Suzanne Robinson (29 page)

And he was drunk. Oh, he could stand. He could conduct conversation as if he were out for a drive in Hyde Park. But Nick stood at his side, surreptitiously supporting him with a steadying arm.

She hadn’t let herself think about her own wedding in many years. Not since her botched season. She had never thought to find a man who would want her as she was. Why dream of something you couldn’t have? Yet all the while, somewhere, she had cherished a girl’s wish—ivory lace, roses, a country chapel. Foolish, trite, unattainable. Gone now, forever.

She had married a man who didn’t want her, and who had to drink himself into numbness to make himself say his vows. The thought brought stinging tears to her eyes, and she hissed at herself silently not to disgrace herself by bawling in front of six men.
Think of Toby and Aggie and Maisy. Think of little Peg and all the other children. You can’t send them to the streets
. She gripped her reticule, which should have been a bouquet.

Jocelin guided her to a table. She signed something. He signed too, as did the others. Before she recovered from her battle with unshed tears, she
found herself in the entrance hall. Jocelin settled her mantle on her shoulder, and she glanced up at him.

He gave her a bored smile. “Time to go, my dear wife.”

She glanced about for protection, but everyone had gone except Nick, who was stuffing Jocelin into his coat.

“Now you leave off, Jos.”

Jocelin mumbled something she couldn’t hear.

“I’m coming along to see you don’t do any such thing,” Nick said. “So you behave yourself. She’s not to blame for the old bastard’s doings.”

“Go away, Nick.”

“Not just yet, old love. I can’t let you loose when you’re as drunk as a costermonger on Boxing Day.”

To Liza’s surprise and gratitude, Nick escorted them to the train station and deposited Jocelin in his private car. Jocelin refused to be helped aboard, so Nick lifted Liza up the steps after him. Jocelin marched ahead of them with a kind of swaying stomp, crashed into a sideboard, ricocheted over to a sofa, and collapsed on it. He remained there, staring out the window at the gaslit station.

She didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved. Nick cheerfully lifted his friend’s legs onto the sofa. He removed Jocelin’s hat and admonished him to rest. Loveday appeared, carrying Liza’s night case and another, which must have been Jocelin’s. At Liza’s wild glance, he bowed and nodded at Jocelin.

“We have provided for your ladyship’s comfort by sending for your ladyship’s things.” Loveday made a rumbling sound in his throat when his master refused to take his gaze from the window. “We seem to have begun our connubial celebrations a trifle early.”

“He’s damned drunk,” Nick said.

“Indeed, sir.” Loveday left looking as if one of the palace guard had told secrets to the enemy.

Liza dropped onto an ottoman and stared around her helplessly at the velvet drapes, the bright brass-trimmed stove, the leather upholstery, her new husband. He hadn’t. Yes, he had. He’d slid down on the sofa and closed his eyes. The beast was taking a nap.

One of Jocelin’s hands lay on top of the blanket he’d pulled over himself. The long, slim fingers splayed out. It could have been the hand of an artist, if not for the rough areas on the forefinger caused by handling a revolver and the reins of a horse. She remembered how strong those fingers were, and yet how gentle they could be when they touched her cheek. Biting her lip to keep from shedding more tears, Liza glanced away from him.

“How long, Nick?”

“Hold on, old girl. We’ll be there just after midnight.”

Nick was right. They arrived in a deserted station close onto half past twelve. Liza had been in no mood to confide further in Nick, especially since he kept urging her to bare herself to Jocelin. Finally he gave up his attempts when Jocelin woke.

Two carriages drove up as they alighted, and soon they were on their way, leaving Loveday to attend to the heavy luggage. Nick took the second carriage to his own house, while Liza was left with her furious husband. After a silent carriage ride through dark countryside, they drove past a long, rectangular pond and up to a lighted house built entirely of white stone.

This was Jocelin’s idea of a small house. A set of massive glass doors were flanked by columns built to
resemble Roman triumphal arches. Behind them rose a dome over what was probably a salon. Double, curved flights of stairs led up to the entrance and softened the formal lines of the house.

Even in her misery Liza could perceive the tranquil beauty of Reverie’s design. Once she would have longed to explore it, but now she wouldn’t have time. She’d already made up her mind not to stay.

A butler and housekeeper and several footmen came out to greet them. Liza stepped into what seemed to be an ancient Roman atrium. Surrounded by fluted alabaster columns, she glanced up at the curved ceiling. Putti bearing garlands frolicked around the perimeter. She glanced to her right and left down galleries in the same muted color. No garish red damask here.

While she gazed at a succession of Greek and Roman statues in alcoves. Jocelin spoke to the butler and left. Then the housekeeper, whose name was, improbably, Mrs. Kettle, showed Liza to her chamber.

Exhausted, Liza tried to be complimentary about the room for the housekeeper’s sake. She praised the parchment-color plasterwork with its gilded garlands that swept in graceful curves around the crown molding. She nodded her appreciation when the woman pointed out the columned recess that sheltered a bed with a headboard carved with a great double shell design.

After appropriately praising the cream-and-gold hangings, she dismissed Mrs. Kettle. She was removing her mantle when she heard voices. Throwing open a set of double doors, she encountered two footmen dragging Jocelin’s trunks into a room done in white and pale green and dominated by a four-poster rosewood bed.

Liza clasped her hands and squeezed tight. The butler came in to direct his underlings.

“Is there anything you require before I make his lordship comfortable, my lady?”

How had they known she’d married him? As Liza shook her head wordlessly, a man’s figure filled the threshold. Jocelin paused there, hair tousled and black waves about his face, his jaw set. Liza hastened back the way she came. Praying he wouldn’t follow, she closed the doors. There was a key in the lock. She turned it, and sighed her relief. Rushing to the door that led to the landing, she locked it as well.

As she began to unbutton the bodice of her afternoon gown, she muttered to herself. “He didn’t fool me. Swimming in whiskey. I hope he’s sick as a pregnant girl in the morning. I hope he pukes until his tonsils fly out of his throat. I hope his head swells until it’s the size of a pumpkin.”

She stopped unbuttoning her gown. What was she doing? He might try to come in. He might do anything in his state. How much had he drunk? She began fastening her gown while she listened to the sounds of unpacking next door. The footmen left, but she heard Loveday’s voice, moderated, polite, firm. She heard a querulous protest from Jocelin. A quiet repetition from Loveday. Soft sounds of drawers being opened and shut. A door closed. Silence.

She waited, hardly daring to draw breath. Minutes passed in a torment of uncertainty. She couldn’t endure this waiting. Tiptoeing to the connecting door, she unlocked it and eased it open a crack. The room was dark. Good.

Made brave by the lack of light, she crept inside to listen to the sound of Jocelin’s breathing. Deep, heavy breaths. Liza sighed as she stepped into the
dim path of light cast from her own room. It bathed a bare arm and shoulder. He moved, and she almost cried out. Then she realized he’d turned on his side toward her. His face rested on his hand, and she wondered how he could look so defenseless when she knew how unfeeling and vicious he could be.

As she watched, those eyes opened, and she cried out. Poised to run, she nearly screamed when he spoke.

“Sorry to disappoint you, honey. If I touch you right now, I’ll puke.”

She whirled, bolted into her room, and locked herself inside. As she hovered on the other side of the door, she heard his laugh, muffled by pillows. Sparks of lightning arced up her spine while she listened. She couldn’t endure this fear, the worry that he might suddenly pounce upon her. Furious at being intimidated, she gathered her courage along with a candle, and threw the door open again. He wasn’t going to treat her like an ill-fitting boot.

She tramped into the room and slammed the candle holder down on a night table. Jocelin sprang upright. He fumbled beneath his pillow and cursed at finding nothing beneath it. Brushing back a shock of black hair from his face, he blinked at Liza.

“Are you awake?”

“Hang it! I am now. Ow, my head.”

Liza went to a cabinet and found a decanter. She returned to the bed and thrust it into his hands. “Drink this. It will make you feel much worse.”

Jocelin glared at her and put the decanter on the night table. The movement must have cost him, for he subsided into his pillows, moaned, and buried his forehead in his palms.

“Go away.”

“I intend to. That’s what I’ve come to tell you. I don’t know why I let you terrify me into coming here.”

With his head still buried, Jocelin mumbled at her. “Because if you don’t obey me, I won’t save Pennant’s.”

“But I married you.”

“And because I’m your husband and it is my wish that you remain here. Now go away like an obedient little wife. Loveday gave me a headache powder, and I want to get some sleep.”

“Are you going to undo the damage you’ve done to my business?”

“Bloody hell. Not married a full day and already beset with a nagging wife.”

“My insisting that you keep your word isn’t nagging,” she said.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes. I’ll fix it tomorrow morning if it will get you to leave me alone tonight. Oh, my head.”

“And you’re not going to … to … to …”

Jocelin sunk down under the covers and clutched his head. “Not tonight. Ow! See what you’ve done? I raise my voice because of you, and now my head feels like a boiled onion.”

“I’m not staying here.”

“Bloody hell.”

He sprang from the bed before she could retreat. He grabbed her arm and swung her around to face him. Why was it that he seemed larger naked than clothed? Liza edged away from him and kept her gaze from dipping below his chest.

“I can always set about ruining Pennant’s again if you leave,” he said. “But you won’t. You’ve worked too hard to be called ‘my lady.’ Once you’re over your
snit about your fancy wedding, you’ll calm down. Next you’ll begin whining about balls and cotillions and dinner parties. God, I’m doomed.”

“Then why did you do it?” Liza’s fears of being pounced upon eased as she watched Jocelin rub his temple with his free hand. “Is Nick telling the truth?”

“What are you talking about, woman?” He groaned and pressed his palm to his forehead.

Liza dared a glance at him from head to foot. Jocelin was taller than her father by several inches, and much broader in the shoulders. His muscles curved inward toward the center of his chest to form a deep valley that pointed down toward his groin. She hadn’t the nerve to examine him there, and directed her gaze to the long, thick curve of his thigh. Her glance strayed to his face. His eyes were closed as he rubbed his forehead, so she darted a look at his hips, then looked down at his ankles. Heavens, what a man. Were they all so … so generously made?

And he possessed a frightening ruthlessness. Calming, now that he wasn’t using that ruthlessness against her, she began to consider Nick’s opinions seriously for the first time. Certainly she would never have expected Jocelin to submit so easily to Papa.

Jocelin released her to sink back down on the bed and groaned while pinching the bridge of his nose. As he did so, Liza’s curiosity, which had been buried under the weight of her own fears, surfaced. Why hadn’t he simply stuck his Colt in Papa’s face and threatened to kill him? Even Papa would have given over upon being faced with Jocelin in his tranquil killer guise.

Her husband toppled over on his side and groaned again. Liza surveyed him while she tapped a contemplative finger against her chin.

“My lord, we have to talk.”

He moaned. “Not now. And don’t try to leave.”

“We have to thrash this muddle out calmly.”

Jocelin rose up abruptly and lunged at her. He hauled her close and snarled at her.

“I’m not so drunk I can’t throw up your skirts and consummate this hell-cursed marriage.”

Liza wrenched out of his grasp. His fingers curled in the mass of her skirts as she twisted. The silk ripped, but she raced for the safety of her bedroom. Once more she began to close the door, and as it shut, she caught a glimpse of him, blatantly naked and confident. He lay back, leering at her, the blue silk trailing from his fingers.

“Next time, honey, I won’t stop at your skirts.”

She slammed the door once again. The lock clicked, and she heard him chuckle. Heavens, she wanted to kick the door. No, she wanted to kick him as usual.

She had to talk to him. She had to, before he decided to avenge himself on her by trying to make her into his so-called proper wife. Ha! What he wanted was a sort of connubial bond servant. He wasn’t going to get one though.

How could she stop him? She could threaten to tell Papa. Papa wouldn’t care. She could threaten to reveal his secret crusade. No. Jocelin didn’t react well to her threats. Besides, she couldn’t really expose him, and thus couldn’t back up her threat. And there was no telling what he might do to her if she angered him further.

Liza stared at the closed door. What was wrong with her? Why had she baited him? She was Miss Elliot, owner of Pennant’s Domestic Agency. She managed dozens of employees. She could reason with
the most capricious of customers. Why hadn’t she reasoned with this man?

Reason, that was the answer. Logic and reason. Calm discussion in the light of day. By tomorrow both she and Jocelin would have composed themselves. Surely they could work out an understanding, some sort of detached rapprochement. She could see that Jocelin was suffering, despite his show of belligerence.