Sweet Awakening (10 page)

Suddenly she remembered Lieutenant Lynton and her husband’s insecurity. Of course, she thought with relief. If he was jealous of someone I didn’t even know, then he would naturally feel vulnerable the first time I danced with Giles. When he comes up, I will tell him I understand.

But he didn’t come up, and after what felt like hours, but was, in truth, only one, Clare decided that she would go down to him.

All the servants had been sent to bed, and the only light downstairs was coming from under the library door. Clare knocked gently and when she didn’t receive any reply, took her courage in both hands and opened the door.

Justin was standing by his desk, back to the door. He had a glass of brandy in his hand, and the decanter next to him was already half-empty. Clare was surprised and concerned, for she had never seen him drink much more than a glass of wine since she’d met him. He must really be upset with her if he had drunk so much brandy in such a short time.

“Aren’t you coming up to bed, my dear?” she asked timidly.

He turned around then, and she saw that his face was flushed and his eyes expressionless.

“I am surprised that you desire my company, Clare,” he said in the same cutting tone he had been using since her waltz with Giles. “I am sure you would prefer to have Whitton next to you.”

“Justin, you must know that is not true,” responded Clare, trying to answer calmly and patiently, now that she understood that his behavior was coming from his sense of insecurity. “I danced with Giles because he is an old friend. If there was anything I did to give you another impression, I am sorry. But you are my beloved husband, and Giles only a friend, nothing more.”

“Don’t act the innocent with me, Clare. I saw the way you lingered on the dance floor, looking up at him, leading him on, and right in front of me. I am sure that gossips will have a field day.” Justin gulped down the rest of his brandy, and as he turned to pour another, Clare moved next to him, putting her hand gently on his arm, saying softly: “Please don’t drink any more brandy, my dear.”

Without even turning to look at her, Justin backhanded her across the face, sending her stumbling against the sofa. She pulled herself up and stood there, hand to her reddening and swelling cheek, mouth open, gasping for breath. She was afraid her legs wouldn’t hold her, but she managed to support herself against the sofa arm.

Surely she was in the middle of a nightmare. Surely she would wake up in a moment, next to Justin in their bed. He would kiss away the fear and then make love to her in that wonderful way he had of combining tenderness and passion. But her fingers could feel the cold leather of the sofa arm, and her cheek was throbbing. Her tongue gently probed her teeth, and she was horrified to realize it was automatically checking to see if any were loose. She gave an hysterical sobbing laugh to think that she, Lady Clare Rainsborough, was standing there wondering if her husband had loosened any of her teeth. She had seen women of the lower classes missing teeth and sporting black eyes, and she had pitied them for marrying bullies. But this could not be happening to her. She was the daughter of a marquess, the wife of an earl.

Justin had turned at her laugh, and Clare backed as far as she could into the sofa. It was as though he were truly seeing her for the first time that night: hand to her swollen cheek, shrinking from him, and he let out a deep groan. His eyes were alive again and the cold mask gone, and he reached out his hand slowly and gently, to pull her hand away from her face.

“Oh, my God, Clare. What have I done?”

She looked up at him, pain and fear in her eyes. It hurt for her to talk, but she managed to say slowly: “I swear, Justin, Giles is nothing but an old friend.”

“Don’t, Clare. Don’t even say it. I know he is. Truly I do. I ... I don’t know what came over me. I think it is just that I love you so much and can’t stand to see you with anyone else.”

“But I am not with anyone else, Justin. I am with you.”

He reached out and gently touched her livid cheek. “Did I do this, Clare?”

She only looked the truth at him.

“I know you can never forgive me, Clare, but I swear I didn’t even know what I was doing. It must have been the brandy. I don’t usually drink, you know,” he babbled. “Oh, God, you can’t believe I would ever knowingly hurt you like this?” He looked down at the empty glass in his hand and hurled it into the hearth. Then he poured the contents of the decanter onto the fire, and the flames leapt blue and high. Both Clare and Justin watched them as though mesmerized until they died down.

“I will sleep in my dressing room tonight, Clare,” he said without looking at her. “I am sure you don’t want me to touch you. I swear I will not drink like that again. But, oh, my dear, don’t look at Whitton the way you did tonight. It cuts to the quick.”

Clare couldn’t stand it. It had been a nightmare after all, albeit a waking one. A short, brandy-induced madness that had overtaken her husband. And only caused by his love and need for her. Of course, he would be jealous of Giles. It was understandable. After all, she had almost married him. Would have married him, had not Justin come along.

She couldn’t stand the sight of her husband’s back any longer. She slowly walked over to him and slipped her hand in his. “I don’t wish to sleep alone tonight, Justin,” she whispered.

He lifted her hand to his mouth and brushed it gently. “Are you sure, Clare? I would not blame you.”

She leaned into him and felt him shudder as he softened against her. “Come, Justin, let us go upstairs.”

They walked hand in hand as though they were two children finding their way in the dark. When they reached Clare’s room, Justin gave her one more chance to send him away, but she just shook her head, smiled, and led him in.

He had never been so gentle. There was a basin of water on the nightstand, and he made a cool compress for her cheek, holding her in his arms as if she were a baby. Then he slipped her night rail over her head and laid her back on the bed.

“I am afraid to kiss you, Clare,” he whispered, and she saw that he had tears in his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you more.”

“There are other places to kiss besides my mouth, Justin.”

He began with her neck and shoulders, and moved down to her breast. His tongue caressed each nipple, and then suddenly he took one breast into his mouth and sucked on it like a child sucking on a sugar teat.

Clare guided his hand in between her legs. Soon they were rocking together, slowly at first, and then faster. He came first with broken cries that were echoed by her own a few moments later. And then tears from both of them.

“Clare, you are the most precious thing in my life,” he whispered. She reached out to caress his face and felt it as wet as her own.

“As you are for me, Justin,” she responded, pulling his head close to her breasts and kissing the top of his head softly.

* * * *

The next morning Clare looked dispassionately at herself in her glass. Her upper arm was indeed marked by purple bruises, but those could be concealed quite easily by several of her morning gowns. It was her face that was the problem. Luckily her eye was not affected, but her cheek was still swollen and red, and she expected it would be a day or two before she was back to normal. She would have to cancel all her engagements for the next two days, for she could not imagine any excuses that would explain her appearance.

When Martha came in to help her dress, Clare saw the maid’s eyes widen at her mistress’s appearance.

“Oh, Martha,” Clare said with mock despair, “I was looking for a book to put me to sleep last night and was foolish enough to think I could make my way without a candle. I bumped right into the doorjamb. I vow, I am almost happy, for it gives me a day or two to myself to rest.”

Clare chattered gaily about this and that as Martha helped her dress and arranged her hair. Usually it was Martha who gossiped away, but this morning the maid seemed to have little to say and Clare couldn’t bear her silent scrutiny. But it was no one’s business, after all, thought Clare defensively. Certainly not her abigail’s.

“Please direct Peters to turn down all my invitation for today and tomorrow, Martha. And I will breakfast up here,” she added, gesturing at the small table by the window.

“Yes, my lady.”

Martha was devoted to her mistress, as were all the servants, and she went down the stairs muttering to herself, “Walked into the doorjamb, my arse. That handsome husband of hers did that to her, I wager.” After she gave Clare’s orders to the butler and the cook, she went looking for the housekeeper, Mrs. Clarke.

“You will not be seeing the mistress downstairs today, Mrs. Clarke.”

The housekeeper looked up from her accounting in surprise. “Is my lady not feeling well? Can she be increasing,” she asked expectantly, after a moment.

“No, no. Her stomach is fine,” said Martha, pulling up a chair opposite. “It is her face.”

“Her face?”

“All red and swollen. And her arm all purple with his fingerprints.”

“Whose fingerprints, Martha? Whatever are you saying?”

“I seen my ma’s face like that often enough,” responded Martha bitterly. “I can tell when a man has hit a woman.”

“Lord Rainsborough? Strike Lady Rainsborough? I am sure you are mistaken, Martha.” Mrs. Clarke’s tone had become quite cool. “Why they are absolutely devoted to one another. He has never been anything but loving when I see them together.”

“Aye, well my stepfather was like that, too. Could charm the birds out of their nests, when he was in the mood to do it. And then in an instant, if my ma did one little thing wrong, like scorch his shirt collar, he was on her.”

“I am certain you must be wrong. Did Lady Rainsborough say anything to explain her appearance?”

“Oh, she had a good story. My ma could have written books,
she
had so many stories, too. My lady said she went down to get a book from the library and ran into the doorjamb. And pigs can fly,” added Martha.

“Then I am sure that that is what happened, Martha,” replied Mrs. Clarke. “You can hardly compare your mother’s situation with that of the quality,” she said repressively. “And you are not to go spreading this story of yours around, do you hear? Lord Rainsborough is a kind man. Why, I have hardly heard him raise his voice to a servant, much less his wife.”

Martha got up with a dramatic sigh. “Oh, I will keep quiet, Mrs. Clarke. But for my lady’s sake and no one else’s. But mark me, the first time is never the last.”

Justin had been up early that morning, and Clare did not see him until early afternoon. She had spent the day quietly reading and embroidering and was so enjoying the peace of a day without social obligation that she was almost grateful to her husband for providing the opportunity. She did feel a pang of guilt when Martha brought up Sabrina’s card. “Peters wasn’t sure if you wanted to turn Lady Sabrina away with all the other ladies.”

“I would welcome her company, Martha. But not today,” said Clare, her hand automatically feeling her cheek, as she had off and on all day to see whether the swelling had gone down at all. “Tell her I am not feeling well.”

“Yes, my lady.”

A short time later, Martha was back. “Lord Rainsborough wishes to know if you will see him,” she announced in absolutely neutral tones.

“Why, of course,” said Clare, laughing nervously. Justin had never asked for permission before this. Theirs had been a delightfully informal marriage, with both feeling quite free to walk in on the other at any time.

Martha admitted Justin and closed the door behind him. She stood for a minute outside, glaring at the door as though he could feel her through the solid wood. “You had better not touch her again while I am around, my lord,” she muttered, before she moved off.

Justin looked almost as bad as she did, thought Clare with some genuine amusement. His face was pale, and his eyes a little swollen from the drinking and from his tears of the night before.

“Good day, my dear,” she said, in tones as close to normal as possible.

“I am sorry I ran off this morning, Clare. I confess, I couldn’t bear to look at what I’d done to you.”

“Well, Justin, neither of us is a pretty picture today,” she said lightly. “But we must put this behind us and move on,” she continued more seriously.

Justin reached into his pocket and pulled out a small oblong box. “This is a sort of pledge, Clare,” he said quietly. “I saw it and thought of you immediately.”

“Justin, you did not need to do anything like this,” she protested.

He came over to her and put his finger gently on her lips. “Hush, my darling. Close your eyes and let me fasten this.” Clare felt his fingers brush the nape of her neck as he fastened a small necklace around her throat. She was relieved it was nothing as big as the sapphire choker, for he had been far too generous with jewelry during their short marriage.

“Stay there,” he whispered into her ear, “and keep your eyes closed.” He went and got her hand mirror from the dressing table and coming back, held it in front of her. “Now you can open them, Clare.”

Clare opened them and caught her breath in surprise, gratitude, and strangely enough, dismay. Around her throat was a delicate gold chain and suspended from it a heart-shaped amethyst. It was so similar to Giles’s gift and so different from Justin’s usual taste that there was something disturbing about it. Clare fingered it gently, completely at a loss for words.

“I don’t know what to say, Justin.”

“You don’t have to, Clare. It looks just how I imagined it: a perfect length and a deep enough purple to bring out the violet in your eyes. I have always regretted making you remove Whitton’s gift, Clare, for it
was
flattering. Now you have something as lovely that I gave you.”

“It is very beautiful Justin. I will treasure it.” Clare was touched and grateful, and she wished she felt only that. But her gratitude was somehow marred by a feeling of ... well, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. It just seemed strange that Justin would want to remind her of Giles, after his jealousy. It was as though he were giving her and Giles a sort of message. Almost marking her as his own. Normally she loved his slightly possessive shows of affection. They made her feel essential to him. But although the necklace was an exquisite piece and she would wear it to honor Justin’s gesture, she was sure she would never feel quite comfortable in it.