by Henke, Shirl
“And, of course, the fault for Beth's malaise lies with me,” he ground out.
“I rather suspect the fault lies with both of you,” she replied, causing him to raise his head in surprise. “See here, Derrick, I did not come to place blame, only to try to help the two of you. You know, if a marriage is to be happy, husband and wife must put forth considerable effort.”
He smiled cynically. “And you, of course, speak from a vast reservoir of experience.”
Vittoria let the insult pass. “After my first two husbands, I certainly learned what does not make a marriage happy, but with Piero”—she was unable to resist a small, private smile—“well, we are very happy. I believe you and Beth could be, too.”
“What, pray, is the secret then, contessa?”
Some of his arrogant facade was slipping in spite of his best efforts to conceal his feelings. Are you so afraid of the truth. Derrick? “Love,” she answered simply.
Now some of the agony did show through. His shoulders slumped as he slid from his seat on the corner of the desk,and paced over to the window to stare intently out at the bay. She could see his face in profile, watched as he swallowed what must be a huge knot of misery.
“I know much of duty, contessa, but little of love.”
Those words spoke of a desolate childhood. “What of your family? Was there no love when you were a child?” she prompted.
“My parents despised each other, although it was an advantageous marriage, of which you are more than passing familiar, I'm certain.” She nodded, encouraging him to continue. “My elder brother and I were raised by a succession of nurses, tutors and other servants until we were old enough to be sent away to school. A fine old English tradition,” he said with a mirthless laugh. “My mother never showed the slightest interest in us.”
“What of your father?”
“My father took some pride in me. You see, I was an exceptional shot and rider, and my marks in school were much better than Leighton's. Poor Lee; he could please neither parent, even though he tried...for a while. What was inculcated into us was our duty to the Jamison name. After all, we were the sons of the seventh earl of Lynden. We owed society a return on its investment.”
“Noblesse oblige,” Vittoria murmured. “The English take it rather more seriously than is done on the Continent.” She was beginning to see another side of Derrick Jamison, perhaps one he'd never revealed to anyone else before. One Beth desperately needed to understand. “That is why you have risked your life in service to your country. And why you wed Beth—'twas your duty—or so Quintin Blackthorne made you believe.”
Derrick scoffed. “More like he threatened me with dire retribution.”
“Do not try to tell me that you wed Beth because you were afraid of her father. I'll not believe it for an instant.”
He shrugged uncomfortably, knowing that she had the right of it. “I did not want to kill him if he challenged me.”
“Because of Beth.”
“He is her father and she loves him.”
“She loves you even more.” Vittoria heard his sharp gasp before he could muffle it.
“Perhaps once she did—before I betrayed her and left
her here,” he said bitterly.
“Tis a strange thing about love,” Vittoria said musingly. “It cannot be willed away, even if the one you love hurts you or leaves you for many years. It lives”—she paused as he turned to look at her, then touched her heart—“in here.”
“You are speaking of yourself and Piero. Beth and I are different,” he said uncomfortably, unable to put his feelings into words.
“Why did you wed her?” she asked baldly.
“I desire her in my bed,” he replied equally as baldly. Cursing silently, for he had already revealed more of himself than was his wont, he admitted, ”I find other women of no interest...I want only her, damn it!” Would that she had shared my single-minded obsession while we were separated! “Does that satisfy you, contessa?” he snapped. “For if it does not, I can give you no other answer.”
Vittoria smiled beatifically. “Yes, I believe it does, Derrick.” She turned to leave, then paused and said, “Oh, by the by, since I wed Piero, I am no longer a contessa. In America I shall be plain Mistress Torres and all the happier for it. I will go with Piero to his world. Your wife will go with you to yours. Only allow her time to accustom herself to it. Beth loves you. Be good to her and all will be well.”
* * * *
The posset the physician had given her finally began to help—or her own body had become accustomed to the changes going on inside it. Either way, Beth felt better than she had in weeks. Even her appetite, alarmingly vanished, started to return and she was able to hold down what she consumed. That was a good thing since she had so much work to do overseeing preparations for the move to England.
England. London. The ton. Beth had read her cousin Alex's amusing letters describing his extended visit, sanitized for family consumption, she was certain. Alex had thoroughly loved the Great Wen's myriad enticements, but the sort of life he had enjoyed in London would be far removed from the life of an earl and his countess.
She knew her husband feared the repercussions if anyone learned about her past, but she refused to make up some Banbury tale about their falling in love while he was visiting Savannah. She was who she was, and there was no way to gild the lily. She had struggled to find her identity, to perfect her gifts as an artist, to enjoy the simple pleasures of life. If being American and an artist in the bargain scandalized the Quality, bugger ‘em!
“If he must be so stubborn as to drag me to London when neither of us wants me to be there, then he must pay the consequences,” she muttered to herself as she selected winter gowns, which would be sent aboard the Lady Barbara with them when they sailed. In route, Donita could begin to let out the seams as needed.
Since most of her clothes were airy and light for the year-round warmth of the Mediterranean, not to mention scandalously low cut and clinging, Derrick had instructed her to leave them behind. As soon as they arrived in England, she was to have a new wardrobe made up, including a number of gowns in various shades of gray and purple, the colors decreed for the latter stages of mourning for Leighton. She looked abominable in both, but it was the least of her problems.
Beth was busily tossing a rainbow hue of dresses—vibrant blues, greens and yellows—into the pile headed for storage boxes when she heard Derrick's footfalls on the stairs. Odd, but she could always tell when it was he, not one of the many male servants around the household. She turned as he entered the room. “Good afternoon, Derrick,” she said in the cool, civil tone they'd adopted. At least they were no longer yelling curses.
“The ship's master wants our trunks aboard by tomorrow.” he said, scanning the apparent disarray of the room. “If 'tis not possible, I'll tell him he must wait. I don't want you overtaxing yourself.”
“Everything will be ready. This is the last of it. All of those clothes will remain behind,” she said, gesturing to the huge pile strewn across the chaise longue in her dressing room. ”I am feeling much better, Derrick.”
“You still look pale. Vittoria has commented upon it.”
“When did you see her?” Beth knew her friend had not visited her while Derrick was home for the past week.
He cursed his errant tongue. “She and I chanced to meet earlier this afternoon.”
“Chanced to meet?” What had Vittoria been up to?
“She came to speak with me at the office on the quay,” he admitted. “She was concerned that I have been treating you ill. I have not intended that, puss.”
“I know, Derrick.” Her voice was soft. She looked away lest he see the naked longing in her eyes. How she wanted things to be as they had been. They had many difficulties to work out, but in the early days of their marriage it had seemed possible that they might, in time, be able to do so. At least then they had shared passion, but since he'd become the earl, they had done nothing but fight. An
d since he had learned about the babe, he had not touched her.
He's afraid he might harm the child. Always the child...never me. Her thoughts were selfish, she knew, and she castigated herself for having them, but...
She stood there looking so lost and vulnerable that his heart ached. “Beth, I am truly sorry. I will not leave you and I cannot stay,” he said in frustration, stepping closer to her without realizing that he had done it.
“Cannot stay—or will not stay?” The instant she asked it, she wished to call back the words. “Now I’m sorry. I know you must go.”
“And you do not wish to go with me.” It was not a question, for he already knew the answer. She stood very close to him now—too close. He could smell the faint essence of vanilla, see the way her breasts had grown even fuller, her whole lush body ripening like succulent, forbidden fruit. To taste of her was to invite more pain into a life already overflowing with it. But to live without her, to live without touching her, that was most painful of all.
His hand reached out, and one finger touched her chin, tipping it up so that he could read what lay hidden in her eyes. What he saw robbed him of breath.Her hands clutched his wrist and she swayed toward him involuntarily, desire a hot, dark fire blazing in the hazel green depths of her eyes.
Derrick swept her up into his arms and carried her from the small dressing room directly to their big bed, murmuring, “By God, I will make you glad—nay, eager—to stay with me.”
Chapter Twenty
They sailed the day before Quint was scheduled to depart for America. Beth's father, along with Vittoria and Piero, stood waving from the quay as they were rowed out to the Lady Barbara. It had been a difficult leave-taking for Beth, maintaining the fiction that all was well between herself and Derrick, that she was looking forward to her new life as a countess in cold, distant England. The only thing she did not have to pretend enthusiasm about was the coming child.
She wanted Derrick's baby more with every passing day, a small part of him that could love her in return. If the child's father could only desire her, never love her, so be it. She must learn to content herself with what was and not waste her life dreaming impossible dreams about what would never happen. She sat in the small boat, holding on to Percy with one arm, waving with her other. When her small circle of family finally became tiny specks on the distant horizon, she turned to face the looming outline of the sleek Baltimore clipper owned by Blackthorne Shipping Ltd., her uncle Dev's company.
“Tis a fine ship. Your father guaranteed 'twould make the passage swiftly and smoothly,” Derrick said as he prepared to help her climb aboard.
“My uncle named it for his wife.”
“Ah, yes, Monty Caruthers's sister, who scandalized the ton by wedding an American,” he said.
“Uncle Dev is part Creek Indian. I can imagine how that must have fanned the flames of gossip.”
“Merely being American would have been sufficient,” he replied, before realizing that she might take his remark amiss.
She did. “Then I shall deal famously with the Quality, I warrant,” she said, stiffening when he took her arm and helped her onto the boarding ladder.
Derrick cursed to himself. “Everything I say you take amiss.”
“If you refrain from saying things that are amiss, I will not be able to take them that way, will I?” she replied oversweetly.
Sighing in defeat, he reminded himself that she was breeding. He vowed to be patient during the voyage...and more careful with chance remarks.
The seas were rough with unseasonable storms, but in spite of Derrick's fears for her, Beth proved to be a marvelous sailor. Unless the weather prevented it, she always rose at daybreak and went above deck to sketch. He brooded about whether she would take it into her head to resume her “career” once they were settled in London.
They would have to have a discussion about her art, and he dreaded it. Their shipboard routine, removed from all outside sources of friction, had been almost idyllic. There was a great deal of time to spend lying abed, making love, and they found themselves able to do so without the frenetic overtones that had so marred their relationship recently. Finally, as they approached the coast of Brittany, he could put the matter off no longer.
Beth entered their cabin, flushed from a successful morning's work. After the earlier storms, the sea was now smooth as glass and the sunrise spectacular. Derrick stood by a small table where a repast had been laid out.
“That looks marvelous,” she said, taking the seat he offered her and digging in. “Did you sleep well?”
“Quite,” he replied, recalling the lusty way they'd made love before retiring. Something in his eyes conveyed the memory to her, and he was pleased to see a faint flush stain her cheeks. No time like now while she's in good humor. “We'll be landing within two days, channel weather permitting,” he said by way of opening.
A pity, she wanted to say, but held her tongue. “I expect you'll have a great many things to attend to,” she replied noncommittally.
“Yes, but there is one matter that we need to discuss before we're at sixes and sevens settling into our new life. I know how much you enjoy painting—and I want you to continue it—but there will be other demands on your time as well.”
“I've been expecting you to bring up the matter of my work.” She pushed her plate away, all appetite fled. “I will do my best to perform whatever social obligations are necessary, but from what I've seen and heard of English noblewomen, much of their time is wasted with mantuamakers, tea-time gossip and dancing masters. I see no reason that I cannot continue to paint instead of holding court from a fainting couch.”
The tone of disdain in her voice was unmistakable. ”A trifle blunt, puss,” he said, trying to cajole her.
“Tis an American fault, I fear. We say things as we know them to be.”
“You've yet to set foot on English soil. I doubt you know anything about it to be true or false. I'm not trying to forbid you to paint. But you cannot sell your paintings in England. Even among the merchant classes, women do not work for money. It would certainly cause you to be ostracized by the upper ten thousand.”
“And the peerage, of course, defines the order of the cosmos,” she replied, her disdain quite open now.
“Do you want to be cut, Beth? To spend your life in complete isolation?”
She sighed raggedly. His damnable sense of duty to the Jamison name meant everything to him. “I told you I’d be a hopeless misfit but you refused to listen.”
“I listened, all right—to my wife tell me that she would prefer to be rid of me and return to her old life and loves. That will not happen. You are my wife!” He bit off each word furiously. So much for cajolery! “Nor will you engage in selling so much as a pencil sketch. Do I make myself clear?”
“Quite, m'lord earl. What will you do? Banish me to the country? There's nothing I should like better!”
“Your time at Lynden Hall shall come quickly enough. But first you must be presented to society. We were wed abroad, and gossip about the legitimacy of our child shall abound if I hide you away before everyone sees that you are not already showing your condition. Would you want that for your son or daughter? Do you care enough about the child for it to matter in the slightest?”
His remark cut her far more than any member of the ton could ever have done. “Very well, I will play your games. I see no need—or even a way—to obtain commissions, but I will paint. If you take that from me, I...I do not know what I should do.” She hated the desperation that she'd just revealed, but Derrick's thunderous expression immediately softened.
He reached over and took her hands in his, massaging the pulse points in her wrists with his thumbs. “I would not be so cruel. Nor will things be so terrible, puss. I will be at your side when we face my family.”
* * * *
The Jamison city house was located on Pall Mall, just a short distance from Prinney's famous Carlton House, a trying ride from the docks. Beth was in a veri
table daze since landing, trying at once to get her “land legs” back and not lurch like a drunken sailor, then to assimilate all the sights, sounds and smells of the greatest city on earth. The smells were by far the most difficult.
Percy found them fascinating and had to be restrained from jumping from the carriage, but Beth found them ghastly. Coal smoke hung thick in the air, which carried on its turgid currents the odors of emptied chamber pots, tannery chemicals and lord knew what else. The waterfront in Naples was a veritable perfumery compared to the seeming miles of warehouses and noisome slums surrounding them. The narrow streets and alleys were overcrowded with the most wretched collection of humanity she had ever seen.
“The lazzaroni are better off,” she said as their carriage passed several beggar boys who chased after it, shouting for coins. Diseased prostitutes, little more than children themselves, hawked their wares boldly on the busy streets. “There is no excuse for this in the richest nation on earth.”
“I quite agree,” Derrick replied. “You have no idea of the ghastly conditions of the poor since the industrialization in the north drove so many thousands from the land. Now that the war's over, 'tis well past time members of Parliament turn their attention to mending what's ill in our own nation.”
“And you will have a seat in the House of Lords.” She had not considered that there might actually be something worthwhile for an earl to do in London. Rather, she had envisioned the wastrel pursuits of the beau monde, fashionable men who spent hours with tailors and dressers, then went out to spend their nights gambling, wenching and drinking. Alex had outlined an expurgated version of that life in his letters to her.
“Yes, but I'll also have to sit down with my solicitors and unravel the mess Leighton made of the family estates and investments.”
“Are you in debt?” she asked, knowing that his stiff English pride would forbid him to accept from her any financial assistance if that was the case, no matter that her family was well able to do so.
