Trust Me (33 page)

Of course, Rebecca
had not been inside Lloyd House before. Never had she ever been more aware of
the differences in their social station. The interior looked like a museum she
had once visited. The walls gleamed with brass and silver gilt and she didn’t
dare chance a guess at how expensive the different vases and framed artwork
might be.

Jon’s townhouse on
St. James’, with its walnut and dark-green painted surfaces hadn’t been
anywhere near this opulent. It had been easier to imagine that he was still
just an officer in the Dragoons. Of course, she had seen him most often at the
house he had given her.

If only she could
have seen Lloyd House before, she would have known this world would eventually
claim him and take him away from her. This was the kind of ancestral claim,
with its deep-seated aristocratic power, that would not, could not ever be
denied.

Even by a man who had
once been determined to deny it.

She sat on the edge
of the ornate wingchair, staring into the flames glowing in the large hearth of
the chamber where the impassive faced footman had led her. From the looks of
it, this was Jon’s study.

She had been waiting
like this for what seemed forever, and now her back had begun to ache. She
arched and pressed her hands into the small of her back until a slight crack
sounded. Then she folded her hands in her lap again.

The doorknob turned
and her heart jumped into her throat. She sat up as straight and true as she
could make herself. As the door came open, firelight gleamed on pale ash blond
hair.

Jon himself.

She stood and her
heart hammered against her ribs.

With her eyes, she
feasted on his familiar face and her body was instantly, painfully aware of his
powerful form. He was the most masculine man she’d ever met and that virile
power never failed to touch her. To comfort her.

In past times,
meeting him alone, it would have been customary for her to approach him and
kneel at his feet.

If he were any other
earl, she should bend in a curtsy. But it would be silly to bend her knee to
Jon, a man she knew despised all the ceremony that came with his title.

So she stood there,
uncertain as he entered and closed the door.

He was clad in his
waistcoat and shirtsleeves. His hair was limp across his brow, as though he’d
been sweating a good amount. But the night was cold outside.

“Good evening,
Rebecca.”

His deep voice
sounded distant. Tired. He motioned to the wingchair. “Please sit.”

He walked to the desk
and collapsed into the large chair behind it. “Toby tells me that you’re here
regarding a matter of health and safety.”

She settled herself
on the edge of the chair and nodded.

“That sounds quite
serious.”

“It’s about your—”
Her tongue froze, unable to form the words ‘your wife’. She took a deep breath.
“It is about Lady Ruel.”

He had taken a bottle
and glass from his desk. Now he paused in the act of uncorking the bottle. “My
wife?”

“Yes, Maria, she—”

“Oh.” A half-smirk crossed
his face, a chilling mask of self-contempt as only Jon could make. “Maria
already showed her cards tonight.”

Her heart made a
slight squeezing sensation in her chest. “What happened?”

“Do you know that my
wife witnessed her first husband’s death?”

“Maria told me.”
Rebecca swallowed. “All.”

“Yes, well, she
struck at Anne tonight with the deepest, most guilt-provoking accusations she
could possibly muster.”

“And your wife…?”

“I managed to calm
her enough that she was able to exit the lobby with some dignity. But the
carriage ride home was—” He fell silent.

Memories of Donald’s
frequent fits of terror arose in Rebecca’s mind.

 
Jon poured a glass of whisky. He took a
liberal gulp and then looked up at her. “Would you care for some?”

“Yes, I think I would.”

He made a circular
motion with his hand that indicated that she should scoot her chair close to
the desk. She did so, feeling a shade less nervous.

He pushed the glass
of amber liquid across the glossy surface of that enormous desk. She took it
and drank half the contents in one long gulp. The liquor burned all the way
down and she closed her eyes, savouring the sensation.

It reminded her of
that first time. The wind howling in her ears and biting through her pelisse
and dress, as she went about hanging the endless array of soggy men’s underwear
and breeches. Snowflakes melting on her nose, and her hands so stiff from the
cold that they had become nearly useless, making her work nothing short of
agonising.

Captain Lloyd, as she
had known him then, had invited her to come inside his quarters. He had been
only twenty at the time, but his fierce, at times caustic demeanour had
intimidated the devil out of her. But how could she refuse her husband’s
commanding officer?

 
Once inside, Jon had offered her a glass of
Scotch whisky. What a change it had been for her compared to the cheap beer
that had been camp fair for herself and her husband.

The other men had
viewed Donald’s emotional decline after his wound with contempt. Jon had
approached it with a sense of practicality and compassion that had softened her
heart to him.

Despite the
differences in their respective social stations, Jon had become her friend. And
then her lover.

She studied the play
of firelight on his fair hair. God help her, she loved him so much. Part of her
still believed she need only arise from her chair and go to him and kneel at
his feet, and all would be the same as before.

Then this endless
ache would ease and she could know peace again.

“Shall I refill
that?”

 
She startled out of her thoughts. He was
touching her glass, already filling it. He knew she could hold a lot of liquor.

She wasn’t a
fine-born lady.

They drank in silence
for a time.

“I’d thought she was
better,” he said at length.

She could tell by the
guarded way he spoke, the way he wouldn’t quite look at her, that he believed
speaking of his wife like this, with his former mistress, was perhaps a
betrayal of trust. And yet he longed to speak of it. She could hear it in his
voice.

“It was likely
preying heavily on her mind long before this. They always want to seem in
control. The worse they are inside, the more they want to seem in control to
the outside world,” she said.

“I thought she was
healing.” He stood and she watched as he walked to the hearth and knelt before it.
He took the poker and began jabbing at the logs.

She’d seen him do
this before— what a hundred times? Hundreds? When he’d been frustrated by some
senseless order he couldn’t ignore. When a man under his command had died.

And yet, despite the
familiarity of the sight of him kneeling before the hearth, her heart
contracted, for his pain had always been her pain. She’d do anything to give
him ease, to help him.

But what could she do
now? He’d selected an unbalanced woman for his bride. If Lady Ruel proved too
fragile for childbearing then nothing could be done.

He would be trapped
in a miserable marriage.

Childless.

He tossed the stones
in front of the hearth. The resounding clang made her jump. He returned to his
desk and poured another whisky then sat there, staring at the full glass. He
put his elbows on the desk then covered his face with his hands.

Rebecca gaped at him.
Never, ever has she seen him like this.

A knock sounded at
the door. Without thinking, she arose to answer it. Jon raised his head and motioned
for her to stay where she was.

“Yes?” he said in a
loud, sharp tone.

“Lady Ruel is asking
for you, my lord.” Toby’s voice sounded a bit strained.

“Tell her I shall be
there immediately.” He arose and walked to the door. Then he paused with his
hand on the knob. “Thank you, for the warning.”

Rebecca smiled wanly.
“Even though it was too late?”

“Yes, too late. But
thank you in any case.”

****

“She still sees the
accident.”

At the sound of Jon’s
voice, Anne tried to open her eyes. A thumping sounded. She cried out and threw
her hands over her face.

She didn’t want to
see the hoof, crashing through the carriage wall.

“Oh, Jonny…” The
dowager’s voice dripped with sympathy. “She may very well be mad.”

“She is not mad.”

“Then how do you
explain this?”

“It is a lapse.”

“It is not a lapse.”

Anne lowered her
hands and opened one eye. A little ways.

Light pierced her
eye. The crack in the carriage wall.

Water trickled
down, fascinating her.

She couldn’t look
away.

“I wish I knew what to
do for her.” The raw pain in Jon’s voice pulled her back into the moment. She
reached her hands out, claw-like, and clung to the coverlet as though to keep
herself from being dragged under, back into the past.
Yes, focus on the
moment, that’s the only thing that is real.

“Well, you should not
have sent Dr Smith away.”

“He’s lucky I didn’t
knock him to the street on his bony arse. The charlatan doesn’t know how to
practice medicine.”

“He was just trying
to help her. The humours must be drawn out.”

“She’s not mad and no
one is going to torture her.”

“Don’t be a fool!
Don’t deny what is happening. If she’s truly mad, she cannot be the mother to
your heir. She cannot be a real wife to you.”

“A real wife? What
the devil is that?”

“I mean that she
cannot… cannot serve your needs. You will have to put her aside—”

“Good Lord,
Grandmother. She’s my wife not my whore.”

“You needn’t be so
crude with me, my boy! I am simply trying to help you see that the best choice
may very well be a divorce.”

“No.” Jon’s voice was
absolute.

“But Jonny—”

“I’ll never divorce
her.”

Crack!

The line of bright
light grew longer, wider—
Oh,
God!

Anne trembled and
sobbed.

“My lady.” Nellie’s
voice settled over her, soft as a feather. Cool wetness swept over her
forehead.

“Nellie…” Anne gasped
the name. “Don’t let it take me. Don’t let it. Don’t…”

“Shh, my lady.” The
cool wetness came again.

The horse gave a
high-pitched scream. A chill raced over her scalp and down her spine.

Anne moaned and
twisted in the bed. “William, William… where are you?”

“I’ve been too hard
on her.” Jon’s voice resonated with pain.

Anne caught her
breath. Yes, correct. William was dead and buried. He was at peace, nothing
could hurt him now. She must focus on that which was true. That was the only
way to keep her sanity.

“I pushed her too
hard. She just needs rest.”

He sounded so
confident.

She believed him.
Yes, she just needed rest.

Relief washed over
her and she sank back under the covers, releasing her claw-like grip upon the
coverlet.

“You love this chit. I
did not realize it.”

“No matter how I felt
about her, I would never subject a woman to the sort of life open to a divorced
noblewoman. What kind of monster do you imagine me to be?”

“You pick very odd
times to be idealistic. I am talking about the survival of the earldom. Of the
Lloyd bloodline. If you don’t sire an heir, this estate reverts to the crown.”

“Then so be it. I
will never divorce her.”

Pain lashed into
Anne’s heart. Oh, she did not want to be the cause of Jon dying without issue.
She tried to focus on the present, to come awake. She must fight for her
sanity.

But she was so weak.
It was too hard… Her eyes drifted closed.

Something whooshed
by Anne’s cheek, so close, she sensed the radiant heat.

A hollow knocking
sound echoed with sickening effect.

Wet warmth
splashed her face.

She screamed.

And
screamed and screamed.

****

Jon took a gasping
breath and tried to swallow bitterness in his throat. He took another breath.