The Marriage Act (7 page)

“I found him, my lord, most assuredly.” The valet dismounted, passing the horse’s reins to his master with a woeful look. “I am sorry to report the news is not good.”

Chapter Seven

Marriage has many pains
,
but celibacy has no pleasures.

—Samuel Johnson

“What’s wrong?” John asked with a sinking feeling. “He’s dead?”

“No, my lord, not dead. He hit his head, and he was in a daze, but that is not the worst of it. I brought him most of the way on Argos, and left him a little distance away. I did not want to alarm Lady Welford. His arm—it is broken.” He glanced in Caroline’s direction and switched to German. “
Der Knochen hat die Haut durchbohrt.
Ich glaube
,
das muss amputiert werden.
”

John hoped Barnes’s arm wouldn’t really need to be amputated, but that was often the case when the bone pierced the skin. He wondered whether the coachman had lost much blood. “
Hat er viel Blut verloren?
”

“No, my lord. Some, but it is not a danger.”

“I’d better see for myself.” John called to his brother, “Ronnie, wait here with Caroline while I check on our coachman.” He added for Caroline’s benefit, “I won’t be long.”

He followed Leitner, leading Argos a short distance through the woods to where Barnes sat huddled against a tree trunk, protected from the worst of the elements by his oilskin coat and his low-crowned beaver hat. The coachman tried to stand when he saw John, but John stopped him with an outstretched hand. “Never mind that now, Barnes.”

The coachman glanced at his upper arm, to where the shattered bone could be seen through his torn sleeve. “It’s bad, isn’t it, my lord? Right bad.”

John crouched down on his haunches to get a better look at the man’s injury. “It’s not good. But we’ll get you to a surgeon, and by this time tomorrow, you should be on the mend.”

“I don’t know as I’ll be driving for you anymore, my lord.”

“I’m afraid that will be for the surgeon to decide,” John said regretfully. “But don’t worry. You’ll still have a job if you want one, and even if the worst should come to the worst, I’ll see that you’re provided for. If Leitner leads the horse while you ride, can you find the way to Market Harborough?”

“Oh, aye.”

“It will be dark.”

“I’ve eyes like an owl, my lord.”

“Good man.”

John stood again and addressed Leitner. “The temperature’s falling, and Lady Welford isn’t dressed for this cold. I need to get her to shelter, and quickly. There’s a hunting box over the hill just beyond the accident, and we’ll spend the night there. You take Argos, and once you’ve conducted Barnes to the nearest surgeon, arrange for the repair of the carriage and hire a new conveyance.” He counted out a generous sum and handed the coins to Leitner. “Find yourself lodging in Market Harborough, and leave whatever funds remain for Barnes’s keeping while he recovers. And when you return in the morning, whatever you do, bring food.”

“Yes, my lord.” Leitner nodded and tucked the money into his pocket. “I shall return with the sunrise.” With John’s help, he assisted Barnes into the saddle.

John waved them off. “Good luck.”

He started back to the scene of the accident. Thank God Leitner had a good head on his shoulders. John had engaged him during his first months in Vienna, after his previous valet had given notice following a family crisis. At the time, Leitner’s chief recommendation had been that his English was slightly better than John’s German—Leitner was the younger son of an innkeeper who catered to a largely British clientele—but John had never had cause to regret the decision.

He found Caroline and Ronnie seated side by side on her trunk, Caroline shivering so hard it was impossible to miss.

“Leitner is seeing our coachman to the nearest doctor,” he told them. “I wish we had another saddle horse, or at least a saddle and bridle for one of the carriage horses, but I’m afraid we’ll have to walk to the hunting box. It isn’t far.”

John wouldn’t have blamed his brother or his wife if they’d given him reproachful looks, but they both rose without complaint. He picked up the saddlebag they’d packed with the belongings they would need overnight, and gave Caro his arm. They set off, Ronnie leading the three carriage horses.

A steady drizzle fell as they slogged up the rise. More than once Caroline’s feet slipped in the mud, and she would have fallen if John hadn’t supported her.

What a miserable day. John had known this journey would have its challenges, but he hadn’t expected outright disaster. Having to shoot one of the carriage horses was bad enough, but that was nothing to Barnes’s injury.

The coachman’s accident had been sheer happenstance, the circumstances beyond John’s control. Better to blame the team or the weather. Any one of their party might have been hurt or even killed when the horses bolted, himself included. Yet he couldn’t help but feel responsible. They’d been traveling on his schedule, in his carriage, on his orders. If he’d been more careful of the weather or the horses, they’d be safe and dry right now, and Barnes wouldn’t be in danger of losing an arm.

Thunder rumbled, more distant now. “It isn’t much farther,” he said.

“G-good.” Caro’s chattering teeth turned the word into two syllables.

And that was another disaster—less serious, assuredly, but troubling just the same. He’d intended for them to stay at The Three Swans. It would’ve been clean and cozy, and they could’ve had roast beef with freshly baked bread for dinner. He’d hoped he might extend an olive branch in the wake of realizing how idiotic he’d been to ask her about their wedding night. But now it seemed they were to have no dinner at all, and precious little comfort.

They topped the rise and picked their way carefully down the other side of the slope. Caroline hadn’t complained once about the cold or wet, though with her clinging to his arm, John could feel her shiver with every fresh gust of wind. As determined as he was to get her out of the cold, the tight hold she kept on him and the way her soft curves pressed against him each time she slipped was certainly raising
his
temperature.

The hunting box stood dark and deserted. “I’ll stable the carriage horses,” Ronnie volunteered.

“I’d appreciate it. I’m eager to get Caroline inside.”

The wet gravel made for safer footing, and she let go of his arm as they approached the house.

John rapped on the front door. No one answered. He tried the latch, but the door was locked. “Stand back.”

With one booted foot aimed strategically below the latch, he kicked in the door. It flew back on its hinges with a crash.

He glanced at Caroline. She was gazing at him with an unfamiliar look of respect in her eyes.

He gestured her inside. “After you.”

She stepped past him, only to trip on the uneven threshold.

John caught her by the elbow, saving her from stumbling. “Careful.”

Leaning into him, she raised her face to his, her teeth still chattering. “I’m not usually so c-clumsy. I can’t even blame the mud that time.”

“You’re half-frozen.” Her cheeks were pink with the cold, and beneath her bonnet her normally smooth hair curled in damp, unruly corkscrews. He had an almost overpowering urge to wrap his arms around her and kiss her.

Ronnie entered behind them. “Lord, look at this place. Rugs rolled up, furniture under Holland covers, cobwebs in the hearth...”

Caroline straightened with a self-conscious look. “At least it’s dry.”

It was dry enough, but not one whit warmer than the outdoors, and she looked chilled to the bone. Depositing their belongings on the nearest chair, John made a quick appraisal of the cottage—a parlor and empty kitchen downstairs, with two bedchambers above.

“Both of you had better go up and change out of those wet clothes,” he said when he came back downstairs. “Ronnie, you take the room on the left. I’ll see to the fires before the light is completely gone.”

He found a woodshed behind the house, full to the rafters and blessedly weather-tight. He stacked a supply of split logs high in his arms. At least they’d have enough firewood to drive the worst of the chill from the bedrooms.

The bedrooms. Despite having passed the previous night on the floor, John felt a stir of...well, he wasn’t sure what he felt. Hope? Desire? Or was it just the thrill of uncertainty, the awareness that new possibilities might await him if he could find some way to start over with Caroline? After all, she’d seemed as unhappy as he was with the stalemate their marriage had become.

He hadn’t taken a mistress during his years abroad, hadn’t even bedded a woman since his wedding night. Not that he had any pretensions to sainthood. He’d felt the urge often enough, and more than once he’d ventured out into the Vienna night, intending to engage some fashionable impure who’d made her availability known, an actress or an opera singer he might readily take to bed. But however compelling the need, he’d never followed through. In the end, the demireps with their too-bright rouge and daring gowns had struck him as false and more than a little depressing, reminders of his own failed marriage. They were beautiful, and they were available, but they weren’t Caroline.

God. Either he was the most stubbornly faithful husband in Christendom, or the biggest fool.

Firewood piled to his chin, John trudged back inside and climbed the stairs. With his arms full, he had to fumble to knock on his brother’s door.

Ronnie answered at once, unburdening John of a liberal share of the wood he carried. “I’ll take care of the fire in here. Don’t worry about the parlor on my account. I’m turning in for the night.”

“Already?” It might be nearly dark, but it wasn’t that late. “At least read some of your Logic before you go to sleep.”

“I’ll try, if I can keep my eyes open,” Ronnie said with a theatrical yawn. “Caro found candles and blankets while you were out, so I’ve all I need. Tell her I said good-night.”

Ronnie pushed the door closed, leaving a bemused John standing alone on the landing, his arms still full of firewood. Evidently, his brother was determined not to appear
de trop
.

John hesitated outside the door of the second bedroom. Husband or no, he doubted Caroline would thank him for barging in while she was changing. She’d slept in most of her clothes the night before. He shifted the wood in his arms and knocked softly.

“Come in,” she called, her voice a trifle high. And then, with greater assurance, “It isn’t locked.”

He let himself in. The room was so starkly furnished, no one could mistake the house for anything but a bachelor establishment. There was only an oak bedstead with a feather tick, a small chest of drawers that doubled as a washstand, and a cedar chest positioned at the foot of the bed. A single candle burned atop the washstand. The windows were curtained in simple green moreen, and an old Turkey carpet covered the floor.

Caro stood on the far side of the bed, looking pale and cold and lovely, swathed in a woolen blanket. Her long dark hair was loose around her shoulders, still slightly damp. “I was just getting out of my wet things.”

“Do you need my help?”

She bit her lip. “Perhaps in a moment, with my stays. But this gown fastens in the front.”

“I can keep my back turned if you like.” It wasn’t an offer most husbands would feel compelled to make, but theirs was hardly a normal marriage.

“You really needn’t.” Despite the words, her obvious hesitation—she was still clutching the blanket with both hands—suggested she was just as unsure how to proceed as he was.

He shrugged. “I was going to lay the fire anyway.”

She gave him a nervous smile. “I would’ve finished changing already, but while you were out I found linens in the chest there, and I was making up the bed.”

Careful to appear casual, John strode to the fireplace and set down the wood, then squatted on his haunches and went to work arranging logs on the grate. “Ronnie bids you a good-night. He’s turning in early, so I’ll leave it to you whether I should start a fire in the parlor or wait until morning.”

She considered a moment. “I don’t think we’ll need the fire tonight.”

She didn’t want a fire downstairs? Its absence meant they’d have to spend the rest of the evening confined to this room, alone together. What did she have in mind?

Probably nothing. John stacked the logs with a feeling of grim determination. The last time he’d made the mistake of thinking Caroline was interested in him, he’d bought himself five years of bitter disappointment. He doubted she was exactly lusting for his body.

“Would you mind unlacing me?” she asked behind him.

“Not at all.” He set aside the firewood and went to her.

She still had the blanket around her, clutching it together with one hand, but she lowered it in back to reveal the lacings of her stays. With her free hand, she gathered up her long hair and held it out of his way. “Sorry to put you to so much trouble,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him.

“It’s nothing.”

She had an odd notion of trouble, to imagine that undressing a beautiful woman was any imposition. Beneath her stays, her damp shift clung to her skin. She had the tiniest waist. And masses of long, soft, shining hair. God, he loved women, especially when they shed the layers of petticoats and muslin that hid the best parts of them. They looked good, they smelled good. How had he gone five years without so much as touching one?

He’d unlaced Caro the night before, but at the busy inn, in the wake of finding her alone with that lout from the taproom, somehow it hadn’t felt charged with lustful intensity the way it did now. As close as he was, he could have wrapped his arms around her, kissed the place where the curve of her neck became her shoulder, easily hauled her hips back against his.

He didn’t. Instead he finished the job with businesslike efficiency. Merciful God, he was the king of willpower, the emperor of self-denial.

He stepped back. “There. And in case you were worried about anyone getting in tonight, I propped a chair against the front door to compensate for the broken latch.”

“Thank you,” she said, slanting a look at him from under thick black lashes.

John went back to laying the fire, kneeling before the fireplace. He studiously avoided thinking about her setting the wool blanket aside, about her peeling off her wet shift and letting it fall at her feet, about the long, smooth lines of her body without a stitch on. Or did his best to.