Only a Promise (12 page)

Why did you leave there so changed?

And with such lifeless eyes and empty soul?

And believing yourself incapable of love?

Chloe did not ask those questions out loud.

She was terribly aware of Ralph’s hand pressed to hers, large, long fingered, darker skinned than her own, very masculine. And of his head just below the level of her own, bent over their hands. In the firelight there appeared to be gold strands in his dark hair.

Despite her initial reaction, she liked his friends, his fellow Survivors—and yes, it was a word that would need a capital
S
if written. The rather austere bearing of the Duke of Stanbrook was explained by his history, by the loss of his only son in battle and the suicide of his wife shortly after. But instead of allowing those two deaths to embitter or destroy him, he had concentrated his resources upon bringing healing to others who had suffered.

There was no outer sign of the injuries Lord Trentham must have sustained. He was large and seemed powerfully strong, and his face beneath the close-cropped hair looked rather forbidding, as though frowns came more easily to him than smiles. Yet when he spoke he was kindly, and it was clear he loved the small, dainty Lady
Trentham, and she him. Yet he had been damaged enough by the wars to have spent three years with the others at Penderris Hall.

Viscount Darleigh’s injuries were more obvious. He was a very young man even now, perhaps even younger than Ralph. How old must he have been when . . . ? It did not bear thinking of. He had a sweet, sunny-natured temperament. And Viscount Ponsonby stammered very slightly, but that might have nothing to do with what had happened to keep him at Penderris for so long a time. He was suave and charming and witty and seemed outwardly undamaged by war or life. He was obviously very much in love with his new wife.

She liked Ralph’s friends, but . . . Ah, yes, she
had
felt threatened by them, for there was something quite extraordinary about the way the five men related to one another. She had even resented the fact that Lady Trentham and Lady Ponsonby did
not
seem to feel threatened.

Everyone now gathered at Manville Court, with the exception of her father and Lucy and Mr. Nelson, knew Ralph better than she did. Even Graham. She knew almost nothing. And so she had asked her questions even though it was late and she ought perhaps to have gone to bed instead of waiting up for him. And she ought to have allowed
him
to go to bed. Tomorrow was going to be both busy and emotionally draining.

He held his hand against hers and laced their fingers tightly. He kept his eyes on their hands.

Why were you at Penderris for three years?
she had asked.

“I wanted to die,” he said, his voice without inflection. “It was why my father sent me to Penderris. I ranted and
raved and talked of nothing else except putting an end to it all. I tried to swallow all my medication. I reached for anything that looked sharp enough to let blood. When my hands were tied to my bed with bandages, I fought like a demon to prevent my wounds from healing.”

“Your physician could give you nothing to control the pain?” she asked.

He had lowered their hands to the seat of the chair, their fingers still laced.

“I almost welcomed the physical pain,” he told her. “I lashed myself with it. I thought perhaps if it was bad enough I could atone with it.”

“Atone?” She felt a chill crawl along her spine.

“For causing death,” he said, “and untold suffering. For surviving.”

“But was it not your duty as an officer to lead your men into battle?” she asked him. “Were you not under orders yourself from superior officers? Do men not die in battle?”

He raised his eyes to hers. She expected them to be full of pain. Instead they were expressionless. Empty.

“I took three men to war with me,” he said. “They did not want to go. They would not even have thought of going for themselves. And none of them was designated by his family for a military career. Quite the contrary. Their families fought their determination to go with me. But my power and influence over them was greater than that of family. I convinced them and they came. And died.”

“Your three friends from school, do you mean?” she asked.

“Thomas Reynolds, son of Viscount Harding,” he said.
“Maxwell Courtney, son of Sir Marvin Courtney, and Rowland Hickman, son of Baron Janes.”

She remembered their names from a long-ago past, though Graham had not talked about them as often as he had of Ralph Stockwood.

“But the decision was theirs,” she said.

He was still looking with chilling blankness into her eyes.

“It was,” he agreed. “That is what I learned to accept during those three years. What degree of blame must we share for the decisions and actions of others? All of it? Some? None? It is an interesting question, and everyone concerned would no doubt answer it in a different way depending upon the perspective each brought to bear on it. In three years I learned to change my answer from
all
to
some
. I never progressed to
none
. But I stopped trying to kill myself. I stopped boring everyone silly by talking about it ceaselessly and alarming them by threatening it. I was healed and I went home.”

She gazed at him, appalled.

“But did you stop wishing you were dead?” she asked and could have bitten out her tongue as soon as the words were out.

He half smiled, though it was perhaps more grimace than smile.

“Fate played a cruel joke on me,” he said. “Instead of killing me and assigning me to hell, where I no doubt belonged, it saved me and gave me hell on earth instead. But all things can be endured, given time. One adjusts to the circumstances in which one finds oneself—one’s own small revenge upon fate, perhaps. We all adjusted, the
seven of us. We are all living our lives in a more or less productive manner. And I must apologize for speaking so depressingly and so self-pityingly. It will not happen again, I assure you.”

“Do their families blame you?” she asked.

He released her hand and stood up abruptly.

“I do not doubt it,” he said, extending a hand to help her to her feet. “You need not concern yourself.”

But she could not leave it alone. Not yet.

“Have you
asked
them?” She slid her hand free of his when she was on her feet.

He startled her by leaning forward and setting his mouth to hers. Hard. She had no time to decide if it was a kiss—or if it was merely a way of silencing her. She stared mute and wide-eyed at him when he lifted his head again.

If it had been a kiss, it was her first. How utterly absurd! She was twenty-seven years old and she had been married for almost a week. But she did not believe it
had
been a kiss. It had silenced her, though.

He was frowning. Then he raised both hands, removed her cap, and dropped it to the chair behind her.

“Have you always worn a nightcap?” he asked her.

“No.”

“Have you
ever
worn one before this past week?”

“No.”

“Why now, then?”

She could not think of any reason to give except the truth. “I did not want you to think I was trying to . . . to entice you.”

His eyes, which had been directed at her braid, were suddenly focused upon hers.

“You were hoping I would merely go away?” he asked her.

“Oh, not at all,” she said. “I would have hated that. But I did not want you to think . . .” How could she complete the sentence?

“That you are beautiful?” he said. “And desirable? But I
had
thought both and still
do
think them. Is your hair a dreadful trial to you?”

Baron Cornell, her beau during her first Season, had once laughingly told her that with her hair she could pass any day for the most luscious and flamboyant of courtesans, and the highest paid to boot. He had apologized when he realized that he had deeply shocked her, but she had never forgotten. And then, last year . . .

“Yes.”

It was the simplest answer she could think to give. Every woman wants to be thought beautiful, and she was no exception. But she did not want to be looked upon with . . . with lascivious hunger, as she had been looked upon too many times for comfort.

His hands were drawing out the pins that held the coils of her braid to her head. When it fell, like a heavy pendulum against her back, he reached behind her, removed the ribbon that bound the end, and unraveled the braid. He pushed his fingers through the hair and brought two locks of it over her shoulders.

“We made our bargain,” he said. “We each know what to expect of the other and what
not
to expect. We did not speak of desire, however. I hope I do not offend you by desiring you and by admiring your beauty and the glory of your hair. And indeed, I hope you desire me, that the marriage bed is not in any way repugnant to you.”

“It is not,” she assured him.

. . . the glory of your hair.

He drew a breath and let it out audibly.

“Why are we up so late?” he asked her. “Tomorrow is going to be busy, and you will be exhausted. May I weary you a little longer, though?”

A smile flitted across his face like a shadow and was gone.

She ached within, longing for him. “Yes,” she said.

Y
es,
she had said when he asked if he could weary her a little while longer. Yet when he set his mouth to hers, she did not kiss him back. And when he mounted her on the bed a few minutes later, she lay quiet beneath him, as she always did. The dutiful wife, upholding her end of their bargain. Wanting a child as much as he did, he supposed, if for different reasons. She
would
love any children they had. He did not doubt that—just as he did not doubt that she would keep her promise and never love him. Had she spoken merely to reassure him, then?

He lay beside her on the bed, as he usually did after sex. But,
not
as usual, he had slid his arm beneath her shoulders as he moved off her and had brought her with him, so that she was on her side against him, his arm about her. Her nightgown was still bunched about her waist. Her legs, smooth and slim, were against his. Her head was resting on his shoulder, her hair over his arm and down his chest. He could not see its color in the darkness, but he could feel its silkiness and smell the faint fragrance of the soap she used to wash it. He did
not think she was sleeping. Her breathing was too quiet.

Was this more than she had bargained for? Was he being unfair to her? Was this more than
he
had bargained for? But was a man not entitled to the comforts of the marriage bed?

He needed her tonight—ghastly admission. He needed the comfort of her in his arms. He was reminded of the times during the past four years when need had driven him to engage the services of a courtesan. Was this no different from that? But on those occasions it had been just physical need that had driven him—oh, and perhaps a touch of loneliness too. His need tonight was not just for sex and not just for a female companion. It was specifically for his wife. And it was not just sexual, though it was that too. It was not just loneliness either. How could he be lonely, surrounded as he was by his family and friends? It was . . .

It was grief.

Grief for his grandfather, who had been gone for almost a week, but to whom he would say a final goodbye tomorrow amid all the public pomp of a ducal funeral. Grief for his grandmother, who had become even more birdlike in the past days, brave and gracious and lost. Grief for Rowland and Max and Tom, all of them eighteen years old when they died in a shower of blood and dust and guts. And grief for their families, who had resisted their going to war. Grief for himself and all the wrongs it was too late to put right. Grief for the loss of innocence and dangerous idealism.

It would be so easy to let himself slide all the way back to those early days at Penderris, grief turning to
depression turning to self-pity turning to self-hatred turning to despair turning to . . . He had thought himself over the worst of this.

“Turn onto your stomach.”

“What?” he said.

Chloe’s voice had brought him back from the edge of some abyss.

“Turn onto your stomach,” she said again, moving away from him. “I’ll rub your back.”

He almost laughed.
I’ll rub your back.
That was one cure the physician at Penderris had never thought of. But he rolled obediently over onto his front, pushed his arms beneath the pillow, and turned his head toward Chloe. She was kneeling up on the bed beside him, her hair loose and tousled.

His own wakefulness had kept her awake too. He ought not to have held her. Her days this past week had been every bit as busy as his. Tomorrow would be both busy and stressful for her. She was going to have to meet some of the very highest sticklers of the
ton
, and she must be anticipating it with dread.

She rubbed his back lightly with one hand at first and then scratched it. Her touch felt exquisite. Then she leaned farther over him and worked both hands over his back, pressing and rubbing and kneading until he could feel knots loosening and muscles relaxing all the way down to his toes.

“Where did you learn to do this?” he asked her.

“I did not,” she admitted. “But I can feel where you are tense. I am trying not to press on any of your old wounds. I hope I am not hurting you.”

“I did not know,” he said, “that a pair of magic hands
was being brought into our marriage along with the rest of you. I think I may have got the better half of our bargain.”

“Not so,” she said. “You brought a few titles and enormous wealth with the rest of
you
.”

He heard himself laugh softly with genuine amusement and felt the strangeness of it. The heels of her hands moved hard over his shoulder blades and for a moment he moved with them. Then her touch softened and he relaxed even more deeply. He did not believe he had ever in his life felt so contented.

He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

When he awoke, it was dawn. He was still lying on his stomach, his arms crossed beneath his pillow, and he was still warm and relaxed and comfortable. He lifted his head. It was almost half past six according to the clock on the mantel.

Chloe was on her side facing him, asleep. She looked very different from usual, without her cap, her hair in a riot all about her head and face and upper body. And now, in the early light of day, he was fully aware of its color. He felt an instant and quite intense desire for her and despised himself for it. It was not the necessary desire of a husband wishing to impregnate his wife. It was the raw desire of a man for a beautiful woman. It was without the respect he had promised her and given for the first week of their marriage.

He wanted her with a ravenous hunger—on the morning of his grandfather’s funeral.

She opened her eyes. After a moment they focused upon him and she smiled.

“You slept,” she said.

“I did.”

He took her each morning before rising. It was necessary to do so, after all. He could see from the expression on her face that she expected it this morning too, that perhaps she would even welcome it. He set a hand on her shoulder, as he usually did, to turn her onto her back. But before she could move, his fingers tightened and then released her.

“It is going to be a busy day,” he said curtly. “Have another hour of sleep. I am going out for a ride.”

And he turned away from her and his own desire for her, swung his legs over the side of the bed, sat up, and reached down for his dressing gown.

He did not look back as he left her bedchamber.

*   *   *

The comforting thing about difficult days, Chloe had learned from experience, was that the sun rose at the start of them and set at the end just as it did on any other day. And there was always the assurance of better days ahead.

She faced the day of the late Duke of Worthingham’s funeral with a determined courage. For it was not about herself. She was not to be a central player even though she was the wife of the new duke and must welcome an unknown number of members of the
ton
into her home during the course of the day. It would not be an ordeal impossible to face. She had greeted Ralph’s mother and sisters and other members of his family during the last two days, after all, and in many ways that had been worse. She would get through today, and then everyone would go away again and she would be able to relax at last. She would begin her new life in earnest here at Manville Court.

A large number of outsiders did indeed attend the funeral in the village church during the morning and then followed the somber cortege on its slow procession to the family burial plot beside the chapel where Ralph and Chloe had married just the week before. Everyone then proceeded to the house to partake of refreshments and to express their sympathies.

Chloe did not have to face any of them directly until that last phase of the proceedings. She was introduced then to virtually everyone, including people with whom she had a previous acquaintance. Most nodded graciously but distantly to her. The occasion made that quite acceptable. Some regarded her with frosty, haughty stares and were only as civil as good manners dictated. But at least they
were
good mannered. A few—a small few—were amiable and even engaged her in conversation and congratulated her on her marriage. No one gave her the cut direct.

And there were, of course, those who had come purely for Chloe’s sake—her father and brother and sister, and also Lord Easterly with Aunt Julia, Papa’s sister. Her aunt and uncle hugged Chloe and congratulated her on her marriage and smiled at her with genuine warmth.

Sarah Toucher, Ralph’s middle sister, and her husband arrived at the church only just in time for the service and had no opportunity to talk to anyone before it was over. Sarah made a point of seeking out Chloe at the graveside after the burial, though, and hugged her briefly.

“Amelia and Nora both wrote long letters to tell me all about you,” she said. “I am
so
pleased Ralph had the good sense to marry you. I was very much afraid he would choose some insipid miss straight from the
schoolroom, someone of whom my sisters would have approved with unqualified delight. If no one has yet told you, I am the rebel of the family and proved it when I rejected the very flattering offer of an earl three times my age during my first Season and married Andy instead. He was as rich as Croesus and I loved him to distraction, but to my family those details did not make up for the fact that he was a mere mister and that his maternal grandfather, the one from whom most of the money came, had been in trade.” With that she hugged Chloe briefly again and then turned to leave. “Now, I must go to poor Grandmama. She will be feeling more than desolate today. She and Grandpapa adored each other, you know. Oh, you probably
do
know. You were living here, were you not, when Ralph met you?”

And she was gone in a whirl of black crepe and dark facial veil. But it was touches like her unexpectedly friendly greeting that sustained Chloe through the day. She did not dwell upon her own discomfort at being surrounded once more by members of the
ton,
however. Much of her attention was focused upon the dowager duchess, who bore herself with stoic dignity throughout the long day, but who must be inwardly reeling from grief and exhaustion. And most of the rest of her attention was upon Ralph, who wore his new ducal mantle with dignity and looked like a marble statue.

She tried not to remember the early morning. What was it that had sent him away from her bed so abruptly? His abandonment had felt like a slap across the face. Yet his words had suggested kindness.
It is going to be a busy day. Have another hour of sleep.

There had been a fleeting expression on his face
before he turned away and got up from the bed, but she had not been able to explain to herself what it had been. Disgust? But it had not been that definite. Revulsion? No, that was basically the same thing as disgust. Disapproval? But he was the one who had unpinned her hair last night and made her look like a wanton.

There had been
something
in that expression, something to explain why he had avoided the usual morning intimacy. He had said last night that he desired her, but this morning he had turned away even from what he normally considered his duty.

Her hair?

She did not have any time during the day to dwell upon the disturbing shifts in their relationship that had happened through the night, but the puzzle of it was there in the back of her mind all day, like a dull, heavy ache. Something
had
shifted. She knew him better, yes, understood him more fully after listening to at least part of his story last night. She had heard enough to understand that the three years he had spent in Cornwall had not really healed him at all. His physical hurts had been dealt with and perhaps the worst of his suicidal tendencies. But the blackness weighing upon his soul was still there and perhaps always would be.

For a while last night, with the telling and what had followed, they had seemed to grow closer. He had held her after they made love, and when she had felt his inability to relax and sleep, he had allowed her to rub his back and work upon his knotted muscles with untrained, instinctive hands and fingers to the extent that she had soothed herself as well as him. She had put him to sleep and had lain gazing at him for a while afterward before
her own eyelids drooped and she slept too. It had felt as though they had crossed a barrier and drawn closer to being . . . married.

But she was no doctor for the soul, she realized today. Something had definitely changed and then changed again, but the changes were not necessarily for the better. Perhaps he resented her for forcing him to talk and remember. Perhaps he regretted allowing himself to relax and lower his guard under her ministrations. He had even laughed with her. But early this morning he had looked at her with her hair down and had seen someone different from the quiet, unemotional, undemanding wife he had bargained upon getting.

But it was not she who had let down her hair. It was not she who had been tense and unable to sleep.

The day drew to its inevitable end after all the outside guests had taken their leave. The worst of the ordeal was over. The houseguests drifted off to bed until Chloe felt herself able to withdraw too. She went up with Lady Ponsonby and Lady Trentham again, both of whom she liked. Ralph stayed downstairs with his fellow Survivors. It felt just like last night, except that the funeral was over and a certain emptiness had settled over the company during the evening.

She was not going to wait up tonight, she decided. She was so weary she hardly knew what to do with herself. And she did not want to see what look Ralph would have in his eyes when he came to her room—
if
he came and
if
there was any expression there at all. But she found herself lingering at her dressing table and gazing into the mirror, trying to decide whether to don her cap or not, whether to coil her braid about her head or leave
it hanging down her back, whether to braid her hair at all. It was such a foolish indecision. Was she trying to decide which choice would better please her husband? What she ought to be asking herself instead was what
she
wanted to do. But she was too weary to think.