The Marriage Act (16 page)

“I’m not so sure he liked lepers,” Ronnie said. “It’s not as if he left them that way.”

“True,” John said, struggling to keep a straight face, “though they would make for interesting jewelry.”

Miss Fleetwood sighed. “I don’t think this suits me. Would you help me take it off, Lord Welford?”

“I’ll do it.” Ronnie jumped to assist her. “When it comes to fiddling little things like that, John is all thumbs.”

“He does have large, manly hands,” Miss Fleetwood said.

It was another fifteen minutes before they left the shop. John waited for his brother to give Miss Fleetwood his arm, but Ronnie was too dilatory. When the girl hovered at John’s elbow, looking up at him with an expression of pointed expectation, he had little choice but to offer his.

“Shall we go to the confectioner’s?” Miss Fleetwood asked, clinging to his biceps.

That sounded safe enough. “If you like.”

The shop was on the other side of the high street. Though Kegworth hardly rivaled London or Vienna for variety, it was a bustling village with a healthy share of the coaching trade, and the scents of cinnamon and toasted almonds that wafted from the shop were enough to draw in all but the most resistant passerby.

“Mind if I step away for a minute or two?” Ronnie asked John. “There’s something I need to take care of.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ll catch up to you,” Ronnie promised before hurrying away.

Miss Fleetwood smiled up at John. “It’s good of you to look after me today, Lord Welford.”

“I presume your father did the same for my wife, when she stayed with your family as a girl.” He held open the door of the confectioner’s for her and followed her inside.

Miss Fleetwood frowned at his mention of Caro, or perhaps at his comparing himself to her father rather than casting himself in the role of beau. He’d chosen his words advisedly, but the remark left him thinking about his conversation with Caro the night before. It was hard to believe that fatherhood might actually be a possibility for him now. He’d always wanted a family, so much so that in order to fall asleep the night before, he’d had to put the notion completely from his head. Hoping was the surest route to disappointment.

Besides, he wasn’t sure how fair it was to hope. He’d grown up in a household made inhospitable by his stepmother’s dislike, and he had no intention of raising a child in an equally fractured family. Before he had a son or a daughter of his own, he hoped he and Caro could learn to rub along a little better.

Miss Fleetwood examined a table of sugared fruits stacked in artful pyramids on matching plates. “Yes, Papa and Mama just adore Caro. They think butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.”

She ended the sentence on a curiously unfinished note, as if there were more she wanted to say but had held back—
though if you ask me
,
she’s no better than the rest of us
or
though we both know that isn’t true.

“I’m sure Bishop Fleetwood thinks just as highly of you,” he said, since the remark had a harmless enough ring to it.

She sighed. “Uncle Matthew thinks highly of everyone.” She trailed a hand over the counter. “But I find it rather funny that everyone makes Caro out to be such an angel when she and my sister were both the most dreadful flirts. Making up to all the neighborhood boys, sneaking out after dark...”

John shrugged. “She can’t have been much more than a schoolgirl at the time. I’m sure there was no harm in it.” Caro was his wife, and not only was he supposed to be pretending they were happily married, but defending her was the gentlemanly thing to do. Still, was that how he really felt?

Caro’s father had referred to her as
a
good girl withal
. Was it possible the maddening things she said and did—the way she’d run hot and cold in the hunting box, made eyes at that lout in The George on the first night of their journey, even accepted his marriage proposal when she was in love with another man—were little more than the snowballing effects of an impetuous nature? Why could he dismiss such behavior so readily in conversation, yet find it so hard to forgive Caro in the flesh?

“I suppose you would know that better than I would,” Miss Fleetwood replied doubtfully. “Though I think she enjoyed the attention. She and Anne used to treat me like a troublesome little sister, while they monopolized all the boys.” She peered at an array of boiled sweets. “Anyone can see Caro is beautiful, and people think she’s prettily behaved, because Uncle Matthew is her papa and she takes care never to set a foot wrong around him. And now she has the perfect husband, and the perfect marriage.” Miss Fleetwood glanced sidelong at him, smiling coyly. “But I wouldn’t be at all shocked to hear she isn’t as perfect as she appears.”

“She seems perfect in my eyes.” If Miss Fleetwood was hoping to enlist his aid in some jealous rivalry with Caro, he wasn’t about to oblige her—though he was struck by her contention that Caro took care never to set a foot wrong around her father. It reminded him of what Leitner had said, about how it must have been a trial for Caro to grow up as the bishop’s daughter.

Miss Fleetwood looked faintly disappointed. “It’s very loyal of you to say so—but then, I would expect no less from you, Lord Welford.”

John wondered how loyal he really was, when even Leitner had been able to see something about Caro he’d missed.

“My point is, I hope Caro really is as modest and amiable as everyone says.” Miss Fleetwood glanced up at him from under her lashes. “A gentleman like you deserves a girl who makes him happy.”

“Would you care for any sweets?” he asked in a bid to change the subject. “My treat, of course.”

Chapter Fifteen

A
wise man will make haste to forgive
,
because he knows the true value of time
,
and will not suffer it to pass away in unnecessary pain.

—Samuel Johnson

When they arrived back at Stanling Priory, John went looking for his wife. Between the taxing experience of spending all morning with Ronnie and Miss Fleetwood and his own reflections on his marriage, he was eager to talk with her again.

He found her seated on the sofa in the drawing room, reading aloud to her father. She had her back to the open door, and John paused in the doorway, listening to her read and admiring the way her upswept hair bared the elegant nape of her neck. Her voice was low and musical, and the love she felt for her father was evident in every line she read.

He must not have made much noise when he came in, for she jumped when he bent to drop a kiss on the spot where the curve of her neck met her shoulder. This time, though, she seemed merely startled rather than displeased, for she turned a smile on him in the same instant.

“John! I didn’t realize you were back from the village.”

Very nice—she’d infused the words with convincing affection even though her father appeared to have nodded off, and was dozing in his chair by the fire. “I just came in. I hope you don’t mind my having gone without you, but Ronnie and your cousin were eager to be on their way, and I thought you could use the sleep. I’ll take you some other time if you like.”

“I don’t mind. Did you enjoy yourself?” She was wearing a rose-colored gown, and she’d threaded a matching ribbon through her dark curls. The color suited her, highlighting the delicate color in her cheeks.

“Not as much as Ronnie did, gazing at your cousin, but it’s a fine autumn day and I was happy to be out in this weather.” He lowered his voice. “At the risk of sounding full of myself, I had the strange impression Miss Fleetwood was flirting with me.”

“Oh, dear—I shouldn’t take it too seriously, John. She’s always been a trifle...” She hesitated, and John made guesses at the words she was reluctant to say.
Empty-headed?
Fast?
Instead she changed course and finished, “She’s at an age that thrives on attention. But I’ll have a word with her, if you’d like.”

“I don’t think there’s any call for that quite yet. I’d rather not embarrass her if I can avoid it, and she may only have been trying to spark Ronnie’s interest.” He considered a moment. Should he wait until Bishop Fleetwood woke to give Caro the sweets he’d bought for her? It seemed a waste of a perfectly good gesture to give them to her now, with no one to see, but...”I brought you something.”

Her smile widened. “Did you?”

He reached into his pocket and drew out a paper packet. “Lemon Gibraltars,” he said, presenting them to her. “The confectioner had peppermint as well, but I thought you’d prefer lemon.”

She laughed. “Is that on the principle of ‘sweets for the sweet,’ only the opposite?”

“Not at all.”

“Good, because I do prefer lemon. Thank you, that was most thoughtful of you.” Smiling, she took the packet, glancing in her father’s direction. “It appears Papa has fallen asleep, though I’m sure when he wakes, he’ll insist he was only ‘resting his eyes.’”

“Are those slippers he’s wearing the ones you embroidered for him?”

“Yes.”

“Fine work. Perhaps someday you’ll make some for me.”

“Perhaps,” she said, a smile playing about her lips. “If you behave yourself.”

“What were you reading to him?”

She showed him the title page.

“
The Bride of Lammermoor
,” John read aloud.

“Have you read it?” When he shook his head, she explained, “It’s something of a Scottish
Romeo and Juliet
, with the addition of storms and crumbling castles and spectral visions, all very dark and romantic.”

“But tragic.”

“Yes, though it’s more deliciously horrid than heartrending. Men swear vengeance, women go mad. There’s even a well-placed patch of quicksand. I’ve read it before, but Papa hadn’t.”

He took a seat beside her on the sofa. “I had to swear off reading sad love stories after
The Sorrows of Young Werther
left me almost as despairing as poor, suicidal Werther.” He didn’t mention that he’d read it not as a youth, but rather after he’d left her behind to take up his post in Vienna.

“I don’t mind reading tragedies—but then, sometimes I like having a good cry, and I don’t suppose most gentlemen feel that way, do they?”

“They’re not likely to admit it if they do.”

“Does that mean that you gentlemen don’t allow yourselves to become as unhappy as we ladies do, or just that you go about holding it in all the time?”

“Neither, really. We have different ways of expressing it—sulking or drinking more than we should or making hermits of ourselves.” Or remaining angry for five years.

“I think I prefer crying to being disagreeable.”

He reached up to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “I don’t like the notion of you crying.”

Her eyes twinkled. “You don’t seem to care much for my being disagreeable either.”

He chuckled. “In that case, I’ll just have to make sure you have no cause for unhappiness.” He felt a powerful urge to kiss her. No one would see—her father was sleeping. Though was that a point in its favor, or a reason not to attempt it?

“John,” Caro said shyly before he could make up his mind, “I wanted to ask you something. It’s about Ronnie...”

All thought of kissing her went out of his head as he remembered the way she’d been whispering with his brother in the hunting box, and the familiar way she’d taken Ronnie’s arm on the stairs. “What about him?” he asked warily.

“Do you know what he means to do with his life? Have you talked with him about it?”

The question felt vaguely ominous. Why was Caro so interested in Ronnie’s future? They weren’t making plans together, were they? “Why do you ask?”

“Only because my uncle was questioning me about him this morning. I couldn’t answer, since I really don’t know what Ronnie’s ambitions are—”

That was a good deal less troubling, though talk of Ronnie’s ambitions did leave him feeling defensive about his guardianship. “Let me worry about Ronnie’s future. I’d like to see him go into the diplomatic service, though he’ll have to start applying himself at Oxford before that can happen.”

“But you have talked with him about what he wants, haven’t you? And when you talk with him, you do
listen
, not just tell him what you expect—”

“Caro.” He knew she meant well, but the conversation reminded him too much of all the wrangling he’d done with his stepmother when he’d tried to discharge his duties as Ronnie’s guardian and she’d opposed him at every turn. “I only want what’s best for my brother.”

“Best in what way? Are you talking about what will make you proud, or what will make him happy?”

Aware of her father dozing only a few feet away, he was careful to hang on to his patience and keep his voice low. “Why should those two things have to differ?”

It appeared she was struggling for patience too, for she breathed a sigh before continuing. “Will you do me a favor, John? Will you ask Ronnie whether he wants to go into the diplomatic service? Whatever you may think is best for him, you should at least find out how he feels about it, and whether he might have other ambitions.” She met his gaze, and he was struck anew by the vivid blue of her eyes. “Please?”

What harm would it do to agree? As much as he disliked the implication that he hadn’t given Ronnie’s wishes sufficient consideration, he was no tyrant, determined to force his brother into the wrong career. He simply wanted Ronnie to make something of himself. “Very well. I’ll ask him.”

She smiled. “Thank you.” To his surprise, she leaned in and kissed his cheek.

He glanced over in her father’s direction, wondering if perhaps the bishop was awake now and he simply hadn’t noticed. But, no—her father’s eyes were still closed. It was a real kiss, not just for show.

A kiss on the cheek wasn’t necessarily romantic. She’d kissed her father on the cheek when they’d arrived. But it was affection—genuine affection—and that was such a huge leap forward that John took her hand and blurted “Thank
you
” in return, too astonished to think what he was saying.

* * *

As Caro undressed for bed that night, there was no mention of ringing for Sophia’s abigail or of John’s keeping his back turned. She didn’t ask, and he didn’t suggest it.

“Today was another good day, and you’re doing splendidly,” Caro remarked as she took off her petticoat. “I hope being plunged headlong into my family hasn’t been too trying for you.”

“Not at all. I enjoyed meeting Mr. and Mrs. Edge yesterday, and you know how I feel about your father. As for your aunt and uncle, they’ve made me feel quite at home.” He pulled a wry face. “Though parts of today’s trip into Kegworth were a bit uncomfortable. For such a young girl, your cousin can be shockingly forward.”

“‘Such a young girl’? Sophia is older than I was when you asked me to marry you.”

“Is she?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “I suppose that’s true...” He studied Caro, his dark eyes speculative.

She sat down on the bed. “What is it?” she asked when he went on regarding her steadily. “You’re looking at me as if you’ve never seen me before.”

“I’m not sure I have, really and truly,” he replied, leaving her even more puzzled. “Caro, tell me something. On our wedding night, why did you let me consummate our marriage?”

Her smile abruptly vanished. Oh, God. Not their wedding night again.

“Why did you let me consummate our marriage?” he repeated when she didn’t answer. “I’d like to know why you went through with it if you were only planning to run away.”

“Because...” Moments ago she’d been quite happy about the way the day had gone, and now he was making her feel like a child all over again, foolish and unsure of herself. “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Do we have to talk about this now?”

“Can you think of a better time?”

She couldn’t, not when so little about that night made sense. Perhaps the best possible time to talk about such a thing was on a night in her uncle’s house, when the family in the rooms nearby made it necessary for Welford to keep his voice down. “Then the answer is I don’t know. After the ceremony I couldn’t make up my mind what to do, stay with you or run away to Lawrence. I wanted to be with him—I was convinced I was in love with him—but I’d married you and I knew that was no trifling matter.” She sighed. “And then there was the champagne.”

“The champagne?”

“I had a good deal that night, much more than I was used to drinking. Remember? You said it would help settle my nerves.”

He frowned. “So what does that mean, that you weren’t planning right from the start to run away?”

Should she tell the truth? It wasn’t going to make him think any better of her. Then again, it wasn’t as if he thought that highly of her to begin with. “Do you really imagine I had a plan that night? I’d never expected to go through with the wedding. Being alone with you seemed to come out of nowhere.” She looked down at her hands. “And then you started kissing me, and it was...exciting. I kept thinking,
I’ll stop him in a moment
,
before we go too far
. But between the wavering and the champagne and the kissing I never did.”

He was silent a moment, pondering this. “So you’re saying you enjoyed it.”

Her eyes flew up to meet his. “Of course I enjoyed it!”

“‘Of course’? I recall your saying something very different shortly before I left for Vienna.”

Oh, God. He remembered that, did he? She’d hoped he’d forgotten it long ago. “Whatever I may have said in anger later, I did enjoy it.”

He said nothing, only rubbed his jaw.

“But then afterward you fell asleep,” she went on, “and it wasn’t long before I went from being tipsy and swooning with pleasure to feeling guilty and a little sick. I kept asking myself,
How could I have done that with him?
And what was worse,
How could I have enjoyed it so much?
You seemed much older to me then, and I was in love with Lawrence—or at least, I thought I was. I was sure I belonged with him. I was so confused, I couldn’t sort out my feelings. I think that’s why I ran away.”

“You
think
?”

“I mean, as near as I can remember.” She couldn’t meet his eye. “As I said, I wasn’t used to drinking that much champagne.”

He breathed an unsatisfied sigh. “This is the first time you’ve mentioned being ‘confused.’”

Her mouth fell open. “What? You know I told you as much that very night. When you found me at the inn, I did my best to explain myself. You simply wouldn’t listen.”

“You did try to explain yourself,” he said evenly, “but as I recall, you offered up three different explanations in the brief span between my finding you at The King’s Head and our reaching Halewick. First you told me you and your militia officer were secretly engaged—as good as married in your eyes, you said—and he’d pledged to elope with you.”

“Which was almost true,” Caro said, wondering how she could have been such a perfect idiot about Lieutenant Howe. “I suggested it to him, before you proposed, only he wrote me a painfully cold letter saying he wasn’t in the habit of abducting bishops’ daughters.”

“The letter you were reading on the day I proposed?” At her nod, his mouth curved down in a wry expression. “Well, at least someone managed to show some sense back then.”

She could only stare at the floor, all too aware of her own mistakes. Lawrence’s letter had been the last word of any kind she’d had from him. She’d heard just the past spring that he’d married a brewer’s daughter and was living in Dorset.

“Your second explanation,” John continued, a peculiar note in his voice, “was that you didn’t know why you’d run away, but you were sick and I was being a perfect brute. You offered that one up with a good deal of sobbing, most of which I took to be crocodile’s tears.”

“But that explanation was the truth! It was all the champagne I’d drunk—well, that, and that I’d known you such a short time and our wedding came about so quickly, I could hardly credit we were really husband and wife. But you refused to believe me.”