The naive, innocent child Blackwood had married would never be so bold, but Serena was a woman now, all due to him. He had awakened her to the wonder of romance. He had provided all the opportunities for her to learn and grow, to take responsibility for an entire estate. She had followed her instincts and she had done well in every other endeavor. Why did she feel so helpless now?
Vainly she sought for an insight into the best way to approach her husband. A loud crash on the other side of the door startled her into action. Without a moment’s hesitation, she pushed the door wide and entered his chamber.
Instantly he turned a pale, pain-tightened face toward her. Blackwood must have stumbled before he fell into the chair and toppled over the table beside it. His cane lay too far away for him to reach it.
Without words, she placed the small rosewood table back in position and leaned his cane against the chair. Only then did she meet his dark, anguished eyes.
“I’m sorry I disturbed you. I’m often clumsy these days.” He shrugged, his glance flicking toward his cane. “Perhaps I should move to another chamber so—”
“Of course not. These are your … our rooms,” she interrupted without thinking, and then regretted it as his gaze studied her face.
“Serena, very soon we must talk about all that has transpired while I’ve been away.”
“We could do so tonight if you wish.” She hoped her words didn’t sound as unseemingly eager to his ears as they did to hers.
He pushed himself to his feet. “No, I’m afraid tonight is not the time. Tomorrow perhaps. Rest well, Serena, and I shall try not to disturb you again.”
His dismissal left her no other choice but to leave him. Not so subtly, she allowed the door to remain open between the rooms. Trying for a semblance of normalcy, she began to take down her hair, placing the pins in a tortoiseshell box on her dressing table.
There was a prolonged silence while she brushed through her hair. Finally the door shut behind her.
She crossed the room to lean weakly against it, closing her eyes to take deep, even breaths, trying to still the pulse pounding through her. Where was the confident, glorious man who’d swept her off her feet? He’d been so sure she was the woman he’d sought. There had been nothing tentative in any of his actions toward her before. Now hesitation pervaded every word and action between them.
Confusion coiled fingers through every fiber of her being, making it difficult to think, to do anything but feel. And she was uncertain now of even that. What should she be feeling?
The maid already had water poured into the bowl on the washstand and her white cotton gown laid across the foot of the bed. As rapidly as she could, she was between the cool, crisp sheets, burying her cheek in the pillow, desiring the solace of slumber. Unable to find just the right position to bring peace to her weary body, she tossed and turned until the covers were a tumbled heap around her.
Staring wide-eyed at the underside of the canopy above her, she heard the tall clock in the hallway chime the hour. It was already the morrow, and still she couldn’t find the forgetfulness of sleep she so desperately sought.
A cry ripped through the stillness. She sat bolt upright, staring toward the door, barely discernible in the shadowing glow of the dying fire.
Yes, there it was again! There could be no doubt the sound came from Blackwood’s chamber. Barefoot, she crept across the room to rest her ear against the wood.
Now she could discern snatches of sentences, but from this distance, couldn’t understand the meaning. A loud, quick burst of words followed by a low moan tore at her heart.
Whether this was the right way or no, she couldn’t just stand here and listen to Blackwood suffer. Quietly she pushed the door open and entered his chamber once again.
He sprawled across the bed, the dying embers casting a glow which gleamed off his broad, bare chest. The sheet was tangled low around his hips, revealing he wore nothing.
Something hot and tight coiled low in her stomach. She pushed it away to slip onto the side of the bed and softly touch his shoulder.
“Matthew, wake up, it’s only a bad dream.”
Her quiet words brought no relief as, eyes closed, his head twisted back and forth on the pillow.
“The right flank! Must protect the men! Higgens! Oh, no!” he moaned through dry lips.
“Matt,” she said louder, gripping his shoulder more tightly with her fingers, desperate now to end his suffering.
Still the nightmare held him. “Must protect the right flank! No, Jeffries! Leave me! Leave me before it’s too late!” he cried with such anguish tears sprang to her eyes.
Leaning her weight against his chest to capture both moving shoulders in her hands, her hair fell forward around his face as she spoke directly to him. “Matt, you must wake up! Matt, wake up!”
He opened his eyes within the curtain of her hair. An instant later, total awareness widened his eyes and she forced herself to move back from him to tangle her trembling fingers within the folds of her night shift.
“Was it the dreams?” he asked harshly, drawing the sheet up over his chest.
“Nightmares more like,” she whispered in return, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs.
He nodded, pushing himself higher against the headboard to look squarely into her eyes. The shadows made him look as young as he’d appeared when they met. “It seems I’ve disturbed you yet again.”
“You didn’t disturb me. I want to help you. After all, I’m your wife,” she reminded him.
“This isn’t something I can discuss with you. With anyone.” His dark eyes were as mesmerizing as ever as they bore into her as if seeking her soul. “Serena, it must be apparent to you I’m not the man you wed. That idealistic young fool is gone forever.” He rubbed absently at his injured leg. “The man who remains would never be so foolish as that arrogant youngster.”
“We’ve all changed during our separation. I, too, am no longer as I was when we met.” Was it right? Would it make things better to point out she’d also changed, even though she’d promised she wouldn’t?
“Yes, I can see it.” He nodded. “You no longer chew on your lower lip.”
That he remembered such an insignificant thing made her smile. “You remember that? Then perhaps you also remember our few hours of happiness as husband and wife.”
She could see by the sudden stiffening of his shoulders she’d shocked him by alluding to their hours of intimacy.
“I can see you still possess your blunt honesty,” he said evenly, once again rubbing at his thigh. “I’ll be honest in return. Perhaps, after all, it’s best to confront everything now to prevent any further pain I might cause you.”
If she’d once thought his eyes dark pools in which to drown, they were even more so now; and drowning she was with no hope of safety in sight.
“Serena, I regret we’re strangers now. Whatever drew you to me no longer exists. I’m sorry for it because it’s unfair to saddle you with this union. In time I’m sure we can come to some understanding which will suit us both.”
These cynical words, where once he’d spoken with such romantic lyric, closed in like deep, dark water over her head.
“You regret our marriage because you find me different from the naive child I once was?” Vainly she sought to break the surface.
“I regret that young girl so innocently gave her heart to someone who no longer exists,” he answered gently. “As you say, you are no longer that young girl, nor am I that boy.”
Pain caused her to gasp in confusion. The intake of air seemed to restore her ability to move. She leapt to her feet, barely containing her anger. “Then we shall have to discover if who we have become can find any common threads to weave a new beginning.”
Pride spun her on her bare feet and kept her back ramrod straight until she m
ade it into her own bedchamber. This time she did close the door behind her. Only then did she give in to the ache tearing her insides to bits and let her shoulders slump forward as tears streamed down her face.
In truth he was no longer the fairy-tale hero of her first flush of romance. Nor was he the man she’d begun to know and love through his letters and the things he’d once cared about.
What was left?
The Courtship
Dawn had given way to dazzling winter sunshine by the time Serena awoke. Copious tears had finally succumbed to the oblivion of slumber. She stretched languorously, then remembered—Blackwood was home. Obviously someone had stopped her maid from waking her with her usual breakfast. Perhaps the duchess had done so in the anticipation Serena might not be alone in her bed.
Memory of the confrontation in the intimacy of her husband’s chamber brought the same anger-laced pain: anger at herself, at Blackwood, at the war, at all that separated them; and pain for the happiness lost. It wasn’t fair! She knew what she wanted, but it seemed impossible—she yearned to go back to those feelings he had inspired in her so long ago. She wanted her husband, heart-whole, charming, and full of ideals, returned to her.
She freely admitted she was no longer as naive and blindly romantic as she’d once been. And with aching regret she acknowledged Blackwood’s view of life was not as glitteringly noble and pure as it had been. But surely there must be something left, some in-between stage where they could come together and recapture all they had lost.
She stared at the closed door that separated them and willed it to open. Suddenly she wanted her father, like a child trusting that a parent could make everything right again. Perhaps if she went back to the beginning, if she recaptured what had been, she could find something to reinspire Blackwood’s regard.
Slipping on her robe, she went to the small cherrywood desk and penned a letter inviting both her father and Buckle to spend the holiday in London. When the letter was waxed and sealed, she rang for her maid. There was no use in putting it off a moment more; she must simply face whatever painful disclosures this day might bring.
Descending the staircase, she held her head high, bolstered by a new frock of jonquil satin with a deep flounce at the hemline and long, tight sleeves ending in a small ruffle over her hands. Chin up, she marched into the dining room and was promptly deflated to find her brave front was to no avail. The only person to witness it was a footman standing at rigid attention by the sideboard laden with silver-covered dishes.
“I had no idea I was so late,” Serena muttered, slipping onto the chair he held for her. “Has everyone else already been served luncheon?”
“The Marquess of Longford and Lord Kendall left this morning for their clubs. Her Grace and Lady Cecily dined early as they had appointments on Bond Street.”
“And Lord Blackwood?” she prompted with what she hoped was a show of calm interest.
“A tray in his room, my lady.” With a deferential nod he turned to prepare her a plate of chops smothered in a mushroom sauce, with a side of buttered peas, followed by a fruit trifle with custard.
Under his eagle eye she felt compelled to do more than move the food about on her plate. As soon as she was able, she escaped to the conservatory. It had become a favorite retreat. Frost pictures decorated the windows, letting light through to pattern the stone floor. She sat in one small pool of sunshine to tend the chrysanthemum plant. It was at the end of its blooming season. She pinched off the dead flowers but left four faded blooms that were not completely gone.
She was concentrating so on the plant, the awareness of being watched came unexpectedly. Swiveling around, she found Blackwood, near the fountain, staring at her.
If he hadn’t been leaning on his cane, he would have looked perfectly normal, his long legs encased in tan unmentionables, his navy jacket fitting a bit loosely over a plain white shirt. Patterns of light dappled him with sunshine as he moved slowly toward her, the cane tapping an uneven rhythm upon the stone floor.
“Good afternoon, Serena.” His smile didn’t quite reach his rich, dark eyes. “What are you tending so diligently?”
“Our chrysanthemum plant. It’s thriving just as you requested it should.” Instinct led her to be quietly frank. “Do you recall sending it here to me before boarding ship for the Peninsula?”
A red flush crept up the strong bones of his face. “A romantic fancy.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry it caused you such inconvenience. You should have turned it over to the gardener to tend.”
“Certainly not! Horticulture is a great interest of mine. I’m quite good at it.”
Perhaps it was surprise at her vehemence that lifted his brows. “So I see. I had no idea you were such an expert gardener.”
“How could you? We knew very little of one another’s interests when we wed.” Was it the anger making her so blunt? Or was it some other force within her?
“You’re right, of course.” His long mouth curled in a wry smile. “I must apologize, I suppose, for being so impetuous. If we had been wiser, perhaps—”
“Wisdom had naught to do with it,” she interrupted, a fine edge of anger bringing her to her feet. Why must he continually allude to their marriage as if it were a mistake? Naught could be done now. Surely they could deal together better than this. “I was as impetuous as you. The … attraction I felt for you was every bit as strong as what you believed you felt for me.” Serena could feel a hot flush rise up from her chest to burn her cheeks. How could he fail to hear her heart pounding as he stared at her silently? He took a tentative step forward.
“Oh, here you both are!” exclaimed Cecily, shattering the tense moment so abruptly, Serena sat back down upon the bench, for her knees were trembling.
After pressing a quick kiss upon Blackwood’s cheek, Cecily danced over to sit beside Serena and squeezed her hand.
“While shopping on Bond Street, Mother and I met the Duchess of Southerland. She told us several of our friends are staying in town for the holidays. So we’ve come up with the most wonderful plan! A ball to welcome in the New Year and celebrate Matt’s return to us. Is that not marvelous?”
“Marvelous.”
They replied in unison, one voice amazed, the other sarcastic.
As she sprang up, Cecily’s dimple came and went in her pink cheek. “Come along, Serena; let us make our guest list. Mother says we must start our plans immediately as the holidays are nearly upon us.”
Blowing her brother a kiss, Cecily gripped Serena’s hand and nearly pulled her from the conservatory, leaving Blackwood staring after them, a quizzical curve to his mouth.
“Cecily, what are you up to?” Serena demanded, stumbling after her determined sister-in-law.
“Well, Mother says we must find our own path to help Matt regain his aplomb. Mine is to plunge him immediately back into the social whirl.” Stopping in the hallway, Cecily let go of Serena’s hand to look at her with wide, dark eyes. “Remember, it was at a ball that he swept you off your feet. Perhaps at this one you can do likewise. I certainly plan to do so to Lord Kendall!”
Cecily’s confidence bolstered Serena through the next few weeks as the holidays descended upon them and nothing changed in Blackwood’s cool detachment. At night she could sometimes hear him in the grips of one of his nightmares, but she forced herself to bury her face in the pillows and ignore the overpowering urge to offer comfort. He’d said he couldn’t discuss it with her.
Until he could bring himself to confide in her the terrors of those dreams, her presence would only add weight to his already heavy burden.
Blackwood appeared to be most at ease with Longford and Kendall when they spent evenings in the library over port and cards. His afternoons were dedicated to reading the newest political treatises to the duke and discussing the ramifications to the country of the long and expensive French wars. In his
dealings with his father, Blackwood displayed a gentleness and intelligence that brought a little catch to her throat whenever she saw them together.
To her he was unfailingly polite and courteous, but the door between them was as firmly shut as the one in their chambers.
By the time her father and Buckle arrived on Christmas Eve, Serena’s nerves were ready to shatter from the strain of pretending to view all and sundry with the same cool detachment Blackwood displayed.
She could feel Buckle’s blue eyes searching her face throughout the Christmas festivities. On the night of the ball Buckle appeared at her bedchamber and dismissed the maid, stating in no uncertain terms that she would do what was necessary for Serena’s toilette.
Matter-of-factly Buckle fastened the catches at the back of the silvery silk gown Serena had chosen to wear because it reminded her so forcibly of one she’d worn in her first Season; except this gown was cut deep over her breasts, held up only by small sleeves poised low on her shoulders.
“Dear child, you look breathtaking. Even though these London fashions are a mite shocking to we country folk,” Buckle chuckled good-naturedly.
Smiling, Serena studied herself in the mirror as Buckle expertly brushed her hair high on her head and let one curl fall along her throat.
“There! You shall dazzle your husband tonight.”
In the mirror, their eyes met and held. There could be no pretense with Buckle. “I’m afraid our reunion hasn’t been all I’d hoped,” Serena said softly.
“I know, dear child. I’ve been watching the two of you and growing more concerned every moment.” The rosebud mouth straightened in sorrow. “Can you tell me why?”
“He’s changed so, Buckle.”
“So have you,” she replied.
“Yes, we’re no longer the same impetuous children who wed so quickly. I wish there was some way to go back to that time.”
“Would you really wish it? What did you truly know of Lord Blackwood then?”
A Soldier's Heart Page 10
