That Infamous Pearl (12 page)

"No, no of
course not," said Rowena hastily. "I merely wondered how--how--"
she stopped, unable to continue.

"How patient I
am?" asked Alaric. "You tell me, Rowena. What do you feel is a
suitable period of time?"

"A month?"
said Rowena, aware that her voice was uncertain. Now that she had made her
proposal and Alaric had agreed to it, she found that the victory seemed a
little hollow. He was very attractive after all, and she remembered with a
tingle of pleasure the way his kisses had made her feel before. It was
beginning to seem a lot to sacrifice in order to make a principled stand.

Alaric blinked. He
couldn't imagine waiting an entire month, living in the same house as Rowena,
before touching her. He would have to convince her, and very soon, of the need
to change her mind.

"A month will be
fine," he said softly,

Rowena sighed. She
was not at all sure that she had actually won this battle. She looked up at him
and attempted to smile.

"Thank you, my
lord."

There was a long
silence as Alaric watched Rowena broodingly and she looked at everything in the
room except for her husband.

"What shall we
do now, my lord?" she asked, attempting a bright tone.

"Surely you
jest?" Alaric raised an eyebrow. "If we were a typical married
couple, I have a fair idea. But as we are not, I have no notion at all. Perhaps
you would care to examine your rooms. I will send for Mrs. Pynchon."

He went to ring the
bell, and Rowena watched his powerful movements with a certain wistfulness. "Perhaps
we might discuss later what more we shall do to clear Malcolm's name," she
volunteered.

Alaric stopped short
and stared at her. "Clear Malcolm's name? My dear, do not tell me that you
mean to go on with that scheme."

"Why not? Now
that we are married, we can work more closely together than we could in the
past. It will be an excellent way to get to know each other."

Alaric shook his
head. "Rowena, if you will not spend time with me as my wife, I have no
intention of wasting my energy pursuing the hopeless task of clearing your
foolish brother."

Rowena felt a sinking
sensation in the pit of her stomach. "Do you mean that you believe Malcolm
is guilty?"

"Of course
Malcolm is guilty. If you believe that I did not kill Ingram, you must believe
that your brother did. It is quite simple, Rowena. I indulged you previously,
but these ridiculous fantasies of yours must stop."

Rowena's toe began to
tap dangerously. "You were merely indulging me, my lord?"

Alaric had the grace
to look slightly shame-faced. "It was a way to spend time with you." His
voice softened. "Rowena, you must face facts. Either your brother or I
killed Ingram. You cannot believe us both innocent."

"Then perhaps
you are guilty." Rowena's voice rose, her anger fueled by her frustration
and hurt. "For I shall never believe Malcolm to be a killer. And Lady
Bingham assured me that you are. Who should know better than the woman who was
your mistress?"

Alaric's hand shot
out and seized her wrist. "When did Lady Bingham tell you this?"

Rowena tried to
wrench her arm away and failed. Alaric's grip was like iron. "At the
masquerade," she answered, her voice small.

"That damn
masquerade. Listen to me, Rowena. You will not speak to Marguerite again. Do
you understand me?" His eyes bored into hers.

Rowena's lip lifted
in a delicate expression of distaste. "Are you afraid of what she might
tell me?"

Alaric let go of her
suddenly and shrugged. "If you wish to believe her instead of me, there is
nothing I can do. But trust me, Rowena, she is evil."

"That's odd. She
says the same of you. Perhaps you are a matched pair." Rowena rubbed her
wrist.

"Perhaps we are,"
agreed Alaric angrily. "She at least never refused to sleep with me."

Rowena gasped. "That
is unjust. She was your mistress, I am your wife, Alaric."

"You just told
me you are not my wife, and will not be my wife, Rowena. Which is it to be?"

Rowena flushed. Their
talk had not gone as she had envisioned it. She had meant to regain control of
her life, but now her situation seemed more out of her control than it had been
before.

"We need to know
one another better," she repeated, the words sounding weak to her own
ears. "You tricked me into marriage, and one of the things I believed we
had in common, a belief in Malcolm's innocence, was no more than another of
your lies. Can you blame me for being uncertain?"

"You should
trust me, Rowena." Alaric's face was very serious. "You know you can.
You know how you feel when I hold you, when I kiss you. Is it so hard to
believe that I want only the best for you?"

Rowena's eyes met
his, and she grew very still. She badly wanted to give in to him, to tell him
that she hadn't meant what she had said. But that would mean that he had won,
that she would surrender to him although he didn't love her. She couldn't allow
her desire for him to swamp her self-respect. He had toyed with her and tricked
her, and she still had no idea why he had married her. She needed desperately
to know that he cared for her.

"I'm sorry, my
lord," she whispered.

"Very well."
Alaric's voice was brisk. He rang the bell and they waited in silence until a
trim little woman entered and bobbed a curtsey.  

"My lord. My
lady, welcome. May I congratulate you on your marriage?"

"Thank you, Mrs.
Pynchon." Alaric's voice was cool and unruffled. "Please show Lady
Brayleigh to her room and make her familiar with anything she needs to know."

"Certainly, my
lord. If your ladyship will follow me?"

Mrs. Pynchon moved to
the door and waited as Rowena looked up anxiously into Alaric's face.

"Will I see you
later?" she asked softly.

"Certainly."

"When?"

"That can hardly
matter to you, considering our recent conversation." Alaric raised her
cold hand and touched it briefly to his lips. "Please, make yourself at
home."

Rowena, unwilling to
press the point in front of a servant, walked slowly to the door. When she
glanced back over her shoulder, Alaric was not looking at her, but instead had
turned his back and was gazing out the window. She followed Mrs. Pynchon
forlornly out of the room.

After Rowena left the
room, Alaric stood silently for some minutes, staring absently in front of him.
He remembered with a certain irony the feeling of lightness he had experienced
that morning when he had arisen, knowing he was about to be married. It had
been not unlike the emotions he felt whenever a long-sought-after item was
added to his collection; a clear sense of accomplishment, a glow of triumph,
and a touch of relief. It had buoyed him throughout the ceremony, and he had
looked forward with great anticipation to the coming pleasures of the night.

But it seemed now
that marriage was somewhat different than collecting. Rowena appeared to be
reluctant to sit quietly and be admired. She had startled him with her
defiance, and he had found her insistence on sticking to her point irritating.
Surely she realized that they belonged together. He knew she responded to him
with exquisite passion, and was certain that other men did not elicit the same
reaction. He had seen her turn from Voxley in disgust. What did it matter if he
had pushed the issue, backing her into the marriage despite her expressed
dislike of it? Rowena should realize by now that he knew what was best for her.

Alaric's fingers
began to beat an impatient rhythm on the top of the desk. This bargain he had made
with his wife was a great mistake, he thought savagely. He was quite certain he
would not be able to retain his sanity for even a week living in the same house
with her and not touching her. That had been his primary motive behind the
rushed marriage; while he had indeed wished to bind Rowena to him quickly so
that she could not think of a good reason to break the engagement, even more
than that he had desperately wanted her.

"Damn," he
muttered, striding across the room and pouring himself a glass of brandy from a
crystal decanter. He tossed the drink back. His thoughts of Rowena had driven
him to dismiss Lily weeks ago; he was no longer interested in any woman except
the one who was now his wife. And then Rowena had suddenly declared that they
should wait to be intimate! If she had tried for a year, she could not have
thought of a more fitting punishment for him.

He poured himself
another glass and glared into it. Alaric was not accustomed to waiting. His
parents had not been affectionate people. Their arranged marriage had not been
loving, and they had lived separate lives, completely wrapped up in their own
affairs. They had viewed Alaric simply as an heir, the payment the Countess of
Brayleigh had owed her husband in exchange for his bestowing his title upon
her. The Countess had been a distant figure, beautiful and unobtainable, viewed
only from afar as she departed for teas and balls escorted by her beaux, her
gowns and jewels glittering. His father had immersed himself in his horses and
gaming, losing thousands of pounds a night at the tables, going off for days
with the lower-bred ladies he preferred to his cold and stately wife. Alaric
had seen his parents together only on rare occasions when his presence was
required for family reasons, and he had been sent off to school at a young age,
followed by time at Oxford and the Grand Tour of the Continent. When he had
received a letter while he was in France informing him both his mother and
father had died in a carriage accident and he was the new Earl, he had felt
almost no emotion at all; they were strangers to him, his memories of them
hazy, dim, and filled with an inchoate longing.

But if his parents
had not offered their love to Alaric, they had at least provided him with every
material thing he might wish for; the boy had only to express a desire for it
to be immediately met. He had owned toys and clothing and animals of every
description. They were produced when he asked for them and disposed of when he
wearied of them, without his ever having to ask from whence they came or where
they went. The servants who raised him had been instructed that Alaric was
never to be crossed, never to be contradicted, and they had followed their
instructions to the letter. Brayleigh was totally unfamiliar with the emotions
associated with unfulfilled desire.

When he had grown and
begun collecting rare
objets d'art
the results had been the same; he set
his mind on acquiring something and did so in the quickest way possible,
without thought as to who might be hurt in the process. Only Malcolm Arlingby
had ever been able to stand in the way of the Earl of Brayleigh. And now
another Arlingby, and a mere woman at that, was defying him as well.

Alaric tossed back
the brandy. Rowena would be made to see quickly that her course of action was
foolish. If she wanted to be left alone, then she would be. He strode out into
the hallway, surprising the footmen, who jumped to attention.

"Where is my
wife?" he demanded.

"Upstairs with
Mrs. Pynchon, my lord," a footman answered nervously. His lordship looked
as though he could murder someone.

"I am going out.
Tell the Countess that I am not sure when I will be back." Alaric seized
his hat and stalked out of the house, leaving the servants staring after him.
None of them were eager to convey such a message to a newly wed bride.

Brayleigh strode
rapidly through the streets of London, no set destination in mind. He was aware
that if he was seen it would cause comment; Society was already titillated
enough by the news that he and his bride were not going on a honeymoon but
would instead remain in London. Alaric had wondered why Rowena had insisted so
fiercely that they not go away, and now he thought he knew the answer; there
was no need for them to be alone together, and indeed she wished to surround
herself with as many people as possible so as to avoid any intimacy with him.

Tomorrow would surely
consist of a whirl of visits from well-wishers and the merely curious, anxious
to get a glimpse of the couple. It would be hell, he thought fiercely, to stand
at Rowena's side and take congratulations, knowing that he had not spent the
previous night enjoying the marriage bed with her. Alaric gritted his teeth. He
knew that she wanted him as much as he wanted her; if she could stand it, so
could he.

He reached the steps
of his club and stood looking up at it. It would cause comment if he was seen
there, but he had never been one to follow the conventions or skirt scandal. It
would serve Rowena right, he reflected, if Society did talk of her a little.
She would learn that being a good wife to him was the best way to avoid such
things. With a determined air he mounted the stairs and entered the main rooms,
standing defiantly in the door.

A gentleman looked
around casually and then turned back to the group he was talking to, surprise
on his face. A low buzz went about the room and heads turned. Alaric scowled as
he stalked to a large leather chair and sank down into it. The scandalous Earl
of Brayleigh had given the
ton
yet another topic of conversation,
showing up in his club only hours after his wedding. Speculation was sure to be
rife as to what his reasons for it might be.

No one seemed to have
the courage to approach him, but he picked up a broadsheet and held it in front
of him as a shield nonetheless. His thoughts turned back to Rowena and what her
reaction might be to his absence. Did she miss him? Did she wonder where he
was? Or was she merely annoyed that she was unable to use him to continue her
foolish search for Ingram's murderer? Alaric's hands tightened on the paper.
Malcolm Arlingby seemed to be his nemesis. He had come between Alaric and the
Pearl of Sirsi, and now he seemed to be a chief obstacle between Alaric and
Rowena. Would the man never cease to torment him? His lips twitched slightly.
It was a pity that whoever had dispatched Ingram all those years ago had not
done the same to Arlingby.

"Alaric?"

Alaric lowered the
paper slowly, wondering who was brave enough to approach him. It must be
someone with nerves of steel, he reflected as he looked up, a forbidding glare
on his face. His cousin Charles stood before him, his eyebrows raised in
surprise.

"I was told you
were here, but I could scarcely believe it. Whatever are you doing, Alaric?"

"Reading, I
thought," answered Alaric smoothly. "Did I appear to be doing
something else?"

Charles shook his
head and sat down in the chair opposite his cousin. "No, of course not.
But it looks very odd."

Alaric looked down at
himself. "Am I dressed improperly?"

Charles made an
impatient sound. "Don't be annoying, Alaric. Everyone is talking about
you. Why aren't you with your wife?"

Alaric frowned. "That,
dear Charles, is none of your business."

Charles laughed
easily, his handsome face lighting up. "Is married life a bit more
complicated than you thought it would be, Cousin?"

Alaric's eyelids
dropped, shuttering his feelings. "What makes you think that?"

"I can't imagine
why else you'd be here. And it's not as though Lady Rowena is a biddable young
female," answered Charles with a smile. "Confess, Alaric. You were
too autocratic with the girl and you've had a quarrel."

"Why would a
quarrel have to be my fault?" complained Alaric. "Isn't it possible
that Rowena might have precipitated it?"

"Impossible,"
said Charles. "No one would have the courage to begin a quarrel with you,
Alaric. Everyone is terrified of you. Your reputation is fearsome."

"Apparently not
everyone is cowed by it," observed Alaric in an ironic tone. He folded the
newspaper neatly.

Charles gaped at him.
"Do you mean to tell me Lady Rowena picked a fight with you? Why, I admire
her more than ever now. I thought it took great courage to marry you, but to
actually stand up to you? I don't believe it."

Alaric smiled
slightly despite himself at Charles' exaggerated air. "You are ridiculous.
And I don't believe I admitted that an argument is the reason for my presence.
You're imagining things, Charles."

Charles lounged back
in his chair and fixed his cousin with a hard stare. "You're determined to
teach the girl a lesson, aren't you? Did you actually leave her all alone?
Alaric, that's cruel."

"The subject is
closed, Charles." Alaric brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve. "I
don't discuss my marriage with anyone, even you."

Charles shook his
head. "You're a deep one, Alaric. And I wouldn't presume to interfere in
your affairs. I'm sure you know what you're doing."

"Thank you,
Charles. You reassure me."

A slow smile spread
across Charles' face. "So what will you do today then? I take it you aren't
returning to your house?"

"Not
immediately, no. I thought I might read the paper, if I could find some
solitude." He gave Charles a pointed look.

Charles ignored it. "No,
you can't sit in this chair all day, Alaric. It's been ages since I've seen you
for more than a few seconds. You've been pursuing Lady Rowena for so long I've
almost forgotten what you look like. Your old haunts miss you. You'll have to
come with me and we'll have some fun."

Alaric grimaced. He
was well aware of what Charles considered fun to be. "I believe I'll stay
here, Charles."

Charles stood up. "I'll
not take no for an answer. A new gaming house opened up just last week. The
wine is fair, the food tolerable, and the stakes high."

"It doesn't
sound remotely interesting," said Alaric coldly.

"But I didn't
tell you the best part." Charles leaned forward with a conspiratorial air.
"The proprietress, Mrs. Blackmore, is lovely. She presides over the tables
herself. I think you will be fascinated by her."

Alaric shook his
head. "Women who run gaming houses are not my style, Charles."

"No, your new
wife is. But you seem to not wish to spend time with her. What harm can it do
to accompany me, Alaric? It's better than sitting in this stuffy club. If you're
going to cause people to gossip, you might as well do something truly
scandalous."

Alaric shrugged. His
cousin had a point. He had no intention of soothing Rowena's vanity by returning
home, so he might as well amuse himself. And if word should get to Rowena that
he had been sighted in Mrs. Blackmore's gaming house, that would be all the
better. It would show her that he had ways to entertain himself.

"Very well,"
he said, standing up. "I will go with you. I suppose it can do no harm."

"That's the
spirit," said Charles jovially. "You'll see, Alaric. We will have a
very entertaining evening. Mrs. Blackmore will be delighted to meet you."

"Either my
money, or me," muttered Alaric, following Charles from the room.