Secrets of the Heart (8 page)

“Nor can I,” Rachel responded wryly. No one else in her family would have behaved so, she knew. Even Caroline, who was the closest to her in all the world, had been aghast when she learned what Rachel had done. Dev, of course, would never have agreed to marry to please his parents in the first place.

Lady Ravenscar glanced at her sharply, unsure whether her daughter was being inappropriately flippant. Rachel was saved from having to make a response by a tap upon the door, followed by the entrance of one of the parlor maids.

The girl gave them a polite curtsey and delivered her message. “Lord Westhampton requests Miss Aincourt's presence in the conservatory, if you please.”

Lady Ravenscar looked alarmed, and as soon as the maid exited the room, she turned her worried gaze on Rachel. “You don't suppose he is going to take back his offer to continue with the wedding, do you?”

A frisson of fear ran down Rachel's back. “No,” she said stoutly, as much to reassure herself as her mother. “Lord Westhampton would not go back on his word.”

“You had better hope so.” Her mother looked her over critically, shaking Rachel's skirt out on one side and picking a small piece of lint from the shoulder of her dress. “In any case, I trust you will be appropriately apologetic.”

“I will.” The weight of her guilt was still like a physical burden upon her shoulders.

Rachel went down the stairs and along the spacious hallway to Westhampton's study. The door stood open, and Lord Westhampton was inside, his back to her. Rachel paused for a moment, steeling herself, then stepped inside.

He turned at the sound of her approach, and their eyes met, then dropped quickly away. “Miss Aincourt. Thank you for joining me.”

He gestured toward one of the chairs, and as Rachel walked toward it, he closed the door and came back to where she sat and took a seat across from her.

“I, ah, I wish you had told me, Miss Aincourt.”

“I'm sorry.” Rachel's eyes flew to his, and her hands curled into themselves in her lap. “I did not mean for that to happen. When I accepted you, I intended to marry you. I was not—” She paused, the breath suddenly running out of her so that she had to make an inelegant little gulp. “I was not even going to see him again.”

“Still, it would have been…easier if I had known.”

“I know,” Rachel agreed miserably. “I am sorry.”

“It—well, it hasn't turned out well. Not as I had hoped. Or you, I'm sure.”

“No.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Miss Aincourt…I want you to know…” Michael paused, then abruptly rose to his feet and began to pace. “I am making a hash of this. What I want to know is, is your father compelling you to say yes to me? I have no desire to force you to marry me. Or for you to feel obliged to do so. We can make an announcement—you may cry off, if you wish.”

Rachel looked up at him, tears swimming in her eyes. He was offering her a way out, not a perfect one, but a far better one than her elopement. If she cried off, everyone would assume that he had done something to cause her to; he was offering to bear the blame for her.

“No,” she responded in a choked voice. “I do not want to break it off. Father was right. Even An—Mr. Birkshaw admitted it. He needs to marry well. I know there is no—Anyway, I am a more responsible person, I hope, than I have appeared to be so far. I know that I have given you little reason to trust me, but I promise you that I will never do anything like that again.” She paused, then added uncertainly, “Unless, that is, you have changed your mind and would prefer to break it off?”

“I have not changed my mind.” Michael glanced at her, then away. It occurred to Rachel that he could not bear to look at her for longer than a few seconds, and the knowledge made her heart swell even more with guilt and sorrow.

“Marrying would be the best thing for us to do,” Westhampton went on, his voice distant and calm. “I know that it is hard for you. It—is not easy for me, either. But it will prevent any gossip, and you have said that you cannot marry, um, as you wish.”

Rachel nodded, clasping her hands in her lap and gazing steadfastly down at them. “Yes. It would be best.”

“Knowing how you feel…that is, given the situation…naturally I would not expect, a, um…It would not be a true marriage, of course. I would not press you. We would not share a bedroom.”

Startled, Rachel glanced up at him.
Was he saying that those things her mother had talked about would not happen?
Surprise shot through her, followed by relief. Then she realized, with another pang of guilt and even hurt, that Westhampton was saying this because he no longer wanted her. She had killed his love by her disgraceful actions. She wondered if he despised her now, if he was disgusted by her.

She told herself that of course he must be. She had hurt and humiliated him, yet he felt obliged to marry her in order to save his family's good name from a scandal that she had created. How could he feel anything but dislike for her? It was simply that he was too much a gentleman to tell her so.

“I see,” she responded inadequately.

“I hope that you will not find the burden of marriage too onerous,” Michael went on in the same stiff voice. “However, I have one…stipulation, I suppose I should say. My family's reputation is important to me, and I will not—I
cannot
—allow it to be besmirched.”

Red stained Rachel's cheeks, and she said in a low voice, “Please, my lord, I am so sorry. I promise you, I would not do anything to hurt your name or reputation. I realize that I have acted in such a way as to make you think that I am…irresponsible, even dissolute. But, please, believe me, it was an aberration.”

“I do believe so. I know that you are a woman of honor. But, painful as it is for both of us, I must have your assurance that you will not see Mr. Birkshaw again.”

Rachel's head flew up, her face horrified. “No! I would not. Lord Westhampton, I will do nothing to harm your good name. I would not break our wedding vows. I swear it to you.”

His face was unreadable, his jaw clenched tightly. “I believe you. But not even the faintest appearance of impropriety can—”

“Of course not.” She rose, her fists clenched in determination. “I promise you—on whatever you like—that I will not see Mr. Birkshaw again. I will not talk to him or write to him. I know how kind you have been to me, how easily you could have left me to the contumely of the world. I would never repay you that way. I will never dishonor you. Or myself.”

“Thank you.” The smile Michael gave her was more a twisting of his lips than any genuine smile. He took a step backward. “Well, then. Until tomorrow.”

 

That had been the tone of their marriage ever since—formal, slightly awkward and distant. It had been a relief, of course, not to be expected to take her place in Michael's bed. Her heart was broken, and she could not imagine how horrible it would have been to have had to pretend to be in love with her new husband, to let him have his way with her when the thought of even kissing someone besides Anthony turned her to ice inside. She had been grateful to Michael and remained so, but she could not help but feel sometimes as though she had missed out on the most important aspect of life. She had no children. She was not, in any real sense, a wife. Their marriage was such a sham that even the thought of spending the night in the same room with Michael was embarassing to them both.

Rachel glanced back at the room she had just left and wished, not for the first time, that she had not been so foolish that night seven years ago.

F
or at least the tenth time that evening, Rachel glanced over at the graceful ormolu clock that adorned the mantel of the music room. It seemed as though its hands had sped up for the last few minutes, racing toward the time when everyone would decide to leave the room and retire. Her stomach had been a knot of nerves all through the evening, dreading the moment, and she had barely been able to enjoy the conversation with her family or the songs that Veronica and Gabriela had played for them. Indeed, she had felt only half there, the rest of her mind occupied with what she would do when she and Michael climbed the stairs to their room.

She thought about the maid helping her to undress with Michael right there in the room with them, and she blushed at the idea. It would be completely humiliating, of course, and yet…something odd stirred low in her abdomen at the thought. She could not help but wonder how Michael would react to the sight. Would he watch? Would he turn away, polite and disinterested? Indeed, did he ever think about the strangeness of their private life?

Rachel was no longer quite the naive girl she had once been. She had never had any actual experience of the marital act, of course, but over the years she had heard a good bit from other married women who had assumed that she shared in their knowledge of men and the marriage bed. Like her mother's speech, their conversation was usually couched in euphemisms that hindered learning, but she thought she had come to have, more or less, a basic understanding of what went on.

Apparently men were more interested in the act than their wives, she had decided from the comments of her friends and acquaintances, so much so that they often broke their marriage vows by having affairs and mistresses—sometimes, amazingly, to the relief of their spouses. However, she had also gleaned that there were a fair number of other women who enjoyed the attentions of their husbands. And in the past few months, she had been witness to the fact that Miranda and Jessica seemed to take as great a delight in passion as did Dev and Richard. She found her mind turning to the matter more and more often lately, wondering what her reaction would be to lovemaking, whether she would revel in the pleasure—as Miranda obviously did, given the way her mouth curled up and her eyes took on a certain gleam when she alluded to the act that had gotten her with child—or would, like her mother, view it with cool disdain and resignation.

There was a vast difference between Jessica's and Miranda's situations and hers, of course. They both loved their husbands deeply and were loved by them in return, whereas she and Michael—Well, she was not sure quite what lay between her and Michael, but clearly it was not love. A kind of friendship, she supposed, despite the awkwardness that often hindered them. Certainly she knew that she could depend on him, and there had been times when she had gone to him with a knotty problem. Rachel admired and respected him more than any man she knew. But none of those things involved the sort of heart-stopping emotion she had felt for Anthony Birkshaw those many years ago.

Still, he was the only man in her life. She had not seen Anthony since their ill-fated elopement, just as she had promised Michael, and there would never be any other man. She would never do anything to betray Michael or sully his name.

Therefore, she knew, if ever she was to experience what normally occurred between a man and woman, it would have to be with Michael. So when she thought now and then—with strangely increasing frequency, it seemed—about how it might feel to kiss a man or to feel his hands upon her, it was Michael whom she imagined herself with. It seemed an odd and unlikely thing, however, and at the times when her thoughts strayed in that direction, she was quick to pull them back.

It was silly, really, to think about what she was missing. She knew many a married woman who would have told her that she was lucky, that she had all the advantages of a married lady and none of the difficulties. It was probably true, she knew. It was just that sometimes, like tonight, she could not help but wonder what it would be like to…to have Michael watch her as the maid removed her dress until she was standing in next to nothing…or to have him take the brush from her hand and begin to brush her long, thick hair himself, as she had heard Miranda once say Devin did…or to lie with him beside her in the bed, to hear the steady rhythm of his breathing and feel the warmth of his large, masculine body.

She felt a faint flush creep into her cheeks at her thoughts, and she glanced across the room at Michael. Now that Veronica and Gabriela had quit entertaining them at the piano, he was listening to Miranda describe the renovations she had set in motion around the house. Rachel watched as he nodded, smiling, at something Miranda said, and leaned forward to speak earnestly to her. Around the others of her family, Rachel had noted, Michael was rarely as reticent as he was with her. His gray eyes were alight with interest, and his firm, well-cut lips curved up into a smile.

He was a handsome man, she thought—not devastatingly so, as her brother was, for Dev's green-eyed, black-haired good looks were the sort that made women swoon—but Michael was agreeable to look at, nevertheless. His hair was dark blond, streaked through, particularly in the summer, with lighter strands, and his gray eyes were wide and intelligent. And his mouth was really quite attractive, she thought, with that small scar near the corner that gave his well-bred face a hint of devilishness when he smiled.

Rachel wondered how he would react if he knew what she was thinking. Did he ever regret the decision he had made not to share her bed? Or wonder what it would be like if their marriage was different? She wondered if he had thought about tonight, when they would go up to the same room, and if he had, whether he'd felt the same strange flutter of nerves in his stomach that she did.

So deep in her thoughts was Rachel that she did not notice that Jessica was speaking to her until the second time she said, “Rachel? Did you hear me?”

Rachel started and glanced over at her friend. “What? I'm sorry—were you speaking to me?”

Jessica laughed good-naturedly. “Yes, I was, actually. But I'm afraid I must have been putting you to sleep.”

Rachel blushed. “No, of course not. I apologize for my rudeness.”

“No need. You are doubtless sleepy, as I am.”

Dev, listening to them, added, “We have all turned into country folk, I fear. Here I find I get up about the time I used to be going to bed in London. The light is too good in the morning to waste.”

Rachel smiled at her brother. “I am so glad you have returned to your painting. The work you have done the past few months is beautiful.”

He smiled. “Thank you. But it is all due to Miranda, you know.” He turned toward where his wife sat, gesturing enthusiastically as she talked to Michael, and the look on his face told Rachel everything she needed to know about his happiness. “Look at her. Have you ever seen such a woman? I think she is talking about crop rotation now.” Dev chuckled. He looked at Rachel and added more soberly, “It was a good turn you did me when you steered me in her direction.”

“I am so glad,” Rachel answered honestly.

“Now if only—” he began impulsively, then stopped.

“If only what?”

Dev shook his head. “Nothing. I find sometimes that Miranda rubs off on me and I want to step in where I have no business.”

A little self-consciously, he turned away and raised his voice to speak to his wife across the room, “Miranda, my love, I know that you never tire, but you might have some sympathy for poor Michael. He has ridden a long way today, and I suspect he would like to seek his bed.”

Miranda looked instantly contrite. “Oh! I am so sorry, Michael! I did not think. It was so wonderful to have someone to talk to who was interested in such things that I quite forgot you must be tired.”

“I was far too intrigued by what you were saying,” Michael assured her, smiling. “However, I imagine that you probably need your sleep.”

“I am never tired,” Miranda protested, then cast a smile at her husband and added, “However, Dev worries—far more than is necessary, but I try to indulge him.”

She rose as she spoke, and as abruptly as that, the evening was over. The others began to rise, smiling and saying their good-nights to one another. Rachel's pulse skittered wildly, though she managed, she hoped, to keep her face perfectly calm.

Michael came over to where she stood and extended his arm to her. Rachel curled her hand around his arm, hoping that he could not feel the trembling of her fingers, and walked with him out of the room. Behind them came Dev and Miranda, talking happily to each other and now and then chuckling. Rachel searched her mind for something to say to break the silence between her and Michael, but she could think of nothing that did not pertain to the fact that they were climbing the stairs to the bedroom that they would share. The more she tried to think of something else, the more it occupied her mind. The silence between them grew until it seemed solid and huge. Rachel was certain that the others must notice, and that thought made her feel even more uncomfortable.

Michael stepped aside politely at their door for her to enter first, then came inside and closed the door behind him. Rachel turned to face him; her hands felt like ice.

Michael walked over to the door of the dressing room and glanced inside. “Good,” he said, his voice far calmer and more matter-of-fact than Rachel felt. “They have set up the camp bed for me.” He turned back to face her. “You can ring for your maid if you wish. I will go down to the library and find a book to read, so you can have your privacy.”

“Oh. Of course. Thank you.” Rachel wondered why she had not thought of the solution herself. It was quite simple, really, and removed much of the awkwardness from their situation.

Michael nodded and walked to the door. He paused, not looking at her, his hand on the knob, and said, “Good night.”

“Good night.” Rachel watched him as he opened the door and left the room.

It was a great relief, she thought, to have the situation solved so easily. She could always count on Michael. And the odd feeling inside her was not regret, of course, but simply leftover agitation from the long evening of worrying over the matter.

With a sigh, Rachel pulled the bellpull for the maid.

 

Michael walked quietly down the stairs toward the library. It had been one of the hardest things he had ever done to walk so calmly out of Rachel's room. All evening he had been thinking about the night that lay before him—the long hours of lying only a few yards from where Rachel slept alone in her bed. He knew it would be a miracle if he got any sleep tonight; he would be thinking of nothing but Rachel's soft warmth so close to him and how simple it would be to walk over to her bed and slide beneath the sheets.

He had every right; he was her husband. No one would think the worse of him; no one would even know. Except Rachel, of course…But then, she was all that mattered.

He would never do it, he knew. He had promised Rachel long ago that he would not, and the passage of time did not make his promise any less valid. He had hoped, of course, that she would change, that she would warm to him and welcome his touch, but that had never happened. He felt sure that she would be appalled if he came to her bed tonight.

He could not take advantage of the situation, which meant that he would spend a long, tiring and deeply unsatisfying night plagued by thoughts of her nearness. He was already thrumming with lust, knowing that as he walked to the library and looked for a book, she was upstairs getting undressed and brushing out her hair. This whole evening, he had been thinking of just how much he would like to send her maid packing and do the job himself. He had imagined unhooking the back of her gown and pushing the sides apart, touching the skin of her back, softer than even the satin of her dress. He had thought what it would be like to press his lips to that back, to slide his hands around to her front and up….

He had, quite frankly, heard almost none of the music the girls played and even less of what Miranda had said. His mind had been incapable of concentrating on anything except what he was firmly resolved not to do.

Inside the library, he turned the wick of his lamp higher and carried it with him to the far wall of the library, where books rose in shelves far above the top of his head. Michael meandered along, scanning the spines for something that would interest him enough to keep his mind off Rachel. He was finding it difficult to find such a book.

“Well, Michael…” A man's voice spoke behind him, and Michael whirled around, startled.

The Duke of Cleybourne stood in the doorway of the library, arms crossed and a sardonic smile on his face.

“Cleybourne,” Michael said a trifle warily. “You startled me. I am surprised to see you here.”

“So am I,” Richard agreed, strolling farther into the room and closing the door behind him. “Frankly, I prefer to be with my wife at bedtime.”

“Then why are you here?”

The Duke grimaced. “Because I want to know what in the devil is going on. What have you gotten yourself into? Who was that fellow that stopped Rachel's carriage?” As Michael opened his mouth to speak, Richard added, “And don't try that ‘jest' business with me. Obviously Dev and Rachel are in the dark, but I know about your secret life.”