Teaching the Earl (16 page)

He tied the knot with fumbling fingers, and stepped away. But when she lifted her dress over her head and became tangled in its folds he reached out and coaxed it straight, guided it over her, watching with unwilling fascination as it settled on to her body and her nakedness vanished.

How did she do this? How did she make him feel like an untried youth?

With gentle fingers he fastened the buttons, and once she realized what he was doing she stood perfectly still and waited, hair held up in one hand. Up to the nape of her neck he went, slower and slower, and when they were all done he slipped his fingers under the edge of her dress and pretended to pull it straight, only so he could feel the skin he had just concealed, her nakedness still there beneath it all, so close.

His wife, so close.

"We can't return to the ballroom," he said, his voice strange. "You'll never pass muster."

She looked into the mirror, examined her own dishevelment for a brief moment, then stared at the floor. "If you fetch my cloak, I'll fix my hair. Then we can leave together with no one the wiser."

"My cravat is beyond repair."

Her eyes lifted to his chest. "Oh. You're right. That won't do. What do you suggest, then?"

"We'll go out of a ground floor window, get to the carriage, you climb in and I'll find the coachman. You did bring the carriage, didn't you?"

Unspoken between them lay the thought of Michael Seton, her escort for the evening. Had she come with him in his family's carriage?

"Yes, it should be somewhere in the street. Out of a window? Are you sure?"

"Certain. Come on."

When she slid her hand into his, trusting him still despite what he had done to her, he felt mingled shame and a fierce desire not to disappoint her again. She deserved better, but she had believed him, chosen him.

How could he possibly keep his honor and not ruin her happiness?

They met over the breakfast table.

"You're up early," he said in a tone of faint surprise.

"I did not sleep very well last night."

"Neither did
I."

"Your renewed guilt kept you awake?"

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Is that why you couldn't sleep?"

"I have no guilt. Everything I did was perfectly appropriate."

"Cavorting on the bed of an unknown stranger?"

She cocked her head to one side. Did he expect to embarrass her? "But not cavorting with the stranger.
Only with my husband."

"Embracing Michael Seton in a dark corridor-"

"Being mauled by Michael Seton in a dark corridor."

"You enjoyed it so little?"

"What I enjoyed is you laying him out with one great blow. It is very lowering to think I haven't the power to do that. You can be very useful, when you set your mind to it."

"You startle me."

"Why? Did you imagine I welcomed his kiss? Of course not."

"He did not carry you off there kicking and screaming."

"I do seem to have this bad habit of being too agreeable. You know what I mean. You've taken advantage of it yourself."

"I?"

"Of course. I would never have married you had I known the true circumstances of our match. I was too agreeable. Not suspicious enough."

He stared at her, arrested. "Would you not?" he said after a long moment.

"Of course not. Marry a man mourning the loss of his fiancée, who chooses me out of desperation to have my dowry? What do you take me for?"

"I thought you were on the catch for a title."

"It is a very nice title, and my parents are very pleased about it. But although it has brought me many more invitations, I already had plenty. Not to such splendid events, it's true. But I can't say my sum total of pleasure has been increased. And it is enormously uncomfortable to be despised by one's husband. You have no idea."

"I don't despise you."

"Of course you do." Her tone was matter-of-fact, as she lifted a salver and examined the scant serving of scrambled egg beneath it. "You didn't leave much, did you?"

"I didn't know you would join me. We were out very late last night. I thought you'd sleep much longer." He frowned at her. "What do you mean I despise you?"

"It's perfectly clear. You truck me about the countryside like a piece of unwanted baggage. You neglect me, ignore me, call me inept and incapable; foist me off on the local gentry to entertain so I'm not in your way; refuse to have me in your bed, or even to look at me; chase me out of your bedroom; fob me off with a pittance of an allowance then condemn me about how it is spent or not spent. Those are only the first things that spring to mind. There are probably others, but as I'm the forgiving sort, I've forgotten."

"The list sounds comprehensive to me. Have I really treated you so poorly?"

"It has not been a pleasant marriage so far. I'd rather have had a different one."

"You'd rather be married to a different man?"

"More exactly, to have a chance to be truly loved. Which is difficult when I'm married to you. But there's no point feeling glum about it. I've cried enough. I'll make the best I can of the situation."

"Elizabeth." He shook his head in wonder. "You teach me to feel shame as I never have before."

"You must not think I don't understand how it is," she said earnestly. "I have an uncle who lost his wife in childbed, when I was eleven or twelve. He was our very favorite uncle, who used to caper around the house with us on his back, screeching like banshees, and shadow box and kick a ball and-oh, any number of games. We would run to him and climb him like a tree the moment he walked in the door. But after his wife died there were no games, no fun or laughter. Not for a long, long time. Years. By the time he was ready to play with us again, I was too old for such things.

"Watching him emerge from the fog of his grief, to slowly resume his old life, his way of being, was an odd thing. I had almost forgotten the man he was, he'd been so different for so long. Papa said grief can take a person like that, so they lose the truth of themselves. I think how much worse it must be for you, when you had everything stripped away at once. Not only Sophia but the work you cared for so much, changed beyond recognition. And at the same time so many depending on you, so you had no time to grieve, but must marry me and condemn yourself to a life with a woman you could not love.

“Don't think I am ignorant of how this is for you. I understand completely. I only wish you had told me the truth of things, and not tricked me like the lowliest fortune hunter. It is there you did me the gravest injustice."

"Elizabeth-"

"No, I don't want to talk it over. I've said my piece. Since you haven't left enough for me to breakfast I'll have something sent up to my room. Good day, my lord." She sailed out.

Elizabeth's maid - wages still paid by Papa but lured away from her parents' household - was carefully inserting seed pearl pins into Elizabeth's hair, when a knock came at her bedroom door.

"Come in," she called after a moment's hesitation.

Christopher opened the door, checked on the threshold at the sight of Kirkland, who bobbed a curtsy, then strode to the fireplace to lean on the mantel. She
waited for him to say something, but he was silent.

"Kirkland, that looks excellent,” Elizabeth said.
“We're done here, thank you. You may go to bed when you please and if I need you when I get home, I'll ring."

"Very good, Madam," said the maid, curtsied again and glided out on quiet feet, shutting the door behind her.

Elizabeth turned to him and raised her eyebrows expectantly, the rest of her face carefully neutral.

"You look beautiful," he said.

"Thank you. You are very fine tonight as well." He was in immaculate evening dress, and extraordinarily handsome. His coat strained to contain him, in accordance with fashion, though this seemed different to her from when they had first met. Then his clothes had been looser. He must have gained muscle in all the labor on the estate. He would certainly turn heads, wherever he planned to go.

"I assume you are without an escort tonight," he said abruptly. "I thought I could provide one."

"Oh. That's a delightful idea," she said automatically, her mind racing to catch up. This was not the outcome she had expected from this morning's speech. She had imagined he would be irritated with her for her accusations. "Do you want to know where I'm going?"

"Anywhere you like is agreeable. You may lead the way."

"I've accepted three invitations. Dinner at the Fanshawes, Lady Tyrell's rout and the Hasting's ball."

"It may discomfit the
Fanshawes to have me come unexpectedly."

"I don't think so. Michael Seton had also been invited, and I don't imagine he will bring his bruises out on display. I'll send word around to tell them you accompany me."

"Very well." He sauntered forward, and came to stand directly behind her. She stared into the mirror, feeling all the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up, so she wanted to shiver.

He lifted his hands to cup her shoulders. They were dry and very warm. She held her breath.

"You do look beautiful. I shall be envied to have you on my arm."

"Thank you."

"It's no more than the truth."

"Why do you wish to go out? I never expected
you would-"

"I know. I find that is no longer acceptable to me. You should not be left expecting nothing from your husband. It is far too shabby."

"Oh." So it was a dutiful choice. Ah well, he was a dutiful man, of course. She pressed her lips together in swift determination. It would be up to her to discover if she could turn duty into pleasure.

They rode silently in the carriage. He stared out of the window. She, surreptitiously, stared at him. He looked very much as he had when she first met him, apart from those broader shoulders. She understood him so much better now than she had then. He had been an emblem to her, of romance and success. Now she knew him as a man; though truly he was still a stranger.

He fascinated her. Watching him
labor as he had beside his cottagers, uncaring how she or anyone else would regard this lapse of dignity, she had thought him something unusual. And even in the midst of his sorrow he still took care of those who were weakest, most helpless. He had not thought much of her, and that was difficult for any woman to swallow. Still, to him she must have represented every betrayal of Sophia, everything he forced himself to do out of duty.

Perhaps he had thought all she wanted of him was the titl
e, and in giving it to her he had expected to completely satisfy her. He did not know her well enough to see how she craved love, and a family life like she had always known, dependably caring and tender. There was always someone to snuggle up and talk to, when you had not only loving parents, but also eight siblings. Always a sister to listen. Always a toddler or baby to cuddle.

There was nothing like the loneliness of knowing love like that and then leaving it behind for a resentful, isolated stranger in a dilapidated country manor. No, it had not been a good marriage.

But it was not truly his fault, either. She would not blame him, or hold a grudge. He did the best he knew how to do, and she would forgive him for neglecting her. Perhaps they could find friendship, with time. After all, he had listened to her words this morning, and here he was with her. He made the effort. She would be her very best cheerful and engaging self, and perhaps she could distract him from some of the sorrow in his life.

Perhaps he might even falter in his intentions, repeat what he had done to her last night, and make good his promise it would never be so unpleasant again. The first part had been
riveting, and if what followed had ruined it, still there might be more to it than she had seen so far.

Yes, if he wanted to do that again - despite his current determination to stand apart from her in that way - she would be brave.

"Do you know the Fanshawes very well?" she asked. The first step to friendship must be conversation.

"A little."

"Oh. I assumed they must be close friends of yours, the way they sought an introduction and were so charming to me."

"I think you may safely say that's because of your title," he said dryly. "They never had time for me when I was a mere Mister."

"Does that bother you?"

"No. Why should it? It's the way of the world."

"I think for me it's the hardest thing about a life in Society: that one must jockey for position, and that position is based on such shallow things."

"I seem to recall a young woman who was bewitched by an earl."

"Well, yes, that's very true. I thought you a creature quite apart from us common mortals. But then I was very young and did not understand that earls are only men, and countesses are women. I have worn this title for more than two months now, and there's been no magical transformation. In fact if anything, life is more dreary than it ever was. Apart from the balls."

His eyes narrowed, but he did not protest her statement. "I think you may safely say
it's money coupled with nobility that gives the greatest power, and money that provides the best life. We shall have money again. The day will come. There's no need to be anxious-"

"Anxious is not the right word. It's true I have always taken it for granted that I may buy what I want, within reason. Economy is not my natural milieu. But it's not such a heavy burden-"

"I would like to buy you diamonds."

"I beg your pardon?"

"A diamond necklace. You don't have one of those already, I assume?"

"No, of course not.
They're not appropriate for a young girl."

"But they are appro
priate for a young wife. I can’t buy them at this moment, you understand. But I shall."

"That is a pleasant idea. But you know it's not even diamonds that I want.'

"What is it you want, then?"

She hesitated. Could she tell him? Were they friendly enough? "Love," she said quietly. "I want to be loved."

"Ah. The one thing I'm certain I cannot give you. On my honor."

"It seems a very hard thing to swear to, to have no love, all your life."

"It was all she wanted of me too. Love. And I took it away from her."

It was hard to hear him speak of Sophia. Yet better he talk about her to someone than pretend it had never happened. So Elizabeth nodded and said nothing. He too was silent. Was he waiting for her to repeat her opinion he should not accompany Sophia to the grave? She would not say it again. He was right. It had been a cruel thing to say, and tactless. He was no fool. He knew she was gone.

And this was hardly the pleasant time she had planned to bring him.

"T
ell me more about the Fanshawes,” she said. “What sort of people are they?"

"They are midway between the highest and the lowest of the ton. Well but not too highly connected."

"Kind people? Clever? Good hosts?"

"Again, I don't know them well enough to be sure. Not so very kind, clever and hospitable that I've heard of it, in the howling outer wilderness of poor cousins and other ton hangers-on." His smile was a sardonic curl of lip.

"Well. I feel foolish for accepting their invitation."

"How are you to know any of this? I should be by your side to guide you."

"Or if you don't wish to, I suppose I could ask your mother."

"Don't do that."

"Why not?"

"It's best to keep her at arm's length. No. I need to do my duty by you, and make sure you know more of these people who are now your people. Stay close tonight, and I will tell you all I know of everyone we meet."

His duty. Always his duty. "That sounds intimidating. Will I be able to remember it all?"

"Probably not.
You may need to attend several balls with me whispering in your ear."

"People will think you are very devoted."

"Which can only reflect well on you."

"But what of the estate?
Can you afford to take so much time away?"

"I can.
At least a week. When I returned to town I had it in mind to do this for you."

"Did you? Oh. T
hat is very kind." He was not as neglectful as she had thought. The idea warmed her for a moment. "And then - horrors! - you come upon me alone in a dark corridor with Mr Seton."

"Not the best reward for my altruism," he agreed, but there was lazy amusement in his tone and she saw no accusation in his eyes.

"It is very shocking. See how naive I am? I thought I could trust him. A protective husband hovering over me will be of great assistance."

"It may make the Michael
Setons of the world take note."

"That I am not available."

"You certainly are not."

"Only to you."
She looked at him under her lashes, daring to flirt, and he shifted a little in his seat.

The carriage stopped, then swayed as the coachman climbed down to open the door and hand her out. She jumped to the cobbles, excitement coursing through her. Tonight was her first chance to be seen with her handsome husband,
and stand next to him, under his protection. These past weeks alone in the great city had held their own excitement, but it had been tainted with uncertainty. She had never lived an independent life, and did not want to. Companionship was better.

When he joined her she tucked a hand into the crook of his elbow, and tugged him to the stairs.

"There's no hurry," he said, but his protest was half a chuckle.

"You may be used to society and bored by it, but I still find it exciting. Just think. All the other ladies will envy me tonigh
t, to be on your arm; and the food will be glorious and the conversation very good-Oh, such potential for pleasure. Don't you see it?"

"I suppose. Perhaps you'll teach me to view it afresh."

"I shall! Come on."

At the top of the stairs he knocked and they were admitted. There was a low hum of congenial conversation audible beyond the hall lined with footmen. They surrendered their hats and wraps, and she bounced forward eagerly, Christopher's hand held tight in her own.

"A little decorum," he murmured and she flashed him a mischievous smile.

"Yes, my lord. A little more
speed then, maybe?"

His answering smile was kind, and he did walk a faster towards the light and laughter.

_____

She shone in the candlelight. The warm, golden glow suited her exactly. She seemed made of sunshine, and it was hard not to watch her. After a while he gave up the effort. What harm in enjoying the beautiful sight of his wife? Sophia had never bade him not to look at her.

The thought of Sophia was still a dull ache, yet not the sharp anguish it had been at first. After her death he had seen her face everywhere, twisted in accusation. All he could think of, day and
night, was how he had wronged her. He was certain it would always be that way.

Yet now her features were not so clear. When he did think of them, he saw her sometimes as they had been as youths together, talking and laughing. Or even occasionally as children, though those were dim memories, insubstantial with age.

She had been a good friend to him, and he had thought that would be enough, when she so clearly wanted marriage. He was willing to give her that.

He had not really understood marriage. Understood what it was to have a woman under his protection, looking to him for guidance. That dependence made him feel protective towards Elizabeth, and tender, more than he could have believed possible. He had not exactly been raised to see gentle emotions as the domain of a man.

Would he have felt the same for Sophia? She had always been an equal, fierce and independent, never likely to consult another. She said she loved him but he never felt needed by her.

But Elizabeth was very different. She turned those big, trusting eyes to him and raised her brows and smiled and waited for him to speak, or chattered confidingly with every thought on her tongue. There was no concealment about her.

She was not truly made for this life. Left alone in society, that glowing nature would be tarnished and dulled. The calculating machinations and subterfuge would destroy something in her. Already she was bewildered by it all.

No, he should not have left her alone. She needed a strong arm to take, a bulwark against harm. She trusted too easily, and if she would not guard her tongue - and that was a lesson he was strangely reluctant to teach her, for he liked her openness - then she needed someone with her to filter her companions and make sure those she chose were indeed worthy of her trust.

Look at that Seton fellow. Every time he thought of the scoundrel he felt his fists clench, wanting to pummel him again. Her eyes had been so wide with distress, that when he remembered her expression he could cheerfully have choked Seton.

Luckily for the boy's survival, he had not really reg
istered her expression or thought of it until later, when he was cooler. After-After he had disillusioned her about the activities of the marriage bed.
Now that had been a debacle.

One he could not forget.

The memory haunted him nearly as effectively as Sophia, and the guilt was nearly as bad. Some protector he had been then.

He was no doubt a particularly vile specimen, that stronger than his guilt was the desire to haul her away to a bedroom and make a better job of it.

Gazing at her across the table, at that lush cleavage, and remembering, was quite enough to make him hard as iron and glad the table hid his lap. Her breasts. Those glorious, full breasts, unbound, in his hands, with his mouth on them. Ah, heaven. He toyed with the food on his plate but barely ate.

Those breasts.
Those soft lips. They had been very eager against his. Her hands, that descriptively shaped the air as she spoke to her dinner companion, had clutched him nearer. Would she be like that again? Had he spoiled it for her too thoroughly? He itched to find out. He could almost imagine sweeping her up in his arms, saying 'excuse me, I just have to find out if my wife is as receptive as the last time we were out together,' and then carrying her off to a darkened room or the carriage or any flat surface, really.

It was hard to think straight, once he began to imagine such things. With an effort of will he
tore his attention away, picked up a carving knife and sawed at the hog's head in front of him. He passed a slice to each of the women next to him, then served a sliver to himself as well, and poked at it. All a subterfuge. All a pretense that he could sit and look at Elizabeth and still function as he was supposed to.