Military Romance Collection: Contemporary Soldier Alpha Male Romance (129 page)

The usual quietude had settled over Wisteria Castle once more following Baroness Banbury’s departure.  By the end of her visit, she had – as Poole had predicted – grown somewhat more amiable toward Ivy, although there still seemed to be a bit of condescending in her tone when she spoke, sometimes addressing Ivy as though she were some mindless child.  Still, her presence had filled the place to every corner, so much so that its absence could be felt for weeks afterward. 

The light coming through the windows to the sitting room provided Ivy ample opportunity to do some sketching in her book.  She thumbed through the pages, looking at her collection, all the drawing she had done in the three years since Father had presented her with the portfolio.  Each one had a memory attached to it: one of her father eating an apple whilst talking to a stable hand reminded her of how one of the draft horses had been very persistent that he share, butting him with its head until Father laughed and surrendered the rest.  Another of her sister Lily playing the pianoforte at Christmas when Mr. Fennimore had proposed to their elder sister Rose.  Ivy found herself filled with melancholy.  She would never have those moments again, only the sketches to remind her of happier times.

Heavy footfalls approached from the corridor outside.  Ivy looked up as Lord Letham entered the sitting room.  She had last viewed him just before breakfast, headed out across the grounds with the intent to hunt pheasant.  “I was not expecting you back so soon,” Ivy said, trying to sound cheerful.  Ever since the night of the ball, when Esmond’s brandy-loosened tongue had allowed him to speak his true feelings, any warmth Ivy may have felt toward her husband had dissipated completely.  “Will there be pheasant for supper tonight?” 

He did not answer her.  Instead, he motioned to her with one hand.  “Come, woman,” he said.  “I have need of you.”

Ivy understood immediately what he meant by “need.”  A tremor coursed through her.  She gulped, and forced a smile.  “It is rather early in the day,” she noted, and cleared her throat.  “Perhaps tonight would be better suited?”  She stood as he approached her, stalking her as he might a deer.  It was terrible enough that he had taken to climbing into her bed in the middle of the night, rousing her from sleep to have his way with her, until she found she could no longer achieve peaceful rest from dreading his nocturnal visits.  Now, the thought of having to look at him in the light of day as he took her did not appeal to her in the least. 

“Until you are with child,” Esmond replied, closing in on her, “I must sow my seed at every possible opportunity.”

Ivy could smell the liquor on his breath, and realized he had likely drained the wineskin he had taken with him on his morning hunt.  She clutched her portfolio to her breast, unable to stop herself from flinching back when he leaned in to kiss her neck.  He was not so inebriated that her reaction would go unnoticed.  He drew back slowly, the lines in his face deepening with a scowl. 

“Need I remind you,” he rumbled darkly, “that I am your lord and master.  You are my wife.  Now, you will do as I say.”  Reaching out, he grabbed her portfolio and ripped it from her hands, flinging it across the room.  Her sketches scattered across the floor.  Ivy gasped, and then cried out again when Esmond seized her by her shoulders and roughly pulled her close against him.  She brought up her arms against his chest, twisting in his grip as he tried to press his mouth to her neck. 

“Be still!” he snarled.  Dragging her over to a table, her drawings trampled underfoot, he spun her around and pushed her to bend forward. 

Ivy began to panic.  She could feel her skirts being hoisted from behind, could feel the tug on her undergarments.  Cool air hit her bare bottom a moment later.  “Please, Esmond!” she sobbed.  “We can go to your rooms – just not like this, I beg of you!” 

Her imploring broke with another outcry when she felt him enter her.  Ivy clawed at the table cover, upsetting a vase of fresh cut peonies.  She found she could not move any other part of her body, as one of his hands held her firmly in place at the back of her neck, keeping her down.  Desperately, she willed her body to accept his seed and allow for a child to grow inside her, just to make all of this stop.

He finished at last.  Ivy could hear the rustling of cloth and then his footsteps as he walked out,leaving without another word to her.  She waited until she could no longer hear his retreat down the hall before she righted herself and slowly began to pull herself back together.  Her hands shook as she straightened her clothes.  Turning, she looked down at the floor, at the torn and crumpled memories of her life scattered over the rug.  Ivy sank to her knees and began to gather them all together, smoothing them as best she could without smearing them.  Another sob bubbled up and she had to stop and press her hand over her mouth to silence it. 

***

The following Sunday, Ivy had a carriage prepared to take her into Little Amberton for morning service.  Her sister Rose sat in one of the front pews, listening to her husband give the sermon.  Ivy slipped into the bench behind her and tapped her shoulder.  Rose turned around.  Her bright smile of surprise lightened Ivy’s spirits.  Rose motioned Ivy to come around and sit beside her.  Ivy could not help looking at the great swelling under Rose’s dress and felt a pang of remorse.  This would be Rose’s second child.  She had conceived her first on her wedding night, and nine months later gave birth to a boy.

After the sermon, they filed outside to talk.  “Where is Darien?” Ivy asked after her nephew.

“With his governess,” Rose replied.  “Mama insisted we hire someone to assist me with him as I have had some difficulty with this one.”  She rubbed her hands over her belly for emphasis.  “And of course, you must have heard about Lily.”

“I know she is in London while Major Fennimore is in France,” Ivy said.  “Or so that is what she wrote in her last letter.”

“Oh, then you have not heard the latest!” Rose said, excited.  “Lily just discovered that she is expecting
her
first child!”

“Oh.”  Ivy felt awash with another wave of envy and disappointment.  Both her sisters had managed to conceive, while she remained barren.  She began to wonder if perhaps they had been blessed because they had married men who loved them, and who they loved.  She felt her throat constrict but she still managed to summon a smile.  “I should write to tell her how very…
happy
…I am, for her.”

Rose’s expression changed from one of joy to one of confusion and concern.  “Ivy?  What is it?  Something is troubling you.”

Ivy shook her head and waved her hand in a dismissive gesture.  “It’s nothing, really,” she said, with a light laugh.  “I have so many duties, now, at Wisteria Castle, I find myself always thinking too much.”

“You have
always
been one to think too much,” Rose reminded her.  “And I have always been able to tell when you are lying.”  Taking Ivy’s hand, she dragged her younger sister around the side of the church to a small garden.  They found a bench and sat down together.  “Now,” Rose said.  “Tell me what has happened.”

As embarrassed and ashamed as she felt over the state of her marriage and her inability to conceive, the temptation to confide in someone – particularly the sister whom she had always trusted – became too great.  Ivy’s lower lip began to tremble.  Only when Rose opened her arms did Ivy break down.She rushed into her sister’s embrace, burying her face against one shoulder.  “Oh, Rose!” she sobbed.  “My life has become one great misery after another!When I had married Lord Letham, I tried to convince myself that I would grow to love him, but I know now that shall
never
come to pass.  I
despise
him, Rose.  I always feel anxious whenever he is around, never knowing what he will say or do.  Some days, I think I would rather die than be wed to him!”

“Oh, dear Ivy, poor Ivy!”  Rose stroked her sister’s face and kissed her hair as she rocked her like a child.  “It grieves me so to learn of your unhappiness.”  She pulled back and looked into Ivy’s eyes, as blue as her own.  “Perhaps you could come and stay with me for a while?  Tell Lord Letham I am in need of my sister until I have given birth.”

Ivy shook her head, forlorn.  “He would not allow it.”  She sniffled and looked down at the ground.  “He is determined to father a child, making attempts at every opportunity.  At first, I had decided that I might enjoy motherhood.  Now, I cannot even bear the thought.  Not with
him
, at least.  If he never touched me again, I know I would be beside myself with relief.”  She nodded to Rose’s belly.  “You are so fortunate.  You and Lily, both.  Your children are born of love.  Mine will be born into resentment and fear.”

“Do not give up hope,” Rose told her gently, brushing Ivy’s hair back from her neck before reaching down to catch her hand in a tight grip.  “You are a good person.  Happiness
will
come to you.  It’s as Douglas often says in his sermons: no matter how dark the night may be, God always grants us a new day.”

“I should like to believe that,” Ivy said, and managed a small smile for her sibling.

Later that afternoon, upon her return to Wisteria Castle, Ivy found the servants in a state of panic.  Poole came out to meet her as she arrived in the carriage.  The old man’s face had a waxen look about it, pale and carved in deep lines of despair.  “What’s happened, Poole?” Ivy asked. 

He could barely find the words.  “It’s…Lord Letham, Your Ladyship,” he replied.  “He had been out hunting foxes.  According to Henry, the boy who attended him, Lord Letham’s horse did spook and reared up, unseating him.  His foot had caught in the stirrup and the horse dragged him along as it ran, trampling him in the process.  By the time the beast stopped, Lord Letham was just hanging there from the tack, unconscious.”

“Oh, dear!” Ivy gasped, covering her mouth in horror.  “Where is he, now?”

“Upstairs, in his bed,” Poole said.  He helped her down from the carriage.  “I took it upon myself to send for a physician.  For now, we have done what we can for him.”

“I shall go to him at once.”

“You mustn’t,” Poole said, stepping in front of her.  He shook his head.  “It is not a sight for a lady’s sensibilities.”

Ivy pressed her lips together and furrowed her brow.  Given the treatment she had been forced to accept from Esmond over the past few weeks, she had no doubt of her ability to endure the sight of him in his present condition.  “I am much stronger than you would think, Poole,” she said, and stepped around him.  “I must see my husband, now.”

Holding her skirts, she climbed the stairs and walked down the hall to Esmond’s bedchamber.  Her heart beat wildly in her chest.  She could not help but wonder if she had caused this, through some strange twist of fate; if, in the loathing she had come to feel for him, she had somehow willed him to be hurt.  The corridor seemed to stretch out before her, dark and cold, with only the amber glow from the doorway at the end to draw her in.  Despite her claims to the contrary, she began to feel her constitution waver.

She took a deep breath and stepped into the room.  Her eyes widened when she saw Esmond upon the bed.  Immediately, she noted his face, one eye swollen shut, covered in cuts and fresh bruises.  His clothes had blood on them.  Slowly, Ivy moved in for a closer look.  She could see one of his hands had been wrapped in a cloth dotted with crimson where blood had soaked through, leaving her to wonder about all the unseen damages he had sustained.She could hear him wheezing.  He lived…but for how much longer?  Her eyes filled with tears.  “I am sorry,” she whispered.

The physician arrived.  He asked Ivy to leave the room.  Numb, she went to her own chambers and paced the floor.  A few hours later, Poole tapped on her door.  Ivy looked at him, hopeful, but Poole just averted his gaze and shook his head. 

“He’ll not survive the night,” Poole said gravely.  “His injuries are too severe.”

Ivy returned to her husband’s bedside.  Silently, she sat down, took his good hand in hers, and remained that way – unmoving, not speaking – for the rest of the night.  Just before dawn, she heard the death rattle, and watched as Lord Esmond Letham took his last breath before departing from this mortal life.

Quietly, Ivy placed his hand on his chest.  She stood up, turned, and walked out of the room.

***

Six months passed.

Ivy gazed at the black wool and crape garments laid out for her by Susanna.  Mourning clothes.  As custom dictated, she would be required to wear these and other somber garments for a full year, along with a widow’s bonnet.  It would be two years before the period would pass and she would be allowed to dress in brighter, more amiable colors.  For now, this would be the extent of her wardrobe, dull and listless as her marriage to Lord Letham had been.

With a sigh, she began to don the clothing in a methodical fashion.  Afterwards, she decided to go for a walk in the private gardens behind the estate.  She had often wandered the grounds alone even while her husband lived.  At least then her loneliness could be abated by the occasional carriage ride into the village or to call on her family.  But she could not do these things, now.  She could not even have one of her sisters to come for a visit.  Mourning meant sequestering one’s self from the world, to become shut away and live with the grief of loss.  If she had loved Esmond, perhaps she might feel more than burdensome obligation to carry out this tradition.  Instead, Ivy grieved more for the loss of her connection to the people who
did
hold a place in her heart.  She had missed the birth of Rose’s second child, a little girl named they had named Alice.  She had missed a visit from Lily, who had returned to London.  Perhaps those widows who did love their husbands were so consumed with their heartache that they did not mind the isolation.  Ivy, however, could not fathom it. 

The gardens brought her peace of mind and heart every time she entered them.  She trailed her fingers along the leaves and paused to whiff the blossoms.  Even in winter, she could find herself here, strolling the fieldstone pathways, gazing at statues of dancing Greek nymphs and the satyrs who played to them upon their flutes.  She would sit in a small gazebo beneath the canopy of wisteria for which the house had been named, the cascading blooms of snowy white and varying shades of lavender and violet creating a curtain to shield her from the rest of the world and all its harshness.  Sometimes she would nap upon the bench with pillows from the house.  Most often, she would read or sketch for hours.  It had been her sanctuary, as Lord Letham had never seemed interested in this part of the estate.  He could have his woods for hunting; Ivy would have her gardens for her solace.

Returning from her walk, Ivy went to her rooms to engage in a bit of sewing to occupy her time.  Just as she had settled herself on the seat beside an open window, she heard the rumbling beat of horse hooves drawing closer to the house.  “Perhaps it is a letter from Rose,” she thought aloud, and felt awash with excitement at the prospect of new correspondence to chase away her feelings of loneliness and disparity. 

She peered out through the glass to see a solitary rider pull up on a dappled Cleveland Bay gelding.  Even from this distance, Ivy could tell by his attire he was no mere messenger.  Poole had gone out to meet the gentleman, while a boy from the stables came running to take the reins and lead the fine-looking beast away.  The rider swept his broad-brimmed hat from his head, revealing thick curls as black as a raven’s wing.  He looked around and then up at the house – and for a moment, Ivy thought he did see her, as his penetrating eyes seemed to focus briefly upon the window where she stood.  She gasped and drew back quickly, startled.  Of course, she knew she would have to go down and greet him.  She took a moment to compose herself, smoothed her hands down the front of her black dress, and lifted her chin before proceeding to the stairs.

Ivy found the stranger standing in the foyer.  Poole saw her and made an official announcement.  “Lady Letham, sir.”

The visitor turned around, and Ivy felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight of him.  He wore a white neck cloth knotted in Osbaldston fashion, a dark blue riding coat, buckskin breeches, and black top boots.  Those dark curls framed a handsome, rectangular face and formed a fringe over thick, black brows.  Coal-dark eyes peered out from beneath hooded lids.  An aquiline nose ended at the cupid’s bow of wide lips that curved into a smile, one corner lifting higher than the other. 

“Good afternoon, Your Ladyship,” the attractive fellow said, his voice a pleasant baritone-tenor.  He executed a polite bow.  “My name is Graham Banbury, I am the only son of Baroness Eleanor Banbury.  Lord Letham was her brother and my uncle.”

“Yes, I am familiar with the Baroness,” Ivy said, recovering quickly from her surprise.  Eleanor had mentioned she had a son but had never given his name.  “I regret to inform you, Mr. Banbury, that you are six months too late for your uncle’s funeral.”

“Yes, I know,” Banbury said with a grimace, and looked down at the gloves he clutched in his large hands.  “I had been abroad when word came of his demise.  I returned home immediately at the behest of my mother.  Upon my arrival, I was informed that, being the oldest male heir to the Letham fortune, I must ride out immediatelyand take up my late uncle’s duties accordingly as magistrate.”

Ivy could feel the heat leach from her body at this news.  She swallowed and did her best to maintain a calm exterior but her voice trembled ever so slightly none the less.  “In short, Mr. Banbury, you have come to claim Wisteria Castle,” she said.

“Quite correct,” Banbury said.  “I will, of course, give you time to make suitable arrangements to secure new lodgings.”

“Ah.”  While Ivy knew she no longer had a right to be here, with Esmond dead and no male heir to tie her to the estate, hearing the words spoken seemed so jarring to the ear.  “That is most kind of you, Mr. Banbury.  I had feared you would send me packing the moment you set foot upon the front step.”

He gave a short laugh.  “I may be many things, madam,” he said, “but cold and heartless are not among my qualities.”

“I see.  Well.  I shall be certain to remove myself before Mrs. Banbury arrives to assume the duties of Lady of the House.”

“Again, you presume incorrectly,” Banbury said.  “There is no Mrs. Banbury, unless it is my mother to which you refer.  I am as yet unmarried.”

“Oh?”  Ivy found this difficult to believe, given Graham Banbury’s striking appearance.  “Perhaps you will find one among the local populace.  There are many lovely young ladies of the proper marrying age to be found in Little Amberton.  You will be certain to have your pick of the lot.”

“Unlike my uncle, I am in no rush to be wed,” Banbury said, and Ivy saw his dark eyes narrow slightly with that proclamation.  There was a heavy note of disapproval in his tone, as well, which roused in her a feeling of insult.   

“To what do you refer, Mr. Banbury?” Ivy asked, a light frost forming on her words as they left her tongue.  “Would it perhaps have something to do with the fact that Lord Esmond decided to take a second wife too soon after the loss of his first?”

“As you insist upon knowing my complete and honest opinion on the matter,” he said formally, “then I shall reciprocate with the truth – but be warned, it may be too brutal for you to bear.”

“I assure you, Mr. Banbury,” Ivy quipped, “I have endured far worse.  I am much stronger than I look.”

“Good.  Because then you should know that it is widely believed among members of my family that my uncle, deluded by grief, had not been fully recovered from the death of the first Lady Letham, and in a desperate attempt to mend his broken heart he did allow himself to be ensnared by the charms of a young
localwoman
, and in haste entered into marriage with her.”

Ivy let out an indignant gasp.  “I find your insinuation quite offensive, sir!”

“Then why did you agree to marry a man so recently bereft of his wife?” Banbury demanded.  “Lady Letham had only been dead for six months when my uncle announced his intent to remarry, and to some poor country girl whose family held no titles.  It would appear that you had agreed to enter into this union simply for a chance at Lord Esmond’s estate.”

It took all of Ivy’s willpower not to strike him across the face, to punish him for these horrendous accusations as much as to silence the cold flow of his words.  Instead, she clenched her fists at her sides and choked back her rage.  She could have countered with a much darker portrait of the man she had, if only for a brief time, called ‘husband’ – not this noble saint of a person that Banbury and his family seemed to hold in such high regard, but instead a harsh, unfeeling man who had treated his livestock with more tenderness than he had ever shown her.  She could have told of how she had been reluctant to enter into this marriage, but she knew those claims would fall upon deaf ears simply because it was not a woman’s place to complain about such things.  All these words roiled in the back of her throat, dammed up by her sheer will to keep silent that they had formed a painful knot.  It took even greater effort for Ivy to swallow it all back, and as it sat heavy in the pit of her stomach, she managed to find her voice again.  “It would appear I am not the only one to make incorrect presumptions this day,” she said quietly, her face a rigid mask of indifference but her eyes burning with contempt.  “If you will excuse me, Mr. Banbury, I should like to begin preparations for my departure.  I believe the sooner I am gone from Wisteria Castle, the better it will be for all – you, your family…and myself.”

She curtseyed to him politely.  He took a moment before returning a stiff bow.  Properly dismissed, Ivy turned, gathered up her skirts, and ascended the stairs.  Only when she reached her rooms and had closed herself inside did she allow a sob to break free from her tightly compressed lips.  She began to think that Eleanor Banbury’s kindness had been nothing more than a ruse, that she had duped Ivy into believing she had been accepted.  Going by her son’s remarks, it would seem everyone in Esmond’s family felt only loathing for Ivy. 

“I never wanted this marriage.  I never wanted
any
of this!”  Falling upon her bed, Ivy buried her face into the down pillow, and wept. 

***