting you?’ She stood, frozen on the doorstep, staring at the connecting door between the rooms.
‘You will never need fear me,’ he reminded her.
But she did. Her voice held none of the bravado he’d heard earlier. She had finally eaten, but she was still pale and so tired that she swayed on her feet.
‘You have my word,’ he promised again.
‘I prefer more concrete examples. Is there a lock on my bedroom door?’
He gave a sigh of exasperation, wishing he’d had it pulled out years ago, as he’d done with the lock on his own door. ‘There is one fitted there already.’
‘To which you hold the keys,’ she reminded him.
‘We will change them, then,’ he said. ‘First thing in the morning. The door to the hall and the connecting door between our rooms, as well. I will have no key made for myself. Even the housekeeper shall be denied one, if that is what you wish.’ It would be embarrassing. All in the household would know that he was denied access to a room where a husband ought to hold dominion.
The memory of being on the wrong side of a locked door was all too familiar.
‘That is tomorrow. What of tonight?’ she prodded, totally oblivious to his feelings. If one had nothing to hide, or nothing to contain, then one had no need to lock doors. And until this moment, his London home had been blissfully free of them.
The fact that he had no desire to enter her room did not matter. It was the appearance of the thing that was important to her. He reached into his pocket and removed the ring of keys that opened and closed her half of the master suite. ‘Here. This is yours to hold, if it makes you feel more secure.’
She took the keys and he saw the furrow in her brow smooth. ‘Thank you. And now, if you will excuse me?’ She glanced towards the door.
‘Of course.’ He gave a small bow and exited through the hall door, turning to the left and entering his own room, only a few feet away.
Once he was safely alone in his room he took a second set of keys from his pocket and set it on the bureau. He stared at the ring for a moment before deciding that the keeping of it was not quite a lie. She had demanded the door keys and he had relinquished the duchess’s set.
He smiled grimly. If she had thought to demand all keys, he would have relinquished the duplicate set meant for the duke. But she had not. He was in his right to stay silent.
And in his right to refuse her request. He had promised her complete freedom and what very nearly amounted to a pledge of obedience to her wishes. No matter the fact that she had earned it, it went against the natural order of things to be so womanly and submissive. He would be damned before he was locked out of even a single room in his house, for her or anyone else.
What she had really wanted was a promise from him not to enter. She could have taken his word on that. The demand for the key was a slap in the face of honour and never something he’d have expected from a wife. Did she want him to nail the door shut, to prove his intentions to avoid it?
Instead, it gave him the perverse desire to block it open, if only to prove that he was strong enough to stay on his side of the threshold.
But he did not wish to turn an uneasy truce into an argument. Nor did he have a reason to knock on the door and request further communication.
He had no reason to talk to his wife. That he should say such a thing on his wedding night was almost beyond his understanding. He turned back into his room to prepare for bed.
* * *
When he opened his eyes again, the room was still dark. Far too early to rise, especially after the trouble he’d had getting to sleep. He was annoyingly aware of the stranger sleeping in the next room. There was a presence where there had always been an absence. The occasional sounds of movement as Madeline prepared for bed. The muffled conversation with the maid and the close of the hall door as that servant departed. And then there had been nothing. Even the faint glow of candlelight at the crack under the door had dimmed.
It was not loud. But it was more activity than he was used to in this most silent part of the house, and he was not sure that he liked it. That was strange, for he had always hated the silence that came with total privacy. It was a reminder of the fact that he was alone.
Now he was not alone, and it had not been the magic cure to bring peace and an end to the insomnia that sometimes plagued him. Instead of feeling free to relax, he felt responsible for the source of the noise, worrying that she could not sleep either and wondering if there was something he might do to help. It was only when he was sure she was asleep and silence had come again that he had finally been able to close his eyes.
Something had awakened him. A sound of some sort, he suspected. Did she snore? It would be a nuisance, but he would adjust. Then he heard the sound again. It was not a snore, but he could not place it. Perhaps it was someone in the hall. Or maybe Madeline had summoned her maid. It was definitely a female voice, coming from the other side of the locked door. But he had not heard the hall door open. Nor was there an answering voice.
This was the sound of Madeline in conversation with herself.
She was an odd woman, was she not? Did she do this often? Did she not realise that he could hear? The droning repetitiveness made him think that she was talking in a dream. She could hardly be blamed for that. He did not sleep easily in a strange place either.
Gradually, the one-sided discuss
ion was becoming an argument, louder, faster and more agitated. Was he obligated to intervene in some way? If he rang for a servant, he would get his valet, who would then summon her maid. Half the house would be awake before she was. And in that time, the dream would continue to distress her, for she showed no signs of waking or easing back into sleep.
He threw aside the covers and padded barefoot to the dresser, rummaging around in a drawer for the key to the adjoining room. He had promised not to bother her. But perhaps, in this instance, it was better to do so than to leave her in distress. Once she was quiet, he would put the key away and they could both sleep in peace.
Through the door and into her bedroom, he found his way to her bedside without effort. He knew this room, as he did all the others, better than she ever would. But why she slept with the bed curtains pulled tightly shut, he could not decide. It must be stifling within, for the night was showing the first heaviness of summer air.
He pulled one back with the rattle of curtain rings and whispered, ‘Madeline, are you well?’
‘No,’ she moaned. ‘No. Stop.’
‘Madeline.’ He said her name louder, for she had not heard him. ‘You are dreaming. There is nothing to fear.’
‘No,’ she said again, although it was impossible to tell if she was speaking to him. ‘Richard. Where are you? Come back to me.’
Who was that? She had not mentioned a brother, a cousin or anyone else by that name. ‘Richard is not here,’ he said patiently. ‘It is only me.’
‘No.’ She tossed on the pillow, her head turning towards him, then away and then back again. ‘Richard.’
She was getting louder. If he did not do something soon, the servants would come and find him standing over her bedside, watching her suffer. And she was suffering. Her lip trembled and her skin was pale, but beaded with perspiration. No matter the differences between them, it pained him to see her thus. In her sleep, she was distraught and even an enemy did not deserve that.
‘Madeline.’ He reached out and touched her shoulder.
The Fall of a Saint Page 7
