The Madcap Marriage (13 page)

Rafe was becoming more of an enigma with every passing hour. His public and private selves might be two different people for all they had in common. On a personal level, he was hot one minute, aloof the next, with too many secrets lurking behind his eyes. Was he trying to win her trust, emotionally as well as materially?  Unlike Clara’s husband, Rafe must convince her to share her inheritance before he could act against her.

Yet he couldn’t be that devious. Surely she could not melt into his arms if he were a ruthless schemer. Or was she willfully blind?  Confirming the worst would condemn her for reckless stupidity. Wedding a stranger was bad enough for anyone, but her responsibilities made it worse. What would her father say if he could see her now?  After all his warnings…

Chapter Six

May 22

Alice Pauling arranged bits of ham and eggs to form a chessboard on her plate, ignoring her father’s monologue. Today’s subject was her wedding – as if she cared how many people attended or what Cook served. Her only goal was to escape Paulus Grange. She was tired of being told what to do and think every moment of the day.

Being an obedient daughter was boring. Pauling hated excitement, so he refused to visit London, forbade novels, and demanded that she avoid Sir David’s daughters, who had acquired appalling ideas at school. And God forbid that he discover she’d read Mary Wollstonecraft’s treatise on the rights of women. He expected her to embrace his own puritanical views.

Settling her betrothal in childhood had increased his stodginess. Why should he introduce her to society when Rafe could do it later?  He had everything he needed at home. Not once had he considered her needs.

Lord Pauling swallowed an enormous bite of ham, chased it down with half a tankard of ale, and continued arranging her future. “You will live here, of course.”

“Yes, Father.” It was easier to agree, for he never listened to her anyway. But she had no intention of staying at Paulus Grange. Rafe would hardly abandon London’s excitement for a dreary life in the country. She would enter society at last.

“See that Mrs. Dorsey removes the partition in the drawing room.”

“Yes, Father.”

“The dressmaker will arrive at two to discuss your new gowns.”

Alice bit back a sigh. He’d been like this since Rafe had signed the marriage contract a week earlier. How could she survive until the wedding?

She crumbled toast over the ham and eggs.

The next three weeks would pass, just as the previous twenty years had passed. And then she would be free – except for Rafe. But she doubted that Rafe would pay her much heed. He wasn’t a tyrant, and despite her father’s assurances, she did not believe he impatiently awaited their marriage. If he loved her, he would have claimed her years ago.

“Eat your breakfast,” ordered Lord Pauling. “You must keep up your strength. I can’t supervise everything.”

“Of course.” She raised a bite of ham to her mouth.

“That’s my girl.” He smiled, then buried his nose in the
Times
.

Alice transferred the ham to her napkin. She hated ham, but Pauling insisted on it for breakfast, allowing no other meat on the table. His preferences were all that mattered.

A twinge of conscience replaced her irritation with a frown. His health was obviously deteriorating, despite his protestations to the contrary. The doctor’s face had been grave after his last visit. Pauling’s fainting spells must be more serious than he let on.

He’d abandoned wearing boots last year because he could no longer pull them over swollen feet. His hands weren’t much better. And his eyes seemed yellow. But it was the spells that terrified her. If he stood up quickly, he passed out. It reportedly took his valet half an hour to get him out of bed by gradually elevating him with pillows – which might explain his insistence that she and Rafe stay at the Grange. Maybe he needed a nurse.

Shuddering, she picked up the
Morning Post
. Its society page was her only contact with Rafe. Hillcrest might find his scandals appalling, but she envied him his freedom. He enjoyed such an interesting life.

Her eyes skimmed, seeking the name that had been noticeably absent for a fortnight.

The Season was in full swing. Yesterday had seen a balloon ascension in Green Park. Lady Jersey had hosted a grand ball. Lord Charles Meriweather announced his betrothal to Lady Edith Chanson.

She was so used to seeking Mr. R— T— that she nearly overlooked the announcement.

Married – the honorable Mr. Rafael Edward Thomas, heir to Viscount Hillcrest, Hillcrest Manor, Surrey, to Miss Helen Elizabeth St. James, spinster, Audley Court, Somerset, on May 20, in London.

Alice’s heart jammed her throat. “Papa,” she quavered. “Rafe’s married.”

“What?”  He shook his head. “That’s preposterous.”

“No. Look.” She handed him the paper, pointing to the announcement.

“That traitor!”  He surged to his feet, blanched to a sickly gray, then dropped like a stone.

“Papa!”  She flew to his side, cursing his illness. Shaking and slapping didn’t revive him.

“Briggs!” she shouted at the butler. “Send for the doctor!  Where’s Walden?” she added. The valet should know what to do. She hoped.

Leaning closer, she tried again. “Wake up, Papa!”  Her vinaigrette had no effect. Nor did propping his feet on a chair. Why had the doctor insisted on secrecy?

Tears rolled down her cheeks. This was the worst spell yet, and she was helpless.

* * * *

Rafe glared at his wife.

“I am perfectly fine!” she snapped, raising her chin.

Gnashing his teeth at her intransigence, he cursed himself for a fool. He should be more careful what he wished for. As he’d feared, a wife with a backbone was a headache. She argued every suggestion and made no bones about wanting to be in charge.

Just like Mother.

“No!”

“Yes,” she insisted.

Only then did he realized he’d spoken aloud. Again he cursed.

The argument had raged since breakfast. He should have insisted that she see a doctor yesterday. Her head had to be worse than she was admitting. She’d slept badly, tossing, turning, and whimpering in pain. Yet she had again refused help. Nothing he’d said had swayed her from leaving for Hampshire, forty-five miles away.

His breath escaped in a frustrated sigh. A husband had the right to force obedience, yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it. That was Hillcrest’s way. So he had to rely on logic.

“Please speak with Dr. McClarren,” he begged, pulling her against him when the carriage bounced, draining the color from her face. They had just passed the Hyde Park tollgate, so calling on the doctor was still possible. “He’s Scottish trained and very competent. He won’t do anything nasty like bleed you. If he says you are fine, I’ll cease pressing.”

“You’d believe him, but not me.” She recoiled from his side. “It’s my head, Rafe. My memory is intact. There is no sign of nausea or blurred vision or any other symptom of concussion. I slept poorly only because I’d napped for three hours in the afternoon.”

“Pain stabs your head with every jolt, your eyes are fuzzy, and your cheeks are far paler than is fashionable.”

Helen sighed, wondering why she was attracted to him. Her sleep had been plagued with erotic dreams and passionate memories. Yet every time she’d awakened, moaning with desire, Rafe had been hugging the edge of the bed as if he hated the thought of touching her. Now he seemed determined to bend her to his will.

She met his gaze. “Yes, my head hurts. Bruises don’t clear up in a trice, and arguing is making it worse. But speaking with Lady Alquist is more important than a headache. Once she sets your mind at rest, we can proceed to Audley.” And form a partnership – she hoped.

Rafe lowered his voice. “There is no need for you to accompany me, Helen. Go back to bed. I’ll ride down to Hampshire and be back before you know it. Two days. Three at most. By then, your head will be fine and the journey to Audley easier.”

“Rafe—”  She laid a hand on his arm, trying to break through his stubbornness. “You still don’t fully comprehend the danger. Steven is not a gentleman. He is an obsessed bully who cares nothing about society’s rules or expectations. Throwing him out yesterday will turn him vengeful – he is not a man who ignores grievances. I don’t want to stay in town alone.”

Rafe’s jaw dropped as he finally recognized her fear. Damn but he was blind. “Then we’ll go to Hampshire tomorrow.”

“No. We cannot afford to wait. Though I am convinced Alquist’s death was an accident, I may be wrong, so the sooner we see Lady Alquist, the better. Would you stay in bed just because you hit your head?”

“That’s different.”

“No, it isn’t. I am not fragile. Nor am I sheltered, weak, or flighty. This trip is necessary, so stop fussing. Tell me about Lady Alquist. Though we’ve met, I don’t know her well.”

He gave up in defeat. “Lady Alquist was my mother’s younger sister. I met her for the first time after Mother’s death.”

“At the funeral?”

“No. Hillcrest had cut all ties with Mother’s family.”

She straightened, staring. “What did they do to draw such censure?”

“Nothing. It was his way of punishing Mother.” He pulled her against his side, not wanting to discuss Hillcrest. “When we finally met, she was avid for news of Mother, as she’d received no letters in several years – Hillcrest again; he controlled the estate’s post.”

“He sounds like Steven – intercepting mail, forcing obedience to his will.”

“Probably.” He shook his head. “Once she satisfied herself about Mother, she insisted that I make my bows to her friends – she is so well regarded in town that she can make or break someone’s Season. Her support prevented my ostracism after the Berkeley Square incident.”

“You swore that tale is exaggerated.”

“True, but it could have caused more trouble than it did. As for your original question, she is one of the kindest ladies I’ve known. While she gossips as avidly as anyone, she generally avoids exaggeration and doesn’t repeat tales of questionable accuracy.”

“That’s good to know.”

He wasn’t sure what to make of her tone, which sounded relieved. So he changed the subject. “Did you leave your maid at Audley, or must we find a new one?”

“Find one. Steven turned off Tessa and the upper servants several months ago, then assigned his mistress to maid me so he could keep a close eye on my activities.”

“His mistress?”  His arm tightened around her. “Appalling!  You shouldn’t even meet such a person.”

“Steven cares little for the niceties.”

He cradled her head on his shoulder, watching Hammersmith roll past as he fought his temper into submission. Every new glimpse of her ordeal made his blood boil hotter. Steven must pay. And she was right. He couldn’t leave her behind. Nor could he postpone his query into Alquist’s death. But while he admired her spirit, he wished she would accept some limitations. She was not a man.

Her scent teased his nose.

Most definitely not a man. Her taste lingered on his tongue – haunting, demanding, chipping away his control. He shifted uncomfortably.

Helen moaned.

He turned to plunder her ripe mouth before identifying the sound as pain. Again.

“Try to sleep, sweetheart,” he murmured, cursing himself for entertaining lascivious thoughts when she was injured. She needed protection more than passion just now, though temptation urged him to stake his claim. Passion would crack her wall of distrust, banish her need to contradict his every statement, and elicit the loyalty their marriage needed if it was to prosper. Postponing pleasure had never been his way.

But he must stay his hand if he hoped to bind her heart.

Reminding himself that success would atone for his current frustration many times over, he smoothed her hair, gently massaging first one temple, then the other. Her skin was soft and smooth, a perfect companion to the silky fire of her hair. Removing the pins let him enjoy the hair’s texture even as it eased the pull on her cut.

 A soft sigh escaped as she relaxed into sleep, leaving him with nothing to do but think.

This was his first opportunity to seriously evaluate his marriage. In truth, wedlock was little different from any other business venture. He may have skipped his usual prepurchase investigation, but proper attention to detail could still produce good returns – a willing bed partner, someone to enliven the hours when he wasn’t busy and produce an heir for the future, a hostess who could aid his political aspirations. He was making progress toward claiming her heart, but it would not be fully his until he dealt with Steven. The bastard kept distracting her attention. And his. Why else hadn’t he demanded to know the secrets he sensed were lurking behind her eyes?

Thought convinced him that Steven was less venal than she claimed. Her father had vilified the man since she was a child – much as Hillcrest had vilified Lady Alquist. But Hillcrest had exaggerated and even lied to perpetuate his own feud. Lady Alquist was much different from the harpy he had described.

Perhaps Sir Arthur had been guilty of the same distortions. Granted, Steven’s tactics were heavy-handed, and he was clearly perpetrating fraud, but turning him into a larger-than-life bogeyman could paralyze thought and lead to improvident action.

You are no better.

Shuddering, Rafe pulled Helen closer. He didn’t want to admit such folly, but his conscience was right. He’d fallen into the same trap by magnifying Hillcrest into the devil incarnate. The image was so fixed that he rarely listened to Hillcrest’s words, assuming that the man had nothing of interest to say – he always acted as if he knew what was best for others. It was time to move past that childish reaction and admit that Hillcrest was human. Impossible to live with, of course, but not an ogre.

Habit pushed his sire from his mind. He would keep an open mind when dealing with other men, judging solely on facts. Only thus could he protect Helen as he’d promised. She needed him badly, for she could never protect herself. It felt good to be needed.

She shifted, pressing a breast against his side. Her hand slid under his coat, re-igniting desire, then slithered toward his lap.