Читать книгу Regency Rogues: Outrageous Scandal: In Bed with the Duke / A Mistress for Major Bartlett - Энни Берроуз, ANNIE BURROWS - Страница 17

Chapter Nine

‘Oh, my goodness!’ said Prudence as her feet slid into the ice-cold water. She didn’t know whether it was the shock of it, or something else, but suddenly everything had become clear. ‘That was what they were after.’

‘What who was after? What was it they were after?’

‘You know,’ she said, shuddering at the sting of the water on her raw feet. ‘My aunt and that man she married.’

‘I don’t follow,’ he said, sitting down on the bank beside her.

‘No, well...’ she said wearily. ‘That’s because I haven’t told you everything.’ But there wasn’t any point in keeping her revelation to herself. He was in it with her now—or would be after tonight—up to his neck.

‘I told you I was due to come into an inheritance?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it is not totally without stipulations. The money comes from my grandfather, you see, and he was livid, apparently, when Mama ran off with Papa. He’d already refused consent to their marriage—not only because they hadn’t known each other for five minutes, but also because Papa was a soldier. A man who saw nothing wrong with drinking alcohol, or gambling, or any number of things that Grandpapa regarded as dreadful sins.

‘Not that Papa was a dreadful sinner—I won’t have you thinking that,’ she explained hastily. ‘It was just Grandpapa was so terribly rigid in his views. Anyway, he cut Mama out of his will. But then when I was born, and Mama wrote to inform him of the event, he put me in it instead. She was still disinherited, but he said that it wasn’t right to visit the sins of the fathers on the children. And just in case I turned out to be as great a sinner as either of them, there was this...stipulation.

‘The money wasn’t to come direct to me upon his death but was to be held in trust. Either until I married “a man of standing”, I think was the exact term. Or, if I hadn’t married such a paragon by the time I was twenty-five, then I could have it without strings, to use however I wish, but only if I am found to be “of spotless reputation”.’

‘In other words,’ he said slowly, ‘all your aunt had to do was blacken your name and...’

‘Yes. Mama’s portion—or rather mine, since Mama didn’t feature in the will at all, and I never had any brothers or sisters who lived more than a few days—would go directly to Aunt Charity.’

‘Villainous,’ he hissed.

‘Yes,’ she agreed, drawing her feet out of the water and pulling her knees up to her chin.

Wrapping her arms round her lower legs, she gazed across the stream to the ploughed fields on the opposite bank, blinking determinedly whenever the chill breeze stung her raw flesh.

‘And it isn’t just what happened this morning. Or last night. Aunt Charity and I have been at war, subtly, for years. I can see it all now...’

She shook her head, the furrows blurring as tears misted her vision.

‘I thought she was just a cold, strict sort of woman, and I made allowances for the way she was because I could sort of understand how she might resent me for being thrust upon her when she obviously hadn’t a maternal bone in her body. But I think it was worse than that. Of late I’ve felt as though she has been doubling her efforts to make me feel bad about myself. Always harping on about my “falling short”, as she termed it. And punishing me for the slightest fault.’

She turned to him and searched his face for his reaction.

‘But what if it wasn’t that at all? What if she was trying to make everyone think I was a terrible sinner? So that she’d have the excuse to say I didn’t fulfil the terms of the will?’

He opened his mouth to say something, but thoughts were tumbling into her head so fast she simply had to let them out.

‘It’s true that at one time—about the time Papa died and I knew I was never going to get away from her—I was...well, a bit of a handful. No, I must be honest. I was downright rebellious for a while. I told her I hated her and everything she stood for. But as it drew nearer to my birthday nothing seemed to bother me so much. Only a few more months, I thought, and then I will be free. Only a few more weeks, now...’

She shook her head.

‘But she still looked at me as though I was a problem she had to work out rather than a real person... Oh, I’m not explaining it terribly well, am I?’

‘No,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I think I see only too well.’ He sighed. ‘For I have been guilty of seeing my young cousin Hugo in that light,’ he said.

He plucked at some strands of grass. Tossed them into the stream and watched them float downstream.

‘I have shown him scant sympathy whenever he comes to me with his troubles. The last time I refused to bail him out of his difficulties he accused me of having a mind like a ledger. Of not understanding what ordinary people have to go through. And he was right. I did regard him as nothing more than a financial drain. And an intolerable nuisance.’

‘Yes, but you wouldn’t have gone out of your way to destroy him, would you? You’re not that kind of man.’

He reached out and touched her arm, just briefly, as though her declaration of faith in him had meant something to him.

‘I didn’t think my aunt was that kind of person, either. But her husband...’ She shuddered. ‘I wouldn’t put anything past him. As soon as they married there stopped being any money for the things I’d taken for granted before. It started with fewer trips to the dressmaker. When I questioned him he accused me of vanity. And since I already thought he was a terribly pious and unpleasant sort of man I just thought he was trying to improve me. But then there were things like... Oh, he wouldn’t let me have a fire in my room unless it was actually snowing outside. That sort of thing. And I’m sure there isn’t anywhere in the Bible that says you have to go cold to prove how virtuous you are.’

He drew in a sharp breath. ‘It is possible that he has squandered your inheritance—have you thought of that? And this is his attempt to cover it up?’

She thought for a bit. Then shook her head. ‘If it is, he’s gone a very strange way about covering anything up. Surely my disappearance will eventually cause no end of talk? Especially since it looks as though they mean to explain it away by accusing me of improper conduct,’ she finished bitterly.

‘And me,’ he growled. ‘If anyone asks where you have gone, they will drag my name into it.’

‘I don’t see how they can. They don’t know it,’ she pointed out.

‘I will know it,’ he growled. ‘I will know that somewhere people are accusing me of...debauching an innocent. Well, your aunt and uncle picked the wrong man to play the villain of the piece. I won’t let them get away with it.’

‘Good,’ she said, turning to gaze up at him. ‘Because you are not a villain. Not at all.’

He might look like one, with his bruised face, his harsh expression, and his dishevelled and muddied clothing. But she knew how he’d come by the mud, and the bruises. At the time he’d told her about his adventure in the mill she’d half suspected he might have made some of it up, to try and impress her. But that was before he’d rescued her from those drunken bucks simply by looking at them with that murderous gleam in his eyes. Before he’d carried her to this stream just so she could soothe her feet in its ice-cold water. And had listened to her as though her opinions had merit.

‘So far as I’m concerned,’ she said, reaching up to touch the deep groove between his brows, ‘they picked the right man.’

‘What?’ His eyes, which had been glaring off into the distance as though he was plotting a fitting revenge on her guardians, focussed on her in bewilderment.

‘I know that you will put all to rights, somehow—won’t you?’ For that was what he did. ‘Or at least you will do your very best.’

‘How can you possibly know that?’ He fidgeted and turned his head away.

‘Because that is the kind of man you are. Completely upright.’ And not in the way the male members of Stoketown Chapel were upright. Not one of them would break into a warehouse at dead of night to steal a set of false ledgers in order to uncover a fraud. They’d be too scared of what other people would think of their actions.

She might have been mistaken, because it was growing too dark now to see clearly, but she rather thought her last comment might have caused him to blush.

‘Time to turn in for the night,’ he said gruffly. Then bent to put his arms around her and got to his feet.

Just as before, the ease with which he carried her filled her with admiration. Admiration spiced with a series of totally feminine responses. Because this time he was carrying her to a bed they were going to be sharing.

As though he shared the tenor of her thoughts, he came to a complete halt just before entering the barn and stared into the gloom at the far end. Where they were about to make a bed in the pile of hay.

‘This is going to be damned awkward,’ he grated, before turning sideways to slide through the drunken excuse for a barn door.

And then he stopped again.

And cleared his throat.

Though she could scarcely hear it over the thunder of her heartbeat.

‘Right, this is what we’re going to do,’ he said. ‘I’m going to use my valise for a pillow, then spread my jacket over some of the hay. That is if you don’t mind taking it off.’ He glanced down at the row of buttons, then at her face, then into the gloom again, his jaw tightening.

‘I don’t mind at all,’ she said. In fact excitement fizzed through her at the prospect of undressing in front of him. Even if it was only his jacket he’d asked her to remove. And she would still be wearing her modest kerseymere gown. ‘Hay is very prickly,’ she added hastily. ‘It is a very sensible notion to use your jacket as a barrier.’

‘Sensible,’ he repeated, suddenly breaking into a stride that took them all the way to the back of the barn. ‘I will use my coat to cover us, as another barrier against the hay. I shall pull it over the top of us both.’

‘A very practical notion,’ she said.

One of his eyebrows shot up. ‘Really?’ He pulled it down. ‘I mean, naturally. Eminently practical. So,’ he said, ‘you will remove my jacket while I will divide up the hay, and so forth, to make our bed.’

Our bed. The words sent a flush to her cheeks. And, by the feel of it, to other parts she ought never to mention.

‘I give you fair warning,’ he said gruffly, ‘that if it gets really cold, in spite of all the hay, I shall put my arms around you and hold you close.’

Her heart skipped a beat. But that beat sank to her pelvis, where it set up a low, insistent throb.

‘Will you?’ Was that really her voice? All low and husky and breathy?

‘Yes. But I swear, on my honour, that I shall do nothing more.’

‘I know.’ She sighed.

‘How can you possibly know?’

‘I have told you already—I know what kind of man you are.’ And she wasn’t sure why she’d forgotten it, even for those few exhilarating seconds when he’d been standing there talking about taking her to bed. Wishful thinking, she supposed.

‘How can you? We only met this morning. Can you stand for a few moments if I set you down?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And that question only goes to prove what I was saying. You are still going out of your way to tend to my comfort. A lot of men wouldn’t bother. They wouldn’t try to reassure me that my virtue would remain unsullied, either. In fact, I think a lot of men—’ most men, from what she’d seen of masculine conduct so far ‘—would turn this situation to their own advantage.’

‘Oh?’ He bent to pick up his valise and held it before him like a shield while she unbuttoned the jacket he’d lent her. As she slid it from her arms he turned swiftly and buried the valise under a mound of hay.

‘Yes, indeed,’ she said as he turned back and took the jacket from her outstretched hand. He dropped it onto the makeshift mattress quickly, as though it was burning his fingers.

‘I have told you all about my fortune,’ she said. ‘Other men have paid court to me to get their hands on it. You could, at any time today, have started to pressure me into marrying you under the pretext of saving my reputation, and then the money would have been yours. As my husband. But you haven’t.’

‘Perhaps I am not a marrying kind of man—had you thought of that?’

‘No. For one thing you have looked at me once or twice as though you were thinking about kissing me. And you said that thing about my hair.’

‘Hmmph,’ he said, swinging her into his arms again and setting her down gently onto the makeshift bed.

‘For another,’ she said as he reared back and began stripping off his coat. ‘You have already been married.’

‘Perhaps that is what has put me off ever getting married again,’ he said bitterly, before coming down beside her and whisking the coat over them both.

‘Is it?’ She watched through lazily lowered lids as he reached for the hay, pulling bunches of it up and over them until it really did feel as though they were lying in a sort of nest. ‘You looked so unhappy when you mentioned your wife. I wondered...’

‘Wondered what?’ He lay down, finally, next to her, though he kept his arms rigidly at his side.

‘Well, why you looked so unhappy. You pulled a sort of face.’

‘Pulled a face? I never pull faces.’

‘Well, you did. And it wasn’t the sort of expression a widower makes who loved his wife and misses her. It looked as though...’

He made a low growling kind of noise, as though warning her not to proceed any further. She ignored it.

‘And anyway, now you have as good as admitted that you weren’t happy. What went wrong?’

He sighed. ‘I never speak of my wife,’ he grunted. ‘She and I... We...’

Somewhere close by an owl hooted.

Gregory folded his arms across his chest.

She rolled onto her side and curled up a bit. Just until her knee touched his leg.

Which was warm. And solid.

‘There was never any we,’ he said, with evident irritation. ‘The match was arranged by our families. I thought she was happy with it. She seemed happy with it. And I was...content to go along with the arrangement. She was pretty. Very pretty, if you must know. Which I thought was better than being saddled with a woman I would struggle to bed.’

Somehow it seemed rather brazen to be snuggling up to him, hoping he might snuggle up to her, while he was talking about having marital relations. She stealthily straightened her leg so that her knee was no longer nudging his thigh.

But she hadn’t been stealthy enough.

‘If you didn’t want the sordid details,’ he snapped, ‘you shouldn’t have pressed me for the confession.’

She hadn’t pressed. Not really. But perhaps it was the strangeness of the day, the enforced intimacy they’d shared and were still sharing, that made him feel compelled to tell her all about it. Or the fact that they were lying in the dark, in a barn, feeling extremely awkward, and it was better to talk of something completely unrelated to themselves.

Besides, if he truly hadn’t spoken of his miserable marriage ever, to anyone, he probably needed to unburden himself. He’d obviously never felt close enough, or safe enough, with anyone to do so.

She reached out until she found his hand in the dark, and clasped her fingers round it.

‘I didn’t mean to pry,’ she said. ‘But if you want to talk about it...’

He gripped her hand hard.

‘She didn’t like me touching her in bed,’ he grated. ‘She would never have curled into me the way you have just done, or held my hand, or smoothed my brow when I frowned. Or hugged me because she was pleased to see me.’

The poor man. She ran the fingers of her other hand over his. Squeezed it. The poor, lonely man. No wonder his face had settled into a permanently severe expression. No wonder he glowered at people in such a way that they kept their distance. He must find it easier to keep people away than let them get close enough to hurt him. As his wife had done.

‘I was only seventeen when I married her. Not very experienced. And she, of course, was a virgin. It wasn’t... The consummation wasn’t entirely a pleasant experience for her. When she was reluctant to allow me to return to her bed I tried to be understanding. I thought I ought to give her time to become accustomed.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘And then she confessed she was with child.’

It sounded as though he was grinding his teeth.

‘My father congratulated me for ensuring the succession so swiftly. It was about the only time he ever seemed pleased with me. But the irony was that it wasn’t mine. The baby she was carrying. It couldn’t possibly have been mine. And I was furious. All those months, while I’d been trying to be considerate, she’d been...’

‘Oh.’ It sounded such a feeble thing to say. But, really, what could she say to a confession like that?

‘When she died I struggled to feel anything apart from relief. You think that was wicked, don’t you? That I was relieved I wasn’t going to have to bring up some other man’s get as my own? Or to face mockery by admitting she’d cuckolded me within six months of marriage?’

‘She... Oh, no. The baby died as well?’

‘The pregnancy killed her. That’s what the doctor said. Something to do with her heart. I wasn’t exactly in a frame of mind to take it in. My father had not long since died as well, you see. I’d just...stepped into his shoes.’

She heard him swallow.

‘Later, I did feel sorry about the baby. And that was when the guilt started to creep in. I kept remembering standing by her graveside, feeling as though a huge burden had rolled off my shoulders. How all the problems I’d thought I had were being buried with her. How could I regard a child as a burden? As a problem? That wasn’t right. It wouldn’t have been the child’s fault. You, of all people, must know it isn’t right to inflict upon a child the feelings you have for its parents.’

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘It isn’t. But you wouldn’t have done. I know you wouldn’t.’

‘You can’t possibly know that,’ he grated. ‘Hell, I certainly couldn’t.’

‘I do know,’ she said, raising his clenched fist to her mouth and kissing the grazed knuckles. ‘You might have struggled to be kind to the child, but you would have tried. Otherwise you wouldn’t have experienced any guilt over the way you felt when it died. You would have just shrugged your shoulders and walked away. You are a good man,’ she said. ‘And you deserved to have a wife who appreciated just how good and kind you are. A wife who would have at least tried to make you happy. A wife who wanted you to touch her. Give her children. None of what happened was your fault.’

He shifted in the hay beside her and gave a sort of disgruntled huff. Then he rolled onto his side, so that he was facing away from her. She might have thought he was putting an end to their conversation and establishing some distance between them if it hadn’t been for the fact that he kept tight hold of her hand, so that as he rolled the movement tugged her up against his back. Just as though he wanted to drape her over himself like a human blanket.

She snuggled closer. For he’d made it clear he hadn’t been rejecting her. It had been pride that had made him turn away, she was sure. Men didn’t like appearing weak, and he probably regretted spilling all those secrets he’d kept hidden for years. He’d made himself vulnerable to her. Because he trusted her. Or thought she’d understand what rejection of that sort felt like after the way her own aunt had betrayed her.

Yes, if any two people knew what betrayal felt like it was them.

She hugged his waist, wishing there was something she could do to ease his pain. To let him know that she didn’t think any less of him for struggling the way he had in the coldness of his arranged marriage, and with his feelings about the way it had ended.

And suddenly it occurred to her that there was one obvious way to do both.