Читать книгу Regency Marriages - Elizabeth Rolls - Страница 14

Thea stared blindly at her teacup. A piece of toast, reduced to crumbs on her bread-and-butter plate, bore mute testament to her lack of appetite. A sleepless night had left her with a crashing headache, and a churning stomach. The Heathcote assembly had turned into a nightmare with everyone speculating on the possible truth behind Nigel Lallerton’s death.

Perhaps she had been mad to admit that Sir Giles had called, but once Lady Chasewater had made the suggestion, there had seemed little point hiding anything. Aching pity stirred inside her. How hard this must be for the woman … she had adored Nigel …

‘Miss?’

The footman, James, stood just inside the door of the breakfast parlour, holding a silver salver. ‘Yes, James?’

‘A note for you, miss. It’s just been delivered.’

She set her teacup down carefully, with only the slightest of rattles. ‘A … a note?’ No. It couldn’t be. Foolish to think it might be another note like the one the other day … what purpose could such notes possibly serve now? All the damage had been well and truly done.

‘Thank you, James.’

He brought her the note and she took it, seeing instantly that it was addressed to her in the same scrawl as the last one. A chill slid through her. ‘That will be all, James.’ Her own voice, calm, oddly distant.

‘Yes, miss.’

She put the note by her plate, refusing to look at it until the door closed. Shivering now, she picked up her cup of tea and sipped, savouring it. There was more tea in the pot, and she poured herself another cup, adding milk with careful precision.

The note sat there. Unavoidable. She didn’t have to read it. There was a fire in the grate. She could drop it in there unread. That would be the sensible thing to do. Swiftly she rose, picked up the note and hurried over to the fireplace.

She stared at the dancing flames. Drop it in. That’s all you have to do. Only she couldn’t. After yesterday, and last night … what if the note contained a threat? A demand. Something that ought to be dealt with. She shivered—what if—?

With shaking fingers she broke the seal—first she would read it, just in case. Then she would burn it … Fumbling with cold, she unfolded the letter.

Did they tell you that the child was dead? Were you relieved, Slut?

The room spun around her in sickening swoops as she crushed the note. Dear God … bile rising in her throat, she bent down and placed the crumpled note on the fire. It hung there for a moment and then the edges blackened, slowly at first, and then in a consuming rush as the flames fed hungrily. It was gone in less than a minute, paper and ink reduced to ashes.

Only, it wasn’t gone. Not really. Because she had been fool enough to read it. She could not consign knowledge to the flames and the words remained, branded on her soul—but what could they possibly mean? The phrasing—Did they tell you …? What else should they have told her? Unless … unless they had lied.

She dragged in a breath, shutting her eyes as she fought for control.

The door opened.

‘Thea?’

She straightened at once and her breath caught. Richard had come in, dressed for riding, dark eyes fixed on her. Dear God … if he had read this note! Her glance flickered to the fire, half-expecting to see the accusation writhing in the flames.

‘Good … good morning, Richard.’

He frowned at her as he came into the parlour. ‘Did you sleep at all? You should still be abed. Are you all right?’

She forced a smile into place. ‘I was … just a little cold,’ she lied. Change the subject, quickly. ‘Have you been riding?’

He sat down at the table. ‘Yes. Thea—about last night—’

‘You must be hungry then.’ She rushed on. ‘Shall I ring for coffee? Were you up very early?’ Heavens! She was babbling like an idiot in her attempt to sound vaguely normal.

‘Thank you, but Myles knows I’m in. He’ll bring me some coffee, and I breakfasted before riding.’ He looked across at her. ‘Thea, don’t pretend with me. About last night—we need to talk. Privately.’

‘Oh.’ Her heart gave a funny little leap. She squashed it back into place and ordered her thoughts. Very carefully she said, ‘Is that wise, Richard?’

His gaze narrowed, and she flushed, remembering a comment of Diana’s about how peculiar it was to see Richard in town at all, let alone attending so many parties. Diana seemed perfectly certain that there would be an announcement at any moment—and that wagers had been laid that, finally, Lady Arnsworth would succeed in her dearest ambition.

‘After all, you can’t wish to … raise expectations, and … and then—’

His brows lifted. ‘Expectations?’

She could not quite identify the undercurrent in his voice.

‘Am I raising your expectations, Thea?’

He didn’t sound concerned, but then he was always in control of his thoughts and feelings.

‘Not mine!’ she clarified. ‘Society’s expectations.’

What Richard said about society had a certain eloquence to it.

‘You’re my friend, Thea,’ he told her. ‘And I don’t give a damn about anyone else’s expectations,’ he added, still with that odd, intent look. ‘Yours would be a different matter.’

A friend. Her heart, foolish organ, glowed. Should she tell him about this note? Not because she wanted him to do something about it, but simply to tell someone. So that she did not feel quite so alone.

No. She couldn’t. She could hear the conversation now.

Another note? What did this one say?

Oh, nothing much. Just … it was just nasty.

Nasty, how?

No, she couldn’t tell him what it had said. The other one had looked like general spitefulness. This one was more directly aimed. He would want an explanation. Yet another explanation she couldn’t give.

‘Thea? Thea! Are you all right?’

To her horror she realised that he had been speaking to her, trying to gain her attention.

She flushed. ‘I’m sorry, Richard. I … I was wool-gathering.’

‘With a vengeance,’ he agreed.

She pinned a bright smile in place. ‘What did you wish to say?’

He didn’t look at all convinced, but said, ‘I planned to drive out towards Richmond this morning in the curricle, if you would care to join me. We do need to talk.’

‘Driving … but …’ Her voice died in her throat and the walls of the present dissolved, memory flooding through the breach. Another offer to drive out on a sunny day … another curricle … shame, embarrassment, and terror stretched out their tentacles, pulling her back in time …

Come, Thea, you cannot possibly believe that I mean you the least harm. Your mama is perfectly happy for me to drive you out. She wishes you to entertain me … At least you might tell me the reason for your change of mind …

‘Thea? Thea? Is something wrong?’

His words made no sense. He had never asked before if anything was wrong. She tasted fear, sour in her mouth, and felt her knees buckle.

‘Thea!’

Strong hands gripped her, lifting her, and then she felt herself being lowered, helpless—

‘It’s all right, Thea. Here—just lie still.’

Just lie still, you stupid girl!

No! Not this time. She wouldn’t submit. Even as she felt the sofa beneath her, she squirmed, struggling wildly, clawing, striking out in panic.

The blackness cleared, dissolving to reveal an elegantly appointed breakfast parlour, and, instead of him, Richard Blakehurst bending over her, his cravat askew and a livid red mark on his left cheek.

Horror stabbed her.

‘I … I—’ The words dried up in her throat. There was nothing she could say in answer to the question in his shocked dark eyes. Cold flooded her from the flash of memory, and the disbelief on his face. What had she done?

Very slowly he straightened up.

‘You will perhaps be more comfortable if I take my coffee in the back parlour, Thea.’

Thea sank back on the sofa, shivering. But not from the resurgence of nightmare and fear. Horror seeped through her at what she had seen in his face.

What had she done? She had insulted one of the most honourable men in London in the worst possible manner.

Richard Blakehurst was the last man on earth who would take advantage of a woman. Anywhere. Let alone in his godmother’s breakfast parlour. She owed him an apology at the very least. And what could she say if he demanded an explanation?

I didn’t see you. I saw him. Felt his hands on me. Heard his voice, telling me to lie still … his weight crushing the breath out of me. His strength …

She choked off the flow of memory, before it could become a nightmare. Not for years had she had a reversion of memory like that—the nightmare leaping to hellish life in her waking mind. Once the slightest unexpected touch had been enough to cast her back into hell … she had thought she was past that. Plainly she was not. But for now it could not be allowed to matter. She had to find Richard and apologise.

And when she had done that, she must decide what she was to do about this last note.

Having retreated to the back parlour, Richard pulled a letter he was writing to his sister-in-law out of the small desk he used. Unfortunately, all he could see was Thea’s blanched terror, her dazed eyes.

How had he got himself into such a confounded mess? He’d thought she must be ill, that she was about to faint … dammit! She had fainted. If he hadn’t caught her, she would have landed on the floor.

He gritted his teeth. Plainly he should have let her hit the floor and simply walked out. Apparently his chivalrous behaviour in catching her and laying her on the sofa had been interpreted as attempted ravishment!

He took another sip of coffee and reached for his pen. Putting words on paper had never been so difficult.

The soft knock on the door startled him so that the pen sputtered all over his half-written letter.

‘Come in,’ he called.

The door opened and Thea slipped in.

‘Richard?’

He waited. He had no idea what to say anyway. Dammit! She had come looking for him, after as good as accusing him of attempting to rape her!

She looked stricken and his conscience accused him of wanting several pounds of flesh. At which point his body started speculating on which particular pounds he might start with. Banishing his fantasies forcibly, he consigned his conscience and good manners to hell, and waited, his mouth set grimly.

‘I’m … I’m sorry, Richard. I would like very much to drive out with you. That is, if you still wish it.’

All the offended fury melted in the face of her distress. And something else, deep inside him that he couldn’t even have put a name to, responded with a surge of tenderness.

‘I think that it is for me to apologise,’ he said quietly. ‘I frightened you. I’m sorry, Thea.’

She shook her head. ‘No, Richard. You are not to apologise. I think I’d feel better if you raged at me. It was not your fault. I know that you would never … never—’ She took a shuddering breath, and said in something approaching her normal voice, ‘It was just that I felt dizzy for a moment and became confused.’

He didn’t believe it for one moment, but smiled and said, ‘Then if you truly wish to drive out, I will order the curricle.’

‘Yes, please. It would be lovely. As long as Lady Arnsworth does not object.’

He couldn’t help laughing. ‘Almeria? I should think you’ll find her ready to hand you up into the curricle!’

She blushed.

‘In half an hour, then?’ he said.

‘Yes. Thank you. I’ll tell Lady Arnsworth now.’

Richard leaned back in his chair as Thea left the room. God help him; if Almeria knew what was in his mind, she’d be sending instructions around to Doctors’ Commons within ten minutes.

Which would definitely be jumping the gun. They weren’t anywhere near the point where a special licence was required. He’d intended proposing to her this morning. Suggesting that they marry quickly. Perhaps he needed to step back a little; discuss the idea with her. Point out the rational reasons for a match between them. If he could focus on them through the haze of fury that enveloped him when he thought of Dunhaven. Or the desire that tightened his loins every time he laid eyes on Thea.

Had she seen his thoughts in his eyes as she regained consciousness? If he were to be brutally honest with himself, he couldn’t swear even now that he wouldn’t have kissed her. He thought he wouldn’t. He hoped he wouldn’t! Surely he wasn’t such a cad as to take advantage of an unconscious woman? But he wasn’t quite sure. She’d exploded in panic before he’d been put to the test.

The worst of it was that little though he might like to admit it, the thought had been there. Oh, not to actually ravish her! But feeling her soft weight in his arms, breathing the fragrance of her hair, seeing those soft pink lips parted and vulnerable—his whole body had tightened with the urge to taste, his fingers had itched to caress her cheek and find out if it really was softer than silk. Not to mention the graceful curve of her throat.

He swore. If he kept on like this he’d be a basket case before ever they reached Richmond.

Thea was awaiting him in the hall, fashionably attired in a carriage dress of deep blue twill when he brought the curricle around to the front door. Almeria came out with her.

‘Thank you, Richard,’ she said, as he got down. ‘A drive is just what will do Dorothea good after last night. A dreadful business. I cannot believe that Laetitia Chasewater, of all people, was so lost to all sense of decorum! And I am determined that tonight we shall attend only Lady Fairchild’s musicale.’

‘A very sensible decision, Almeria.’

He understood perfectly. It was vital that Thea continued to be seen, but at a musicale chatter was perforce limited. Of course there would be supper afterwards, but, knowing Lady Fairchild, it would be a small, select affair. All the better if it were.

He handed Thea up into the curricle and hid a smile to see that Almeria, even if she hadn’t precisely pushed Thea into the vehicle, was reaching up to pat her on the hands.

‘Enjoy your drive, dear. And a little stroll along the river. I am sure you will find it refreshing.’

She stepped back and Richard gave his horses the office, putting them into a slow trot the moment his groom, Minchin, had swung up behind.

Impossible to have any private conversation with Minchin there, so he kept the talk to indifferent topics as he threaded the curricle through the streets and out on to Piccadilly. There the traffic rendered any conversation impossible, until he was past Apsley House and the Knightsbridge Turnpike.

They trotted on, out through the village of Chelsea and on down through Walham Green to cross the river at the Putney Bridge before turning west again to go around to Petersham. It was a glorious day, sunny with a gentle breeze and with London far behind them. Thea relaxed. It seemed that every bird in England was singing for joy in the hedgerows at the fragrance of wildflowers and damp grass, driving out all fear, all memory. She pushed it away, determined, if only for this one perfect day, to live entirely in the moment and not worry about what might be around the corner, or what lay shadowed in the past. Right here, right now, she was happy.

‘A penny for your thoughts.’

Richard’s voice broke in on her trance-like state. She sighed. ‘I was thinking that it would be lovely to live out in the country, somewhere like this, not too far from London so that one might come up easily to visit friends or go to the theatre.’

‘But still live peacefully away from the crash and clatter?’

She looked at him gratefully. ‘Yes, that’s it exactly. I think when all this is over, after my birthday, that is what I shall do.’

‘Your birthday?’

‘Once I turn twenty-five, under the terms of my uncle’s will, I receive two hundred pounds a year whether I marry or not, and whether Aberfield likes it or not. I can do as I please.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you disapprove?’

He laughed. ‘Would it make any difference to you?’

She hesitated, and Richard waited, oddly aware that her answer was somehow important. At last she said, ‘No. Not if I thought I was right. I should be sorry to disappoint you, but even if I make a mistake, it would be my mistake.’

He could hardly quarrel with that. It was his own creed—make your own mistakes and learn from them. His heart leapt in recognition. This could work. More than work.

Encouraged, he began to talk about his plans for his property, what improvements he had made in the house, how sheltered it was from the worst of the Channel storms. ‘A little further from London than this,’ he said, as he drew his horses up outside the inn in Petersham. ‘But still close enough to come up easily for a visit.’ Minchin sprang down and went to the horses’ heads. ‘And don’t tell Almeria,’ he added, ‘but I’ve just bought a small town house.’

‘Don’t tell her? She’d be delighted,’ said Thea.

He let himself down carefully to the road, aware that his leg had stiffened slightly. ‘Not when she finds out where it is, she won’t be.’

Thea looked her question.

‘Bloomsbury,’ he confessed.

Laughter rippled. ‘Near the museum?’

‘Mmm. She’ll probably have palpitations.’ Then, casually, ‘Should you mind?’

‘No, of course not.’

She looked at him oddly and he held up his hands to help her down. Time to change the subject. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked. ‘We could have something to eat here and then stroll along the river.’

The river slid past, deep and tranquil. They hadn’t walked very far. Richard had produced a bag of old bread from the curricle. In her childhood a drive out to Richmond or Petersham with a picnic and a walk along the river to feed the ducks had been a high treat. Standing there on the bank, throwing bread to the quacking, squabbling ducks, she could almost forget her worries and how many years it had been since last she did this.

Richard’s deep quiet voice drew her back. ‘Has it occurred to you how similar our plans are?’

She threw a piece of bread to a duck. ‘Standing beside the Thames feeding greedy ducks?’

He laughed. ‘No. Although that’s part of it. Neither of us wants any sort of public life—we both plan to live in the country, at not too great a remove from town.’

A swan moved in, its grace belied by its quickness in lunging for a scrap of bread.

‘A quiet life,’ he continued.

She threw bread to the swan. ‘I’m not planning to run an estate and breed sheep,’ she said.

‘You could learn to help, though,’ he said. ‘And I’d enjoy teaching you.’

Shock hummed through her as she began to see where this was leading.

‘Richard—you … you can’t possibly be suggesting that—you said I could have twice the fortune, and—’

‘Dammit, woman! I’m proposing to you! Not your blasted fortune! I’m asking you to marry me. Share my life.’

Share my life.

Those simple heartfelt words tore at her like a twisting knife. Share his life … and what did she have to share in return? A sordid secret in her past? And the way things were developing, a sordid and far-from-secret scandal here in the present.

‘No,’ she said.

Richard’s heart landed with a thump in his boots. Owing to the extravagant poke of Thea’s bonnet, gauging her expression was impossible, but a glance at her gloved hands showed them clenched together. No doubt the knuckles were stark white.

That was it? No?

He supposed it had the merit of being succinct. None of that nonsense about being honoured by his proposal, and—

So much for being rational. There was a moment’s silence, in which he had an eternity to curse himself for the clumsiness of his address.

‘This is not because of those silly notes? You do not feel that you must offer for me because of that?’

‘Of course not! Lord, every mama in the ton would be sending anonymous letters in that case!’ He dragged in a breath. ‘Thea—I’m offering because I wish to marry you.’

The quacking of the ducks fell into the well of silence that had opened up between them.

‘I am very sorry, Richard, but I cannot possibly marry you.’

He held back all the things he wanted to say. All the far-from-rational things that were burning a hole deep inside him. Somehow, he realised, it had not really occurred to him that she might refuse.

‘Will you tell me why you cannot?’ He flicked a glance at her, but she was staring straight ahead, her face hidden again by the poke of her bonnet. ‘After all, we have always been good friends, you must know that I don’t give a damn about your fortune, and—’

‘Of course I know that!’ She turned to him in obvious surprise, and he saw the pain in her eyes. ‘It’s nothing to do with that. It’s just … just that I cannot … it never occurred to me that you could want to marry me!’

He waited, but she fell silent and looked ahead again.

‘I frightened you this morning, did I not, Thea?’ he asked quietly.

‘No!’ She faced him again, her face absolutely white. ‘The truth is, Richard—’ She stopped. He saw the convulsive movement of her throat before she turned away again. Her voice came again, utterly devoid of expression, ‘Yes. I was frightened. But it was not because of you! Only because I did not realise that it was you.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘I know that sounds foolish and I … I cannot explain, but I do thank you for your offer. No one who knows you could possibly imagine you would offer because of my fortune.’

‘Don’t delude yourself, love.’ The endearment hung between them, alive and shimmering. Love. He had called women that before, of course. One did in bed. It had been a meaningless endearment. But when had he ever really heard himself say it? When had it ever rung like a bell?

She looked up at him, soft lips curved in a trembling smile. ‘They do not know you then, do they?’ she said quietly. ‘I said anyone who knows you, Richard. Would your brother, or Lord Braybrook, make that mistake?’

No. Not even if he lied. They would know. And apparently Thea knew …

‘Are you sure, Thea?’ he asked gently. ‘Ungentlemanly of me to press, I know, but—’

‘Quite sure,’ she whispered, looking straight ahead again. ‘It … it is not possible … if it were … that is …’ Her breath came raggedly, as though she breathed glass. Her voice when it came was utterly steady and expressionless. ‘I have no intention of marrying. Ever.’

Had she loved the fellow so deeply? She had only been sixteen when they were betrothed; seventeen when Lallerton died, and he had always assumed the match had been arranged by Aberfield and Chasewater, but … perhaps it was time to resurrect his rational proposal.

‘Thea,’ he said carefully, ‘I quite understand how you must feel, but surely after seven years—’ He felt her stiffen beside him and altered tack slightly. ‘Have you considered that one may marry for friendship, as well as love? We have always been good friends. And this would solve your problem—I may not be a brilliant catch like Dunhaven in your father’s estimation, but I’m perfectly eligible.’ Only half-joking, he added, ‘You wouldn’t have to bother with toads like that any more, at least!’

Thea swallowed hard. She knew he would protect her. And it was tempting, so tempting … No! She didn’t dare. To marry Richard, she would have to tell him the truth. ‘I cannot, Richard,’ she whispered. ‘Please, will you take me back now?’

‘Of course.’

They walked back along the path in silence. In the silence of her mind she railed at fate that had brought her here to this moment and mocked her with his proposal.

As they arrived back at the inn, he said quietly, ‘Thea, just because you have refused my offer of marriage does not mean that we cannot continue friends, does it?’

She flinched, and, to her horror, tears sprang to her eyes. Forcing them back, she stared fixedly ahead, not trusting her voice. It would shake like her gloved hands, locked in front of her.

‘Thea?’

‘Friends—of course, Richard.’ Her voice did wobble. Despicably. Friends told each other the truth. Trusted each other. She hated that she was deceiving him so deeply.

You could tell him the truth.

No. She could not. Not to save her life could she tell him that. It would be worse than death to see the pitying contempt in his eyes. And what if he didn’t believe her? No one else ever had, save David. And perhaps David had believed her partly because he had disliked Nigel so much.

She shut her eyes. It would be better if David had not believed her either. If he had not, he would not be in such danger now. It would also be better if she did not have to see Richard again. Especially now. Now when she wasn’t even sure that she knew the whole truth. Did they tell you that the child was dead?

With Minchin up behind them during the drive back, any further private conversation was impossible. Thea did not know whether to be glad or sorry. Richard was very quiet, speaking only to point out landmarks, or comment on the state of the roads.

Only when they reached Grosvenor Square and he escorted her up the front steps of Arnsworth House did he refer again to what lay between them.

‘Lallerton was a very lucky man for you to have loved him so deeply.’

Not the slightest hint of bitterness. No anger. Just the kindest understanding of the lie that she and her family had cultivated to screen the truth. So easy simply to nod. To accept what he had said and agree. It stuck in her throat. Even if she dared not tell Richard the truth, she would not lie to him. Not in any way.

She turned to face him fully. ‘I did not love Nigel Lallerton. Ever. Not then. Not now.’

And she opened the front door and fled into the house.

Richard stared after her, stunned. She hadn’t loved Lallerton? Then why in Hades had she remained in seclusion for seven years? Why had she set herself so flatly against marriage?

There was something odd here. She had said simply that she hadn’t loved Lallerton. But her tone of voice had said a great deal more …

Her perfect day was over. Thea sat with a smile of polite interest plastered to her face as she listened to the violinist Lady Fairchild had engaged for the evening. She should be enjoying this, but as the violin sang and soared, her thoughts spun wildly between doubt and searing conviction. Richard had not attended and Lord Dunhaven’s presence beside her served only to increase her distraction.

Could they have lied about her child’s death? Yes. Easily. And why, oh, why had she been fool enough to tell Richard that she hadn’t loved Lallerton?

Had Lord Dunhaven moved his chair slightly? He was too close, especially in the overheated room. Her temples began to throb.

His lordship leaned closer, murmuring something about how much he enjoyed Mozart.

‘Haydn,’ she told him, and had the dubious pleasure of seeing him turn a dull brick-red. Dunhaven hated being contradicted—especially when he was wrong.

Would they have lied?

Over something like that? With the honour of the family involved? With David at risk? Oh, yes. They would have lied. In a moment.

The accusation of that morning’s note hung before her in letters of fire: Did they tell you that the child was dead? Were you relieved …?

The sonata ended and the audience applauded with well-bred enthusiasm.

Yes. She had been relieved. For a moment. A day. And then the grief had come. The grief she had not been allowed to show. And the guilt.

But what if her child had survived? How could she find out?