Chapter Nineteen
Devil’s fucking breeches, what the bloody hell did Whitcombe think he was doing?
Charles drove his fist into the wall, but the explosion of pain in his knuckles did nothing to lessen the shame of what he’d done.
What he’d almost done.
The girl was a maiden, and he’d come at her like a rutting bull at the behest of her brother to claim the remainder of the dowry.
The sheen of terror in his bride’s eyes had cleaved his heart in two and shattered his soul.
It was the same expression that haunted him almost every night—the expression in his mother’s eyes the moment before her life had been extinguished as her broken body lay, inches from his face, while she drew her last, her final exhalation caressing his skin.
He paused, his knuckles throbbing, but heard nothing from the chamber next door. Perhaps the girl was too terrified to make a sound, lest he thrust his way into her chamber to force himself upon her again.
He climbed into bed and satisfied himself with driving his fist into the pillow. Then he tossed the pillow across the floor.
What the devil was he supposed to do now?
His bride lay in the adjacent chamber—shaken, terrified, in need of comfort.
But he was the last person to comfort her, and he’d be damned if he’d ask John to do it for him.
The young slut who’d served them supper was busy—he could hear her screaming her pleasures elsewhere. Which left the innkeeper’s wife.
But what could he say to her? That he was sorry for being such a brute that his bride screamed with terror on her wedding night?
He ought to demand an annulment. That might, at least, put the girl out of her misery. But it would humiliate her even more than she had been already. Not to mention Charles would find himself on the wrong side of Whitcombe’s pistol.
Perhaps he ought to consider a novel idea—ask his wife what she wanted.
But the poor creature would drop dead with fright if she saw him again tonight. Better to deal with the matter, and with her, in the morning.
Coward. Sniveling little wretch. You’re your mother’s son, all right.
Charles flinched as his father’s sneering voice sliced into his mind. But perhaps Father was right, and he was a coward, a pathetic creature unworthy of the Devereaux name.
But he was a Devereaux. The name formed the walls of a prison that ensnared him. He was stuck with it.
And so was his wife.
*
The next morning Charles entered the dining room, his valet in tow, to find it empty. He blinked in the sunlight and his stomach growled at a warm, savory aroma.
“The Fiddlers’ reputation for good food is well deserved, sir,” John said. “Mmm…it smells good enough to wake the dead.”
But was it good enough to coax his terrified wife from her chamber?
The table was laden with platters of food—scrambled eggs, bacon, and a dish of dark-brown objects resembling mushrooms that glistened in a brown sauce topped with green flecks.
The decanter of port was still on the nearby cabinet. If there was ever an occasion for liquor, this morning was it.
The young maid from last night scuttled in, carrying a teapot. “Bless me, yer lordship, ye’re already down. I just need to fetch the milk, then I’ll leave ye in peace.”
She cocked her head to one side and gave him a saucy grin. “Shall I make up a tray for Lady Dev-row? I suspect she’ll be wanting to keep to her bed for a bit this morning.”
John raised his eyebrows, and Charles signed, I’m damned if I know whether she’s joining us.
“Just bring the milk, miss,” John said, “and…”
He trailed off and dipped his head in a bow.
“Good morning, Lady Devereaux.”
Charles turned to see his wife—Olivia—standing in the doorway. Other than a slight color to her cheeks, she gave no sign of distress from her ordeal of last night. He reached for his signet ring and ran his thumb over the facets of the gemstone.
“Good morning, Mr.…” She nodded to John. “Forgive me, I don’t know…”
“It’s John.”
“John.” She fixed her clear gaze on Charles, and he felt his stomach curl with shame. “Good morning, husband.”
She dipped into a curtsey then sat at the opposite end of the table.
“I’ll wager it’s a very good morning,” the maid said with a chuckle. She bobbed a curtsey then exited the dining room, humming to herself.
Olivia cast her gaze over the table, her eyes bright with distress.
“I think you’re supposed to help yourself, ma’am,” John said. “If you wish, I could serve you. There’s bacon, eggs, and…” He glanced at the final dish and raised his eyebrows.
“Devilled kidneys,” she said, a slight smile on her lips. “They’re Eleanor’s favorite. I’d never had them until I went to live with my brother.”
She spooned some onto her plate, then paused and glanced at Charles.
“W-would you like some?”
Charles shook his head, and her smile disappeared. She picked up her knife and fork, hunching her shoulders like a hunted animal striving to make itself appear smaller in the vicinity of a predator.
Bloody hell, what the devil was he supposed to do with her?
The door opened and the maid returned with a milk jug which she placed on the table. She eyed Charles’s empty plate. “Not eating, your lordship?”
She glanced at Olivia, then grinned.
“Ah—ladies first,” she said. “Might as well continue what ye started last night!”
Olivia looked up, and the maid chuckled.
“Ye’ve a fine husband there, yer ladyship!” she said. “I heard ye! Screaming yer pleasures, beggin’ him to come back inside.”
Trembling, Olivia lifted a forkful of food to her mouth, and Charles’s heart ached to see the distress in her eyes.
“Ha!” the maid cried. “I see ye blush. It’s no wonder ye’re eating first. Needin’ yer strength, I’ll wager. It’s a wonder ye can walk, given the size of him!”
Charles slammed his fist on the table. The fork slipped from his wife’s grasp and clattered onto the plate. He gestured to the maid, then to John, his hands shaking with anger.
“Please refrain from making such remarks,” John said. “They’re not suitable for the ears of a lady.”
“I’ll say so,” a new voice said.
The innkeeper’s wife stood in the doorway, hands on hips.
Devil’s breeches, was poor Olivia’s discomfort to be witnessed by every soul in this cursed inn?
“Betsy, what have I told ye about making bawdy remarks? Heavens, girl, ye’d think we’ve not had newlyweds here before! We all know what the wedding night entails, so there’s no need to giggle about it like a child fresh out of the nursery. Be off with ye, unless ye want a lick of the strap.”
The maid’s face reddened. “Beg pardon, Mrs. Smith,” she mumbled, then fled.
“I also beg pardon, yer ladyship,” the innkeeper’s wife said, and Olivia flinched as the woman patted her arm. “It’s always the same when we’ve newlyweds here. Betsy means no harm. She’s just not used to serving such fine folk. But we’re all right pleased for ye and wish ye a happy marriage.”
Olivia gave the woman a bright smile that almost, but not quite, reached her eyes.
“Thank you, Mrs. Smith,” she said, the ghost of a tremor in her voice. “I understand. Please don’t treat Betsy too harshly. I’m sure her remarks were delivered with kindness in mind.”
“That’s very good of ye, ma’am. Now, would ye like a cup of tea? I’ll make it nice and sweet.”
The woman fussed around Olivia, pouring tea and spooning eggs onto her plate, then she patted her shoulder once more and exited the parlor, promising to leave the newlyweds in peace.
As soon as the door closed, Charles gestured to John.
Tell my wife I’m sorry for last night. I didn’t realize she was…
Fuck—how could he express that?
John tilted his head to one side and responded, Had you thought her a whore?
Charles drove his fist into his palm. No!
Olivia flinched and glanced up.
Tell her yourself, John signed. You cannot expect me to say such a thing, unless you wish me to humiliate her more than you have already.
Charles let out a huff. Just do it. It’s what I pay you for.
“You don’t pay me to do that.”
“To do wh-what?”
Bugger. John had spoken aloud. Olivia stared at him, a determined set to her jaw. Despite the moisture in her eyes, she straightened her back and met his gaze unflinchingly.
Brave little soul.
“Please…John,” she said. “Tell me what you’re speaking of—at least until I can understand your hand gestures. After all, I am in the room.”
Tell her I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to frighten her last night. Had I known she was a…
Charles paused, hands in midair.
Bloody hell! How could he say it?
…that she had not lain with a man before, I would have been gentler.
John colored, then nodded.
“Lord Devereaux wishes to apologize, ma’am, for”—he hesitated—“for the events of last night.”
Charles raised his eyebrows. Continue.
John shook his head.
“My husband wishes to say something else, doesn’t he?”
Find me something to write with.
John rose and approached the cabinet, where he opened the drawers and rifled through the contents. At length, he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and the stub of a pencil. Charles snatched it from his grasp, smoothed out the paper, and scrawled a few words:
Forgive me. I thought you a ruined woman. Had I known you were a maiden, I would not have touched you.
Hardly the flowery words of a poet making love to his sweetheart, but they’d have to do.
John reached toward the paper. Frowning, Charles shook his head, then he folded the note, rose, and handed it to his wife.
She waited for him to resume his seat before she unfolded it. Her gaze darted over the page, then, her color deepening, she crumpled the note in her hands and reached for her teacup. It slipped from her grasp and toppled onto the saucer, splashing tea on the tablecloth.
“I-I’m sorry,” she said, in a small voice.
Tell her she has nothing to be sorry for.
John stared at Charles.
For fuck’s sake, man, can you not see how distressed she is? Charles signed.
Then comfort her, sir.
I don’t know how.
Understanding and sympathy flickered in John’s eyes and Charles averted his gaze, unwilling to reveal himself any further.
He’d learned over the years that it was easier to discern the thoughts and wishes of another, not by what they said, but by what they didn’t say—the way they tilted their head, the furrow in their brow, and the expression in their eyes.
And his eyes would have conveyed the revelation that, for the first time in his life, he wanted nothing more than to ease the pain of another—but he lacked the ability, the knowledge, and the experience.
Perhaps Father was right.
I really am nothing but a beast. And a coward.
“What did you say just then, my lord?”
Her voice was soft, laced with concern—a concern that he did not deserve.
“My master said that it’s not you who ought to apologize. You are entirely blameless, and he was gravely mistaken in believing that you were anything other than a true innocent. He only wishes to atone, and is anxious to know that you are well enough to travel today.”
A fine speech indeed. A little too flowery, but believable, nonetheless. The smile on Olivia’s lips was evidence of its success.
“He wishes to reassure you that matters will improve,” John continued, “and he appreciates his supreme good fortune in securing your hand.”
Her smile disappeared.
Either she still believed herself unworthy or—and this was more likely—was astute enough to know that such gallant words were John’s, and not his.
Perhaps John would have fared better as the master and Charles the servant. John, with his classic good looks and open, warm disposition, would have had ladies flocking to him in their dozens. He’d have had no trouble securing a bride—and, no doubt, in giving her pleasure on her wedding night.
Olivia fixed her gaze on Charles. “I thank you for your consideration, my lord,” she said. “I hadn’t realized you were such an accomplished wordsmith.”
A spark of defiance! It was enough to send a surge of heat into his cock.
He leaned forward and she flinched, almost imperceptibly, and the spark died.
Bugger.
But at least the spark was there, even if she kept it hidden. Perhaps, in time, she might emerge from the shell she’d fashioned around herself and come out into the light.
At least, she would if she weren’t married to a man that she feared.
A pity, then, that she’s married to me.