The Bride's Secret

by Cheryl Bolen

  As he lay in bed that night he questioned his own sanity in allowing himself to be so closely exposed to Carlotta day after wretched day. Every hour he was in her presence was another hour of torture. His constant companionship, he realized with a deep, wrenching grief, had not had the effect he had hoped for. He had thought their continued proximity to one another would result in his wife growing to love him.

  Perhaps if he were not always in her pocket . . . That gave him an idea. Perhaps he should begin to distance himself from her. If his presence became scarce, she might come to crave his company. He remembered how delighted she had been to see him after his long absence from Bath.

  As difficult as it would be to deny himself the pleasure of being with her, he vowed to stay away from her as much as he could.

  Before he fell asleep, he came up with framework that would henceforth guide him in his dealings with Carlotta.

  * * *

  That first day her husband had taken Stevie fishing, Carlotta had enjoyed being alone. Since it was somewhat gray, she basked in a comforting warmth sitting before the fire rereading Shakespeare's sonnets.

  Little did she know that day was only the first of many from which James would exclude her. The day after that he spent with his steward, after that with his secretary, after that at the mines; then, he started all over with Stevie again. James decided Stevie was experienced enough in the saddle to learn the finer points to riding, and he set about to teach them to his stepson.

  Carlotta sent to Bath for painters and linen drapers and busied herself making decisions on the redecoration of her chambers and Stevie's.

  When Stevie's nurse came, Carlotta felt herself even less needed, for her son and Miss Kenworth quickly slipped into a comfortable familiarity like those who had always been together.

  Miss Kenworth had a cheerful countenance and quick mind to go with her acute sense of humor. Added to all these attributes was her keen understanding of and interest in what young boys liked best. If Stevie wished to play soldiers, she was down on the floor joining him. Were the lad desirous of playing hide and seek in the woods, she would attempt to conceal her roundness behind a stout tree. If imprisoning a family of frogs was what pleased Stevie, Miss Kenworth would endeavor to hunt them with her charge. In short, whatever Stevie wanted, Miss Kenworth aspired to allow him.

  Carlotta no longer worried that her son lacked for playmates, for in Miss Kenworth he had the greatest playmate of all: one who always did exactly what he wished to do.

  Before Miss Kenworth had been six weeks at Yarmouth, Stevie was reading eagerly. He was also learning to do his sums because James felt compelled to impart such knowledge on a daily basis to his step-son. Both of her son's teachers praised Stevie's keen intellect. Not that she saw her husband with any frequency. On most nights he took dinner with her, and on some nights they played games after dinner. But never again did her husband give her another passionate good-night kiss.

  She supposed he did not desire her at all, after all. He had only married her because of Stevie.

  One night at dinner, he asked her if she would like to entertain guests.

  His question startled her. “Who, pray tell, would we entertain?” she asked, looking up at her stern-faced husband.

  He shrugged. “The gentry from hereabouts?”

  Her brows shot up. “I was unaware there was gentry hereabouts. I thought, perhaps, we were hours from anywhere, save that mine of yours.”

  “Then you've been too much isolated.”

  Her hand coiled around the stem of her glass. “Honestly, James, I've not felt isolated. I love it here at Yarmouth, even though I have only you and Stevie for companionship—and despite that you've not been a particularly close companion as of late.”

  He chuckled. “What of other women? I thought women required other women.”

  Her heated glance flicked to him. “You know I'm not like other women.”

  “Then what of the admiration of men, my dear? In Portugal, you always seemed to thrive off men's adulation.”

  She could not deny his claim. Sadly, he spoke the truth. Even though she had never acted upon any of the flirtations, she had—at that time—required them. With crippling guilt, she had later come to regret her flirtatious manners. Stephen had deserved a wife who was far more devoted to him than ever she had been.

  “As one grows older,” she said, “one regrets the things one does in one's youth.”

  James gave out a little laugh. “Quote the gray beard of five and twenty.”

  After the sweetmeats were lain, he revisited the subject. “Why do not you and Fordyce work together on a guest list for a dinner party to be held at Yarmouth?”

  Her stomach dropped. She had no desire to entertain, to have her own home invaded by someone who might know of her past and use that information to estrange her husband from her. Or to estrange him more than he already was. But James asked for so very little, if this was important to him . . . “I am perfectly happy not entertaining, but if it would please you, I will get together with Mr. Fordyce tomorrow,” she said.

  “I have all the social intercourse I need. It's you I'm concerned about.” Though his tone was light, something in his manner convinced her his worry was genuine.

  She held her head up high and bestowed a smile upon her husband. “You need have no worries on my account. I'm blissfully happy, especially now that spring has so thoroughly arrived.”

  He picked up his fork and spoke casually. “I notice that you've taken to wearing a bonnet when you work in the garden.”

  “I was unaware you noticed me at all.”

  “When I'm doing something else, I occasionally spare a glance at the lady of the manor with a bonnet on her head. At first I did not believe that was my Carlotta because my Carlotta does not wear bonnets.”

  My Carlotta. Oddly, his words pleased her. “I am in the sun so much, I've had to begin wearing a broad-brimmed hat to keep my face from getting too dark. Your flattering comments on my lovely skin have not gone unnoticed. I should not wish to disappoint you. You married a not-unattractive woman, and I shall endeavor to stay that way.”

  The countless hours she had spent in the garden had kept her busy and continued to give her a sense of purpose, especially since neither her husband nor her son seemed to need her any longer.

  When dinner was over, he said, “I beg that you'll excuse me tonight. I must go to the library. There are many papers that require my attention.”

  She tried to conceal her disappointment when she spoke. “I'll be reading in my study—if you should finish sooner than expected and wish to play a game.”

  He stood up and came to pat the top of her head. “Don't wait up for me, my dear. I expect to be quite late.”

  Perhaps she should have agreed to entertain. She was growing hungrier and hungrier for another adult to talk to. Someone besides Mrs. MacGinnis, who would inquire about how her ladyship liked the turbot prepared or ask Carlotta if the draperies should be removed and cleaned.

  As Carlotta trudged up the stairs for another lonely night of reading, she realized she had come to rely on James, and she missed him rather painfully.

  * * *

  If she could not have her husband to talk to, perhaps she could strike up a friendship with Mr. Fordyce. The following afternoon—while James was spending the day at the mines—she went to the secretary's office.

  When he looked up from his desk, his spectacles slipped midway down his nose. He jumped to his feet, one hand pushing his spectacles back to their proper place. “Good afternoon, my lady, how may I assist you?”

  “It's been rather a long time since I've spoken with you, and I thought perhaps we could have a little visit. Should you like to come see my garden?”

  His glance darted to the pile of work on his desk then back to his employer's wife. “I would be honored, my lady.”

  As they walked along the narrow lanes of the parterre garden, Carlotta pointed out the various flowers she had planted, wh
ile praising the gardener who was responsible for overseeing the greenhouse.

  Before they had strolled very far, she asked, “Pray, is my husband always as busy as he's been of late?”

  “Being the Earl of Rutledge carries with it enormous responsibilities. Your husband has taken his responsibilities far more seriously than his predecessor. Though the present Lord Rutledge trusts all of us who work for him, he insists on keeping abreast of everything we do. His intelligence is so keen, he has even taught me some time-saving shortcuts in my own work.”

  She was proud of James, yet at the same time jealous that his secretary saw more of her husband than she did. “You keep my husband's ledgers?”

  He nodded.

  “I've worried the mines might be in financial trouble. Is that why he spends so much time there?”

  “The mines turn a tidy profit,” Fordyce said. “If Lord Rutledge spends a great deal of time there, I believe it's because he has great empathy for the lot of the colliers. I knew a fellow at Cambridge who was a great deal like your husband. He was a Benthamite.”

  Did Mr. Fordyce expect her to know what a Benthamite was? She had never heard of it, yet she was afraid to admit her ignorance. Finally, a possible definition flashed through her brain. “A follower of Jeremy Bentham?”

  “Yes. Have you read him?”

  “Goodness, no. I only read poetry. Have you read Mr. Bentham?”

  “Yes. He promulgates the utilitarian theory.”

  “I'm afraid I've never heard of it, Mr. Fordyce.”

  “It's the philosophy that everything should be done for the greatest good of the greatest amount of people.”

  Such a philosophy sounded rather like Christianity to her. She raised her brows. “Are you a Benthamite, Mr. Fordyce?”

  He laughed. “I don't think of myself as anything in particular. However, I find much merit in the utilitarians, and whether your husband realizes he is one or not, I believe him to be. He's definitely not old guard. He's most liberal thinking, most interested in civil liberties.”

  “Then perhaps you can persuade him to become a Whig in Parliament,” Carlotta suggested.

  He slowed and turned to face her, his blue eyes flashing, a smile lifting his narrow face. “The thing of it is, I really believe Lord Rutledge is apolitical. I'm not even sure he's ever read Jeremy Bentham. It's my belief that your husband is inherently good. He has an acute sense of right and wrong.”

  He did not have to tell Carlotta that fact about the man she had married. She could think of more than a dozen instances in which James had been unflinchingly unselfish. It was his lot to always do what made another person happy, his lot to empathize with others' suffering. “I know that to be true.”

  Neither she nor the secretary spoke for a moment. She was glad she and Mr. Fordyce had taken this walk. Speaking in such an environment—and speaking of someone other than himself—had relaxed the timid secretary.

  “I know my husband has no wish to enter politics. He's perfectly happy doing what he's doing here in Exmoor. However, I cannot stop thinking about his lordship's late mother. She always believed her son would grow up to be a great man. What she did not realize was that he could be a great man without leaving a mark on civilization.”

  “You should be a philosopher, not a poetess, my lady”

  She laughed. “I'm really not a poetess. Would that I were. I'm merely addicted to poetry.”

  “It seems to me your setting and position should put you in the perfect situation to write poetry.”

  She thought on this for a moment. What he said was true. She was surrounded by beauty, and the abundance of servants enabled her to have the time to pursue anything she wanted. It was just that she had never been fanatically attached to the idea of writing poetry. She was fanatically attached to reading it. Why should she try to pen a thought when those more talented than she had already done so with far more eloquence?

  “I feel things deeply, as a poet does,” she said, “but under normal conditions I'm never drawn to writing down my feelings. When I do, my efforts are most inferior to the poets I so admire.”

  While she was strolling through the garden with Fordyce, James rode up on Ebony. He scowled when he saw her laughing.

  Dismounting, he directed a harsh glance at her. “Should you not be dressing for dinner, my dear?”

  “It's not dark yet,” she countered, glancing up at the late afternoon skies.

  “I have some things I need to discuss with you, Fordyce,” James snapped.

  As the two men walked away, Carlotta stooped and with trembling hand, removed a weed.

  * * *

  When Carlotta saw that her husband would share the dinner table with her, she was pleased. There had been too many nights as of late when he had taken a tray in his library. But her pleasure was short lived. He sulked throughout dinner and barely uttered a word to her.

  After dinner he expressed an interest in continuing her chess lessons, which he did—while drinking several glasses of brandy.

  Though his skill showed no signs of weakening as the game progressed, his tongue became looser. “Tell me about this man who did not return your affections, Carlotta,” he demanded.

  She began to tremble. Had he learned of Gregory? Is that why he was treating her with such thinly cloaked anger? “There's nothing to tell. He chose to marry another. End of story.”

  “But not I take it, the end of your affections.”

  “No, it wasn't. I hurt for a long time afterward.”

  He pinned her with a malicious stare. “Even now?”

  She looked into his fiery eyes. “Not now. I'm over him.”

  “Then what other man is there, Carlotta? Is it Fordyce? For I know the lovely Carlotta must always have a man.”

  She whirled at him and spat out her denial. “I have no man.”

  He laughed bitterly. “Especially not your husband.”

  Her heart drummed. She had known this day would come. After all, James was a man. A man could only go so long without a woman. “Then . . . that bothers you?”

  He pounded the chess board with his fist. “Damn it all to hell, yes it bothers me! Think you I am not a man?”

  Her voice softened. “I could never forget that you're a man, James.”

  He stared at her with glassy eyes. “Do you hate all men, or is it just me?”

  “I don't hate you.”

  “You just hate the thought of me bedding you, Wife.”

  “If . . . if you wish for me to be the dutiful wife, I shall be.” She began to tremble and her voice shook when she spoke. “Should you like to come to my bed chamber now?”

  Chapter 20

  She had known her husband would not turn down her offer. For weeks now she had read the signs. As fine a man as he was, James needed her as a man needs a woman. Since he was not the kind of man who would seek sexual release under the skirts of whores, she knew he had been without a woman for far too long. She knew enough of men to know such abstinence could cause them to be short-tempered, prone to heavy drinking and in physical as well as emotional pain.

  For weeks, James had been displaying the signs. She had seen the naked desire in his eyes and had been oddly exhilarated by it.

  She had also known he would never beg for her sexual favors. But he wanted them keenly. Even if he did not love her, he needed her. And he had every right under God's and man's law to take his pleasure from her body. She did, after all, owe him so much.

  It was time. Time to give herself to the man who had rescued her from bleakness.

  As soon as she had offered herself, his bitterness swept away, to be replaced with a seductive smile as he left his seat and moved to her, his smoldering eyes never leaving her.

  His arms settled around her as she lifted her face to his for a lingering kiss, her lips parted for the intimacy she was enjoying as much as he. He fell to his knees beside her at the card table, kissing a trail of butterfly kisses down her neck. Her breathing—like his—accelerat
ed as if she had been running. When he lowered the bodice of her gown and enclosed his mouth around her taut nipple, she sucked in her breath, but did not want to do anything which might cause him to stop what he was doing to her. She was senseless with physical pleasure. Through her fogged brain, she was conscious that she was not responding to him as a lady should. She wanted to be more distant, more respectable, but her own need, she realized with shock, was as great as her husband's.

  It was as if she could not get enough of him. Her hands hungrily moved over his shoulders, down his arms, under his shirt—then down lower and lower. She cupped her hand over his bulging need and let out a little cry.

  “Come, my love,” he whispered throatily, “let us go upstairs.”

  Unable to remove her eyes from him, she nodded as if she had been drugged and gave him her hand.

  Together, they mounted the stairs, James's arm settled around her. She thought he would leave her at her chamber to prepare for . . . for this delayed wedding night, but he did not. He followed her into her chamber, which was lit by firelight and a single taper beside her bed.

  She turned around to face him. “Should you wish for me to dress in a night rail I've saved for this night?”

  He shook his head, his eyes hungrily sweeping over her eager body. “What I'd like, Carlotta, is to watch you undress.”

  She had never undressed in front of a man before. Not in front of Stephen, whose sexual relations with her had always been conducted in the dark. Not for Gregory, either, who preferred coming to her bed after her clothes had been removed.

  Yet the thought of undressing in front of James strangely intoxicated her. Most likely because of her own acute arousal. Then she thought of the bulge she had felt beneath her hand and she became even more excited. More anxious—if possible—to feel her husband inside her.

  She seductively moved to him and hooked her arms around his neck. “I shall need your assistance.”

  He crushed her to him and savagely kissed her as his hands roamed over her flesh. Then she felt a rush of cold air on her breasts as he lowered the top of her gown. Next, she heard the sound of her gown tearing and watched helplessly as it dropped to the floor.