Autumn's Wild Heart (Seasons Book 4)

by Laura Landon

  He had but one goal where the lady was concerned and that was to get her with a child, then hie himself off to the City to regain his former life. He, of course, might have to spend a few weeks in her company every couple of months to ensure she became pregnant again in case their first child was not the son he needed, or to provide him with a spare.

  James threw the pencil he’d been working with on the desk and leaned back in his chair. He hadn’t anticipated the fact that every night with her created more memories. Memories he thought he could easily ignore and forget.

  When they’d first married, she’d allowed him to come to her without any hesitation. She had quietly allowed him to make her his wife in the true sense of the word without any emotion. But, over time that had changed.

  James filled his glass with more brandy and took a long swallow. Would that things had remained that way. Would that she had not begun to shyly participate. Would that she had never shown any emotion toward what he was doing.

  Would that she had never found the need to wrap her arms around his body and hold him close. Would that her gentle moans would not echo in his memory.

  He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. With his glass in hand he walked to the window and stared out into the dismal rain. The weather had prevented them from traveling to town like his wife had wanted to do and he was trapped in the house with thoughts of her that he didn’t want to entertain.

  He emptied his glass then turned at the knock on the door. It was her. It was the female he couldn’t shove from his mind.

  “My lady,” he greeted.

  “Am I disturbing you?”

  “No, not at all. Come in. Sit.” He pointed to a chair near the fireplace. “What can I do for you?”

  “You mentioned that in a week you would need to go to London on business.”

  “Yes.”

  “I wondered if I could ask a favor.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “If I would pen some letters, would you see that they are delivered?”

  “Of course. I imagine you have friends with whom you would like to keep in touch.”

  “Yes. In fact…”

  She paused and James could tell her next request was difficult for her to voice.

  “Yes, in fact what?”

  “I was wondering if it might be possible to invite my two best friends to come for a few days.”

  “Of course you may.”

  Her loose whey-colored curls fell prettily across her white shoulders as she earnestly expressed her wish. How would one say no?

  “I would understand completely if you would rather I didn’t invite guests.”

  “No, Nella. This is your home as much as mine. I don’t expect you to closet yourself away in the country, never to see your friends again.”

  She lowered her gaze as if she was overwhelmed with relief. Was he really so terrifying to her?

  “Thank you, James.”

  “I have an idea. What would you think if I invited two of my closest friends to come at the same time? We could make it a house party of sorts.”

  “Oh, that would be perfect. Are you sure?”

  “Of course I am.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Then, I would love it. That would be marvelous.”

  “You decide on a time to host our autumn party and I will take care of inviting our guests.”

  James wasn’t sure why he’d suggested such a thing, but when he looked at his wife and saw the wetness in her eyes he couldn’t help but wonder what had caused such a reaction.

  He bent to place his finger beneath her chin and lifted her head. “What? Are you crying? Why?”

  She shook her head from side to side, then rose from her chair and raced across the room. She threw open the door and ran from the room.

  “Nella,” he called, then followed her. He didn’t catch her until she entered the library and collapsed into a chair. “What? Why are you crying? What have I done?”

  She retrieved a handkerchief and wiped the tears from her face. “I don’t deserve your kindness, James. I don’t deserve you being so lovely to me, so agreeable. Not after what I did to you.”

  He sat in the chair next to hers and reached for her hands. He held them in his and gently squeezed her fingers. “Nella, I won’t pretend I’m happy about it, but I know your reason wasn’t intentional. I know you thought only to save me from entrapment.”

  “Nothing worked out the way I thought it would, James. I never thought to force you into marrying me.”

  “I know you didn’t, Nella. But, it’s too late to cry over spilled milk. We need to make the best of the cards we’ve been dealt.”

  James prayed for the crying to stop. It helped nothing, and just made both of them feel worse.

  “Do you know how special you are, James?” she asked as she wiped the tears that ran down her face.

  A damn of guilt cracked somewhere inside him. Special? Him? Hardly.

  He strove for a light-hearted tone.

  “Of course I do, Nella. You’ve told me several times and I refuse to think you’d lie to me.”

  She smiled and he patted her hands. It was awkward. He’d made it awkward. Because he’d given little thought to her fears and conducted himself only in neutral ways, ways designed to make her comfortable within the box he wanted her to live in.

  James rose. “I have more work to do, Nella. Will you be all right?”

  She gave him a smile, although the cheer wasn’t reflected in her eyes.

  “Yes, James. I’ll say goodnight.”

  She rose and left before he could form another thought.

  She would be all right. She’d said so, hadn’t she?

  James went back to his study to work on his ledgers.

  He didn’t want her to feel bad about what had happened on that night that started the whole debacle. He thought of what a hectic life with someone like Lady Blanche would be compared to the genteel life he was experiencing with Nella and it startled him. Other than having a wife with a marvelous figure, he could think of no other benefits. But life with Nella?

  Well, it was certainly more congenial than he could ever have imagined.

  Chapter 7

  Nella sat down at the piano and lost all track of time. It’s what she did when she was frustrated. When she needed to take her anger or annoyance out on something. Or someone. Except the only person with whom she was angry was herself.

  Why was he being so nice? Why would he act the way he had? Agreeing to anything she requested. Supporting her with whatever she wanted: her desire to go into the village, her request for a horse to ride, her entreaty to deliver any letters she wrote to her family and friends, her suggestion to invite some friends for a country stay. Anything she wanted. As if he was eager to grant her every desire.

  She pounded the keys as she played the most stormy piece in her repertoire. Then, she continued with a similarly thunderous piece. Nothing pianissimo or dolce would be among her choices today.

  “Are you angry at someone?” he asked from the doorway.

  Nella stopped playing and placed her hands in her lap.

  “Me, perhaps?” he asked, stepping inside the room. He closed the door after himself.

  “No. Myself.”

  “Ah,” he said stepping up to her.

  “Ah, what?”

  “Ah, that explains everything.”

  Nella looked up at him, knowing his nearness would cause her heart to spiral. “It explains nothing! Stop pretending that you understand me. That you know me. When you don’t. You don’t know the first thing about me. And if you did, you wouldn’t have the first thing to do with me.”

  “Why would that be?”

  Nella rose from the piano bench and moved to escape his closeness. She lifted a decanter and poured some of the contents into a glass. Before she could change her mind, she took a swallow and nearly choked.

  He came up beside her and lifted another decanter and poured some of its contents into a gl
ass. “Here. Drink this instead.”

  She took the glass from his hand and drank. It was wine. She recognized the taste and liked it much better. She was sure she could get drunk on wine as easily as she could on that other disgusting intoxicant.

  “Come, sit down.”

  He brought the two decanters with him as he followed her to the sofa. He sat down beside her and placed the decanters on the table in front of them.

  “Now, why are you angry at yourself?”

  Nella lifted her glass and drank a long swallow. “It doesn’t matter,” she said taking another swallow.

  Her glass was nearly empty and he refilled it.

  “Why are you as you are?”

  “Now, that’s a complicated question. Probably for the same reason you are as you are.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “No doubt because your question was not a question.”

  “It was, too.”

  “No, it was an accusation. As if you don’t like the way I am.”

  Nella looked at him and a part of her melted. His bloody handsome face was serene. There wasn’t one feature that she could find fault with, from his high cheekbones, to the square cut of his jaw, to the cleft in his chin, to his dark, penetrating eyes and his expressive brows.

  Even his personality was near perfect. He was always kind to her even when she did not deserve it.

  She lowered her gaze to her rounding figure, her thick arms and her never-been-willowy legs. She had nothing to recommend herself. Nothing.

  She drank the rest of the wine he’d poured for her. She didn’t deserve to be his wife. She’d compromised him whether she’d intended to or not. And everyone would always know it. She would live with the shame of what she’d done for the rest of her life.

  As he would live with regret for the rest of his life because of what she’d done.

  She lifted her glass to her mouth, but it was empty.

  He filled it for her.

  “Why are you trying to lose yourself in drink?”

  “I’m not,” she said taking another swallow. “I won’t.”

  “I’ll remind you of that in the morning.”

  He leaned back in the sofa and stretched his arm around her shoulders.

  “Don’t,” Nella ordered and shrugged her shoulders to dislodge his arm.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don be nice to me.”

  “Is sitting on the sofa with my wife being too nice to you?”

  “Yesh, you know it is.” She emptied her wine glass again. Her head was spinning and her vision blurred.

  “Why is that?”

  “’cause I don desherve it. Because you dinna even know who I was ‘til I…”

  “You what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, Nella. You what?”

  “If we wonna been found together.”

  “But we were.”

  “And I’m so shorry.”

  “Did you drug me the night we were compromised?”

  She shook her head. “You know I din.” She sighed heavily. “I’m tired, my lord. I wanna go ta bed now.”

  Somehow she got to her feet and even made it to her bedchamber without her husband’s help. He followed close on her heels.

  “I’ll sleep in my own bed tonight, Nella.”

  “No,” she said, holding on to him. “Sleep with me. Love me.”

  “You don’t want that. Not tonight.”

  “I do! Yesh, James. Please.”

  It was the last thing she heard before sinking into the softness of her bed. The next morning when she woke, Nella wasn’t sure if he’d slept with her or not. The only thing she knew for sure was that she felt like the wrath of God.

  ~■~

  James gave his wife’s maid orders to let her sleep late the next morning. He knew when she woke, she’d feel horrible. And she did. He could tell by the dark circles that rimmed her bloodshot eyes when she finally came down the stairs. If her looks hadn’t confirmed how badly she felt, the fact that she couldn’t tolerate even one bite of food by lunchtime did.

  “I blame you for how I feel, you know.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Yes, you. I wouldn’t have drunk nearly so much if you hadn’t continually refilled my glass.”

  “That’s hardly fair, dear wife. I daresay you would have drunk even more if I hadn’t been there to stop you when I did.”

  She placed her hand to her forehead.

  James placed his hand on her shoulder. “May I suggest we postpone our trip to the village today, as well as taking a ride on your new horse?”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea,” she said quietly. “Perhaps I’ll spend the day in my room writing letters.”

  “No letters. Not today. That’s an order. Just rest. And lots of water. I’ll work on my accounts and leave you alone. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “I won’t. I’m perfectly fine.”

  James couldn’t help but smile. He thought of her as an essentially brave lady. With a will of iron. Drinking until she was so inebriated was totally out of character for her, as far as he knew. He would ask her later about it and hoped she’d tell him what had instigated her mood.

  But he doubted she would tell him.

  He worked on his ledgers all afternoon, and when his wife came down for dinner, she looked much better.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “I think I might live,” she said.

  He took her arm and led her into the small dining room. “I hope you don’t mind, but I asked Cook to prepare something light for dinner.”

  “I don’t mind at all.”

  He sat her at her usual place at the table.

  “How do men do it?” she asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Drink night after night. Have too much to drink one night and repeat the process again the next night?”

  A footman arrived with a light soup and a warm loaf of sliced bread. James buttered her a piece of bread then handed it to her. She thanked him and took a small bite.

  “It takes years of practice,” he answered. “That’s how we do it.”

  “How do you survive until you become used to it?”

  “I think one simply tires of feeling like bloody hell every morning when they wake.”

  She took another nibble of her buttered bread. “I dare say you won’t have to worry about me relying too heavily on wine on a daily basis.”

  He laughed. “I’m glad.” James dipped his spoon into his bowl of soup. “So, why did you drink like you did last night?”

  She stopped with her bread halfway to her mouth, then continued eating as if he hadn’t spoken. He was sure eating was a tactic to stop from having to answer him.

  Before he could ask her again, a footman came in with a platter of cheeses, more warm bread, and a bowl of fruit.

  “You haven’t answered my question, Nella. What were you upset over?”

  “I wasn’t upset.”

  “Liar.”

  She looked at him with a cross expression on her face.

  “I wasn’t,” she repeated. “I was angry.”

  “With whom?”

  “With myself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” she answered. “Just because.”

  “I’m not going to get an answer from you, am I?”

  She lowered her gaze and ate a few pieces of fruit. “No.”

  James gave up questioning her until she finally finished nibbling on her cheese. With a heavy sigh she dropped her linen napkin on the table and rose. “If you will excuse me.”

  James rose and pulled her chair back. She laid a hand on his arm, a companionable thing to do.

  “I’m glad to see you feeling so much better.”

  She huffed.

  “Well you are,” he insisted. “But I’d feel better if I could see those dimples.” He raised a finger to lightly touch her cheek.

  His easy quip and gentle touch
seemed to do the trick. James lowered his gaze and caught the smile he’d been hoping for. It changed her features. Made her seem younger…happier. Prettier.

  He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and led her from the dining room. “I will leave on Thursday for London. If you will have your invitations written by then, I will take them with me and see they get delivered.”

  “Oh, thank you, James.” Her voice elevated with a measure of excitement. “I can’t wait,” she said, then lifted her head and kissed him on the cheek.

  Every muscle in her body stiffened when she seemed to realize what she’d done. She separated herself from him as if she thought something as simple as a kiss on his cheek was a step too far. As if she didn’t have the right to show him unsolicited affection. As if he could come to her bed every night and use her body, but she didn’t have the same rights.

  Suddenly, James realized that he’d never kissed her. He’d lain with her. He’d made love to her. But he’d never kissed her, as if kissing her on the lips would indicate that their relationship had gone another step. As if kissing her on the lips represented an intimacy he wasn’t ready to show her.

  “I think I’d like to retire now,” she said.

  James turned with her. “Would you indulge me for a moment?” he asked as they made their way from the dining room.

  “Of course.”

  “Would you play for me?”

  “The piano?”

  “No. TiddlyWinks.” He winked. “Of course I mean the piano.”

  “Of course. What would you like to hear?”

  “Whatever you’d like to play.”

  They strolled to the music room where James poured himself a glass of brandy and sat in the corner of the sofa. His wife went to the piano and sat. She breathed in deeply, then placed her hands on the keyboard and started the most beautiful, most melancholy melody he’d ever heard.

  James couldn’t speak. He didn’t have the heart to interrupt something so pure, so elemental, so heart-wrenching.

  When he had decided to ask her to play he’d wondered what song she would choose. He wondered whether it would be some fast-paced heart-pounding song that represented the frustration he knew she felt, or the slower, more melancholy song that tore at her heart and exposed her hurt and agony. The fact that it was the latter spoke volumes.