Dawn in My Heart (14 page)

 

Tertius entered his bedroom. He was used to the superstitious practices of the Indies, but he knew it had no power over a European.

It was true he had begun to tire of his six-year relationship with the Creole woman, Angelique, and was almost relieved when his father's summons came. It served as a convenient way to end things with his mistress.

Why or when his restlessness with Angelique had begun he didn't exactly know. She was the perfect mistress. A widow, wealthy in her own right, old enough to lead an independent life and know how to please a man, why had Tertius begun to feel constricted—almost oppressed—in his last year or so in Jamaica?

Angelique was beautiful, intelligent, a renowned hostess, and an independent woman successfully running a plantation of her own.

Why had he felt she had encroached into every area of his life, from becoming his hostess to probing into his business affairs?

Tertius prowled his room. As he'd told Nigel, Angelique
had taken the news of his departure with amazingly good grace. Better than he'd expected after their longstanding relationship. She'd even hosted a large farewell party for him.

Tertius brushed aside Nigel's ghoulish warnings. He had more important things on his agenda tonight. How to please one surely nervous and uncertain young maiden.

Despite his mocking tone to Nigel, Tertius felt queerly hesitant tonight of all nights. He didn't understand exactly why. Did it make so much difference that this was to be the first time he would make love to a woman—his wife—in a joining sanctioned by God? Did a wedding ceremony make so much difference? He twisted the new wedding band around his finger. The matching band was now around a small, slim finger of a young woman sitting in the next room. He glanced toward the connecting door. His life was no longer independent after this night. It would be shared with another body and mind.

With this ring I thee wed…
He remembered the vows he'd taken today.
With this body I thee worship…

As he knocked on the door to his bride's chamber, he found that he very much wanted to please his new wife tonight. He wanted to start their marriage off on the right note. He felt, despite their not having known each other more than a few weeks, there was hope for a solid partnership between the two of them.

“Come in,” he heard her voice say.

Taking a deep breath to still his own sudden nerves, he opened the door.

 

The room was softly lit. A quick glance told him her maid had gone. They were alone.

He entered silently, closing the door behind him.

“Hello, Gillian,” he said.

She stood in the center of the room, her dark hair cascading down her shoulders, the shorter curls framing her face.

He drew in his breath. She wore a beautiful ivory silken gown and robe, both edged in a wide swath of lace.

He approached her, almost afraid of her fragility. Would she bolt as soon as he touched her?

His father had certainly chosen well, he had to concede. His bride was beautiful. He reached out his hand and brushed the back of it across her pale cheek. Although she didn't move, he sensed her stiffen. Were all brides this scared, he wondered? He hadn't ever thought much about this night, assuming everything would go naturally. But now he realized he was facing an entirely different element than he'd ever faced. This was an innocent young lady, brought up to know nothing about the facts of life, a woman unlike the countless women he'd known, as a young man about town in London and later as a wealthy planter in the tropics.

He drew out a breath, feeling a sudden compassion—a most unexpected sentiment to be experiencing on his wedding night. He felt an urge to protect this delicate young creature put into his care, to reassure her that everything was going to be all right. He valued her purity and innocence. That was the main reason he had agreed to this marriage, wasn't it? He wanted a woman whose moral integrity he could trust to be the one to bear his children and carry his name.

He watched her convulsive swallow and decided to lead her over to a settee, ignoring the wide bed that seemed to call too much attention to itself all of a sudden.

“It was a tiring day for you, was it not?” he asked gently, rubbing his thumb over her cold hand.

She licked her lips and nodded. He realized then how she was experiencing more than maidenly nerves. She was absolutely terrified. He was going to have to be very patient.

“We'll leave sometime tomorrow on our honeymoon trip,” he told her. “The carriage is all ready. It's a short drive to Bishop's Green. I think you'll like the estate. I grew up there. Parts of it are quite ancient, though many wings have been added over the centuries….” He began to describe his family seat.

As he spoke, he eased back against the sofa and told himself the evening was young.

 

Tertius drew himself away from Gillian. He was silent a few seconds, staring at his bride in disbelief, his mind rebelling at the evidence his body confronted. His wife's eyes were shut, her head averted as if she found him and the whole act she'd just submitted to distasteful or—or—His disquiet grew as he considered the possibility that her reluctance came not from maidenly fear but fear of discovery.

“They've sold me used goods.” His words, considering the chaos in his mind, came out sounding calm.

Her eyes flew open, and the two stared at each other.

“You've done this before.” As her head immediately began to shake mutely back and forth against the pillow, he repeated, “You're no shy, innocent virgin.”

Before she had a chance to utter a denial, he pushed himself off her in one swift movement and stood, his nightshirt falling into place. When she said nothing, but pulled the bed covers up to her neck, his calm demeanor collapsed.

“Answer me!”

Her eyes only grew wider, her denials more vehement. That only increased his anger. “All that time you made me think you were nervous out of ignorance. You knew all along what was coming, didn't you?”

He eyed her in disgust. She was sitting up, her knees drawn up under the covers, her eyes round circles of fear. If she had been terrified before, she didn't know what fear was. He leaned over her and grabbed her, dragging her off the bed, her feet stumbling under her.

She whimpered, “Don't hurt me! Please, don't hurt me! Please!” She struggled against him, her nightdress tripping her.

He shook her by the arms, determined to get at the truth. Her head flipped back and forth like a rag doll's as she cried out her denials.

“Who was it?” he demanded, feeling his own face aflame with rage at the thought of being made a fool of. “How many have there been before me? Answer me!” He swore at her, but she only cried out for him to stop, that she didn't know what he was talking about.

“What an act you put on, pretending such prudery with me! You didn't even like me to hold your hand, did you? What a fool I've been.”

“No, that isn't true! I swear! I don't know what you're talking about!” she sobbed.

“You didn't want to receive a kiss of mine, while all along you've been making free with your favors! Have you had all the young bucks that cluster around you? That pimply faced Cubby?” He gave a bitter laugh. “And here I thought you were scared of a real man, that you had to surround yourself with those effeminate dandies—”

“Please let me go. I don't know what you mean. You're frightening me,” she cried, trying to pull away from him.

He pushed her away from him, realizing in that instant how close he was to hitting her, and he'd never hit a woman in his life. She collapsed against the bed but he felt no pity.

She'd made a complete fool of him. She and her mother and doubtless his own father, too.

Oh, this was rich. There had been a whole conspiracy waiting for him as soon as he'd stepped off the ship and he'd fallen for it, utterly and completely.

He experienced raw, blinding fury in that moment. The more he looked at his wife's huddled body on the edge of the bed, the more he heard her pathetic weeping, the more he simply wanted to put his hands around her pale, slim neck—a neck he'd found so attractive only moments before—and throttle it. Press it until he squeezed all the life from it.

He had to do something. Without thinking he grabbed the first thing in his vision—a chair—and threw it against her dressing table. All the crystal bottles went flying off. He heard Gillian's scream like a distant noise in the background, hardly making an impression past the thundering in his head.

He took another item—a stool this time—and flung it across the room. Whatever item of furniture he came across, he picked it up and threw it away from him, until he came to a large wardrobe, which stood immovable. He banged his own head against it in futile rage, beginning to feel hot, angry tears squeeze through his eyelids.

No! He wouldn't give in to them.

A knock sounded on the bedroom door. “Is everything
all right?” came Nigel's muffled voice through the connecting door.

“Leave us!” he shouted.

His rage momentarily dissipated—but by no means spent—he turned back to Gillian. Her hands covered her mouth and she drew away from him in absolute terror as he advanced.

“Never fear, I have no desire to touch you ever again.” He felt his power as he stood over her. A power that was meaningless in light of what she had done to him.

“What I want is the truth. If you don't wish me to throw you out into the streets tonight with nothing but your night rail, you'd better tell me how many men you've bedded in your
three full seasons
. How many were there? Who arranged things? Your mother? Was she your procuress?”

He could feel the anger rising in him again at the thought. “You and she planned this, didn't you? Holding out until the two of you snagged a title, didn't you? You harlot!”

She shook her head, the tears falling silently down her cheeks. The sight only made him want to strangle her anew, to snuff that scared look off her face.

“No one,” she kept crying out. “There's been no one!”

He took her arm and made her stand again. “Then you shall force me to escort you outside. I won't have a molly under my roof, taking my family name, sleeping in my mother's bed!” The last thought brought such revulsion, he stopped in midstride.

“No!” she screamed in terror. “Don't, please don't throw me outside! I have nowhere to go.” Her cries were pitiful but he remained unmoved, sickened by the thought of whom he had brought to his mother's marriage bed.

“Then tell me who has enjoyed what was to have been my sole privilege.” His voice was icily glacial now. He meant to have the full truth, if he had to drag her through the streets of Mayfair back to her mother's house.

“I—no one—”

He took her closer to the door.

“No, please,” she implored him. When he opened the door, she stopped him with her hand.

“I'll tell you,” she whispered at last. Her dark hair was plastered against her wet cheeks, but her vulnerability only disgusted him now. What he had found fragile beauty at the beginning of the evening he looked at as tawdry, soiled goods now.

“I'm waiting.”

She closed her eyes. “It was only one man. Only once…” she whispered.

The tears slipped down her cheeks. Suddenly he let her go, unable to bear the touch of her anymore.

He realized a part of him had wished he had been mistaken. But the evidence hadn't lied. He had been sold used goods.

He left her then, unfeeling to her sobs.

“What are you going to do?”

Her scared cries reached him as he shut the door between them.

T
ertius entered his own silent bedroom, his bed neat and made.

His thoughts revolved around and around his brief courtship, trying to find clues but coming up empty. Everything he'd seen of Gillian had bespoken innocence and purity and ignorance of the world, all the qualities he'd desired in a wife.

He walked over to a decanter of brandy and poured himself a drink, watching his trembling hand in disgust. He couldn't even drink—it would upset his stomach.

Nevertheless, he downed the fiery liquid, needing something to calm his inner rage.

What a colossal fool she had made of him.

He had to think.

What was he going to do?

He refused to live under the same roof with that woman in the room next to his.

Divorce.

As soon as his mind had formed the word, he revolted from its ugliness. Divorce was only sought in the most extreme cases of flagrant adultery. It brought nothing but scandal and disgrace in its wake. He wouldn't dishonor his family name or title in such a fashion. He thought of the family motto:
domat omnia virtus
—virtue conquers everything.

He poured himself another tumbler of brandy.

It was enough the private shame his wife had brought him. He wouldn't let her do further damage to his name.

That left only separation for him and his wife.

He wasn't going to let her stay in London, that was certain. If she hadn't remained chaste as a girl, she certainly wouldn't scruple to cuckold him as his wife.

So, banishment. But where?

All their trunks were loaded onto the chaise-and-four for departure in the morning. He glanced toward the windows. It would soon be light. He had to come to a decision before then. He wouldn't let her remain under this roof one more night, defiling his mother's bed.

They were going to set out for Hertfordshire, but his mind balked at letting her go to his family seat. No, he would banish her to a remote estate. He thought of their many properties and came at last to the most isolated.

Yes, the one in Yorkshire. He would have her sent there. If he never had to see her traitorous little face again, it would be too soon.

He sat down and penned a letter, and then as dawn was arriving, he went to Nigel's room.

The man was instantly awake at his touch. He sat up in his narrow cot, eyeing Tertius with concern. “What is it? I heard such a ruckus before—”

“Never mind that. I want you to unload my trunk from the coach this morning. Then give this letter to Lady Gillian—” he wouldn't call her by his name anymore “—and instruct the coachman that he is to take her to our farther estate in the West Riding. Penuel Hall in Spaldgate beyond Leeds. Her maid will accompany her.” He thought of something. “Wait—no, not her maid. Get someone who doesn't know her.” He thought of the various housemaids. “Tell that girl, Katie, she's to be her new lady's maid.”

“But, my lord, what about you?”

“I shan't be accompanying her. Inform me when she has left. Then you and I shall set out on the horses. I'm not sure where we'll be headed or for how long. Do you have that?”

The man nodded, his look clearly wanting to ask more.

“Good. I'm going to catch a few hours' sleep and then we'll leave.” He turned away from Nigel and headed out.

“My lord—”

“Don't.” He held up a hand, staving off any questions. “This is between my—between Lady Gillian and myself.” He left the man's room and returned to his bedroom.

Once there, he measured out some drops of laudanum into a glass, knowing he must get some sleep if he was to be in any shape for a hard ride later in the morning.

 

Gillian only managed to make it back to the bed after Tertius left her room. She sat there for she didn't know how long, her mind and body numb.

How had he detected her secret? Despite all her efforts,
he had known. She brought her hand up to her mouth, unwilling to recall those moments. Despair engulfed her.

She didn't know what she was going to do—or what he was going to do to her. She only knew she wanted to die.

If there were something she could drink at that moment to end her life, she would do so. If she could fall into a sleep never to awaken, she would do so.

But there was nothing within her reach.

She stared at the rubble in her room. She daren't walk near her dressing table for fear of cutting her feet on the broken glass.

How could she have ever thought Lord Skylar a cool, reserved man? The man was a monster. She truly believed he would have killed her. She didn't know what had stopped him, but he had been like a wild beast. She'd never seen a man behave as he had. Her own father had never treated her mother so.

At the thought of her father, feeling began to flow back into her, and tears welled up and spilled from her eyes once again.

Oh, Papa, Papa, where was he when she most needed him?

Suddenly she felt the need to wash herself, to rid herself of every vestige of tonight's shame. She crossed to her pitcher of water. Unmindful of how cold it was, she scrubbed and scrubbed herself, her tears mixing with the water.

She didn't think she'd ever feel clean again.

 

Early the next morning, she was awakened after a too-short, too-light sleep by sounds in her room. She started up, frightened that Lord Skylar had returned. But it was
only a maid, bending over, clearing up the mess by her dressing table.

“Good morning, miss. I didn't mean to wake you.”

“Who are you?” she asked groggily, her eyes barely able to open, her head pounding. “Where's Martha?”

“I'm Katie.” She stood and bobbed a curtsy. “Beggin' your pardon, my lady, I'm to be your new maid.”

“What do you mean?” Gillian put a hand to her aching head, wondering if she were still asleep.

“I was told to pack my bags and be ready to travel north as soon as you were up and dressed. Would you like me to bring you something hot to drink?”

“You're…coming with us?” she faltered, still disoriented.

“I'm to accompany you.” The maid felt in her apron pocket. “If you please, my lady, I was to give you this. I'm sure it explains everything.”

Gillian took the sealed white notepaper suspiciously. What did it mean? She looked at the maid, who quickly bobbed another curtsy and stammered her excuses. “I'll be right back with a nice cup o' tea.”

When she'd gone, Gillian opened the letter.

Gillian fell back against the bed. So she was to be banished. What was to become of her? Once again, silent tears ran down her cheeks. How had all this happened in the space of an evening?

All she'd done was obey her mother and marry the man she'd picked out for her. Why was she to be punished for the rest of her life for one mistake made three years ago as an ignorant young girl?

After that she moved like an automaton, obediently drinking the cup of tea and eating the dry toast Katie brought her, allowing the maid to help her on with her traveling outfit.

It wasn't until she was on the sidewalk before the carriage that she remembered her pets.

She turned to Katie. “Sophie and the cats. Where are they?” Her voice rose on the last words.

“I don't know, my lady. I wasn't given any instructions concerning them.”

A sudden hysterical fear possessed her. Where was she going? What was to become of her? She was truly and utterly alone for the first time in her life. As that fact sank in, she knew a depth of fear that threatened to overwhelm her if she didn't get herself under control.

Taking several deep breaths to tamp down the tremors beginning to possess her limbs, she caught hold of her last remaining reserves of self-possession.

Then she drew herself up and addressed the maid in her most imperious tone. “I'm giving you instructions now. Go and see my pets brought to my traveling coach with enough provisions for the journey. I shall not board this carriage until they are with me.”

The young maid looked alarmed for a moment. Then as if taking a decision, she merely bobbed her head once more and left to locate Gillian's two cats and one dog.

 

A fortnight later, Tertius returned from one of his country estates to London.

That night he dressed for the theater. After a light dinner—he had little appetite these days—he headed out. He gave instructions for his coachman to take him to Drury Lane. When he arrived, he glanced with indifference at the playbill. A tragedy with Kean to begin with then a farce as the second show. He scanned the names of the actors.

Good. Miss Laurette Spencer was in the farce.

The theater boxes were only half filled, most important families having left town since the royal visitors had left. The pit was filled with the usual rowdy crowd.

Tertius let himself be taken in by the dark drama. It suited
his mood perfectly. Kean's riveting performance reflected his own agony of mind.

During the intermission, Tertius gave an attendant a note with a coin, with instructions to deliver it backstage.

Before the end of the farce, he received his reply. Miss Spencer would see him in her dressing room immediately after the show.

Tertius hadn't heard from his friend Delaney lately and had no idea how things stood between him and the actress. He would soon find out. He knew it wasn't unusual for this type of woman to take more than one lover at a time.

When he knocked on her door—it seemed a lifetime since the last time he had stood there—once again he heard her voice bidding him to come in.

He closed the door softly behind him. There she sat as the last time at her dressing table. She hadn't yet removed her costume, a boy's outfit this time, revealing the outline of her shapely legs.

She swiveled around to greet him. “Good evening, my lord. To what do I owe this visit?”

He entered further into the small room and indicated the settee Delaney had occupied last time. “May I?”

“By all means. May I offer you a drink?”

“No, thank you.” He removed his gloves and placed them over his silver-topped walking stick. “Your performance this evening was…delightful,” he said after a second's consideration.

She gave a playful bow of her head. “Thank you, Lord Skylar.”

“You remember me.”

“I remember you very well.” Her look was significant.
After a moment, she added, “I've often looked for you in the boxes, but with no success. Did you find the shows at Covent Garden more entertaining?”

“I haven't been to the theater lately.”

“I read about your nuptials. They were unexpected. I think many people were surprised at how swiftly the wedding took place.”

“I didn't come here this evening to speak of my marriage.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” she said, with a small smile playing around her lips.

He clutched the cane head. “I came here to talk about a business proposition—an amorous one.”

She rose, smoothing down her shirt and trousers and giving him full view of her assets. “I'm all attention.”

“I'm willing to give you whatever you require in return for your
exclusive
attentions. What are your requirements?”

She came and sat beside him, all seductiveness gone, her tone businesslike. “A flat in Mayfair with sufficient servants to staff it, a coach and driver, and an allowance of—” she pursed her lips, considering “—one hundred quid a month, plus credit at a dressmaker's of my choosing…in addition to your gifts, of course.” Here she allowed herself a smile, and he knew she meant jewelry.

“You don't come cheap,” he said lightly.

“I guarantee full satisfaction.”

“You sound supremely confident.”

“I know what I'm capable of. I also promise exclusiveness and discretion.”

“I require those qualities.”

She eased back on the sofa back. “So, are we agreed?”

“We are agreed. I'll open an account for you at the bank for you to draw on tomorrow.” He stood. “Are you available tonight?”

She stood as well. “Do I have your word as a gentleman?”

He gave her a curt nod. “You have my word.”

 

When he left her in the wee hours of the morning, he still didn't feel like returning home. He had his coachman drive him to a tavern in the vicinity.

During his fortnight away, he had forced himself to drink steadily. It usually ended up making him sick, but he considered the few hours of numbness more than made up for any unpleasant side effects.

Tonight was no exception. He took a fresh glass every time the waitress came around with a tray. He lost heavily at the gaming tables, but he had become accustomed to that as well in the last fortnight.

As dawn approached he went down to the basement and watched the end of a cockfight. The two roosters were a bloody mess by then, missing eyes and feathers but determined to fight it out to the bitter end.