Rebecca (11 page)

“Stop it! I'm trying to treat your family with honor, but you continue to disparage my loved ones! I don't wish to hear any more.”

He twisted her roughly to look up at him. “Why? It's the truth, isn't it? You are willing to play this game to achieve your own ends. That makes you no different than me. You have your reasons to cooperate. I have mine. Don't worry, Rebecca. You are prostituting only your name, not your body.” His fiery gaze scorched her as it ran along her. “Fool that I am, I made the wrong bargain.”

“Nicholas, don't!” she gasped as he pressed her tightly to his strong form.

He ignored her as he ignored all her wishes. When he forced her mouth under his, there was no tenderness in his motion. She cried out, but the sound was muffled against his lips. The flash of fear which filled her was familiar, but no less terrifying. His words and his actions reminded her that he was doing what he had a legal right to do, and if he chose to continue, she could not stop him.

When he drew his mouth away enough so he could speak, he said in a low tone, “Let's go inside, Rebecca. Remember, if you want Keith, you must do as I wish. Play your role well in public, wife. I want everyone to see how much my Lady Foxbridge loves her husband, even though it is only an act.” His shadowy eyes held hers with the threat that he would force her to play the part in private as well if she betrayed him.

“I understand, Nicholas,” she whispered. With sudden fury, she jerked away. Crossing her arms on her chest, she glared at him. “I understand you very well.”

“I thought you would.” He took her arm and led her toward the house. As if there had been no heated words between them, his voice lightened as he pointed out various points of interest. He could not hide his pride in the wonderful house which was his.

They walked up the half-dozen steps to the door, which opened as they approached. Nicholas greeted the butler briefly, “Good afternoon, Brody. You are looking fit as always.”

“Thank you, sir.” The tall, straight man appeared to be a contemporary of Nicholas' father. His greying hair was neatly arranged in an unpowdered queue, and his green livery was spotless. “If I may say so, my lord, it is good to have you home.”

Nicholas smiled. Taking off his cloak, he handed it to a wide-eyed maid who was staring at him as if he was a ghost ready to haunt the unused wings of the house. He straightened his frock coat and asked, “Where is Mother this afternoon?”

The butler did not reply immediately as he looked at the coarsely dressed woman standing next to Lord Foxbridge. He wondered who this beauty was who was looking about as if she had never seen a house before. Quickly he remembered his place. “Lady Margaret is in the solarium, my lord.”

“Thank you.” Nicholas led Rebecca down the hall without explaining her identity to the startled man. His family must know before the truth was gossiped through the servants' quarters.

Rebecca glanced from side to side to see the unimaginable wealth which had surrounded her husband during most of his life. The large selection of furniture in each room shone with age and tender care. It was the antithesis of her home, where there were only a few, functional pieces. A suit of armor startled her as it appeared out of the thick dusk of the long hallway. When she heard Nicholas's chuckle at her gasp of shock, she blushed and laughed shakily.

She knew it was useless to pretend that she was not overwhelmed by this ostentation. Nicholas would see through any attempts she made to appear sophisticated. He had derived so much humor from her naiveté that she did not try to hide it any longer.

It was another three steps up to a room at the far end of the hallway. As they entered the chamber, which was walled on one side by a bank of leaded windows stretching from floor to ceiling, Rebecca's feet sank into the thick richness of a beautifully patterned carpet. She gazed in awe at the heavy oak furniture arranged in front of the huge fireplace, where logs burned brightly. There were more chairs in this single room than in her whole home. Overhead, hanging from the ceiling fifteen feet above their heads, was an iron wheel where candles burned, for the sunlight had a difficult time shining through the windows set in the almost foot-thick stone walls.

Two women sat on a green velvet, upholstered settee. They rose in unison as Rebecca and Nicholas came into the room. For a moment, they simply looked at each other. After the many years of separation, there were too many things needing to be said and no way to say them all at once.

Suddenly the younger woman, who had the same dark hair and brown eyes as Nicholas, ran and threw her arms around him, nearly rocking him off his feet. “Nicholas! Thank God you are finally home and safe. It's been months since we heard your unit was being released. I did not think you would ever be coming home again!”

He laughed with a spontaneity which astonished Rebecca. So infrequently had she heard that honest sound. “Eliza! I see you are as irrepressible as ever.” Smiling, he surveyed her with an arm's length between them. Like Rebecca, his sister had grown up during his years of captivity. When he had left Foxbridge Cloister, she had been a child, but she had become a pretty woman with the distinctively dark Wythe coloring which reputedly came from the Spanish lover of one Lady Foxbridge of centuries past. Teasing, he said, “If you greet your callers like this, little sister, you will never have a husband, for all your suitors will have broken backs.”

“I have no worries about that.” Again she flung her arms around him. “Oh, I have so much to tell you.”

“Later, Eliza,” came the stern sound of the other woman's voice.

Nicholas looked past his sister to the older woman. He bent to kiss her wrinkled cheek. Then he embraced her. “Hello, Mother.”

“Welcome home, son.” Lady Margaret was dressed in somber colors of mourning for her elder son, although he had died almost two years before. Her white hair was swept up under a beribboned chamber cap. When she turned to look at Rebecca, the unmistakable sound of heavy satin accompanied her.

Rebecca felt the older woman's eyes sweep over her in curiosity. Her blue wool dress decorated with homemade lace seemed most out of place in the company of these women dressed in the height of fashion. The ribbons tying together the bodice of her overdress were nothing like their fancy gowns accented by sashes and flounces. She could not be unaware of the displeasure on the elder woman's face as she stared at her. For the first time, she doubted Nicholas' words that she would be well received at Foxbridge Cloister. This woman who was her mother-in-law already acted as if she did not approve of her.

The one he had called Eliza was not as reticent. She looked at the stranger who was accompanying her beloved brother. In the first moments of welcoming him home, she had paid no attention to her. Surprise filled her face. She had never seen anyone dressed like this or anyone who wore her hair in braids twisted around the crown of her head. Her tact was overcome by her astonishment. “Who are you?”

Nicholas took Rebecca's hand and brought her next to him again. His fingers tightened painfully around hers as he felt her hesitation before she moved to stand beside him. When he looked down into her uneasy eyes, he did not need to warn her aloud that the play was about to begin, and she had best act her part to perfection.

Without a preamble, he said, “Rebecca, allow me to introduce my mother Lady Margaret Wythe and my sister Lady Eliza Wythe. Mother, Eliza, my wife Rebecca Wythe, Lady Foxbridge.” The very formality of his introductions told Rebecca that he, too, had sensed his mother's immediate displeasure.

“Wife?” squeaked Eliza. Rebecca guessed she was about her own age, although she seemed much more immature than a woman who had survived a war fought close to her home and had had all her dreams of love destroyed by the man holding her hand. “Oh, what is Clarisse going to say, Nicholas? She has been waiting so anxiously for you. She expected you would marry her when you came back from America. After all, you had an understanding.”

Nicholas shook his head as his smile vanished. Clarisse Beckwith was the last one he wanted to hear about. She was a problem he would have to deal with. Every letter he had received from Foxbridge Cloister during his sojourn in America had included some bit of news about her. His mother had hoped he would marry her, but Lady Margaret did not know Clarisse as well as he did. She could not understand why he had been adamantly opposed to wedding the woman who had been the bedpartner of most of the male gentry in the area.

Even when they had been in the midst of their torrid affair, he had known that she welcomed others to her bed when he was not there to share it. Clarisse had been a major source of his desire to escape from Foxbridge Cloister and buy a commission in the army which would send him far from her sugary talons. Upon discovering that he was the possessor of the title of Lord Foxbridge, she would have been even more determined to make their previous liaison permanent.

His smile had nothing to do with humor as he gazed at Rebecca. Although she did not know it, she would be his tool to pay back Clarisse for humiliating him by taking other lovers to her bed after she had spent the day riding by his side. She would learn as others had that Nicholas Wythe was not a man to play for the fool.

“No, Eliza,” he said with no suggestion of the rage within him, “I had no understanding with Miss Beckwith. I never made any promises to her. If I had, I would not have wed another. Aren't you going to greet Rebecca?”

“Of course,” said Lady Margaret quickly. She turned to regard the young woman holding so securely to her son's hand. There was no denying that this woman was a beauty, although her clothes were outlandish. Her wide blue eyes showed that she was impressed with Foxbridge Cloister and its inhabitants. That pleased Lady Margaret, for such a child could be molded in the way the older woman deemed proper. Later she would discover where Nicholas had found such an unsophisticated lass. “Excuse me, dear. This is admittedly a shock. Welcome to Foxbridge Cloister, Rebecca.”

“Thank you,” she replied with quiet dignity while her thoughts were on Eliza's words. She wondered who this Clarisse was. Poor Clarisse must be another one hurt by her husband's stubborn insistence that they continue this farce of a marriage. Until now, she had not given the women in Nicholas' past much thought, but she could not help being curious about this Clarisse. She obviously had been very important to him. It was not the time to ask. She tried to remind herself that she should not complain if he took a mistress, for it would mean that he would not be as eager to share her bed. Strangely, that thought bothered her, but she had no time to examine her odd feelings.

The older woman was motioning for the newcomers to join her and Eliza by the fireplace, but Rebecca hesitated again. Nicholas smiled and put his arm around her shoulders. With a gentle push, he propelled her forward. He bent to whisper in her ear, “Don't forget our bargain, sweetheart. You are my loving wife, remember?”

“I'm trying to do my best,” she murmured in desperation. If he reneged on the agreement, she could be tied to him forever.

His arched eyebrows displayed his disbelief, and she subsided into frustrated silence. She did not know how he could expect her to act normally. Not only had she never seen a house this big, but most of the time she had no idea what his family spoke about. Until she was more sure of herself, she wanted only to sit and smile so she would not make a fool of herself. Seeing the curiosity in the eyes of the Wythe women, she knew her plan was doomed to immediate failure. They intended to make her the center of their conversation.

Once they were seated, Eliza asked, “Honestly, I think it was horrid of you, Nicholas, to marry without having us present. I so love weddings. I don't believe we've met before, Rebecca. You aren't from around here, are you? Are you from London?”

Nervously, she wet her lips before answering. “I'm from Connecticut.” Seeing the women's confusion, she added, “Connecticut, in the United States of America.”

Nicholas' mother's blue eyes widened in shock. “You're a colonist?”

“She was,” Nicholas replied smoothly. He took Rebecca's trembling hand and caressed it. As he gazed down into her eyes, only she could see the yearning he made no attempt to hide. Suddenly she thought she should be glad if he would reestablish his relationship with this Clarisse woman. She wondered how much longer he would be able to accept her adamant refusal to let him spend the night with her. It frightened her how well he could read her every emotion. He continued calmly, although humor brightened his face, “Her home is here now.”

With a delicate sniff, the older woman said, “That's just as well. I wouldn't like to think of my son and daughter-in-law having to deal with those rebellious colonials.” She smiled at the disconcerted young woman. “It must have been so difficult to live with that riffraff.”

Rebecca bit back her retort, knowing that Nicholas must not have written of her in whatever missives he had sent home. His mother and sister had not even known that he was bringing a wife. She wondered why he had not seen that it was advisable to prepare his family a little.

Her eyes narrowed in rage as she heard the two women discuss the low level of mentality of the colonists who had resisted the good policies of their king. She did not consider her family of any lesser quality than Nicholas's, even though they lived in comparatively primitive conditions and did not possess such fine clothes. Certainly she did not consider them the dolts that Lady Margaret labeled all supporters of General Washington. Rebecca's father had been a brave man who had been respected by his superiors and subordinates alike. Although she had no firm memories of her mother, Mira North had been a well-loved woman in their small community.

“Mother, Eliza, I think you have said enough,” warned Nicholas, as he saw the sparkle of anger in his wife's eyes. He was surprised that she had been able to stay silent this long, for he had discovered that his own heated temper had met its match. Although she might appear docile, Rebecca North Wythe projected that image only because she had been taught that a lady must be polite at all times. When she could contain her vociferous emotions no longer, then they exploded to astound everyone. He was thrilled with her fiery spirit, for it was far more amusing to be wed to a spitting tiger than a quiet lamb.