Regency Surrender: Scandal And Deception. Marguerite Kaye
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 at the display and shook his head. ‘So cold, all of it. Cold as the grave.’
As 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