The Captain's Christmas Bride (13 page)

* * *

It had felt like the longest day of his life. Why on earth had he told Julia he’d been willing to spend it getting to know Lizzie? Because Julia had been so upset at the prospect of leaving before the end of the house party, that was why. And then he’d forced her into fulfilling one of his fantasies, instead of permitting her to go and have breakfast. And all just to prove that she couldn’t do as she pleased any longer. Not now she was married.

Only after he’d proved she was very married indeed, her words about being like the captain of a ship had reared up to goad him. While he’d been putting on his clothes, he’d remembered how he’d felt when his last commission had been cut short. It had been most unpleasant, having his entire identity stripped away, just as he’d been stripping the ship in which he’d fought for the past six months, down to a hulk.

Did she feel like that? he’d wondered as he listened to her taking out her temper on the washbasin. Bewildered and adrift? Or as he’d done when marriage had been thrust upon him? Angry and resentful?

He most certainly didn’t want to drag an angry and resentful wife with him to London. And then again, something about the way she’d slammed the door on him put him in mind of scenes he’d witnessed as a child. Of his mother accusing his father of doing exactly as he pleased. And his father laughing and saying why not? That it was a woman’s role to obey.

And maybe that was so. But it was not a man’s role to crush his wife. Which was why he’d suggested the compromise.

Only now it turned out to be no such thing. Lizzie had let slip that she was staying to the bitter end of the house party, so she could take part in the pantomime the youngsters were rehearsing.

He shucked off his jacket and waistcoat on his way to the dressing room, where he poured water into the basin for a swift wash. Someone had laundered his shirt from the night before, and hung it from a peg above his valise, he noted with gratitude. Alec hadn’t brought many changes of clothing, thinking he’d only be here for a day or so. Just long enough to wrest Lizzie from whatever man it was he’d feared was trying to seduce her.

Seduce her? Hah! A man would have to get up very early in the morning to stand a chance of besting Lizzie. She had a shrewd head on her shoulders, and total confidence in her own worth. What’s more, she was already practising her wiles on Lady Julia’s bacon-brained brother. He’d watched her toying with the poor besotted fool all day. Glorying in the power of her beauty. She’d known Benjamin could hardly take his eyes off her, so the baggage had studiously ignored him, for the most part. Only to encourage him to carry on sighing after her by darting him the occasional brief glance, coupled with a slight smile, after which she’d lower her head and probably play with a curl of her hair for good measure.

The idiot boy had spilled more paint down his trousers and on his shoes than he’d managed to daub on the canvas. Which Lizzie’s friends had found hilarious.

Frowning, he pulled his shirt over his head, then splashed his face with water. To think that, in the past, he’d regretted not spending much time with Lizzie. Regretted not being closer, not being able to watch over her in person, but instead having to trust her to the care of schoolmistresses and the goodwill of friends.

Well, having spent the entire day with her, he decided it hadn’t been such a bad way to go on, after all. Girls of Lizzie’s age were extremely tiresome. Their heads were full of nonsense, which they talked about incessantly. If they’d ever actually had the chance to live under the same roof, he’d have been sorely tempted to send her away to school, just to get some peace and quiet.

He rubbed his face vigorously on the towel, as though he could slough off the day’s irritations along with the water. He was just wondering whether he should shave again, when the door to the sitting room opened, then shut with a resounding slam.

It could only be his wife. A servant wouldn’t dare slam any door anywhere in the house.

He slung the towel over the rail, and went out to see what ailed her now. He was just in time to catch her sweeping the dozens of pots that cluttered her dressing table to one side, bury her face in her hands, and emit a sort of strangled scream.

She clearly had no idea he was here.

She probably wished he wasn’t.

Indeed, the door-slamming, and the wanton destruction of all her cosmetics, and the strangled scream might all stem from her frustration at having to own to him as a husband.

He leaned his forearm against the doorframe while he considered his next move. He’d upset her this morning, insisting she bend to his will, rather than go about her duties as though she was still a single woman. Oh, she’d enjoyed everything he’d done to her. But the very fact that she had enjoyed it all so much had angered her, too.

He even understood her anger. His physical reaction to her angered him almost as much. He didn’t want to want her. And was guilty of taking out some of his frustration on her.

He should apologise.

He cleared his throat.

The way she started, then lifted her head to look in his direction, confirmed his suspicion she hadn’t had a clue he was there. She’d clearly come here to let out her frustration in what she’d hoped was privacy.

She averted her head swiftly, but not before he’d seen tears streaming down her face.

He planted his feet firmly into the carpet, unconsciously adopting the same stance he’d have taken had he been bracing himself against the recoil of a broadside. He had no experience, as an adult, of female tears, not personally. He’d heard accounts from brother officers, or overheard the ratings talk about weeping women. But he’d never come face-to-face with one. Not one who was crying because of something he’d done.

He had no idea what to do.

Because men didn’t cry. Not even boys did, more than a couple of times. Because they learned that the ones who snivelled and complained were universally despised. Whereas the midshipmen who climbed the rigging without protest, even though their hands were already raw from the ropes, and were terrified of the swaying of the ship, and the wind whipping across the deck, were admired for their pluck.

Julia clearly hadn’t learned that lesson. Because, after that one, brief, horror-stricken glance in his direction, she buried her face in her hands and begun sobbing in earnest.

For his benefit? Was she trying to gain sympathy? Or had she correctly guessed that the sight of his wife in tears was the one thing most likely to drive him away?

Damn women for being so complicated!

Even so, she wasn’t going to drive him away. Inexperienced though he was with women’s tears, it was something he was clearly going to have to learn to deal with, now that he was married.

How did other men cope? He swiftly reviewed all he’d heard about how to placate and soothe a weeping woman. Which invariably involved the giving of gifts, or apologies, or even cuddles.

Well, he didn’t have a gift to give her. And he was not about to apologise. He’d already backed down about exactly when to leave here and go to London. To apologise as well would make her think she could get her own way every time she turned on the tears. And anyway, hadn’t her own father warned him she needed a firm hand? And as for putting his arm round her—no. That would only goad her into slapping his face. For, inexperienced though he was with weeping women, he wasn’t a fool. There was a deal of anger mixed up with whatever had made her cry.

In the end, Alec did the only practical thing he could think of.

He crossed the room to her side, tapped her on the shoulder, and proffered a clean handkerchief.

‘Oh. Th-thank you,’ she sobbed, taking it. ‘I d-dare say I shall be done in a minute. P-please don’t let me st-stop you d-doing whatever it w-w-was...’ She made a strange, indeterminate gesture with her free hand.

‘I was only dressing for dinner—’ he began.

‘Dinner,’ she wailed. ‘D-don’t talk to me about dinner! I sh-shall have to go d-down to d-dinner, and sm-smile...’

She broke down into a fresh gale of angry, bitter sobs.

He’d heard the expression
all at sea
. But never had he truly understood what it felt like, until now. He could only stand still, and watch while she cried herself out. He manfully resisted the temptation to look at the clock on the mantel. She’d stop when she was ready, and not before.

Though, as she’d forecast, the storm turned out to be nothing more than a squall after all. Blown out almost as quickly as it had blown in. She gave one last shuddering sob, and blew her nose.

‘I beg your pardon,’ she said to the surface of her dressing table. ‘I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.’

She could tell? Even though she’d had her face buried in her handkerchief the whole time? Women must have some kind of intuition where men were concerned. They didn’t need to look directly at a man to know exactly where he was and what he was doing—aye, and apparently what he was thinking, too. Hadn’t he spent all day watching Lizzie demonstrate just such uncanny ability with young Ben?

‘I just...’ Julia explained. ‘I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.’

‘And it doesn’t really matter if you weep in front of me anyway, does it?’

She lifted her head to look at him, wide-eyed.

‘I am the one person you don’t need to hide anything from,’ he explained. ‘The one person who has already seen beneath your mask.’

She made a moue of annoyance. But she didn’t start shrieking at him. On the contrary, after a frown had flickered across her face, she gave a little sigh. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s true.’

It was a strangely intimate moment. An uncomfortable sort of intimacy, which he would have avoided, given the choice. But then who else did she have to turn to, to talk to, about the things that were upsetting her? Nobody else knew that she wasn’t in love with him. That she’d had to marry him to save face.

‘Would you care for a brandy?’ He could think of nothing else to offer her. She’d finished with the handkerchief now. Except as an object to twist between her fingers as though she needed to strangle something. Or someone.

‘Brandy?’ She wrinkled her nose. Then shook her head. ‘No. I don’t drink brandy.’

‘You look as though it might do you good, just this once.’ It would certainly do him good. He went through to the sitting room, where he’d had a helpful footman set out a tray with a selection of decanters and tumblers for just such an eventuality. Not that he’d expected to have to tip alcohol down his distraught wife’s throat. He’d just thought he might want fortification, at some point.

‘Here,’ he said, going back to her, and setting one of the drinks he’d poured onto the dressing table before her.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.
In vino veritas
, and all that.’

‘You feel you need to keep your wits about you, is that it?’

She nodded. Then her face crumpled again. ‘God, I feel like such a fool!’

He downed his own brandy swiftly. If she was going to start crying again, he’d need all the help he could get.

‘I’m sorry you feel like that,’ he bit out. ‘I had thought we were starting to get used to each other.’

‘What? No! I mean—’ She looked up at him in horror. ‘It’s not you—why I’m crying. It’s...’ She gulped. Gave her handkerchief another savage twist.

It wasn’t him? Then someone else must have upset her.

‘Tell me,’ he barked, setting his empty glass down next to her full one. Once he found out who’d caused his wife to break down like that—the proud, spirited woman who’d married a stranger rather than admit to having made a terrible mistake—he’d make them rue the day they were born!

‘No, I...really, it’s too...painful...’ She gave an expressive shudder.

Which was rather a relief. He would have listened, naturally, had she wanted someone to talk to. Even though he’d had a day of gritting his teeth in the face of torrents of inane feminine confidences.

There must be something else he could do to help her through this...whatever it was. He studied her for a second or two as she strove in vain to recover her composure.

Appearances mattered to her. Very much. She’d even married him, rather than have her schemes exposed. And she’d run in here to weep so that nobody would know she was upset.

What she needed was an excuse to hide away until she felt ready to face the world with her composed mask firmly back in place.

Right. He could give her that. Give her the space to recover, at her own pace. Give her a good reason for avoiding whatever, or whoever, it was who’d upset her so badly. So that she could save face.

‘I’m going to ring for some tea,’ he said, crossing to the bell pull, and tugging it hard. Then he went to the bed, ripped off the covers, tossed them about, and slung them haphazardly back onto the mattress.

That got her attention.

‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘Creating a diversion,’ he informed her gruffly. ‘Stay out of sight when the maid comes up with the tea tray, and let me do all the talking,’ he told her. ‘She’ll think you are too embarrassed to face her.’

‘What? Why would I be...?’ He saw comprehension dawn on her face. ‘Oh!’

He nodded. ‘Exactly. She’ll inform everyone that we cannot keep our hands off each other, and nobody will be a bit surprised when we don’t put in an appearance at dinner. Or ask you awkward questions after.’

‘That’s...that’s...’

‘The kind of ruse I should have thought you’d appreciate.’

* * *

Just when she was starting to think she could like him, he went and said something cutting, like that.

‘I don’t appreciate having to resort to ruses at all,’ she snapped. ‘I would rather people would be honest. And not tell beastly lies. And make you believe...believe...’

Oh, good grief. She was going to start crying again.

Just as someone came to the door to find out why her husband had been ringing. He gave her one blistering look, then went to the door and opened it just a crack. She put the handkerchief to her mouth and bit down on it, to stifle her sobs. As little as she wished the maids to think she’d been...frolicking in bed during the afternoon, did she wish any of them to know she’d been crying?