Lady Dearing's Masquerade (19 page)

She lay quietly in her lonely bed, bitter tears dampening her pillow. Succumbing to desire had proven just as disastrous at thirty-two as it had been at seventeen. That she had resisted the ultimate folly was cold comfort. Of course, to have accepted his marriage proposal would have brought a measure of joy to both of them for a brief time, until a corrupt world eroded everything that was sweet and dear to them both. And this time, because she loved him, the ending would be more painful than anything she had suffered before.

This time it might destroy her.

* * *

As she struck the final chords of the first movement of Mozart’s sonata in C minor, Livvy smiled. It had taken weeks, but she’d finally begun to master its subtleties.

She got up and stretched, standing in a patch of wintry sunlight. She’d always enjoyed playing even while other young girls moaned about having to acquire this most essential feminine accomplishment. And over the past months, with no one to complain when she repeated the same passage a dozen times in order to achieve perfection, no one to mock her mistakes, she delighted in the rewards of diligent practice.

It was the one true benefit of Dr. Croft’s latest recommendation. The female constitution was irritated by excessive stimulation, apparently. The remedy was several months of abstinence from marital relations. They’d tried this pattern not once, but three times.

Each time it had failed to produce the desired result.

It had, however, brought her intervals of peace, like now, when Walter was hunting in Leicestershire, hundreds of miles from Kent and Dearing Hall. She refused to worry about his reaction to her latest news; she still had a whole week of solitude to enjoy.

She sat back down at the pianoforte, opened the music to the adagio, and began to play again, losing herself in the slow ripple of bass notes, the deceptively simple melody . . .

A crashing discord caused her to jump.

Heart pounding painfully, she turned to see a large fist pressed against the bass notes.

“Scared you, did I?” Walter stood beside her. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, pupils dark. With drink, or anger?

“You startled me, Walter,” she managed to reply, though she felt as if she were choking. “How pleasant to see you back early.”

“Pleasant?” he repeated, leaning over her.

Yes, there was the hated smell of brandy.

“How pleasant? Have you news for me, dearest wife?”

The unholy mixture of hope and loathing in his voice caused her to shiver; she pulled her shawl around her.

“I am—afraid not.”

“No?” He yanked her up from her stool and seized her arms. “Croft said you’d conceive soon. You must be flouting his instructions!”

“Indeed not,” she said softly, not daring to remind him that Croft had not been sanguine about this measure.

In fact, she knew Croft was uneasy over how they’d exceeded all his recommendations.

Walter gave her a shake. “You have not been drinking wine? Eating beef in my absence?”

“No, of course not.” She’d not enjoyed such pleasures in years.

“And you’ve been cupped?”

“The apothecary has taken two pints from me every week.” Her arm began to throb where he gripped it.

“There must be something you’re doing wrong,” he spat. “Good God, you’ve been violating Croft’s order of abstinence.  You’ve been playing me false! That must be it! Who is it, Livvy? I demand to know!”

He shook her again.

“No one. There is no one else,” she said, trying not to show her fear, though surely what blood she had left had drained from her face. He might interpret fear as guilt.

“Who is it? One of the footmen? Or one of those gardeners you like to muck about with? Who, I ask you?”

“There is—no one.” She trembled despite herself.

“Damn you. What is wrong with you?” His feral eyes raked over her. “What sort of woman are you? Looking as you do, I thought for sure you’d have born me three or four sons by now.”

She cleared her throat. “I am sorry, Walter. I think we must face . . . the truth. I am barren.”

“No! You can’t be. I won’t have that sniveling little brat Adolphus for my heir! I’ll get a child on you yet, I swear!”

He slammed her to the floor with a suddenness that knocked the breath from her. He was upon her, grinding himself against her to arouse himself, suffocating her with brandy-soaked kisses. She gasped for air. With one hand he pressed down painfully on her rib-cage, as if she had the strength to even try to escape. With the other hand he hiked up her skirts, unbuttoned his breeches.

At least she could breathe now. She closed her eyes and lay still during the first painful thrusts, trying to recall the passage she’d been learning. As her body adapted to the familiar assault, she began to hear it in her head: the bass notes, the simple, soaring line of the melody . . .

Walter cursed.

It had never happened before, but he’d softened.

He pulled out, staring down at her in baffled fury. He got to his knees, while she struggled to keep her face from betraying the odd sense of triumph.

“Damn you, you were always a cold bitch! God, if I’d only married a real woman!” he cursed, clumsily rebuttoning his breeches. His voice was rough, almost as if she’d brought him to tears.

She forced herself to lie absolutely still.

“Damn you,” he said, turning in disgust.

For a moment, she felt relief. Only for a moment. Without warning, he kicked her pianoforte, his boot shattering one graceful, turned leg. The instrument teetered and crashed, wood splintering, strings humming discordantly.

She scrambled to her feet, sobbing, as he headed toward the harp in the corner.

“No! Please, no! Not my harp!”

She ran toward him, but too late. He’d already grasped the elegantly carved crown, then he sobbed as he kicked the soundboard with his foot until the wood splintered. The broken mass of curves and strings fell to the floor. He turned. Too late she saw his expression through the haze of her tears. Too late she tried to run. He caught her arms again, and this time she couldn’t stop herself from struggling.

“Not your harp, madam,” he said through his teeth. “Mine. It’s all mine, to do with as I please. You are mine, to do with as I please.”

She tried to pull away as he drew back a bunched fist, then screamed as excruciating pain shot through her eye into her head. She dropped to the floor.

She lay aching, blinded and gasping for breath for several moments. Walter was still there, standing over her; she could hear him panting like a winded horse. The pain receded slightly, but she kept her eyes shut, not daring to look at him. Finally, she could bear it no longer and opened them.

Through her one good eye, she could see Walter looking down at her. His face was taut with fear and horror.

“I—I’m sorry,” he blurted, avoiding her gaze.

An odd detachment stole over her, as if some unknown, indomitable bit of her soul had taken over for the tear-streaked broken creature lying on the floor.

She struggled to her feet, every bone and muscle protesting. She caught her reflection in the pier glass behind Walter and stared at it for a moment, stunned. She’d known years of the lowering diet had thinned her, repeated cuppings had sapped her color. But who was this wraith with the black eye?

Thank God Papa was not alive to see it.

She turned to her husband. His eyes held remorse, but also loathing: for himself, for what he’d done. For her and the ugly feelings she had aroused in him.

Despite the pain raging through her head she saw him with amazing clarity: a powerful man with a weak mind, designed by nature to be a hard-riding, jovial country squire, surrounded by barking dogs and squalling children. A man incapable of imagining any other life and too cowardly to try.

Too cowardly to face her and what he’d become.

“You will never touch me again,” she said coldly.

“No. I won’t, I promise you.” Air sucked in and out of his mouth as if he’d run a long distance. “I won’t even come near this damned place.”

Then he was gone. She swayed with exhaustion, her head throbbed and the swelling was rapidly closing her right eye.

It was over.

Chapter 14

“Good morning, dear! Did you enjoy the opera last night?”

Jeremy stumbled to his feet as Aunt Louisa swept into the breakfast parlor. He should have just left already, instead of making his farewells. This was going to be hellish.

“Good morning, Aunt.” He cleared his throat, struggling to clear his mind enough to summon up a polite reply.

She paused on her way to the sideboard and gave him a searching look.

“Dear heavens, what is wrong?” she clucked, coming to his side. “You look dreadful!”

He knew how he looked. Splashing cold water on his face and drinking several gallons of coffee could not soften the effects of a night spent wandering London’s streets and trying to make sense of what had happened.

“You have not been drinking, have you?” she asked sharply.

“Of course not. I was merely unable to sleep and went for a walk.”

“You should have roused me, I would have made you a possett.”

He smiled faintly. Dear Aunt Louisa. Sometimes she forgot there were woes that could not be soothed by her coddling.

“Why could you not sleep? How was your opera party?”

“Quite pleasant,” he said. “Madame, er, Catalani was said to be in excellent voice.”

“Rubbish! As if you cared. There is something else, and you shall tell me all about it.”

He poured himself another cup of black coffee.

“Did Lady Bromhurst’s young guest come along?” she prodded. “Amelia told me she has the most charming lady visiting.”

“Yes, Miss Wellstone was very agreeable.”

He took a gulp of the scalding liquid.

Aunt Louisa made no reply. He looked up and to his dismay found her dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief.

He leapt up and went around the table to put an arm around her shoulders. “Dear Aunt,” he murmured. “I am sorry to be such a disappointment to you.”

“No, no, you are never to say so!” She blew her nose fiercely. “But Lady Bromhurst and I thought this girl would be so perfect for you! More mature, with the experience of having helped run the vicarage since her mother died, and possessing such a sunny disposition . . .”

“I am flattered you and Lady Bromhurst thought me worthy of Miss Wellstone,” he said, patting the shoulder he’d cried on often enough, decades ago.

“But you won’t even try to fall in love with her!” She blew her nose again. “If only you had never met that woman!”

He froze, hearing the venom in her voice.

“Who?” he asked cautiously.

“Don’t be obtuse! I am speaking of that dreadful widow.”

His chest constricted. “Lady Dearing? What do you know of her?”

His aunt refused to meet his eyes, instead concentrating on another wet explosion into her handkerchief.

“Has there been gossip? Tell me.”

“Well, yes, there was one of those—those stupid, insinuating pieces in
The Morning Intelligencer
.”

He stifled a curse. “What did it say?”

“The usual rubbish: that Lady D— must be presumed to have broken off her liaison with Lord A—, since they had not been seen in each other’s company for some time.” She stopped, twisting her handkerchief in her hands.

“That was not all, was it?”

“We didn’t wish to tell you, dearest, but the rest of the piece hinted that she had found a new interest. A Sir J—. A gentleman well known for his charitable pursuits.”

Fury shot pain through his jaw, through every weary muscle.

“And no one thought it worthwhile to tell me about this?”

“Well, dearest,” said his aunt, with a sniffle, “Lord Bromhurst thought it best for you to behave as if you were unaware of the gossip. No one would dare ask you about it directly and if you behave with an air of indifference, and were seen to be pursuing—”

“If I were seen to be pursuing a young lady of character, that would help to dispel the rumors,” he finished. “I see.”

He downed the rest of his coffee. “I’m going to see Bromhurst and get the full story from him.”

“But dearest Jeremy, before you do that, please tell me there is no truth to these rumors!”

He rose from his seat.

“There is no chance of any sort of liaison between me and Lady Dearing,” he said, each word like a blow.

She brightened. “Ah, I thought you were too sensible.”

He turned away. Hopeless rage lanced through him again as he remembered how he’d kissed Livvy last night, how she’d moaned when he caressed her breast, how she’d felt in his arms. How she’d offered him a single glorious, anguished taste of the life they could have, while allowing her fear of scandal and gossip to rob them of the chance to live it.

Now he knew just how vicious rumor could be.

But what was worse was that she did not love him enough to brave it.

* * *

“Good God, Jeremy, you look like hell. What’s amiss?”

Bromhurst’s eyebrows bristled fiercely as Jeremy entered the study of his residence at Grosvenor Square, but he did not seem entirely surprised by the visit.

“I think you know. You should have told me about that piece in
The Morning Intelligencer
.”

“Your aunt told you? God preserve us from these chattering women!”

He eyed him squarely. “
You
should have told me.”