Lord Deverill's Heir (16 page)

Arabella was drained of fight, of courage. She’d told him it wasn’t true, but he hadn’t believed her. The pain lessened a bit as he pulled slowly out of her, for his seed eased his way. Still, it hurt and she moaned, hating herself for it, but unable to hold it close in her throat.

He wondered if he could stand, but he managed to. His fury was exhausted.

She was staring up at him. She looked devastated. No, surely that wasn’t right. Had she expected to fool him? Well, she had, damn her. She’d been a virgin. He’d not expected that. He met her eyes, saw the pain in them, the awful awareness of what he’d done to her, and for an instant, he doubted.

She had been a virgin. She’d told him she and the comte weren’t lovers.

But then, clearly in his mind’s eye, he saw the comte coming out of the barn, his swaggering stride as meaningful as a man’s crow of victory. And then she had come out of the barn, disheveled, tumbled, yes, tumbled, the look of a woman who had been made love to, thoroughly and with great enjoyment. It hardened his soul against her. She was perfidious. She had betrayed him, then lied to him. He began to turn away from her, still not saying a word, but then looked down at her. Her legs were sprawled. Her virgin’s blood and his seed mixed with the white cream were on her thighs and on the bedcovers. He didn’t like himself at that moment. He had never hurt a woman in his life, never. He’d been an animal. But no, no. He’d been justified. He hadn’t hurt her overly, he’d merely taken her as a man had to take a woman to consummate the marriage. He’d been fast, gotten it over with quickly. He’d used cream. He hadn’t raped her. He would have been justified had he raped her, but he hadn’t, no, he’d merely gotten it done with.

She’d lied to him.

He grabbed a towel from the washbasin and tossed it to her. She made no move to catch it. It fell over her belly. “Clean yourself. You are a mess.”

Arabella still didn’t move. She only stared at him, not really seeing him, not wanting to see him, for that would burn into her soul what he had done. He believed her capable of such deceit. It made no sense to her, but he believed it. It had made him cruel, brutal.

He said to her with empty bitterness, “Don’t look at me like that. It isn’t any of my doing. I merely did what I had to do to secure my inheritance. I did not rape you. I used cream.” He plowed his fingers through his hair, standing it on end. “Damnation, so I was wrong about your virginity. That came as a big surprise. How very nobel of the damned comte to leave you intact for your wedding night, to grant me the honor of deflowering you. Did you convince him to leave you intact? Did you tell him that I wasn’t that big a fool? Or perhaps he was the one who didn’t want me to guess that I wasn’t your first man? He was afraid I’d kill him outright?”

His gray eyes narrowed. His voice continued bleak. “I want to kill the little bastard. I am thinking hard about what I shall to do him. Of course, there are certainly other ways. You have fooled me yet again, but now I understand. There are so many other ways, are there not? Did he sodomize you? Yes, very probably. And, of course you pleased him with your lovely mouth. A man—a Frenchman in particular—enjoys that as much as coming inside a woman.”

What was he talking about? What did sodomize mean? What did he mean about her mouth? She was shaking her head. Words still seemed beyond her. She felt so very cold, so very empty.

He laughed. A raw laugh that turned back on himself. “Well, now that your husband has claimed your maidenhead, you can take your lover in more conventional ways. My thanks, dear Arabella, for this mockery of a marriage.”

She felt his deadly fury, winced at his damning words. Yet, they were meaningless sounds to her. How could he believe that she had a lover?

She’d made her decision to wed him; with that decision, she’d given herself to him, only him. This made no sense. Nothing made sense, nothing except the pulling soreness inside her body. She felt curiously numb, blessedly detached from the pitiful woman who lay there, naked, legs sprawled, listening to this man who hated her.

Her silence was a confession of guilt to him. Infuriated he grabbed up his dressing gown, flung it on. “That you betrayed me makes me want to kill both you and him. But I can’t kill you, can I? If I did, I would lose everything. You have made me pay dearly for my inheritance, an inheritance that you wanted for yourself. I only ask, dear wife, that in future you conduct your affairs with more discretion. I filled you with my seed this time. I will not do it in the future. You will have no child by me. If you do become pregnant, I will not claim the child. I will announce to the world that you carry another man’s babe—a Frenchman’s wretched get—that you are filled with another man’s seed. Believe me on this.”

He turned on his heel, and without looking back, strode into the small adjoining dressing room and very quietly closed the door behind him.

The gilt-edged ormolu clock on the mantelpiece ticked away its minutes with time-honored accuracy. The orange embers in the fireplace crackled and hissed in their final death glow, eventually succumbing to the invading chill of the room. The hideous grinning skeleton, mouth agape, eternally suspended on The Dance of Death panel, silently taunted the motionless figure on the bed.

Lady Ann broke her habit and took Mrs. Tucker quite by surprise by appearing at the inordinately early hour of eight o’clock at the breakfast parlor door. It was really rather a foolish thing to do, for in all likelihood the newlywedded couple would not emerge for hours. Yet Lady Ann had awakened with a vague sense that something was not quite right, and in spite of the comforting warmth that tempted her to snuggle down in her bed, she had swung her feet to the floor, rung for her maid, and dressed with more speed than was her usual habit.

“Good morning, Mrs. Tucker,” Lady Ann said with a smile. “I suppose I am the only one to demand breakfast this early in the morning.”

“Oh, no, my lady. His lordship has been in the breakfast parlor for a good half hour, though I can’t say that he has quite done justice to Cook’s kidneys and eggs. Indeed, I don’t believe he has touched his breakfast.

Lady Ann experienced a sudden sinking in the pit of her stomach. This surely wasn’t right. But what could possibly be wrong? She said, “If that is the case, Mrs. Tucker, Cook won’t have to prepare more kidneys for me.” The door to the breakfast parlor was slightly ajar. As Lady Ann stepped into the room, she was able to observe the earl before he was aware of her presence. His plate was indeed untouched. He lounged sideways in his chair, one leather-breached leg thrown negligently over the brocade arm.

His firm chin rested lightly upon his hand, and he appeared to be gazing out onto the south lawn at nothing in particular.

Lady Ann straightened her shoulders and walked into the breakfast room.

“Good morning, Justin. Mrs. Tucker tells me you are sadly neglecting Cook’s breakfast. Are you feeling all right this morning?” He turned quickly to face her, and she saw the tense line of his jaw, the shadows beneath his gray eyes, the haggard lines about his mouth. The lines smoothed out in a trice. He looked remote and quite calm, but she knew she hadn’t been mistaken. Something was very wrong.

“Good morning, Ann. You are certainly up and about early. Do join me. I am simply not hungry this morning. There was enough food served yesterday to fatten up a battalion.”

Lady Ann sat in the chair to his right. She wanted desperately to question him, but she found herself at a loss as to how to proceed. His face grew rather forbidding, as if he guessed her thoughts. She began to methodically butter a slice of warm toast, and without raising her eyes again to his face, she said, “It seems odd that you are now my son-in-law. Dr. Branyon obligingly pointed out that I can no longer escape my new title of Dowager Countess of Strafford. How very ancient it makes me feel.”

“Give yourself another twenty years before you consider assuming that title, Ann. Ah, by the way, are you planning to marry Paul Branyon?”

“Justin, what a question, why I—” She was totally taken off her guard.

Her toast slipped from her fingers and fell atop her marmalade. She gulped. “That is quite a question to be hit with this early in the morning.”

“Yes, and a very important one that I’m sure you have no wish to answer.

Do forgive me, Ann. Questions such as that tend to place the person being asked in a rather difficult position, do you not agree?”

“Yes,” she said slowly, “naturally you are right. That was very well done. I don’t believe I’ve ever before received such an elegant poke in the nose.”

He rose, tossing his napkin beside his full plate. “If you will excuse me, Ann, I have many matters to attend to this morning.” She watched him walk from the room. She said nothing more to him. What was there to say?

She stared down at the array of dishes Cook had happily prepared for the newlyweds. Dear God, whatever could have happened? Arabella had been so very happy and excited the night before—not at all a nervous young bride.

Arabella. Oh God, she must go to her. Her concern made her feet fly up the stairs to the earl’s bedchamber, the chamber she hated more than any other in this great mansion.

The door stood partially ajar, and she tapped on it lightly as she entered.

“Oh,” she said in surprise at the sight of Grace, Arabella’s maid, standing alone in the room, the tattered remnants of a nightgown held in her hands.

Grace quickly dropped a curtsy, her brown eyes darting quickly away from Lady Ann’s face.

“Where is my daughter?” She walked forward, her eyes on that torn nightgown in Grace’s hands.

Grace gulped uncomfortably. Lady Arabella had given her strict orders to straighten the room before anyone was about. Here she was standing in the middle of the room with the evidence of the earl’s brutality in her hands. “Ah, my lady, her ladyship is in her own room.”

“I see,” Lady Ann said slowly, her eyes taking in the dried bloodstains on top of the bedcover, the red-tinged water and the blood-flecked towel on the washbasin. She felt sick with apprehension. No use in putting more questions to Grace. She would protect Arabella. She was out of the bedchamber before Grace could offer her a curtsy.

Lady Ann walked more and more slowly as she neared her daughter’s bedchamber. She could not help remembering her own wedding night, filled with pain and humiliation. She shook her head even as her steps slowed further. No, it could not have been like that. Justin was so very different from her late husband.

Still, her hands were damp when she knocked lightly on Arabella’s door.

There was no answer. Not that she expected one. She knocked again. Would Arabella refuse to let her come in? Then she heard, “Enter.” Lady Ann was not certain what she expected to find, but when she walked into the bedchamber, she looked at her very normal daughter of yesterday.

Arabella calmly rose to greet her, dressed in her black riding habit, her velvet hat set high above smoothly arranged curls, the black ostrich feather curving over the brim, nearly brushing her cheek.

“Good morning, Mother. Whatever has you up and about so very early? Is Dr. Branyon coming?”

She sounded calm. Laced with that calm was centuries of arrogance that dared Lady Ann to say anything. Had she not seen Justin, not visited the earl’s bedchamber, she would have felt the complete fool.

“You ride as usual?”

“Of course, Mother. Is there any reason why I should not? I always ride early in the morning. Is there something you would like me to do?” There was more arrogance, so much Lady Ann felt she would drown in it.

Lady Ann found that she could not rise to the challenge. If Arabella did not wish to confide in her, she could not press her. She realized then that Arabella had rarely taken her into her confidence over the years.

Only her father had shared her thoughts, her dreams, her fears, if, that is, she’d ever had any.

“No, my dear, if you wish to ride, it is certainly your affair. I simply could not sleep and thought to bid you good morning. That is all. Well, I did see Justin in the breakfast parlor. He did not look quite well rested. He looked a bit tense, even, perhaps despondent for some very odd reason, well—”

An arched black brow shot up in suspicious inquiry. “I suggest that if you are concerned for Justin, you simply ask him how he fares. Now, I fear you will grow overtired if you do not get your rest, Mother. If you will excuse me—” Arabella drew on her gloves, tipped her hat to a more jaunty angle, and walked to where her mother stood. She kissed her lightly on the cheek, her expression softening almost imperceptibly, and walked quickly out of the room.

Lady Ann stood staring after her daughter. Damnation, what had happened?

As Arabella guided Lucifer past the old abbey ruins to the country lane that led to Bury St. Edmunds, her eyes were clear and straight, her gloved hands steady on Lucifer’s reins, her chin raised high.

Poor Mother, she thought, feeling suddenly guilty. She hadn’t treated her well. How had her mother known that something was wrong? And she had known. It was a mystery. So Justin hadn’t looked well rested, had he? He had looked despondent? Damn him to hell! Arabella rather hoped that he would rot, in addition to hell. He deserved to rot. He deserved every bad thing that could happen to him did happen.

Still, how had her mother guessed that something was wrong? Oh dear, had she seen the shambles in the master’s bedchamber? Had Grace not had enough time to burn her nightgown and the sheets? She would ask her when she returned to the abbey.

She flicked Lucifer lightly with the reins on the neck, urging him into a gallop. If only she could leave behind her all the ugliness, the pain, the hatred of the night before. And that horrible cream that had eased her, but still, it hadn’t mattered. Nothing had mattered to him. She felt sick with disappointment, with despair. She wanted to cry. But even as the wish flashed through her mind, she saw her father’s face filled with contempt. It was weakness, cowardice, to deny any experience that touched one’s life. It was utterly unacceptable to cry. Her shoulders straightened from long habit, however difficult, but she managed it, and her firm chin thrust forward.