by Dorothy Mack
Nicholas straightened from his task and smiled lazily into the pleading blue eyes. “My time is not so much my own these days,” he offered by way of explanation.
“Then why are we wasting any?” she demanded, moving closer and placing two small hands, sparkling with rings, on his shoulders. This gesture caused the wide sleeves of her gown to fall back, revealing shapely white arms that slid around his neck as he gathered her pliant body into a light embrace. “Have you missed me, Nicholas?” she whispered, pressing closer to him and raising a provocatively curved mouth toward his.
“Yes,” he answered untruthfully, and proceeded to kiss her long and deeply, recognizing her instant and total response with an impersonal pleasure at the ability of an experienced woman to arouse and satisfy passion. He was aware, too, of the heavy French scent Cécile favoured, but with less pleasure. He had come to prefer a lighter, more subtle fragrance. He drew back slightly to study the flawless face that looked back at him with naked hunger, jolted to discover that he was analysing his reactions instead of losing himself in the sensual experience. Almost instantaneously, Cécile pulled his head down with a little growl of yearning to bring his mouth back into contact with hers.
This time he was carried along on the tide of her desire, and his hands were untying the ribbons at the front of her gown when she raised her head and demanded softly, “Can your little bride make you feel like this?”
“What?” Nicholas was slow to grasp the meaning of her challenge.
Cécile traced the shape of his mouth with one finger and smiled triumphantly into his eyes.
“No one knows how to please you as I do, Nicholas,” she purred. “How could that child with her pedigreed background and her insipid ways possibly satisfy a man like you?”
Even before Nicholas opened his mouth, she was aware of her tactical error in attacking his wife. Her eyes fell before the coldness that appeared in his, and the tip of her tongue made a quick circuit of her bottom lip. His hands paused in caressing her throat and she felt his withdrawal.
“We won’t discuss my wife, if you please, Cécile. Never having met her, you can know nothing about her.”
Resentment at the curt finality of his tones — plus the ever-present jealousy of the girl who had married the man she wanted — caused Lady Montaigne to compound her initial error.
“It isn’t necessary to meet her to know she’s too terribly well-brought-up to have any red blood in her veins. I have seen her. Can she fire your blood the way I do?”
“Where have you seen Kate?” he shot out, and now his hands were gripping the soft flesh of her arms above the elbows.
“Nick, you are hurting me!”
The strong fingers relaxed their hold, but the expression in his eyes remained forbidding. “Answer my question.”
“She was pointed out to me at some large gathering or other.” Lady Montaigne was deliberately vague. She had no intention of confessing that she had engineered a meeting with her lover’s wife. Somehow, despite the promising beginning, this first assignation with Nicholas since his marriage was not progressing according to plan, and she abandoned argument in favour of an appeal to his senses that had never yet failed.
“Love me, Nicholas,” she whispered urgently, twining her arms about his neck and pressing her body against his.
It failed this time. He smiled directly into her eyes, but his eyes remained hard. “To answer your original question, yes, Kate can rouse the same passion as you do … and gratify it!”
Cécile recoiled slightly and her expression stiffened. “So, she is not so milky as she appears?”
“Your claws are showing, my pet. She is not ‘milky’ at all. My wife is every inch a woman.”
“Then I am amazed that you are not with such a paragon at this very moment. Why did you come here, Nicholas?”
The instant this challenge was uttered Cécile regretted the hasty words, but they hung in the air between them. As the silence lengthened she was filled with a sense of dread, but there was no retreat possible.
Nicholas laughed softly and gently removed her arms from around his neck. “You have me there, my sweet,” he replied with unimpaired affability. “The unanswerable question. Enjoy your bracelet.” He bowed formally and walked out of the room before she could recover from the shock.
“Nicholas, come back!” If the hoarse cry reached him, he gave no sign. The sound of the closing door was her only answer. She stood rooted to the floor for another few disbelieving seconds, then dashed over to the window and twitched the curtain aside. She watched him emerge from the entrance way, settle his hat more firmly on his head, and saunter down the street, his walking stick under his arm as he replaced his gloves. He did not look back.
The viscount at that moment was looking neither back nor forward as he set a swift course for Brooks’s and some reliable and undemanding male companionship. He was kicking himself mentally for having allowed his fury (he was not willing to call it heartbreak) at Kate’s treatment to send him to Cécile looking for … what? Not love, surely. He had never encouraged her brand of possessiveness under the easy guise of love. Physical satisfaction then, or for some agreeable feminine ministering to his male vanity? Certainly Cécile was eminently capable of satisfying both cravings, but he’d forgotten how spiteful and jealous she could be toward her own sex. Supposing she had not disgusted him by overplaying her hand just now, though, what would have been the result of his visit? He examined his own behaviour with ruthless honesty and did not care for what he discovered. He’d have used Cécile for his own transitory pleasure and, more importantly, as a weapon with which to strike out at Kate, which was patently absurd since she would never have known anything of the matter. But in what more favourable light could he consider his sudden decision to seek out a woman he had not thought about in weeks within seconds of discovering some additional action on Kate’s part that demonstrated her desire to have done with him? By the time he arrived on the doorstep and confronted the porter with an unsmiling mien, he was disliking Cécile, hating Kate, and thoroughly disgusted with his own idiotic foolishness in allowing any woman to get under his skin.
His luck was in in one area at least, and he returned to the quiet house on Albemarle Street just before dawn, enriched by several hundred pounds won from various unfortunate acquaintances, enlivened by the prospects of a congenial party for the upcoming Ascot races and with his spirits considerably heightened by the benevolent effects of enormous quantities of wine and brandy consumed with unusual dedication during the lengthy session at his club. Several hours later after a minimum of sleep he was still richer, the prospect of a group party for Ascot was still pleasant, but the beneficent effects of the alcohol had proved to be merely temporary. Perhaps the presence of a dull pain in his head contributed to the jaundiced view he took of his home this fine summer day, but regardless of the reasons, the viscount wandered morosely from bedchamber to breakfast room to library, after ordering his valet to pack a bag for him. It was with a sense of release that he mounted his spirited chestnut in the late morning and rode off without a backward glance.
Nicholas enjoyed a modest financial success at the race meeting and for the most part disported himself pleasurably amongst his cronies. The pace was fast, and hours at a time would go by without his giving a passing thought to his personal problems. Then some small thing such as the line of a girl’s throat as she bent over some task would trigger a memory of Kate in a similar pose, or perhaps he would note some amusing incident with the intention of repeating it for Kate’s enjoyment before he remembered that they had very little to say to one another these days. At these moments a bleakness would settle over his countenance, and his friends would have to speak to him more than once to gain his attention. He had been so intent upon pursuing Kate as a suitor after their marriage that it came as a surprise to him now to realize that in addition to being a most desirable creature, she had been uncommonly companionable for a girl. He was beginning to feel the lack
of this attribute even amongst the company of good friends.
Of course he’d be a liar to deny he missed above all her warm presence in his bed. There was no scarcity of females in the immediate locale, several of whom, judging by the invitation in their bold glances, would have been well pleased to remedy the lack. He surveyed the straw damsels who frequented sporting events of this type with appraisal, disliking the coy assumption of gentility that characterized their approach to prospective protectors as much as he deplored their over-rouged cheeks and the exaggerated style of their clothing. An unflattering comment made in the hearing of his cronies provoked loud guffaws and a crude reminder that he had not used to be so nice in his requirements. He had grinned at that, his good humour restored by the good-natured ribaldry of friends.
Through Mister Waksworth, he received invitations to evening parties at the homes of some of the local landowners. The company was decidedly more select, but he found the respectable females present at these events of even less interest than their wayward sisters, and he grew weary of explaining that his bride was in devoted attendance on his grandfather who had recently sustained an injury. He saw himself observing the behaviour of those around him and was conscious of all his own replies and reactions to others as well as theirs to him. The feeling was growing within him that he was a spectator at his own life, and it was faintly disturbing. He wanted to stop observing his life and return to merely living it, but the knack seemed to have eluded him. A strange restlessness invaded his being, causing him to make increasingly frenetic efforts to keep active. He’d agree to any plan to avoid solitude, because once he was alone his angry thoughts would not be kept at bay, nor would the underlying misery.
A sennight of trying to escape his problems by denying them attention left him drained of all energy, mental and physical. Suddenly he could no longer face another evening of doing the polite to a bunch of faceless strangers. He excused himself from his friends’ plans and returned to his bedchamber at the inn, knowing all at once that it was the sense of something incomplete between himself and Kate that was preventing him from putting her out of his mind permanently. He missed her abominably, but who save an idiot could long for the presence of a woman who loved another man? He was slumped in a chair staring at a blank wall, seeing Kate’s face as she denied being unfaithful. After her first surprise at being accused, there had been no emotion in her manner at all; her denials had seemed almost mechanical, and how could this be so if she were telling the truth? And yet he would have been willing to stake his life that Kate had loved him just a few weeks ago. Nothing made sense anymore if he accepted that Kate had loved him once, and yet how could he have been mistaken? Every moment with her, discovering new facets of this unwilling bride of his, had been a joy. It would take an abysmal lack of sensitivity to others to be so completely happy himself if she were not. If she were telling the truth about not loving Robin, then something else must have occurred to spoil their enjoyment of each other. He must see her and demand that she tell him the truth. He had half risen to his feet as if to implement this decision immediately, but now he sank down again in the hard chair. Though he no longer more than half believed that Robin was the cause of her coldness, the facts still pointed in his direction, so he must start with Robin. And his brother was in Ireland! Well, that was not an insurmountable obstacle.
The remainder of the evening was devoted to making his plans, and he was away at crack of dawn the following morning, leaving a deliberately ambiguous message for his cronies. He dared not contemplate his next move should Robin fail to convince him that there was nothing warmer than brotherly feelings between himself and Kate, but at last he was committed to action, and this of itself was a significant improvement on his behaviour of the last few weeks.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A persistent beam of sunshine plodded painstakingly across the rug in the silent room, eventually coming to rest on the open pages of the book balanced on the knees of a girl perched atop a set of library steps. For a second her eyes were dazzled, and her attention shifted from the printing to the light itself. She appeared lost in fascinated contemplation of the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam; then, her concentration shattered, she shifted position and returned the volume to its place on one of the shelves behind her. She stared through the long windows at the sun-dappled hedges enclosing a rose garden. Another in a seemingly endless succession of lovely summer days made just existing lazily a pleasure. On an impulse, the girl descended the steps and crossed to the window doors and pulled them open. Immediately the silence was invaded by a muted chorus of humming as the bees went about their vital tasks among the flowers. The fragrance of hundreds of late roses drifted in, and she sniffed appreciatively. Never in recent memory had there been such a perfect July. She stood by the open doors watching a hard-working robin tugging at an insect buried in the grass until he flew away with his prize, then she retraced her footsteps and remounted the steps, but not to return at once to her reading. With elbows on knees and chin in cupped hands, she surveyed her surroundings with pleasure.
Hickory House was a fair-sized gentleman’s residence of mellow red brick set in extensive grounds. It was not of interest to antiquarians, having been built in the early days of George the Third’s reign, but there was a pleasing symmetry and grace about its proportions, and Kate thought it absolutely charming. All the main rooms were well lighted and beautifully proportioned, with attractive but not elaborate ceiling mouldings and designs of painted plaster work. This room, containing thousands of volumes accumulated over the years, was Kate’s favourite. It was not a particularly large room, and except for windows, fireplace, and door, the entire amount of wall space was given over to bookshelves. A good-sized library table stood diagonally across one corner, and there were several stuffed chairs for comfortable reading. Much of Kate’s time in the fortnight that had elapsed of her visit had been spent in this room, for she had undertaken to set about the formidable task of cataloguing Lord Bartram’s library for him. He readily admitted the need for such a catalogue but confessed to a dread of having someone disturb the organized confusion of a lifetime of collecting. Kate had solemnly promised to make no major upheavals and Lord Bartram, thinking to give her an additional interest besides catering to the whims of an old man, had accepted her offer with alacrity.
The task was proceeding at a snail’s pace, however, since Kate spent the major portion of this time browsing compulsively amongst the books, which just exactly suited both Lord Bartram and his granddaughter-in-law. It had been a most enjoyable visit so far. Kate and the young-thinking Lord Bartram got on famously together. If he was disappointed at the continued absence of his grandson, he allowed nothing of this to spoil his pleasure in getting to know his new granddaughter.
The only factor to strain the amicable tone was the attitude of Lord Bartram’s lugubrious hound, Hamlet, toward the presence of Ulysses in his bailiwick. It was a case of instant hatred on Hamlet’s part for the feline interloper, and Ulysses’ habit of strolling unconcernedly past the door of whatever room Hamlet was inhabiting in faithful attendance on his master only added fuel to the dog’s burning outrage. Kate found it necessary to keep her pet safely closed in her bedchamber when she was in company with her grandfather-in-law, and when she worked in the library, she would transport the cat in his despised basket and make sure that the door remained closed against a prowling four-footed enemy.
Could she but have put her husband entirely out of her mind, Kate’s residence at Hickory House would have been completely serene and untroubled. But thoughts of Nicholas refused to stay submerged for long; they could surface in the midst of an animated conversation with Lord Bartram or intrude as now, when she was enjoying a peaceful interlude amongst the books. And with the thought of Nicholas would come the vulnerable look to her eyes, the brooding curve to her mouth. She wore that look now as she gazed unseeingly at Ulysses’ sleeping form on the deep blue carpet.
For the first week of her visit, i
t had been enough to savour the absence of the tension that had built up in the atmosphere of the house on Albemarle Street dating from the meeting between Kate and Lady Montaigne. She was relaxed and quietly content in the company of her husband’s grandfather. No longer might the sound of a door opening herald the possible entrance of an expressionless Nicholas with the concomitant sense of strain that any contact between them had produced. The serene existence at Hickory House was precisely what Kate required to help her regain her healthy appetite and enable her to sleep more restfully at night.
Strangely enough, though, once she was feeling more her former self, it became more difficult to exclude her husband from her thoughts. Even before she had fallen in love with him, Nicholas had come to take the place her brother had occupied in her childhood: that of an easy companion whose company was always welcome. They had laughed at the same things, had seemed to share so many opinions and tastes. The realization had come to her gradually that not only had she lost a lover, but a friend as well. Friends were people you trusted, and she could no longer trust Nicholas. Her revolving thoughts always stuck at this point — she had come to believe Nicholas loved her because all his actions had been designed to convince her of this. That was why Lady Montaigne’s revelations had proved so overwhelming.
He need not have been so blatantly false, she mourned wretchedly. He had coerced her acceptance of a normal marriage; there had been no need to pretend she was the sum of all his desires. Of course he could not have guessed that she would actually be confronted by a jealous mistress determined to vent her spleen. More likely Nicholas had never intended to hurt her. He liked her well enough, and she had been so obviously head over ears in love with him that it was possible he had deemed it kinder to let her continue in her delusion. Wearily she pushed a lock of hair back from her forehead. She never got any further on her ratiocinations. It always came down to a betrayal of her trust. It was queerly apropos that Nicholas, too, should be suffering from what he believed to be her betrayal, but of course in his case it could only be his ego that was bruised since she had not touched his heart. Sooner or later, though, he and Robin would meet, and she felt sure Robin would be able to convince him of their innocence. The brothers had a careless affection for one another, though they were not close companions. It must have hurt Nicholas deeply to be forced to think ill of Robin. She shifted her position somewhat uneasily as it occurred to her that perhaps the final reckoning between herself and her husband was yet to come.
