Scandal's Bride (31 page)

Snuggling her head on his chest, she forced herself to relax against him—forced herself to let her problems lie.

Until she could deal with them alone.

She was being silly. Overly sensitive.

The next morning, pacing before her office window, Catriona berated herself sternly. She still didn't know what she could, or should, do about the breeding stock—it was time she asked Richard for advice.

When viewed in the sane light of morning, the concerns that had prevented her from asking last night no longer seemed sufficient to stop her, excuse her, from taking the sensible course. Such silly sensitivity was unlike her.

She needed help—and she was reasonably sure he could give it. She recalled quite clearly how, at McEnery House, she'd been impressed with his knowledge of farming practices and estate management. It was senseless, in her time of need, not to avail herself of his expertise.

Frowning at the floor, she swung about and paced on.

He'd said nothing about leaving. It therefore behooved her to have faith, rather than credit him with making plans—plans he hadn't discussed with her. There was no reason at all for her to imagine he was leaving; she should assume that he was staying, that he would remain to support her as her consort, and not hie off to enjoy himself—alone—in London. He'd always behaved with consideration—she should recognize that fact.

And if asking him for advice, inviting him to take a more direct interest in the running of the vale, served to bind him to it—and to her—so be it.

Straightening, she drew in a deep breath, drew herself up that last inch, then glided to the door.

He was in the library; from her office, she took a minor corridor, rather than go around through the front hall. The corridor led to a secondary door set into the wall beside the library fireplace.

She reached it, confidence growing with every step, her heart lifting at the thought of asking him what she'd shied away from asking last night, of inviting him that next step deeper into her life. Grasping the doorknob, she turned it—as the door opened noiselessly, she heard voices.

Halting, the door open only a crack, she hesitated, then recognized Richard's deep “humph.”

“I imagine I'll start packing in a few days, sir. I don't like to rush things and it is very close to the end of January.”

A pause ensued, then Worboys spoke again. “According to Henderson, and Huggins, the thaw should set in any day now. I daresay it may take a week to clear the roads sufficiently, but, of course, the farther south we travel, the more the highways will improve.”

“Hmm.”

Frozen outside the door, her heart chilling, sinking, Catriona listened as Worboys continued: “The rooms in Jermyn Street will need freshening, of course. I wondered . . . perhaps you're thinking of looking in on the Dowager and the duke and duchess? If that were so, I could continue on to town and open up the rooms, ready for your return.”

“Hmm.”

“You'll want to be well settled before the Richmonds' ball, naturally. If I might suggest . . . a few new coats might be in order. And your boots, of course—we'll need to make sure Hoby remembers not to attach those tassles. As for linen . . .”

Deep in a letter from Heathcote Montague, Richard let Worboys's monologue drift past him. After eight years, Worboys knew perfectly well when he wasn't attending to him—and
he
knew perfectly well when his henchman was in a quandary.

In Worboys's case, the quandary was simple. He liked it here—and couldn't believe it. He was presently dusting the books on the shelves—in itself a most revealing act—and putting on a good show, trying to convince them both that they were shortly to up stakes and depart, when, in reality, he knew Richard had no such thoughts, and he, himself, did not want to go.

In what he viewed as a primitive backwater, Worboys had discovered heaven.

Not an inamorata in his case, but a household where he fitted in perfectly, like a missing link in a chain. The manor's household was unusual, without the lines of precedence Worboys had lived with all his professional life. Instead, it was a place that operated on friendship—a sort of kinship in serving their lady. It was a household where people had to rely on each other—have faith and confidence in each other—just to get through the yearly round of harsh weather and the short growing season, made even more difficult by their isolation.

It was a place where people felt valued for themselves; the household, in its rustic innocence, had welcomed Worboys to its bosom—and Worboys had fallen in love.

He was presently in deep denial—Richard recognized the signs. So he let Worboys ramble—he was really only talking to himself and convincing no one. Whenever Worboys paused and insisted on some response, he humphed or hmm'd and let it go at that. He saw no benefit in getting drawn into a discussion of things that were not going to happen.

His letter was far more interesting. Spurred by the Pottses' visit, he'd written to Montague, inquiring as to the current state of breeding stock, both in the southern and northern counties. He'd also asked Montague to locate the most highly regarded breeder in the Ridings, just south of the border, not too far from the vale.

“So, sir.” Pausing, Worboys drew in a deep breath. “If you just let me know when you've decided on the date, I'll proceed as we've discussed.”

Looking up, Richard met Worboys's gaze. “Indeed. When I decide to leave, you'll be the first to know.”

Inclining his head gravely, doubtless feeling much better after having got all his useless plans off his chest, Worboys picked up his duster and a pot of wilting flowers, and headed for the door.

Richard waited until it closed before letting his lips curve. Returning to his letter, he read to its end, then, smiling even more, laid it down, and stretched.

And noticed a draft. He glanced around and saw a door, so well fitted in the paneling he hadn't noticed it before, left ajar. Rising, he rounded the desk and crossed to the panel. Opening it farther, he found a dim secondary corridor. Empty. Inwardly shrugging, Richard closed the door—it could have been ajar for a week for all he knew.

Recrossing to the desk, he sat and pulled out a map of the surrounding counties. A Mister Owen Scroggs, cattle breeder extraordinaire, lived at Hexham. How far, Richard wondered, was Hexham from the vale?

If—
when
—his wife finally trusted him enough to ask for his assistance, his support, he wanted to have all the answers. All the right answers, at his fingertips.

H
e wasn't, in fact, a patient man.

Ever since receiving the information from Montague, he'd been watching for—waiting for—an opportunity to discuss the matter with his wife. To banish the shadows that seemed to grow, day by day, in her eyes.

Instead, four days later, he'd yet to discover a suitable moment to speak to her. Lounging in an archway not far from her office door, Richard, brooding darkly, kept his gaze on the oak panel and waited some more.

He had a bone-deep aversion to discussing business in their bed. There she remained her usual self, warmly wanton, sweetly taking him in and holding him tight, still insisting on trying to muffle her pleasured screams—he was conscious of a deep reluctance to do anything that might alter the openness that had grown between them there.

But her days were busy; she seemed constantly involved in meetings, or discussions, or in overseeing the household. And if she wasn't actually engaged in the above, she was surrounded by others—by McArdle, Mrs. Broom, or, worse still, Algaria. Even in the odd moments when he would come upon her alone, she was always rushing to be somewhere else.

Worse yet, he was starting to become seriously worried about her health. He was too well attuned to her not to sense the tension, the fragility, she hid beneath her cloak of serenity. He couldn't help but wonder if her pregnancy, which she'd yet to mention to him, was the cause of it—the sudden breathlessness that came upon her, and an emotional brittleness she tried hard to hide.

Those symptoms weren't there when she slid into his arms every night. He couldn't help wonder if, during the days, she was working herself too hard, rather than letting him ease the load so she could take better care of herself—and their child.

The office door opened; McArdle stumped out.

Richard straightened; he waited until McArdle disappeared down the corridor, then swiftly strolled to the office door. He hesitated for a moment, reminding himself that he couldn't demand, then opened the door—and strolled languidly in.

Seated behind her desk, Catriona looked up—Richard smiled easily, charmingly. And tried not to notice the clouds dimming her green eyes. “Are you busy?”

Catriona drew in a deep breath and looked down at the papers before her. “I am, actually. Henderson and Huggins—”

“I won't keep you above a moment.”

The words were drawled, nonchalant—unthreatening. Acutely conscious of him, Catriona forced herself to sit back in her chair and wait while he strolled, all idle elegance, to the window.

“Actually, I wondered if I might help you out, as you seem so rushed these days.”

Drawing a slow, steadying breath, Catriona turned her head and met his gaze. Swiftly—with a hope she could only just bear to acknowledge—she studied his face. It was an indolent mask of polite indifference; there was no hint of real commitment, real passion—of really wanting to help. No hint that the vale—and she—were seriously important to him.

He smiled, charming as ever, although she noticed the gesture didn't reach his eyes. A languid wave underscored his words: “There's nothing much for me to do here, so I've plenty of time free.”

Catriona fought to keep her expression blank, and succeeded. He was bored and could see she was busy, so he'd done the gentlemanly thing and offered to help. She had no trouble shaking her head brusquely and looking back at her letters. “There's really no need. I'm quite capable of handling the vale's business on my own.”

The words, uttered in a hard tone, were as much to convince herself of that fact as to decline his
gentlemanly
offer.

He hesitated, then said, a trace of steel in his tones: “As you wish.” With a graceful inclination of his head, he strolled out and left her to it.

The thaw arrived.

Two mornings later, Richard lay late in bed, listening to the steady drip of water from the eaves. Catriona had slipped from his arms early, whispering about a confinement, assuring him that she wasn't going out but that the mother-to-be was safe inside the manor.

Staring up at the dark red canopy, Richard tried to keep his thoughts from her, from the leaden feeling that, two days ago, had settled in his gut.

And failed.

Inwardly grimacing, he irritably reminded himself that failure was not something Cynsters indulged in—much less on the scale he was presently wallowing in.

He was failing on all fronts.

The new life he'd envisaged for himself at Catriona's side, once so full of promise and possibilities, had turned into a disappointment. A deep, deadening disappointment—he'd never felt so disillusioned with life as he felt now.

There was nothing for him here—nothing for him to do, nothing for him to be. Boredom now haunted him; his old restlessness—something he'd hoped he'd lost for all time in the kirk at Keltyburn—was growing.

Along with a dark, compelling sense of worthlessness—at least, in this place. In this vale—her vale.

He couldn't understand her.

From night to cockcrow, they were as close as a man and woman could be, but when morning came and she slipped from his arms, it was as if, along with her clothes, she donned some invisible mantle and became “the lady of the vale”—a woman with a calling, a position and a purpose in life, from all of which he was excluded.

While gentlemen of his station did not customarily share their wives' lives, he, very definitely, had expected to share hers. Still wanted to share hers. The prospect of sharing her responsibilities, of sharing it all as a mutual endeavor, and thus having a strong and abiding connection on a daily basis—that was certainly a large part of the attraction he felt for her. She was, he had thought, a woman he could share goals with, share achievements with.

Their marriage hadn't, so far, turned out that way.

He'd been careful of her, careful of pressuring her—he'd given her every chance to ask him for help, for assistance. He'd tried hard not to force her hand—and got nowhere.

For long moments, his gaze locked on the dark red above him, he considered the obvious alternative—the action his Cynster self strongly urged. He could, very easily, take over the reins and steer their marriage into the paths he wanted it to follow. He was not a naturally passive person; he wouldn't normally endure a situation he didn't like. Normally, he'd simply change it.