Suzanne Robinson (30 page)

After all, she had to admit, if only to herself, that he had been the victim. Perhaps she’d been hasty in condemning him for suspecting her. Especially since she really had been spying on him. Yes, she’d been as foolhardy as he in placing blame before listening to explanations.

If she could convince Jocelin that she hadn’t been a part of Papa’s scheme, they could stop fighting. Perhaps they could even remain married. The nobility abounded with marriages in which the two partners rarely saw each other.

She would reason with him tomorrow. She only hoped that he was capable of reason. So far he reacted to her only with anger and lust. Somehow she would reason with him, because, as unhappy as he made her, if she remained at Reverie, she might fall in love with him again. That she couldn’t allow. No matter how beautiful he was, she wouldn’t love him again.

J
ocelin had managed to avoid pain and temptation for five whole days. He fanned his cards out and stared at them without seeing them as Nick, Asher, Winthrop, and Coombes took turns betting. He’d entertained them at dinner and gambling for the past week, thus sparing himself the torture of having to be with Liza.

This evening had been the same as the last four. Liza had dined in her room while he and his friends had eaten below. He congratulated himself on conceiving a strategy for living with his new wife. He wouldn’t see her, except in passing.

He’d awakened the morning after their marriage with a swollen head and twitchy stomach to find her
standing over him. She had demanded that they talk when all he wanted to do was find a chamber pot. Later, after his bout with the chamber pot, she had attacked again. Exhorting him to listen to her, she launched into an explanation of her behavior that he hadn’t understood because of the surgical needles ripping at his eyes and the throbbing at the back of his head. His temper exploded like a misfired cannon, and they fought.

To end the battle, he’d thrust her into her room and locked the door only to be confronted with Loveday’s disapproval.

“We have engaged in nothing but unbecoming conduct in our dealings with our wife.”

“Is that so? Then you can deal with her. We haven’t the patience.”

Thus he conceived the Rules of Matrimony, which he passed on to his wife through Loveday. There weren’t many. To make certain she understood, he’d written then down. Liza was to take her meals in her room. He would eat in the dining room. (After all, it was his house.) She wasn’t to ride or walk when he was riding or walking. (His house and gardens and lands.) She wasn’t to occupy a room if he was in it. She was to take tea in the morning room, while he refreshed himself in the blue room upstairs. She wasn’t to talk to him or write notes to him. She could communicate with him through Loveday.

The Rules of Matrimony would save him from his own desire for revenge, from his desire for her, from the pain of being confronted with a woman who pretended to care for him when all she wanted was a title. Loveday had taken to calling her Lady Elizabeth. The attribution rankled. She didn’t deserve it.

He had expected protests at the rules. She never
did what he expected. Liza had followed the guidelines scrupulously. Now she was a whiff of lemon in a passageway, the swish of silk and lace in the next room, the scrape of pen on paper, the tap of heels on floorboards. He hated it.

Jocelin threw down his cards. Leaning back, he drew on his cigar and watched the others play. Intent on his own thoughts, he was slow to notice when the others paused. Nick kicked him under the table, and he turned to find Liza standing on the threshold of the smoking room.

It was the first time he’d looked at her in days. How had she grown so pale? She’d been given the same fare as he. Perhaps it was that dress, pink and mauve organdy, that gave her a frail air to which he wasn’t accustomed. Her first words dispelled the air of delicacy.

“I want to talk to you.”

He scowled at Nick and the others as they all stood. He remained seated and puffed on his cigar.

“I have guests.”

“I don’t care.”

He glanced at Archer, who was studying him with a pained expression.

“Ah, gentlemen,” Jocelin said lightly. “As you can see, brides are a trial. So excitable. Women and their frail nerves, their limited understanding. No doubt my lady has upset herself over some domestic trifle. I’ll see you in the morning, Liza.”

He had hoped to embarrass her into leaving. She did flush, but instead of crumpling under the weight of masculine condescension, she put her hands on her corseted waist and narrowed her eyes at him.

“If you don’t talk to me, your flock of fellow
roosters are going to hear what I have to say along with you.”

Jocelin tossed his cigar on the table, thrust his chair back, and walked to her. He bent over her and whispered so that only she could hear.

“You’re leaving, and if you ever embarrass me in front of my friends again, I’ll flip your skirts and burn your bottom for you. And you’ll be lucky if I don’t do it where they can cheer me on.”

Without waiting for her to reply, he escorted her into the hall, upstairs, and into her room. He went so fast, she had no breath to spare in her efforts to keep from being dragged the whole way. As he shoved her into the room, she wrenched free. He hesitated in his retreat, for as she turned away, he glimpsed a wet cheek. She was crying, but silently. She didn’t complain. She didn’t beg him to stay and speak with her. Back straight, head held erect, she walked to a small writing desk and placed one hand on it for support.

In that moment he realized what had been bothering him since he’d made up his rules. She had reacted with dignity, with grace. No tearful entreaties, no foul-tempered screeching passed her lips. He contemplated her stiff back, the curve of her shoulder above the filmy organdy sleeve of her gown. Had he made a mistake?

“Get out,” she said quietly. “And if you ever embarrass me before others again, you’ll wish you’d married Medusa instead of me.”

No, he hadn’t made a mistake. He returned to his friends, leaving her standing alone by the desk, her back as straight as ever. In the smoking room he found Nick waiting for him.

“Where are the others?”

Nick waved a brandy glass. “Gone home, love.
You frightened them off, tearing into the lady like that.”

“Damn.”

Jocelin found his cigar and lit it again in the fireplace.

“No use brooding,” Nick said as he joined him by the fire. “Take my advice and talk to the girl. She’s a sweet thing. Not at all like her pa.”

“If she’s so sweet, you take her.”

“And have you come after me with that revolver of yours? No, thank you.” Nick waited, sipping his brandy. “Oh, come on. None of us can stick you like this.”

Jocelin cursed and braced himself against the mantel.

“Do you know what it’s like to want a woman who’s tricked you and used you? God, I want to beat her and take her to bed at the same time. I can’t sleep. I can’t read. I can’t ride without thinking of her. If I’m not hating her, I’m lusting after her. She’s killing me.”

“You bloody fool, why don’t you settle with her?”

“There’s no solution to having a wife who trapped you into marriage.”

“Damned if you aren’t a stubborn sod.” Nick swirled his brandy while they listened to the hiss of the fire. “Got a new fowling piece. Been collecting, you know. Got a lot of antique weapons in me new gun room at the lodge. Come over tomorrow morning.”

Jocelin shrugged.

“Now don’t you be turning your nose up at me, old love. I got something to show you at the lodge. You be there.”

“I’m not interested in old guns.”

“It ain’t a gun, simpleton.”

“Go away, Nick. I’ll come if you’ll just go away.”

After a sleepless night, Jocelin kept his promise to visit Nick’s lodge. A former Elizabethan hunting box, the Hart Lodge lay on the estate Nick had purchased next to Jocelin’s lands. He rode his hunter there and hardly noticed the bright spring sunshine and new grass that rippled in the still-cold breeze.

At Hart Lodge he endured a lecture on single-shot muzzle-loading pistols, flintlock and wheellock pistols, flintlock rifles and muzzle-loading rifles. He was examining a French flintlock holster pistol when he heard the crunch of carriage wheels on the gravel drive. He gave Nick a questioning look, but his friend shook his head.

“Probably the new estate manager.”

He handed Jocelin a muzzle-loading fowling piece. Jocelin gripped the long barrel and settled the butt into his shoulder. As he aimed at a budding tree through the window, someone came into the gun room. He swung around, still aiming the fowling piece. Into his sights swam curves upholstered in a dove gray traveling suit. Jet black curls, violet eyes. Jocelin swore and lowered the gun.

“Ida Birch, what are you doing here?”

“Now don’t you come all over high and mighty,” Nick said as he went to greet Miss Birch. “I invited her to stay with me.”

Jocelin cradled the fowling piece in his arms and lifted a brow. “You invited my mistress for a visit?”

“Why not?” Miss Birch said as she removed her gloves and cast a hurt glance at him. “I’ve had nothing to do for ages.”

“You still have your house and your allowance,” Jocelin said.

Miss Birch shook her gloves at him. “For how
long? I know what it means when a gentleman pays the bills but never calls. You’re sticking your fingers in other pies.” She put her hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Nicky said you were sorry for neglecting me and thought you needed cheering up, so of course I came. I require tea and cakes and then a bath. And then you may take me riding. Now where is my maid? Elsie? Elsie, mind you don’t lose my jeweled bow.”

Calling to her maid in her high, little girl’s voice, Miss Birch left. Jocelin lifted the fowling piece and slowly walked toward Nick, who threw out his hands and backed away.

“You bastard,” Jocelin said.

“Now wait, love. I was thinking of you.”

“Two women. Two.” Jocelin changed direction when Nick did and backed him into a corner. “You were thinking of me? How were you thinking of me? Thinking of new and more exquisite ways for me to suffer? A wife and a mistress. Both. Within a few miles of each other.”

“But you said you didn’t want to touch your wife.”

“I want to touch her all right. Hang it, that’s all I want, day and night.”

“Well then,” Nick said with a satisfied smile, “there you are. Console yourself with Miss Birch until you can redeem yourself to Liza.”

“Redeem myself? Me? I’m the victim here. Not her.”

“Whatever.”

Nick brushed past him and began replacing antique guns in their mountings on the walls of the gun room. He kept one aside, a small Italian snaphance pistol with engraved gold fittings.

“I’ve got to take this to a gunsmith in the
village,” he said. “You will give Miss Birch my regrets.”

“Oh, no. You stay here.”

Nick was already out the door. Jocelin followed him, speeding up as he realized that Nick’s hunter was already out front and ready.

“You come back here.”

He grabbed the reins as Nick turned his horse, but Nick hauled them out of reach.

“Won’t be gone long, old love.”

Gravel sprayed over Jocelin’s boots as the animal launched into a trot. Jocelin cursed his friend, then stomped around to a stable to call for his own mount. His frustration elevated when he found that his hunter had been released in a back paddock to graze. A groom would have to find and catch the animal, then groom and saddle him. Sorely tried, Jocelin trudged back to the lodge, where he was forced to endure taking tea with Miss Birch.

Birch, he had to admit, had been an excellent mistress. She never asked for more than he was willing to give, never objected to any pleasure he desired, always vanished when he wished her to until now. His neglect had soured her normally amiable disposition. Once she had reminded him of a sort of human confectionery, but the meringue had spoiled. Now she even sipped tea with the air of a martyr.

He counted the ticks on the grandfather clock in the hall while Miss Birch consumed orange cake. He’d reached three hundred seventy when he heard the clatter of china. Miss Birch had finished her tea, and while he wasn’t looking, she had left her chair. He watched her approach, noted the determined set to her mouth, and tried to rise. Too late. She reached him first and planted her bottom in his lap. He sank
beneath yards of dove gray merino, a crinoline, and great swaths of lace.

Taking his face in her hands, she breathed orange cake at him. “Darling Jocelin, haven’t you missed me?”

“Enormously,” he muttered as he tried to get a grip on her through the ocean of skirts, petticoats, and hoops.

He searched fruitlessly for a way to lever her off of him. At last he found a stiff wall that had to be a corset. He clamped his hands on either side of it, but he wasn’t in time to prevent her from lowering her lips to his. He turned his face to the side, but she pursued him. Catching his mouth, she sucked hard. He tried to speak, but her tongue occupied his mouth.

Then he gasped as she burrowed beneath his coat, into his trousers, and cupped him. His hands scrabbled through and around whalebone, merino, and lace in a frantic search for a path to her hands. At the same moment that she began to pinch him, he found her hands and began pulling at them.