Fated Folly (19 page)

‘
Yes, sir,' the valet agreed sympathetically. ‘I thought you would not wish for an undue alarm being raised amongst the household, if her ladyship should call for a surgeon.'

‘
What
?' gasped his afflicted employer, throwing himself back in shock, and then wincing at the discomfort the ill-considered action cost him.

‘
That is, sir, what her ladyship has been—er—threatening to do. It was only with difficulty that I dissuaded her from coming in here to see how you were for herself.'

Rupert dragged himself up, clutching the wet cloth to his head. ‘She must not see me like this!'

‘
No, indeed, sir,' Riggs coughed. ‘I have—er—taken the liberty of informing her ladyship that you are dressing.'

‘
Keep her out, for God's sake,' begged Rupert, flinging off his covers and swinging his legs to the ground. His head swam and he was obliged to clutch at his valet for support, groaning, ‘God help me!'

Presently, however, the distressing symptoms subsided a little and he was able to hoist himself up and, with an unusual degree of assistance from Riggs, scramble into his clothes. But he felt so weak and ill that he knew he could not possibly carry off an encounter with his wife.

‘
Go and tell her I've gone for a walk, Riggs,' he instructed the valet. ‘I'll slip out the back stairs and go down to the forest. Oh, for a grave!'

But the valet, inexperienced in the wiles of a certain young lady when determination had her in its grip, was as wax in her hands.

‘
Oh, he has gone out?' said his mistress in an interested tone, when he came to her in the drawing-room to relay the message. She looked to the French windows which were open, this first August morning being fine enough at last to promise fulfilment of the prophesies of the farmers. ‘Then he is not unwell, after all?'

Riggs coughed. ‘The very slightest of indispositions. Sir Rupert feels he may perhaps have taken a chill—just a slight head cold.'

‘
Oh dear,' Clare said solicitously, with a sympathetic smile. ‘And he feels the fresh air might clear his head, I dare say.'

‘
Just so, my lady,' agreed the valet, evidently grateful for this assistance. ‘A headache does often presage a cold.'

And follow a bout of overindulgence in liquor, Clare thought, remembering Justin on the mornings after he had imbibed excessively with his cronies. But she smiled sweetly at Riggs.

‘
Quite right. I should think Sir Rupert will do much better wandering around outside, than languishing in his bed.'

‘
His own feelings exactly, my lady,' the valet said with an eagerness that secretly amused Clare.

‘
On a day like this, too,' she pursued, rising and going to the French windows. ‘It must be pleasant in the forest now. The river runs at the bottom of our land, doesn't it?'

‘
Just below this end of the forest, my lady,' Riggs confirmed, adding without thinking, ‘It has long been a favourite haunt of Sir Rupert's.'

Clare turned to him, fluttering her eyelashes. ‘Has it indeed? Thank you, Riggs. That will be all for now.'

She resumed her seat at the desk and picked up a pen, watching covertly as the valet bowed and withdrew. Then she leapt up again and went through the French windows and out onto the driveway, looking down the terraces below the house.

So Rupert was still trying to escape her, was he? They would see about that. She'd had time enough to think over what had happened yesterday. With a cooler head, she was able to light upon the thing that threw everything else into insignificance. Rupert had been jealous!

In all the shock of his rage and the consequences, and her own realisation of Ashendon's part, the one salient fact had escaped her. But last night, as she lay wakeful in her bed, knowing her spouse was drinking himself into a stupor downstairs—when she had been far too angry and upset to try and stop him—and at length hearing him come up, staggering, to his room next door, her imagination had rekindled the dream she had dreamed so many times. Only then did she realise, blindingly, the meaning of that explosive kiss. She was not to be deceived any longer. He might say what he pleased. How strong his affection might be, she could not tell. But he wanted her. Let there be a dozen mistresses, he still wanted his wife.

Heavens, he had been like a dog with a bone. Snarling and growling at her. Teeth bared, ready to strike at Ashendon had he not retreated. And then, to demonstrate once and for all that she was his, and only his—

Exultant, Clare hugged herself in glee. There could be no turning back. Not now. Not after the way he had positively devoured her with the strength of his passion. She could not wish him to “lust” after her, he had protested. But he did, he did! And with the age-old instinct of every woman, she knew he would be unable to resist her. Sooner or later he would succumb. For he was tied to her. She was his wife. Try as he would—and he was trying, for he was avoiding her as if she had the plague—he could not get away.

When she had him, Clare vowed, she would hold him. She would make him love her. When she was, in truth, his wife, he would have no need of a mistress. This “B”, once Clare had discovered who she was, would be eliminated.

She must not rush upon him like a demented idiot, however. Gently, gently she must go to work. Besides, she did not want to demonstrate her eagerness to the domestic staff.

She forced herself to meander along the first promenade and sit in the arbour for a while. Then she gradually wandered down the levels, lingering by the central fountain, which was the last bastion of the landscaped lawns before the final terrace. After that, the garden fell away and the forest began to encroach. It was easy enough, then, to slip unobtrusively into the trees.

Clare was not familiar with the forest, which was a somewhat large term for this section of it. It was only sparsely wooded, running for a half mile until it met the River Tame, forming the border with Oxfordshire just at that point. Clare knew that she had only to follow a direct path, keeping the sun to her left, and she must reach the river bank.

So indeed it proved. For a short time she cast about, looking down one side towards Ickford, and then the other. She stood in thought, wondering which way Rupert would be walking. Towards Ickford meant Blanche Dearham. No, he wanted to be alone with his aching head. She turned the other way and started off, holding up her muslin petticoats.

Her reasoning was sound. Not five minutes walk brought her within sight of her husband. But he was not walking. He was lying in a hollow under a leafy tree, fast asleep.

Clare almost missed him. Had it not been for a small stone creeping into her sandal, and forcing her to look down as she shook her foot to be rid of it, she would probably not have noticed Rupert lying there. She started, smiled a little, and blessed the fateful stone. Moving softly across the turf on silent feet she reached him and stood poised, looking down.

Oh, but how like that drawing was he, only so much more alive. His breath came evenly, his lips just parted, the rise and fall of his chest reassuring as he lay there so still. His brow was smooth, all trace vanished of the frown that had been there when last she had seen him. One hand lay across his breast, the strong fingers curled in relaxation, while the other was thrown back against the ground close to his head, the dark hair that flowed away from his face just touching it.

Tenderness welled up in Clare's bosom. He looked so vulnerable. Abruptly, with the same sudden jolting dart that had attacked her last night, she recognised his suffering. She did not comprehend it all. But she knew that marrying her had cost him dear. She, who loved him so much!

‘
Oh, Rupert,' she whispered.

Next moment she was down beside him, stealthily leaning across and putting her mouth softly against the parted lips. It was a featherlight kiss, and the lips beneath her own did not move. But as she pulled away, her arms were seized in two strong hands and her startled gaze met Rupert's eyes as they opened.

‘
Clare!' he uttered gutturally, and pulled her back down.

His mouth sought hungrily for hers, one hand moving to hold her head firm so she might not escape him, while the other gripped her to him. Yet he gentled her lips with his own, tasting and mouthing the soft yielding flesh, drawing a response somewhere so deep within her that Clare resisted a little, half in fear, half in yearning.

But, ‘My wife,' he murmured against her lips. ‘My Clare.' And a velvet touch caressed her, melting her back into his embrace, seduced by those enticing words.

His passion increased, and he drew shudderingly on his ragged breath, without leaving her mouth, and rearing up, rolled her over that he might better pursue his purpose.

But then the ruthless punishment of his ill-used body betrayed him. He cried out, let go of her and fell back again, his hands going up to seize his brain, which was coming apart at the seams.

‘
Oh, my head,' he groaned, agonised. ‘Devil take it, why, oh, why did I do it?'

‘
Is it very bad?' Clare enquired solicitously, struggling up as the sensations he had aroused in her drained away.

‘
Devilish,' he mumbled, his eyes closed as his fingers uselessly kneaded his temples.

Clare eyed him helplessly for a moment. Then she got up and ran to the river, digging out her pocket handkerchief. Justin had always said that a damp cloth did the trick. Well, she had only this little square of linen, but it would serve. She dipped it in the water and squeezed out some of the wet. Then she returned to her tormented spouse, who had flung one hand over his eyes, and gently laid the handkerchief across his brow.

‘
Oh, that is good,' he gasped thankfully, his hand moving to hold it tight against his skin.

Presently, as Clare anxiously watched him, sitting quietly by his side, he seemed to relax a little. He reached out without opening his eyes.

‘
Give me your hand.'

Clare laid her fingers in his and he drew them to his lips, and thence to his cheek and kept them there. Gradually his hold loosened and Clare saw that he was dropping into slumber again. Gently, she drew his hand down so that it rested in her lap, clasped within her own small fingers.

‘
I do love you, Rupert,' she whispered.

But Rupert slept on, dead to the world, and Clare realised that throughout the whole episode he had been only half awake. Or else he would not so easily have given in to his need of her. She was inclined to wish he had not been quite so drunk last night. Just enough, perhaps, to have loosened the inhibition that kept him from her bed. But not so much as to have brought on that accursed headache again. He might otherwise have taken her then and there.

Clare giggled at the thought, looking about at the forest and the river. Arrested by the oddest feeling, she stilled, her eyes on the tops of some tall trees, standing out above the rest, at a distance off towards that thicker part of the forest that led through to the Grange, and near it the little town of Chilton where the post-chaises stopped at the Crown.

If it had not been impossible, she would swear she had seen that bank of trees before. She stared at them, and time slowed. A clutch of high elms, growing close together, their branches almost touching. How strange. All of a sudden there was a sense of familiarity about the whole forest. She
had
been here. But that was absurd. She had never been next or nigh this part of the world before she married Rupert.

Her puzzled eyes came down to look at his face again and she blinked. For an instant he seemed younger. It must be the way his skin was smoothed out in sleep.

An image flashed across her mind. It was Rupert's face. But his hair was longer, she thought, and not permitted to roam free, but tied back so that the firm line of his jaw stood out in sharp relief. Just the way it did now with his lush hair fallen away. She stared at him, quite bewildered.

Almost as if he felt her concentrated regard, a muscle in his cheek twitched and he shifted a little. His hand between her own moved, and Clare realised that her hold had tightened unconsciously, disturbing him.

She released his fingers, running her own gently across the back of his hand. Just to be able to touch him like this was a joy. A privilege, to sit and watch over him as he slept. Yes, she could understand that “B”. Feel with her the warmth that had driven her to steal his likeness. Heavens, “B” had loved him, too. Did so still? That was why the drawing was so disturbing. “B” had poured all her love of Rupert into it. And it showed.

A frown came into her face. That sketch. It had a similarity of line to one of the paintings in the gallery. A conversation piece of the Wolverley family. Lord St Merryn and his wife and children, Pippa as a little girl along with her parents, and the first Lady Wolverley standing next to Rupert, his hair drawn back and tied in the style of the day.

Clare nearly laughed aloud in relief. Of course. It was that vision which had come into her mind. Not some alien manifestation of her imagination.

‘
Clare?'

Snapping instantly out of her thoughts, she looked down and smiled. ‘How are you feeling?'