Fated Folly (11 page)

‘
At the Grange, which he bought—' casting her a quizzical glance ‘—preferring a much more modern establishment to this old pile.'

Clare wrinkled her nose. ‘I don't like the Grange half as well as this place.'

It was no fib. She approved of the atmosphere of the Manor, with its sometimes misshapen rooms, built to accommodate the odd square bays that jutted out of the front of the low building. Several of the rooms were panelled, including the long gallery where they walked which ran almost the length of the house and was reminiscent of Tudor times. Most of the furnishing was heavy and rather ugly, but it fitted the place, and as the rooms were all large, they were not dwarfed by the size of the tables and chairs. The Grange, on the other hand, was flat and square, a huge grey building with uniform rooms, although its décor was tasteful.

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It is a relief that you like it,' Rupert said. ‘But it is old-fashioned and you must institute any changes you desire.'

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Oh, but I could not,' Clare protested. ‘Besides, it is very beautiful as it is.'

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I think it beautiful, certainly,' Rupert responded, ‘but you must not allow that to weigh with you.'

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Stuff. I thought we agreed not to disrupt your life. Besides, how abominable it would be in me to march in and overset everything, just as if I was really your wife.'

Rupert smiled. ‘I believe we did exchange some vows. Did I not endow you with all my worldly goods?'

Clare could not resist quizzing him. ‘Did you? To tell you the truth, I was so nervous, I hardly remember what was said.'

Their wedding, held at May's end as the season drew to a close, had been a grand affair. Lady Carradale had known her world, as she had known Alethea Nateby. The news of the engagement had silenced the venom that matron had put into the wagging tongues, but had not made them stop by any means. And if neither Church nor State had anything to say against the odd relationship into which the two marriages threw the couples concerned, the world found it matter for both comment and laughter. There was also some envy among suitor-conscious mamas, for Sir Rupert Wolverley was a prestigious catch, both eligible and, until now, unattainable. Lady Carradale, no fool, threw her energies into her daughter's wedding, neatly drawing attention away from her son's scandalous elopement.

But in the end, Clare's delight at securing her heart's desire, even at the expense of the romance she had originally yearned for, had given her all the sparkle and enchantment of the traditionally happy bride, quashing the gossip-hungry tabbies.

For all that the wedding had passed in a kind of dream, Clare in fact recalled everything perfectly. Mischief leapt within her.

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Did you vow anything else I ought to know about?'

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No, minx,' Rupert said firmly. ‘You vowed to obey me, and that you had better remember.'

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Ogre!' She eyed him quizzically. ‘That accords very ill with vowing to cherish me, you know.'

His brows rose and he said drily, ‘I thought you said you didn't remember.'

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I remember that,' she declared. ‘And—and one other thing.'

‘
What is that? Or dare I ask?'

She hesitated, torn between mischief and the solemnity that had its origin in Rupert's insistence on keeping physically distant.

‘
I think I won't tell you—yet.'

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You tempt me to make you,' Rupert said softly, and she felt his fingers under her chin, raising her face.

But as Clare held his eyes, her heart hammering uncontrollably, the look in his face altered, and she knew she had lost him again. He released her abruptly and curtly changed the subject.

Such scenes between them were becoming all too rare. He was courteous and kind, but he rarely touched her, except now and then to take her hand and perhaps drop a light kiss on her fingers. Rupert had made it his business to arrange for her to become acquainted with all the local gentry, his intention being—with almost as much anxiety as her mother, Clare thought—to lower all the raised eyebrows. But now he was withdrawing more and more, evidently determined to stick to his resolution that she remained his wife only in name until such time as he considered her old enough for more.

Clare chafed, but since she had agreed to his terms, there was nothing she could do to change them. Although she did all in her power to charm him into seduction, whenever she was able to snatch a moment alone with him. On the surface that should not have been hard, for they were often at home, as alone together in such a house as was possible. Or they should have been, for they went out infrequently.

Rupert maintained a regular interchange of visits only with their closest neighbours. With the Grange at Okeley, where Lord St Merryn lived with his faithful daughter, Kitty—that fashionable matron Lady St Merryn being now at Brighton for the summer months with her equally fashionable son—and with Ickford where the Dearhams had a modest establishment. Both these houses were within easy distance, a mile or two driving across pleasant country, or on foot through the leafy forest.

But lately, as it seemed to Clare, her husband's business interests apparently occupied more and more of his time. For he employed no secretary and handled all the estate affairs with the assistance only of his agent. They must be very arduous, Clare thought, to take up so much of Rupert's attention, although the Wolverley estates encompassed far fewer villages than did the St Merryn property.

Her hopes receded further with each passing day, and she had begun to fear that she would never succeed in attaching her spouse. In the weeks before her wedding, his attentive presence—for the benefit of the world, no doubt—had led her into the belief that there was something more on his side. But now it appeared that she had mistaken kindness for a warmer feeling.

More than once, it had occurred to her that there might be a more cogent obstacle than she had ever envisaged. And such an obstacle would provide a very good reason why Sir Rupert had never married again. Until now. Not that Clare considered he was married now. They had said the vows, yes. They inhabited the same house. They even slept in adjoining bedchambers. But here she was, more than six weeks a wife, and still a maid.

Sir Rupert Wolverley had kept his word, and no amount of Clare's charm, wiles or mischief, had served to make him break it by so much as a kiss. Now Clare wondered, not for the first time, whether Blanche Dearham had anything to do with her failure.

The French windows of the drawing-room were open on this warm July evening so that the lawn shawls worn over thin muslins provided sufficient protection, and the two cousins wandered out, chatting together in low tones. Clare did not know whether to be glad or sorry that Mrs Dearham's entertainment was now left to her. At present, the woman was watching the girls from the windows, fanning herself, while Clare pretended to be busy sorting music at the pianoforte.

‘
Are you going to entertain us later, Lady Wolverley?' asked the other lady, startling Clare out of her absorption.

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Oh! Not if I can persuade Kitty to do so. She is much more adept than I am.'

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Yes, poor child,' agreed the elder lady. ‘Such a dull life she leads.'

Clare pulled herself together. She was the hostess. She must play her part. Coming across to the windows, she looked out to where the two girls were meandering along the drive, for the lawn terraces were damp from earlier rain.

‘
I don't know that,' she said. ‘I remember Pippa telling me that Kitty had not come out this year because she could not bear to leave her father.'

‘
So Rupert told me. But a sense of duty is not necessarily an indication of enjoyment.'

Clare looked round at her, trying to stifle a feeling of jealousy at the easy way she referred to him as “Rupert”. Clare still had difficulty sometimes herself. On occasion he seemed so much a stranger. But were Mrs Dearham's words a message? Did she know that there was nothing between Rupert and his wife? She must know, if she was intimate with him.

‘
How long have you known him?' Clare heard herself ask, and shrunk inside at her own daring. Was she mad?

But Blanche's glowing gaze came back to her. Was there a slight question in the dark eyes?

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Rupert? Many years. But I have only really come to know him well since Meriel's death.'

Oh, indeed? When her predecessor's removal from the scene made it easier to make a play for her widower? Then Clare was instantly ashamed of herself.

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She died in childbed, so Miss Flimwell told me,' she said quickly.

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Yes. A couple of years after Pippa's parents died of a fever. It was quite virulent in this area.' A shadow crossed her face. ‘We all sustained losses before it was contained. In a way, it made it easier to bear Meriel's death too. She was a friend of my girlhood, you know.'

‘
I didn't know,' Clare said, feeling a measure of relief. If she had been a true friend of the late Lady Wolverley, she would not have seduced her husband. ‘I am sorry about your children.'

Blanche merely smiled. She had lost both children to the fever that had killed Rupert's brother as well as his sister-in-law, as Clare had heard from Miss Flimwell. That lady had also said—upon enquiry—that their shared losses had brought Rupert and Blanche together. Clare decided she had read too much into that.

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Mrs Dearham,' she said suddenly, on an impulse.

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Yes, Lady Wolverley?'

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You know Rupert better than I. That may sound silly, but we—we have only been a short time acquainted.'

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It is very natural,' Mrs Dearham commented kindly.

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Well, do you think, then,' pursued Clare, ‘that it will upset him to hear that Pippa is increasing?'

Mrs Dearham's brows rose. ‘I did wonder. She has fallen quickly.'

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They were married in April,' Clare said hastily, suddenly wondering if she had been right to bring this subject up at all. Only she did so badly need advice.

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Like her mother,' mused the other lady. ‘Pippa was born within a year of Edward's marriage. Meriel was another matter. She only fell the once, and the child was lost too. Such a pity.'

Clare could not let this pass. ‘Why is it a pity? Rupert insists he never married again because he already has an heir.'

‘
Ah yes, Christian. He is not the most promising youth. Rather ineffectual, I fear. You have not yet met him. He is abroad, of course.'

Clare knew already that Mr Christian Wolverley was grandson to Rupert's deceased uncle and, as his nearest male relative, would inherit the title and estates.

Blanche smiled, saying teasingly. ‘Of course, Christian is only Rupert's present heir, my dear.'

Clare felt the warmth rush into her cheeks. Still, at least if she could refer to it so casually, Blanche Dearham cannot have been in Rupert's confidence, which meant that—

The other lady's voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘I have embarrassed you,' she said contritely. ‘Do forgive me.'

Clare shook her head, smiling in a more friendly way than she had yet shown this woman. ‘Think nothing of it. But tell me. Do you think I should tell Sir Rupert? About Pippa, I mean.'

‘
Why does she not tell him herself?'

‘
She is afraid to, in case he should think—well, you know.'

Mrs Dearham laughed gently. ‘Silly child. Rupert can count as well as any man.'

‘
That is exactly what she is afraid of.'

***

 

‘
Are you very angry?' Clare asked hesitantly, gazing with considerable misgiving at her husband's back.

She had bearded him in the library, her nerves jumping almost as much as they had on that far-off day when she had stood outside his bookroom door in London. She had even forgotten to knock, as she usually did, for one never knew whether some tenant or his lawyer might be with him. She had simply turned the handle and gone in, closing the door and leaning against it as he looked up from his papers and smiled.

‘
Sir Rupert,' she began nervously.

‘
Lady Wolverley?' he responded, with a quizzical lift to one eyebrow.

Clare laughed, not a little relieved. He always did that when she tacked on the “Sir”. It had become a kind of joke between them. Truth to tell, Clare often said it on purpose, just to hear him call her “Lady Wolverley”. The sense of belonging it gave her was balm to her troubled heart. At least his using it now meant that his mood was propitious.

‘
I mean Rupert,' she corrected herself, coming forward to the desk.

‘
Yes, Clare, what can I do for you?' he asked, rising.

‘
Nothing at all. Only, if you are not too busy at this moment—'

‘
I am never too busy for you,' he interrupted. ‘Besides, I need the refreshment of something pretty to look at now and then.'

Clare blushed as his glance swept her neat gown of primrose lawn, dwelling momentarily on the pleated bodice set low enough to permit a glimpse of the swell of her bosom. But her purpose today did not permit of her responding suitably to this light flirtation.