Читать книгу Regency Surrender: Passion And Rebellion - Энни Берроуз, Louise Allen - Страница 22

Chapter Twelve

‘Julia, I think you have something to say to Lady Havelock, do you not?’

Julia hunched her shoulders and lowered her head. ‘I’m sorry I was rude to you when I got here,’ she muttered.

Good grief. Lady Peverell had said Julia was completely unmanageable, but at only a hint from her brother, she’d apologised for her behaviour. Grudgingly, it was true, but it was far more than she’d expected.

And she was very grateful. She hadn’t been looking forward to enduring many more dinners like the one they’d just sat through. It had been bad enough getting used to the formality of the immense dining room anyway, and letting footmen wait on her, but having to try to make conversation with a girl who clearly wanted nothing to do with her, whilst grappling with the reminder of her unimportance to her own husband, had been downright demoralising.

‘Think no more of it,’ she said. ‘It sounds as though you’ve had a perfectly horrid time with Lady Peverell. Frankly, I was appalled at the way she spoke about you as though you weren’t even in the room. If it had been me in your shoes...’

She frowned at the recollection that it had been all too easy to picture herself in Julia’s place. Though she’d never had the courage to make a fuss, the way Julia had done, or demand her own way. She’d just meekly allowed people to dispose of her as they liked. She’d let them parcel her off like...like a bundle of dirty washing for someone else to launder.

How she wished she had a tithe of Julia’s spirit.

‘Well, anyway, I just want you to be happy here. It is your home, after all.’

‘I don’t remember much about when I lived here before,’ Julia retorted. ‘I was still quite young when Mama married again and we had to move away.’

And yet she’d requested her old room back, reflected Mary.

‘We can soon rectify that,’ put in Lord Havelock. ‘There are some splendid rides to be had in the area. And now you’ve made the acquaintance of Panther I’m sure you’d like to put him through his paces. Tomorrow I’ll start taking you about and introducing you to people.’

Julia’s face lit up.

Mary’s hackles rose. He’d never offered to take her about and introduce her to anyone. He’d never bought her a horse, either. Not that she had any use for one. But that was beside the point. He simply hadn’t bothered.

* * *

Lord Havelock smiled back at his sister, then turned to Mary with a troubled frown. It was just as well he’d already reined himself in, in an attempt to spare Mary’s blushes after that time Brownlow had nearly caught them out. He certainly wouldn’t want Julia catching him chasing his wife through the house and tumbling her on sofas. It wasn’t the kind of behaviour he wanted his sister to think was acceptable. And, dammit, it wasn’t.

He rubbed his hand round the back of his neck, wondering just what had got into him lately. He’d never been one of those fellows who was led by the urgings of his cock. But ever since marrying Mary, he couldn’t stop wanting her. Couldn’t keep his hands off her.

True, she’d submitted to every demand he made on her and derived pleasure from every encounter, but didn’t he owe her more respect?

He’d been a thoroughly selfish sort of husband, so far. He’d promised her she would always have a room of her own, wherever they lived, that nobody else could enter except with her permission. It was pretty much all she’d asked of him. But had he ever honoured that promise? Had he ever knocked on her bedroom door and asked if he could join her? No.

Well, he could rectify that situation tonight. From now on, he’d be the model of decorum.

He still hadn’t provided her with the means to purchase her trousseau, either. Nor had she had the time, she’d been so busy putting Mayfield to rights.

Not that she’d complained. Not once. Not about anything. Most women would have nagged him half to death by now, but she just smiled sweetly and made the most of what little she did have.

‘You know, it’s past time you saw a dressmaker about getting some new clothes,’ he said, guilt making his voice a little gruff. ‘I know you’ve been busy, getting the place ready for Julia’s arrival, but surely now you can spare the time to spruce yourself up?’

* * *

Spruce herself up? Spruce herself up! Mary took a deep breath and bit back the indignant response she would have given had Julia not been there.

But then that was just it, wasn’t it? This was the second time he’d humiliated her by rebuking her in front of someone else. If he had complaints, couldn’t he at least show her the courtesy of waiting to make them until they were alone?

It was bad enough feeling that she half deserved it. She’d known from the look on Lady Peverell’s face that the way she dressed was letting him down. But did he really have to chide her like this, as though she was a...a...well, someone who wasn’t his equal? When she hadn’t complained about any of the things he’d done wrong. Not once.

To add insult to injury, neither he, nor his sister, noticed that she was sitting there, quietly simmering with resentment. They were chattering away happily about people she didn’t know and places she’d never been.

* * *

After what felt like an hour of being comprehensively ignored, Mary’d had enough.

‘I am going to bed,’ she said, getting to her feet. And then, because she didn’t want to be rude, added, ‘Goodnight, Julia,’ with a forced smile.

‘I’m not tired,’ Julia declared with a toss of her head.

‘It has been a long day,’ said Lord Havelock, getting to his feet, as well. ‘We’ll all go up.’

The three of them mounted the stairs in various states of dudgeon. Julia was pouting at being sent to bed before she was ready to go. Mary was still smarting from her husband’s cavalier attitude towards her tonight and tallying up all the other things he’d done to annoy her.

And Lord Havelock looked distinctly uncomfortable at being flanked by two women who were in the sulks.

‘What do you think of the room Mary chose for you?’ he asked with determined cheerfulness as they mounted the stairs.

Julia shrugged.

‘You can always move to another if it’s not to your liking. What about this one?’ He flung open the door to a room they’d slept in only once. Mary hadn’t liked it much. The wall hangings were of a cold greyish-blue, liberally spattered with muddy-hued hunting prints.

‘I’m in here, for the moment,’ said Lord Havelock, to Mary’s surprise, ‘but I can soon shift if you prefer it.’

Julia peeped inside, wrinkled her nose and shook her head. ‘I like the red room better,’ she said.

Heavens, Mary reflected sourly. She’d actually got something right today.

‘Good. Mary is in here,’ he said, striding to the door of the bedroom she had assumed they would be sharing.

‘It’s rather poky,’ said Julia, taking a quick glance round the room that Mary found so cosy that it had become her favourite. It was easy to keep warm, the chimney didn’t smoke and the walls were decorated in a very restful shade of green, with sunny little details in gold here and there.

And then, as one, the siblings bid her goodnight and turned away, arm in arm.

She stared at the door they’d shut behind them on their way out.

What was going on?

And then various snippets of conversations she’d had began to trickle into her mind. The one she’d had with Mrs Brownlow, only the day before, about how lords and ladies always had their own bedrooms, dressing rooms and sitting rooms. About how her husband would have the ones that had been his father’s, while she would have the other, prettier set. How she’d sadly accepted that one day, when the rooms were ready, he would move into his and she into hers.

She’d assumed, until that day, things would carry on as they were. But no. He’d stated, quite firmly, that he would be sleeping in that horrid blue room, while she was to sleep alone in here.

The worst of it was she’d look a complete idiot if she voiced a protest. Because she’d said, before they got married, that she wanted her own room. That she valued her privacy.

But privacy, she now realised, was the last thing she wanted. She’d got used to sharing her room with her husband. To sharing her life with him.

No—it was more than that.

Why hadn’t she seen it sooner?

She uttered a strained little laugh. Over the years, watching her father’s brutality towards her mother, she’d feared the power a husband had over his wife. She’d feared the deliberate oppression of a man bent on ruling his household with a rod of iron. And when she’d discovered her own husband wasn’t the kind of man to treat anyone with cruelty, she’d let down her guard completely.

And fallen headlong in love with him.

Which meant he now had the power to hurt her without even noticing. The way he’d done today. Showering his sister with all the affection and attention he would never, ever, give her.

‘Stupid, stupid,’ she muttered to herself as tears welled and seeped down her cheeks.

Why hadn’t she guarded herself against falling in love?

Because she hadn’t expected to do anything so stupid, that’s why. She didn’t even like men, as a rule. But Lord Havelock had entered her life like a whirlwind, sweeping her off her feet and into his arms. Totally overwhelming her with his generous, open nature. His spontaneity. His beautiful face and muscular body. His incredible lovemaking.

But now, like the whirlwind of a man he was, he was sweeping right on past her. His focus was all on his sister now. And she was left standing here alone, pining for a man who’d been completely honest about what he wanted from her from the start. And that didn’t include affection, let alone love.

She’d excused him for not chasing her all over the house now that it was teeming with servants. Had told herself she was imagining he was being a bit more restrained when he came to bed.

But he wasn’t the type of man to exercise restraint. He did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

He was bored with her, that’s what it was. Why else would he have moved into a room of his own?

Unless it was because, from his point of view, the honeymoon was over.

Hadn’t he warned her that his ardour wouldn’t last very long? Oh, he’d couched it in terms of them going off each other, but that was what it boiled down to.

She was, after all, only a mouse.

She sucked in a great, shuddering sigh, swiping angrily at the tears she’d been weak enough to shed.

She’d never realised how boring he must have found it, spending the evenings alone with her, until she’d watched his face transformed by the amusing little anecdotes Julia could supply.

He chose that very moment to knock on the door. She only just had time to dash the back of her hand across her face, to swipe away the few tears she hadn’t been able to prevent from leaking out, before he came in.

The fact that he was grinning, as though he hadn’t a care in the world, felt like a slap to her face. He had no idea how badly he’d hurt her.

Well, of course he hadn’t. She wouldn’t be hurt if she’d managed to stick to the agreement to keep their marriage free from emotion. And she wasn’t going to admit she was hurt either, by things he’d consider stupidly trivial.

She drew herself up to her full height and dammed up the flood of tears she wanted to shed behind a façade of pride.

‘What,’ she said coldly, ‘do you want?’

His smile turned downright wicked. ‘You know perfectly well what I want,’ he said, moving towards her.

But he couldn’t want it all that much any more, or he wouldn’t have decided it was time to have separate rooms.

She held up her hand, stopping him from coming any closer. How long would it be before separate rooms became separate lives altogether? Before they embarked on the second stage of their marriage? The one where they scarcely saw each other any more?

‘It’s not what I want!’

Her outburst wiped the smile from his face. ‘Is something wrong?’

Wrong? Only the fact that she’d just discovered she no longer wanted a room of her own. That she’d be content to live entirely in one room, and cook for him, and do his laundry, and, yes, even wash his dishes without a word of complaint, if only she could be sure she mattered to him. Even half as much as his sister did.

In spite of her determination to avoid the humiliation of bursting into tears, she felt her lower lip start to tremble.

‘Wrong?’ She managed to produce a laugh and a toss of her head. ‘What could possibly be wrong?’

He eyed her up and down dubiously.

‘I don’t know. But I’d have to be blind not to see that something is wrong. You look, ah...’

Suddenly, she became conscious of the frayed hem of her gown and the patches on her petticoat.

‘In need of sprucing up?’

Suddenly, it seemed much easier to let him think he’d offended her with the criticism of her clothing, than to admit she’d breached the terms of their agreement. Temper he would understand. But love? No—to speak of love, when he’d warned her it was the last thing he wanted, would only serve to make her seem utterly ridiculous in his eyes.

‘Yes,’ she therefore said as waspishly as she could manage. ‘You’ve made your point. Don’t worry. I will find a dressmaker locally and smarten myself up so that I don’t offend your neighbours with my shabby clothing.’

‘Look here—I didn’t mean to offend you—’

‘You didn’t!’ And wasn’t that the truth? But by flinging her head high, and letting some of her hurt flash from her eyes, she could give him the impression that he had.

‘Mary...’ He came towards her, hands outstretched, an apologetic expression on his face.

She backed away hastily. For once she let him take her in his arms, she wouldn’t be able to hold herself together any longer. She’d break down and sob into his chest. Like the idiot she was. And, being the man he was, he wouldn’t rest until he’d winkled the truth from her.

And then her humiliation would be complete.

‘That’s far enough,’ she snapped, holding up her hand to halt him. ‘I am not in the mood for...for...’

Actually, that was true, too. She most certainly wasn’t in the mood for the decorous brand of lovemaking that only went on behind closed doors, not any longer. Not when she knew he was capable of so much more.

Not when she wanted so much more.

His face closed up.

‘Forgive me,’ he said, looking very far from apologetic any longer. ‘I have no wish to annoy you. So I’ll take myself off.’ He turned on his heel and stalked to the door. ‘Goodnight,’ he tossed over his shoulder as he went out.

The moment the door snicked shut, her legs gave out, her resolve gave out and the tears flooded out.

How could he just turn and walk away, without making even a token protest? Even a few days ago, he would have done his utmost to cajole her into bed.

But then how could she have hoped to hold his interest? She just wasn’t an interesting person. She was a mouse, that was all. That was why he’d picked her. Because there wasn’t the slightest risk he would ever feel anything for such a creature.

She wasn’t anything special, even if he had made her feel as though she was, for those few, heady days. Of course he’d enjoyed the adventure of the situation. Of foraging for themselves, and letting go of all the restraints society imposed on men and women. It was nothing to do with being stranded, alone, with her.

The only reason she’d had his undivided attention, when they’d first arrived, was because there wasn’t anyone else there.

* * *

For the whole of the following week, every time he knocked at her bedroom door and she turned him away, she told herself she was doing the right thing to make a stand. Not letting him walk all over her and treat her like some plaything he could pick up, or set down, as the whim took him.

Yes—she had the satisfaction of sending him away looking disgruntled. But it was a bittersweet kind of satisfaction. She’d much rather he put up more of a protest. Instead, the way he simply turned and walked away convinced her he just wasn’t interested any more, and that the only reason he did persist in coming to her room was because he wanted an heir. It was the second most important reason he’d given for marrying her.

Every day, she grew more and more unhappy, as he made it perfectly plain in dozens of little ways that he didn’t return a tithe of her feelings.

He was out practically all day, for one thing, galloping all over the countryside with his intrepid sister. They came back full of stories about the people they’d met and the feats they’d performed, all couched in a kind of jargon that was well-nigh incomprehensible to her.

Not that either of them was unkind to her. They just made her feel like the odd one out, so alike were they. It wasn’t just in their looks. They were both happiest outdoors, on horseback, wearing clothes that didn’t fetter their movements.

Whereas she didn’t like going outside at all in winter. Having known what it was to fear being homeless, she relished being able to sit indoors in front of a blazing fire.

She didn’t even need to go into the village to visit a dressmaker. After consulting Mrs Brownlow about who might be suitable, the housekeeper sent for a local woman, who brought fabric samples and pattern books to Mayfield.

The only time Mary left the house was to attend church on Sundays. People flocked round, after the service, for introductions, but Julia was so much more lively that they invariably ended up talking to her, rather than Mary. Especially since they remembered Julia from when she’d been a little girl. Anyway, Mary felt downright uncomfortable when people curtsied to her and called her my lady, when she still felt like an impostor, so tended to hang back, behind her husband and his sister, and let them bear the brunt of local curiosity.

Apart from Sundays, each day fell into the same dreary pattern. She’d drag herself out of bed after hearing her husband and his sister go out and go down to the deserted dining room to eat breakfast alone. She’d listen to Mrs Brownlow’s suggestions for meals, have a fitting, or try on a new outfit, then sit in front of a fire, toasting her toes and wishing she could be content with her new, lazy, luxurious lifestyle.

She could have spent ten times the amount of money she’d laid out on her new clothes and didn’t think her husband would have flinched. Julia was even starting to return her tentative smiles, once she’d realised Mary had no intention of trying to change a single thing about her. She’d even confided, one evening at supper, when Mary had put on the first of her new gowns, that a lot of the trouble with Lady Peverell had stemmed from her attempts to turn Julia into one of those fashionably demure girls who would have done her credit in a ballroom.

Lord Havelock had laughed. ‘You’re a hoyden, Ju. A regular out-and-outer. You’d cause havoc in a ballroom.’

He’d had a sort of fond twinkle in his eye as he said it that showed he was proud of his sister just as she was.

And Mary’s spirits sank even lower. She’d never cause havoc in a ballroom. Why, the first night they’d met, he’d had to virtually drag her out from behind that potted palm.

No wonder he’d thought she was a mouse.

And still did. Because she was acting like one. Putting up with the way he and his sister overlooked her. Putting up with his coolness towards her in the bedroom, too.

What had happened to her determination to make a stand? To her wistful yearning to have some of Julia’s spirit? Hadn’t she decided, the day Julia arrived, that she ought to cease being the kind of woman who let others post her round the country like a parcel?

Spending the days waiting for her husband to come home, only to endure his obvious preference for his sister, was draining what little self-respect she’d ever had.

What was the point in hanging around, hoping he might, one day, come to return her feelings? He’d told her in no uncertain terms it was the last thing he wanted from a wife. And how would she attempt to go about it, anyway? There was nothing about her to attract him. She sat there, night after night, with nothing to add to the conversation apart from domestic trivia that was bound to bore him.

Eventually he would cease knocking on her bedroom door at all. And then what would she do? It made her feel like a condemned woman, waiting for the axe to fall.

And then one night, it all became too much. While she was waiting in her bedroom, half-convinced this would be the night he gave up, her stomach contracted into a cold knot. Sweat beaded her upper lip. For a moment, she thought she might actually be sick.

Head swirling, she tottered to her dressing-table stool and sank down on to it, shutting her eyes.

When the room stopped spinning, she lifted her head and stared bleakly at her wan reflection. She couldn’t go on like this. Enduring his indifference was taking its toll on her health.

And the only way she might, just might be able to recover from this hopelessly painful case of unrequited love would be to remove herself from the situation altogether. Surely, if she spent some time away from him, she’d be able to get used to the idea of living separate lives?

And at least she’d be the one doing the separating. She would be able to leave with her head held high, rather than collapsing in floods of tears if he should be the one to go.

So, when he knocked on the door, she didn’t bother getting up from her stool. Taking her brush in her hand, she began to swipe it through her hair, to disguise the fact that her hands were shaking.

‘Any point in asking if I may stay tonight?’ His face bore the look of resignation he’d adopted after her very first refusal.

‘None,’ she said tartly, carrying on brushing her hair. ‘Though before you go,’ she added hastily, as he turned on his heel, ‘I may as well inform you that I plan to go to London tomorrow.’

‘London?’ He swivelled round, his brows drawing down into a knot. ‘What the devil for?’

Did his frown mean he didn’t want her to leave, after all? Would he ask her to stay? And if he did, would she do it? Would she carry on trying to endure, just so she could be near him?

‘I...’ Well, she couldn’t tell him the truth, could she? That loving a man who was never going to love her back was destroying her.

‘I thought I might buy some more clothes. For...for the Season.’

‘The Season?’ He looked thunderstruck. ‘But you’ve just bought a whole lot of clothes, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. But...’ She did some quick thinking. ‘They have been made by a provincial dressmaker. Society people will know.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought you would want to mingle with society people. Or take part in the Season.’

No. Because he didn’t think she would fit in.

Which was true enough, but, oh, so insulting.

‘It isn’t just for me though, is it? I shall have to start paving the way for Julia to make her come-out, won’t I?’

‘I don’t see that at all,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve plenty of aunts and such who have the entrée into the kind of circles where Julia will find a husband, once she gives any sign of wanting to look for one.’

So, he intended to sideline her even when it came to Julia’s come-out, did he? He was going to get some aunt, with the proper connections, to launch her?

Setting down her hairbrush, she half turned on her stool and glared at him.

‘You promised me I could do as I pleased, as long as I don’t cause a scandal. And I feel like going to London and buying some fashionable clothes. I don’t think that is the slightest bit scandalous. Do you?’

‘No. But, hang it, Julia has only just got here. You leaving so soon may well cause talk. Couldn’t you...wait a bit? And we can all go up together?’

Together? They wouldn’t be together. He would be with Julia and she would be hovering on the fringes. Enduring the pain of being the unwanted, unloved wife in a new location, that was all.

And the fact that he was bringing Julia’s welfare into the equation was the last straw. Julia. Julia. It was always Julia who mattered. Not her.

Well, two could play at that game.

‘And what sort of state is Durant House in, do you happen to know? Will it be fit for her to move into? I really do think it would be better if I went on ahead and checked. After all, one of the reasons you asked me to marry you was to refurbish the place.’

* * *

Hoist with his own petard. He turned and walked over to the fireplace, so she couldn’t see the devastation her words had wrought. He’d known this day would come. Every time he’d knocked on her bedroom door and been turned away, he’d felt it coming closer.

Even so, he hadn’t expected it to hurt so much. Dammit, he’d taken steps to ensure it wouldn’t! He’d deliberately picked a woman who wouldn’t expect too much from him, who wouldn’t nag him for more than he was willing to give. He’d even sat down and spelled out the terms of their marriage, to make sure neither of them would get hurt.

What he hadn’t factored in was that Mary would work her way so far under his skin that hearing she wanted to leave him was like having every single bone removed from his body.

Moodily, he kicked at a smouldering log, sending sparks flying up the chimney, when what he really wanted to do was yell, and rampage up and down, and hit something. But he’d learned his lesson, fighting that second duel. As he’d stood there with the smoking pistol in his hand, watching Wraxton fall to the earth with blood gushing down his neck, he’d known he had to change. Never attempting to keep his temper in check had brought him to the brink of killing a man. He’d grown up, that day. He was no longer a child who might be forgiven for lashing out when people let him down, or hurt him.

Though this was the very reason he had got into the habit of lashing out. His temper had kept people at bay. He’d learned early on that all people did was hurt him, if he let them get close.

Lord, what a fool he’d been to have thought his marriage could be any different, because he’d entered into it with such a cool head and with so little expectation. All marriages ended in misery, one way or another.

Fortunately for Mary, the wave of misery he felt drowned his anger completely. It was no use raging at her and forbidding her to leave. She wouldn’t understand. He had promised her she could come and go as she pleased. That he would let her spend his money as she liked. That he wouldn’t kick up a fuss.

And lord knew, she’d put up with him far longer than any other woman had, before losing her patience.

And none of this was Mary’s fault. She had no idea she was wounding him. So he would take her departure like a gentleman, not a savage. He would be cool and calm. Polite.

When he eventually turned to her, he’d got himself under control. So far under control that he felt as though ice was flowing through his veins, rather than warm, red blood.

‘Just as you wish, of course.’ He could hear the ice that was freezing his insides dripping from his words. ‘I will furnish you with the direction of my man of business. You must send all the bills to him.’

He sauntered past her and made it to the door. Hesitated. Swallowed.

He couldn’t bear the thought of her travelling alone. Of perhaps running into difficulties and having nobody to take care of her. But since she was so independent, so capable, so used to doing everything for herself, she wouldn’t think there was any need. ‘You will take one of the maids with you,’ he bit out. ‘You have an appearance to keep up now you are my viscountess. You cannot go jauntering off all over the place on your own. It won’t do.’