White Lace and Promises (22 page)

“But the French don’t impress our seamen!” Noble said.

Grey arched a brow. “Don’t they?”

“But they are our allies.”

Grey drew on his cigar. “Perhaps they’ve only borrowed them, then.”

On his way to retrieve the chamber pot from the sideboard cabinet, Watson chuckled deeply.

“All right, all right, so you’ve both made clear, once again, how foolish you think I am.”

“We’re just stressing how much you need to learn about maritime commerce. They don’t teach everything you need to know at Harvard.” Passing by Noble, Watson ruffled his wavy, chestnut-red hair. “Put that brilliant mind to better use—look around you and open your ears to something other than political speeches.”

Grey chuckled softly, venting all his cynical vexation at the whole situation. He’d given out tens of thousands of his own money to help buttress the flagging national navy. But who knew when further embargoes—or worse, blockades—would cut into any hopes of making profits. Three of his vessels were still out in the Pacific and the Orient. God only knew if they’d make it home safely—much less with their cargoes intact.

His fortunes—and those of all who depended on Sexton Shipping—seemed to rest on the privateering schooners manned by seasoned Salem mariners. But who knew what might happen in this war? It was enough to keep his guts tense and his nights restless.

He glanced up and saw that Aaron Noble had folded his arms over his chest and was scowling.

“Relax, Mr Noble, we were all once as green as you.” Grey crushed out his cigar. Then he pushed his chair back from the table and stood. “I fear I must bid you adieu, gentlemen.”

“You’re not leaving already?” Thomas asked.

“Ever since he got married, he’s been less and less accommodating,” Mark Hunter grumbled.

Their host, Mr Roberts, chuckled and stood. “It is just as well. I am sure Mrs Roberts wishes to find her bed as well.”

Grey followed his host into the parlour. Beth sat on a Federal-blue damask settee, a fetching foil for her ice-blue gown and silver-gilt hair. She put her hand to her mouth and stifled a yawn.

Mrs Roberts looked tired as well. Grey felt a twinge of guilt. Of course, if his wife hadn’t come with him, then the older woman wouldn’t have had to stay up and play hostess. And Beth would be home tucked in her own bed. He’d been selfish to bring her along.

“Will you play for us, Mrs Sexton?” Mark Hunter asked.

Beth looked up. Immediately, she straightened her slumped shoulders and smiled brightly at him. “Of course, Mr Hunter—you know how much I enjoy playing for you.”

Everyone adored Beth’s skill at the piano. Curious how such appreciation seemed to foster a feeling of entitlement. It sometimes angered Grey—like now. She was his wife. She was no longer a girl playing the piano for pay in a tea room, bound to provide solace for everyone’s sour soul.

Grey cleared his throat and glared at Hunter.

“What?” Hunter said, obviously aping an innocent expression.

“It’s late and time we were going,” Grey said firmly.

Beth shook her head. “Oh, I don’t mind. I should like very much to play.” Her smile widened, but her skin was pale and showed strain over her cheekbones.

His guilt increased. She’d never admit to being fatigued. In that way, she was a model wife. She rarely complained about anything. And she always played the piano for other people. But the five-octave grand piano he’d purchased for her remained silent in their parlour. Well, that wasn’t unexpected, was it? Life in his house had made her utterly unhappy.

* * * *

Rain pelted the carriage roof and thunder rolled in the distance as Beth studied Grey’s tired, too-taut-looking face. Purple shadows lingered beneath his eyes. He always looked like this now. The tension in his body seemed to fill the close space between them. Beth’s chest and belly tensed in response. Tonight had been yet another in a seemingly endless series of dinner parties. Grey’s attorney, a Boston-born man of humble origins, had hosted this one. His wife had been friendly and unpretentious—a refreshing change from the ladies who were icily polite to her.

“You seemed happy at supper,” Grey said.

Beth lifted one shoulder. “I suppose I was.”

“You have not been happy lately.” It was a statement, not a question.

“You are the one who seems unhappy.” The words slipped from her lips before she thought.

He exhaled, long and slow.

Her stomach knotted. Why had she said that? She only made matters worse when she complained. They rode in silence for a long time. They had been wed only three and half months, yet she was so weary.

And lonely.

Thunder rumbled again, breaking the silence. Lightning flashed in the windows, illuminating the angular planes of his handsome face.

“May I come and visit your bed tonight?” he asked, his voice stiff.

Her heart slid into her throat. This was how it had become between them. But how else could it possibly be? Of late, she only saw him across a dining table or above her in the dark. Or, of course, here in the carriage.

Relations were always most tense in the carriage. There was nothing to distract from the aching chasm between them.

In the weeks after their wedding, he had withdrawn more and more, especially after they had arrived here in New York. His actions spoke more than words of his unhappiness with her. Had it been the wedding night—the disillusionment he must have felt to discover the darkest depths of her sensual nature?

She’d tried to please him. Tried to repair the damage done. Tried to conform and be a lady and act with refinement at all times. But it wasn’t helping, and the more he withdrew, the more frantic she became to show him how well she could conform to his world.

“If it is inconvenient, I understand,” he said in the same polite tones he’d used to thank their hostess for an enjoyable evening.

“No, it is not inconvenient. I shall welcome you.” She cringed at the stiffness of her own reply.

“Very good, then,” he said.

The carriage slowed. She glanced out of the window. They had reached Broadway. The four-storey, slate-roofed, red brick Federal-style mansion loomed before her. With its high stoop, recessed front door and discreet trim, it was so like the surrounding houses that it might have belonged to anyone and not the wealthy and powerful Mr Asahel Sexton.

Mr Sexton and his lovely, accomplished, painfully proper wife. She blew out her breath.

Hell’s bells.

She must be leading the most useless life in the world.

For a while—over Miss Fairchild’s scandalised objection that ladies of her new station did not work—Beth had kept busy readying the building Grey had purchased for her music school, interviewing teachers to help her and considering the applications of those girls who showed enough promise and talent to benefit from the charity school. It had given her a great sense of accomplishment.

But then Mrs Hazelwood’s sister, Mrs Clark—Nellie as she insisted on being called—had added her voice to Miss Fairchild’s. She had informed Beth that proper New York society ladies did not do active work. Not even charity work. It was fine and good for Grey to fund the school in his wife’s name and for Beth to throw a few benefit balls and assemblies but she must leave the daily work to a manager.

Then, finally, a letter from Mrs Hazelwood had arrived, a polite and gentle scolding. A reminder of all she had said about men on the evening of Beth’s wedding day.

I wanted another life for you but you picked this life for yourself, Elizabeth. You have made your bed. You must lie upon it with dignity and not shame your husband.

Mrs Hazelwood’s closing lines—how they had scalded their way into her heart.

She had eschewed being a lady for years and it had affected only her. But now her behaviour affected so much. She wanted to be a lady. Grey’s lady—a woman fit to be his wife. She didn’t want to lose his affection and his esteem. He had such faith in her ability to adapt. She never wanted to shame her husband. She never wanted to give him cause to think less of her.

However, she might not have believed it even mattered to Grey.

Except that his withdrawal had begun as soon as she started work at the school and seemed to escalate as she grew more and more involved.

It appeared that Mrs Hazelwood knew what she was talking about. Part of growing up and not being a girl was leaving behind senseless rebellion and listening to the wisdom of those who were older.

Reluctantly, Beth had hired a manager for the school and retired to genteel idleness and boredom. How she envied Grey his early morning rides and his meetings with associates spent fencing at his club. At least he could
do
something.

All she might do was take a sedate promenade along Broadway from Bowling Green to the Park. And she must be dressed in her finest to do so.

But she was determined to conform.

How long did it take a gentleman to forget that his wife had tarnished her halo? The carriage door came open. Her heart lay like lead in her chest as she allowed Grey to help her out of the carriage and she followed him up to his mansion. To the house that had become her prison. A self-imposed prison, but a prison nonetheless.

* * * *

Beth lay in her large, mahogany framed bed, which was hung with dark blue velvet, listening to the clock tick and wondering if Grey was really coming. He kept his own bedchamber, something that had surprised and distressed her upon learning of it. It still distressed her. More often than not, he chose to retire there without coming to wish her a good night, even on some nights when he’d requested a visit to her.

The clock chimed one in the morning.

Was he coming tonight?

She lay in the darkness and time crawled by.

Finally, her door opened and candlelight illuminated the dark chamber.

 
Grey set the candle on her night table, removed his banyan, then slipped naked into bed beside her. In the candle’s light, his face was drawn, tired. He pinched the flame out.

“Are you awake, Beth?”

The question was needless, for surely he’d noticed her watching him. But he always asked, as if giving her the opportunity to pretend sleep.

“I am awake.” She never pretended sleep. It would be too much like lying.

Otherwise, there was no talking. His face was smooth, slight moisture clung to his skin and his citrus and spice shaving soap filled her senses as he put his lips to hers. His kisses tonight were as they always were lately—somehow cold, distant. He touched her quim, parting the plump outer lips to caress the moist inner folds. Under his skilful touch, she grew wet. He groaned softly and pulled her legs further apart. She didn’t assist or resist, merely watched his shadow in the dark as he mounted her. The hair on his body brushed her, tickling her. His cock touched her entrance and he pushed into her.

She flinched at the sudden fullness and expansion. His lips touched her cheek, then he began to piston. She felt disconnected from him and from herself, unable to climb to the heights. She recognised his quickening strokes, the tremors in his body. It would soon be over.

He caught his breath and the hot tide of his seed surged into her, the only part of the act that contained any heat or passion. She was glad of it. She’d dearly like to be pregnant. A child would fill some of the emptiness of her life. He also wanted a child—correction, he wanted a daughter. He never referred to their possible child as anything else. It was probably the only reason he still visited her chamber at all.

He kissed her forehead and murmured something, then rolled away from her. A moment later, she heard his soft snoring. She wanted to cry but felt too cold to do so. The tears remained a hard lump in her throat.

* * * *

Grey sat in his office, drawing on a cigar, the newspaper forgotten on his desk. Images from the night before kept intruding on his peace of mind. Beth beneath him, still as a stone.

Was it fair for him to say he missed the girl he had once known? That he often watched the subdued, unhappy young woman living in his house and wondered what the devil had happened?

He couldn’t fault her behaviour otherwise. She was a model of feminine deportment. She seemed to know instinctively when to be formal and pleasantly remote and when to be warm and personal. She made sparkling small talk and never veered into politics or other less than feminine topics. He’d expected her to have trouble adjusting to society but she was doing beautifully.

For the first weeks, he’d known the smug happiness of a man married to a beautiful, proper and pleasing lady who played the wanton in private. He certainly had not expected Beth, of all women, to turn cold in bed. Ah, damn. Maybe all wives were like this. Juliana had been warm and curious before their wedding. Warm and curious enough to get them both into serious, irrevocable trouble. But after their wedding… Well, then things had certainly changed.

He’d been nineteen and hungry for his wife’s admiration, for the warm comfort of her body. And Juliana had lain beside him in their bed in the city and cried to return to her father’s country house. Cried for her father even though she was twenty-six years old. She’d grown colder and colder towards him and barred her chamber door. Eventually, she’d taken their son and left for her father’s house and never returned.