His Lady Mistress (17 page)

But if she wasn’t asleep…if she was waiting for him…had he made it quite clear that he
wouldn’t
return that night? Or any other night until he was in control of his passions. The idea that she might be waiting for him…no. He’d have to check.

He opened the door very quietly. If she were already asleep, the last thing he wanted to do was wake her. The fire had died to embers, but the lamp still glowed by the bed. The very large bed that held his wife, sound asleep with one arm curled around the pillow as though she nestled against a lover. Thick, unruly curls fanned over the pillow as once they had fanned across his chest, a temptation of cool, silky fire.

He lurched away from the thought. That way lay madness. He had to retain his self-control, otherwise it would not be safe to share her bed.

She had left the bed hangings open as well as the curtains. The sun would pour through those windows very early. If he
closed the bed hangings on that side…she might like fresh air. She certainly wasn’t used to a closed canopy. He rarely closed his own hangings.

Treading softly, he went over and looked down at her. Oh, hell! Her eyes were reddened, her pale cheeks tearstained. The pain of knowing she had cried herself to sleep was like a blow over the heart. He gritted his teeth. Tears were easy for a woman. He would not be manipulated by a woman’s tears again. Ever. No matter how often she fluttered wet lashes at him.

She didn’t flutter them at you. You didn’t even hear her.
Unlike his mother. Whenever she had cried, the entire household knew about it, let alone his father in the next room.

He stared at her. She claimed she had never intended to trap him, that she had intended to be his mistress. And then buy an annuity. Could she really have thought to carry off the deception? The thought unnerved him. Would he have ever realised the truth, if Harding hadn’t found out that Verity Scott was alive?

The remains of her supper sat on the bedside table. Two apple cores and a few crumbs. Damn it. She needed to eat more than apples and bread and cheese to fill out those sweet curves a trifle…He slammed the lid down on that. Thinking about her curves would not help him at all. But she’d be ill if she didn’t eat properly. He’d promised—
vowed
, curse it all!—to cherish her. So he should, at the very least, look after her. Letting her starve to death didn’t fit in with that at all.

Helplessly his fingers brushed over her damp cheeks. He drew back, shaking. Stifling a curse, he settled the bedclothes around her shoulders, denying temptation, the furious protest of his body that wanted nothing more than to slide into the bed beside her and make love to her, denying his heart that longed to comfort her. At all costs he had to keep his distance from her.

She had nothing to weep for, he told himself harshly. She had what she desired—her safety. Every material advantage.
His conscience nagged. Could he really blame her for wanting safety? She hadn’t meant to trap him. Shaken, he realised that he believed her—that she would never have told him who she was if he hadn’t found out.

If only she hadn’t been Verity Scott. A woman whom he had no choice but to protect with his name. If only she had been, in truth, Selina. He looked down at her again. Dark shadows beneath her eyes sent a stab of pain through him. She must be exhausted. Carefully, he brushed his fingers over her exposed cheek again. So soft. Silken.

‘Sleep well.’

A soft sigh breathed from her as she snuggled against the pillow and shifted her cheek against his caress. Reluctantly he withdrew his hand.

Then, very softly, he drew the bed hangings and left.

A shaft of light struck across Verity’s eyes. Slowly she opened them and blinked. Apart from the sunbeam peeping in, one side of her bed hangings was closed. When had she done that? Verity snuggled her cheek into soft down, yawning. She remembered going to bed, but not shutting the hangings. Another memory came to her. A gentle caress and a velvet dark voice:
Sleep well.
A dream. No more.

She sat up and stretched. She’d made some decisions last night, about her marriage. She didn’t know if she could carry them out successfully, but she’d have to try. It was the only way in which she could salvage some of her self-respect.

She would have to make the best of her marriage, show Max that he could trust her. Somehow she had to convince her husband that she was not the harlot he thought her. He had cared for Selina. She was sure of it. Couldn’t he learn to care for Verity? Just a little?

Lady Arnsworth’s summation of the duties of a wife mocked her. She set her chin mulishly. She didn’t believe it. Papa and Mama had loved one another. She
knew
that. And Papa had been a gentleman, the younger son of a viscount.
He had loved her mother enough to marry her even though his family disowned him for it. And she could remember the physical affection between them. Gentle touches, tenderness that they had never hidden from her.

So she couldn’t hide from Max behind the blank mask of indifference with which she had held the Faringdons at bay. She would have to face her responsibilities and learn about running this huge house. She would have to take her meals with him. Make conversation. Try to gain his…his trust…his respect? If she gained that, it was as much as she dared hope for. She had better keep busy. Then she wouldn’t have time to dream of how much more she wanted.

There was a light tap on the door.

‘Come in.’

The door opened to admit a maid carrying a large and heavily laden tray.

‘I didn’t ring,’ said Verity.

‘No, my lady. His lordship gave orders that your breakfast was to be brought up to you.’ The girl looked at her curiously. ‘Where shall I put the tray, ma’am? Do you want it in bed?’

In bed? Breakfast in bed? She remembered the man who had stayed all night in a cold, cheerless cottage guarding the sleep of an orphan. And had then gone out to find her some breakfast. This was the man she had married. No matter how angry he might be with her, she was safe.

Taking her silence for assent, the maid brought the tray over and placed it carefully on her knees.

Dazed, Verity said, ‘Thank you. What is your name?’

‘Sarah, ma’am. I’m to wait on you for now.’

‘Oh.’ Verity smiled. ‘Well, that’s nice to know.’

‘Just till I’m married, ma’am,’ said the girl with a curtsy. ‘Mrs Henty thought it best. Her ladyship says you’ll need a proper dresser in London, so Mrs Henty said I should do it until you can hire one.’

A dresser? One of those horrid, superior creatures, like the one who waited on Aunt Faringdon? Not if she could help
it. Lady Arnsworth’s assumption that she would go up to London would remain that. An assumption. She could assume until the sky rained potatoes for all Verity cared. And it would thunder to the tune of ‘Greensleeves’ before the new Lady Blakehurst willingly set foot in fashionable London.

Two weeks later Verity conceded that she wasn’t making progress with any of her aims. Despite the fact that Max was excruciatingly polite to her, she doubted that it was due to any increased respect for her. More like respect for himself. She glared at an inoffensive rose as she placed it in a vase and stepped back to view the effect. A few more pink ones, perhaps.

He called her
madam
, or
madam wife
, and treated her with the utmost consideration when she saw him, which was at mealtimes. And Verity had a sneaking suspicion that the only reason she saw him then was that he was determined to fatten her up. Placing more pink roses in the vase, she snorted in a very unladylike manner. No doubt he didn’t want anyone thinking he starved her when they went up to London! She had yet to inform him that when he went to London, he would be going alone.

It was bad enough down here. Every time she saw him pain embedded itself a little deeper, cutting at her mercilessly. Max, who had rescued her, been the only one to care for her after Papa’s death. Who had actually come to the Faringdons to find her, to make sure she was all right. And she had betrayed him. No matter that she hadn’t intended it—he was trapped. And even though she thought he accepted that she had not trapped him intentionally, their marriage remained unconsummated. He made no sign that he wished for her as a
wife
. He never touched her beyond placing her hand on his arm to lead her in for dinner each night.

She bit her lip as she swept up rose leaves from the console table. Judging by the tension in him when he did so, he could scarcely bear to touch her. Lady Arnsworth had been quite
correct. He had been happy to take her as his mistress, but he did not want her as his wife. Knowing that her behaviour repulsed him lacerated her. He would be still more disgusted if he realised the shiver of pleasure that pierced her without fail each evening. How could a simple touch overset her so?

Soon he would return to London for the autumn session of Parliament. No doubt he would take advantage of that to seek his amusements outside his empty marriage bed. At least she would not have to see it. She pushed her depressing thoughts away. Right now she had to face Mrs Henty’s unrelenting disapproval over the weekly menus. And something was bothering her maid, Sarah. She was sure of it. For the past week or more the girl had looked haunted. This morning her eyes were reddened. Yet she would not confide.

The clock chimed. She cast a glance in the pier glass behind the table and reminded herself that the elegantly gowned creature reflected was not Miss Verity Scott, shabby poor relation, but rather a Countess, Lady Blakehurst, dressed in the first stare of fashion. If she kept on reminding herself, she might even believe it. Better still, Mrs Henty might accept it.

The knock at the door came right on cue as the clock fell silent. Ten o’clock. She took a deep breath. ‘Come in.’ Not a doubt but that the woman had been waiting outside for the past several minutes putting the finishing touches to her granite-hard expression.

Verity stiffened her spine as Mrs Henty came in, and applied herself to the household matters presented with grim precision to her notice, reminding herself all the while,
You are Lady Blakehurst. The mistress of the house.

The menus. The linen cupboard. The need to offer assistance to Widow Granger who had lost her only son at sea…

As if that had been a signal Mrs Henty drew herself up. ‘I regret, your ladyship, to say that I will be leaving at the quarter day.’

Verity blanched. ‘Leaving? Mrs Henty, are you sure that’s
necessary?’ Much as the woman’s attitude annoyed her, she had been there forever and was plainly devoted to the family. She shuddered to imagine Max’s reaction when he heard the news. She pressed on. ‘You know, I should be loath for any of the older retainers to feel—’

‘My decision is made.’ Mrs Henty appeared to have turned into solid rock. ‘I believe his lordship will provide me with a pension after my years of service?’

Verity stared. ‘A…well, yes. Yes, of course he will. If you are quite settled on this, Mrs Henty, I’ll mention it to him, but if you…well, if you change your mind, I’m sure he’d be much happier for you to stay on.’

The older woman’s jaw hardened. ‘Very good of you, madam. I’d take it kindly if you were to tell his lordship.’

Something about her stance alerted Verity. For all her years of service, Mrs Henty didn’t want to approach Max herself. Why not?

‘And one last thing, madam. About…Sarah.’

Verity paused in the act of shutting her household notebook. ‘Sarah? My maid—’

‘She’s to be dismissed,’ Mrs Henty informed her brusquely. ‘You’ll need to find ano—’

Verity interrupted. ‘A moment, Mrs Henty.
I’ll
make the decision if any of the maids are to be dismissed, especially the one who waits on me! What is Sarah’s offence? Something trivial? Can she be offered another chance?’ The thought of kicking even a housemaid out into the world tore at her. Then she remembered something. ‘Besides, Sarah is to be married. She told me so at the very start.’

She watched in puzzlement as the woman’s mouth twisted. ‘Mrs Henty?’

The answer came. Hard and uncompromising. ‘Not any more she isn’t. And she’s breeding.’ Her lips set in a thin line and she said no more.

It was quite enough. No normal lady would even consider keeping a maidservant who had fallen from grace in this way.
Verity bit back all the savage things jostling to be said and concentrated on the issue. ‘No.’

Mrs Henty’s jaw dropped. ‘Madam?’

‘No. I won’t dismiss her.’

‘But…she’s breeding. She—’

‘Made a foolish mistake and ought to spend the rest of her life paying for some man’s selfish pleasure?’ suggested Verity bitterly. Inside she shuddered. There, but for the grace of God and Max’s decency…Poor Sarah. No wonder she looked ill.

‘I’ll be damned if I cast the first stone! Naturally once she cannot carry out her normal duties we will find other, lighter tasks for her…perhaps the mending, or she can manage the stillroom. That gives us time to think of ways to help her. And when she is brought to bed, we can make sure—’

‘You’d do this for her?’

And then Verity noticed. Under the immaculate white apron, Mrs Henty’s hands were twisted tightly together. As if in prayer. And her eyes were bright. Too bright. ‘Mrs Henty, does your decision to leave have something to do with Sarah’s condition?’

The woman’s throat worked convulsively. She nodded. Her voice came out as a harsh croak. As if she were about to cry. ‘Sarah is my…my niece. My sister’s only child. She died when Sarah was three. Childbed. I promised I’d look after Sarah. When she was little I paid for her board in the village. His lordship’s mother gave her the place here when she was old enough.’ She swallowed hard. ‘She’s only seventeen, ma’am.’

Verity nodded and patted the sofa beside her. ‘Sit down, Mrs Henty. You’re obviously upset. Come.’

Stiffly, the older woman sat down on the extreme edge of the sofa. ‘Very kind of you, madam.’

‘Bother my kindness,’ said Verity. ‘Tell me about Sarah. Who is the father? Could his lordship do something to…if the man offered marriage and…?’