Undoing of a Lady (16 page)

“I was bored.” She played her hand faster now, throwing the cards down as though she did not really care. “It was my wedding night and I was lonely. What about you?”

“I had business—”

“Oh, well.” Lizzie smiled at him, mocking, the smile not reaching her eyes. Her words stung him like tiny thorns. “That makes it all right, then. When men say they
have to deal with business
it is so important that it excuses all, does it not?”

“You’re angry,” Nat said.

“You’re perceptive.” Her expression was contemptuous. “It is our
wedding night,
Nat Waterhouse. You gain fifty thousand pounds from me, you have me in your bed—” her gaze, burning and intense, reminded him of how that had been “—you take the things you want,” she continued, “and then you go out
on business
and leave me alone. You treat me like a possession and then you behave like a single man.” She threw her cards down in a gesture of disgust. “I have
carte blanche
and no picture cards. I suspect you win.”

“Four games to your two.” Nat looked at her. “You should have declared earlier. You’re reckless.”

“Clearly,” Lizzie said. “How exciting for you to be proved right.” She stood up and the silver net dress rustled softly as it slid over the lines and curves of her body. She looked ice-cool and composed whilst Nat felt so hot he was burning up. It maddened him that she could provoke him and his body would respond to her so violently even when his mind rebelled against the hold she had over him.

“Come with me,” he said roughly. He stood up. “We are going home.”

She looked him up and down slowly like a queen appraising a peasant. Even the tilt of her chin was haughty. Her gaze rested disdainfully on the bulge of his enormous erection. “Home?” she said. “You’ll never last that long. You want me too much.”

Nat was afraid that she was right. He wanted to make love to her here on the card room table or against the wall or anywhere that would soothe this unbearable ache in his body. His desperate arousal was all he could think of. He grabbed Lizzie’s wrist, careless of who was watching.

“I won, so…”

“So you claim your prize.” Lizzie was smiling though her eyes were still cold. He wanted to kindle a matching heat in her, to master her and force a response. He pulled her to him and kissed her. He was not the sort of man to kiss a woman in the very public surroundings of the Fortune’s Folly assembly rooms but one touch of her lips, cool and firm, and he forgot where they were. He almost forgot
who
he was. He kissed her hard, tasting the champagne on her tongue and the sweet taste that was Lizzie herself and he did not stop kissing her until the Master of Ceremonies approached them to say that their carriage was waiting and if they could leave at once it would be much appreciated because they were creating a public disturbance.

Lizzie was proved right. In the carriage Nat stripped the silver dress off her, leaving her in
nothing but the diamond necklace, and took her there and then on the seat, whilst the coach drove around the village in circles until they had finished. Lizzie smiled her cool smile in the summer darkness and her naked body glistened equally as cool and pale and the sight of it just seemed to fire Nat’s lust all the more. He lost himself in her whilst deploring his lack of control. Afterward he felt sated but not happy and Lizzie was silent and withdrawn from him, and the doubts that had shadowed his mind earlier in the evening came back and would not be banished. He had feared that marriage to Lizzie would be a disaster and whilst their lovemaking might be spectacular he was starting to see that his misgivings might be justified. There was some devil of unhappiness that drove Lizzie and he did not understand why, and whilst he wanted to help her he did not know how.

When they finally reached Chevrons he took Lizzie to bed and made love to her again, trying to banish the demons, and then he fell into an uneasy sleep, waking only when his valet brought in the hot water and threw the curtains wide. The bed was empty and Lizzie had gone. Nat felt a strange pang of loss.

Lizzie was already in the breakfast parlor when he went downstairs. She was wearing a dress of pale green trimmed with black lace—her concession to mourning, Nat presumed—and she looked exceedingly pretty except that there were dark circles beneath her eyes. Her hair was ruthlessly restrained
in a matching green bandeau and she was picking at a piece of toast and honey as though she detested the sight of it.

Nat took a cup of coffee, dismissed the footman and went to sit across from her. He knew he had to speak to her but there was such a strong reserve about her that it seemed to make it impossible to find the right words.

“I trust that you are well this morning?” he said, knowing even as he spoke that he sounded stilted. Lizzie raised her blank, green gaze to his and he had the oddest sensation that there was nothing behind her eyes at all, no thought, no feeling.

“I am quite well.” She sounded as distant as the slightest acquaintance.

Nat cleared his throat. “About last night—”

“I suppose I should apologize for embarrassing you,” Lizzie said. She did not look up from her plate. “I apologize.”

“No,” Nat found himself saying. “No, I don’t want an apology.” He ran a hand over his hair in an agitated gesture. “I just want to know why you did it, why you went out, why you felt you needed to gamble with Tom?”

Her gaze flickered to his face and then she looked away again. “Because I am wild and ungovernable,” she said ironically. “Have you not always said so?”

“Yes, but—” Nat struggled. This, he knew, was not the real answer. There had to be more to her behavior
than a simple impulse to be scandalous, yet she offered no explanation. He shook his head, baffled.

“I do not understand why you do these outrageous things,” he said. His mind went back to the previous night. What was it that she had said?

“It is our wedding day. You gain fifty thousand pounds from me, you have me in your bed, you take the things you want and then you go out on business.”

“I am sorry I left you alone last night,” he said. “I should have thought that it was our wedding night and—” He stopped as she turned her face away.

“It does not matter,” she said. She spoke very quietly.

He had the impression that it mattered a great deal but she was refusing to acknowledge it.

“I should apologize for the way that I treated you, too,” he said. “I wanted you and I was not gentle. I had forgotten you have little experience—”

Lizzie shrugged a shoulder with what seemed to be indifference. “You did not hurt me or shock me,” she said. “I am more shocked to discover that we have such a physical affinity when there is nothing else…” She stopped, biting her lip. “Excuse me,” she said, rising to her feet.

Nat put out a hand. He knew that this unsatisfactory conversation should not—could not—end here. There was something very wrong and too many things unsaid to let it go. He could feel his marriage slipping, sliding, down a slope toward the inevitable disaster he had predicted for it. He did not know how
to stop it even though he desperately wanted to do something.

“Lizzie,” he said.

She paused and looked at him and once again her gaze was totally blank and Nat felt frustrated and confused as though he had somehow lost her even though she was standing right in front of him.

“I know there is something wrong,” he said. “Lizzie, talk to me.”

Her eyelashes flicked down and a hint of color stole into her cheek. “There is nothing wrong,” she said. “I am perfectly fine.”

“Are you?”

For a moment he caught a flash of the most abject misery in her face and then she raised her chin. “I am going into town,” she said. “I wish to visit the circulating library. I hope that meets with your approval?”

“Perfectly. Of course.” Nat shook his head slightly at the abrupt change of subject. “I shall be working today,” he added. “Dexter has asked me to rejoin him and Miles in the investigation into your brother’s death and there is much to do.”

Lizzie nodded and went out and a moment later Nat heard her speaking to Mrs. Alibone and the sound of her step on the stairs and then all was quiet. Nat finished his breakfast in silence, trying to distract himself with the morning copy of the Leeds
Intelligencer,
and wondered why he felt worse than before.

T
HEY WERE THE TALK
of the town. Nat Waterhouse and his blazing, unconcealed lust for his wife—and hers for him—were the
on dit
of Fortune’s Folly. Lizzie felt wretched.

She had been the center of gossip many times before and it had never troubled her and if she and Nat had been happy and scandalous together, then the salacious chatter of the village would have meant nothing to her. But they were not. She could not deceive herself. She and Nat were not happy because they wanted different things. He was quite content to use physical passion as a substitute for real intimacy. He wanted nothing more than a dutiful wife in the house and a wanton bride in his bed, whereas she wanted everything: his desire, his love, his very self. In a very short space of time she had learned that the extremes of sensual delight had nothing to do with true love. It was a hard lesson for such a hopeless romantic as she had turned out to be and it made her miserable for with Nat’s lust she also wanted his love and he could not even begin to understand that. When
he had apologized for leaving her alone on their wedding night and had asked her what was wrong she had felt helpless, for if he could not
see
how could he ever understand? She did not want to have to explain to him that it hurt her feelings to be left alone on a night that should have been special and wonderful and just for them. She did not want to have to explain the gap between her romantic imaginings and the reality, and to see his look of incomprehension and feel his pity. She did not want to have to tell him that she loved him heart and soul, and that she now realized she should never have married him because to him she was no more than another responsibility. Certainly she could not tell him that when they made love it broke her heart because it was so passionate, so exciting and yet ultimately so shallow without love.

Lizzie had a cup of chocolate at the Pump Rooms, bought some red ribbons and a new pair of fine kid gloves at Mrs. Morton’s shop and then went to Mr. Tarleton’s circulating library just as she had said she would. The day was fine and bright and the village was busy and she was aware of—but felt strangely isolated from—the stares and whispered asides of those she passed. It was evident that her escapade at the card tables the previous night was already common knowledge, as was Nat’s ravishing of her in the carriage. There were sly winks and smiles that made Lizzie feel all the more miserable.

She felt exhausted, sore from the demands of Nat’s lovemaking but unhappy more from the emotional distress of suppressing her love for him. Her body ached and her mind felt cloudy and dull. She wondered if a hot spa bath would ease her but the thought of taking one seemed too much work. It had been difficult enough to dress that morning.

She looked along the row of books and tried to decide which one to choose. Reading would be good. It would soothe her troubled mind and give her something to do all day. Only she could not seem to decide on a title. All she could see was Nat’s face before her that morning. She knew he had tried to reach out to her, to bridge the gap that was widening between them all the time despite the intimacy of their physical relationship. She had not been able to respond to his attempt. She was too tired now and she felt too battered and bruised emotionally to make further effort. It was as though she had encased her feelings in ice now and could feel nothing anymore.

She sat down on one of the comfortable armchairs that Mr. Tarleton had placed in an alcove for the benefit of the library’s clientele and stared blankly into space. Last night had been frightening. She had been so unhappy, racked with unexpected grief for Monty and haunted by her memories of the loss of her family. She knew that she had deliberately allowed that misery to turn to anger against Nat because anger and wildness were more familiar to
her and more easy to deal with than the deep dark well of grief that reminded her of the last time she had lost all that was dear to her. So she had gone out and behaved badly, drinking too much again and allowing Tom to provoke her into gambling the necklace and then she had taunted Nat and vented her anger and resentment on him. She had welcomed his desperate lust for her because she wanted whatever he could give. And yet somehow what he could give simply was not enough. What she wanted was his love—but that was not on offer.

The murmur of voices roused her. Priscilla Willoughby was on the other side of the bookcase. Lizzie recognized her light, drawling voice and also Lady Wheeler’s fluting tones; Lady Wheeler who not so long ago had flattered her and fawned on her and was now busy ripping her character to shreds.

“Did you hear the
on dit
? Yes…totally shameless…drinking gallons of champagne and gambling her jewelry, and her brother only dead a few weeks, though no one really mourns him…”

I do, Lizzie thought. Perhaps I am a fool but for all his faults, I miss Monty. I must be the only one who does.

“It amazes me that Nathaniel married that little hoyden.” There was a spiky edge to Priscilla’s dulcet voice. “Though it is no surprise to me that
she
behaves so badly. Her mother was nothing but a high-class whore. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lady
Waterhouse herself had had several men before she wed—John Jerrold for one…”

“
Poor
Lord Waterhouse,” Lady Wheeler said again, sounding excited at the thought of Lizzie’s supposed indiscretions. “Yet he seems to desire her for I heard…” Further furtive whispers ensued, “Yes…In the carriage…Absolutely scandalous…And to think I always imagined that he would much prefer a well-bred wife like Flora Minchin, or you, Priscilla.”

“Nathaniel is not thinking with his head at the moment,” Priscilla snapped. “All men are the same, led by what is in their breeches.”

“Priscilla!” Lady Wheeler sounded faint with outrage. Priscilla Willoughby moderated her tone.

“Lord Waterhouse will regain his senses soon enough once his lust has worn thin. Then he’ll see that little wanton for what she really is.” She laughed. “He certainly cannot love her. He was hopelessly in love with
me
back in his salad days. He told me I am his perfect woman.” She sounded very smug. Lizzie could see her now through the gap between the bookcases. She was dressed in pale lilac with a huge straw hat with lilac ribbons framing her face. She looked cool and glacially composed. “He wrote me endless love letters, you know, Margaret, pouring out his feelings for me.” She gave her little tinkle of laughter. “I think he is still more than a little in love with me now, to tell the truth!”

Lizzie stood up abruptly, catching her sleeve on the shelf and sending a stack of books tumbling to the floor. Both Lady Willoughby and Lady Wheeler turned, as did all the other occupants of the library. Lady Wheeler flushed an embarrassed puce but Lady Willoughby stood quite still, a little, triumphant smile on her lips.

“Lady Waterhouse! I did not see you there.”

“Indeed?” Lizzie said. She met Priscilla Willoughby’s scornful gaze and tried not to feel young and vulnerable. “I was interested in your reflections upon the male of the species, Lady Willoughby,” she continued. “Clearly you have had sufficient of them to make a study.” She nodded abruptly to them and walked out of the door into the hot street. The sun beat down on her head and the light was so bright it almost blinded her. She had forgotten a bonnet or a parasol. She felt hot and dizzy.

Love letters, Priscilla Willoughby had said. Nat, that most practical and unsentimental of men, had written Priscilla Willoughby
love letters
. She was his perfect woman, well-bred, refined and a lady to the bone. What had the letters said? Had they contained all the words that Lizzie herself wanted to say to Nat and had to keep penned up inside.

Had Priscilla kept them tied up with ribbon, hidden in a box? Or had she valued Nat’s love so little that she threw them away or burned them or simply left them to flake into dust?

Perfect Priscilla, Nat’s ideal woman…Lizzie could discount some of Lady Willoughby’s words for the jealous spite they most certainly were, but in one case she was horribly afraid that Priscilla might be right. The deep feelings and emotions—the love—that Nat would have for a woman like that would endure far longer than the lust he had for Lizzie. One day his desire for Lizzie would burn itself out, for it was too intense to last and had no deep foundation. And then there would be nothing left at all…

Lizzie found that she was shivering despite the heat of the day. She walked slowly along Fortune Row, largely oblivious to the crowds of people out enjoying the summer sunshine. She sat down on one of the benches in the gardens and stared blankly into space. She had no idea how long she was sitting there for until a shadow fell across her and a voice said, “My lady asked me to deliver this to you, ma’am.”

Someone dropped a letter into her hand and Lizzie looked up to see the retreating figure of a maid dressed in a neat uniform. The girl did not look back. Lizzie looked down, puzzled, at the paper in her hand. It looked old and worn and it was not addressed to her—it was addressed to Priscilla Willoughby.

Understanding broke on her then, and with it a
sharp barb of pain. Perfect Priscilla had not wanted her to be in any doubt that Nat really
had
written her those love letters, so she had sent one to Lizzie to read for herself. It sat there on her lap, tempting her to open it and to make her misery complete. It was tied with pink ribbon and the ink was faded and pale and Lizzie’s fingers itched to unfold it and see the words that her husband had written to another woman, a woman he had loved. She touched the faded ribbon and tried to resist the urge to unfasten it.

She would not read it. She would
not
torment herself.

She flicked the letter off her lap and onto the path, where a passing lady skewered it with her parasol tip and walked on without even noticing. It gave Lizzie some satisfaction, and when large drops of summer rain started to fall and the ink began to run she felt even better. Soon, she thought, Priscilla’s love letter would be no more than pulp. Except that there were no doubt plenty more where that had come from.

She walked home through the rain and ran into the house, soaking wet, to find that Nat had returned for luncheon and was standing discussing household matters with Mrs. Alibone in the hall. Both of them stared at her, with her bedraggled hair and drenched gown, and Lizzie burst out laughing at their identical looks of surprise and disapproval.

“Madam is an Original,” Mrs. Alibone said to Nat, in tones of disapproval as Lizzie scampered past, up
the stairs to change. “My former mistress the Duchess of Cole had very particular ideas on the behavior of young ladies—”

“I would not take Her Grace as a model of good behavior,” Lizzie commented over her shoulder. “She tended to try to
murder
those she disapproved of, didn’t she? Something of an overreaction…”

She laughed as Mrs. Alibone drew herself up as though she had starch in her spine.

That evening Lizzie and Nat went out to a musicale at the assembly rooms. Alice and Miles were there and various other members of Fortune’s Folly society, and Lizzie smiled until her face ached, and chatted, and laughed but later she could not remember a single thing that she had talked about. Priscilla Willoughby sat across the room, dazzling in pale pink, and smiled at Lizzie like a fat cat that had eaten a particularly delicious saucer of cream, and when Lizzie got home there was another love letter, this time tied with scarlet ribbon, waiting for her. Lizzie put it on the fire and went to bed.

She woke in the night with a low pain aching in her belly and she knew at once what it meant. Six weeks without her courses and she had started to think, started to hope, that she might be expecting a child. Her mind had tiptoed around the edges of the thought because she had still been afraid to face it head-on, but alongside the anxiety had been flickers of excitement and tiny sparks of expectation as each
day had passed. Now, though, the hope and the excitement were extinguished in one huge flood of despair. It came from nowhere, ambushing Lizzie with its force and power, racing through her in an unstoppable tide, until she had to stuff the pillow into her mouth to prevent herself from crying aloud. The tears were flooding down her face and she pressed herself deep into the warm embrace of her bed, seeking comfort blindly. Nat was in the chamber next door—he had not come to her room that night—and a part of her wanted to run to him. She wanted so much the comfort he could give her. She wanted him to know instinctively that she needed him and to come to
her.
But the door remained obstinately closed and Nat’s absence only seemed to underline the distance between them, and Lizzie’s stubborn refusal to let others see her grief prevented her from seeking him out.

She stayed in bed the next day and the one after, pleading a sore throat, which was something that conveniently could not be disproved. Nat took one look at her wan face and said he was sure she was right to rest, and kissed her cheek and went out. He brought her flowers that evening, rich red roses from the gardens that smelled heavenly and made her want to go outside into the fresh summer air. He seemed anxious for her but Lizzie felt too tired to talk. She was puzzled, for her courses had never interfered with her life before—they had been trifling inconven
ient things, but she had never experienced this lassitude. She fell asleep with Nat sitting beside her bed and awoke in the middle of the night to find him gone.

On the evening five days later when Lizzie finally got up out of bed, Nat took her to the subscription ball, evidently hoping it would lift her spirits. Lizzie drank too much and danced three times with John Jerrold and tried not to mind that Nat partnered Priscilla Willoughby, who looked stunning in amber silk.

“You look blue-deviled, Lizzie,” Alice said to her the next day as they shared a cup of tea at the Pump Rooms.