A Masked Deception (20 page)

They walked arm in arm along the quiet gravel walk until they came to the fountain. They stood looking at it; Brampton trailed a hand in the water of the basin.

“Well, my dear,” he said, “do you feel that the day has been a success?”

“Yes, I do, Richard,” she replied. “I believe everyone has had an enjoyable time.”

“And that is very important to you, is it not?” he said, smiling down at her.

“Of course it is. It seems to me to be a responsibility to be one of the rich and privileged. In some ways it is not fair, is it? We should share when we have the chance.”

“And do you feel privileged, my dear?”

“Indeed I do,” she said earnestly. “Look at all I have.” She indicated, with a sweep of her arm, the garden, the grounds beyond, and the house.

“And what about your own happiness?” he asked. “Do you ever think of yourself?”

“Of course,” she replied, looking up at him wideeyed.

He framed her face with his hands and kept it turned up toward him. He gazed down into those large gray eyes that always made him somehow catch his breath. “I wonder,” he mused. “Am I the husband you would have chosen for yourself, my dear?”

She stared back into his eyes and swallowed painfully. “I did choose you, Richard,” she said. “I refused three offers before you. I was not afraid of being an old maid.”

“My dear, sweet little Meg,” he said, his voice low and unsteady, “I do not deserve you, you know.” He continued to hold her head in gentle hands as he brought his mouth down to cover hers.

Margaret was frightened. Now he would know; he would recognize her. But thoughts and feelings were soon dulled as she realized how different this kiss was from any others she had shared with him. It was a kiss of infinite gentleness and warmth and tenderness. She allowed her hands to spread from his chest to his shoulders so that she could rest her body against his. She felt safe, protected. Loved!

Brampton lifted his head and she noticed that his eyes were heavy-lidded and dreamy rather than blazing with passion as on other occasions. He moved his hands away from her face and wrapped his arms protectively around her. She rested her head against his shoulder, her face buried in the snowy folds of his neckcloth. They both closed their eyes and gave themselves up to the sensation of warmth and comfort.

Brampton should have noticed the similarity between the slender little body that he now held against him and the one he had made love to just a few weeks previously. But, truth to tell, he had hardly spared a thought to his angel in the last week. All he knew at the moment was that he held his wife, that she was his, and that he loved her.

He kissed the side of her face. She did not move, “Meg,” he said softly against her ear, “will you look up at me?”

She moved her head from its comfortable resting place and looked up, her hands still holding his shoulders. But suddenly everything was not so peaceful. The stars were wheeling with dizzying motion above his head, dizzying enough to bring on a wave of nausea. Margaret grabbed at the tightly stretched fabric of Brampton’s coat and felt herself buckle at the knees.

With an exclamation of alarm, Brampton held his wife against him with one arm while he slid the other beneath her knees and lifted her from the ground. His mind registered in dismay her tininess and lightness. She could so easily slip away from him altogether just at a time when he had realized that she was everything that was valuable in his world. He strode off with her in the direction of the house, ignoring the concerned exclamations of those guests who saw him pass, and barking out commands to a startled footman as soon as he reached the hallway.

“Fetch Doctor Pearson to my wife’s room immediately, Smithers,” he said. “He is somewhere in the garden. And send up Kitty.”

Margaret returned to consciousness as Brampton was carrying her up the stairs. She did not move. It felt so comfortable to be held in his strong arms, her head pillowed comfortably on his broad shoulder. She reached out for him when he put her down gently on her bed, feeling bereft.

“Lie still, my love,” he told her. “Kitty will be here in a moment to put you comfortable and I have sent for Doctor Pearson.” His fingers were ineffectively tackling her hairdo in an attempt to unwrap the braids from the back of her head so that she could rest more comfortably against the pillows.

“There was really no need, Richard,” she said. “I am just very tired. But I am sorry to have spoiled the evening.”

“You have spoiled nothing, my dear,” he said. “It is well past midnight, and our guests do not need us to ensure their enjoyment.”

Kitty came rushing into the room at that moment, breathless and embarrassed to find Lord Brampton sitting on the edge of her lady’s bed, his hands in her hair. She curtsied hastily.

“Ah, Kitty,” he said, “your mistress is unwell. She just fainted in the garden. Help her to undress, please. I shall bring the doctor here as soon as Smithers has found him.”

“Yes, my lord,” Kitty said, and bustled to the bed where Margaret was lying very still and very pale. “What is it, my lady?” she scolded. “I told you you should have rested this afternoon. You have been overdoing things in the last week or two.”

Margaret smiled wanly and allowed Kitty to remove her clothing and help her into her nightgown. She also lifted her head while Kitty unpinned the coils of braids and laid one plait over each shoulder.

Margaret lay outwardly placid when Brampton led Doctor Pearson into the room. Somehow the doctor was carrying his black bag. She felt an inward wave of amusement, realizing that the doctor must be in the habit of taking it with him wherever he went, even when he was invited out to dine and to dance. Brampton left the room again.

It seemed to Margaret a strangely inopportune time to find out for certain that she was with child— during the early hours of the morning, the windows bright with lantern light, the outdoors loud with voices and music, the doctor in evening clothes.

She stole a glance at Kitty, standing stolidly in the background. Her lips were pursed knowingly. It was impossible to fool one’s lady’s maid, she reflected. Kitty had probably known before she did!

“Well, your ladyship,” Doctor Pearson said heartily as he repacked his bag, “I wager your husband will be the proudest man in the county by tomorrow morning.”

Margaret blushed. “Doctor Pearson,” she said, “please, will you say nothing to my husband? I wish to tell him myself.”

He laughed jovially. “I know all about young love, your ladyship,” he said. “I shall not spoil your secret.”

“Thank you,” she said, and closed her eyes.

Kitty led the doctor from the room. Margaret lay in quietness for a few minutes, until she heard the door open again. She opened her eyes as Brampton approached the bed.

“How do you feel, my dear?” he asked.

“Better, thank you, Richard,” she said.

“Doctor Pearson seems to think all you need is rest,” he said. “I am sorry, my dear. I should have insisted sooner that you not work so hard. For tomorrow, I must insist that you remain in bed.”

“But our guests are still here, Richard.”

“They are not children. They can amuse themselves. And I have a feeling that everyone will be too tired tomorrow to need much amusing. No, my dear, you will stay here. Consider it a command, if you will.” He smiled faintly.

“Yes, Richard.”

“You must sleep now, my dear. And do not worry about the ball. I shall return outside and play the host.” He turned to leave the room.

“Richard?” she said on impulse.

He turned. “Yes, my dear?”

“Richard ... It has been a lovely day, has it not?”

“Yes,” he agreed softly. He hesitated, then leaned over her and kissed her forehead. “Good night,” he said.

“Good night, Richard.”

The draft Doctor Pearson had given her was taking effect almost before Brampton left the room. Margaret felt herself sink into a welcome fuzziness. Of all the teeming details of the day’s happenings, her mind latched on to a very minor one for its last conscious thought.

He called me Meg, she thought, and plunged into a deep sleep.

T
wo days later all the house guests had left Brampton Court except the dowager countess and Charles. Margaret had got up to see them on their way. It seemed that all had enjoyed themselves; some seemed almost reluctant to leave. Annabelle whispered to Margaret when the latter was kissing her cheek in farewell that Ted Kemp was to call on her papa when they arrived back in the city for permission to pay his addresses to her. Susanna took a lingering farewell of Charles and hoped that he would come to call when he returned to town.

It was midafternoon by the time all the carriages had been seen on their way. Brampton turned to his wife and offered her his arm.

“Would you care to walk in the air for a few minutes, my dear?” he asked.

They strolled in the direction of the rose garden, leaving Charles to accompany the dowager and Charlotte into the house for tea.

“You are looking much better,” Brampton commented. “You even have roses in your cheeks.”

“I am afraid all the excitement and preparations proved too much for me,” Margaret said placidly. “I feel fine now. I felt most lazy for those two days I spent in bed.”

“The gardener tells me there are some new buds here,” he said. “Let us find them.”

They chattered amicably for an hour or more. Brampton explained to his wife that now that his guests had left, he was planning to get busy with plans to drain the marsh on the northwest corner of the estate. He was, in fact, hoping to leave for London within the next day or two to consult with an engineer and to engage his services. They returned to the house and went to their separate rooms to dress for dinner without one word of a personal nature having passed between them.

Margaret sat before her dressing table mirror while Kitty patiently brushed out her waist-length hair and rebraided it. She stared sightlessly at her own reflection, trying not to give in to a mood of depression.

What was the matter with her that she could not hold her husband’s attention? She felt over the last few weeks in the country that they were growing closer. On the day of the fair she had been convinced of it. Surely she could not have imagined the look of tenderness in his eyes on that night. He had kissed her for the first time (knowing it was she), and it had felt like a loving kiss. He had called her by name for the first time, and he had even used the shortened form that only her family had used before. And Margaret remembered the real alarm that had been in his voice as he had called out his orders to the footman when he was carrying her upstairs to her room. It had been such a magical night. If only she had not chosen such an inopportune time to faint!

But she had fully expected Richard to come to her the next day and call her Meg and look at her with the new tenderness. She had pictured him sitting on the edge of her bed and holding her hand as she told him about their child. Then he would hold her and kiss her again and tell her that he loved her. And they would live happily ever after.

Instead, she had waited until well into the afternoon and then he had come and stood beside her bed for no longer than five minutes and had called her “my dear.” He had asked after her health, had forbidden her to get up either for dinner or during the next day, and had left. She had not seen him for the rest of the day. And yesterday had seen a repeat performance.

Margaret had been bitterly disappointed—and she still held the secret of her pregnancy. She had hoped desperately that today, when Richard had finally allowed her downstairs to bid good-bye to their guests, he would treat her again with the intimacy that had begun three days before. Her hopes had soared when he had suggested a walk and then had led her directly to the rose garden. She had thought his suggestion a deliberate attempt to recapture the atmosphere of that earlier occasion when she had spoiled an intimate moment.

Yet all he had done was look at her new rosebuds with her and talk about his drainage schemes. And she was still just “my dear.” They had strolled past the fountain as if it were just any fountain anywhere.

Margaret could have cried with vexation. Had he changed his mind? Had his behavior of the other night been motivated only by the music and the moonlight and the smell of roses? Had it only been wishful thinking to imagine that he was growing to love her?

In his own room, Brampton was feeling equally dissatisfied with the way things had gone in the last few days. He had been worried about his wife, but had concluded that the doctor must be right in saying that it was really only rest that she needed. After his insisting that she stay in bed for two days, she was looking better today. Some color had returned to her cheeks.

But in those two days they had returned to their former relationship, all trace of the warmth that had been growing between them gone. He had realized fully on the night of the fair that he loved his wife; loved her as a whole person. He loved her character, her sweetness, her quietness, her kindness; he loved her appearance, the slender daintiness of her, the heart-shaped face with the large, calm eyes, and the heavy brown braids; and he wanted her with more sexual longing than he had ever wanted any woman—even his angel, incredible as it seemed to him.