His Lady Mistress (16 page)

Several answers suggested themselves to Verity, only to be rejected. Lady Arnsworth was Max’s aunt. Rudeness would not be fair to him.

‘And there is one other subject upon which I must do my duty,’ said Lady Arnsworth.

Already Verity had learnt that when Almeria Arnsworth spoke of duty, then it was bound to be something unpleasant.

‘The marriage bed.’

Verity set her cup and saucer down with a rattle like musket fire. ‘I…don’t think…that is to say, I should not wish you to feel that you must—’

Lady Arnsworth silenced her with a glare. ‘Whatever has already taken place, I feel it my duty to apprise you of the very different expectations a gentleman has of his wife, as opposed to his…’ she shuddered delicately ‘…his mistress.’

Verity’s face ignited.

‘In his wife,’ continued Lady Arnsworth, ‘a gentleman seeks a mother for his heirs. A gracious hostess. In short, he requires a lady.’ Her tone suggested that Max was probably indulging optimism too far if he expected that, but she carried on, regardless.

‘In the case of my nephew it would be most unreasonable to expect that he will not continue to seek his amusements elsewhere. Gentlemen such as Blakehurst prefer to take their pleasures
outside
the marriage bed. A lady will not notice these things. Her duty is fulfilled in conceiving heirs. A lady accepts her duty quietly. She understands that any sort of…of wanton response…any display of—’ here Lady Arnsworth closed her eyes and breathed deeply ‘—animal lust, will give her husband an ineradicable disgust of her. For that he seeks the creatures of the bordello.
Not
the sanctity of the marriage bed.’

Max’s savage words came back to Verity.
You’re eager enough, I’ll say that for you.
Pain coiled inside her as un
derstanding came. She had given herself, body, heart and soul—only to disgust him.
You never thought he loved you. You didn’t expect that.

But she had longed for his affection. She thought he had offered that. That in making love to her as he had…
He thought he was taking a mistress. A whore.

The carpet blurred and a chill stole through her. Dimly she realised that Lady Arnsworth was still speaking. None of it penetrated. Only the dreadful knowledge that she had forever alienated Max. She had hoped that in time he would forgive her for what she had done.

‘I hope I have made myself quite clear, Niece.’

Vaguely she realised that a response was necessary.

‘Yes. Thank you. Most clear.’ She stood up and managed a wobbly smile. ‘If you will excuse me, Lady Arnsworth, I shall retire now. It has been such a long day and I am quite weary.’

A cold nod was the only reply.

‘Goodnight then, ma’am. And thank you for your advice.’ That stung, but after all, no woman liked seeing her family embroiled in a shocking scandal. She rose and headed for the door.

‘The bell pull is by the chimney.’

Verity turned and looked. So it was. ‘Yes?’ Had she forgotten something else? Some appalling shibboleth that would set the household by the ears?

‘You should ring for Henty. She will conduct you to your chamber.’

Verity blanched. She had spent the previous two days being shown over the house by the housekeeper, Mrs Henty. The woman’s thinned mouth and cold answers had made her opinion of the master’s bride unmistakable.

‘That’s quite all right, ma’am. I dare say she has enough to do without that. She pointed out my chamber yesterday. I’m sure I can find it.’ She forced another smile. ‘Thank you.’ She closed the door behind her carefully and stood breathing
deeply. Then she heard voices. Masculine voices. She whirled, every sense alert. Max and Richard coming up to the drawing room. The thought of facing Max, with Lady Arnsworth’s summation of a lady’s duty an open wound, appalled her. Gathering up her skirts, she fled.

Lady Arnsworth opened fire as Max and Richard walked into the drawing room. ‘Your bride declined to keep me company, Max. She has retired for the night. After all my efforts on her behalf! It passes all bounds! Really, Max! Was marriage necessary? It seems to me—’

‘Almeria.’

She pursed her lips. ‘Yes, Max?’

‘Marriage was necessary.’

Her lip curling, Lady Arnsworth snapped, ‘Any girl who gets herself into that situation deserves—’

‘Enough.’ Max spoke far more sharply than he intended, but at least it stopped Almeria’s tirade. He felt guilty. Despite the length of table between them at dinner, he was willing to bet that Verity had scarcely eaten a mouthful. The memory of her white face flayed him. Almeria had lost no opportunity to point out her shortcomings, all under the guise of instructing the new Lady Blakehurst. There had been nothing to which he could take exception, but by the time the meal ended Verity had been paler than her simple gown of ivory silk.

A half-drunk cup of tea caught his eye. Damn. She hadn’t even finished that.

‘Max! A game of euchre?’ Richard’s patient voice suggested that he had asked at least once already.

Euchre! Refusal was on the tip of his tongue, but he caught sight of Almeria’s stiff face. Reluctantly, he agreed. Without a fourth their options were limited and it was vital that Almeria was mollified before returning to London in the morn
ing, otherwise her tongue could do untold damage to the new Lady Blakehurst’s reputation.

He’d vowed to protect Verity. He’d deal with her eating habits later.

After several wrong turnings, Verity finally found the right corridor and what she hoped was the right door. She remembered the portrait of a very sour-faced lady hanging beside the door from her tour with the housekeeper. Naturally before her marriage she had slept in one of the guest chambers, not the Countess’s chamber.

She opened the door and wondered if she
had
found the right room, or if she had misheard Mrs Henty. This was a sitting room, not a bedchamber. But all the lamps were lit, as if in preparation for someone.

Hesitantly she went in, trying to remember what the woman had said when she pointed the room out. They hadn’t gone in.
The mistress’s apartments, my lady. His lordship is at the end of the corridor.
Verity had shied away from going in.

Apartments. So this must be the right room. A door stood slightly ajar on the far side. Wondering at the softness of the richly patterned carpet under her slippered feet, Verity went to peep through the other door. Her eyes widened. Surely such a huge and sumptuous bedchamber couldn’t be meant for her. Could it?

A very shabby nightgown lying across the neatly turned-down bed, assured her that this was most definitely her chamber. She felt hot with embarrassment that the maid who unpacked should have seen her pathetic night attire. She could just imagine the tittering and whispers in the servants’ hall. It would not take long for the truth of her marriage to reach the ears of the servants. Servants always knew everything.

Looking around, she discovered her father’s campaign chest in a corner. Its battered, travel-scarred timber looked completely out of place in the elegance of this room. A tear trickled down her cheek and she wiped it away with a shaking hand. Even here in her bedchamber she dared not weep. It
was her wedding night. Any moment Max might come through the door connecting their bedchambers—she glanced at the gilt clock on the marble chimney piece—and, then again, he might not.

It wouldn’t be Max anyway. Instead of Max, her tender lover and protector, she had Lord Blakehurst—her cold, polite husband. And the thought of sharing a bed with
him
terrified her. She had disgusted him. He thought her little better than a whore. She shuddered. He might not be far wrong, but she could not bear to have him touch her in that way. She had to convince him that he was wrong, that she had not intended to trap him and that, despite appearances, she was not a whore. And how she was to convince
him
of that, when she couldn’t convince herself, was beyond her ken.

Hurrying out of her wedding gown, she washed and pulled her nightgown over her head, grateful for its voluminous size and shape. She stared unhappily at the bed. It looked comfortable and cosy with its silk counterpane and rich hangings. And it looked far too large for her.

She could sit by the fireplace, until she felt sleepy. Methodically she moved around the room, turning down the lamps until the room was lit only by her bedside lamp. Settling in the chair, she shivered a little. She had achieved her aim: she was safe. Safe from poverty and bullying. She would doubtless have every material benefit that could be gained from her marriage. Surely she could learn to be happy, to count her blessings?

Safety—wasn’t that the main thing? Her gaze travelled around the room again, noting the luxurious furnishings, the richly draped windows and matching bed hangings. Hers now. She looked again. They didn’t feel like hers. The elegance of the room mocked her, demanding to know how a little provincial nobody could be worthy of all this. More tears fell.

She wriggled more closely into the security of the chair. Perhaps she should light the fire…

‘I trust these apartments are to your liking, madam.’

The deep drawl jerked her out of a doze. Her husband stood in the doorway which presumably led to his own bedchamber.

Apparently there were worse things than finding your bride tucked up in bed waiting for you. Like seeing her huddled by a fireplace with no fire. He remembered that cold, bleak little room at the Faringdons’.

The fire was set. All she’d had to do was touch a flame to it. Why didn’t she? He marched over to the fireplace and bent down. A moment later flames hissed and crackled in the grate. Then he saw what she was wearing. Good God! ‘What the devil is that thing?’ he growled. He frowned as she tensed and huddled into the chair.

‘I was about to go to bed. It’s my nightgown.’

Feeling ridiculous, he snapped, ‘I can see it’s a nightgown. Why didn’t Almeria buy some new ones for you while she was spending my money?’ The moment the words left his lips he knew he’d said the wrong thing.

The dark eyes narrowed. ‘Thank you, my lord. This is perfectly adequate for my needs. After all, nobody will see it.’

His brows lifted. ‘Quite.’ Then he cursed himself as her cheeks flamed and he remembered his reason for coming to her. Even in that ghastly, all-enveloping abomination, her slender frame looked as though a breath of wind might blow it away.

‘Did you ring for some supper? You barely touched your dinner.’

‘Yes.’

He’d seldom heard a lie so spontaneous. How he knew it for a lie, he didn’t know. He didn’t bother arguing. He just stalked to the chimney piece and tugged on the bell pull.

‘What are you doing?’ she demanded.

‘Sending for your supper!’ he growled. And wondered at
himself. He’d come prepared to be polite, gentle even. How was it that she tipped him off balance so badly?

She flushed, then paled. ‘There is no need to bother your staff, my lord. I…I wasn’t hungry anyway.’

‘Then you damn well should have been,’ he said. ‘Sulking won’t solve anything.’

‘I am
not
sulking!’ The fury in her voice shook him, but it was at least better than the utter lifelessness that had gripped her. ‘And I’m perfectly capable of deciding when I need to eat!’

‘Of course you are,’ he said, hanging on to his own temper by a thread. ‘So I’ll tell whoever comes to send up some apples and bread and cheese that you can eat whenever you decide you want it.’ Something simple. He didn’t want her to starve, but he was damned if he’d make more work for the staff just because she wouldn’t eat her dinner.

Her mouth opened and shut again. ‘Apples?’ she asked.

He nodded warily. Was she about to rip up at him again?

‘And bread and cheese?’ All the anger had drained out of her voice, leaving an odd wistful note.

‘Er, yes.’ Something tore in his chest. Were those tears in her eyes? Before he could be certain she turned away.

‘Thank you, my lord. It’s…it’s very kind of you. It was just that…I’m sorry. I’m sure the dinner was lovely, but all those sauces…and I wasn’t really very hungry.’

Kind? Grimly he reminded himself of what her life had been like. He remembered being unable to stomach a large, rich meal himself after years of campaigning in the Peninsula.

‘Perhaps you would add to your kindness, my lord.’

He stiffened. Damn. He might have known she would try to twist his momentary lapse to her advantage. What now did she want?

‘Possibly,’ he temporised.

‘I would prefer to request the food myself.’

He frowned, hesitated. Her voice sounded so controlled—expressionless.

‘Do I have your word of honour that you will have some food brought up and that you will eat it?’

She nodded, still with her back to him.

‘Your word, madam,’ he insisted.

Very slowly she turned to face him. ‘My word of honour?’ The bleakness in her eyes and the taut line of her mouth stabbed at him.

‘Yes,’ he said. He must ensure she ate something and, deep down, he knew if she gave her word she would keep it.

She held his gaze. ‘You have it. For what it’s worth to you. Goodnight, my lord.’

‘Your servant, madam.’ He bowed and left. Closing the connecting door behind him, he leaned against it, wondering…
For what it’s worth to you…
What in Hades did she mean by that? That he
couldn’t
count on her keeping her word? No. That wasn’t it. She had meant something quite different. Did she think
he
would place no value on her word?

The best thing he could do was have a very large brandy and go to bed. Once he got used to the fact that she was asleep in the next room it wouldn’t be so bad, and once his body became used to the idea that he would have to maintain complete control of himself in any visit to his wife’s bed.

Chapter Eight

T
wo hours later Max was still awake. Furious with his idiocy, he glared at the connecting door. He had made his decision, dash it all! He was
not
visiting her bed tonight. He’d heard Mrs Henty come up. Twice. Which meant that she’d brought up some food. By now Verity would have eaten it. She’d be sound asleep.