He seemed upset and angry. Malcolm gazed at him thoughtfully, then at Valerie. Valerie cried out, “Do not look at me! If we do not suit, that is an end of it! I never wanted to marry, I am quite satisfied to teach and write my articles.”
“Nonsense, Valerie, there is more to life than such matters,” said her father-in-law, more kindly. He patted her nearest shoulder. “I have come to love you as a father. I know you resent Malcolm’s lack of interest, his attentions to another woman. But Deidre at least knows she is a woman, and bothers to attract a man, even though he is like a brother to her! You could take lessons from her. She dresses for men, she is flattering in her attentiveness…”
“I’ll take no lessons from her!” cried Valerie, and ran from the room. She took refuge in her bedroom and burst into tears of rage and shame. Even her dear father-in-law had turned against her! Comparing her to that — that flirt!
She had to force herself to calm down, to dress for dinner. She went down late and was conscious of the redness about her eyes which no powder could hide. She was subdued and quiet at the meal, and excused herself soon after coffee was served in the drawing room. Deidre had worn another low-cut black chiffon gown, with the black mantilla alluringly on her golden head, and diamonds in her ears and at her wrist. Valerie felt a dowd. She was only a country miss, she reminded herself bitterly.
Glenda came to her soon after she went up. “You have a headache, my lady?” she murmured, and soothed her by massaging the muscles at the back of her neck. Valerie put on one of her pretty little nightdresses of cream, with embroidery about the low neck and sleeves. Malcolm had never seen her in these, she thought bitterly. The countess had brought them from London for her. And Malcolm did not even bother to come to her bedroom!
She lay awake for a time, in spite of the darkness, brooding sullenly. She wanted to leave at once. Mrs Fitzhugh would give her a reference, Lady Darlington might know of another position. Malcolm had been unable to conceal his reluctance to embrace his wife!
She was almost asleep when the door opened abruptly, and a dark shape came in. She was startled, and leaned up on her elbow sleepily. “Who is it? Glenda? What do you wish?”
“It is I, Malcolm, your husband,” said his ironic voice. He came over to the bed. “I know you do not wish me here, but it is beyond us! Father wishes it.”
“Oh, the devil!” she cried, with unaccustomed wrath. “Go away! I don’t want you here! The best thing is a divorce! I shall get a position…”
“You have a position here, my dear wife! You simply don’t live up to it, sulking and brooding and glaring all the time! London will polish your manners, my girl!” And he jerked off his robe, and slid into the huge bed beside her.
She tried to slide out of the other side. He grabbed her and pulled her back with unexpected strength.
“No, let me go … let me go…” She struggled against him.
“Ouch … don’t pull like that,” he said, suddenly human again. “My side hurts like the deuce.”
Her struggles ceased at once. “Oh, Malcolm, I’m sorry … I’ll get some salve…”
“No, stay here. Come on, Valerie, it isn’t so bad, is it? You didn’t hate me before I left,” he coaxed, drawing her to him.
She went stiff. “I don’t want you to … to embrace me because your father ordered you to!” she said wildly. “And I don’t want your child! You’ll just want a divorce…”
“Stop such nonsense. We’re married,” he said, sternly, abruptly more mature-sounding. “You can’t hem and haw about, you know.”
It was so ridiculous, if she hadn’t been so disturbed she would have laughed. He drew her down beside him, his arm about her. His other hand stroked her loosened hair.
“You know, we could be friends, I thought we were friends,” said his coaxing voice. “You took care of me so devotedly while I was ill. I would wake at night, and find you bending over me, so pretty and anxious. And you would hold a glass of cool water to my lips, and murmur like an angel. I loved your hand on my head.”
She sighed. “Oh, Malcolm, that was different.”
“Why? You took every care of me, as a wife should. And those letters of yours — how I waited for them, how angry I was when the ships were late, and I did not hear. They seemed the only foothold on sanity I had at times.”
He murmured to her, stroked his hand over her hair and face, and gradually she relaxed against him. He bent over her, and brushed his mouth gently against her cheek, down to her throat, over her shoulder, which his hand had bared of the silky nightdress.
It seemed so long since he had touched her in desire. She remembered some of the nights they had spent together, and soon desire was rising in her also. Why couldn’t she turn off the thoughts that made her bitter and enjoy what she had?
If she could but forget that he had lost at dice, and forced himself to marry her…
If she could but forget the sight of Deidre sitting on the arm of the chair, while he showed her how to fasten the mantilla…
If she could but forget his reputation as a rake, his charm, the fact that now he did his duty towards her as his wife…
She sighed deeply. He raised his head. “Valerie? You do like me, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, but … but our marriage … we should never have married…”
“Oh, play another tune!” he advised her coarsely, and his arms snatched her closer to him.
His kisses crushed against her throat and shoulders. Then his head moved up, and his mouth covered her lips, forcing them open. He thrust his tongue between her lips, and his hands caressed her roughly, no longer gentle. She felt his fingers on her breasts, under the silk, and the nipples rose up and hardened in his fingers.
Something weakened in her and went soft. Her arms went up about his neck. She felt his hair in her fingers, the soft hair she had stroked sometimes when he was feverish and could not rest. Her hands went to his bare shoulders, to the thin bony frame, and it seemed as though her heart turned over in pity, he had been so tough. She could feel the scarcely healed wound in the shoulder, and her touch was easy on him, stroking gently.
He muttered her name against her throat, like a groan. He moved over her, and drew up the nightdress to her thighs. She felt the hardening of his body, the fierceness of his desire as he came to her in need and desire. Not love … but perhaps this was enough … it had to be enough.
They came together, again, again, and her whole body welcomed his hardness and drive. She opened like a flower to the sun, warmly, wanting, blossoming under his touch, her mouth opened to his, the kisses fierce from long repression. He lingered long on her, and finally drew off, trembling with his emotions.
She was limp also, shivering with the reaction. He drew up the covers over them both, and held her closely to him. He whispered in her ear, “You are so sweet, Valerie, you are so sweet when you give in. God, I dreamed of you at nights, wanting you. Did you want me also? You won’t admit it if you did!” And he gave her a playful little slap on her bare thigh.
“Oh, Malcolm…”
“Don’t talk. We just fight when we talk. Just kiss me,” and he pressed his mouth fiercely to hers once more.
She hated herself that she could not resist responding to him. He did not love her, he just desired her. There had always been this intense sexual flame between them. But when he was in his right mind, she thought, he wanted someone like Deidre. Light and amusing, with the gossip of London at her fingertips.
She lay awake long after he had slept beside her and stared into the darkness. Could this be enough? If she had a child, would the marriage last? Or would he grow bored and leave her for London and its pleasures? She could not endure that, to raise his child, to remain behind, nor did she want to go to London, if all London held more Deidres!
Well, she could try to make it work. The earl wanted it so much, he wanted grandchildren, and she adored her father-in-law. She loved Malcolm, but she feared to show him so. Would he mock her, o
r worse, feel sorry for her?
She could not think straight, she decided. When Malcolm’s arm lay heavily, possessively across her body in sleep, when his head lay beside hers on the pillows, and she could turn her head and gaze into his sleeping face, she could not think. She must wait until tomorrow, until another day, to try to decide whether to leave him and live in desolation, but independence. Or to remain, to be humiliated and scorned by such as Deidre.
However, if she had his child…
A child of Malcolm. A thrill stirred in her. What if she had his child? He would not discard her then, he was too gallant, too conscious of his duty. Yet if he went off and had his mistresses, as rumour said he had in the past, how could she endure that?
It was a puzzle beyond her solving. She finally turned a little, and felt his arm tighten about her. She stroked her hand lightly on his good shoulder, loving the touch and feel of his hard bare flesh. He was safely home, she thanked God for it. Perhaps if she started a child, he would be reconciled to remaining here with them.
He did seem more content, yet when he was completely well, he might wish to leave. She would not hold him back, yet she would die a little every night if he left her.
What could she do? What did other women do? She did not know.
Malcolm stirred, roused as she moved in bed. “Valerie? Still awake?” he murmured in her ear and kissed the lobe.
“Yes. I’m almost asleep,” she said.
“Didn’t I get you weary enough to sleep?” There was a teasing note in his voice that warned her. She tried to move away, his arm tightened, he raised up, and bent over her.
“Oh, Malcolm, don’t again … you’ll hurt your leg—”
It was no use, his mouth was closed over her mouth, silencing her, and his hands moved hungrily over her. “It’s been so long,” he said, when he finally left her lips, to roam over her shoulder. “You’re so soft and silky. What is that perfume?”
“Lilac,” she managed to say before his mouth closed over hers once more.
His hands pressed on her breast, teasingly. “This time is for you, love,” he said. She did not know what he meant then. But presently he was moving on her, then stopping, then moving again. She caught her breath, she seemed on fire…
“Oh, what are you … oh, Malcolm … oh, ohhhhh …” She tried to shift under him, to press herself upwards. She wanted something, wanted it badly. He eased himself just out of reach. Then he moved again, sharply, and she cried out, softly, in a strange pleasure.
His fingers teased at her, the fire built up and up. She grabbed at his waist, slid her arms about his back, her fingers dug into his hard spare flesh. She tried to pull up, she wanted it, wanted it, and yet he kept putting her off.
He muttered endearments breathlessly in her ears, kissing the lobe, biting softly at her ears, her nipples, her shoulders. He was all over her, moving, drawing her with him, building up a fire in her that began to burn fiercely bright.
“Ooohhh,” she gasped, and something went off inside her, like a series of explosions, soft and violent. She was helpless before it, and Malcolm knew it. He pressed deeply into her, his body so close that it seemed to imprint itself on her very flesh in an image that she could never erase or forget. And all the time, they were bound by lips, arms, thighs, so close, so close.
Then he finished in her, also, and the explosions burst again in her. From violent movement, she collapsed into limp submission, exhausted, yet deliriously happy. Malcolm laughed softly into her ears.
“Enjoy it, darling? That was the best yet, oh, darling! Valerie, you are so adorable! Tell me you enjoyed it!”
“Ooohhh,” was all she could say. He kissed her breasts, and slid off, to draw up the covers again, satisfied, nuzzling his face against her as he went to sleep again. And this time she slept also, she could not remain awake.
CHAPTER 9
Valerie tried very hard to be satisfied with her life. It was difficult when Deidre remained constantly, ostensibly to comfort Eustace’s mother. Actually, thought Valerie, retiring yet again to the study, she was charming Malcolm constantly, appearing to be sweet and gentle, yet her look of hate would flash at Valerie when no one else noticed.
Valerie thought, Deidre is trying to separate us! She wants Malcolm now! He is the heir, he is Viscount Grenville. And nothing would please her more than to separate us, before I have a child!
Malcolm still came to her bed, but not every night. And they would quarrel, a spark could set them off, and they did not speak for days. Valerie felt helpless to stop this, they seemed to quarrel so easily. And Deidre was always there, to laugh and egg them on, or say how it was done in polite society, or mock at Valerie under the guise of advising her.
Valerie turned more and more to the earl. She begged for more work to do.
“Come, come, child, you work enough,” he said, pleased. “If only you could persuade Malcolm to take some interest, I should be immensely happy!”
However, Malcolm took little interest in the estate. When he was bored, he would take out his carriage and ride off, sometimes alone, sometimes with Deidre. He rarely asked Valerie. When the earl reprimanded him, Malcolm said, “Valerie doesn’t want to come, she is too busy, aren’t you, Valerie?”
And his mockery sounded just like that of Deidre. Valerie would turn away, furiously, and go to the study to work.
“You only play into her hands,” warned Louis Kenyon. No one else seemed to notice anything, but that Malcolm and Valerie had had another spat.
“If he prefers her company, he is welcome to it!” flashed Valerie. She took out her articles and books and bent over them.
Mr Kenyon shook his head and returned to his own work on the accounts.
The earl came in, frowning. He looked thoughtfully at Valerie’s flushed, rebellious face. Finally he said, “I should like to ride out to see one of the tenants. Will you come with me, Valerie? It is not so bad for a November day, the sunshine is quite bright.”
“Oh, yes, I’ll get my cloak and bonnet.” She got up at once.
He sighed. “You will come with me, why not with Malcolm?”
“Three is a crowd, Father,” she snapped, and then asked, “Do you truly wish me to come, or were you testing me?”
“Of course I wish you to come.” She ran off to get her cloak, hoping he would forget his arguments. However, in the carriage, he continued them gently.
“How lovely the day is,” she said happily, as they settled into the open carriage. “Which direction do we go, Papa?”
“To the Forsythes,” he said. “Her baby is a year today, and it is their first child. I thought we would take them flowers and a gift.”
“How thoughtful you are, Papa.” She smiled in pleasure, partly at the thought of seeing the adorable baby.
“I enjoy children,” he said gently. “I live for the day when I can hold my first grandchild.”
She turned her face from him, and stared at the wintry fields through blurred vision.
“Now, Valerie, what is this that makes you quarrel so with Malcolm? You are not so with me, nor with my wife. We love you dearly. You were good in writing to him, he admits it. You worried over him, nursed him devotedly, hut now that he is well you will have nothing to do with him. Do you love only someone distant or ill?”
“You know that is not true,” she said, in a choked voice. “He … he cares nothing for me. He wishes he were free!”
“I cannot believe that,” said the earl firmly, giving a keen look at her profile. “He married you willingly, even eagerly. He had never so much as proposed to anyone before.”
“He won me at dice!” blurted out Valerie. The secret had remained too long in her breast, causing a cancer of self-doubt. “Or rather, he lost at dice! They cast dice to see who would have to marry me and take care of me. And Malcolm lost … he lost!”
“Good heavens!” barked the earl. “Where did you hear such a ridiculous story?”
She turned to him, full face, her lip
s quivering, her lashes wet with tears. “A … a fellow-officer who was there, sir, and witnessed it all! I cannot doubt it. Malcolm scarcely knew me, he just came and told me of Clarence’s death, realized I was alone and in a bad position with my cousin’s ill behaviour. Then he proposed and said he must marry me. I did not know it was a … a debt of honour, as the gamblers call it!”
The earl stared at her, realized she was serious. “I cannot believe it … yet … oh, my dear child, do you think Malcolm would have married you for such a reason?”
“Yes, sir. He is a gambler and a man of honour,” she choked out. “I should have said no, no, a thousand times, should I have known why he asked me to marry him! And now he wishes also that he had not! Me, a woman of intelligence and able to take care of herself!” And her head went up proudly. “I can make my own living! I shall not depend on him!”
The earl took both her hands, and patted them gently. “There, there, how distressed you are, my child. Do not fret yourself. I shall speak to Malcolm, he shall clear up this ridiculous misunderstanding, and all will be well between you. I am sure that he honours and respects you, no matter for what reason he married you.”
“No, tell him nothing!” she said curtly, withdrawing her hands and wiping her eyes with her small white handkerchief. “I am too humiliated by it all. We shall live together decently until I am twenty-one, then I shall leave. That will be in a few more months.”
He sighed deeply at her obstinacy. “No, my dear. You shall not. You are married in sacred matrimony, I wish you to remain married to him. You are good for him, you will help settle him down. He needs to learn of the estate, to take up his duties as my only — my only remaining son and heir.”
His stern voice broke, and it was Valerie’s turn to comfort him.
“Forgive me for upsetting you, sir. I had not meant to speak of this. It is between me and Malcolm, and we shall resolve it.”
Amethyst Love: A passionate Regency romance Page 11
