Tender the Storm (19 page)

Rolfe's eyebrows rose. He regarded her steadily for a long moment. He noted the flush that lay across her cheekbones and the eyes which could not quite meet his. "Then who . . . ? Oh! Now I comprehend!
Those
fribbles
who danced attendance on you at the
Devonshires
' party! So that's what Madame Bertaut was hinting at! What is it, Zoë? Do they ride out here and pester the life out of you? Give me the names of these rackety ne'er-do-wells and I promise you I shall make short shrift of them."

Zoë wrung her hands. She was on the point of confessing the whole when a flash of inspiration came to her. "But how will that look?" she cried out. "You are no relation to me. If you pursue this matter you will occasion the kind of gossip that must bring infamy to my name! No! No! You must do nothing!" After an interval, she said in a more normal tone, "You still haven't told me the reason for this visit,"

Rolfe gazed at Zoë in simmering silence. That this little innocent should suffer the particular attentions of gentlemen of a predatory nature offended every feeling of decency. Was it not this very thing he feared would come to pass? Had he not known that no dependence could be placed on the scruples of his own sex? The girl had no male relatives, no one of any consequence to look out for her interests. More than anything, he wished that he might assume that role. But he also recalled the conversation in White's with his kinsman, Crewe. Zoë was right. To involve
himself
in her affairs would be the worst possible service he could do her. Unless . . .

Into Rolfe's mind flashed fragments and impressions which resolved themselves into a comprehensive whole. It was more than time that he was wed. And when that day arrived, the designs of Roberta Ashton, and all women like her, would be forever frustrated. Neither did the threats of the wronged husband, in these circumstances, trouble him greatly. George Ashton (if he ever did have any intention of naming him in a divorce action, which Rolfe very much doubted) would make himself a laughing stock if he pursued that course.

But beyond all that, and of far more significance to Rolfe, was the happy estate of the lady he would take to wife. The woman of his choice would have the protection of his name. His marchioness would not he subject to the sort of insult Zoë had endured since she had left her father's house.

The solution was simple. Zoë must become his wife. No sooner had the thought occurred to him, than every muscle in his body seemed to release a tension he had not known possessed him. Air rushed into his lungs. His chest expanded. He felt lightheaded. Zoë must become his wife. It was the perfect solution.

Little Zoë.
She was scarcely more than a child. He must impress that fact on his mind. Even so, his little kitten had the heart of a lion. On that harrowing coach ride from Rouen to Coutances, she had displayed more pluck than most men of his acquaintance. Her manners, her deportment, her quiet air of gravity — everything about the child had captivated him. She was a Devereux, of the great

Devereux banking family.
She might well be a penniless orphan. He did not care. From this day forward, Zoë and her happiness would be in his safekeeping.

One day, in the future, when she was older, it would be necessary to consummate their marriage. He must beget heirs. He resolved that he would be the most restrained and gentle of husbands, scrupulous to a degree of the girl's finer feelings. He would never give his little Zoë cause to fear him. In the meantime, his life would go on as before. Zoë would make no appreciable difference to the way he ordered his days.

He noted that Zoë's little boot was tapping a tattoo on the carpeted floor, and he remembered that he had once or twice surprised in her the fire of an incipient temper. He smiled.

"What should I be doing here, kitten? I've come to take you away."

Zoë's delicate eyebrows winged upwards.

"As my bride."

Her jaw dropped. He was perfectly serious. She could read it in his eyes.

"Miss Devereux, will you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?"

She must refuse him. It was the only honorable thing to do. All inadvertently, with her unruly, capricious tongue, she had brought him to this pass. He was the flower of English manhood, the chivalric knight of a former era set on rescuing a damsel in distress. She was not worthy of him. She could not be so base as to entrap him into marriage under false pretenses. The words of refusal trembled on her lips.

"Well, kitten? What answer am I to receive?"

Surely, this could not be her speaking?
"Oh Rolfe!
Yes!
If you really wish it!"
And, conscience-stricken, she promptly burst into tears.

Within weeks of their quietly arranged nuptials, Zoë began to perceive that it was not a husband she had acquired but something in the nature of a guardian. And though that guardian was possibly the most benevolent of autocrats who had ever walked God's earth, it made no appreciable difference to the acute misery from which she suffered. Rolfe was as unattainable as he ever was.

In other surroundings, Zoë's unhappiness might have been mitigated to some degree. At Rivard Abbey, in the society in which she found herself, and with Rolfe scarcely ever there, there was no alleviation of her distress.

Zoë's introduction to her mother-in-law was not auspicious. Rolfe's mother, the dowager marchioness, was a slight, rather delicate-looking lady. Her health, as she would have it, was very indifferent. She tired easily. Upsets of any description were known to bring on that tiresome affliction which she called "spasms." Over the years, she'd had a succession of doctors, none of them lasting for very long. She regarded the whole tribe of medical men as quacks and charlatans. Not one of them had ever diagnosed any of the vague complaints from which she habitually suffered. Nor were they, after the first flush of acquaintance, very ready with their
sympathy.

On being informed by her son of his marriage, the lady was immediately overcome with palpitations. She half-swooned in her chair, and neither the application of burnt feathers under her nose nor the tot of medicinal brandy which her maid forced past her lips could restore her completely to her senses. But where the maid failed, the son had more success.

"Tears of joy I had expected, Mama," said Rolfe with amused tolerance. "Come
now,
congratulate me on being a dutiful son and say how-do-you-do to your daughter-in-law."

When this cajolery failed in its objective, Rolfe made to lead Zoë from his mother's sitting room. Only then did Lady Rivard regain a modicum of her composure.

"But Rolfe . . . what of . . . what of Lady Jane?"

"Lady Jane?"

The dowager straightened in her chair and threw off her maid's hand with its burnt feathers. "Lady Jane Hudson! You've been promised to her since you were both in the cradle."

Rolfe was startled into laughter. "Lady Jane Hudson was no more eager to have me as her suitor than I was to take her to wife. Mama, the girl is positively terrified of men. She is a confirmed spinster."

"What has that to say to anything?" wailed the dowager. "Her father is a duke. Her connections are unexceptionable. The girl is an heiress.
And .
. ..
and
His Grace was expecting you to pay your addresses."

As the spate of words continued unabated, Rolfe's face turned stern. When his mother paused for breath, he said in a controlled tone, "The thing is done, Mama! When you are more yourself, I shall bring Zoë to you."

Zoë obediently allowed Rolfe to lead her from the room, reflecting that her mother-in-law had yet to address two words to her. Nor was she blind to the full significance of the exchange between mother and son. Rolfe had entered into a wholly unsuitable alliance. In France, the name Devereux stood for something. In England, Zoë Devereux was a nonentity and far beneath the touch of a marquess. Rolfe flashed
her a
reassuring smile, and Zoë tried to take comfort from the strength of her husband's arm beneath her fingers.

Zoë's introduction to the rest of the members of Rolfe's family was only marginally more promising. His nieces, Ladies Emily and Sara, on first acquaintance, were exactly as Zoë had anticipated. They stared at her solemnly with their uncle's intelligent gray eyes, and obediently made their curtsies at their nurse's prompting. Zoë noted the faintly anxious smile on Miss
Miekle's
face and wondered at it. It was only later, on further acquaintance of her
nieces, that
Zoë came to understand the lady's anxiety. By that time, she wondered that Miss Miekle could smile at all.

The girls' mother, Charlotte, was some few years older than Zoë. She was no beauty, but she was not precisely plain either. She had a fine pair of eyes. Within minutes of making her acquaintance, Zoë recognized that Charlotte had a
tendre
for Rolfe. Her pity was stirred. For all the notice Rolfe took of his sister-in-law, she might have been a piece of furniture.

At dinner, that first evening, it looked as if the girl and she might be friends. But under the dowager's chilly stare, Charlotte's overtures faltered. She was polite, but reserved, and after some few attempts to converse with her, Zoë also lapsed into silence. It was Rolfe and his mother who carried the burden of conversation. If they were aware of the unnatural muteness of the dowager's two daughters- in-law, they gave no sign of it.

Throughout the meal, Zoë's thoughts drifted to the dining room in the house in St. Germain. The room would have been ringing with laughter, or the sound of young, querulous voices as she and her siblings argued ferociously with each other. A lump formed in her throat. Shortly after, she asked to be excused, pleading a headache.

Her apartments adjoined those of her husband. This was not significant. Rolfe had been at some pains to explain to Zoë on her wedding night that she had nothing to fear from him. They had entered upon a marriage of convenience. Her protests had merely amused him. Into the palm of her hand, he had pressed the key of the adjoining door to their chambers and had advised her, with a very direct look, to make sure that the door was locked at all times.

She had toyed with the idea of disobeying him. But the certain knowledge that her entrance into his chamber in some filmy garment would occasion nothing but chuckles or
remonstrances
checked the impulse. She was a wife, and she was no wife at all.

Over the next few weeks, Rolfe was very infrequently at the Abbey. In his absence, Zoë formed the notion of playing some part in the management of her husband's household. She was her mother's daughter. Her education fitted her for her role as chatelaine of a great house. Her accomplishments in the kitchen, no less than the drawing room, were indisputable. And how pleased and proud Rolfe would be when he returned to find his house improved beyond all recognition.

Rolfe returned to find his house in an uproar. Zoë's efforts were regarded by the dowager as the height of impertinence. The servants were at a loss to know which lady was mistress of the domestic domain, and Charlotte was so unnerved by the hostile atmosphere which prevailed that she had taken to her room. Rolfe made haste to pour oil on the troubled waters.