Wicked Delights of a Bridal Bed (28 page)

Chapter 27

T
he weather began to moderate as February slipped into March, the earth beginning to give subtle signs that spring was on its way. Inside the house at Gresham Park, however, the winter gloom continued, Adam sunk inside the darkness of his thoughts as surely as if he were encased in ice.

Seated inside his study, he tried to attend to the business of the estate—an endeavor that had once filled him with anticipation and excitement. Since Mallory left, though, his heart was no longer in it. When she’d gone away, so had his joy and enthusiasm.

Without her here, what was the point?

Without her by his side, what did any of it really matter?

He’d heard from her only once since she’d left, an impersonal note that asked him to send some of her clothing and other effects to Braebourne. He’d considered slipping a letter begging her to come home in among the items, but in the end he’d sent them on without it.

At least she hasn’t taken the cat
, he thought, providing himself with some faint measure of hope that she might still change her mind and come back to him.

As for Charlemagne, without his mistress in residence, he’d taken to keeping Adam company. At night, he slept on Adam’s bed, and during the day, he often wandered into his study.

Currently, the animal was curled into a ball atop a stack of correspondence on the corner of Adam’s desk. Reaching out, he stroked the cat’s velvety black fur. “You miss her too, don’t you, my fine fellow?” he said. “You wish she’d come home just like me.”

Charlemagne blinked at him, his green eyes surprisingly understanding, even sympathetic. Then with his own feline priorities to maintain, he went back to sleep.

Sighing aloud, Adam returned to the document spread out for his review, his attention wandering after every few words as his thoughts went back to Mallory.

Perhaps he should go to Braebourne? She was his wife, and a wife ought to be with her husband.

Perhaps she had a point about his jealousy and suspicions, but how could he not be jealous under the circumstances?

Even now the thought of her entertaining that underhanded jackal was enough to make his blood boil. That and the fact that she’d written to Hargreaves behind his back…he still couldn’t entirely shake his sense of betrayal despite believing that her intentions had been driven by compassion and a tender heart rather than duplicity. Yet her actions showed that a part of her was still sympathetic to Hargreaves. And if she was sympathetic, then she was vulnerable as well. With the right persuasion, could Hargreaves manage to rekindle the old feelings she’d once known? Could he reawaken her love?

As for her love for him, if she felt as strongly as she claimed, how could she have left him? And how could she continue to stay away?

Oh, Mallory, why won’t you come home?

Gulping down a ragged breath, he forced himself to return to his work, even if he wasn’t making the least bit of progress at the task.

Five minutes and four fresh attempts at reading the same page of material later, he was about to concede defeat when a knock sounded at the door.

“Enter,” he called.

A footman walked into the room. “A messenger just brought this, milord. It’s from Braebourne.”

He thrust out his hand. “Give it here.”

Without waiting to see if the man departed, he slit open the letter, his pulse pounding at the sight of Mallory’s distinctive, feminine writing.

Maybe she’d finally decided she missed him too much to stay away and wanted to come home. If so, he would order the coach and set out for Gloucestershire immediately.

But then he saw that the letter was nothing but an additional list of belongings she wished him to send to her brother’s estate. More clothing, a few books, and a set of hair combs she’d left on her dressing table.

His heart gave a violent lurch.

Please send Charlemagne,
she’d written.
The weather has turned warm enough now for his safe and comfortable passage.

Crushing the letter in his fist, he flung it aside.

Well, he had his answer then, did he not? She planned to continue their separation.

Their marriage, as he knew it, was over.

“Will there be anything else tonight, my lady?” Penny asked as she finished brushing Mallory’s hair and laid the brush aside. “I’d be happy to go down to the kitchens and heat up a mug of warm milk for ye. I could even add a nip of brandy if ye’d like, to help you sleep.”

As her maid knew, Mallory had not been sleeping well of late. Actually, she hadn’t had a good night’s rest since the day she’d quarreled with Adam and left Gresham Park. Her sleeplessness had only grown worse as their estrangement continued.

Yet each time she considered returning home to Adam, she remembered his wild jealousy—and more, his lack of trust in her. She’d known he was possessive when it came to her and Michael, but she’d never imagined he might go to the extreme of intercepting her mail and actually burning one of her letters! To some, she supposed his actions seemed understandable, even acceptable, since he was just doing what he felt necessary to protect their marriage. Even so, she couldn’t help but wonder what it said about their union that he didn’t believe her when she’d told him that she loved him and only him.

Given his reputation with women,
she
ought to be the one who was jealous. At this very moment, she could name over a dozen women who would be only too happy to violate their marriage vows in order to have an affair with Adam. But she trusted him and knew he would not violate that faith.

Yet he wouldn’t grant her that same respect, that same belief in her affection and fidelity. He couldn’t forgive her for showing a little consideration to a man she felt she had wronged, even if it was through no actual fault of her own.

And in spite of everything, she didn’t regret writing to Michael since he’d deserved better than her silence. But she deserved better from him now as well. She deserved his respect for her marriage, her choices.

As for Adam…well, she’d heard nothing from him since the day she’d left. Perhaps he was glad she’d gone. Perhaps he didn’t love her nearly as much as she’d thought.

And so she could not sleep, her nights plagued with unresolved questions and a jumble of conflicting emotions that left her weary and confused—and alone. For despite the steadfast love and support of her family, she was bereft without Adam.

She hadn’t told them a great deal, only enough to explain the circumstances that had led to her leaving Adam. Ever loyal, they’d closed ranks around her. Jack had even written saying he’d go have a talk with Adam to straighten his old friend out. But she refused his offer, telling him that she would deal with her marriage in her own way and time.

As for time, Ned had given her as much as she wanted, informing her that she had a home with him and Claire as long as she liked. His only wish was for her to be happy.

Claire and Mama and Esme had been wonderful as well, doing their best to cheer her, even though they knew her spirits were low. Often she played with baby Hannah, who was just learning to walk and whose laughter never failed to make her smile.

Perhaps if she were expecting a child of her own, everything would have been simple. Her place would then be with Adam, and she suspected she would have returned to him no matter their difficulties. But a couple of weeks after her arrival at Braebourne, she’d known there was no baby and that any choices she made were hers alone to decide.

Shaking off her musings, she turned her attention again toward her maid. “A warm milk would be most welcome, Penny,” she said. “The nip of brandy as well.”

Anything,
she thought,
that might help me rest.

With a smile and a curtsey, Penny hurried off to procure the nighttime posset.

Crossing to her bed, Mallory sank down on the mattress and gazed at Charlemagne where he lay watching her. Had she been wrong to send for him? Selfish to need his company when Adam might need it more? Did she see condemnation in his round, feline eyes?

“Should I have left you with him?” she asked. “How was he when you left? Does he miss me?”

But the cat could not answer.

Blinking against the sudden moisture in her eyes, she forced herself to lie back against the sheets. Closing her eyes, she waited for Penny to return.

Cannons pounded, the earth quaking beneath her feet, as acrid smoke burned the lining of her nostrils. She walked, an odd, warm wetness seeping into the satin of her thin white shoes. Fields stretched around her, the earth torn asunder in deep troughs and gouges that glistened with red, her slippers turning sticky and scarlet. Everywhere there were bodies, draped in red wool and awash with blood the color of claret wine. Moans rose up around her, mixing with the rumble of cannon fire.

Mallory.

She heard her name from amid the chaos, more smoke obscuring her vision as she hurried forward.

Mallory.

I’m coming,
she called, though she didn’t know to whom she spoke, only that she had to find him and soon.

Hands reached out to her as she walked, plucking at her skirts, begging for her aid, her comfort. But she couldn’t stop, she had to find him now, before it was too late.

Mallory.

She rushed faster, searching every crumpled body, peering at every devastated face. Her dress turned red as she went, her hands stained with blood that she couldn’t seem to wipe away no matter how hard she tried.

Then, finally, he was there, slumped in the mud with his back half-turned toward the sky. Running fast, she went to him with tears of joy streaming over her cheeks as she sank to her knees at his side.

He was hers and she had found him.

Shaking him, she waited for him to wake, to call her name one more time. Without thought, she reached out and touched him, pulling him onto his back so he would see her.

She met his eyes, dead and dark and staring.

She screamed, her throat burning with horror…

On a shuddering gasp, Mallory sat bolt upright in bed, her heart hammering painfully beneath her breasts, tears streaming wetly over her cheeks. A clammy sweat she hadn’t felt in ages beaded her forehead, her skin flushed hot and cold as shivers racked her body.

Fumbling on her bedside table, she lighted a candle, shaking so badly it was a wonder she didn’t burn herself. As her bedchamber came into focus, her gaze fell upon the empty mug of brandied milk she’d drunk a few hours earlier.

So much for its giving her a good night’s sleep.

Shuddering, she sank back against the pillows and drew the sheets over herself, reaching up to brush the edge of one hand against her damp cheeks.

She’d had the old nightmare again.

But why? It made no sense, not now when she knew that Michael hadn’t died on that battlefield after all. Why would her mind conjure up that one horrible phantasm after so many months forgotten?

Lying quietly, trying to calm herself, bits and pieces of the dream flickered through her memory. As they did, she gasped, tears flowing afresh.

The man she’d found lying on that battlefield hadn’t been Michael.

Instead, he’d had rich brown eyes and a beloved face.

Instead, he’d been Adam.

She went down to breakfast late the next morning, having tossed and turned long after awakening from her nightmare. It wasn’t until dawn that she’d finally managed to fall into a restless doze, slumbering for a few brief hours—Adam’s imaginary dead eyes seemingly seared into her brain.

Concealing a yawn behind her hand, she took a solitary place at the breakfast table in the morning room, sighing gratefully as she sipped hot tea from a cup one of the footmen laid before her. She had little appetite, but rather than suffer the reproving glances of the servants, she forced herself to eat a few bites of the eggs and toast on her plate. She was taking a last restorative sip of tea when Croft appeared in the doorway.

“Pardon me, your ladyship, but a visitor is here to see you.”

Her pulse gave a kick, and for a fleeting moment she wondered if it might be Adam. But if it were, she realized deflated, Croft would surely have said. “Did the caller give a name?”

A curious expression crossed the butler’s face, one that looked almost sympathetic. “It is Major Hargreaves, ma’am.”

Her pulse kicked again, but not with anticipation this time.

She hadn’t seen, nor heard, from Michael since that dreadful day when he’d come to Gresham Park. Now he was here at Braebourne wishing to see her again. Briefly, she considered refusing to see him, then changed her mind. There were matters between them that still needed resolving, she realized, so this might as well be the time.

Returning her cup to its saucer, she pushed the china aside. “Thank you, Croft. Pray inform the major that I shall receive him directly. He is in the drawing room, I presume?”

“Yes, Lady Mallory. I mean, your ladyship. Shall I inform the duchess you have a guest?”

She shook her head. “There is no need to disturb Her Grace or the duke.”

Whatever it was Michael had come to say, she was sure it would be for her ears alone.

Nevertheless, she waited nearly five minutes before she stood and brushed her hands over her lilac cashmere morning gown. Only then did she make her way from the room.

Michael stood near the fireplace when she entered, his hands tucked into his pockets, his golden brows knit in an anxious frown. The expression cleared the moment he saw her, a tentative smile curving his mouth. “Mallory.”

“Michael.” She stopped, her hands linked before her. “What are you doing here? I was not expecting you.”

As she waited for his response, she couldn’t help but notice the hint of yellowish discoloration that was still visible near one of his eyes—the last remnants of his fist-fight with Adam.

His frown returned. “I suppose I ought to have sent word, but given what happened last time, I decided I would save both of us the trouble of attempting to exchange letters.”