The Secrets Of Wiscombe Chase. Christine Merrill
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treating her as though she were not even in the room with them. ‘Do not worry, Lily. I will see to the dinner arrangements and tell the guests of the captain’s arrival.’ Then he disappeared, shutting the door behind him, totally unaware of the storm about to break when her husband gave vent to his true feelings.
‘Yes, Ronald. Go and see to your guests. Inform them of my presence. I hope you remember to tell them enough about me so they can pretend that we share an acquaintance.’ Now that he was gone, her husband made no effort to hide his scorn for her brother. She could feel his muscles tensing like a great cat gathering before the spring. Then he shifted, dumping her back out of his lap and on to the cushion at his side.
Lily moved as well, sliding to the far end of the small couch to put as much distance between them as possible. Never mind breathing, it was impossible to think when he was touching her. Even when he was not, she could feel an aura of virile energy emanating from him, raising the hairs on her skin.
Or perhaps he was simply angry. She rushed to fill the silence before the fear of him could suck the breath from her lungs again. ‘If company is not to your liking, we will send them away immediately.’
‘But that would be most rude,’ he replied in a soft, mocking tone. ‘And above all things, I would not want to be thought rude. Tell me, wife, who are my guests? I do not like being the last one to know what is going on in my own home.’
‘Mr and Mrs Carstairs...’ she began hesitantly.
‘And they are...?’ He made a coaxing gesture with his hand.
‘A businessman from London, and his wife.’
‘What is his trade?’
‘I believe he is an ironmonger.’
‘A wealthy one, I presume.’
She cleared her throat. ‘I believe so.’
‘Who else, then?’
‘The Burkes and the Wilsons, also of London.’
‘And also cits?’
‘Yes, Captain.’ How quickly she had fallen into the role of loyal subordinate. But there was something about the man that commanded respect, even in a private setting such as this one.
‘Others?’
‘Sir Chauncey d’Art and his friend, Miss Fellowes.’ She hoped he did not wish her to speculate on the nature of the friendship. Though she had provided two rooms for the couple it was likely that only one of them was getting use.
‘Is that all?’
‘No, Captain.’ She wet her lips. ‘We are entertaining your neighbour, the Earl of Greywall.’ He was the last person she wished her husband to meet. All the more reason that they should clear the house as quickly as possible.
‘Greywall.’ There was another moment of blank vulnerability before his smile returned and he counted on his fingers. ‘If we add you, your father and brother, there are twelve.’ The smile became a lopsided grin. ‘Now that I am here, there shall be thirteen at dinner. I expect it will be quite unlucky for somebody.’
Lily threw caution to the winds and reached to touch his arm, adding a smile warm enough to melt butter. If she used her imagination and all the talent she had inherited from Father, perhaps she might persuade him that she was glad to see him home and had not been dreading this moment for most of the time he’d been gone. ‘Unlucky? Surely not. We are all fortunate to have you here.’
For a moment, it actually seemed to work. He softened and looked ready to cover her hand with his. Then he remembered that she was nothing more than a fraud and pulled away with a frustrated sigh. ‘Really, madam. If you must lie to me, try not to be so transparent about it. The facts are these—your father and brother tricked me into marriage with you for their own ends and never intended for me to return. In giving me that commission, they thought they were sending me to my death. And you—’
‘I’m sorry.’ She blurted out the words before he could finish his sentence. ‘Despite what you think of me, I am glad that you are safe.’ She was relieved, at least. For years, she had been too afraid to pray for his return. But that was not the same as wishing him ill. Just as he had said in jest, she’d prayed for his safety each night.
‘Are you?’ His expression hardened. ‘Then you are more foolish than I thought. After I am satisfied that you’ve paid for what they have done to me, I mean to put you and your family out in the street. The guests, as well. And your precious Stewart will be the first to go.’
She was feeling light-headed again, images impending of exile and humiliation swirling in her mind. But this time, she was not alone in her suffering. She had to be strong for Stewart. She took another deep breath and cast down her eyes to assure him she was beaten. ‘It is within your right.’
He laughed. ‘What? You are not going to plead for your safety? I would have thought, at least, you would have a word of defence for our darling boy. Are you not going to beg me? Tell me I am hard-hearted to turn the product of our love off the property he is heir to. Why, when I think of that one night of passion we shared...’
‘Stop!’ She could not bear his mocking a moment longer.
‘Do you remember it differently?’ he said, innocently. ‘It has been so long. Perhaps I am mistaken. If so, tell me the truth of it now.’
She could not speak. Her tongue was frozen in her mouth, unwilling to speak the truth.
‘Talk!’
If this was what he brought to the battlefield, it explained his success. His command was stronger than the fear that kept her silent. ‘We shared no night,’ she said, choking out the words. ‘Only a brief ceremony, the breakfast and two separate rooms at the inn. We did not lie together. The next morning, you were gone.’
He nodded. ‘I promised I would not come to you until we knew each other better. To be gone so soon and with no guarantee of a future...it did not seem fair to either of us.’ For a moment, he sounded almost wistful for the innocents they had been.
Then his voice hardened. ‘When I think of how it was, in those first months... I carried a miniature of you, everywhere I went. I kissed it each night at bed and before battles for luck. I was pure as a monk, waiting for the moment when I might come back to you. I wrote you dozens of letters. There was not a single response.’
She had been too upset to write. At first, she had been angry at him for being so foolish as to fall for the plan, going to what was likely certain doom. She was ashamed of herself as well, for obeying her father when she had known what they were doing was wrong. Later, she had been ashamed for other reasons and angry at him for leaving her alone and defenceless.
He did not notice her discomfiture and went on. ‘When a commanding officer came to me, less than a year later, with the good news of the birth of my son?’ He laughed at this, as though it were a ribald joke in a brothel. ‘I did not have to feign surprise. We all went to a cantina, where I had to pay for the wine so they might drink my health, and to the health of my good wife and heir.’
He had known, almost from the first. It explained why his letters to her had stopped. ‘When you stopped writing...I thought you had died.’ Would he believe that she had cried over him? Probably not. But she had.
‘That news was the making of my career,’ he added. ‘When a soldier has no reason to fear death, it leads to the sort of recklessness that makes heroes. Or corpses,’ he added. ‘I do not like to think of the men under my command who lacked the damnable luck of their leader.’
She’d felt bad enough knowing that he might lose his life because of Father’s scheming. But to think that others had been affected and that she was in some way responsible for their fates made her guilt even heavier. ‘I am sorry,’ she said again.
‘So you keep saying,’ he said with a mocking smile. ‘Tell me now. The truth, for once. Were you with child when we married? Was