Seduced by His Touch (27 page)

“Our marriage,” she said quietly. “I don’t think it’s going to work. You said you’d buy me a house. Did you?”

“A house?” he repeated, as though he didn’t understand the word.

“Yes. As part of the agreement between us, you promised me a house in the country and half the money my father paid you in the settlement. Have you…have you followed through on your promise?”

He paused before answering. “Yes…um…actually, I have, some while ago. But I didn’t think you would be making use of either of them, given how well we’ve been doing these past weeks. I thought you seemed happy.”

She blinked away the moisture in her eyes. “Appearances can often be deceiving. The Season is nearly done and I’ve more than fulfilled my side of the bargain. It’s your turn to reciprocate now.”

A long silence descended, every bit of expression leaving his face. “You want to proceed with the separation?”

No! Tell me to stop talking and make me take it all back.

“I think it’s for the best,” she heard herself say.

“For the best?” he retorted, his voice taking on a harsh cast. “So because of what happened tonight, because of one meaningless kiss with Philipa Stockton, you’re going to throw it all away? Throw us away?”

“I don’t think there is an us, not in the way you mean. We’re admittedly very compatible in bed and enjoy each other’s company on occasion. But as for a sustainable relationship, I don’t think we have one. Tonight merely served to illustrate that fact.”

Don’t let me go. Tell me you won’t hear of it and that you absolutely refuse to let me leave.

He folded his arms across his chest. “So you want to live apart?”

No! I don’t want to ever be apart. Tell me you don’t either. Tell me you can’t bear to be without me. Say you love me!

But he didn’t say anything. And she didn’t express the wishes tumbling through her mind and screaming inside her heart.

At length, she drew a breath, her tone listless with resignation. “Yes, it’s what I want.”

He gazed at her then, his eyes cold and remote. “It will be as you wish then. I’ll send word to have the house prepared for your arrival. The money is already in an account, established in your name alone. My solicitor will see to it you have all the particulars. Is there anything else you require?”

“No,” she whispered.

Nothing else. Everything is over and done with now.

Straightening, he gave a curt bow, as though she were a stranger instead of his wife, then turned and walked to the doorless threshold that connected their rooms. “I’ll have this repaired in the morning,” he said.

Hefting the battered door, he stepped backward through the opening into his room, moving to prop the wood so that it covered the majority of the opening. “If you have need of me this evening, I’ll be in my study,” he stated in an unnaturally soft voice.

And that’s when she realized he would not be coming to her bed tonight. He would never be coming to her bed again.

Standing still and silent, she listened to his footsteps as he made his way through his sitting room, then out into the corridor beyond. Once she couldn’t hear him any longer, she walked to her bed, clutching her chest as though she feared her heart would cease to beat.

Perhaps it already has,
she thought as she lay across the counterpane.
I’m broken and will never mend again.

Hot tears slid over her cheeks, soundless and devastating. And as she’d feared, she didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

A
week later, he and Grace left London.

Rather than set rumors swirling among the Ton, they’d agreed that it would be easier to depart together, then go their separate ways once they were away from Town. The plan served a second purpose as well, since it would help deflect difficult questions from their families—at least for a short while.

They’d already answered enough awkward questions as it was, starting the morning after the Pettigrews’ ball. Concerned about Grace and her uncharacteristic behavior, the Byrons had descended to make sure she was well. Rather than admit the truth, Grace had fallen back on the excuse of illness and pleaded overexertion and fatigue. Jack had seconded her claim, saying a physician had already been called and that Grace just needed some extra rest.

He could tell that his family—his mother in particular—wasn’t sure whether to believe them or not, but in the end, nothing more was said and the explanation was accepted.

Luckily, news of Meg’s pregnancy helped circumvent further speculation—everyone was too cheerful over the prospect of a new baby to pay much attention to the tension between him and Grace.

He used the same explanation a few days later when he informed everyone that he and Grace would be leaving for the countryside a few weeks earlier than originally planned. It was late enough in the Season that many families were already shaking off the heat of the city for cooler country climes, so their early departure would cause little comment.

So here he and Grace were now, traveling into Kent. The journey to the house he’d chosen for her wouldn’t take more than a few hours. Once there, he would see to it that she was comfortably settled, then he would depart.

For where, he still wasn’t certain.

As he well knew, he couldn’t go back to London—not for several weeks, anyway. And even if he were so inclined—which he most certainly was not—Braebourne was out of the question as well, since his family would be returning home before too long.

There was always Adam Gresham’s hunting box in Scotland, he supposed. Perhaps a trip into the northern wilds would be just the thing. And Gresham was a generous sort, so Jack knew he wouldn’t object to letting him open up the place for a few weeks.

Then again, he didn’t know if he wanted to risk the possibility of company should Gresham and some of his friends decide to join him there. Naturally, they would inquire after Grace, and he had no stomach for their questions and speculation.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her shift slightly on the upholstered seat, her lovely profile in view as she gazed out the window at the passing scenery.

For a moment, he couldn’t help but stare, tracing the familiar contours of her face, aware exactly how soft her skin would feel and how sweet her mouth would taste were he to lean across for a kiss.

Abruptly, he turned away, his chest tight with an anger that had consumed him ever since that dreadful night at the Pettigrews’ ball. Even now, he couldn’t believe she was leaving him. And part of him couldn’t believe he was letting her go.

He’d thought about confronting her again, declaring himself and his love for her. But she’d made it clear that whatever tender feelings she might once have held no longer existed. She’d made her choice.

She wanted her freedom.

She didn’t want him.

At length, the coach rolled to a stop in front of the house.

Her house.

After letting the footman help her down, he followed, casting an idle glance at the stately Georgian manse, with its red brick exterior and multitude of windows. She’d wanted lots of light and sunshine for her painting. She would find it here in this dwelling. And also in the big garden, where she could carry her easel and draw to her heart’s content.

He waited in the front parlor, refusing to do more than take off his hat, while the housekeeper took Grace on a tour. Only a few minutes later, she returned.

“Does the house meet with your approval?” he asked.

“Yes. Even more so than I expected,” she said in a quiet voice. “It’s absolutely lovely.”

Unable to look at her, he set his hat on his head. “If you have everything you require, I shall take my leave. You need only write should you find anything that is not to your liking.”

“I am certain I shall be more than comfortable.”

“Well then, I bid you adieu.”

He strode to the doorway, intending to walk through without another word or glance.

Instead he stopped on the threshold, one hand curled against the frame as he looked back. “Grace?”

She met his gaze, her eyes looking very grey.

And for a moment, he very nearly poured out his heart, very nearly begged.

“Enjoy your independence, Grace,” he said instead.

Then, before he could disgrace himself, he turned on his heel and strode into the hallway and out the door. Stepping into the coach, he gave the order to drive on. To where, he still had no idea.

From inside the parlor, Grace stood motionless. Part of her wanted to run after him. Another part told her to let him leave.

Then suddenly it was too late, as Jack’s coachman gave a shout that set the horses in motion. Running to the window, she watched until the coach vanished from sight. Even then, she stood, one hand on the glass, as if she could call him back.

She didn’t know how long she waited there, time slowing to an indistinct beat. The sun shifted in the sky, but she noticed it only as a change in the light and not as an indication of the waning day.

A brief knock came at the parlor door. “Excuse the interruption, my lady,” the housekeeper said. “But will you be wanting dinner soon? We can serve it in the dining room, if you’d like?”

Dinner?
No, she wouldn’t be able to eat a bite. In fact, the very idea of food made her queasy.

“Just tea, I think,” she told the servant. “And a bath. I’m very tired from the journey.”

The housekeeper paused for a moment, then gave a nod. “You go on upstairs, your ladyship, and we’ll see to you right and tight. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

Following the woman’s suggestion, she did as she was bade.

Nearly a month later, Grace slid her paintbrush into a water-filled pottery jug set on the small table next to her painting. Leaning back in the cane-backed chair the footman had also carried out into the garden for her earlier that morning, she studied her latest efforts.

Lackluster,
she thought.
And dull.
With none of her usual creative spark.

But then she supposed her artistic endeavors were merely a reflection of her mood of late, which was also lackluster, dull—and if she were being brutally honest—relentlessly melancholy.

Yet she couldn’t assign any of the blame for her sad disposition on her new place of residence.

The house was beautiful, with comfortable, well-appointed rooms and gracious amenities. The servants were uniformly cheerful and exceptionally well-trained. The nearby village was comprised of charming shops, thriving townsfolk, and a fine old Anglican church that tried to keep everyone’s sins in check, especially on Sundays. Her neighbors were a friendly lot, but respectful—seeming to understand her need for solitude without ever being asked to provide it.

And then there was the expansive garden that ran the length of the rear of the house—lush with color and fragrances that seemed to burst from every branch and bloom. Whoever had designed it possessed a keen eye for beauty, each plant chosen with obvious care and an affinity for nature.

She’d even acquired a new cat from its depths, a stray orange tom she found wandering among the hydrangea bushes one morning. An offered dish of milk and he’d been her bosom beau ever since. She’d decided to call him Ranunculus because Buttercup was far too feminine a name for such a large and impressive male. She gazed at him now where he slept in the sunshine, basking like a small potentate in the heat of the day.

If only she could take the same delight. Instead, the humid, mid-August air pressed upon her like a wet, woolen blanket. Mayhap that was the cause of her blue devils.

That and Jack. But she refused to dwell on him.

Her hands squeezed into fists on her lap as she willed away the ache in her breast.

Since the day they’d parted, she’d heard nothing from him. Her only contact had been a few letters forwarded by his man of business—and all those had been from friends and family, including Meg, Mallory and Ava.

So far, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to divulge the details of her separation from Jack. And from the tenor of the missives she’d received, she gleaned that he hadn’t either.

The news would have to be shared soon though, she knew, but for the time being, she’d glossed over such particulars in her letters of reply in favor of more cheerful subjects.

As for Jack, the only thing she knew for certain was that he had not returned to London. Otherwise, she had no knowledge of his whereabouts.

Probably at a party in the country. Drinking, gaming and wenching with nary a thought for me.

Her stomach churned at the notion. But such circumstances were inevitable now. They’d said their good-byes. Their lives were now their own and she would be well-advised to get on with hers.

If only I could,
she mused, casting another glance at her currently dismal painting. She was debating whether to forge onward with another attempt when a wave of exhaustion swept through her.

Sighing, she closed her eyes and prayed it would pass.

Over the past several days, she’d been struggling with what seemed like a case of the summer ague. Yet oddly enough, she had no fever, and her symptoms seemed to come and go with no apparent rhyme or reason.

In general, the worst of her malaise struck in the morning, when she would wake and be forced to fly from the bed in search of the nearest basin. Once she’d emptied her stomach in great shuddering heaves, she would crawl back into bed, then sleep like the dead. Usually, by the time she awakened, her queasiness would be gone, in its place a ravenous hunger that demanded immediate appeasement.

Then there was her weariness, bouts of irresistible sleepiness that would come over her at the most unlikely and inconvenient times of the day. One noontime, in fact, she’d gone into the library to get a book and ended up spending the whole afternoon curled up asleep on the sofa.

She supposed she ought to consult a physician, but she hated the bother of it, telling herself her present affliction would soon pass.

Only it didn’t seem to be going away, not given her current tiredness.

Laying down her paintbrush, she wiped her fingers on a handkerchief, then stood.

Her head swam in a sudden, dizzying circle, blood thrumming in audible beats between her ears. Reaching out, she gripped the table edge and held on, fighting the blackness that threatened to engulf her. Swaying, she willed the vertigo to pass lest she crumple into an unconscious heap.

Stars above, what kind of malady do I have?
she wondered as the worst of her dizziness began to fade. Not only was she periodically sick to her stomach and incredibly fatigued but now she was dizzy too!

For some reason, the thought of being dizzy triggered a memory of a comment Meg had made in one of her last letters.

Dizziness. Naps. The only thing Meg hadn’t mentioned was being sick in the morning. Or put another way, she hadn’t complained of
morning sickness!
And now that Grace considered it, her menses was late. Very, very late!

Oh, dear heavens,
Grace realized, as she let out a whooshing breath and sat down hard on the chair.

I’m with child!

Jack came awake with a start and gazed bleary-eyed across the room, with its shelves of leather-bound books and glass-fronted cabinets full of knickknacks and antiquarian items.

For a few moments, his mind stayed blank. But then recognition set in.

The cottage,
he thought.

He was in the cottage where he and Grace had spent their honeymoon. Inside the library where he’d passed so much time during that first dreadful week.

What insanity ever possessed me to come back here?
he wondered for the hundredth time.
I really should be carted off to Bedlam for such a stupid idea.

But after leaving Grace nearly a month ago, he’d been like a ship without a rudder, floundering and cast adrift. And so he’d come to the only place that made sense at the time. The only place he could be at peace.

Only he wasn’t at peace.

He was in hell.

Every room overflowed with memories of Grace, as though she were a ghost who haunted him wherever he went. Everywhere, that is, but here in this library. During her brief residence, she’d rarely been in this room, so the memories weren’t as strong. Because of that, he used the space as a refuge.

He supposed he ought to have packed his luggage and departed by now, but where would he go? He had no interest in staying at an inn. And even less in staying with friends. Unlike Cade, he’d never acquired an estate of his own, and he couldn’t set foot in London for a couple more weeks. Besides, the town house would be even worse than this cottage, with far more memories of Grace to be endured.

Yawning, he rubbed a hand over the heavy growth of bristle lining his throat and cheeks. He hadn’t shaved in days. He hadn’t felt like it, spending most of his time wallowing in cheroots, long walks and solitude.

As for sleep, he got very little.