by Gayle Callen
“Easier?” Emily repeated, wondering what Susanna was keeping hidden. Then she had an inspiration. “Tell us, Susanna. Let us help. Is it something about Mr. Derby?”
Thankfully, Matthew remained silent as his sister folded her arms over her chest.
Finally, Susanna responded in a low voice. “I knew I could not hide my reaction to him this afternoon. And now Mama has invited him to stay!”
“Is it because he courted me?” Emily asked.
She shook her head. “This problem happened years ago. I—I thought he was interested in me, and then I began to hear that he was spending much time with another girl as well. I understood that; there was no commitment between us. But then…” She trailed off, then abruptly turned a furious gaze on Matthew. “If you do anything about what I tell you, I will never forgive you!”
“I’m supposed to give my word so blindly?” Matthew said, spreading his hands wide.
“Yes!” Emily and Susanna said together.
“Very well, you have my promise, so you may proceed,” he said, his voice cool.
“I overheard this certain young lady and her friends discussing me and laughing. I know there is much for proper girls to laugh at, believe me,” she added, with only a faint trace of bitterness. “I don’t mind being different. But Mr. Derby—he only laughed with them. He didn’t defend me.”
Matthew’s head swiveled, looking for Mr. Derby. “Self-centered bastard—”
“You promised,” Emily said, touching his arm.
“I promised not to do anything, but I can have my thoughts.”
Susanna sighed. “We were younger, Matthew, all of us. He probably just didn’t want to look badly to—this particular young lady.”
“And you won’t tell us who?” Matthew demanded.
She shook her head. “I understand that Mr. Derby, being a younger son, has not the freedom to do as he wishes, like you do.”
“A freedom I seldom exercised,” he said with bitterness.
Emily tried not to look too curious. Matthew had said, several times, how he’d “changed” in India. What had happened to him? And did it have something to do with the unseen wife she was determined to find?
“I have forgiven him, truly,” Susanna continued. “And isn’t it foolish of me to remember such a minor slight?”
“Not foolish, no,” Matthew said. “But little sister, people can change, including you and Peter.”
Emily found herself stiffening in defense of Susanna. “Are you telling her to forget?”
“No, but perhaps to forgive. You yourself see Peter’s lot in life, Susanna. I think if he asks you to dance, you should do so, for your own sake. Why let something that happened in the past alter your future? I’ve changed, as you’ve been quick to point out. I don’t know yet if Emily has changed, but I’m learning.”
Emily blinked at him. She had changed, she thought, and not for the better. Long ago she would never have been able to imagine how easy it was to lie to good people.
Susanna looked between them thoughtfully, and Emily wondered what she saw.
“Very well,” Susanna said at last. “I will try to do as you wish.”
“Good.” Matthew slid his arm around her. “Now tell me what you did this afternoon.”
“You mean since our bargain?”
He laughed.
“I did not go to the laboratory—though I wanted to. I cut flowers for the tables.”
Emily winced. That was not her favorite activity, either.
“I arranged them quite…artistically,” Susanna added. “And then I read a book.”
“And was it so very difficult?” Matthew asked.
Her hesitation said it all.
“I am giving this a chance, Matthew,” Susanna said softly. “But only for you.”
Albert Evans soon came by to ask Susanna to dance, and Emily saw the approval in Matthew’s eyes. Mr. Evans certainly saw how to improve his standing with Matthew, she thought.
And later Mr. Derby came forward to claim Susanna for a dance. Susanna only smiled and then graciously accompanied him. Emily met Matthew’s gaze.
“I won’t say you’re right about everything,” she whispered. “I’m not certain you are. But somehow Susanna needs to overcome her sensitivity. As for giving up painting—I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Matthew took her hand in his. “I can work miracles.” Then he bent lower and whispered provocatively in her ear, “Just wait until tonight.”
Chapter 9
Late that evening, Emily was surprised when she opened her own door and saw Matthew sitting at her desk—his desk—writing.
She didn’t think he heard her at first, since he sat with his back to her, head bent over what he was doing. He wasn’t wearing his coat, and the width of his broad back beneath the fine linen shirt enticed her.
Matthew turned his head. “Emily?”
She came farther into the room, walking softly. “I am sorry to disturb you.”
He only nodded, then bent his head to finish whatever he was writing. He had moved all of her books out of the way, and she wondered what he thought of her reading choices: biology, history, and mathematics. But he didn’t question her. When he kept his head down, she went past him to the dressing room and found both her maid and a valet talking softly as they waited. When they saw her, they stood up, and the valet bowed as he retreated to Matthew’s room.
“Your bath is drawn, Mrs. Leland.”
“Thank you, Maria. After you unhook my gown, you can retire for the evening.”
Maria, short and dark, looked past her as if she wanted to see into the bedroom. She winked at Emily, wearing a smile.
When Maria had gone, Emily stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. After removing the rest of her clothing, she took the several stairs up into the tub, then sank down into the heat, letting the soap bubbles pop all around her. She sighed, content that Maria knew just what she liked.
But she couldn’t relax. She washed as quickly as possible, and had just emerged from rinsing her hair beneath the surface when she heard a soft knock on the door. Wiping streaming water from her face, she opened her eyes to see Matthew standing there. Her instinct was to sink deeper into the water, but she resisted. As it was, soapy bubbles covered most of her, leaving her knees showing like little islands.
Though a lamp and several candles lit the room, Matthew’s face was still in shadows. “This is strange,” he finally said, chuckling. “I’m your husband, yet I don’t remember. Surely we were familiar enough for this…” He waved his hand at the tub.
She laughed, leaning her head back against the tub. “Of course we were this familiar. We spent six months traveling everywhere together.”
He perched on the edge of a table near the door. “I imagine life aboard a steamship would be cramped with two people sharing a cabin.”
“Oh, it was. So you seeing me in my bath is nothing.”
His gaze moved down over the water, and she wondered what he could see between the soap bubbles.
“We were intimate on more than one level,” he continued, speaking deeply, softly, “sharing the same bedroom.”
“Yes, we were.” The answer came so easily. She wanted intimacy, she needed it. How else could she make him see that their future could be good?
He rose and came to stand above her. To her surprise, she felt the faint weakness of needing to cover herself, but didn’t give in.
“Did I bathe with you?” he asked, his voice suddenly hoarse.
Matthew saw the changing emotions pass over Emily’s face: passion and need. The desire he felt for her was beginning to override everything else.
“Bathe with me? No, we were not able to, although you expressed a wish to do so.” Her blush was as pretty as a bride’s. “We were constantly traveling, and we were lucky if we had access to a small hip bath, let alone a tub big enough to…”
Her voice faded away, and though she smiled meaningfully, the blush became scarlet, s
preading down her neck and chest to where it disappeared under water. Was she actually embarrassed? The bubbles were gradually subsiding. He could see the line of her cleavage and the curve of one hip. His head felt light, his groin felt heavy.
Softly, he said, “My wish to bathe with you is surely as strong as ever.”
She wore a faint smile, her eyes half closed as she watched him. He reached out and touched the only curl that had come to rest in front of her shoulder. Using his finger, he tucked its sleek wetness back behind her ear. She shivered, closing her eyes.
He leaned down over her, bracing his hands on the tub. “We have been away from each other for so long.”
He cupped his hand at the back of her wet head and kissed her. He was greedy for the response that had haunted him all day. And she must have been, too, for her tongue met his. They explored each other’s mouths deeply, leisurely. Before he knew it, his hands were touching her, feeling the wet softness of her shoulders, caressing the long delicate arch of her neck.
At last he slid his hand beneath the water and cupped one of her breasts. She moaned low into his mouth. Her flesh was warm from the water. She fit well into his palm, and the brush of her hardened nipple made him at last concentrate his efforts there. She shuddered as he played with her, teased her.
“It has been so long,” she whispered against his lips.
Whose touch was she remembering, since it wasn’t his?
He straightened and stepped back, angry with himself for this unaccountable jealousy. His hands trembled from touching her, as if he were still a green youth. Why did any of this matter? She was offering herself to him. He only had to take her.
Her wide eyes stared at him with bewilderment. “Matthew, what is wrong?”
How could he tell her? And what would he even confess? He shrugged and gave her a “deliberately awkward smile. “I’m sorry if I’m confusing you, making you think one thing, and then I do another.”
“We could talk—”
“No, you go ahead and finish your bath. I’ll bathe afterward.”
“I’ll hurry.”
“Don’t. We have all the time in the world.”
When Emily was done with her bath, she removed the stopper to empty the tub, still amazed at the convenience of such a thing. When one was a duke, one could install permanent tubs.
Her hands still trembled as she toweled herself dry, her breasts too sensitive. Matthew had touched her with such gentleness, yet such knowledge, as if he would know just how to pleasure her.
Then she’d somehow said the wrong thing, because he’d left her alone. Was it some vague memory that she wasn’t his real wife?
She couldn’t go on wondering about this woman. It was time to learn the truth. After she donned her nightgown and wrapped her dressing gown over it, she knocked on Matthew’s door to tell him that the bathroom was free. And then she waited in her own room. She heard a door shut, and she cautiously peeked in, only to see that it was the bathroom door. She waited another few minutes, hearing the water run. Tiptoeing closer to the bathroom, she heard him settle in the water, even heard his sigh of pleasure. It sent a welcome little shiver down her neck.
For a moment she thought of joining him in there. Surely he wouldn’t refuse her.
Yet, she couldn’t ignore this opportunity. She ran to the bedroom he’d been using. There was only one desk, and on top was a leather folio. She went through that as quickly as she could, but found only papers related to his military service. A battered trunk rested against one wall. Although it was unlocked, she could tell when she opened it that no one had been given permission to go through it yet, for the smell was overpowering with musty dampness and unclean clothing.
She ran back into the dressing room and listened at the bathroom door again. At first she only heard silence, and she froze. But then she heard the gentle slosh of water, and realized that he must be enjoying soaking in the tub.
On her toes, she ran back into his room and began to lift things out of his trunk: clothing, a pistol, and books. Wedged against the bottom she found another leather folio whose papers had been stained with water. Some were stuck together, others damaged beyond repair.
And then she made out a smudged letter that began with: “We send our condolences on the death of your wife.” Relief flooded through her. Matthew was a widower. There would be no woman come to claim her rights. He was all hers.
She didn’t even read any more of the letter, only checked the rest of the papers to make certain that nothing mentioned his wife. She put everything else back the way she’d found it and closed the trunk. She couldn’t leave the paper buried in there, in case it was discovered. And then what would Matthew think? That he had two wives he couldn’t remember?
No, he’d realize the truth.
As she was moving through the dressing room, the letter clutched in one hand, she was staring at the bathroom door more than watching her path. She bumped the washstand and barely caught the pitcher and basin before they crashed to the floor. The rattling seemed as loud as a gunshot.
“Emily?” Matthew’s voice was muffled.
“Yes?” She stared wildly around her, wondering where to hide the letter.
“I forgot towels. Could you bring them to me?”
She rolled her eyes even as she stuffed the letter in her own wardrobe, back beneath the dresses. After picking up the small stack of towels, she knocked softly on the bathroom door.
His voice was amused as he said, “Emily, shall I assume it’s you?”
She winced, then forced her expression to ease. As she opened the door, she caught a glimpse of him, rising head and shoulders out of the tub, which suddenly looked too small for an average bath. Or too small for an above-average man.
As his wife, she would have seen all of this before. So she bustled like a maid, setting down the towels, smiling at him as he sat in the tub. She saw his dark hair slicked back with water, the red glints hid by wetness.
And then she saw his scars.
His left arm was a web of unnaturally white skin, flattened, pulled, and rippled, distorted by scars that spread across three-quarters of his arm. They continued to his side and beneath the waterline, as if the flames had leapt the chasm between arm and torso, to continue their cruel destruction, fading and growing sparse as they approached his left shoulder. The right side of his body seemed unmarred.
She gasped—she couldn’t help it. Never had she seen such suffering, nor imagined it. She raised her eyes to his—and found his gaze calm, without any hint of emotion beneath.
“Oh, Matthew,” she whispered. She touched his wet arm, her fingers trembling, as if she might feel his pain and was afraid of it. “Do they still hurt?”
He shook his head. “Not really. Ugly, aren’t they?”
He hadn’t quite said they didn’t hurt, and with the way they seemed stretched over bone and muscle…“No, oh no, they aren’t ugly. They’re a mark of your bravery.”
He cocked his head and smiled with chagrin. “It’s not exactly brave to be unable to get out of the way of a mortar exploding,” he said as if he were discussing the weather. “And don’t forget about the bayonet I didn’t see coming.”
That scar must be below the waterline—or hidden by all the others.
“But it was brave of you to travel halfway around the world,” she said, “to put yourself in danger for your country. And you suffered terribly for it. It must have taken a long time for you to be well again. You said you recovered at a mission? Were the missionaries English?” She was trying to discover something, anything, about his late wife.
He nodded. “The mission was there to convert the ‘pagans’—not that they wanted to be converted. And some were even grateful for the help, for the food and clothing and rare medicine.”
“Some?” she echoed.
He leaned back against the rim of the tub, much as she’d recently done, looking up at her from beneath lowered eyelids. There was suddenly a lazy stillness to him—la
zy, yet with a hint of danger beneath. He was looking down her body, his glance casual, as if he thought about sampling her wares.
And then she had the strangest feeling that he was deliberately distracting her with his interest. She frowned down into those always smiling eyes.
“You said only some people were grateful for the aid of the missionaries,” she said. “Were the rest…angry with England? Perhaps, because you were so ill, you didn’t really understand if—”
“I may have been recovering, but I was never a fool,” he said mildly.
“So what did the other people want from the missionaries?” she asked softly, sinking down onto a stool beside the tub. Or want from you?
“They wanted what crafty people can always get from ignorant fools—everything they could, and then more.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
He reached out and took her hand from where it rested on her knee. His skin was wet and warm.
“You are an innocent, my dear. Here in this corner of Cambridgeshire, you don’t need to know what the rest of the world is capable of.”
He was watching her, studying her. Again she had the feeling that he was deliberately trying to intimidate her, which was totally unlike the man he’d been showing her.
It was time to let him think he succeeded—for now. She would not have been able to carry off her masquerade during the last year without realizing she possessed a knack for reading people.
“You are surprisingly cynical,” she said at last.
He arched a dark brow. “I wasn’t always?”
Back to dangerous waters. “No, I do not think so. At least you did not show it so readily.”
A faint smile curved one corner of his wide, elegant mouth. Perhaps losing his wife had made him cynical.
“I’ve been telling you that India changed me,” he said.
She clasped her hands in her lap. “I am not that different, and neither are you.”
He reached for a facecloth and the ball of soap. With lazy movements he began to lather his chest, his hands forming slow circles that seemed to hypnotize her. She remembered them on her body, cupping her breasts, giving her such intense pleasure that she hadn’t been able to imagine to what heights he could take her. Her brain seemed to freeze, all higher function shutting down. He washed himself almost too slowly, hands moving down his torso, disappearing beneath the water.
