White Lace and Promises (25 page)

“Well, it was a long-held understanding between us. At least, it was until you seduced him into forgetting—but a marriage isn’t set in stone. There are ways of dissolving it, if a man is so disposed and has the means to pursue divorce.”

That shocked her. “You’d allow your daughter to wed a divorced man?”

“Not just any divorced man—Grey Sexton. A man tied not only to the de Grijs family but also to the Sextons and the Hales of Boston. He could weather the scandal just as he did when he sent his first wife back to her father.”

“He never sent her back. She made that decision.”

“Is that what he told you?” Watson kicked at a dirt clod and chuckled coldly. “Oh, the secrets you two keep from each other. Like you seducing his son right under his very nose.”

Her stomach went sick. “You’re vile—simply vile.”

He leered. “And you’re a base-born harlot, an interloper.”

“I don’t have to listen to this.” She whirled away from him.

He grabbed her arm.

She glanced up at him and he bent his face so close she could smell the lingering tobacco on his breath. “I shall be watching you,
Mrs
Sexton.”

She tried to pull away but he intensified his grip with crushing, bruising strength. Her mouth went completely dry and she forgot to cry out. Yes, it was painful. But a frightening realisation eclipsed her pain. He must be insane to put his hands on her like this. And an insane man was unpredictable. She held herself still and remembered to breathe again.

Oh, God. How did one handle an insane man?

He leaned closer yet, his handsome face twisted into an ugly mockery of itself. “Do you hear me? I shall be watching you.”

He gave her a shake so fierce it rattled her teeth.

As her world stopped shaking, her heart thundered. “What is it you want from me?”

“You and I both know it is only a matter of time before you prove yourself the harlot that you are. And when that happens, I shall see Grey knows all. He’s a proud man—he won’t stand for infidelity.”

“Why bother telling me this?”

“Because I am a pirate at heart. I know battle tactics. Often, all it takes is a volley fired across the bow to make one’s opponent nervous. A nervous person is more apt to slip up. I can see the fear in your eyes. You know already that you’re going to slip.”

“You’re wrong—you’re so very wrong.” Her chilled blood began to heat.

“It didn’t have to be this way. You could’ve lived quite a comfortable life as my mistress. You’d have found me not quite as cold as Sexton. God knows, he can’t be keeping a powder keg like you happy in bed.”

His words hit her brain like a white-hot charge lighting her blood, making rational thought no longer possible. She spat in his face.

He pulled her forward then let her go with a strong push to her buttocks as she fell. She threw her hands out to brace herself. His boot made contact with her bottom and the force of his blow sent her arms skidding out from under her and her chin hit the muddy earth. The gusting wind blew the skirts of her riding habit up, exposing her legs and cutting through her woollen stockings.

His snide laughter rang in her ears. “What a fitting position for a tramp like you.”

She jerked herself up and turned, whipping her skirts back over her legs, then pulling herself to her feet. All the while, the filth of his gaze slithered over her.

Pure rage pounded in her ears, reverberating in a nauseating quiver throughout her body. Bested. Bested just because he was more physically powerful. She strode to her horse, her fists clenched at her sides, then she swung herself into the saddle.

After a last swipe at his face with his handkerchief, Watson stared coolly up at her. “I’ll be watching you, waiting for you to make that final, fatal misstep.”

Seeing red, she kicked her booted foot, aiming for his chest. He stepped back, laughing. “Such a vicious harlot, at that.”

The horse snorted and began to stomp. She tightened her hands on the reins and clicked softly to the mare.

Thwap!

The sound cracked through the crisp air. She turned her head and saw Thomas holding a thick tree branch. A terrible grin distorted his face. The horse went galloping and the sudden forward pull forced Beth’s breath out as she jerked her head back to face forwards.

The mare tore off across to where the ground was uneven. Beth struggled to regain control over the animal. Suddenly, the horse whinnied and reared. Beth looked down. Leaves swirled over the ground in confusing eddies of dirty drab yellow and rust. She pulled the reins as hard as she could. The animal lurched forward.

Beth went flying…

Then she hit the ground. Dazed, she lay there with the damp, cold earth bleeding through her clothes. The taste of salt and copper filled her mouth and she gingerly touched her lips then pulled her fingers away. They were wet and bright red. And her bottom and the side of her thigh were quite sore.

What was wrong with her? Why had she lost her head and provoked Watson like that? Truly, she had her mother’s wild blood. It drove the sense from her again and again. Grey was correct. She was still behaving like a girl.

The thunder of hooves sounded. Her stomach dropped. Oh God, was Watson coming back? She jerked her head in that direction.

It was Jan.

Relief poured over her. Oh, thank God, it was Jan. She jerked her skirts over her exposed limbs and tried to pull herself up. Pain shot through her ankle and up her leg.

He halted his horse and came down from the saddle. The wind blew his coal-black hair as he ran to her. He crouched down. “What the devil happened to you?”

“It’s nothing.”

His lips compressed, pulling the skin tight over his chiselled cheekbones. “I crossed Watson leaving in a thunderous gallop. He did something to disturb you, didn’t he?”

“You mustn’t spare it one single thought,” she said. “It’s a problem of my own making.”

“If he troubles you, then you must tell Father. He will take care of it.”

“That is what I am afraid of.” She massaged her ankle and winced. Was it broken? Oh, bugger. It couldn’t be broken, not with the coming ball and all that must be done to prepare for it.

Jan picked up a twig and tested it in his hands. “I never had a good feeling about Watson—never trusted him.”

The twig snapped.

She studied the thunderous expression that was so out of place on his elegant features. “Do you trust anyone?”

He nodded slowly, his face relaxing into a grave, somehow wary mask. “I think I trust you.”

“Well, I take that as quite a compliment.”

His pale grey eyes fixed on her with sudden intensity. “Listen, Beth, if Watson has disrespected you—insulted you in any way—Father will call him out, no matter their friendship. My father may be many things, but he is foremost a gentleman. He challenged someone over my mother once. Some French émigré who made a jackass of himself over her. She enjoyed his courting, but he became indignant when she ultimately rejected his more amorous advances. Then the ignorant frog lashed out at her most viciously—spread the worst sort of rumours about her. Perhaps she’d invited his behaviour but, no matter the cause, Father would not abide disrespect to his own wife.”

Jan’s voice rang with a grudging pride that set ice crystallising in her blood. Men could be so stupid with their matters of honour. God forbid he should go running to tell Grey. “Your father cannot know that Mr Watson spoke to me alone like this.” She released her throbbing ankle and gripped his arm. “You must swear you will not tell him.”

He blinked and said nothing.

“Well, what shall we tell him?”

“This is not your worry, Jan. It’s between your father and myself.”

“When he hears of this, he will come. How shall you explain? He loathes fecklessness and inattention to caution. He called my mother a henwit once when I accidentally fell face first into a large bucket of water when she wasn’t looking. One of the servants fished me out.”

Despite herself, Beth smiled. Not because he had almost drowned as a child, but because he made it sound like being called a henwit by his father was the worst of all possible fates.

“I think it is what broke them apart. He thought she was silly and stupid,” Jan said.

“Nevertheless, what transpires between your father and myself is not your worry,” she said firmly.

He frowned. “Everyone tells me that about everything!” He ran a hand through his wavy black hair. “I shouldn’t like to see him put you aside. I think you are very good for him—probably better than he deserves. Well, I’ll return to the house and have them send a cart for you. You can’t walk on that ankle.”

She allowed her smile to broaden and she nodded. “Yes, please, Jan.”

His eyes glowed and he grinned. “I’ll make haste, Beth—you’ll be astounded at how fast I return.”

Chapter Fourteen

Squirming under Grey’s quiet, steady gaze, Beth almost wished he
would
call her a henwit—anything rather than his silent censure.

“Now, let me understand this. You allowed my seventeen-year-old son to goad you into racing him on horseback, over uncertain terrain?”

His chastening tone made her wince.

“I wouldn’t have put it exactly like that.” Beth shifted on the bed. Good heavens, her ankle still hurt so badly. And she could just wring Jan’s neck for that letter he’d sent Grey, telling him this ridiculous fabrication. But she sensed Grey would be angrier yet with his son if she revealed the falsehood for what it was. “I am just so restless and bored here. The country is far more tedious than I had expected.”

He stared at her for a moment, blinking several times. Then he leant back against the wall and folded his arms over his chest. “Beth, I don’t need this kind of worry now. If you insist on traipsing off on your own, then I have to have some faith that you won’t be trying to kill yourself while you’re away.”

“I simply fell from my horse. Anyone can fall from their horse.”

He compressed his lips. “You’re not just anyone—you’re my wife. I am responsible for you. Good God, what if you’d been pregnant?”

“I am not.”

He kept staring at her. “But what if you were?”

His words struck her in the heart. True, she hadn’t been racing Jan, but she had let her emotions get the better of her after the confrontation with Watson. She had ridden her horse blindly and brought this on herself. She glanced down at the coverlet. “I don’t know.”

“Well, try thinking next time.” His dry tone startled her.

She began to breathe more quickly. Hot tears pricked at the corners of her eyes—her throat burnt with them. “Yes, I shall, but you don’t have to be so angry now. I am fine.” Her shoulders slumped. “This is a fine welcome.”

Grey could feel the pull of Beth’s sad eyes. Sympathy tugged at his heart. But, damn it, he wanted to hang on to his anger anyway. When he’d received the message from Jan’s housekeeper telling him that Beth had fallen from her horse, he’d known sheer fear like he’d never experienced. A leaden weight had settled in his stomach, preventing him from eating or having a moment’s peace. He hadn’t been able to get here fast enough. He’d been sure that she was injured and they were choosing to wait to tell him how badly once he arrived. Then he’d spoken with Jan and learnt the full truth and all that emotional energy had turned to anger. At Beth. Dear God, hadn’t he had enough of this kind of mindless, careless nonsense with Juliana? He’d expected better from Beth. Still, she was obviously hurt and in pain. He ought not to stand and glower at her. He forced himself to take several measured breaths. Carefully, he sat on the bed beside her.

How odd to be here in this house with Beth. This house where, during the imposed idleness and isolation of a late winter storm, he had impregnated Juliana on an old bed in the attic storeroom while their fathers had negotiated the financing of a voyage to the Orient. Little had Grey known that, a little over a year later when the East Indiaman finally sailed, he would eagerly join on as supercargo to escape the heartbreak and disaster of his life in New York City.

But there would be no escape from his marriage to Beth—and he wanted no escape. But he did wish things could be vastly different.

She watched him with blue eyes made all the more dazzling by their dark, dilated pupils.

He traced over her wrapped ankle with his fingertips. “Does it hurt?”

She shook her head, her silver-gilt hair shimmering in the sunlight streaming in through the open window. “No, the doctor gave me laudanum. He says it shall take at least two weeks of rest to fully heal. But I am already weary of rest.”

She had fallen from her horse. Just thinking the words sent a sharp pain slicing his guts.
God.
Before he could stop it, the image of Beth falling played in his mind. Vividly, right down to her face hitting the ground, scraping on a sharp, fallen branch. Vanity had not moved her to cover it. The cut still lay exposed—a red, vicious slash upon her cheek. A silent accusation. He ought not to have allowed her to come here. But, damn it, wasn’t she a woman grown? He didn’t have time for foolishness like this now. “Beth, you have to take care of yourself. You must be well for the ball in December. You are my wife now. I depend on you to fulfil that role.”