The Bride's Secret (19 page)

When she thought of Gregory now, however, her stomach no longer vaulted. In fact, during the past few weeks, she had come to realize she could finally think of Gregory without experiencing a single stab of pain. She had finally accepted that Gregory was in love with his wife. And she, Carlotta, was no longer in love with Gregory Blankenship. If only she could fall in love with James.

She stifled a yawn.

“At the end of this hand,” James said in a gentle voice, “we shall have to call it a night. You're tired.”

“So I am,” she said through another yawn, as her hand covered her gaping mouth.

When they finished the hand, they agreed to continue the game the following night. She and James mounted the stairs together, his hand resting possessively at her waist.

At her door he paused, and she lifted her face to his for a kiss.

Chapter 19

The feel of her soft lips brushing against his was wildly intoxicating. Even better—or at least as good—was the knowledge that she had initiated the kiss. He drew her into his arms and she, too, slipped her arms around him. He thought he would explode with need when her lips parted and the kiss deepened.

Moments later, though, she released her arms from him and drew away, stepping back into the door to her chamber. His soaring heart sank. For a moment he had allowed himself to believe she wanted him in her bed. Now he realized it was only an illusion conjured by his own starvation.

His lips a straight line, he nodded to her as if the passionate kiss had never occurred. “Good night, my dear.”

He started toward his own chamber as she called to him, “Good night, James.” He fought the urge to return to her and gather her into his embrace. Though his wife made it difficult, he must preserve his pride, as fragile as it was.

As he lay in bed that night he questioned his own sanity in allowing himself to be so closely exposed to Carlotta day after wretched day. Every hour he was in her presence was another hour of torture. His constant companionship, he realized with a deep, wrenching grief, had not had the effect he had hoped for. He had thought their continued proximity to one another would result in his wife growing to love him.

Perhaps if he were not always in her pocket . . . That gave him an idea. Perhaps he should begin to distance himself from her. If his presence became scarce, she might come to crave his company. He remembered how delighted she had been to see him after his long absence from Bath.

As difficult as it would be to deny himself the pleasure of being with her, he vowed to stay away from her as much as he could.

Before he fell asleep, he came up with framework that would henceforth guide him in his dealings with Carlotta.

* * *

That first day her husband had taken Stevie fishing, Carlotta had enjoyed being alone. Since it was somewhat gray, she basked in a comforting warmth sitting before the fire rereading Shakespeare's sonnets.

Little did she know that day was only the first of many from which James would exclude her. The day after that he spent with his steward, after that with his secretary, after that at the mines; then, he started all over with Stevie again. James decided Stevie was experienced enough in the saddle to learn the finer points to riding, and he set about to teach them to his stepson.

Carlotta sent to Bath for painters and linen drapers and busied herself making decisions on the redecoration of her chambers and Stevie's.

When Stevie's nurse came, Carlotta felt herself even less needed, for her son and Miss Kenworth quickly slipped into a comfortable familiarity like those who had always been together.

Miss Kenworth had a cheerful countenance and quick mind to go with her acute sense of humor. Added to all these attributes was her keen understanding of and interest in what young boys liked best. If Stevie wished to play soldiers, she was down on the floor joining him. Were the lad desirous of playing hide and seek in the woods, she would attempt to conceal her roundness behind a stout tree. If imprisoning a family of frogs was what pleased Stevie, Miss Kenworth would endeavor to hunt them with her charge. In short, whatever Stevie wanted, Miss Kenworth aspired to allow him.

Carlotta no longer worried that her son lacked for playmates, for in Miss Kenworth he had the greatest playmate of all: one who always did exactly what he wished to do.

Before Miss Kenworth had been six weeks at Yarmouth, Stevie was reading eagerly. He was also learning to do his sums because James felt compelled to impart such knowledge on a daily basis to his step-son. Both of her son's teachers praised Stevie's keen intellect. Not that she saw her husband with any frequency. On most nights he took dinner with her, and on some nights they played games after dinner. But never again did her husband give her another passionate good-night kiss.

She supposed he did not desire her at all, after all. He had only married her because of Stevie.

One night at dinner, he asked her if she would like to entertain guests.

His question startled her. “Who, pray tell, would we entertain?” she asked, looking up at her stern-faced husband.

He shrugged. “The gentry from hereabouts?”

Her brows shot up. “I was unaware there was gentry hereabouts. I thought, perhaps, we were hours from anywhere, save that mine of yours.”

“Then you've been too much isolated.”

Her hand coiled around the stem of her glass. “Honestly, James, I've not felt isolated. I love it here at Yarmouth, even though I have only you and Stevie for companionship—and despite that you've not been a particularly close companion as of late.”

He chuckled. “What of other women? I thought women required other women.”

Her heated glance flicked to him. “You know I'm not like other women.”

“Then what of the admiration of men, my dear? In Portugal, you always seemed to thrive off men's adulation.”

She could not deny his claim. Sadly, he spoke the truth. Even though she had never acted upon any of the flirtations, she had—at that time—required them. With crippling guilt, she had later come to regret her flirtatious manners. Stephen had deserved a wife who was far more devoted to him than ever she had been.

“As one grows older,” she said, “one regrets the things one does in one's youth.”

James gave out a little laugh. “Quote the gray beard of five and twenty.”

After the sweetmeats were lain, he revisited the subject. “Why do not you and Fordyce work together on a guest list for a dinner party to be held at Yarmouth?”

Her stomach dropped. She had no desire to entertain, to have her own home invaded by someone who might know of her past and use that information to estrange her husband from her. Or to estrange him more than he already was. But James asked for so very little, if this was important to him . . . “I am perfectly happy not entertaining, but if it would please you, I will get together with Mr. Fordyce tomorrow,” she said.

“I have all the social intercourse I need. It's you I'm concerned about.” Though his tone was light, something in his manner convinced her his worry was genuine.

She held her head up high and bestowed a smile upon her husband. “You need have no worries on my account. I'm blissfully happy, especially now that spring has so thoroughly arrived.”

He picked up his fork and spoke casually. “I notice that you've taken to wearing a bonnet when you work in the garden.”

“I was unaware you noticed me at all.”

“When I'm doing something else, I occasionally spare a glance at the lady of the manor with a bonnet on her head. At first I did not believe that was my Carlotta because my Carlotta does not wear bonnets.”

My Carlotta
. Oddly, his words pleased her. “I am in the sun so much, I've had to begin wearing a broad-brimmed hat to keep my face from getting too dark. Your flattering comments on my lovely skin have not gone unnoticed. I should not wish to disappoint you. You married a not-unattractive woman, and I shall endeavor to stay that way.”

The countless hours she had spent in the garden had kept her busy and continued to give her a sense of purpose, especially since neither her husband nor her son seemed to need her any longer.

When dinner was over, he said, “I beg that you'll excuse me tonight. I must go to the library. There are many papers that require my attention.”

She tried to conceal her disappointment when she spoke. “I'll be reading in my study—if you should finish sooner than expected and wish to play a game.”

He stood up and came to pat the top of her head. “Don't wait up for me, my dear. I expect to be quite late.”

Perhaps she should have agreed to entertain. She was growing hungrier and hungrier for another adult to talk to. Someone besides Mrs. MacGinnis, who would inquire about how her ladyship liked the turbot prepared or ask Carlotta if the draperies should be removed and cleaned.

As Carlotta trudged up the stairs for another lonely night of reading, she realized she had come to rely on James, and she missed him rather painfully.

* * *

If she could not have her husband to talk to, perhaps she could strike up a friendship with Mr. Fordyce. The following afternoon—while James was spending the day at the mines—she went to the secretary's office.

When he looked up from his desk, his spectacles slipped midway down his nose. He jumped to his feet, one hand pushing his spectacles back to their proper place. “Good afternoon, my lady, how may I assist you?”

“It's been rather a long time since I've spoken with you, and I thought perhaps we could have a little visit. Should you like to come see my garden?”

His glance darted to the pile of work on his desk then back to his employer's wife. “I would be honored, my lady.”

As they walked along the narrow lanes of the parterre garden, Carlotta pointed out the various flowers she had planted, while praising the gardener who was responsible for overseeing the greenhouse.

Before they had strolled very far, she asked, “Pray, is my husband always as busy as he's been of late?”

“Being the Earl of Rutledge carries with it enormous responsibilities. Your husband has taken his responsibilities far more seriously than his predecessor. Though the present Lord Rutledge trusts all of us who work for him, he insists on keeping abreast of everything we do. His intelligence is so keen, he has even taught me some time-saving shortcuts in my own work.”

She was proud of James, yet at the same time jealous that his secretary saw more of her husband than she did. “You keep my husband's ledgers?”

He nodded.

“I've worried the mines might be in financial trouble. Is that why he spends so much time there?”

“The mines turn a tidy profit,” Fordyce said. “If Lord Rutledge spends a great deal of time there, I believe it's because he has great empathy for the lot of the colliers. I knew a fellow at Cambridge who was a great deal like your husband. He was a Benthamite.”

Did Mr. Fordyce expect her to know what a Benthamite was? She had never heard of it, yet she was afraid to admit her ignorance. Finally, a possible definition flashed through her brain. “A follower of Jeremy Bentham?”

“Yes. Have you read him?”

“Goodness, no. I only read poetry. Have you read Mr. Bentham?”

“Yes. He promulgates the utilitarian theory.”

“I'm afraid I've never heard of it, Mr. Fordyce.”

“It's the philosophy that everything should be done for the greatest good of the greatest amount of people.”

Such a philosophy sounded rather like Christianity to her. She raised her brows. “Are you a Benthamite, Mr. Fordyce?”

He laughed. “I don't think of myself as anything in particular. However, I find much merit in the utilitarians, and whether your husband realizes he is one or not, I believe him to be. He's definitely not old guard. He's most liberal thinking, most interested in civil liberties.”

“Then perhaps you can persuade him to become a Whig in Parliament,” Carlotta suggested.

He slowed and turned to face her, his blue eyes flashing, a smile lifting his narrow face. “The thing of it is, I really believe Lord Rutledge is apolitical. I'm not even sure he's ever read Jeremy Bentham. It's my belief that your husband is inherently good. He has an acute sense of right and wrong.”

He did not have to tell Carlotta that fact about the man she had married. She could think of more than a dozen instances in which James had been unflinchingly unselfish. It was his lot to always do what made another person happy, his lot to empathize with others' suffering. “I know that to be true.”

Neither she nor the secretary spoke for a moment. She was glad she and Mr. Fordyce had taken this walk. Speaking in such an environment—and speaking of someone other than himself—had relaxed the timid secretary.

“I know my husband has no wish to enter politics. He's perfectly happy doing what he's doing here in Exmoor. However, I cannot stop thinking about his lordship's late mother. She always believed her son would grow up to be a great man. What she did not realize was that he could be a great man without leaving a mark on civilization.”

“You should be a philosopher, not a poetess, my lady”

She laughed. “I'm really not a poetess. Would that I were. I'm merely addicted to poetry.”

“It seems to me your setting and position should put you in the perfect situation to write poetry.”

She thought on this for a moment. What he said was true. She was surrounded by beauty, and the abundance of servants enabled her to have the time to pursue anything she wanted. It was just that she had never been fanatically attached to the idea of
writing
poetry. She was fanatically attached to reading it. Why should she try to pen a thought when those more talented than she had already done so with far more eloquence?

“I feel things deeply, as a poet does,” she said, “but under normal conditions I'm never drawn to writing down my feelings. When I do, my efforts are most inferior to the poets I so admire.”

While she was strolling through the garden with Fordyce, James rode up on Ebony. He scowled when he saw her laughing.

Dismounting, he directed a harsh glance at her. “Should you not be dressing for dinner, my dear?”