The Viscount Needs a Wife (20 page)

C
lose to her door she saw Braydon coming up the stairs and turned to meet him at the top. They should have a pleasant exchange for attentive ears, so there'd be no sign of strain over the recent encounter.

“Did you enjoy your ride, husband?” she asked.

His brows twitched, but he responded, “Very much.”

They turned to walk together. “I took Sillikin out. The kitchen gardens are well kept. Yesterday I admired the flower gardens, but I saw no roses.”

“Perhaps they're not sufficiently amenable to drill and discipline.”

“Flogging them does no good?”

“Not sure if it's been tried. Perhaps a pagan whipping dance at the winter solstice.”

She laughed as they entered her boudoir. The laugh was spontaneous, but it would convey the right impression. A happy couple. A strong team.

He closed the door. “That is an unusual way to treat a cashmere shawl.”

“I visited the dowager.”

“Ah, armor. I see no blood.”

“We had a frank discussion.”

“I see no blood,” he said again.

“I believe we came to an understanding. Did you know she had other children that died?”

“No. That softened your heart?”

“To an extent, but she wielded the information like a battle-ax.”

“She would.”

“She also tried to claim you'd jilted Isabella. I take that as a sign of weakness—that she has no better weapon—but is it possible that Isabella truly fancies herself in love with you?”

“No.”

“Think, please. As I said to the dowager, sixteen tumbles into infatuations very easily.”

“I've seen no sign of that. Only of calculated acts.”

Kitty supposed he would know. He was the sort of man girls would have been tumbling over since he was in his teens.

“Very well. I suggested to the dowager that she wouldn't want to live on in a place that had such unhappy memories for her.”

“
Still
no blood?”

“If eyes could pierce . . . What places are available?”

“She won't go, but in addition to the Dower House here, there's a house in Bath that has been rented out for a decade or more, her old house in Lincolnshire, and the place in Wales. Though that's more of a farm.”

“No London house?”

“Yes, but we'll need that at times.”

A London house. It would be a grand one in Grosvenor Square or some such fashionable quarter. Another place to manage, and being there would mean tackling the haut ton.

“Do you live there now?” she asked.

“I keep my rooms.”

She'd like to see them. She suspected they'd tell her a great deal about her husband. “Is the house rented?”

“No. The fifth viscount used it fairly often.”

“But it's stood vacant for at least a six-month. That's a waste.”

“The viscountcy is not so desperate for income.” He might as well have looked down his fine nose, and she wanted to snap something about pampered privilege, but she must try to think and speak like a grand lady.

“I plan to speak to the cook,” she said. “Are you content with the meals provided?”

“They've mostly been edible. I offended you?”

“Not at all. Mostly?”

“Inedible was tried once. I put a stop to it.”

“Flogging?”

“Beating servants was outlawed long ago.”

“But not beating wives,” she pointed out.

“Wives are chattel. Servants aren't.”

He might be teasing, but in her present mood, Kitty couldn't tell. “Why was the food inedible?”

“The dowager instructed the cook to it. Oversalted soup, rubbery meat, scorched potatoes.”

“And she obeyed?” It felt good to turn her anger on a worthy object.

“It was early days,” he said. “I put an end to it by making it clear that another meal of that sort would lead to the instant dismissal of all the kitchen servants.”

“Somewhat drastic, and very unjust.”

“It never serves to slap at arrant insubordination. At least in civilian life, we don't have to hang people to bring the rest to heel.” He halted and inhaled. “I apologize. That's not the sort of thing—”

“To say to a lady. Think where I spent most of my adult life, Braydon.”

He'd been growing angry, however, as angry as she, perhaps responding to her emotions, and because of his cool restraint, she hadn't been aware of it. At least with Marcus there'd been no concealment.

“You went driving,” he said.

“You object to
that
?”

“Not object . . .”

“Was I supposed to seek your permission? I beg your pardon, my lord. I am not yet accustomed to this form of marriage.”

“Devil take it! Am I at fault for being concerned for my wife's safety?”

“I was perfectly safe! Baker took good care of me. If you've dismissed him—”

“Of course I haven't, you termagant.” He inhaled. “This is a storm over nothing.”

“Then why . . .” But Kitty pulled in her anger. “Perhaps the dowager . . .”

“Put you on edge.”

“I don't know how she can bear that overstuffed, overheated room.”

“Nor do I.”

Thus, carefully, they arrived at a point of fragile agreement.

But then he said, “They called you Kit Kat.”

She eyed him warily. “Yes.”

“You didn't mind?”

“Should I have? It isn't some lewdness, is it? No, no, Marcus would never have allowed that.”

“Of course not. It just seemed . . . I apologize. I was taken aback by so many men having a fond name for my wife.”

Please, not jealousy as well!
She'd suffered from that for years. She couldn't bear it again.

“I accuse you of no wrong,” he said.

“Good,” she said, striving for a moderate tone, “for I did none.”

“And you couldn't help being so engaging.”

“I was merely
there,
Braydon. The only woman among many young men.”

“I've been in situations where women were scarce. Not all of them were adored.”

“No one adored me!”

“No one?”

She wished she'd instantly said no, but she'd faltered on the lie and probably her expression gave her away. “A few,” she admitted. “And briefly. They forgot me as soon as they were back with their regiments. Believe me or not as you please, but if you play Othello with me, you'll find no meek Desdemona.”

He raised a hand. “I apologize again. What a treacherous business marriage is.” But there was more in his eyes—a keen awareness that made her feel as if he could read her mind and even her memories. As proof, he asked, “What did Cateril do?”

To deny everything would be pointless. “Sometimes he fretted about the embarrassing adorers. Once he tried to challenge a captain for giving me roses. Of course, Bullock refused to fight a cripple, which reminded Marcus of what he'd become. Sometimes he could forget that.”

How he'd raged—at Bullock, at the French, the Portuguese, and at fate. And then at her. A flailing fist had struck her in the ribs. She'd swung the pottery jug she'd had in her hand, opening a gash on his head. He'd collapsed into miserable self-pity and weeping contrition, and she'd retreated into wary silence, nursing her bruises. They'd been estranged for days. She'd given out that they both had head colds and couldn't receive guests. They'd
recovered, but it had never been the same, and it hadn't been the only time. . . .

She started when Braydon took her hand. Was surprised to have him ease open a fist.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“So am I.” But she meant for the way things had been, and perhaps he understood.

He kissed her hand and then her lips, gently, probably offering comfort, but it became warmer, inviting more. But this time resentment and disquiet simmered in her and she couldn't respond.

He stepped back. “I leave you to your domestic labors, my dear.”

Kitty was left feeling guilty about having rejected him, but she couldn't change the way she felt.

Why had he questioned her right to drive?

Why had he asked about her around Town?

Why did he seem determined to probe matters she'd rather forget?

*   *   *

Braydon took refuge in his bedroom, needing time for his anger to simmer down. He wanted to thrash Marcus Cateril, but he couldn't do it, even if the man were alive. How many of Kit Kat's admirers had felt the same, guessing that Cateril's surly rage at his condition was sometimes vented on his wife? Had they seen bruises, or even witnessed attacks? Had the puppy been offered in consolation?

How had she responded? When she'd said she'd be no Desdemona, she'd meant it, but had she felt able to hit back? She would have given as good as she got with words—that was sure. He'd married her for her fighting spirit, but he wished she'd not had to learn to fight.

He wanted to return to her and find a way to make it right, but her simmering anger had been like a wall.
Breaking it down would do no good. He sought refuge in his office and paperwork. The sooner the administration of the viscountcy was in solid order, the sooner he could leave for London. He could be gone by Christmas and only obliged to return on occasions.

After mere minutes he tossed down his pen, realizing how little he wanted that now.

He'd be leaving Kitty alone in this hostile house, as she had perhaps been alone in a hostile marriage, despite her flock of admirers. More than that, he'd miss her company already, in and out of bed. There was so much to learn and explore in bed. And out of it . . .

Perhaps he could remain over Christmas. Town would be thin of company, and the troublemakers had gone quiet. There were probably rural rites he was supposed to take part in. Wassailers. Mummers. Gathering holly and mistletoe.

Quite likely the dowager was of the modern mind that saw such things as pagan.

He smiled at that. He'd encourage a riot of them.

*   *   *

Kitty paced her boudoir, tense with the residue of anger and with anxious unhappiness. She'd let out another side of herself—her ability to rage.

But then he'd guessed.

She hated that.
Hated
it! The violence in her marriage was her secret, hers and Marcus's, and he'd taken it to the grave. It shamed her that she hadn't been able to avoid it, to be kinder and gentler. In that, she'd failed as a wife.

Sillikin whined, nudging at her leg.

Kitty picked her up and hugged her. “At least he never hurt you, little one. Even when you told him off.”

Kitty sat to comb Sillikin's long coat, easing tangles and removing leaves and twigs. Sometimes it was a tedious task, but often it was soothing.

“You cared for him, too, didn't you? And he for you on his better days. You knew when he was most in pain.”

Marcus had tried to hide his pain, largely, she thought, because it was proof of his damaged state. In some ways he'd been like his mother in trying to pretend that the damage was less serious than it was, and that some of it might heal. Sometimes Kitty had thought he'd married her in expectation of a miracle cure, and that his bursts of anger grew out of disappointment.

“Braydon isn't Marcus,” she said, working on a little tangle. “I must remember that.”

The task did ease her mind, but that allowed in other concerns.

“I'm woefully unprepared for this. I knew that, but I didn't expect to trip over little things. Like the Town house. It
is
foolish to leave it empty for such a long time. If the viscountcy doesn't need the money, it could have been given to the poor.” She paused, and examined her dog's solemn expression. “The supportive silence, I see.”

Sillikin's silence was bliss, not philosophical.

“He's going to be jealous. Already is, because of Kit Kat. Why does that upset him? I never did anything wrong. A good thing that he'll be away most of the time. Though I might be tempted to go up to London and catch him with his mistress. Sauce for the goose . . . You don't approve?” she asked the dog with a smile. “You're right, of course. It would achieve nothing but to make me a figure of fun. Women, especially ladies, are supposed to never talk of their husband's unkindnesses, and to pretend ignorance of his infidelities. At least Marcus never strained my discretion in that department.”

She cleaned the comb of hair for the last time and put it aside. “Perhaps I'll take a lover,” she said, but Sillikin was asleep.

Kitty didn't need a reaction from her dog to know she'd
never do that. It would be dishonorable, and a husband being equally dishonorable wouldn't absolve her. But that meant that when Braydon left for London, she'd be returned to celibacy. For the past few years, she'd felt the lack of a man, but dully amid the darkening days of her marriage and then the enclosing atmosphere of Cateril Manor. Now she was alive again, but he would soon leave.

Perhaps not till after Christmas.

Whatever happened, what she must do was keep her side of the bargain—and her temper—and become a perfect Viscountess Dauntry in all regards.

As a first step, Kitty put the sleeping Sillikin down near the fire, summoned the cook, and discussed menus for the coming week. At the end, she asked, “Is there anything you need in order to do your work to the best, Mrs. Northbrook?”

“Not unless there's stuff needed for new dishes, milady. Turkish-like.”

“Turkish? Ah, you mean like Lord Dauntry's coffee and cakes.”

“Nasty, thick stuff.” The woman went red. “Begging your pardon, milady!”

“That's quite all right, Mrs. Northbrook. The coffee is very strong, but delicious if one has a taste for it. You don't make it?”

“I do not, milady. His lordship's gentleman does that, though I understand that in London his lordship's cook prepares it.”