Suzanne Robinson (33 page)

F
our days passed, during which Jocelin, beneath his happiness, expected Liza to turn on him without warning and look upon him with repulsion and accusatory shame. He kept mentally looking over his shoulder. She didn’t turn on him.

They made love, and she remained in a state of what she called Marital Bliss. She would float up to him while he was writing to his estate manager, kiss him on the ear, and say, “I’m still in Marital Bliss.” Then she would rub her hand along the inside of his thigh, and he’d forget to look over his shoulder.

Marital Bliss even survived his friends, who, with the exception of Nick, reacted to his change of conduct as if he’d contracted the grippe and would
soon recover. When he forgot his political meeting with Asher and the rest at Asher’s place, his old friend seemed hurt. Ten days after the confrontation at Nick’s lodge, Asher, Winthrop, and Thurston-Coombes invaded.

“This won’t do, old chap,” Thurston-Coombes said as Jocelin handed around cups of coffee in the drawing room.

Winthrop frowned at not being served first, according to his right as a secret royal. “Indeed not.”

“I’m sorry,” Asher said as he stirred his coffee. “But there’s to be a by-election in three months over in Hamptly-cum-Spiddow, and everyone agrees that this is my chance. I’m standing for Parliament at last, Jos.”

“Disraeli will be furious,” Jos said, but he lost interest when Liza appeared, her arms loaded with the post.

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

He went to her at once, not caring that the others stared at him. “Shall I help you?”

“No, my lord. Most of it’s for me. Toby sent a lot from Pennant’s,”

He stopped her by putting a finger to her lips and whispering to her. “Not here. Run along, and I’ll join you when my business is done then.”

Her brow wrinkled, but he only smiled at her and returned to the discussion of the by-election. An hour later he went to Liza’s sitting room, where he found her submerged in correspondence. He frowned at the ledger that lay open on her writing desk. A wide sheet marked as a calendar earned an irritated flick of his finger. Liza hadn’t looked up when he entered, which was contrary to her practice of hopping to her feet and flitting to him at his first appearance. When
he reached her chair, he glanced at the object that had won the battle for her attention. A contract.

“That’s a contract,” he said. “A business contract.”

Liza glanced up at him, smiled, and returned to her perusal of the document. “Only a standard one. For an engagement banquet and ball in July. The Devonshires’ youngest daughter.”

“I don’t care if it’s the queen’s youngest daughter.”

“Hmmm?”

He wasn’t used to waiting for her attention. His greed for it allowed for no interference by boring contracts. He folded his arms across his chest. She didn’t notice. He remained silent, frowning. She didn’t look up. He tapped his foot. Her hand came out to pat his arm as if he were a querulous child. She was tolerating him, actually tolerating him! Still uncertain of this new love, this uncontrollable craving for her company, he grew frightened at the pain he knew he would feel if she had no time for him.

“Hang it!”

“In a moment,” she said as she dipped her pen in the inkwell and signed the last page of the contract.

When she began to blot the ink instead of setting the document aside, he threw up his hands and walked away. Swinging around the desk, he planted himself opposite her and slammed his palms down on top of the letters, ledger, and calendars. His eye caught the signature on one of the letters. Bronte. He shoved it aside to glance at the address on an envelope—Barbara Leigh Smith.

Barbara Leigh Smith, the name was familiar—no, notorious. The woman had written a scandalous pamphlet attacking the legal position of married
women, whose property, even to their corsets, belonged to their husbands. Suspicious, he studied the pile of correspondence, spotted a thin booklet, and fished it from beneath the clutter.

He read aloud. “ ‘A Brief Summary, in Plain Language, of the Most Important Laws of England Concerning Women.’ ”

Liza glanced up from her blotting and met his gaze, which he hoped was as stern as he meant it to be. He let the pamphlet drop from his fingers, folded his arms over his chest again, and walked a path from the desk to the fireplace and back in offended meditation. She must understand how displeased he was, and never suspect how fearful of losing her to other interests.

“I thought we had reached an understanding,” he said as he took up his judge’s stance in front of the desk.

“About what?”

She seemed confused, and with good reason. Jocelin knew he wasn’t himself or he wouldn’t become jealous of books, papers, and contracts, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Liza had gotten along so well before they met. Why would she need him, except to please her in bed, and he knew all too well how ephemeral desire could be. Damn it. He wouldn’t compete with books and papers, but he’d reason with her calmly.

“Liza, sweet, you’re my wife now.” He gestured at the desk. “All this, this dealing in commerce can’t continue. I will appoint a business manager for you.”

She set the contract aside and clasped her hands on top of the desk. “Are you saying I don’t know my own business?”

Women! “Of course not. But I can’t have my
wife in trade. No lady concerns herself with such activities.”

Her scowl alerted him to his failure. Somehow he had to convince her without showing this humiliating fear. Knowing his opponent, he changed tactics. He went to her, slipped his arm about her shoulders, and grazed his lips across her cheek. She was stiff in his arms, but she shivered, and he smiled.

“Don’t you understand,” he said. “I want to take care of you, protect you. I love you, and will always consider your welfare above all. You don’t have to struggle anymore, Liza. I’m going to provide for you and guide you.”

She turned to look at him. “Rather like an idiot child.”

“Hang it!” Jocelin launched himself to his feet and stood over her. “I love you, so why do you need to involve yourself in worldly affairs?”

Liza jumped to her feet and faced him. “Is that your love? It sounds like the love of a master for a favorite hound! Well, you just change your mind about that kind of love. I won’t have it. I’ve seen too many women raising children in poverty. They have husbands, husbands who are supposed to protect and provide for them because they’re too frail to do it themselves. If they’re so frail and weak-brained, why is it they can sew from morning until night, hawk vegetables all over London, scrub filthy floors and chamber pots?”

Jocelin shook his head and groaned. “You don’t have to slave like that.”

“No, I only have to damn myself to a life of unremitting inanity—drives in Hyde Park, morning calls, endless shopping, balls, dinner parties, picnics, more calls, more drives in Hyde Park.” Liza scoured
him with a glance that took in his entire body. “What you want, my lord, is a charming doll with less intelligence than a trained poodle.”

Jocelin drew himself up to attention and placed his fist behind his back. “I do not! But we’re going to have certain responsibilities, and eventually the reputation of the title to think of, and children.” She was glaring at him, still, and he felt a surge of anger at her for evoking this new, unreasoning fear. “Or don’t you feel a woman’s desire for children?”

He was furious with himself as soon as he’d uttered those words, but his damned pride stopped him from saying so.

She was quiet then. Perhaps she’d seen his point. He straightened, shot his cuffs, and struggled to master his whirlwind emotions.

“If you will excuse me, my lord, I have correspondence to attend to.”

He opened his eyes as wide as they would go, disbelieving what he’d heard. She was going to ignore him. Bloody hell, he’d get her attention. He turned his back to her and took a chair by the fireplace, from which he spoke quietly.

“You forget. When we married, I became the owner of Pennant’s, and all your other property.” He gave her desk a contemptuous glance. “Perhaps you should read your pamphlet again.”

Liza marched over to him. “Now you listen to me. I don’t care what the law says. Pennant’s is mine, and I’m not turning myself into a poodle to gratify your pride.”

He spun around to face her. “That’s not what I said! God, give me patience. Women can be so obtuse. No wonder your father threw you out of his house.”

Almost cringing as he realized what a stupid
thing he’d just said, Jocelin was too late to block the slap Liza delivered to his cheek. Pain and embarrassment made him lose what was left of his temper. He snatched her hand.

Lifting her, he strode into the next room and threw her on her bed. She landed on her back with her skirts over her head. To delay her, he grabbed the covers and tossed them over her. Then he rolled the bundle into a neat tube. He heard muffled imprecations and grinned as he left. Shutting the door, he turned the key in the lock and shouted at her.

“You stay there until we’ve both calmed down.”

Liza pounded on the bedroom door.

He called to her. “You’re not getting out of there until you’re ready to listen to me without losing your temper.”

After a while, when he refused to answer her again or let her out, she stopped. He glanced distractedly at the cluttered desk, then sat at it to pen a letter to his solicitors, asking them to arrange for Toby to be able to sign contracts and conduct legal business for Pennant’s so that Liza wouldn’t be burdened with so much work. Opening a drawer in search of clean paper, he came upon more correspondence from Toby. Its contents proved he’d been right to take Liza in hand. Not only had she been trying to run her agency all along, but she’d also resumed her prying into the deaths of her brother and his fellow soldiers.

Jocelin perused the summaries of the events surrounding the deaths of William Edward, Airey, Stapleton, and Halloway. Were they accidents and encounters with criminals? Shaking his head, he folded the papers and placed them in his coat pocket. He’d give them to his inquiry agent and set the man
to work. Something was wrong, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

Near the desk he noticed a bookshelf. As he’d thought, its contents were as unconventional as those of the desk—Brontë upon her dissatisfaction with women’s lot in life, more tracts by Barbara Leigh Smith and by, of all unlikely things, a lady doctor named Elizabeth Blackwell. Replacing the Barbara Leigh Smith volume, he went downstairs to his library, where he placed Liza’s murder information in an envelope, addressed it, and rang for Choke.

The butler appeared, and Jocelin handed him the envelopes for Toby and the inquiry agent. “Choke, please have these mailed.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And, Choke, um, her ladyship is feeling fatigued and wishes to remain undisturbed, completely undisturbed, in her room. Please tell the staff not to go near the master suite.”

“Yes, my lord.”

It was a tribute to Choke’s twenty years as a butler that he accepted these instructions without reaction. Jocelin watched in admiration as the butler left. If only Liza were so obedient. She wasn’t though, and he couldn’t suppress a slight feeling of uneasiness. He had to make her understand that her work shouldn’t interfere in their life together. Why couldn’t she have been a little more compliant—like his mistresses, and his mother?

Mother, now Mother was an example Liza should follow. Mother embodied all that was best in woman—modesty, delicacy, dependency, respect for her husband. He was sure Liza would never defer to him as his mother did to his father. Would it do any good to recommend his mother to Liza as a model of
propriety? Through all his battles with his family, Mother had remained a solace to him.

True, she had been unable to stand against his father. That day he’d first tried to tell his parents about Yale, Father hadn’t believed him, and he’d pleaded with his mother for help. But it wasn’t her fault that she couldn’t take his side. She, who was so delicate and frail, couldn’t be expected to fight against the duke. However, Mother’s good breeding and her duty would urge her to take Liza in hand.

But first he must come to a rapprochement with Father. He’d been a fool to expect the old buster to face the truth after all these years. Jocelin went to his desk and took up his pen. If Father wanted an heir, and Father desired a grandson above anything, he would have to apologize to Liza and make amends. He began to smile as his pen scratched across a piece of stationery embossed with his crest. He was going to enjoy making Father writhe, and writhe he would at the prospect of taking to his bosom the granddaughter of a butcher and introducing her to Society. Jocelin laughed aloud. Father was going to piss bullets.

He finished his letter quickly and went riding. Remaining in the house with Liza locked upstairs sat ill with him. He visited Asher, then Nick, whom he brought back for dinner. Cards and conversation allowed him to forget his quarrel with his wife so that it was well past midnight before he took a tray of hot tea up to Liza’s bedroom.

Setting the tray aside, he turned the key. As he did so, he heard weeping. He swallowed against the thickening in his throat. Had he been too harsh? She did love him, the misguided little midge. He knew it now, and relished the near worship with which she gazed at him. Still, he had to come to some kind
of agreement with her. Straightening his shoulders, he put a fist behind his back and entered.

The room was dark except for light from a candelabra beside the bed. He walked over to the heap of skirts and petticoats on the bed and watched Liza’s shoulders heave. He clenched his jaw, then touched her arm. She sucked in her breath and turned over, still sobbing. Holding himself back through great effort, he was unprepared when she cast herself into his arms and wailed into his lapel. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed, pressing her close. Burying his face in her tousled hair, he murmured endearments.

In between sobs, she stuttered, “I h-hate it when we quarrel.”

“It’s all right,” he said as he kissed her hair. “We don’t have to fight anymore. We’ll talk later, when you’re not so distressed, my love.”