Lord of Secrets (22 page)

It was an actual physical ache, this devastating disillusionment. David had kept from her bed not because he was inexpert or uncertain, but because he found her completely undesirable. Despite what he’d said about never wanting her to be anything but herself, she was a burden, an encumbrance, an unappealing child.

She’d never loved anyone so much before, or been hurt so badly. Stubbornly, she’d wanted to think the best of David. She’d gone into their marriage determined to dwell only on the happy prospects, to discount any misgivings about his strange moods and their short acquaintance. But blinding herself to potential problems had left her heart defenseless, and a defenseless heart was too easily broken.

“My poor darling.” Still holding her, David stroked her hair. “Does it really hurt that much?”

“No, I—I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s foolish of me.” Sniffling, she made to pull away. “I’m sorry.”

He drew her firmly back against him. “Don’t be sorry.” He spoke in the deep, calm voice she loved so well. “I like to look after you now and then. It’s only fair, when you’re so good at looking after me.”

But
I’m
not
good
at
looking
after
you
.
I’ve
never
been
. At the mutinous thought, she sobbed harder. He didn’t even want her, not in the way a husband was supposed to want a wife. And why should he, when she was so hopelessly unappealing?

“Shh, my heart.” Even in her misery, his warm baritone voice, so rich and sonorous, sent a betraying thrill up her spine. “Give it a little time. It will get better, I promise.”

She wasn’t sure what
it
meant—the pain in her hand, or their troublingly celibate marriage. How much had David guessed of her feelings, after having discovered her in a furtive tête-à-tête with Charlie?

Whatever his meaning, a choking paroxysm of hurt robbed her of the power to answer. Instead she turned her face away, leaning her forehead against his shoulder and squeezing her eyes shut against a sense of uselessness and failure.

* * *

Deep in thought, David returned to his study. Once Rosalie had regained her composure, she’d explained away her tears with the excuse that their move to London must have left her overtired. He’d wrung a promise from her that she would get some rest, and by the time she’d gone trudging upstairs, she’d looked tolerably more calm.

As for his own composure, he was still waiting for it to return. In that first moment when he’d discovered Rosalie on her knees and sobbing, blood streaking her hand, he’d felt the same surge of alarm he’d experienced years before, when the crack of a pistol had announced his father’s suicide. It had flashed into his head that she’d done herself some serious injury—though why he’d immediately leaped to such a dire conclusion, he couldn’t say. Somehow, he’d found the presence of mind to cross to her, take her hand and inspect the wound. His relief when he’d discovered it was only a minor injury had left him light-headed.

Except, of course, that she’d been crying brokenly, tears running down her cheeks. Pulling her close, he’d wondered what had brought on such an outburst. Probably something that thoughtless young cousin of hers had said, some disagreement or minor family crisis. At least, David hoped it was nothing more than that. As he’d held Rosalie sobbing in his arms, he’d done his best to calm her, wanting to be the kind of steady, reliable figure who could solve her problems and banish all her fears.

Unfortunately, such noble intentions had lasted scarcely a minute. Then he’d flashed back to that morning, when he’d awakened stiff and aching with arousal, only a vague memory lingering to tell him he’d been dreaming of his own wife.

Never before in his adult life had he gone this long without a woman, and it was taking its toll on both his body and his peace of mind. He’d been having the strangest dreams, the kind of vivid sexual fantasies he hadn’t had since his youth, as well as the most distracting thoughts. Just that morning at breakfast, Rosalie had reached for the teapot, and he’d fallen into a lengthy reverie on the inexpressible loveliness of her arm—the white skin, the soft, rounded shape, the gracefulness of her gestures. Her
arm
. Snapping out of the trance, he’d nearly laughed aloud at the utter ridiculousness of a thirty-one-year-old man drifting into schoolboy daydreams at the sight of his wife’s elbow.

Swearing softly under his breath, David dropped into the leather chair behind his desk. If only he could bring himself to tell Rosalie about his past—or, better yet, if there were no such past to tell her about. He was tired of the secrets he’d been keeping, tired down to his bones, but the only thing worse than the constant strain of keeping the truth buried would be seeing the look in Rosalie’s eyes when she finally learned what kind of man she’d married.

Every day, she demonstrated how genuinely good-hearted she was. He’d asked her to get to know the people of the estate village, and she’d thrown herself into the task. She’d brought actual cheer to Lyningthorp and mended fences with his neighbors. Now she’d even begun pouring him a drink every evening.

And with every sweet, helpful thing she did, with every sign she gave of caring for him, he found it harder to contemplate confessing. He lay awake at night, enumerating his sins to himself and wondering how to make them sound less...repugnant. Depraved. Detestable. But despite all the years he’d studied language, he didn’t know any words with the mystical power to make loathsome choices seem merely foolish and excusable.

Unbidden, lines from Shakespeare popped into his head—Macbeth’s question to the doctor attending Lady Macbeth in her madness.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,

Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,

Raze out the written troubles of the brain

And with some sweet oblivious antidote

Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff

Which weighs upon the heart?

That was what he needed: some magic antidote to make him forget, make his heart and mind as clean and whole as Rosalie’s. But he also remembered the doctor’s answer to Macbeth.
Therein
the
patient
must
minister
to
himself
.

When Rosalie had kissed him the night before, perched affectionately on the arm of his chair, it had taken him by surprise. His first response had been not lust, but the same warm tenderness he’d experienced when watching her at their wedding breakfast. He’d felt happy and affectionate and protective all at once. It was only as the kiss continued and he’d sensed the first stir of passion that the full import of what they were doing had struck him like a whiplash. And that night after the Meltons’ dinner—buoyed by wine and good cheer, he’d momentarily forgotten his resolve, kissing her until the blood flowed hot in his veins. The sudden onset of sobriety had been like a douse of cold water on his wits.

He wanted her, and he couldn’t have her—not because she would refuse him, but because he didn’t deserve her, and it was only fair she knew as much before she gave herself to him. But at least he hadn’t broken his vow. He hadn’t taken advantage of Rosalie’s trust, no matter how tempted he’d been.

Still, perhaps now wasn’t the best time to wrestle with the problem, not with the sight of Rosalie’s bleeding hand still fresh in his mind and her tears still drying on his shoulder. Frowning, he reached for the morning post he’d brought in earlier from the hall table and began shuffling through it—a report from the steward he employed on his Lincolnshire property, a bill from Weston for two coats, a request from a charitable society for his patronage. A typical day’s mail.

He flipped to the last letter and froze.

He recognized the writing immediately. For several long seconds, he simply stared down at the letter in his hands, his heart beating out of time.

He could burn it unread. He was probably better off not knowing what it said.

Then again, why would she have written now, when he hadn’t heard from her in nearly a decade? What if she was in some dire predicament, what if she needed his help? Surely he owed her that much after all the ways he’d wronged her.

Grimly, he broke open the seal and unfolded the page to reveal more of the slanting feminine script.

Dearest David,

I learned of your marriage this morning from an acquaintance who was in London when the ceremony took place. Allow me to congratulate you. For some time now, I have wondered when I might hear such news of you. I’m told she is very pretty, but then, you always did have excellent taste.

It’s hard to believe ten years can pass so quickly. I must confess I often think of you even now. I try not to, but then something will happen to remind me of my old life, and the way you made me
—

He crumpled the letter in his hand, unable to read another word. Where had all the air in the room gone? He couldn’t breathe.

He strode to the fireplace and reached for the box of Prometheans beside it. He dipped one of the matches in the little bottle of acid and waited for it to flare into flame. Swallowing down a sick sensation, he held the lit match to a corner of the letter, waiting for the fire to catch and spread.

He resisted the urge to toss the blazing page on the grate until it threatened to burn his fingers. Even then, he continued to watch as the letter scorched and blackened. He refused to look away until he was sure the flames had consumed it entirely, and nothing remained to remind him of her except ashes.

He turned away from the fireplace with a tight feeling in his chest. Just when he’d begun to hope he could get beyond his past, the letter had arrived like a judge’s warrant to remind him of his guilt.

No matter how he might try to fool himself, he could never escape what he’d done. It would dog him to his grave.

Chapter Seventeen

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot in sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never...

—
William Shakespeare

When Rosalie and David attended the theater the next evening, it was their first public appearance in London as a married couple. Rosalie had mastered her stormy emotions to the best of her ability, and was doing all she could to play the part of glowing bride. She would confront David soon about his mistresses, but for the time being, she owed it to Charlie to put the gossip he’d told her out of her head. As far as the world was concerned, she’d never made the mistake of delving into her husband’s past.

And, really, it wasn’t that hard to play the part of glowing bride, as long as she kept thoughts of David’s womanizing at bay. It helped that he seemed willing enough to play along, treating her with a kind, if noticeably formal, courtesy. He looked as striking as ever in his evening clothes, leaning forward with one arm on the velvet edge of their box, engrossed in the drama on stage even though Rosalie felt sure he could recite most of the play from memory. If she concentrated hard enough on the present, she could almost forget that this devastatingly attractive man wanted nothing to do with her.

She did her best to focus on the play. She’d seen
The
Tempest
performed before, but it held new significance for her now, knowing David’s love of Shakespeare. She listened carefully, appreciating for the first time the nuance and cadence of each line. It helped her to keep her mind off the hollow pain in her stomach and the hours she’d spent the night before, lying in her room, alone and sleepless.

After the performance, David seemed less distant than he had on their way to the theater. At least, he gave her a smile as they exited their box. “Did you enjoy it, my dear?”

He looked so handsome when he smiled, the ache inside her grew even keener. “Yes. It’s a play for those who love language, don’t you think?” She took his arm, striving not to look too downcast. At least she could enjoy this much contact, even if it was a polite and chaste sort of touch.

Amid the press of other bodies, they squeezed out the front doors and into the throng of theatergoers waiting for their carriages. Well-dressed members of the
ton
threw her curious looks. For that matter, Rosalie had sensed a great many eyes on her throughout the play. No doubt they were measuring how the Marquess of Deal looked with a new bride on his arm. Well, she had no intention of letting society see how badly it was going wrong. She scraped together a smile for an imposing matron in a heavily embroidered gown, and felt even more disheartened when the woman turned away with a stony face.

Their carriage rolled up, the Linney coat of arms with its strawberry leaves and pearls painted on the side panel, and David handed her inside. As he stepped in behind her, however, the footman holding the door addressed him in a low, respectful tone. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but there is a—person who wishes to speak to you privately for a moment, in the carriage waiting on the other side of the street.”

David frowned. “To speak to me privately? But I’m escorting Lady Deal.”

The footman glanced uneasily at Rosalie. “Yes, my lord, but this person insists it’s an emergency.”

“In that case, he should step over here and—”

“It—it is a person known to you, my lord,” the footman said with a significant look. “Your pardon, but I believe you would wish to speak to this individual.”

David frowned and shot a glance at Rosalie. “Perhaps I’d better go and see what this is about.”

“Yes, of course.”

He stepped out. She watched through the carriage window as he crossed the cobbled street, his long graceful stride bringing him quickly to an unmarked carriage waiting under the streetlight at the opposite curb.

The carriage door opened immediately to admit him. He didn’t get in, however, choosing instead to stand in the street and talk through the open door with one hand on the door handle. He gestured impatiently in Rosalie’s direction before his arm dropped to his side and he listened with knit brows to the carriage occupant.

Rosalie leaned closer to the window, her nose all but pressed to the glass, trying to catch a glimpse of the person who’d summoned her husband so peremptorily. David was wearing a troubled look now, a definite frown creasing his forehead. Was he irritated or concerned? She judged him to be a mixture of both.

He gave a curt nod and reached into his coat. To Rosalie’s surprise, he took out his pocketbook and counted out what seemed to be a good deal of money in new gold sovereigns. He extended it toward the passenger in the carriage.

Then, lit by the glow of the streetlight, a hand stretched out to receive the proffered coins. It was a feminine hand, slim and gloved in primrose kid. As David relinquished the money, the carriage door bumped open a few more inches. At last, Rosalie got a look at the person—the lady—with whom David had been talking.

Or perhaps
lady
was the wrong word, since the beauty’s vivid looks and provocative dress suggested a less-than-respectable station in life. The realization David was talking to a Cyprian only heightened Rosalie’s distress, for the woman was everything she longed to be—lush, exotic and artfully arrayed. One long auburn ringlet tumbled over the woman’s white shoulder to rest against a voluptuous bosom. She had a slightly feline tilt to her bold, inviting eyes, and her rouged lips curved in a generous smile. Faced with such striking sexual sophistication, Rosalie felt more conscious than ever of her own girlish gaucherie.

And it was obvious her husband knew the woman well.

David gave the beauty another nod and turned back toward their equipage. As he crossed the street with his long-legged stride, he kept his head down, apparently deep in thought. Rosalie sat back, readying a strained smile.

“Anything amiss, David?” she asked when he stepped into the carriage.

He shook his head. “No, nothing you need worry over, my dear.”

Nothing she need worry over? No, only that her husband of less than a month had just given a beautiful demimondaine an impressive sum of money. Why should she trouble herself over that? As the carriage began to move, Rosalie stared out the window, unsure whether she was furious with David or just bitterly, bitterly disappointed in him. Her cheeks burned with humiliation and hurt.

Now she understood why the footman had looked so uncomfortable when he’d said
It
is
a
person
known
to
you
,
my
lord
. Clearly Charlie had been right about her husband’s extramarital affairs, and even the servants were in on the secret. David had spoken to the woman with the casual posture of a man wholly accustomed to such encounters.

And Rosalie had told him, just two nights before their wedding,
As
long
as
you
truly
care
for
me
,
we
can
get
through
anything
. She’d pictured herself overlooking his faults with loving forbearance, her patience and understanding setting every problem in their marriage quickly to rights. That was vanity—imagining herself the perfect wife, an angel of mercy conferring whatever benediction their life together might require. David didn’t even want her understanding, or care one way or the other what she might think.

Weeks ago on the
Neptune’s
Fancy
, Charlie had warned her she was too forgiving by half. She’d laughed off the remark at the time, even congratulated herself on it not long ago, but now she knew he’d been right. She’d been a fool, making excuses for David’s unsociable manners, imagining she could see beyond the cool exterior to the lonely heart beneath. In her longing for a home and security of her own, she’d blinded herself to reality, refusing to admit even to herself that David’s strange visit two nights before their wedding had been a last-ditch effort to avoid a marriage he didn’t want.

She was an inexperienced nobody, a girl who’d pushed him into matrimony with her pointed questions about solitude and family and the duty he owed his position. Little wonder he found her unappealing, if he was used to the company of beauties like the Cyprian in the carriage. Little wonder he had no interest in sharing a bed with her, when he had a world of stunning, experienced women from which to choose.

As
long
as
you
truly
care
for
me
,
we
can
get
through
anything
. What a stupid, gullible thing to have said. That would only work if he were repentant, and she were incapable of jealousy—no, if she were completely devoid of self-respect. What had made her think she could solve all their problems? What had made her think she had only to be useful, and he would have to love her? It angered and mortified her now, realizing what a perfect child she’d been.

Devotion couldn’t solve everything, at least not a blind, one-sided kind of devotion. It took two people to make a marriage, and no matter how much she might hope and try and make allowances for David, she couldn’t do it by herself. She’d wanted to be helpful, indispensable, but a pathetic eagerness to please was no antidote for secrets and indifference.

David’s dark eyes studied her as the carriage rolled up before Deal House. Wearing a slight frown, he stepped out and handed her down. She brushed past him and swept into the house without a word, her jaw set at a belligerent angle.

She stalked into the drawing room, tugging off her gloves as she went. She set her reticule atop the pianoforte and began digging through it, hoping to find a headache powder. If she didn’t take something for the tension building behind her temples, her skull was going to split wide open.

David trailed in after her, an uneasy look on his face. “I’m glad you enjoyed the play. I believe they’re doing
She
Stoops
to
Conquer
next. Goldsmith was no Shakespeare, to be sure, but perhaps you’d enjoy it.”

“Perhaps.”

He watched her rooting through her reticule. “Are you looking for something?”

She glanced up. It wasn’t like him to be obtuse. “Yes,” she said tightly.

“Can I be of any help?”

“I doubt it.”

David sighed. “Is something wrong, my dear?”

My
dear
. For some reason, the endearment was the last straw, the insult that pushed her anger past the tipping point. “Oh, no, nothing is
wrong
,” she said in a tone of such dripping sarcasm, she sounded completely unfamiliar even to herself.

Any other man might have flinched or turned defensive. Not David. Instead he grew cool, distant and matter-of-fact. “You saw Sally.”

“If by ‘Sally’ you mean the woman in the other carriage, yes.”

“I thought you might have done.”

His bland calm only made her want to snatch up her reticule and fling it at him. No, that was too good for him. She wanted to scratch his eyes out, to claw the bland expression from his face. “That woman—she was your mistress?”

He inclined his head slightly. “Yes, at one time.”

“But she isn’t any longer?”

“No, of course not.” Pale, serious and perhaps a little shocked, he stared back at her. “I haven’t played you false, Rosalie. I’m not perfect, God knows, but I haven’t laid a hand on another woman since the day we met.”

“Then what did she want to talk with you about?”

“She wanted money.”

“Extortion money? She’s threatening you?”

He laughed shortly. “No. How could she? I’ve never made any secret of my relationship with her.”

“You never mentioned it to me!”

“It was over and done with, and I’d no wish to hurt you. Even so, I would have told you everything about her if you’d only asked. I’ve answered your questions so far, have I not?”

Did he really think to cozen her with such empty assurances? How could she possibly have asked him about a woman she’d never even heard of until tonight? And even if she had known about his mistress, how could she pepper him with questions about such a woman without sounding like a jealous harpy? Implying it was her fault for not asking sooner made it sound as if she’d committed some error of omission, some foolish act of neglect, when her only mistake had been trusting him. “If you’re no longer involved with her, why would she come to you for money?”