Regency Surrender: Wicked Deception: The Truth About Lady Felkirk / A Ring from a Marquess. Christine Merrill
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his dignity while encouraging him to exercise his wasted legs? ‘A tour sounds like an excellent idea,’ he agreed. ‘Let us finish our meal and we can begin.’ Perhaps if he spent the day with her, he would learn something of her as well.
* * *
But, after an afternoon of walking the house, he knew no more about her than when they began. She was an attentive audience and he took pleasure in regaling her with childhood tales about growing up in the old manor. But she offered no similar details of her own youth. It was nearly time to dress for supper and the sum total of his knowledge was no greater than when they had begun. She was beautiful. She was Belgian. She was an orphan. She had impeccable manners and made lace, though he had never seen her wear any. And she was most grateful to be married to him and eager to see to his comfort in all things.
As they walked, she seemed to sense when he was tiring and took his arm, as though she was too shy to walk alone. When she suspected that they had gone too long without a break, she claimed exhaustion and requested they sit for a time, in the conservatory, or the music room, which she had guessed were his favourites. In all things she supported him, while persuading him that he was, in fact, supporting her.
She was the perfect wife.
Or nearly perfect. Should it be so disquieting to have such a devoted helpmeet? He could not find fault with her looks. She was quite the loveliest woman he could imagine. But it was as if a painting had come to life, or a statue. There was no passion in her. Her red-gold hair was contained beneath a cloth cap. Her shapely body hid beneath a modest gown. At the table, she had shocked him with her frank acceptance of tonight’s possible activities. But once they were in bed, would she be an enthusiastic lover? Or would she be as mild as she was here in the drawing room, listening intently as he described the family members in the portraits and the history of each ornament on the shelves? Did she truly have no character other than the one she assumed he wished to see?
He was sure his married brother could explain to him the dangers of a wife who wished to be contrary. But to have found one that was nothing more than a mirror reflection of his own opinions was not as pleasant as it sounded.
They had walked nearly back to the bedrooms, now, and were standing in front of the nursery. He paused, strangely unwilling to open the door. ‘We needn’t bother with this,’ he said, stepping back from it. ‘There is nothing within but old playthings. But you will find the rooms to be most sensible, when we need them for our children.’
‘Of course,’ she said. And just as strangely, she stepped away as well.
‘Now that Adam has started his family, we can be reasonably sure of the succession,’ he remarked. ‘The need for a son is not pressing.’
‘We needn’t rush,’ she agreed. ‘Unless, that is what you wish,’ she added hurriedly. Once again, there was the slight, acquiescent bow of the head, as though she would try to produce an entire family for him, right now, should that be his desire.
As if he wished to raise children with a stranger. Despite her looks, he was not even sure he truly wanted to bed her. There would be no joy in it if her response was apathetic acceptance of the act. What was the point of marrying a beautiful woman, if one had to find an equally pretty mistress who would at least feign enthusiasm for his lovemaking?
Then he looked forward, into the nursery again, remembered the reason for wives and retreated. ‘We will discuss such matters again when I am fully recovered.’
‘Of course,’ she agreed, turning away to return to her room.
* * *
Justine did her best to maintain her composure in the hours that followed, but her new husband made it more challenging than she’d expected. When she’d first hit upon this scheme, she had not thought that such an evening was in her future. Though she would do her best to save him, William Felkirk was going to die.
She had been sure of it. She’d felt terror mixed with pity at the sight of his bleeding head and Mr Montague’s dispassionate expression as he raised the poker for a second blow. Before he could strike, she’d hurried to convince him that the man would be better off in the bosom of his family than as a corpse on the floor of their salon. What would happen if the Duke of Bellston appeared in Bath, enquiring after his missing brother?
Worse yet, suppose he sent the law? There was no question that they would both hang for murder. Margot would be left alone, with nothing but the scandalously false broadsheet confession of Montague’s mistress: the salacious details of a good woman brought low by her own depravity.
She had insisted that further violence against William Felkirk was unnecessary. If the blow did not kill him, the trip north likely would. If he survived that? Then she would linger for a time, until she had discovered the diamonds and could disappear.
But now he was across the dinner table from her, eager to rebuild his imagined past. Escape was impossible, if he meant to watch her every bite. What would he expect of her, now that they would have so many hours together? The tour of the house had been helpful and she had seen a half-score of rooms where she might search for information about her father.
But they could not spend each day in rambling about the house together. Nor would he wish to spend his evenings thus. Along with the letter to Montague, she had scribbled a hurried note to Penny and begged her to come to dinner, hoping to alleviate this awkward togetherness.
The duchess had sent an equally hurried response. ‘You need time to get to know one another again,’ she had said. ‘You do not need the distraction of others. In a week, perhaps, we shall come to see how you are getting on.’
A week? Penny might as well have said a year, for all the help that offered. Justine had sighed and informed the housekeeper that all meals would be served ‘for two.’ And that was a problem in itself. She had no idea what her husband’s favourite foods were, his schedule when home, or even what rooms he took his meals in. She would have to rely on the servants. With the instruction, she had added a shy flutter of her lashes and a worried look. Then she had remarked that he had been sick for so long she’d feared ever having this opportunity...
The housekeeper had rushed to her aid, promising that every effort would be made to help her learn the likes and dislikes of the master, and the proper running of the house. The woman’s eagerness to help her made her feel like even more of a liar than usual.
But trusting Mrs Bell had led to the table in the main dining room, facing an excess of silver and crystal, and a banquet clearly meant as a triumphant celebration of their return home. The man who could barely lift his fork two days before was enjoying nine courses and three wines.
Though he ate with obvious relish, she could feel his eyes upon her, just as Montague’s were, when they were alone together. His gaze was possessive, as though he was admiring some lovely ornament on a shelf, still surprised that he had come to own it. Soon, he would take it down and run his hands over it, to learn its every contour and detail. She shivered again.
He glanced immediately to the far side of the room, to the unlit fireplace. ‘You will find that old houses such as this are draughty. It is as if the chill settles into the stone, even in summer. Shall I call for a servant to light a fire?’
‘It is not necessary,’ she assured him. ‘We will not be here for long. If it bothers me again, I will remember to bring a shawl to dinner.’
‘Oh.’ There was a faint downward inflection, as though the idea that she might hide her bare shoulders disappointed him. Why did he not simply refuse her the comfort? She had long ago learned not to make such requests of Montague, for fear that he would insist she must wear even less, to show her obedience. When one had been given the choice of just a gown, or just a shawl, one learned to ignore the cold.
Now, Lord Felkirk pushed his dessert away. ‘There is no need for an ice so late in the season, no matter how beautifully it is presented.’ He stared down at the china ice-cream pot on the table, its lid heaped with ice to keep the contents cool. The butter, as well, rested in a basin of ice so that it might keep its perfect mould of the Felkirk family crest. He stared