Heartless (25 page)

“Oh,” she said. “I was reading and lost track of time. Have I forgotten something? Is it teatime?”

“No,” he said, seating himself and looking at her.

The incongruity of the smile on the one hand and the pale face and bleak eyes on the other was chilling. She was wearing a morning gown wrapped loosely about her and looked more than six months pregnant. Even in her stylish sack dresses, worn loose in front, French fashion, as well as at the back, which he had suggested to her after forbidding her to wear stays, she looked noticeably pregnant. His mother was scandalized by the fact that she was no longer laced and had suggested that she stay out of the public eye until after her confinement. Anna had told her gently but firmly, as only Anna knew how, that she went unlaced at her husband's bidding and would honor her social obligations for as long as he saw fit. Or so Henrietta had reported to him. Henrietta had also suggested that he have a quiet word with Anna and persuade her to behave in a more seemly manner. As if there were something unseemly about being with child.

“What is it?” Anna's smile had slipped somewhat. “Why do you look at me like that?”

“Emily just came to me in the study,” he said, “to tell me that you were unhappy.”

She looked at him blankly for a moment and then laughed. “
Emily
told you?” she said. “Emily cannot speak.”

“Oh, yes, she can,” he said. “Her eyes are more eloquent than many people's tongues.”

“And with her eyes she told you that I was unhappy?” she said.

“Yes.” He watched her keenly and waited.

A few times she looked to be drawing breath to speak but said nothing. He watched her swallow. He watched her hands on the arms of her chair. So much could be learned about people's emotions from watching their hands, he had learned when he was receiving instructions on swordplay and shooting. Anna's were plucking at the upholstery.

“I have been feeling heavy,” she said at last, “and a little unwell. I have the misfortune to be one of those women who grow very large with child.” She laughed briefly. “And I have three months still to go. I have been feeling a little depressed. A little u-unattractive. It is foolish, I know.”

“Have I made you feel unattractive?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“No,” she said almost in a whisper. “No, Luke.”

“Come here,” he said.

She looked at him uncertainly for a few moments, but then she rose to her feet and came obediently to stand before his chair. He undid the sash that held her gown closed at the waist and pushed back the silk fabric. The swelling of her womb pushed against her shift. He spread both hands over it and looked up at her.

“Do you remember what I once told you about how you would appear to me when you were large with child?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“I spoke the truth,” he said. “I still come to your bed at nights, Anna. I claim my marital rights there two or three times a week though I am careful these days not to burden you with my weight. You must know, I believe, that I still find you desirable.”

“Yes.” Her lowered eyes watched his hands.

“But perhaps, madam,” he said quietly, “you wish to be attractive to others as well as to your husband?”

She looked up into his eyes and shook her head slowly.

“Let us have done with this nonsense about your feeling unwell and unattractive, then,” he said. “We once agreed that plain speaking was essential to a workable marriage. I allowed you to retain one secret. I did so on the understanding that it belonged in your past and would forever remain there. But it encroaches on the present. That I cannot allow. There have been other secrets, Anna.”

Her eyes had widened. His hands, resting firmly on her hips, prevented her from taking a step back.

“No,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said. “You are mine, Anna. Body and soul. I will have all of you now and for the rest of our lives.” He was surprised by the fierceness of his tone, by the power of his feelings. He had not intended to speak this way. “No more secrets.”

“Ahh!” Her hands came up to cover her face though even so he could see its chalky whiteness. “Not those words, Luke. Not body and soul. Not like a bird in a cage, robbed of all freedom, robbed of all privacy. Not body and soul.”

But he had grown angry. Even as he had spoken he had felt the impossibility of possessing her soul. And the undesirability of doing so. But even so he felt shut out, totally excluded from all the deepest meanings of her life. He realized suddenly how little he knew her even after six months of marriage. There was a whole aspect of her life from which she had excluded him and from which she would continue to exclude him.

The realization made him angry. He had never wanted such knowledge of her. What had changed? He got to his feet, keeping his hold of her.

“Who was he?” he demanded. “I need a name, madam.”

A great blankness descended almost visibly behind her eyes, like a curtain. She stared at him, her face turning paler, if it were possible.

“Your lover,” he said. “The man who had you before you married me. Who was he? Who is he?”

“No.” Her voice was a whisper. “You said . . .”

“He is the cause of your unhappiness, if I am not greatly mistaken,” he said. “Are the letters from him? Or from someone who writes of him?”

“The letters?” There was terror in her eyes.

“You must think me a fool, madam,” he said.

She shook her head. “I sometimes have letters from Mrs. H-Hendon,” she said. “She needs help with her—with her father. He is elderly and infirm. I sometimes go to help.”

He looked at her steadily without saying anything and finally her eyes closed and she bit her lip.

“His name, Anna,” he said. “He has already had the virginity that should have been mine to take. He will have no more of you. He will die if he thinks to try.”

Her eyes came open. “He did not,” she said. “He did not. I have only ever been yours. I have lain with no man except you. There has only ever been you.”

“Ah, pardon me,” he said. “Clearly my experience was not sufficient enough to enable me to know the difference between a virgin passage and one already opened for sexual activity. It seems I have done you an injustice, madam.”

She bit her lip again. And she drew breath. “And what about you?” she said, her voice rising. “You kept a secret from me. You told me you could not remember the cause of the quarrel with your brother, as if that were possible. You told me nothing of Henrietta. And you have told me nothing of your numerous meetings with her since we came here. You could not marry her, could you, because she was your brother's widow. And you could not come here without a wife because then it would not have seemed proper for you to be so much in her company. But all is cozy for both of you now. Is that why you married me, Luke? Not just for sons but for respectability while you rekindle the past with your old love?”

Good God. “Madam,” he said coldly, “you are out of order.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Yes, of course. We live in the real world, do we not? The real world where there is one set of rules for men and another for women. I must be condemned because I was apparently not a virgin on my wedding night. But you can freely admit to enough experience to have made the detection of my secret very easy. I must live without memories and bind myself to you body and soul while you can indulge, not only in memories but in a reenactment of those memories. Do you sleep with her, Luke? Or is a wife not permitted to ask such questions of her husband?”

He clamped a hand on her wrist and drew her toward the door. He was not consciously aware of where he was taking her or for what purpose until they were in her bedchamber and he was stripping off her gown and her shift and pushing her down onto the bed. He watched her as he stripped off his own clothes, feeling angry and frustrated. She looked back at him with pale, set face and hard jaw.

He knelt between her spread thighs and drew her legs up over his. He lifted her with his hands and pushed himself slowly and firmly inside. He held still there while he leaned over her, setting his hands on either side of her head, and joined his mouth to hers. He opened it with his own and thrust his tongue deep inside before withdrawing it and lifting his head to look into her eyes.

“You are mine, Anna,” he said. “This is an act you will perform only with me for the rest of your life. 'Tis an act I will perform only with you for the same period of time and an act I have performed only with you since our wedding. Have I answered your question?”

She closed her eyes and lay submissive and unresponsive beneath him.

“You are my wife and I am your husband,” he said. “If those facts make you feel like a bird in a cage, without freedom and without privacy, Anna, then so be it. 'Twas your choice to marry me.”

He watched her during all the minutes while he worked in her with steady rhythm. But for once his expertise failed him. Not that he was using any great expertise. He was doing only that which was intensely satisfying for a man but far less so for his woman unless her body had been prepared in advance or was worked on as part of the process. He was touching her only with the one intimate touch. But he could bring no response. And he was not even sure he had ever intended to. He was not making love to her, he realized as his climax approached. He was stamping her with the seal of his possession, reminding her that there was no part of herself that did not belong to him and was not his for the taking.

He released into her and knew for the first time as he did so that physical satiety and emotional satisfaction were two quite different experiences and did not always come together. He wondered if he had just ravished his wife—though that was rather a contradiction in terms. He drew himself out of her and got off the bed. He gathered his clothes from the floor.

“If it is freedom and privacy you crave, Anna,” he said, hearing the coldness in his voice, “you may have them in some small measure. Your private sitting room will be just that. I will not come there again uninvited. And I will not come to your bed again until after your confinement, until it is time for you to conceive again. Shall we say six months after this birth? Perhaps four if this is a daughter?”

Her eyes were closed. He had neglected to cover her when he got up from the bed. He dropped his clothes and did so now and then stooped for his clothes again.

“If you wish to discuss your letters with me at any time,” he said, “you will find me ready to listen. I cannot imagine you guilty of anything so very heinous. But you will remember, Anna, that you are mine. That that is an unalterable fact.”

She did not move. He went through her dressing room and into his own room, in which he had never slept. He leaned back against the door and closed his eyes. He had gone to her because she was unhappy. He had gone to try to bring her some comfort, some aid.

God!

He should have known that he was incapable of bringing comfort to anyone. He had known for a long time that he was no longer capable of loving. He had not known he was capable of cruelty. When she had needed comfort and understanding, he had been cruel.

He had allowed himself to become frustrated by her refusal to confide in him and angered by her accusation that he had been unfaithful with Henrietta. And that was something else he must do something about. He had allowed Henrietta to draw comfort from his company, always steering the conversation away from personal matters. But Anna had become suspicious. Could he blame her? He must see to it. He had hurt her and he did not want her hurt.

He opened his eyes and looked at his bed. Not so long ago he had guarded the privacy of his sleep, seeing to it that he never slept with the woman to whom he made love. Now he wondered if he was going to be able to sleep alone in that bed. For how long? Six months, he had said, four if this child were a girl. Plus the three months that remained of her pregnancy. Nine months, then. Perhaps seven.

Nine months of loneliness.

He heard the last word, verbalized in his mind, and he felt chilled. Loneliness? Was he becoming attached to her, dependent upon her, then? Was it really loneliness he was facing and not just sexual deprivation?

It was loneliness.

•   •   •

Ironically,
the letters ceased soon after Luke had confronted Anna with his knowledge of them. There was only one more. It arrived a few days after the previous one and informed her that the remainder of her father's debts could remain unpaid until after her confinement. “I would have your mind free of anxiety as you enter the last three months before giving birth, my Anna,” he had written.

She went with Luke and Agnes and Emily to Victor's wedding just before Christmas after assuring her husband that she felt quite well enough to travel. She even shared a bedchamber with him at the home of Constance's parents. They slept at opposite sides of the bed and did not once touch during the three nights they slept there. Seeing her brother and his bride, so very young and so very happy, Anna could not feel sorry for the burden she had taken on so that they could be free and so that they could have a home and a future.

No, she could not feel sorry.

And then at Christmastime, during a large gathering at Bowden Abbey, William, Lord Severidge, who had been uncharacteristically absent from home for a whole week and had returned only the day before, announced that he had called on Victor to make an offer for Agnes and had been accepted—by both the Earl of Royce and Agnes herself.

Agnes, blushing rosily, fixed her eyes on his face.

And what was more, William continued after a great deal of exclaiming and hugging and kissing had interrupted him, he was going to take his bride traveling after a spring wedding. They were going to travel about Europe for a whole year. He had met a fellow in London who was eager to lease Wycherly Park for a year.