Miss Carlyle's Curricle: Signet Regency Romance (InterMix) (18 page)

She looked at him askance, watching his expression for any hint of insincerity. But there was no laughing glint in his eyes, and there was a stillness behind his smile. She nodded thoughtfully. “And yet,” she said, “when I ask about your travels or your life, you say very little about them, if anything.”

“My travels are the least of your concerns,” he said in a light voice. But his expression was the same, and he moved away from her to converse with Lord Jardien.

She watched him from time to time as she talked with various guests. He was congenial and from time to time she heard him laugh at a joke, or make a flippant remark. He was right that she did not know him, and she was right that he would not reveal much of himself. She did not know how she could change that, but she could try. Most certainly, she would find out what was behind the altercation in the church.

The sunlight dimmed, and candles were lit, but the guests did not seem eager to stay. They gave the newly wed pair sly looks, and though Diana tried her best to ignore them, she could not help blushing. Her mother and Mr. Goldworthy were more discreet; they hid their smiles behind yawns and claims of fatigue. The servants, clearing the glasses, remained after the guests left, but their yawns were not feigned, and they hurried through their duties.

And then, at last, the bride and groom were alone. Diana sat in a chair and gazed at Gavin standing near the fireplace, how the firelight moved the night’s shadows over his face, hiding and revealing. He leaned against one end of the mantelpiece, and twirled the stem of a brandy glass between his fingers. The brandy left in it swirled and dipped, then slid down the side of the glass in a golden film. He gazed at it for a moment, then quickly drank it down.

“Shall we go, Diana?” he said.

“Yes,” she said, rose from her chair, and held out her hand to him. He stared at her hand for a moment, then at her face, then set down the glass on the mantelpiece and clasped her hand.

He led the way up the stairs, and brought her to her new room. She touched the door, but did not go in—another change, she thought. Gazing at him, she tiptoed and kissed him, and felt his arms come around her. But it was a brief kiss, and he looked intently at her when they parted, as if trying to see into her soul.

“Is this what you want, Diana?” he said. “This marriage?”

She watched him silently for a moment, then slowly nodded. “I believe it is. There is not a great deal for a woman like myself to do in the world, after all. I was not sure I would like to be married to anyone, but it is not as if I could truly make a living as a groom or a stableboy. And marriage, I suppose, is a sort of occupation.” She smiled slightly. “Besides, it is not as if we can do anything about it now that we are wed but make the best of it.” She looked at him steadily. “And I am glad it is you I married, even though I do not know a great deal about you, as you said.”

“You are a fool, my dear,” he said, but his voice was soft, and his fingers caressed her cheek.

“And yet, you have said you wanted to marry me.”

“I am a fool, as well.”

“Then we are well matched, are we not?” she said, and moved away. She curtsied, and opened the door. “I give you good night, sir,” she said, and went into her room.

Chapter 12

Diana leaned against the closed door, wondering if she was indeed a fool, but it was of no use to speculate about the foolishness or wisdom of marrying Lord Brisbane. It was done, and she would deal with whatever came her way. She would not pretend this or that thing did not exist, but face it. She let out a long sigh, then nodded to the maid, who stood ready to help her change for the night.

Her nightgown was new, made of sheer cotton lawn, and embroidered with eyelets on the bodice. She had never worn anything like it, usually sleeping in an old shift. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she smoothed the fabric over her knees, then waved the maid away with a smile when the girl yawned once too often. The door closed behind her, and Diana was alone.

She looked around her room. The few lit candles and the fire in the hearth showed a pretty room, decorated in a light color, not discernible in the dimness. She had never been in this room before—she supposed it belonged to the last Lady Brisbane. She was now the countess, and—she glanced at the connecting door—and she would see her husband soon.

Her feet grew cold, and she moved into her bed, tucking them under the covers. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the minutes, but the door between her room and Gavin’s did not open. Would he come into her room? She had understood that this was usually the way of it from what her mother had told her.

But another hour passed, and the door still did not open. Diana gnawed on her lower lip. Perhaps Gavin wished her to be comfortable in her room first; perhaps he would come to her tomorrow night. She could pretend that this was her usual room, and that she would sleep as usual. Her eyes scanned the walls of her room again. It seemed cold and unfriendly despite what she could see of its decoration.

She stared at the connecting door. No. Did she not say she would not pretend any longer? She was married, and it was best if she dealt with whatever came with it without delay. Moving her feet to the floor, she slid off the bed, and almost stumbled. She was shaking again. Muttering a curse she had heard a stableboy use, she clenched her hands into fists and lifted her chin. If Gavin would not come to her, she would go to him.

The door opened easily when she turned the doorknob, making no sound. She stepped in and looked cautiously about; the room had only a brace of candles lit, near where Gavin sat with his back to her, brandy glass in hand. He swirled the liquid in the glass, staring at it, then sipped it, then swirled it again.

The words Diana had thought she would say stuck in her throat; she could only stare at him, mute. She looked at his bed—it was very large—and thought she should at least get into it. Slowly she went to it, her feet making no sound on the soft and heavy carpet. She was glad; she did not wish to disturb him if he wanted only to drink and stare into the fire.

The bed creaked when she sat on it, however, and he stood abruptly and turned to her.

“What are you doing here?”

Diana swallowed, then lifted her chin. “You did not come to me, so I came to you.”

He set down his glass with a sharp click on the side table, then strode to the bed. She could not see his face; the firelight behind him made him seem a tall, looming shadow. He stood there, silent, his fists on his waist. “I want no sacrificial lamb, Diana.”

“I am not—you see I came here willingly.”

“Really?” He walked to the bed, then pushed her down to the pillows. He moved upon her, his lips hovering over hers. “You are shaking, my dear.”

“If I am, it is because I do not know what to expect of you,” she retorted, anger flaring. “You have made sure of it.” She was glad of her anger; it banished her trembling.

“You could have stayed in your room.”

She could feel his breath upon her lips, and his heart beating against her own wildly thumping one. “If you must know,” she said angrily, “I did not want to be alone. I was afraid.”

A sigh slipped from him, and he moved off of her. “I will summon a maid to stay with you.”

“No.” She clutched his arm. “I wish to be here, with you.”

“Why?”

“Ohh!” She thumped the bed with her fist. “Must I always be the one to reveal myself? It is not fair! I will tell you nothing more of myself if you do not tell me of you. I
will
stay here, and
you
will stay here. If I must, I will hold you down with all my might—and you will have to fight me, for I am very strong, stronger than you might think.” Her words spilled from her lips, stumbling over each other with mixed anger, frustration, and chagrin.

“Now that is an interesting prospect,” Gavin replied. “I have never been held down by a woman before. I wonder if I shall like it? How would you do it?” He held out his hands. “Perhaps you should try.”

“Ohhh!” Diana cried in frustration, and covered her face with her hands. “I wish you would not—oh, you are odious!”

“What, are you not going to hold me down?” A large sigh came from him. “I was beginning to look forward to it.”

There was silence for a moment, while Diana thought of how she might wreak vengeance upon his head, and then she moved her fingers apart and looked at him. He was lying on his side, watching her, a wide grin on his face.

“You are a horrible man,” she said. “I do not know why I consented to marry you.”

“Because it was better than . . .” He paused as if thinking over a difficult problem. “Than being alone by yourself in a strange room.”

“You are also very silly.”

He laughed. “Come, then.” He pushed aside the bedcovers, and she slid in, and he pulled them up again under her chin. His hand went to the belt of his robe, and she closed her eyes, feeling the trembling come over her again. The bedcovers rustled, the bed shifted and dipped, and then was still. Diana opened her eyes again—he was lying as he was before, except she could sec he had no shirt on. She made herself look at him, at his bare chest and then at his face. “I won’t do anything you will not like,” he said gently. He stroked her cheek, and slipped his arm beneath her head, drawing her closer.

Diana stiffened then relaxed. He was only holding her, that was all, and it was like a hug, only lying down. It was, in fact, very comfortable. She let herself put her head upon his chest, rubbing her cheek against it, and heard him draw in a long breath and let it out again. She waited, but he did nothing more except stroke her arm and then her waist.

She began to feel warm and a little drowsy, and she turned a little, snuggling into him. Another sigh came from him.

“Diana,” he said softly, “you are a mystery. So strong and brave, but very afraid. Afraid even of people looking at you. And yet you look the wildest stallion in the eye without the slightest qualm. I wonder what makes you so.”

Her mind drifted over her life, touched upon her resolution to face what questions she avoided, and flinched. She opened her eyes—she must have almost fallen asleep. “If I tell you, you must tell me about your life.” She did not know what made her say it; perhaps it was because she felt so comfortable.

There was silence, then: “Very well.”

She was fully awake now. “Do you promise?”

A pause. “Yes, I promise.”

“I do not like people looking at me because . . . because I am afraid they will see the bad thing about me.” There, she said it. The trembling shook her again. But he held her close and rocked her a little, and it subsided.

“I have not seen anything bad, Diana,” he said. His voice was gentle and comforting. “Did I not say I fell in love with you the moment I saw you? I did not see anything wrong then, and I do not now.”

“But you were joking.”

“No, I was not.”

She lifted her head and looked at him. “You were not?” He bent down and kissed her. “I was not,” he said again. A sigh escaped her. “I am glad.”

The fire in the hearth crackled in the room’s silence while the tolling of a distant clock came from somewhere in the house. “What is the bad thing you think you have?” he said at last.

His arms were still around her, and his hand was still stroking her waist, circling down to her hip and then to her ribs. How soothing it felt! “I don’t know,” she said. “But I had it when I was a girl, before my uncle came to take my mother and me away.”

“How do you know?”

Perhaps it would not be so terrible to tell him, Diana thought. Her mother said he was a listening sort of man. “It is a long story,” she said.

“Tell me.” He held her closer, and she could not help letting out a deep sigh.

“It was just before my uncle came for us. My father was dead, and we had little money, so Mama and I moved to smaller rooms. Mama was very good with the needle, so she went every day to a dressmaker’s shop to work, while I stayed behind and kept up our room, for we could afford no servants . . .”

The memories came back, too clearly, as if they had been preserved in some cold, dark corner of her mind. They had had little food, and Diana’s mother had carefully parceled it out, but Diana could remember how her stomach had growled. “But I grew used to it,” she said. “One does, I think.” She felt Gavin press a light kiss on her hair, and she sighed again.

She took pride in helping her mother, and made sure their room in the boarding house was clean and well-swept. She even took out the chamber pot, going down the stairs to empty it. But there was never enough money, and their clothes grew threadbare. Diana had wished she could somehow earn money, but could not think of a way to do it.

But a man had approached her, one of the boarders—she had seen him before, watching her as she passed him from time to time, and he would smile, as if he liked her. He had offered her money if she would do something for him, and she was at first glad she could find a way to help her mother. She had even asked for the money first, and he had agreed with another smile.

“And then he took off my clothes and looked and looked at me, and . . .” Diana faltered. Gavin’s grip upon her had tightened, and his hand had stopped stroking her.

“You need not tell me,” he said, his voice a whisper.

“Are you angry?”

“Not at you,” he said. “Does your mother know?”

“Yes, for I told her, and showed her the money. She was so angry, Gavin, and threw the coins away, then held me and kissed me as if I were a baby instead of a big girl. She did not let me go for a long time, weeping. She did not go to the dressmaker’s shop the next day, but wrote a letter to my uncle, and for more than a week we did not go out of the room, for that man who—that man would come to our door at all manner of times, and say hateful things through it.” She closed her eyes, and tried to slow her breathing, which came in gasps. “I could not go out, Gavin! Mama had locked the door, for she was afraid he would come in, and we could not even go out to buy food. She grew ill, and I was so afraid, but she would not let me go out to find a doctor. So we stayed, locked in, and sometimes I would tell myself stories, and pretend I was not inside, but outside, with nobody about but me. I pretended I would run, far away and fast, so no one could catch me. I did not feel so hungry that way.”

Diana felt herself shaking again, and despised herself for not being strong enough to stop it. Gavin must despise her, too, for succumbing to the fear, for it had happened so long ago. Perhaps now he, too, could see what it was about her that was bad and caused that man to look and look at her as if she had something forbidden and evil in her. She rolled away from Gavin, but he only pulled her to him again, her back against his chest.

“Stay with me, Diana.” He put another kiss upon her hair, and held her tight—if he kissed her, he must not despise her very much, she thought. His hand rubbed her waist, and then her back and shoulders, and the shaking dissipated. He kissed her cheek, a brief touch, and she felt her body loosen and relax. “Your uncle came for you then, am I right?”

She sighed again. “Yes, and the door opened wide, and he took us away, and I have never seen so bright a house as Brisbane House, or a place as free and green and clean as this area of Somerset. It was heaven to me. I could go out-of-doors whenever I wanted, and ran and ran, just as I had pretended in that dark room in London. I learned how to ride horses, and it was better than any pretending, for it was as if I could fly, anywhere.”

“And the man—what of him?”

Diana tensed, but Gavin’s fingers were rubbing her neck, and she could not stay tense for long. “I remember Uncle Charles told me he had got rid of him.”

“Ah, well,” he said in a conversational tone. “Since your uncle was an efficient and thorough man, I imagine he must have got rid of that damn bloody”—he rattled off a number of unfamiliar words—“quite well.”

“You
are
angry,” Diana said.

“Only because your uncle has robbed me of the chance to get rid of that”—more unfamiliar words—“myself.”

She rolled over onto her back. “Would you have?”

“Yes,” he said, kissing her gently. “Except I would have tortured him first.”

“Really? How?”

He grinned suddenly. “You are a bloodthirsty wench. I would have strung him up through his”—he paused—“his ankles.”

Diana shuddered, then thought about how agonized and ill with weeping and hunger her mother had been so long ago. “Very appropriate,” she said firmly. She released a long breath, and with it a dark, hard knot inside of her also loosened. She gazed at him smiling at her, and touched his face; he took her hand and kissed her fingers.