She’d been so vain and stupid, thinking of saving her figure and her social ambitions, determined to put off the dreariness of childbearing until the last possible moment.
A vicious punishment indeed, but perhaps not entirely undeserved. After all, she’d been careless with Meggie, hadn’t she? She’d let Baskin in this house, endangering Meggie and destroying her own never-born children simply so she could sop up his puppyish devotion.
The scar across her belly would be large and ugly, she could tell. Her body was marred forever now, the perfection upon which she’d based her entire existence now erased. She didn’t care one whit. She’d willingly bear scars all over her body if she could only be whole within.
She was barely aware of Meggie quietly slipping down from the mattress. She ought to stop the girl, reassure her, be what mother she was capable of being—but the weakness made her too slow and Meggie was gone by the time she opened her eyes.
The bed was a lonely cold sea about her, the richness of the satin and silk chilly against her heated skin. She had a fever, she realized dully. It seemed she might die after all, as the doctor had said.
She gave it a try, just for a moment. She tried letting go, willing herself to fade away, willing her heart to stop pumping the blood that still seeped from her wound. The silence grew until she could hear that rebellious heart, still beating loud in her sensitized hearing. It was no good. She’d spent her life in the fight. She hadn’t a clue how to give up.
So, then—if she couldn’t give up, how was she to go on?
Calder … oh, God, Calder must know by now. The physician would surely have let the marquis know that his hopes for an heir were dashed. She’d failed him again, it seemed.
Poor Calder. It was really too bad that she’d not died. Now he was saddled with a scarred, damaged, barren woman whom he didn’t actually like very much. If he had it to do all over again, she wouldn’t be his second choice, she’d be his last one!
Tears leaked from the outside corners of her eyes, running down to trickle into her ears. She preferred to cry into a pillow, but she was too sore and weak to roll over! That pathetic thought tipped the scales until the tears swelled to a torrent, until she had to press her palms over her mouth to mask her raw sobs. They never seemed to end, racking her aching body and sapping her inadequate strength. She didn’t even realize the moment when crying became sleeping once more.
CALDER ENTERED THE grand chamber of the marchioness and walked silently across the thick carpet to gaze down at the slender, frail treasure he’d placed so carefully in the center of the huge bed. She slept still, but when he stroked his fingertips down her cheek he wanted to believe that the fever was less.
A chair awaited him at the bedside. He sank into it without needing to look, for he’d spent many hours there already.
His fingers were damp from her face. Had the fever broken? Did she weep in her unconscious state?
She didn’t know. She couldn’t. He’d made sure that it hadn’t been spoken of outside his study. The physician had whispered it to him as if imparting a shameful indiscretion.
“There’s damage, my lord. More from removing the bullet, though it had to be done. Women are delicate beings. Even a bad blow to that area could make her barren … but a bullet? I fear there’s little hope she’ll ever be able to conceive.”
Calder had listened and nodded in automatic response to the man’s solemnity, but all he could think was “She’s alive!”
He didn’t give a damn if she didn’t give him an heir. He was too bloody busy not howling with joy that he was sitting here beside her, not standing by her grave!
She mustn’t know. Oh, he might have to tell her someday, if she fretted at their lack of children, but for now and the years to come, he intended to make sure she was too happy to care overmuch. They had Meggie and he’d be perfectly willing to raid the nearest orphanage to fill the house with children if she wished. He fancied he had a knack for crime.
Anything she wished. Anything at all, if she would only open her blue eyes and speak to him again.
She slept on, her hand small and limp in his.
Chapter Fifty-one
The next time Deirdre woke, feverish and fretful, it was to find Sophie sitting next to the bed, ready with a soothing word and a practical touch.
Her thoughts still fogged, Deirdre struggled to remember something very important. She’d been shot. She remembered the fiery brand of the impact. That was bad. Meggie was safe. That was better. Baskin was dead. That was best not thought about yet.
Then she remembered the worst. With a gasp, she reached for Sophie’s hand. “The doctor said—oh, Sophie! No children!”
Sophie unwrapped her hysterical grip and then patted her hand soothingly. “I heard that Patricia heard that Meggie heard the physician tell Calder that.” She took up a cloth from the nightstand and smoothed away the fever sweat from Deirdre’s brow. “Physicians, you know, are just as fallible as anyone else.” She snorted. “Or more so.”
Deirdre blinked, not willing to hope so easily. “Wouldn’t he know if I’m damaged or not? Do you think he could be mistaken?”
“Why not?” Sophie shrugged. “I’ve never put much stock in physicians. Cook’s herbal concoctions seem every bit as helpful as anything the doctors ever give m … my mother. They’ve been dosing her for years and it hasn’t done her a bit of good. Neither the leeches nor the dosing, come to think of it. Yet I’ve seen farm hands heal from the most terrible wounds, when all they’ve had are poultices and teas.” She put the cloth back in the lavender-scented water. “I don’t think anyone knows the future. Who is to say what is possible or not?”
Deirdre lay back on her pillows, her thoughts circling that single statement.
Why not?
Then she turned her face away. “Where is Calder?”
Sophie didn’t reply. When Deirdre rolled to face her, the tall girl glanced away. “Lord Brookhaven has many duties.”
Well, that was hardly a surprise … and yet, she was surprised. Did her sickbed not require his presence, at least for a short visit?
Apparently not.
Sophie stirred. “Deirdre, perhaps I should tell you. Calder is—”
Deirdre lifted a hand to stop her. “I don’t want to talk about him.”
Shaking her head, Sophie tried again. “Deirdre—”
“I’m quite serious. Do not speak of him.”
Sighing, Sophie admitted defeat. “You’re tired. Do you want me to leave?”
Deirdre closed her eyes, feeling the overpowering pull of dark, evasive sleep. “Stay,” she murmured. Then she forced her eyes open to lock gazes with Sophie. “Don’t tell him I asked for him.” She gripped her hand. “Promise.”
Sophie shook her head. “I promise.”
Just as Deirdre gave in and darkness came to claim her, she could have sworn she heard one last word from Sophie.
“Idiot.”
WHEN CALDER RETURNED from the ordeal and sideshow that was poor Baskin’s funeral, Fortescue awaited him in the entrance hall with a dry surcoat and a piece of toweling.
“I didn’t suppose you’d want to take time to change before you checked on her ladyship, my lord.”
Calder pressed his wet face into the towel and let out a harsh breath.
“Was it very bad, my lord?”
Bad? It had been dreadful. The world had come out to see the tragedy in three acts that was the life and death of one stupid, unbalanced boy in love. Baskin himself had fired the bullet that had caused his death, but Calder knew that the tale being told all over the city had at least three versions where he had pulled the trigger, several where Deirdre had done it, and a few circulating that held Meggie as the murderer. To stand beside the white-faced and rigidly mournful Baskin family and withstand the scrutiny and whispers while the poor lad was lowered into the ground …
“It was not a good day, Fortescue.” He rubbed the towel over his dripping hair. “Why does it always rain a
t funerals?” It had rained when he’d buried each of his parents, and Melinda as well, come to think of it.
One wife buried, one fiancée fled, one bride nearly killed. The only constant in all that was him. He shook his head.
“I have no talent for marriage.”
Fortescue raised a brow. “On the contrary, my lord. You very carefully and decisively chose your brides for all the wrong reasons. From the first it was clear that you and the previous Lady Brookhaven weren’t going to get on well. I ought to have warned you, but it wasn’t my place to do so.”
Calder grunted. “Warned me that my sweet, demure fiancée was a whore? I don’t suppose I would have listened.”
Fortescue gazed at him pityingly. “Lady Melinda wasn’t a whore, my lord. She was merely a young woman who loved a man and was thrust into marriage with another man.”
Something inside Calder cleared, like silt running away to leave a stream sparkling and pure. He lifted his gaze to meet his butler’s. “Like Phoebe.”
Fortescue nodded. “Indeed, my lord. You do have a talent for choosing women whose hearts have already been stolen. Perhaps because you yourself have no desire to possess those hearts?”
Possess those hearts? No. Not Melinda’s. Not even Phoebe’s.
Deirdre’s.
His hands slowly tightened to fists. Not in rage, but in longing. Deirdre’s heart was what he desired, more than he’d ever desired anything—Deirdre’s proud, stubborn, fiercely independent heart, which she’d offered to him like a gilded treasure and which he’d spurned like a soiled rag.
Oh, my darling. What have I done?
Sophie had the answer to that question, when he passed her on the stair.
“Essentially, my lord, you fulfilled her worst nightmare of a husband. I don’t really think you meant ill by it. You must have worried that she was like Tessa—and one can certainly see why—but have you truly thought about what it must have been like to be raised by a woman like Tessa? A woman who cared nothing for her, a manipulative bully who only saw her as a means to an end?”
“Like me, you mean.” He ran both hands over his face. “Oh, damn.”
Sophie put one tentative hand on his arm. “I think—I think it must have been quite awful, really. She doesn’t talk about it, but I’ve seen bruises—” She shrugged. “Deirdre seems very strong, I know. I once despised her for it, thinking her hard. It is an armor, really, against Tessa, against the world that left her in the hands of a woman like that. Underneath, I think she is very vulnerable and perhaps a bit lost as well.”
Calder let out a breath and gazed at Sophie for a long moment. “I think all the Pickering granddaughters are a bit of a surprise beneath the surface.”
Sophie blushed and glanced away. “I don’t suppose I can bribe you to keep that quiet?”
Calder grunted. “Who would I tell?” The only person he longed to speak to was Deirdre, but what could he say to atone for his suspicions?
Sophie folded her arms, one eyebrow raised at his morose tone. “I don’t feel terribly sorry for you, you know. You are entirely too intelligent not to realize that having brought this on yourself, you must be the one to make it right.”
“But how?”
“I don’t know how, but I have a suggestion as to ‘when’.” She tilted her head and quirked a smile. “Deirdre is finally properly awake, with no fever. It broke less than an hour ago.”
Calder’s fists tightened on a surge of overwhelming relief. Thank God. Beset by the desire to be near his wife, he turned his back on Sophie’s knowing chuckle and took the stairs two at a time.
Chapter Fifty-two
Deirdre was sitting up in the bed, her face drawn but not flushed with fever or pale with blood loss. She was a tangled, unbathed mess and she had never looked more stunning.
Calder approached the bed with slow steps. “Good evening, my lady.” Damn! Too stiff and formal! He tried again. “You look very nice.”
She shot him a disbelieving glance. “Don’t mock me. I feel awful.” She tried to adjust her position, then winced. He rushed forward to help, but she held up a warning hand. “Stop. Don’t touch me.”
At a loss, he backed away a step. “Do you want me to fetch Sophie?”
Deirdre closed her eyes, shaking her head. “Heavens, no. I just got rid of her.” She waved at the chair. “Please sit down, Calder. You’re looming.”
When he was seated, he leaned forward to plead his cause. He took a breath, but hesitated, unsure of what to say. I love you. I need you. Love me always. How could he, when he didn’t deserve her? Blast, he hated being so unsure of himself! When things truly mattered to him, he had no words!
Then it was too late. In the moment of his strangled muteness, she spoke first.
“Calder, I think it’s plain that we aren’t going to get on well in this marriage.”
Pain. Tearing, breathless agony. He was not to be forgiven. Dimly he realized that he hadn’t made an actual sound. It was only his heart keening wordlessly and unheard.
“I’ve decided to reside at Brookhaven,” she went on, her tone dull and lifeless, yet like steel beneath. “Phoebe will be there with Rafe, but I’m sure the house is big enough for the three of us. Meggie may come stay anytime she likes.”
Meggie! That was the way through! Even as an inner voice warned him not to, he played that card. “I wed you to be mother to Meggie, not distant aunt.”
“That shameful prod won’t work,” she said flatly. “Meggie needs you more than she needs me.”
The gaze she turned Calder’s way shocked him to his very core. The bold, outrageous woman he knew was gone. In her place was someone cool and hard and distant. Not to mention scornful.
And leaving him.
It is an armor, really … against the world that left her.
That was how she saw him, as a male version of Tessa. He was her worst nightmare come to life. How could he hope to overcome such rigid distaste?
Deirdre waited for his response. Not that it mattered, she reminded herself. She’d given up. She had wed a man who didn’t love her and now she had to make the best of it.
She very likely owed him her life, but saved was one thing.
Loved was another thing altogether.
“I see,” he said slowly. “I cannot ask you to reconsider?”
“Reconsider,” like a man bargaining for a horse or a trinket. She uttered a hoarse bark of laughter. “Why should I?”
He nodded. “Of course.” Then he stood. “I should let you rest. We’ll … we’ll resolve the details later.” With a bow, he turned away.
Don’t go! Don’t nod and agree! Stay and fight, damn you! Fight for me!
Calder, it seemed, only fought for his machines.
At the door of her bedchamber, he paused, then turned to speak over his shoulder. He did not meet her eyes. In fact, he’d hardly met her eyes for the entire conversation.
How was she to know what he was truly thinking if he didn’t meet her eyes?
“I spoke to Baskin’s family,” he said gruffly. “You should know that his lack of stability was not your doing. He was always prone to bouts of melancholy. This was not even his first attempt at self-murder. It was simply his most successful.”
Deirdre thought about that for a long moment. Then she let out a slow breath. “Thank you, Calder. That … helps.”
With that, he was gone. She leaned back on her pillows and closed her eyes. There. That was done. She’d made the most practical, intelligent decision. She’d chosen self-preservation over certain heartbreak. What could possibly be wrong with that?
It was a persuasive argument, yet somehow that didn’t stop the tears from leaking out beneath her lashes and streaming down her face.
AGAINST THE PHYSICIAN’s orders, Patricia’s worried pleas and Sophie’s glum predictions, Deirdre was on her feet the next day. Unable to bear the noise of their protests, she finally threw them all out of her bedchamber, with the exception of Meggie, who seemed
to share the outrageous notion that Deirdre should get up whenever she felt like it.
Now, slowly and painfully, her shaking legs carrying her on sheer will alone, Deirdre was packing for Brookhaven. Without any real chance of completing the job by herself, the act was more symbolic than anything, but she had to try.
The fine gowns from Lementeur she would leave to Patricia’s capable hands. There wouldn’t be much cause to wear them on the estate, but Deirdre couldn’t bear to waste such exquisite work.
The ruined blue one, however, she packed herself with great care and a few secret sniffles.
“I’ve never seen Papa cry …”
Deirdre turned to gaze at her empty bed in astonishment. “Well, why would you, for pity’s sake!” A man like Calder, weep? She shuddered to think what catastrophe might cause such a shattering of that stone-walled keep.
“ … until he found you dead on the ground.”
The sheer will that was keeping Deirdre’s knees locked and her spine straight left her on a single sharp exhalation.
“He wept … for me?” She sank into the chair that had materialized next to her sickbed sometime in the last week.
Meggie crawled partially out from under the bed and propped her chin thoughtfully on her knuckles. “We didn’t think he would ever stop.” Her eyes were wide and filled with awe at the memory. “But then you went like this—” Meggie demonstrated a harsh inhalation. “And then things happened awfully fast.”
Deirdre stared down at her hands where they lay folded limply in her lap, unsure what to think of this stunning bit of information. “He felt guilt, I suppose.”
Meggie rubbed at her nose. “For what? He didn’t shoot you.”
Deirdre twined her fingers together. “He takes a great deal too much responsibility for things. He is a man of honor and integrity.”
Meggie grinned, a flash of pure evil in her pretty, childish face. “I don’t think Lady Turbantop thought so when he played highwayman and stole her carriage so he could chase down Baskin.”
Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 02] Page 25
