Regency Surrender: Wicked Deception: The Truth About Lady Felkirk / A Ring from a Marquess. Christine Merrill
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Justine watched, his attention slipped from her. He had gone oddly pensive, of a sudden, his expression darkening as though his mind wandered in a cavern somewhere, further and further from the light of day. It was almost as unsettling as his earlier thoughts. ‘Let us retire to the salon,’ she suggested. ‘There is a fire laid there. I am sure it will be most cosy.’ She feared that was rather an overstatement of the truth. Although the old manor was smaller than the new one, it was still too large to house a single couple. At the very least, it should hold two rambunctious boys, as it had in William’s youth.
But the man before her was no longer an energetic child. When he stood, he offered his arm. But they both knew that what appeared an ordinary courtesy was a subtle request for her support so that he might manage with just a walking stick and not crutches. As she had in the afternoon, she came to his side and they proceeded together down the hall.
In the formal sitting room, she led him to a divan and poured him his port. Then she took her own place in a chair opposite, where her lacemaking pillow had been arranged for her. The evening was likely to be a silent affair, as full of thoughtful glances and mutual speculation as dinner had been. They were strangers, after all. There was little they had to converse about.
Necessary though it was, she could not bring herself to create any more memories out of whole cloth, demanding that he believe anecdotes from their courtship and elopement. There was only one thing she wished to discuss and the topic was unreachable. What was it about his house that had set him looking for a diamond pouch that had been missing and forgotten since late in the last century?
She made a covert study of the room: fireplace and mantel, landscapes on the wall, rug thick, but flat. There were no obvious hiding places here. She could not imagine herself stomping about the place, sounding for loose floorboards and hollow compartments. As her husband stood and approached her, she could not help but listen, hoping that one of his steps might sound different from another, revealing a trapdoor in the planking. But each sounded the same as the other, until he stopped just short of her, staring down as she worked.
She paused and looked up, expecting to see the censure she received from Montague when she occupied herself with something other than his needs. ‘If you wish, you have but to say the word and I will put it away.’
‘No. No, certainly not.’ He took a step back as though surprised at her response. ‘If it gives you pleasure, by all means continue.’
She offered a nod of thanks. Though she had not given it much thought, it did give her pleasure. While her hands were busy, her mind was free as a bird to think whatever she liked.
She felt him shift uncomfortably, foot to foot, and wondered if he wished for a similar pursuit. Perhaps he was as unsure of his place in this new world as she was. She raised her eyes from the mechanical motion of her hands on the bobbins and said, ‘What do you normally do, of an evening, to pass the time?’
‘You do not know?’ he asked, almost suspiciously.
Her mind raced for a moment, then settled on an answer. ‘We were together only a short while. You had little time or interest in domestic pleasures. In fact, I did not pick up my lace again until after we arrived in Wales and I knew you were settled comfortably. There simply was not time for it.’ She waited for him to infer the obvious.
‘We spent more time in the bedroom than the drawing room?’ he said, then laughed at her blush. ‘It need not embarrass you. We are married and our behaviour was quite normal.’
‘Of course,’ she responded. Now that she had put the thought into his head, he would likely demand that they retire immediately to return to their old diversions. At least the suspense would end and she could settle her nerves. Lying on one’s back in silence was easier by far than trying to think of what to say while sitting up.
He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then said, ‘I am sure, with practice, we can learn to sit together in the parlour as well. You asked how I spend my evenings when at home?’ He paused again. ‘I like to read. Not very exciting, I suppose. You may have noticed that my brother is happiest pacing about the room and debating politics. And while Penny is a great reader, she is often translating from Greek or Latin as she does so.’ He paused, as though it were some sort of guilty secret. ‘But I prefer novels.’
‘Do you read aloud?’ she asked. It was a solution that would solve no end of trouble. He might be happy and conversation would be rendered impossible.
He thought for a moment. ‘I have not done it thus far. Until recently, I have not had an audience.’
‘I should be happy to listen,’ she said, ‘if you wish to do so.’
‘It would not distract you?’
‘It would be a welcome addition to the evening,’ she assured him. ‘Perhaps you could choose one of your favourites, to share with me.’
He had responded to this with a relieved smile that made her wonder if the ensuing hours weighed as heavily on him as they did on her. When he had taken up his cane to go to the library for a book, he had waved away her offer of help. Both his spirit and his step had seemed lighter.
The answering warm glow she felt inside on seeing the change surprised her. Perhaps she had grown so used to thinking of him as her patient that she took credit for his success. Or maybe it was the equally unexpected knowledge that she did not like seeing him unhappy. Before he had come into the shop in Bath, she had felt only bitterness at the thought of him and his family. But the man before her now was what her father might have described as tabula rasa: a blank slate on which anything might be written. It did not seem fair to hold the past against him.
When he returned from his search, he was barely winded by the trip down the hall and holding a battered copy of Gulliver’s Travels. She could barely remember the story, but she was sure she had read it some time in childhood. But it was plain that she had not understood the finer points of the narrative. The passages, though very funny, were too bawdy to be read aloud in a drawing room. She did not know whether to laugh or blush, doing both by turns. What must he think of her?
Then she remembered that she was supposed to be his wife and should not be shocked by his choice of subject. Perhaps he meant to relax her and put her in the mood for what was likely to follow, once they had retired to his room. It was strange. If he meant to flirt with her, he needn’t have bothered. He had but to command and she would do whatever he wished.
Or he could give her another kiss. The memory of the kiss in the hallway of his brother’s home was far more shocking than anything he was reading and left her so flustered that she confused her twists with her crosses on a whole row of bobbins and had to undo them and start again.
What was she to make of him? It would be a lie to say she did not like his company. She had not expected to enjoy this time alone, or to be so entertained by a thing that obviously gave him pleasure. It made her think longingly of the library. There were enough books in it for a lifetime of evenings just like this one.
She had enjoyed listening to him this morning as well. His stories of home and family had been so interesting that she had almost forgotten the reason she had wished to hear them. Her father’s fate, and the location of the gems, had seemed unimportant compared to the history of a place that would never be a true home to her.
She suspected it was its master who fascinated her, not the house itself. She liked to look at him, with his pale skin, black hair and fine features. Even as he’d lain in the sickbed, she’d had more than a nurse’s interest in the naked body concealed beneath the sheet. Though it was wasting from prolonged illness, she could imagine the vitality that had been there. As he read to her tonight, she could see the vigour she had assumed was there. His enthusiasm for the book filled the room. His voice was expressive, his whole body animated, so she could imagine the scenes playing out before her. She had been right to bring him home. What a waste it would have been for someone so alive to die violently, alone and unloved.
She let herself relax into the sound of his voice and the flicker of the candle behind the screen at her side, her fingers working methodically