Married: The Virgin Widow (13 page)

For the first time, he noticed a tiny scar to one side of her chin and another extending from the corner of her right eyebrow. How many more scars had Cyrus inflicted on her? How many bruises that had faded from her flesh, but not from her heart? Protective rage swept through him. If only he’d known. If only he’d been there to defend her from his cousin’s cowardly abuse, rather than thousands of miles away, wishing her ill.

Just then Laura’s eyes fluttered open. In a voice husky from sleep with a subtle shade of wariness she asked, “What is the matter? You look so angry.”

Unable to deny his feelings, Ford sought to explain
them instead. “Not with you. With Cyrus…and with myself. When you wrote me that letter breaking our engagement, you hoped I would come looking for you to demand an explanation?”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and gave a faltering nod.

“It was unreasonable and unfair, but part of me clung to the foolish hope you would rescue me.”

How hard had that hope died? Ford shrank from imagining. And what else had died with it? At the very least he owed her an explanation, though it was far too late to change anything.

“I did come looking for you after I got back to England. When I went to your house, your cousin’s wife told me you were already married. She did not say a word about your father’s death. She made it sound as if you’d been eager to wed Cyrus for his fortune.”

“And you believed her,” Laura stared into the dark depths of his eyes. “Because another woman you’d loved and trusted had turned out to be a fortune hunter.”

The notion left Ford shaken. He had never thought of it that way. Was his father’s ruinous second marriage the reason he’d been so quick to condemn Laura as a mercenary fortune hunter?

“I still wanted to find you. But before I could track you down, my creditors descended on me and I had to flee the country.”

Her lower lip quivered. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Words he’d never thought he would hear himself say to her fell from his lips. “So am I.”

For a while they spoke no more, each wrapped in their own painful memories and regrets. Then, slowly,
tentatively, their hands began to move, spreading chaste caresses. Seeking to give comfort and perhaps to find it. But any touch from Laura, no matter how modest, soon had Ford wanting more.

His breath picked up tempo and a hot, thrusting hunger quickened in his loins.

“We should get dressed and go to breakfast.” He tried to pull away from her, though every fibre of his body resisted.

“Is that really what you want?” Laura’s lips arched in a bewitching grin and the sparkle returned to her eyes again. Clearly she found his predicament amusing.

“You know right well
what
I want to do.” He could not resist rubbing against her, sending a shudder of delicious torment through him. “But I promised I wouldn’t until—”

“So you did.” The melodic ripple of laughter in Laura’s voice carried a warm note of sympathy. “And it was kindly done. But I don’t feel sore at all this morning and we
are
on our honeymoon, after all.”

Ford’s body urged him to listen to her and yet…“After everything you’ve told me about your marriage to Cyrus, I want to prove I can be a different kind of husband.”

Her impish grin muted into a bittersweet smile. “You have done very well so far. And I want to be a good wife to you. I hope you don’t think because you saw a little blood it meant you injured me. Believe me, I have suffered much wor—”

Perhaps it was the horrified look on his face that stopped her, or perhaps she had not meant to speak of it and could not bear to.

Before he could urge her to unburden herself, Laura
rushed on, “Besides, if you were to woo me as passionately as you did the other night, it would be the opposite of Cyrus. And I do want to stop thinking about him.”

Though she had provided him with an ideal excuse to do what he very much wanted, Ford’s conscience still nagged at him. “Listen to me. You do not need to prove yourself a dutiful wife by making your body available to me at the slightest sign of interest. Remember how you fought and threatened me on the night of the ball because you thought I was trying to force you? This would only be a different kind of force. Unless you want me as much as I want you, what would be the point?”

The words had scarcely left his mouth before he wondered what had become of his long-held intention to sate himself on Laura’s favors until he tired of her. Looking back, he realised his resolve had been eroding by slow degrees ever since he’d returned to Hawkesbourne. The events and revelations of the past few days had placed a greater strain upon it than it could bear.

At last Laura whispered, “I do…want you, that is. I want to feel the way you made me feel on our wedding night.”

“In that case—” Ford let his hand stray lower to fondle her breast “—I would be delighted to oblige you.”

He set about bedding her slowly and carefully, as if she were made of the most delicate porcelain. Skimming over her skin with his fingertips or his tongue. Drizzling her lips with whisper-light kisses. Employing all his skill and patience, he coaxed her to the brink of release before easing into her. By that time,
his
desire had reached such a hot, pulsing pitch that it took only a few strokes to send them both into shuddering spasms of bliss.

Afterward he held her and stroked her, hoping his body might convey some of the things he could not bring himself to say. He wondered what she was thinking. In the wake of his lovemaking, had memories of her first marriage returned to haunt her? He wished she would tell him more about what she’d suffered from Cyrus. Unburdening herself of those long pent-up fears and hurts might help her begin to heal. But he knew how hard it could be to share such painful secrets.

Perhaps, rather than press Laura to confide in him, he should confide more in her. Caution urged against it, warning him how dangerous that could be. Such revelations put a weapon in the hands of someone he had long mistrusted. Someone he’d given ample cause to use that weapon against him. Someone who had once threatened to destroy him.

As he had several times since their wedding, Ford reminded himself that Laura’s
threat
had been nothing more than a hollow, desperate bluff, to which his shameful actions had driven her. She’d denied any intention of jilting him a second time and she had acted true to her word. Even when circumstances no longer compelled her and he had given her good reason to renounce her promise.

Yet, hard as he tried to believe it, some wary part of him remained unconvinced that her threat had been an idle one.

“Ah, the life of idle pleasure,” mused Laura as she and Ford followed their guide through the public rooms of the Royal Pavilion.

The first had been surprisingly subdued, given the Pavilion’s exotic exterior. Apart from the octagonal shape and the large oriental lantern suspended from the centre of the tent-like ceiling, its elegant simplicity might not have looked out of place in Hawkesbourne.

“Are you referring to his Majesty or to us?” Ford gave a judicious nod as he glanced around a formal entrance hall that was nearly the size of Hawkesbourne’s great ballroom.

“Both, I suppose,” replied Laura. “Are you not getting restless, having no matters of business or estate improvements to occupy your time?”

They skirted a tall ladder, on which a workman perched putting the finishing touches to a row of high arched windows painted with golden dragons.

Ford shook his head in answer to Laura’s question. “My time has been most agreeably occupied these past
few days. Though I will admit there is a stern voice in the back of my mind that grumbles in a disapproving tone now and again. I have been doing my best to ignore it.”

“So you have one of those as well?” Laura directed a sympathetic smile his way. “A miserable nuisance, sometimes, aren’t they?”

Her
disapproving voice had reproached her often during her first marriage, whenever she’d tried to avoid Cyrus or resented his mistreatment of her. It had reminded her how much she owed him and what would have become of her family if not for his intervention.

A searching glint in Ford’s eyes made her fear he was going to ask her about it. She quickly looked away and was relieved to find a new subject of conversation opening before them.

“This,” announced their guide in a pompous tone, “is the Long Gallery. Quite a spectacular sight, is it not?”

The chamber certainly lived up to its title, for it stretched out a vast distance in both directions. After the subdued colors and restrained symmetry of the previous rooms, this one overwhelmed the eye with clashing shades of bright pink, French blue and rich scarlet.

“A spectacle, certainly.” muttered Ford. “A perfect riot of
chinoiserie
. I wonder if there are any porcelain vases left in China.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.” Laura’s gaze flew from the life-size figure of a Chinese man to a huge tasselled lantern to a mirrored wall niche that reflected a china pagoda.

“I suppose I should not complain—” Ford paused to survey the huge painted skylight above them “—since my fortune is built on imports from the Orient. Still, I
wonder what the Chinese traders in Singapore would make of all this. Wrought-iron bamboo, if you please.”

Laura gasped as they emerged from the low-cei-linged gallery into an enormous dining room. The vast dome above them looked to be as high as the tallest part of Hawkesbourne. It was painted to look like a giant tropical tree, viewed from below. A massive chandelier hung down from the centre of the dome, clutched in the claws of a fierce-looking silver dragon.

“That chandelier weighs a full ton,” said their guide. “And it is lit by gas, as are the smaller ones in the corners.”

“I should be afraid to dine at the table beneath it,” Laura whispered to Ford, “for fear the dragon would lose his grip and the whole thing would come crashing down.”

She felt rather relieved when they passed into a pink-and-gold drawing room where more craftsmen were busy painting and gilding the cornices.

When they entered the Grand Salon, Ford pointed to a strange round sofa that sat in the middle of the room. Another large chandelier hung above it suspended from the domed ceiling. “I suppose you would not want to sit there, either.”

“Quite right.” Laura gave an exaggerated shudder. “I’m certain Susannah would go wild for this place—it is so grand and exotic. Does it remind you of India at all? The outside looks like the Indian palaces I’ve seen in pictures.”

“I saw far more of
godowns
and counting houses,” said Ford, “than temples and palaces.”

“One wouldn’t have thought so, to hear the stories you told my sisters when you first came home.”

Ford shrugged. “Those few stories account for every
pleasant or interesting moment I experienced during four years in India. The rest were miserably unpleasant or deadly dull. A great many were both.”

Laura reflected on his words as they strolled through another elegant drawing room, into the magnificent music room. Whenever she had thought of Ford during his long years abroad, she’d always pictured him in opulent, exotic surroundings like the Royal Pavilion, enjoying thrilling adventures and passionate trysts, while she was trapped in a decaying house with a spendthrift, abusive husband. Though Ford had let slip several remarks to contradict her fantasy, only now did it dawn upon her how wretchedly different the truth must have been.

“You’re very quiet,” said Ford as they ambled through the Pavilion gardens later. “Were the nine lotus chandeliers in the music room too much for your nerves or were you appalled by his Majesty’s extravagance and questionable taste?”

“A little of both.” Laura paused to inhale the enticing sweetness of several varieties of lilacs. “I couldn’t help wondering how much that gilded clock in the music room cost, or one of those porcelain lamp stands in the dining room.”

“Hundreds of guineas, certainly,” replied Ford. “A gentlemen at the hotel told me the King has sunk over £700,000 into renovations and additions over the past thirty years. I wonder if he would have made quite so free with such sums if he’d had to earn them?”

Laura gazed back toward the domes and towers of the Pavilion. “If only my father could have been commissioned
to work on this—even a single room. Three thousand pounds would have been a pittance to the King.”

“Your father’s taste was better than this.” Ford gave a dismissive wave toward the Pavilion. “He made an excellent job of that garden temple Cyrus commissioned from him. I agree, though, it would have been a fine thing for your family if he’d found greater success as an architect. Then he might have left you all well enough off that you would not have been obliged to marry a man who did not deserve you.”

Laura flinched. What had possessed her to mention her father’s business? That strayed too far into hazardous territory. She’d already told Ford too much. He was a skilled, considerate lover and a most congenial companion when he chose. That did not mean she dared trust him with any more of her secrets.

“That is all water under the bridge, now.” She tried to make light of it. “I am curious to hear more about your time in India. Not the tales you spun to amuse my sisters, but what it truly was like for you.”

For a moment she was not sure Ford would answer. He seemed as eager to talk about his experiences in India as she was to talk about her marriage to Cyrus. Then a strange look crossed his face and he began to speak.

“I have nothing against the country itself, for it has many wonders. It is so ancient, so mysterious and such a place of extremes. But I hated it for being so different and so far from home. It did not help that I had no money and was determined to starve before I would borrow any.”

“But you found employment?” Laura asked anxiously, then caught herself. “Obviously you must have, or you would never have made your fortune.”

Ford nodded. “I would not be here now if I had failed to find employment. Those first years, I often thought I would never live to set eyes on England or you again.”

“The work was dangerous?”

“Living was dangerous. The snakes, the weather, the tropical diseases. Big, bold rats that grunt like pigs and will chew a man’s hair off while he sleeps.”

Laura gave a shudder of revulsion at the thought of such creatures.

“I did find work at the Company factory,” Ford continued, “and showed enough initiative that I was soon promoted. The climate didn’t sap me of all ambition, like most men.”

“I remember you told us about sleeping in the middle of the day because it was too hot to do anything else.” She recalled how his talk of lying naked under his bed-netting had made her blush.

Ford gazed out over a swathe of blue forget-me-nots, but his thoughts seemed half a world away. “During the hottest months, it is like having a perpetual fever. Tempers flare over the most ridiculous trifles. I swear there are more assaults and murders during
The Hot
than through the whole rest of the year combined. When the rains first come it feels like sublime deliverance, but you soon discover you’ve only traded arid dusty heat for the sultry, steaming kind. For a while after the monsoons break the climate is bearable, then everything begins to bake again.”

As he spoke, Laura could almost feel that hellish heat. The pleasant June sunshine seemed to bore through her parasol, scorching her skin and parching her tongue.

Once Ford began talking, some long-locked door inside him seemed to open. Only a cautious crack at
first, but gradually wider and wider until Laura was not certain he could have stopped if he tried.

He spoke of his employment, so monotonous until he began to understand the workings of foreign trade and to see how he might profit from it. He told of the extreme measures he had taken to save as much of his salary as possible—living in the meanest little room he could find, eating the local food, which was cheap and nourishing but which most other Europeans disdained. How he had fallen ill from a fever and almost died, alone and friendless, thousands of miles from home.

Though he did not mention it directly, loneliness and heartache infused every word of his account, at least to Laura’s ears. In a way, she welcomed his willingness to confide such painful memories she was certain he’d never shared with anyone else. She felt herself coming to know him far better than she had during their youthful courtship. She could not help but sympathise with all he had been through and admire the fortitude he’d shown in soldiering on.

When Ford’s voice trailed off at last, as if every word on the subject had been wrung from him, she slipped her hand into his and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “The past seven years have not been easy for either of us, have they?”

A shudder went through Ford, as if he were waking from a trance. But he swiftly regained his composure. Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, he gave a wry chuckle. “You are a mistress of understatement, my dear.”

By unspoken agreement, they made their way out of the Pavilion gardens and headed back toward the inn, where a ball was to be held that evening.

After they had walked some distance in thoughtful
silence, Laura ventured to share a little of what was on her mind. “I was fortunate to have the closeness of a beloved family to sustain me and provide a reason to persevere. What kept you going through all your trials to achieve such great success?”

A peculiar expression gripped Ford’s features as he considered her question, as if he were torn by several powerful, contradictory emotions, all of which he wished to hide from her.

When he finally answered, his words sounded carefully chosen. “What kept me going? The determination to see Hawkesbourne once more, I suppose. And to make myself worthy of the Kingsfold title, should I be fortunate enough to inherit it.”

Laura quelled a foolish yearning to hear that he’d been sustained by an unbidden thought of her or a forlorn hope they might be reunited. Taking care to mask her disappointment, she replied, “You certainly succeeded in your aim. I have no doubt your ancestors would be proud of what you have accomplished.”

He gave a gruff chuckle. “Contrary to Lord Henry Dearing’s opinion that dabbling in trade disgraces my title?”

“Lord Henry is a proud, foolish old man who could not do an honest day’s work to keep himself from starving.” Laura wished the gentleman were present so she could give him a piece of her mind. “I sometimes wonder if they aren’t half-starving over at Bramberley to maintain that mouldering monument to their glorious ancestors.”

“Perhaps the marquis should marry Miss Crawford.” Ford held open the door of the inn for his bride. “Before some other debt-ridden nobleman beats him to it.”

“That would certainly make Mrs Crawford happy,” said Laura as they climbed the stairs. “It might even reconcile her to the disappointment of her son marrying my sister.”

“What in blazes is wrong with your sister?” Ford bridled. “She is sweet tempered, kind hearted and a beauty into the bargain. Crawford will be a lucky man to get her. If that jumped-up mother of his thinks otherwise, I shall be only too happy to set her straight.”

The thought of such an encounter brought an impish grin to Laura’s lips. At the same time, Ford’s fierce defence of Belinda warmed her heart. It was clear that, unlike Mrs Crawford and her ilk, he valued personal character above fortune or pedigree.

They continued to make light conversation as they dressed for the evening, then ate dinner. Afterward they passed several enjoyable hours at the ball.

“Here is one more advantage to forfeiting my bachelorhood that I never considered,” said Ford as he led Laura through the steps of a jaunty quadrille.

“What might that be?” She sensed a compliment coming.

Ford did not disappoint her. “Being at perfect liberty to monopolise the favors of the most beautiful lady present, without causing a ripple of scandal.”

Through the evening, as she danced, partook of the refreshments and basked in Ford’s flattering attention, Laura continued to reflect on what he had told her that afternoon. Little wonder he had been so angry with her for causing his exile. he’d suffered far worse than she had.

Cyrus’s abuse had left scars, but her life had never
been in danger. She’d remained in familiar surrounding, in the company of her loved ones…most of them at least. In recent years, she’d had to live frugally. But she had not been obliged to labour under harsh conditions to pay off old debts and earn her fortune. All she’d had to do was jilt the poor man she loved and marry a wealthy one instead. And all the while, she’d pitied herself, blaming Ford for the consequences of a decision
she
had made.