The Chadwick Ring (15 page)

He glared at her, and his color heightened. Suddenly he exploded, “Yes, but now you’re also
his wife
!”

Ginevra shrank back against the soft cushions, shocked by the force of his outburst. She thought she could hear the glass shade vibrate on the gas fixture. “For God’s sake, lower your voice before someone hears you.”

She could see the effort it took for him to restrain himself. His flush ebbed, and his hollow chest rose jerkily with each harsh breath. He sank to his knees before her chair, catching her arm in a bruising grip as he demanded, “How could you, Ginnie? How could you give yourself to him? How could you let him...?”

Ginevra patted his linen sleeve in the same sort of gesture she might have used to comfort a toddler. “It doesn’t matter now,” she said gently, “it’s done. My father ... your father ... Dowerwood: you know they’ve always wanted the properties joined, and after Tom died, it was the only way.”

“The hell it was!” Bysshe gritted. “You could have married me!” His hands slid up to her shoulders, and he shook her as he begged for understanding. “Why didn’t you tell them you wanted to marry me, Ginnie? I’d be a good husband. Don’t you know I love you? I told you.”

“You were out of your head when you said that.”

“I’m perfectly sane now, and I want you to listen to me. I’ve always loved you. I used to be jealous of Tom, because you were destined for him. You were as beautiful as an angel, and even when we were little I used to dream about you. I used to imagine that I was the viscount, and you were going to be mine.” His fingers tightened on her thin shoulders, and his face moved closer to hers. “At Dowerwood when the pain finally stopped and my mind was working clearly again, I thought at first that I had imagined everything, that this crazy nightmare of you marrying him was just something that had come to me while I was delirious. When I found out it was true, I got sick all over again. Late at night I’d lie there in bed, and when he would look in on me, I’d pretend to be asleep. Then in the dark I’d watch the light from his candle shining in a big crooked rectangle on my wall after he left the room. I could see it clearly as he crossed the corridor to your room, and when it finally narrowed and disappeared, I would know that he had shut the door, that he was alone in there with you.” Ginevra stared at him, mesmerized by the feverish glow in his brown eyes. He was so close that she could feel his warm, moist breath stroking her face as he whispered, “Sometimes it seemed to me that I could hear the bed creak...”

He regarded her hungrily. “Oh Ginnie,” he murmured. His arms slid roughly around her and he lowered his mouth to hers in an awkward kiss. Stunned, Ginevra remained immobile as his trembling lips moved wetly over hers. He took her passivity for encouragement, and one hand groped for her breast.

Tentative, shaking fingers, so different from her husband’s gentle but firm caress, pulled at the low neckline of her dress, and Ginevra shuddered with revulsion. She pushed her palms against Bysshe’s chest and shoved as hard as she could. Caught off-balance, he tumbled backward, sprawling in an undignified heap at her feet. She leaped up from the chair, her face livid with anger as she readjusted her bodice. “How dare you!” she raged, stamping her small foot, glaring at him indignantly as he picked himself up from the floor. “How dare you treat me that way! Whether you like it or not, Bysshe Glover, I am a married woman, and you dishonor me when you speak as if I were some ... some Cyprian!”

Bysshe recoiled, his head jerking back as if she’d slapped him. “Ginnie!” he gasped. “How can you even think I’d ever insult you? I love you. I thought you ... I wanted you to ... I had to tell you ... Dear God, Ginnie, it’s
his
touch that dishonors you. The man’s twice your age and he has a French mistress!”

Ginevra spun away from him and flung herself out of the room, sickness welling up in her throat. She fled along the carpeted hallway, brushing past a startled footman, not halting until she was out of sight of Bysshe’s door. She stumbled to a standstill in front of a flower-laden console table at the head of the staircase, and she leaned heavily against it, shaking, uncertain her legs would support her. She peered closely at her unnatural pallor, her face so bleached that by contrast her gold lashes seemed almost dark against her white cheeks. She could feel her heart pounding erratically, and she crossed her arms over her chest as if to protect herself from the outrageous knowledge that she had heretofore avoided: Bysshe loved her. This was not some fantasy brought on by his fever; her husband’s son was in love with her. The boy whom she still regarded as a childhood friend had grown to a man who wanted from her something much more profound than mere affection. Oh, Lord, the idea was disgusting ... deplorable ...
incestuous
—and she did not know how to cope with it.

It wasn’t fair, she thought with resentful irony, remembering how she had opposed this marriage because of her previous engagement to Tom. She had just been coming to terms with the situation, no matter how bleak those terms seemed, and now this! Someone ought to have known what would happen. Her father and Lord Chadwick were both men of the world: even in their haste to arrange the match they ought to have had enough insight to foresee that Bysshe could not be so casually dismissed as they pretended. But they had ignored him, and now it was left to Ginevra to find a way out of this labyrinth of jealousy and desire. God help everyone if the marquess ever suspected...

“Ginevra?”

She spun around, her eyes stretched and startled, just in time to see Chadwick mount the stairs by twos. When he reached the top, he caught her in his arms and demanded, “My dear, what’s wrong? Are you unwell?”

Not daring to look up, she shook her head fiercely. She wondered if Bysshe’s kiss had somehow branded her, as that of her husband had done earlier, and she could feel guilty color painting her cheeks. She stared resolutely at the mirror polish of his boots and murmured huskily, “No, my ... no, Richard, I’m quite fit, I assure you.”

One long finger curled under her chin and tilted her head upright while his blue eyes studied her hectic features. She lowered her silky lashes in an effort to hide her expression from his discerning gaze. He frowned. “You seem feverish.”

She shook her head. “I’m not ill. I’m just a ... a little apprehensive about the prospect of meeting your mother, that’s all.”

The hard line of his mouth softened. “Of course you are. Meeting one’s in-laws for the first time is enough to make anyone nervous. But believe me, you have nothing to fear. My mother can be formidable, but I know she will love you.” A teasing light danced in his eyes. “She has always had an affinity for small, helpless creatures.”

“Richard!” Ginevra squawked indignantly. “You make me sound like a puppy.”

He smiled indulgently and pulled her closer, his hands moving over her soft hair. “No, not a puppy—a kitten. A tawny Persian kitten with tiger eyes, one that purrs sometimes when I stroke it, and other times hisses and lashes out at me with its sharp little claws.” He paused. “I’m sorry I was rough with you this morning,” he said. “God knows I don’t mean to fly up in the boughs that way, but you have no conception of how it makes me feel when you ... when you...” His deep voice faded as his arms tightened about her.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said quietly. She relaxed against him, closing her eyes as she nuzzled her face into the intricate folds of his cravat. The fresh smell of crisply starched linen filled her nostrils, not quite masking the deeper, more elusive scent of tobacco, imperial water, and warm brown skin that Ginevra identified with her husband. She sighed, her earlier alarm abating. In the safety of his arms she had the tantalizing feeling that she was on the verge of some momentous discovery, some grand revelation that could change her life. She clung to him, waiting.

Just as Chadwick’s mouth lowered to Ginevra’s, he suddenly noticed Bysshe standing frozen in the corridor, staring at them. His fingers clamped down convulsively, digging into Ginevra’s delicate skin. He nodded curtly and said, “Good morning, my boy. You’re looking well.”

Bysshe’s reply was equally laconic, his gaze never wavering. “Thank you, sir. I understand we are to call on
Grandmere
today.”

Chadwick nodded absently and returned his attention to his enrapt wife. Gently he eased her away from him. He surveyed her at arm’s length, his eyes stroking warmly over her slender figure. She blinked, her small face bemused and faintly disappointed. He patted her cheek and urged, “Go, my dear, fetch your hat and we’ll be on our way. My mother will be anxious to meet you.”

“Yes, Richard,” she murmured, and she turned in the direction of her room. When she brushed past Bysshe, she glanced furtively at him, and something about his expression made her uneasy.

In the open phaeton Ginevra sat sandwiched between her husband and his son. A freshening breeze had cleared the air, and the sun beat down on her jaunty straw bonnet, but she was most acutely aware of hard-muscled thighs pressing against her from either side. On her way out the door the butler had handed her the post, and to divert her attention from the disturbing nearness of the two men, she busied herself thumbing through the envelopes. After a moment she looked up in confusion. “These seem to be mostly invitations, but none of the names are familiar to me.”

Chadwick took the cards and scanned them quickly. “No, you would not know these people, but I assure you they are anxious to meet you.” He grinned. “On our wedding day I warned you how it would be.” He riffled through the invitations a second time. “You should be flattered at the number of hostesses who have contrived to put together some form of entertainment for your benefit. Usually this late in the year everyone has retired to country homes or else Brighton or one of the other watering places.”

“Then I collect we are reversing the normal process?”

He shrugged. “To some extent. As it happens, I do have duties that require my presence in town now. I tried to get out of it, but the foreign minister insisted.”

“You ought to be flattered that you are so indispensable,” Ginevra said.

Chadwick snorted, “I think I would be more flattered if I were
not
needed. Ah, well, perhaps I should regard it as penance.” He selected one of the notes and handed it to her. “Here, why don’t you reply in the affirmative to this one? It will be all the way out in Greenwich, but Lady Thorndike’s card party should be innocuous enough. It will give you an opportunity to meet people without all the fal-lal of a formal debut.”

“Thank you. I should prefer that.”

“I thought you might. Just don’t let Jane Thorndike talk you into joining one of her everlasting committees. She can be very convincing. If you’re not careful she’ll have you teaching factory children to read or collecting clothing for the poor.”

Over Ginevra’s head Bysshe glanced at the marquess. He muttered waspishly, “Maybe she could get
you
to join the Committee for the Suppression of Vice.”

Ginevra gasped. At the sight of Chadwick’s clenched jaw, she interjected hastily, “I’ll look forward to meeting Lady Thorndike. I think her charitable work sounds most commendable.”

“Oh, it is,” her husband agreed slowly, relaxing. “It’s just that I don’t want you taking on any duties right now. You’re here to rest and enjoy yourself.”

Ginevra frowned. “Richard,” she ventured uncertainly, “truly I think I might enjoy myself more if I had something to do. All this ... this relaxation is becoming rather monotonous. It seems to me—”

“It seems to me that this is something we should discuss later,” Chadwick said, noting the familiar gate just ahead. “We have nearly arrived at my mother’s house.” As he helped Ginevra stuff the letters into her reticule he said to Bysshe, who was scowling sulkily, “The invitation includes you, and I shall expect you to accompany us to the party. The Thorndikes have children about your age, and it’s high time you mixed with young people again. You’ve stayed secluded too long.” Before Bysshe could reply, the carriage pulled to a halt.

Ginevra was uncertain just what she had expected of her husband’s mother: someone tall and stately, perhaps, with a long nose and an imperious expression—but certainly not this petite and fragile woman lounging on a divan floridly carved in the Egyptian style. Her apparent indolence was belied only by the sharp intelligence of her bright blue eyes. Bysshe stooped so that she could brush her lips across both his cheeks after the French manner, and the sweet smile he exchanged with his grandmother struck Ginevra as the first genuine look of happiness she had ever seen on his young face. Chadwick bent over his mother’s hand with courtly grace; then he caught Ginevra by the arm and nudged her forward. “Mother,” he said, his deep voice throbbing with a note his wife had never heard before, “this is Ginevra. Ginevra, I’d like you to meet my mother, Lady Helena Glover, Dowager Marchioness of Chadwick and Comtesse d’Alembert.”

Lady Helena’s dark brows rose sharply. “Honestly, Richard,” she drawled, tipping her head so that her grizzled curls bounced, “if you insist on announcing me in the grand manner, you really should tap your staff on the floor and signal a flourish of trumpets. This is not a royal presentation, you know. You’re liable to terrify the child.” She held out a beckoning hand. “Come, my dear, let me take a look at you. Despite what that wretched boy of mine has told you, I don’t bite.”

Ginevra slipped her hand into the frail grasp and gazed down at the woman, noting the piercing eyes so like Chadwick’s and the silvered hair that must have once been as black as his was now. Her husband’s mother. They were dissimilar in stature, but yes, she would have known, even had no one told her. Slowly she sank to her knees beside the divan. At close range she could see the translucent quality of Lady Helena’s skin, blue veins clearly visible, and her mind harkened with remembered pain to the last summer of her own mother’s life, when she had languished on the sofa at Dowerwood. As Ginevra leaned over to kiss Lady Helena’s cheek, her gold eyes flicked up to meet her husband’s intent stare, and in his grave expression she found the answer to her unspoken question.