The reception was over by midnight. Valerie retired to her bedroom, grateful for peace and quiet. Glenda came to help her remove the fragile gown and veil and the little white slippers, to rub her feet that felt so cold and tired.
She helped Valerie into the white negligee and night robe of white silk and lace, a present from the countess.
“My lady, the countess, says as how she is sending for new dresses for you from London,” said Glenda, a little chattily, for now Valerie was one of Them, married to Mr Malcolm.
“Oh, dear, I told her not to,” said Valerie, yawning. “She has given me so much —”
“But you must be properly dressed for teas and such, ma’am,” reproved Glenda. “And they’ll be giving balls. You’ll be going up to London, and may be presented at court.”
Valerie stared at her. In all their arguments about her marrying, this had not come up. They had one and all spoken of how much she could help with the estate, assist the countess, perhaps divert Malcolm from going back to war. Balls? Being presented at court? She had never considered that! She sat on the edge of the bed, thinking, worrying. Because of their poverty, the Grays had not partaken of London’s hospitality and grandeur. She had lived a quiet life, and now she much preferred books and a stroll in the garden.
“There, now, if you’ll just slip into bed, I’ll blow out some candles,” said Glenda, beaming down at her, as Valerie obediently slipped into bed like a child. She drew up the covers under Valerie’s chin. “I’ll just keep a couple alight for Himself,” she said, and blew out the candles in the stand near the wardrobe.
Valerie was closing her eyes as the door closed behind Glenda. All of a sudden, the words sank home. For Himself? For whom? For Malcolm? But he couldn’t come in here … he could not! They had never discussed it, but Valerie had thought they would gradually become acquainted … but he had scarcely kissed her! He had scarcely touched her, except to help her up the steps, or into a coach, or in a dance!
The door opened softly, and her eyes popped open. Malcolm came in quietly, setting his boots down near the door. He was staggering a little. His leg, or too much drink? She sat bolt upright in bed, holding the covers to her.
“Don’t come in here!” she ordered firmly.
“Now, don’t be silly, Valerie,” he said, and struggled out of his jacket, cursing a little. “Damn buttons. I should have had my valet unfasten me first. Get that button, will you, Valerie?”
And he sat down on the side of the bed and offered his sleeve to her. The fine white lacy cuff had become entangled in the buttons. Valerie’s fingers trembled as she unfastened it. He took out the fine diamond studs and laid them carelessly on the night table.
“Nice wedding,” he said, getting up, and shrugging out of his shirt. “Not a big-fussy one … can’t stand fusses … just friends about. You looked pretty, Valerie, quite pretty. I like you in white. Mean to get you some more dresses from London, the Mater reminded me.”
“I d-don’t need more —” she began, still sitting rigidly up in bed, staring at him in the dimness. “M-Malcolm, what — what are you doing?” The words were a squeal as he unfastened his trousers and began to push them down.
“Doing? Getting undressed, Valerie,” he said practically, but a little devilish grin quirked his large mouth. “You don’t think I’m so uncivilized as to go to bed with my spurs and boots on, do you? Though there was a fellow in Portugal, just got married, and he —”
“Malcolm!”
“All right, all right,” he said, with a laugh. “You’re not used to my stories yet.” He reached for his long nightgown and she closed her eyes, and turned her face away.
“Malcolm, please. We did not plan this — I mean, I did not think you would take advantage — I mean, we scarcely know each other, and —”
He did not answer. She cautiously opened her eyes, to find him blowing out the last candles, and then coming towards the huge bed. He closed the large canopies against the night cold, and slid his length into the long bed. Then he reached for her.
“M-Malcolm!”
His mouth on hers smothered the words, his long arms were unexpectedly hard and tight about her. He drew her to him, and his hands were smoothing over her shoulders, her arm, down to her waist. She felt one hand on her breast. He was kissing her with violence, passion, yet tenderness, and she had never felt such a storm of emotion breaking over her.
His mouth pressed against her bared shoulder, then roamed over to her throat, where the pulse beat madly. “Soft, sweet,” he said, in a sort of groan. “Oh, Valerie —” And his lips nibbled at her breast in a kind of savage worship. “You’re such a pretty thing.”
A pretty thing! She felt outraged and flattered all at once. She had prided herself on her sharp mind, her quick memory. But she could not think coherently after a while. His kisses, his embraces were rousing emotions in her she had never felt before. And when he leaned to her and took her completely, she was shocked, shaken, overwhelmed.
He slept, later, his arm flung across her in careless hard possession. She was longer getting to sleep, her brain a-whirl with new thoughts. So this was what happened when married people went to bed. And no one had ever told her! Would she have a baby at once? Or — what else went on? Her skin felt on fire from his caresses.
When she wakened, the curtains were pushed back. She stirred, lazily, felt a hard leg against hers.
“Ouch,” said Malcolm, plaintively. “Love, that’s my bad leg. Do you want some tea? It’s almost cold.”
She turned about, shocked, to stare up at his hazel eyes. He was sitting up against the pillows, the white nightshirt casually opened at his brown throat, drinking from a teacup. The tray was beside him on a night stand.
She felt one wild blush of embarrassment. To be in bed with a man! She sat up primly, drawing the covers with her, to her throat. He laughed down at her, his gaze on her bare arm.
He bent, and kissed the arm nearest him.
“Don’t,” she said automatically.
“You’re sweet in bed,” he said. She gave him a helpless look, then turned away.
“You shouldn’t talk about it,” she scolded feebly.
“Why not? We’re married,” he said. He leaned over, poured out the cup of tea for her. “It’s warm,” he said, and handed it over. She sipped slowly, to make it last. She could not, could not get out of bed before his eyes.
Malcolm finished his cup, set it down, got out of bed. He grimaced as he came to his feet, his hand went automatically to rub his thigh. “Damn leg,” he grumbled. “Excuse me, Valerie. Mater said I should stop cursing while I’m home.”
“Could I — I mean, could I — fix your leg for you?” she asked timidly.
“Oh, it’s a mess, you don’t want to see it,” he said.
He was obviously in pain. She reached for the white negligee, managed to get into it before getting out of bed. “Where is the medicine?” she asked.
“I’ll get my valet to bring it, and some hot water,” he said. “You sure you want to do this? It looks horrible,” He seemed downcast about that.
“I’ll do it,” she said. When the valet had brought the medicine and a pitcher of hot water, Malcolm sat down on the edge of the elegant bathtub in the bathroom, and exposed his thigh. She stifled a gasp of sheer horror.
It was a real mess; the bullet had torn a jagged hole in his thigh, and ugly purplish flesh had bunched up around it. Malcolm watched her face as she bent to examine it. “Don’t — if it makes you sick,” he said quietly.
“It must hurt you badly,” she managed to say. She poured some of the medicine into a bowl, added hot water, and began to sponge the wound. He flinched, she paused. “Oh, I’m hurting you more!” she cried in distress.
“It has to heal,” he said, philosophically. “And your touch is easier than my valet’s.”
She forced herself to continue, bathing until the water was cool. Then she applied salve, and a fresh bandage over the wound.
He thanked her. Somehow that little service to him made her feel easier. He called his valet, who was setting out his clothes in the smaller bedroom beside hers. He gave him orders, about his clothes, an event that evening.
Valerie rang for her maid, and the door closed between their rooms. She sat down, hugging herself against the cold. She felt as though she had grown up overnight. Her wedding night, the way Malcolm had embraced her … and now this morning, she had tended to his wound.
She was a married woman, a wife.
Glenda brought a request from the countess. “She would be pleased to receive you at eleven this morning, if you will, ma’am,” she said.
Valerie nodded. She dressed in a white muslin, tied the lilac ribbons below her breasts in the new high fashion, and sat down to eat her breakfast from the tray the maid brought. Malcolm came in to join her, sitting easily across from her, splendid in his tweed coat and riding breeches.
“Do you ride, Valerie?” he asked easily.
She shook her head, “No.” They had not been able to afford a stable of riding stock, only two horses for the carriage.
“I’ll teach you. There’s a mare that should do well for you,” he said. “What about this morning?”
“Not today,” she said, flushing a little. She felt sore. He only nodded.
“Maybe tomorrow,” he said. He rose, finished his coffee standing up, then strode from the room.
She went to the countess, who greeted her with a cool kiss of the cheek, and a gentle smile of approval. “I thought we might talk for a time, dear Valerie,” she said.
What she wanted to talk about, Valerie soon discovered. The countess must have had her orders to school her in the ways of society. Valerie hid her humiliation, and listened quietly as the countess talked of titles, how to address certain ranks, the duties she would perform.
“Does Lady Deidre also do these things?” asked Valerie presently.
“Oh, yes, at her home. Here, she is a guest. One day, she will take over as countess,” said Hannah Villiers, a shadow flitting across her plump serene face. “But she will know how to act. She was presented three years ago. You have not had her experience.”
Valerie left the session with a secret rebellion in her heart. She did not want to be schooled in the ways of society. She wanted to read, to study, to prepare herself for teaching. She was not at all sure she would be happy here in this great manor house, or in London, a timid mouse in the midst of butterflies like Lady Deidre who looked at her with cold eyes.
She sought out the earl’s library, gave Mr Kenyon a timid smile. “I thought I might read for a time, Mr Kenyon.”
“Of course, Mrs Villiers. May I recommend this chair near the window? The light is much better here.” And the greying man limped over to the chair, tugged it into place beside the window.
She thanked him, chose a book, and sat down, to lose herself in it until luncheon. Malcolm sought her out, a scowl on his handsome face.
“Reading again? I told Mater to inform you about some of your duties and give you some idea of what is expected of you,” he said angrily. “And she was to make up a list of gowns for us to order from London. Have you done that?”
Valerie stiffened. “No, I told her I needed none,” she said, frigidly.
“Nonsense! You need dozens of gowns, and some cloaks, and boots, a riding habit. I looked through your wardrobe. Why, Deidre has a hundred times what you have!”
“I’m sure she can afford them,” said Valerie, with offended dignity.
“Pooh. Mater and Eustace order them all, and Father pays the bills. Deidre’s family don’t have a brass farthing,” said Malcolm, with crude frankness. “She’s a doll to dress, says Mater. And you don’t hear her going all wildcat over the matter, either!”
Valerie bit her lips, to refrain from saying that Lady Deidre did not have her pride or independence, either.
Within a week they had a visitor. One of the officers of the same regiment as Clarence and Malcolm came to call.
He was Captain Reginald Darlington — Reggie to his friends — and all the world was his friend. He was young, handsome, with fine blond curls, vivid blue eyes, a gentle nature. One confided in him, as in a brother. He had been badly injured and after recovering, his aged aunt had persuaded him to sell out and remain in London with her. He escorted her about and had gay stories to tell of London.
He walked with Valerie in the gardens while Malcolm was out riding over the estate with Eustace. “I say, I am sorry about Clarence,” he said with sympathy. “Was there at the time, you know. Dashing fellow, we all loved him.”
“Thank you, Reggie. I shall miss him sorely,” she said. She had quarrelled often with Malcolm this week, her heart hurt her. She was bewildered, scarcely knowing where to turn. Malcolm wanted to groom her into a lady of quality, present her to society. She was timid and unsure of herself, therefore the more belligerent about remaining with books. Malcolm had finally made up a list of clothes without her approval and sent off for the items. They had fought over that, and he had not been in her bed for two nights.
Presently Reggie said, “I wish I had been the one to come after you, Valerie. We might have made a match of it, instead.”
She stiffened; his tone was odd. She said, carefully, “I was puzzled that Malcolm came for me. I did not think he and Clarence were so close, though you were all friends.”
“Oh, that,” said Reggie, who had had a bit too much wine for luncheon, and whose tongue was usually loose anyway. “We tossed dice, you know.”
“Dice, of course. I understand,” said Valerie, thinking he spoke of some gambling during the night camps.
“Thought you would understand,” said Reggie cheerfully. “Well, when Clarence died, it was the only thing to do. We all knew you were left alone, and your last letter to Clarence was read aloud. Couldn’t leave you with that horrid lot, so we tossed dice over it. See which would look after you. Malcolm lost.”
She froze. It was an intense effort to continue walking in the cold February weather, across the wintry garden, her cloak closely about her. Carefully casual, she said, “Malcolm … lost … the toss of the dice. And so … came home … and after me?”
“Yes. He did tell you, didn’t he? Wounded home, anyway. So was I, and four others. We all tossed for you. He lost,” persisted Reggie, earnestly. “Could have cursed when he saw the way it turned out. Never wanted to marry, he said. But you’re a pretty girl. I shouldn’t have minded losing. Time I settled down myself.”
Alternately burning and chilling, Valerie did not trust her tongue to say anything. In silence, they walked back to the manor. She excused herself and fled to her bedroom. She paced the floor, rehearsed burning speeches, pictured herself fleeing for ever from the hated marriage.
She had never felt so humiliated, so bitter. The officers had tossed dice over her — over her, who hated gambling with a wild passion. Gambling had brought her to servitude, then to a loveless marriage. Dice! Malcolm had lost at dice, over her! And he had come home, come to her, proposed marriage, taken her to bed — all without saying one word about it!
Oh, how she hated him! He had been paying a “debt of honour,” a gambling debt. They had tossed dice over her! And Malcolm had lost!
She caught sight of the ring on her finger, paused to stare at it. The heart-shaped amethyst shone there, deeply purple against her slim hand, now losing the redness and soreness of the long year of labour. Amethysts. She thought of the matched set which had been her engagement present. Amethysts. Symbol of steadfastness in love. And Malcolm had dared to give them to her — for her engagement! How ironic, how bitter!
Valerie raged up and down the room, pounding one fist in the other hand. What could she do? She would leave at once. She would go — but where? She must prepare herself, look for a position as governess. Once she had it, she could not escape rapidly enough from this humiliation! How Lady Deidre would laugh and mock her! A bride at the toss of a pair of dice!
Wou
ld she face Malcolm with it? How horrible to do that! And he would face Reggie and bawl him out, perhaps challenge him to a duel. He would not like to have the facts brought to light.
Valerie flung herself into a chair, stared into space. The light rose silk of the chair under her fingers reminded her of the care his whole family had extended to her, their gentleness, their sympathy. A poor way to repay that.
She gazed about the room vaguely, at the rose-hung canopy, the draperies about the huge mahogany bed. At the mammoth mahogany wardrobe with the mirrored doors. The clothes that gathered inside, mute evidence of the countess and her thoughtfulness. The jewellery box on the dresser, full of gifts from Malcolm, the countess — even the earl, who had awkwardly given her a ring of garnets and pearls that his mother had once cherished. No, she could not hurt them like that.
But she could not remain, she thought. Her mind went around and around frantically, considering the possibilities. Malcolm would probably return to the Peninsula, he was already exercising his leg, writing to his commander, reading the gazettes anxiously. She could not prevent him from leaving. Once he was gone, she herself would leave, to become a governess, use her brain, use her learning. She would not endure to remain the unloved wife of a man who had won her — not at cards, even — but at the dice!
CHAPTER 3
The countess fluttered over the slim white pieces of card. Then she laid down the last ones carefully. “There,” she said, pleased. “Imagine, if you will, Valerie,” she nodded encouragingly to the girl beside her on the blue silk sofa, “imagine that this is a dinner table, and you have set everyone about the table. Is this arrangement correct? If no, change it,” and she leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction.
Valerie bent to her task. It was all the same to her, whether an earl was seated beside a countess, or a knight beside an honourable. But she struggled with the cards, changed them about, studied them, her finger to her lip, puzzled, until she was satisfied.
“Oh, very good, very good,” said the countess, much pleased. “Quite right. Well, that ends our study for today. You have the little book of etiquette? Yes, yes, do study that, a dozen more pages, and we shall quiz you on that tomorrow.”
Amethyst Love: A passionate Regency romance Page 3
