Chapter Twenty-One
“Are you well, sir?”
Charles spooned sugar into his teacup and stirred it. He lifted it to his lips, his hands trembling. Hot tea splashed onto the tablecloth and he lowered the cup with a clatter.
It had all been so real.
If he closed his eyes now, he’d see the same image that invaded his dreams last night—his mother’s vivid blue eyes, wide with shock, staring into his own as the spark of life drained from them.
He could almost taste the thick, metallic tang of blood that had choked the air, almost feel its sticky warmth as it seeped into his clothes and marked the floorboards with an eternal stain of death…
“Sir!”
He jerked his head up to see John staring at him.
“Four sugars, sir? Do you not want to keep your teeth?”
The valet chuckled then cut into his bacon. The knife scraped on the plate and Charles winced.
“At least Mrs. Groves can cook bacon,” John said, chewing on a slice. “That pie last night! If you wanted to lose your teeth, you should have had some. Or you could use it as a doorstop if you prefer.”
Charles pushed his plate aside and his fork clattered onto the floor. John’s laughter died.
“What’s the matter, sir?”
Charles lifted his trembling hands. I’m not obliged to tell you everything.
John tilted his head to one side. “You’ve had the dream again, haven’t you? I should have known, considering how you behaved toward your wife, poor lady.”
I’ve done nothing to her.
John snorted. “You gave her a fright when you grabbed her at the top of the stairs, then marched off as if the very touch of her disgusted you. She could be forgiven for believing that you want nothing to do with her. But she’s hardly likely to suffer your mother’s fate.”
Why not?
“Because you’re not your father.”
Charles sipped his tea, wrinkling his nose at the sickly-sweet taste. Why was it that sugar was supposed to calm a person’s nerves yet the taste of it made a man want to retch?
“You shouldn’t have married her if you were going to shut her away and ignore her,” John said. “Women don’t like to be ignored.”
I shouldn’t have come here.
“What, to breakfast?”
Charles shook his head. To this cursed house.
“It’s just a house,” John said. “It’s what you make of it that counts. Mrs. Brougham was right in that the house needs happiness and laughter. But the responsibility for that—and your little wife—lies with you.”
I don’t pay you to cast judgment.
The valet shrugged and took another mouthful of bacon. Charles waited for a response, another remark about his inadequacies as a master and husband, but none came. They continued to eat as the longcase clock in the hall outside struck eight times.
At length, Charles gestured with his hands.
My wife fears me.
“Is that why you ignore her?” John said. “Why you refused to dine with her last night? Perhaps you find her as distasteful as that pie?”
Of course not. Don’t be a fool.
“Then do something about it,” John said, his voice rising.
“You made a vow to her brother, and Whitcombe isn’t a man to be denied.
With your estate still in need of funds, you cannot forgo that additional ten thousand.
You must consummate the marriage. Surely you can’t find her that repulsive? If I were you, I’d…”
John froze, then muttered a curse.
The skin on the back of Charles’s neck tightened as he caught the faint scent of rose.
No…
Gripping the edge of the table, he rose and turned to see his wife standing in the doorway.
John leaped to his feet, as if a hot poker had been inserted into his arse. “L-Lady Devereaux, good morning.”
She parted her lips as if to respond, then closed them again, the color draining from her face.
“Will you join us for breakfast?” John said. He approached the place setting opposite Charles and pulled the chair back. For a heartbeat she stared at it. Then she shook her head and retreated, her footsteps fading into the distance.
“You should go after her,” John said.
And frighten her even more? Charles signed. I have things to do.
“Your steward can wait.”
Not when today’s the only day that suits us both. I must visit the tenants’ properties while the weather holds.
“I suppose that’s as good an excuse as any.”
Charles let out a huff. Why did John always find a way to slip under his skin?
Perhaps because he was one of the few people who could look into his soul.
Did John realize that Charles was as fearful as his wife?
Not fearful of her, of course, but of furthering her distress.
She seemed such a fragile little thing, with no knowledge of the world and none of the hardness that glittered from the eyes of more sophisticated women.
But with each step he took, each gesture of his hand, he only succeeded in widening the gap that existed between them.
He was a coward for avoiding supper last night, and a fool for resisting the urge to visit her chamber. But the last thing he wanted to witness was the terror in her eyes of their wedding night.
Very well. Tell her I’ll join her for supper tonight.
John grinned, revealing even white teeth—and a morsel of bacon stuck between them. “Very good. I’ll tell her maid.”
She has a maid?
“She appointed Susie as her personal maid last night.”
Charles raised his eyebrows. Who the bloody hell was Susie?
“The one barely out of the nursery.”
Oh, her. She’d scuttled away in wide-eyed terror when Charles encountered her in the hallway yesterday afternoon. She feared him almost as much as his wife.
Devil’s breeches, what had he done to deserve their fear? No man could call himself a man if he terrorized the timid. It made him no different to those who had tormented him at school, no different to the man who sired him, who tormented his mother to death.
“I’ll ask Mrs. Groves to prepare something other than pie for supper,” John said. “You wouldn’t want your wife to choke on her food while you’re wooing her.”
I want you to join us.
John stared at Charles’s hands, then barked with laughter. “Are you in need of a chaperone to lessen your fear?”
No. To lessen hers.
John’s laughter died and he nodded. “Very well.”
They continued eating in silence, and Charles focused his attention on the sounds outside—the distant clatter of pans in the kitchen below, the chatter of servants. But the one sound he yearned for—his wife’s soft footsteps—was absent.
A footman appeared to inform him that Mr. Carlton was waiting in his study. Charles drained his tea, gestured for John to follow, and exited the breakfast room. Today he’d discover exactly how much of the ten thousand Whitcombe had given him would need to be spent.
And how badly he’d need the other ten thousand he had yet to earn.