What a Lady Requires (20 page)

Lips pressed into a firm line, he retreated an inch at most.

She had him now. This was nothing more than a difficult negotiation, but she sensed she’d won. Why, then, did she not feel the keen thrill of victory? “You need to decide what you want out of this marriage. Is it just the money or something more?”

Still no answer, so she swallowed and pressed on. This phase of the negotiation was turning out to be more difficult than expected. “When you’ve worked out what you want, we can further discuss it. I’ll send someone after my things in the morning.”

His entire body jerked as if she’d just struck him. “Your things? Where are you going? Where will I find you?”

“Cheapside.” Her throat tightened alarmingly. She could get through this. She had to. “Back where I come from. Back where I belong. But don’t come after me until you’ve decided which man you’re going to be.”

He shook his head. “What are you on about?”

“I want the husband who looked after me when I was ill. Who held me in his lap and fed me soup. Who ignored his own comfort so I might keep warm. Who thinks up the most awful puns imaginable to make me laugh. I l—” She choked, but thank goodness. She’d nearly admitted a weakness. “I could fall in love with him.”

Battencliffe slumped back against the seat and raked a hand through his hair. “I’m no good at this. No one’s showed me how to be married.”

Ah, excuses. Thank heaven for that, as well, and the irritation that overwhelmed any more tender emotion that might soften her voice. “No good, no good. That’s always your justification. It’s about time you started making an effort. This person I’m seeing right now, I want nothing to do with him. This person is simply ugly.”

Ugly.
Now, there was a word no woman had ever applied to Rowan Battencliffe, but an hour later, it still echoed through his mind. He swallowed the last of his brandy, letting the drink burn a path to his gut. He needed the fortification before he crossed the threshold into Emma’s apartments and faced those letters. Faced the fact that he might have misjudged her, and in the most god-awful manner possible.

To the devil with it.

He tossed the glass aside, and yanked open the connecting door. In the light of a single flickering candle, the bedchamber lay under a blanket of silence. On the bed, the coverlet was turned back, awaiting the mistress of the house. Much as it had looked the night he’d sullied it with Lydia.

Bloody, bloody hell. Emma had consigned him to purgatory. She could easily have sent him back to his brother’s, but no. She’d had to leave him this house, and she’d had to send him back to this room.

You’re angry with someone who is no longer here.

Damn her discernment. It was as if the blasted spectacles she usually wore permitted her a view directly into his soul. Yet again, she was right, and she’d sent him to face that ghost, no matter that she’d used the excuse of the letters in her writing desk.

He took the candle from the nightstand and strode across the floor to the familiar piece. It sat in the same spot as it had over seven years ago. His fingers brushed the costly marquetry. He still retained a vague recollection of pushing Lydia up against it. Not that she’d protested. No, she’d been an active participant in their sin.

He thrust those memories, vague as any shadow, back into the compartment in his brain where he kept them locked. He needed to throw away that key. Revisiting that night served no purpose.

Reaching for the handle, he raised the tambour top. Folded sheets of paper stood in neat ranks in one of the pigeonholes, but they did not command the same attention as a book bound in red leather. The gold inlay stuck out in raised relief, the letters twinkling in the low light.

Lydia Lindenhurst. The name struck him a harder blow than any salvo his wife had tossed in his direction tonight.

A journal—that much was clear—something he should never touch. But then he should never have touched Lydia. He reached toward the pigeonhole and took up the pages, neat and orderly, all classified by date, the first dated three months ago and more. He scanned for a signature.
Hendricks,
just as Emma had said.

Not
Crawley.

Alongside each missive lay a copy of what Emma must have sent to this Hendricks fellow. Rowan pored through one letter after the other, but if there was any hint of scandalous behavior going on, it was well hidden among the lines of investment advice.
If you’re looking to import, spend extra for luxury goods. The rich will always have the means to pay a high price, and your return will come in all the faster.

Yes, and didn’t that just sound like Emma?

But somewhere along the way Hendricks had slipped up and lost a great deal. The tone of his recent notes became more and more desperate as he tried to recoup his loss.

Just like Rowan.

It was all innocent, then, and he needed to put the papers back. But somehow, as he withdrew his hand, it landed on cool leather binding. Lydia’s journal, which might hold the record of a night he’d been too besotted with drink to recall.

Damn Emma. She had to know the journal was here. Perhaps she’d even read parts of it herself. She’d known—she’d faced the worst of him already, alone. And clearly, clearly, she needed for him to face that in himself. Because if he could get past this one event, he might finally figure out what he wanted.

So he set the candle down, grit his teeth, and settled himself into a spindly chair more suited to hold a lady than his bulk. Bracing himself, he opened the cover and began to read.

The sky was lightening by the time Rowan closed the journal. His eyes itched, and his head felt like it was stuffed to bursting, rather like when he attempted to understand Emma’s account books.

No, he wouldn’t think of her. After Lydia, he’d considered himself a failure. Now, since he’d run Emma off, he truly knew the meaning of the word. Ironically enough, he’d run her off for nothing.

Hopefully it wasn’t too late, though he’d have to work harder than a London docks-man to make those amends. At least he could try to right things with Lind, at least as much as they could be righted.

He fumbled in the writing desk until he found ink, a quill, and paper. Lind wouldn’t answer a summons from him, but Sanford would. And perhaps by some miracle, Sanford could convince Lind to listen.

The air in the tiny office at the back of Papa’s shop was tinged with the odors of ink and paper, candle wax and dust. Shelves crammed with ledgers were wedged next to the desk. Papa’s precious private collection of wines lay padlocked in a special case. On any other day, the clatter of commerce would fill the space, but today was Sunday, and the silence of the Lord’s day shrouded the premises like a blanket.

Emma had chosen this refuge in hopes the familiar scents and surroundings would calm the mad whirl of her thoughts. One question cropped up like a persistent weed, every time she tried to turn her attention to the business’s latest dealings. Had she done right in leaving?

Yes.

She had to believe that. Battencliffe would come after her or he wouldn’t, but either way, her proper home was here. In this shop, in this section of London, and not some fancy Mayfair townhouse.

“Are you ready to tell me what happened?” Papa’s voice tore her attention away from both the ledgers and her confusion. He stood in the doorway, smudges of purple marking the space beneath his eyes.

Emma imagined she looked rather the same. The hour had been late when she roused the household with her unexpected arrival. While Papa had left her to her own devices last night, he’d clearly worried away the hours before dawn.

“I suppose you’ve heard Aunt Augusta’s tale.”

“I’d rather hear your version of events. It stands a far stronger chance of mirroring the truth.”

“I fear we do not suit.” There. That explained the situation in sufficiently vague yet honest terms.

Papa’s shoulders dropped. In fact, his entire being seemed to shrink before her. “I am sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault. You could not have known.”

He approached the desk and set his palms on the surface, still hunched like an old man. “I only wished the title for you. I wanted my daughter to command respect.”

She didn’t have the heart to admit her impending title had made matters far, far worse for her. “It was never all that important to me.”

“And yet, you never complained. You did it for me, and I failed you.”

She pushed herself out of her chair, so she could meet him on his level. “You tried to find an ideal solution, though, one that would have allowed me to exercise my talents. We all tried, but it just didn’t work.”

“And now I’ve condemned you to a lifetime as an unhappy wife. Please believe me when I tell you I did not want this for you.”

“We’ll manage.” She curled her fingers about his arm and squeezed. “We’ll manage the way any number of society couples do and live apart as much as feasibly possible.”

“He didn’t…” Papa looked down at her hand on his sleeve. “He didn’t mistreat you, did he? Because if he did, I wouldn’t forgive myself.”

“No, Papa. He isn’t that sort of man.”

“I thought I’d taken his measure,” Papa went on, as if she hadn’t intervened, “as well as I might have under the circumstances. His brother gave me all manner of reassurances. I should have put a halt to the proceedings the moment he turned up foxed.”

“I can tell you now that state was an exception. He is no drunkard. He…He is…” She waved a hand. “Never mind.”

At last, Papa met her gaze. “No, tell me, if only to set my heart at ease.”

Blast it, the last thing she wanted was to enumerate Battencliffe’s good qualities. Her own heart didn’t need any more tipping in his favor. She feared it was already too far gone.

But she also had to erase that bleak expression from her papa’s face. “He tried, Papa. I swear he did. Do you know he believes himself a failure due to his financial difficulties?” In part, at any rate, but it would hardly do to explain about Lady Lindenhurst. “I attempted to teach him just as you wanted, and yes, he did resist at first. I thought he was doing it on purpose to irritate me, but…”

She trailed off as a clear image leapt to her mind of Battencliffe slumped over the books. He’d wanted to work it out on his own to impress her. To understand her, he’d said. Oh, he’d tried, not just to learn the books, but to make a go at their marriage. On some level, he
had
wanted her on her terms, but somehow their foundation had crumbled, like stones set in mortar that hadn’t been allowed to cure properly.

All that was left was to gather the stones again and rebuild.

“I’m not certain he has it in him,” she finished.

“Then he still needs you.” Papa made that pronouncement in a gentle tone. He was looking straight at her, his entire demeanor changed—enough that Emma had to wonder if hers hadn’t, as well. In her mind, she’d softened toward Battencliffe. Had that moderation shown on her face? Even so, she felt as if Papa could see straight through to her confused thoughts and bruised heart.

“He knows where to find me,” she replied, her voice surprisingly steady. “If he comes for me, it will be his choice.”

Papa reached out and touched her cheek, his fingertips warm and papery. “And will you go with him if he does?”

“I suppose that all depends on how he asks.”

“Then all is not lost.” He gave a tentative smile before cocking his ear. “I believe I hear your aunt’s carriage. She’ll be returning from Sunday services.”

“You did not attend,” Emma pointed out.

“Neither did you. Besides, I wished to discuss the situation with you without your aunt voicing her opinion. And you can be certain she’s formed quite a firm notion of how things ought to be. I may have time to catch her before she finds you and convince her a constitutional is just the thing. In fact, I shall join her, to ensure she keeps her nose out.”

Emma could not hide her smile. “Thank you, Papa.”

After he left, Emma returned to the books, but they still offered nothing in the way of distraction. If anything, her mind was in an even greater muddle since she’d been forced to acknowledge Battencliffe’s better qualities.

But she refused to crawl back to him. He would come to her, and this time they would negotiate the terms of their marriage, not the financial but the emotional. And she would demand in no uncertain terms the right to conduct business—even if that necessitated interaction with other men. If Battencliffe could not trust her to maintain a strict professional relationship with those contacts, their marriage was doomed.

Your marriage was meant to be strictly business and look at the tangle of emotions you’ve created.

She could no longer deny that truth, but she’d be willing to wager her last shilling another man would never stir this level of turmoil within her.

A noise from the shop pulled her from her thoughts.

“Papa?” Even as she called, she knew Papa could not be back already. At any rate, Aunt Augusta would announce her presence through a spate of loudly voiced admonishments. “Who’s there?”

A familiar figure appeared on the threshold.

“Mr. Crawley, how did you get in here?” More to the point, why was he here when the shop was closed and no one else present?

“The door was unlocked and I let myself in,” he said evenly, as if he breeched accepted etiquette every day.

A thrill of alarm jangled along her spine. “You might have knocked.”

He took a step into the office, his presence large in the cramped space. “I didn’t.”

Not taking her eyes from him, she pushed herself slowly to her feet. “If you’ve come to call on my cousin, she is not here.”

Crawley chuckled, an ominous rumble that expressed nothing resembling mirth. “This is not a social call, as you know very well, or I’d have observed the niceties.”

With him blocking the only exit, Emma’s heart began a rapid pulse. She cast about for possible weapons, and her glance lit on a letter opener tucked beside the blotter. It would have to do. “Then why have you come?”

“I’ve come to speak with you.” Another step. Closer. “You’ve been ignoring me far too long, and I will not tolerate it.”

She grabbed for the letter opener, but Crawley lunged. Too fast. His hand shackled her wrist, fingers digging mercilessly into her skin. The letter opener clanged on the floorboards.

“That was unfortunate.” He wedged himself behind the desk, turning her in his grip until her back was flush with his chest. “I was hoping you’d be too clever to try something like that.” With his free hand, he dug in his topcoat. Something cold and round pressed against her temple. “You wouldn’t want to make me use this, now, would you?”

Hours after sending his summons to Sanford, Rowan still hadn’t slept, although a bath, a shave, and some breakfast had him feeling somewhat human. He’d placed Lydia’s journal on the desk atop Emma’s neatly stacked ledgers. Now he simply paced in the study. He couldn’t afford to sit. The moment he stopped moving, he dwelt once more on his wife.

What a royal cock-up. Damn it. Soon even pointless movement would be insufficient to hold his thoughts at bay.

“You have a caller.”

Finally. Rowan turned to Grundy. “Show him in.”

In a trice, Sanford stepped over the threshold. “I never thought I’d set foot in this place again.”

Rowan pushed aside a fleeting shadow of disappointment. He’d known all along Lind would never enter this house. “Imagine trying to live here.”

“No wonder you look like you’ve spent the night in the gaming hells.”

“Actually, I came straight home from the Posselthwaites’.” Rowan gestured toward the decanter of brandy. “Can I offer you a drink? I daresay you’ll need one.”

“That bad, is it? But you’re not having one yourself?”

Rowan wasn’t sure he could stomach the taste of brandy. Not after what he’d read in that journal. “I’d prefer to keep a clear head—or as clear as I can on no sleep. I made a discovery last night, something that changes everything.” He ran a hand over the red leather that bound the journal. “You need to take this to Lind. What’s more, you need to convince him to read it—all the way through.”

“What is it?”

Rowan snapped his attention to the doorway and the new voice. Its accents were clipped and precise as ever. In the army, Lind had honed the ability to speak in as insufferable a tone as possible. Under the circumstances, he had every right to sound doubly so. Each step halting and punctuated by the tap of a walking stick, Lind emerged from the passage, stopping a pace or two beyond the door.

“Good God, you came.”

“Only because Sanford practically dragged me from my home, abetted, ironically enough, by my own wife.” Lind cast an uneasy glance about the study. “Now let’s get this unpleasantness over with.”

“I’m glad you’re here because it allows me to pay my debts to you.”

Lind glared as only a former officer could. “I forgave them last summer, even if you were too pigheaded to accept it.”

“This goes deeper than my vowels, and you know it. Not that I expect true forgiveness.” Rowan took the journal from the desk and held it out. “You really need to read this through.”

Lind remained obstinately on the opposite side of the room. “What is that?”

“Lydia’s journal.”

Lind stiffened visibly. “Burn it.”

“No, you really need to read it.” Despite Lind’s forbidding stance, Rowan closed the distance between them. “What we all thought happened did not happen, not the way we assumed.”

Lind turned his head and regarded Rowan from the corner of his eye. “How is that possible? You admitted it. For Christ’s sake,
Lydia
admitted everything.”

Rowan lowered his lids. “I do not recall the night in question. Not in its entirety. But I’d had more brandy than was good for me, and I was here in the morning. In Lydia’s bed.” Naked, but he wasn’t about to add that.

Sanford moved closer, posture tense, ready to intercede if necessary.

“You think I wish to hear this?” Lind said tightly. “I’ve worked hard to accept what happened. It helps that I’ve remarried. But I still do not wish to revisit these events.”

Rowan dug a fist into his eyes, a temporary relief for the graininess. “If I admitted anything, it’s because I was operating under an assumption that turns out to be false. And if I did not bed Lydia that night, I cannot be Jeremy’s father.”

Lind’s knuckles whitened as he clenched his walking stick. “How splendid for you. That absolves you of that particular sin, but it does nothing to remove the stain from Lydia’s reputation. In fact, it makes her all the more guilty. If she failed to seduce you, she clearly succeeded elsewhere.”

Sanford edged closer, but Rowan persisted in holding out the journal. “Don’t burn it. Read it. Please. Though it forces you to confront old hurts, I promise you will not regret it.”

Lind knocked Rowan’s hand aside, and the book skittered across the floor.

“Did Lydia never protest when you accused her of infidelity?” Rowan persisted. He already knew the answer to that. He had Lydia’s word for it.

…I fear I’ve made a grievous error. Lindenhurst refuses to listen to my pleas that the child is his. It is too soon, he claims…

Lind’s nostrils flared at the provocation. “Of course she protested. What woman wouldn’t? There’s only the small matter of the timing of Jeremy’s birth. Once more, the entire
ton
is discussing that tiny detail. Not forgetting that Lydia admitted—”

…Lindenhurst has gone so far as asking me if Battencliffe is the father, simply because Battencliffe was on the premises upon Lindenhurst’s return from Belgium. In my utter outrage in the face of such false charges, in his refusal to take me at my word, and all this after he abandoned me for war, I have done the unthinkable. To my everlasting sorrow, I have allowed him to believe what he will…