A Baron for Becky (24 page)

Then, suddenly,
he pushed away. “I... I need to be alone for a time. Forgive...”
And he was gone, leaving her in the wreck of her own storm, to
wonder what damage she had just done to their marriage.

Chapter Eighteen

He rode all afternoon,
though it felt longer. He let the horse pick the way much of the
time, while his mind went over and over the horrors his wife had
lived through. His wife. His gentle, kind, comfortable wife who had
made his house into a home, gathered his daughters into her heart,
and made him happy.

He was no
better than all the rest: a user, a destroyer of women. Lady
Ballingcroft’s face floated before him again, and dozens of others
he’d tempted with honeyed words.

Like he had
Becky. Oh, he’d offered marriage, but that wasn’t what she wanted,
was it? “I was not free to choose,” she said. He hadn’t offered her
freedom, he and Aldridge. Instead, she was being used again. To
carry the child who would save the estate. To mother his other
children and manage his household. And to comfort him with her
body. He was no better than the unnamed and uncounted men who had
used her before.

What was it
Aldridge had said? “You aren’t fit to kiss the hem of her robe.” He
hated that Aldridge was right. He hated Aldridge. He hated every
man who had used his Becky, up to and including himself.

She wanted her
freedom, to be left to her own devices, and no wonder. After all
she had been through, why would she ever want to service a man
again?

But he and
Aldridge had barged in with their selfish plans.

He couldn’t fix
it; couldn’t turn back time and give her the quiet village she
wanted, but he could respect her wish to be left alone. He wouldn’t
impose himself on her again. From this day, she would be a saint in
his household, to be cherished and protected, but worshipped from
afar.

His mind made
up, he returned home.

In the
schoolroom, he was told when he asked after Lady Overton. He
thought of following her there, but decided to wait until they met
at dinner. He had to act normal, convince her nothing had
changed.

But only one
place was set, and the butler informed him Lady Overton had retired
early. “Her Ladyship complains of a headache,” he said.

“Ah. Yes. She
was unwell earlier,” Hugh replied. Was his butler glaring at him?
No. Just his guilty conscience. He shouldn’t have left her. He
should have stayed and reassured her. He pushed his plate away. “I
find I am not hungry. You can clear.”

But when he
arrived in their bedchamber, she was asleep, pale, except for her
red-rimmed eyes and small, but for the great mound of her
belly.

He wandered up
to the nursery. The children were also asleep, but the governess
was still awake, doing some mending by candlelight. Yes. That was
decidedly a glare. Had Becky said something? No, she never
complained, never criticised.

He remembered
her red eyes, and their raised voices. Undoubtedly, the servants
had drawn their own conclusions and taken sides. And they were
right. He wished the woman a good night and went back down to his
bedchamber, where he crept into bed beside his sleeping wife, not
daring to touch her.

In the morning,
Becky’s heavy-lidded eyes suggested her sleep might have been
feigned. She’d clearly had as little rest as he. “Stay in bed,”
Hugh advised. “You don’t need to get up.”

But she came
downstairs, wan but composed, before he left to supervise firewood
cutting on the far side of the estate. “Make sure you stay warm,”
she said, but there was no warmth in her voice. It wasn’t cold,
exactly. Lifeless and dull, as if the woman who lived inside the
beautiful, brittle shell had gone away somewhere.

That evening,
when Becky joined him for dinner, he ventured to discuss the
duchess’s letter that had set off the disastrous conversation. “The
governess that the Duchess of Haverford recommended...” he
began.

Her head came
up, and her eyes met his for the first time that day. Alarm? Fear?
Hugh put out a hand as if to an injured animal, not touching, just
showing he held nothing that could harm her. “You believe she would
be suitable?”

Her voice
sounded rusty, as if she had injured it with all her crying the day
before. “Her Grace...” she stopped, cleared her throat, and started
again. “Her Grace has interviewed her, and says she is
suitable.”

“Will you send
an acceptance? Or do you wish me to do so?”

Becky looked
startled.

“I have thought
about what you said. I believe you, Becky. It is wrong to blame
women when the fault lies as much—no, even more—with men. I know
that governesses are often treated poorly. If the duchess believes
this woman can be trusted with our daughters, then I will trust
her. And I will trust you to... to notice if anything is
wrong.”

Becky nodded,
but she looked no happier. “I will write to the duchess,” she
said.

“Becky.”

She was
watching her fork push food around her plate, and he had to say her
name again before she would meet his eyes.

“Becky, I just
wanted to say... I need to say... I am so sorry. I... forgive me.”
She looked bewildered, and well she might. He barely knew what he
meant himself. What he’d done to Becky was the least of what she
had suffered. But he wanted her absolution for crimes against all
the women he’d ever bedded, using them to meet his needs and
blaming them for their lack of purity. So what if he had done the
same as every man he knew. That was no excuse for being a user. A
destroyer.

She was shaking
her head, eyes dry and bleak. What did the gesture mean? ‘I won’t
forgive you?’ ‘I don’t understand?’

He couldn’t
stay to explain. His own eyes were filling and he couldn’t weep in
front of her. He had no right.

He took himself
off to his study and the brandy decanter. When he was calmer, he
would apologise again.

He was sorry
for hurting her, for not trusting her, for manipulating her into
marriage, for being a man and, therefore, a representative of the
tribe that had hurt her. He was sorry for it all, and he could
never make it up to her. But he would live his life trying.

For the next
few weeks, he worked manfully and kept to his resolution. He asked
after her health, rode into the village to find treats to tempt her
failing appetite, hunted her out several times a day to make sure
she was comfortable.

When he wasn’t
with her, he rehearsed telling her how sorry he was, but in her
presence, faced with her polite reserve, the words dried up.

He gave up
suggesting things they could do together in the evening, after she
begged off three nights in a row, though he missed the quiet times
together reading, and missed still more, making music together: he
singing as she played the pianoforte.

Instead, Becky
went up to bed early, and Hugh retired to his study and the brandy,
creeping up after she was asleep to chastely dress in a nightshirt
and tuck himself spoon-fashion behind her in the dark. A
nightshirt! He hadn’t realised he even owned such a piece of
attire. But he felt the need to reassure her she was in no danger
of being forced to endure his attentions. Indeed, when his ardour
rose at the touch and smell of her, just the thought of the horrors
she had been through was enough to shrivel him again.

Slowly, it
dawned on him that he had fallen in love with his wife. Fallen in
love with her, been severed from her, and missed her like a lost
limb. It was too late now. If only he had told her! He couldn’t
force the words on her now, when he had hurt her so badly, and she
so clearly regretted marrying him.

The house was
in mourning.

Becky barely
talked and never smiled, except when she was with the children. The
servants crept silently about their tasks. And Hugh escaped as
often as the weather allowed, which was rarer and rarer as
Christmas approached.

The new
governess and her daughter arrived and were installed. Patrice
Goodfellow, Mrs Goodfellow under their roof. She seemed a nice
enough woman; modest and polite. And the girls liked her. Soon,
Emma and the Goodfellow child, little Portia, were the thickest of
friends, and the schoolroom was ankle-deep in preparations for
Christmas.

Becky, who had
made so many plans for the holiday, lost interest. She pretended
for the children’s sake, and Sophie and Emma accepted her feigned
enthusiasm. But Sarah was worried, hovering over her mother,
answering questions for her when Becky drifted off into silence,
finishing decorations her mother started, when Becky’s hands fell
idle.

“She will be
well when the baby arrives,” Hugh reassured Sarah and himself. He
hoped it was true.

The only
happiness left in the house centred on the schoolroom. Hugh started
going there often. And, if he was careful and quiet, if she didn’t
see him watching, his wife sometimes smiled at things the children
said. Once, even laughed. A sad little chuckle, reminding him how
much he missed her happy gurgle. It had been gone for weeks. Since
before he had forced her confession.

Before and
After. His life had fractured into two pieces. Before, when he had
been happy and thought Becky was. After, when he knew she only
pretended, and he didn’t know how to console her.

Chapter Nineteen

The baby was born on
Christmas Day, coming into the world so quickly that the midwife
was barely in the door before she was up to her elbows in the final
work of the delivery.

“I have the
lady now, Lord Overton. You can leave her with me,” the woman
said.

Hugh, proud and
relieved Becky had been holding tight to his hand since the first
pain struck hard an hour earlier, refused to leave the room.

“Well, stay you
there, then. Her Ladyship and I will be busy enough.”

“I need to
push,” Becky said, almost a wail.

The midwife
hurried to the bottom of the bed and checked under the sheet
Becky’s maid had draped to preserve her modesty.

“Not quite, my
lady,” she advised. “Pant.” And Becky panted, short hard puffs of
breath until the pain crested and sank away. Her hand, clutching
his hard enough to crush, had just begun to relax when the next
surge hit.

“Very good, my
lady,” the midwife encouraged. “One more like that, and we will be
ready.”

One more like
that and he may never have the use of his hand again, but if it
helped Becky, it was a small sacrifice. Again, a moment’s
relaxation. Again, a powerful contraction that had Becky whimpering
even as she panted. “I cannot help it. I cannot.”

The midwife
checked again, and rose beaming. “I see him, my lady. Push when you
are ready.”

And Becky did,
digging her chin into her chest and using his hand to anchor
herself against the mighty effort her body was making.

“That is it,
Becky. I am so proud of you.” He was hardly aware of what he was
saying, and she ignored him completely, absorbed in the work of
bringing the child into the world.

She sat half up
almost before the child was fully in the midwife’s hands,
demanding, “What is it?”

“My lord, my
lady.” The midwife was beaming. “You have a beautiful, healthy
little daughter.”

“A girl.” It
was a despairing wail.

Hugh took the
baby from the midwife.

“A beautiful
girl. A healthy daughter, Becky. Our daughter.” He was pleading
with her, but it made no difference. She was shaking her head.

“But you
contracted for a son. Oh, Hugh, I am so sorry. So sorry.” She
turned away from him then, and away from the dear, little treasure
he held out for her to see.