Chapter Nineteen
Hugh massaged his temples as he stared down the neck of his brandy decanter.
His head pounded, his scars ached, and he felt as though the day had gone on forever.
Christiana’s demand infuriated him—did she not know how hard he had worked to keep Amelia’s reputation as clean as possible under the circumstances?
Her friend had made her bed; now she must lie in it. The burden of her consequences was hers and hers alone.
“She stood by me during my marriage to you.”
The words stung an unholy amount.
He had known she had not wanted to marry him. Hell, he had not wanted to marry her, either. But he had not known marriage to him would be such a sacrifice—so difficult—that it would necessitate her friend supporting her.
He almost laughed to himself, the sound bitter and angry.
What pride he had, even now. He was the Beast of Somerset—a monster prowling his castle in search of new victims and fresh blood.
Of course Christiana had felt some reluctance to marry him; of course her friend had offered support should it go wrong.
This unfortunate revelation would be easier to bear if he were not so attracted to her. But here he was, cradling foolish hope that she might be amenable to his advances in time.
The most he could ever expect was for her tolerance—and tolerance was not a good enough reason to take a woman to bed. Not even his wife.
A lead weight in his stomach, fire burning in his lungs, his veins, he studied the crystal-cut glass in his hands. His temptation was to drink—in the past, it had been an adequate way of numbing the pain a little. But if he were to give in to that temptation, what else might he give in to?
If he closed his eyes, he could see his father seated in this very chair, holding the same glass, chastising him for kicking up larks in London.
He was, he reflected with a grim smile, becoming increasingly maudlin.
There came a rap at the door, and Amelia appeared, her hair piled in silky curls atop her head. He wondered when she had changed so utterly from a girl into a woman, and how he was supposed to navigate this change.
“Well?” he asked when she didn’t speak, her eyes narrowed on the glass in his hand.
“You’re drinking,” she accused.
“Merely contemplating the possibility.” He put the tumbler down on the desk. “What is it?”
“I would speak to you about something.” When he didn’t move, she beckoned to him. “It’s urgent.”
“What is it?”
She rolled her eyes expressively. “Are you so precious about your time? If you must know, it’s Chris.”
He was out of his chair before his mind had caught up with the action. “Is something wrong?”
“This way,” Amelia said, leading the way through the house.
Not to Christiana’s bedchambers, as he had assumed, but to a wing of the house they rarely used.
After the fire, and with only the two of them occupying the space, these rooms had been rarely visited.
They were guestrooms, mostly, for visitors who no longer came.
A ballroom, lying empty and dark, for balls that he had never hosted.
Amelia led the way unerringly until she came to a small room that had once been a parlor and now served as a storage room.
As promised, Christiana was there, standing straight amongst the jumble of old furniture, abandoned paintings, and general chaos.
Hugh could not remember the last time he had visited this room.
Certainly not since his recovery from the burns.
He registered, oddly, that she was in a silvery gown—rather like a ballgown—that brought out the color in her eyes. When she glanced at him, her brows drew low in a frown.
He had the ridiculous urge to take her in his arms.
“There,” Amelia said from behind them both, and then she promptly closed the door.
Before Hugh could move, the unmistakable scrape of the turning lock sounded.
“Now I hope you will talk to each other. I’ll return and unlock you in an hour or so.
” She giggled to herself, and Hugh strode to the door, banging on it once.
“Amelia—” he growled, but all he could hear was the sound of her footsteps skipping away. Furious, he pounded on the wood, but there was no use. And another glance around the room told him that if there ever had been a bellpull, it was long gone.
All that remained were piles of long-forgotten furniture. Lamps, unlit, the glass dusty.
“I take it you are not in a state of crisis and need to speak with me,” he said, turning back around to face her. She watched him, the lamplight reflecting off her glasses.
She gave a tremulous smile. “I gather this is her attempt at getting us to speak to one another.”
His jaw snapped together. They had not spoken since their argument over breakfast. There was nothing more to say on the subject. Miss Crawford could not marry her groom and be welcomed here as a guest; he would not allow it.
“What excuse did she give you?” he demanded. “And what the devil possessed you to come into this room and wait here for me?” And why, more to the point, had she done so in that dress? The material shimmered with every movement, packaging her every slim curve like a gift.
“I was under the impression an old London friend of yours was visiting,” she snapped, the lenses of her glasses flashing as her head moved. “Amelia urged me to change, then said before he arrived that you wished to speak to me privately about Miss Crawford.”
His anger merely rose. That little brat, thinking she could manipulate them in this way. “Then I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“Yes, very sorry, indeed, I’m sure.” The words burst from her like acid, and she snapped her jaw shut as though she instantly regretted them. He had the wildest urge to remove her glasses from her face and kiss her into submission.
That was not the kind of behavior a lady like Christiana would respond well to, he was sure, but his blood heated in his veins regardless.
“Are you truly so surprised I don’t wish to host your ruined friend?”
Christiana clamped her lips shut, but he thought he saw the glisten of tears in her eyes. And just as abruptly as it had arrived, his anger fled.
“Are you crying?” He strode to her side, lifting her glasses so he could see the moisture gathering on her lower lashes. “Because of me?”
“No.”
“Then why?” He swept a thumb under her eyes and examined the liquid on the leather of his gloves. “Unless you are pretending not to be upset, which would be a foolish lie when the evidence is working against you so definitively.”
A half-smile caught her lips, and she turned, as though to hide her face. “Stop it. I’m supposed to be angry at you.”
“If I am not the reason, what is?” Belatedly, he remembered breakfast that morning. In his anger, he had forgotten that she had received more than one letter—and the other had been from her father.
No one had ever told him how complicated it was being a husband. For her to confide in him, he must encourage her to trust him. All while denying her requests and protecting the interests of his sister—his sister, whom he would punish for having shut them in here like this.
He pinched his nose. What was he to say?
Finally, he settled for, “I’m sorry, Chris. It was never my intention to upset you.”
“You give yourself too much credit,” she said, but her voice was thick, and he caught the way she subtly wiped at her eyes before turning back around to face him. “I read my father’s letter.”
Just as Hugh had thought. This new coal in his gut was anger, and he never thought he would be fully free of it. “What did it contain?”
“Nothing of note,” she said bitterly. At the sight of her distress, he was unable to prevent himself from taking her hand in both of his. For the first time, he wished he were not wearing gloves so he could feel her skin to skin.
“Tell me,” he murmured.
“I thought you were angry with me.”
“I was angry at—” Himself, he realized. At having wanted something more from her than she was prepared to give. Angry that she had prioritized her friend over his sister. Angry at the world for how easily it rejected those within it. “I’m sorry.”
“My father expressed his pleasure at my having made such an advantageous match,” she said, her voice wooden, as though she were reciting from a script.
“He wrote to inform me that although his debts are paid, his circumstances are worse than ever, and that he requires money in order to maintain his standard of living. As summer draws to an end, he will require coal money, and of course, money for servants.” Her gaze flicked to his, then away. “He is bedridden, you see.”
Hugh did see. Hugh saw very clearly. This man, who did not deserve the love of such a woman, thought to take advantage of his daughter once again, instead of working to allow his land to maintain him, as any member of the gentry ought.
He was a viscount, for God’s sake. The estate was not nearly as vast as Hugh’s own, but it was more than sufficient to support a modest lifestyle—perhaps even a moderately extravagant one—if properly managed.
Evidently, Lord Barnsley had no intention of managing anything—save his daughter.
“Hugh,” Chris said, her face tipped back to his, a frown between her brows now. “There is no use in getting angry at him. He would never understand any of it.”
“I will not allow you to send any money to him,” he said. “You have pin money, of course, but its only condition is that you spend it on yourself.”
She shook her head. “I have no wish to spend it on him.” Sadness flooded her eyes, just for a second. “The moment he sold me into marriage, however fortunate I may have been in my husband, I stopped thinking of him as my father.”
Heat radiated through his chest at the compliment, and he rubbed at the fluttering sensation.
“As far as I’m concerned, he relinquished the title long before that.
” How to put this right? No wonder she clung so desperately to that foolish friend when she had known no love in her life.
He reached a thumb to where a tear quivered at the corner of her eye.
“Give me the word, and I’ll travel there myself to give him a piece of my mind,” he said quietly. “Just give me the word, Chris.”
“But traveling is uncomfortable for you. And Yorkshire is so far away.”
True, the journey would be unpleasant. But he had faced a great deal of unpleasant things in his life, and the prospect of confronting her father would prove so satisfying that it would be worth the pain.
“Give me the word,” he repeated.
“Hugh.” She cupped his face in her hands, and he suppressed the shudder at having her hands against his scarred skin.
But there was no sign of disgust on her face.
“He is ill, likely with very little time left. Let him die and pass from this world. I wouldn’t have you wasting your time and energy trying to make him see something he won’t.
He will never regret the way he treated me because it brought him some small comfort at the time. He never had any affection for me.”
His hands found her waist without meaning to. She was so small in his hands, so fragile, as though he could snap her like a twig. How could he eradicate the sorrow from her expression? It seemed a crime that she had never experienced affection the way she ought.
“He had more than he ever deserved in his hands,” he said, the words coming too fast. “If I could go back and erase all that happened to you, I would.”
She placed her finger against his lips. “I would never choose that.”
His anger was impotent inside him. Since the fire, there had been so many injuries he had been unable to fix. So many cruelties committed to the people for whom he was responsible, and he had been unable to repair those, either. He was unable to repair his own damned body.
And here was another thing he could not resolve. More injuries that he could not turn back time to repair, more hurt that followed her like a shadow, like a shroud.
Yet how could he express any of this?
At a loss, he took hold of her wrist, as gently as he could, and kissed her finger. Her expression froze in shock. They had been in this position once before, in her dressing room, but it felt different here, now. Charged in a new way.
He had no anticipation of her asking for more. But by God, he wanted her to feel something other than her father’s rejection.
Her eyes flared. Quicksilver. Mercury. She was poison, and he had taken her into his veins.
Already, he’d had too much of her. He craved the occasional softness she revealed in her quieter moments, and the rigidity of her spine when facing something unpleasant or that hurt her. He had the unreasonable urge to cradle her in his hands and protect her from all evil.
From her father.
Would tasting her be a cure or a condemnation?
“Hugh,” she whispered.
“I will buy your father’s house for you.” He dropped her hand and studied her face, trying to decipher her expression. “You will have everything you want, Chris. Anything I can provide. That was my vow to you when we married, and I intend to keep it in any way I can.”
Her gaze searched his face. “I have only one request, Hugh.”
Damn it all. Damn it all to hell.
“You and I both know how unpleasant it is to be shunned by the world,” she said, speaking too quickly. “All I ask is that she has one place of safety to return to. You have made a safe place for me, and you are prepared to shield me from hurt where possible. Let me do that for her.”
He wanted to tell her that he did these things because she was his wife.
But the reality had become that he did these things because of her. For her. Because he wanted her happiness. Somehow, over the course of the past few weeks, her happiness had become vital to his.
“Very well,” he said. “If that’s what you want, then let it be. I will allow her to visit—but only her, Chris. Not the husband.”
An intake of breath told him that she had not expected him to capitulate so very quickly.
And yet what else could he say—he had his wife standing before him in a ballgown that tempted him beyond reason, her glasses sliding partway down her nose, and her hair resisting all attempts to produce sleek curls.
If this was what it meant to be condemned, then he welcomed it.
“Hugh!” A smile wreathed her face, and he thought it might have been the loveliest thing he had ever seen. “Thank you! Thank you!”
Then she reached up, her hands cupping his cheeks so very gently, and kissed him.