Indiscreet (11 page)

“Why, you bitch,” he said quietly and almost pleasantly. “I do believe you are enjoying yourself. I will give you no further
opportunity. You will be plagued with me no longer after tonight, ma'am. I am sure we will be mutually delighted not to set eyes on each other again.”

Toby was standing in the passageway, growling. She looked down at him in the shaft of light that came through the door as it opened and then shut again none too gently. She stood where she was for a few minutes, almost as if her weight and spread hands were necessary to hold the wall up. Toby was whining.

“You want to go outside,” she said. Her voice sounded quite normal. It seemed strange to perform the familiar and ordinary tasks of letting Toby out through the back door and then going into the kitchen to light the lamp and stoke up the fire in order to boil the kettle for tea. She had to have a cup of tea, late as it was. And she had to sit for a while in the familiar surroundings of her kitchen before going upstairs to bed—where she could have been lying at this very moment with him. . . .

She felt sick. She was not at all sure she was going to be able to drink her tea after all. She felt sick and horribly guilty. He had called her a bitch. No one had ever called her such a dreadfully vulgar name before. That in itself would have caused a feeling of nausea. But worse was the feeling that perhaps he had been justified.

He had once accused her of being a tease. Was she? Had she led him on? She had wanted him so very badly. Had her need shown to the extent that it had become an invitation? She had not tried to avoid any of the three kisses he had given her tonight. Indeed, she had welcomed all three and had participated fully in them.

She had wanted him. Even now her womb throbbed with the leftover need to feel his body inside hers.

It must have been her fault, all that had happened this evening. Just as it had all been her fault that other time. Except that over the years she had regained her self-respect by reasoning it all out and coming to the conclusion that it had not really been her fault. Only a small part of it. Only what might have been called the teasing.

As now. She was a tease, it seemed. Issuing invitations but being unwilling to accept the consequences.

She hated herself—again. How quickly a self-esteem built so painstakingly could disappear.

Toby was scratching on the door. She got up to let him in and noticed that the kettle over the fire was already boiling. She made her tea, stood over the pot while it steeped, and poured a cup while it was still rather too weak for her taste. It did not matter. At least it was hot and wet.

Toby stood before her when she sat down again, his tongue lolling, hope and speculation in his eyes.

“There is no point in my saying no, Tobe,” she said to him rather bitterly. “No one ever believes me when I say no anyway.”

It was invitation enough. He jumped into her lap and curled into a comfortable ball. He sighed deeply and proceeded to go off to sleep with the aid of a soothing hand smoothing over his back.

She stared upward, rocking slowly in the chair, feeling the kind of deep despair that even a week ago she had remembered with a shudder and tried not to remember at all.

Her tea grew cold on the table beside her and filmed over.

•   •   •

VISCOUNT
Rawleigh was frustrated and angry when he left Catherine's house. He shut the door firmly behind him, disdaining to slam it, and strode across the road toward the postern door, looking neither ahead nor to right nor to left. He pushed the door open, stepped through, and shut that too with a decisive click.

Had he been as alert as he had been when he opened the postern door on his way to the cottage, he would probably have both heard and seen the one-horse cart that was approaching the village from the south, even though it was still some distance away.

Its driver drew the horse to a halt as soon as the cottage door opened.

“Well,” Percy Lambton said after the postern door had closed. “Well, bless my soul. That was not a suitable sight for your eyes, I daresay, Reverend.”

The Reverend Lovering was frowning. “Who?” he said. “Mr. Adams?”

“Not him,” Percy said. “Viscount Rawleigh, Reverend. Coming from Mrs. Winters's cottage at this time of night. And not a light on in the house. Mighty suspicious it looked to me.”

“He must have been escorting her home from the ball,” the rector said. “Mrs. Lovering and I had to leave early because of your mother's sickness. Very obliging of his lordship, I am sure. But where is his carriage? And why would he escort her alone? It is not at all the thing.”

Percy snorted. “This is not for your ears, Reverend,” he said,
“but it is common knowledge that there have been carryings-on for some time. Clandestine meetings there have been in the park. Ask Bert Weller if you do not believe me. And they have walked together arm in arm through the village brazenlike for all to see. It is pretty clear what has been going on tonight though I am sorry your eyes had to see it.”

The Reverend Lovering looked back at the cottage after they had passed it and saw that a light had come on behind the kitchen window. He was frowning and looking stern.

“This is not what we expect from visitors at the house, Percy,” he said, “even if they are viscounts. I am sadly disappointed that his lordship would take such license in a respectable neighborhood, as I am sure Mr. Adams and his good lady will be. And it is certainly not what we expect of the respectable citizens of Bodley-on-the-Water. I am deeply disturbed.”

“But she is not a true citizen, is she?” Percy said. “She has been here for only a few years. And who is to know where she came from or what sort of life she led before she came here. For all we know she might have been a slut—if you will forgive my use of the word, Reverend.”

They had reached the rectory and the Reverend Lovering got down. “Perhaps we have misunderstood, Percy,” he said. “I shall call at Bodley House tomorrow and have a word with Viscount Rawleigh and with Mr. Adams. In the meantime it would be as well if you said nothing.”

“Me?” Percy asked, amazed. “Mum is the word with me, Reverend. One thing about me, I hate gossip and always know
when to keep my mouth shut. A shocking thing, this. I would not sully my lips by talking about it.”

The rector nodded. “Your mother will recover, as she usually does,” he said. “The next time she believes she is at death's door, it might be as well for you to wait awhile before coming running for me.”

“Yes, Reverend,” Percy said, turning his cart in the road and setting out on the return journey home.

He glanced at the light in Catherine's kitchen window as he passed and pursed his lips. A whore in Bodley-on-the-Water—he had known it all along, of course. Now everyone else would finally be convinced too. It was a long time since there had been anything local to add such interest to life. He could hardly wait for the morning to come.

•   •   •

INCREDIBLY
the ball was still in progress when Viscount Rawleigh returned to the house. It seemed to him that hours must have passed since he left. He almost expected to see dawn graying the east. But in reality he guessed he had been gone for less than an hour.

He did not rejoin the festivities. He went up to his room, rang for his valet, and set the man to packing his bags. He scribbled two notes and went personally to Lord Pelham's room and Mr.
Gascoigne's to leave them in a prominent place where they would be seen and read without delay. Then he retreated to his room and eventually to bed, though not to sleep.

The bitch,
he kept thinking again and again. Almost like a refrain that he had set to repeat itself in his mind in order to block other thoughts.

A person who dislikes you . . .

But she had been happy enough to kiss and cuddle with him.

Well, this woman prefers insanity to becoming your possession.

Devil take it, he had offered her
marriage
. He was the insane one, not she. He had offered her marriage and she had spoken with contempt about becoming his possession. She could have become the Viscountess Rawleigh. But she preferred insanity and her cold virtue.

He hated her.

And he felt suddenly childish. He hated a woman because she had refused to be bedded by him? It had happened before, though not often, it was true. He had always shrugged off rejection. There were endless numbers of women with whom to replace the one who had rejected him, after all.

The same was true now. If he went to London, in no time at all he could have his choice of a casual bedfellow, a more permanent salaried ladybird, or a mistress from among the
ton
. Sex without entanglements.

He really must have been insane to offer marriage in return for sex with Catherine Winters. He would have regretted his decision within a month. The same woman rarely held his interest for longer than that—or even as long.

But how had she had the gall to lead him on as she had only to reject him with such scorn and such righteousness after he had reached a point from which it had been both difficult and physically painful to return?

The b—

But the house had grown quiet at last and his brain had finally stopped whirling between anger and sexual frustration.

She had not wanted to dance that second waltz with him. She had gone to the music room in order to avoid him.

She had not wanted to dance with him there.

She had not wanted him to escort her home.

She had not wanted him to go beyond the postern door with her.

She had said no as soon as he had suggested going upstairs with her.

When he thought about it—he did not
want
to think about it—there had been an almost sickening consistency to her behavior.

She had not wanted him. Oh, physically she had, perhaps. He had little doubt that she was as attracted to him as he was to her. But she had not wanted to surrender her virtue to him. Or her freedom, it seemed.

She had said no. From the beginning she had said no.

It was all his fault, then. If he was feeling frustrated and angry and—oh, yes, and unhappy—it was all his fault for not believing or accepting that one word
no
. She had been right to call him arrogant.

Admitting his own guilt did not make him feel one whit the
better. He lay awake still, staring upward, trying to decide if he owed her an apology before leaving tomorrow morning. But he wanted to leave at dawn or as soon after dawn as was possible. He must see Claude first, of course. And he must find out if Nat and Eden were coming with him or if they would wait a day or two longer, as planned.

Besides, he did not believe she would welcome an apology.

And he certainly had no wish to see her again. None.

No, things were better left as they were. He would leave as soon as he could and not come back to Bodley for a long, long time. He would put Mrs. Catherine Winters and this whole nasty episode firmly behind him. Forget the whole thing.

It had been one of the most uncomfortable and shameful episodes of his life.

Devil take it, he thought, trying to impose relaxation on his body and blankness on his mind, he could still feel the leftover ache of wanting her.

C
LAUDE
Adams, standing beside the bed, leaned over his sleeping wife and kissed her softly on the lips. She mumbled something and sighed.

“I am going out on estate business,” he said. “I will be back in time for luncheon and the promised walk with the children and our guests this afternoon.”

“Mm,” she murmured without opening her eyes.

He hesitated. He was very tempted to leave it at that. When one lived with someone like Clarissa, it was always very tempting to play the coward, to become a husband in retreat, so to speak. But in nine years of marriage it had never been his way. He was not going to change now.

“Rex has just left,” he said. “Eden and Nathaniel went with him.”

For one moment he thought he was going to be able to escape with the simple announcement. Then her eyes snapped open.

“What?” She frowned—Clarissa frowned all too often these days. “Left for where?”

“For home,” he said. “Stratton. I am not sure they were all going there. Eden and Nathaniel talked about going down to Dunbarton—Haverford's seat. Their friend, the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse, you know.” He attempted to smile.

She sat up sharply. And, being Clarissa, she jerked the bedclothes up to cover herself even though he had been naked with her beneath those covers little more than an hour ago and had made love to her twice during the short night.

“Gone?”
She was almost shrieking. “To
Stratton
? In the middle of a house party? When he is supposed to be courting Ellen?”

“Clarissa,” he said, “you know—”

“And after what he
did
to her last night?” she said.

He did not need this after last night, Claude thought with an inward sigh. It had taken a certain amount of sternness on his part—he hated having to play the lord and master with his own wife—to keep her calm during the ball, to prevent her from showing public chagrin at the disappearance of his brother before supper and at his failure to reappear during it. It had taken all his energy to keep her smiling and acting the part of gracious hostess when Rex had failed to return in order to lead Ellen out for the set he had reserved with her after supper. Clarissa had been livid with fury. He had been annoyed too, he had to admit—it was an unpardonable discourtesy—and had promised himself a good talk with his twin this morning. Fortunately Ellen herself
had looked almost relieved and had spent most of the set sitting and talking with the son of one of his more prosperous tenants.

What had made matters worse, of course, was that Clarissa had noticed the coinciding absence of Mrs. Winters and had drawn the conclusion that she and Rex were together somewhere. Claude had no opinion on the matter himself and it was really none of his business except that the lady's reputation might suffer if others had drawn the same conclusions as Clarissa. And he had warned Rex. . . .

“Well?” Clarissa said now, a sharp edge to her voice. “Are you going to stand there mute all morning?”

“Rex asked me to convey his apologies to Ellen,” he said. “He felt ill and went to bed. He did not want to spoil our evening by telling us and having us worry about him.”

He had accepted the lie without question earlier. Rex had known that he did not believe it, but there had been a tacit understanding between them that that was what the ladies would be told. Rex had looked grim and wretched. Obviously something drastic had happened during those hours of the ball when he had been absent—something to make him look like that, something to cause the unexpectedly abrupt departure.

“And he has
gone
?” He could see that Clarissa was only just beginning to digest the implications. “What about Ellen? She has been jilted. She—”

He sat down on the edge of the bed and proceeded to be both soothing and firm with her. It was neither easy nor quickly accomplished. And of course before he could get away to the blessed relief of riding alone across his land, she remembered that he had
said Pelham and Gascoigne had gone too. Her house party, all her plans were in ruins.

“And
that woman
is to blame for it all,” she said finally, sparks shooting from her eyes. “Claude, if you do not—”

“—throw her out of her cottage and banish her from the village?” he said, his patience beginning to desert him. “I told you last night that Mrs. Winters has done nothing wrong. We have no evidence that Rex was with her last night. He was ill and in his own bed. She was doubtless tired and found her own way home—though I wish she had asked me to call out the carriage and send a maid with her. You cannot turn your spite on her, Clarissa, just because she is a beautiful woman.”

They were ill-advised words—words he would not have used if his temper had not been frayed. But two arguments either side of a very short night's sleep were a little too much. And the sleep had been shortened by the fact that last night's negative emotions had been converted to passion.

Clarissa took exception, of course, to his use of the word
spite
—how could he possibly suggest that she ever acted out of spite? And if he found Mrs. Winters so beautiful, perhaps it was a trial to him to be stuck with such an ugly wife.

He took her none too gently by the shoulders and kissed her hard.

“Enough of this, Clarissa,” he said. “This argument is degenerating into sheer stupidity. I have work to accomplish before luncheon. I am leaving now.”

And he did so even though she called to him as he opened the door of her bedchamber. That had been an unwise closing speech
too, he thought ruefully as he ran down the stairs. But so be it. He had not been feeling so cheerful himself to start with. Heaven knew when he would see Rex next. He always felt for a while whenever they separated that part of himself had been amputated. But he could never explain that to Clarissa. She just would not understand.

•   •   •

MR.
Adams was not at home when the Reverend Lovering called on him later in the morning. But Mrs. Adams consented to see him as soon as she knew who the visitor was. There was a question she wished to ask him.

He hesitated after bowing to her and complimenting her on the fine weather and the daffodils blooming along the edges of the wood and the distinguished guests she and Mr. Adams had invited to grace their home and honor the village of Bodley-on-the-Water. He complimented her on the superior quality of the food at last evening's banquet and the splendor of the ball and apologized for the fact that his pastoral duties had taken him away early. He paid himself the compliment of wondering if his absence had been remarked upon and had perhaps dampened anyone's spirits.

“Sir,” Mrs. Adams said abruptly without any of her usual gestures of gracious acceptance for the homage being paid her, “when you conveyed Mrs. Lovering back to the rectory last evening, did you also take Mrs. Winters home?”

That was when the rector hesitated. What he had to say was not for the gentle ears of a lady and certainly not for the delicate
sensibilities of such a noble lady as Mrs. Adams. But honesty compelled him to answer the one question at least. After all, if men of the cloth could not be relied upon to speak the truth, then who could? No, he had not conveyed Mrs. Winters home.

“It was
someone else
who did that, ma'am,” he added ominously. “Perhaps I should return to discuss the matter with Mr. Adams later. You will wish to be with your dear children, I am sure.”

But Mrs. Adams had glimpsed one ray of light in an otherwise bleak morning—the Liptons, perhaps sensing that they were outstaying their welcome, had announced their intention of leaving for home on Monday, the day after tomorrow. Ellen had confided her relief that Rawleigh had gone home without coming to the point with her. She had been dreadfully afraid that he might offer her marriage and that she might find herself awed into accepting. Claude had called her spiteful and ugly and stupid. And Juliana and William were sullen and in disgrace with their nurse after a vicious fight over a single paintbrush, of all things, when there must be a dozen others in the nursery.

Everything was falling apart.

And
that woman
was the cause of it all.

The story she was told, then, by an apologetic and reluctant Reverend Lovering was like a seed falling on fertile soil. She listened to it avidly. She accepted the obvious interpretation uncritically and with considerable malice.

That woman
was a whore.

Clarissa Adams was exultant. And furious. And filled with righteous indignation.

She rang for tea and invited the rector to take a seat. They
talked for half an hour before he took his leave, bowing and apologizing and complimenting her on her fortitude and wisdom.

No, it was not necessary for him to return to speak with Mr. Adams, she told him. She would handle the matter herself—as he must handle his responsibility as rector and spiritual leader of the community.

She waited for a few moments after the Reverend Lovering had bowed himself from the room before leaving it herself and making straight for the staircase. She instructed a footman, without even looking at him, to send her maid up to her immediately and to have the carriage before the doors in half an hour's time.

•   •   •

CATHERINE
forced herself out of bed at her usual hour, though she had hardly slept and though a massive inertia urged her to stay lying there, doing nothing. There seemed to be nothing to get up for.

Memory made it worse. Memory of the same feeling, which had gone on for weeks on end. Her son dead. Her arms empty. Her breasts sore and swollen with milk for a dead baby. No one to comfort her—not that anyone could have comforted her anyway. But no sympathetic voice. And apparently no purpose left to living.

How had she dragged herself out of it? She thought back, tried to remember exactly how it had come about. She had wandered up to the attic of her aunt's house one day, to an empty room that had once been inhabited by a servant. She had opened the window and looked out and down—down to the pavement below. It
was a long drop. But she was not quite sure the fall would kill her. Perhaps it would only maim.

And then she had realized what she was doing. For the first and only time in her life the thought of ending it all had entered her consciousness. But she had known within a few moments that it was something she just could not do, that however far down she had sunk, life was still too precious a gift to be deliberately destroyed.

She had not wanted to live. But she could not end her life. And life could not be willed to an end. If she must live on, then—she had been only twenty—she must make something of her life. She must somehow make it worth living again without Bruce and without any of the people and things and surroundings with which she had been familiar all her life and with which she had identified herself.

She must start anew, become a new person, live a new life.

Yes, that was how it had begun. And somehow she had found the energy and the determination to bring it about. Less than three months later she had moved to this cottage.

She had been happy here. Contented. At peace. She had felt that her life was worth something again.

Well, then, she would do it all over again, she decided. She would put everything back together and carry on. Really she had no choice.

And so she dragged herself out of bed, let Toby out for a few minutes, washed and dressed and combed her hair, got the fire going, forced herself to eat some breakfast, and set about baking cakes to take with her on her afternoon visits to three elderly
people. Life must continue. She would not stay home this afternoon. These people had come to expect her weekly visits and the cakes she always brought and the book from which she always read to them. She would not disappoint them.

Really nothing had changed.

She sighed when a knock came at the door. She wiped her floury hands on her apron and tried in vain to persuade Toby to stop barking—he had raced out into the hall and was expressing his displeasure to the front door.

If it was
him
, she thought, she would slam the door in his face and hope that his nose was in its direct path.

It was a footman from Bodley House, the one who usually announced a visit from Mrs. Adams. Catherine took off her apron, folded it, and prepared to step out to the gate. The last thing she felt like this morning was a state visit from the lady of the manor. Her sense of humor had temporarily deserted her.

But Mrs. Adams was taking the unprecedented step of getting down from the carriage with the assistance of her coachman. Catherine stayed where she was in the doorway.

“Hush, Toby,” she said.

But Toby was guarding his territory.

Mrs. Adams did not pause in the doorway or even glance at Catherine. She sailed on by and into the parlor. Catherine raised her eyebrows and closed the door.