The Chadwick Ring (17 page)

The maid returned with fresh tea, and Lady Helena was silent until the girl had curtsied and left the room. “Will you pour, my dear?” she asked Ginevra. “My shoulder, I’m afraid...” While Ginevra hefted the massive silver teapot, she marvelled that the frail woman had been able to lift it at all earlier. She busied herself replenishing the cups while her mother-in-law said, “Richard and Geoffrey had one last violent row, and Richard said that he was going to join the Navy whether his father liked it or not. Ironically, Maria’s dowry gave him the funds he needed to buy his commission. Geoffrey was livid—and a little afraid too, I think, because war was imminent—but Richard said he had provided for the succession with Tom, and it made no difference if he was killed.”

Ginevra stared at the woman with shimmering eyes. “Dear Lord, and you had to hear all that?” Before Lady Helena could reply, they heard sounds of the men returning from abovestairs. Ginevra felt almost guilty. Somehow she knew her husband would not thank his mother for her revelations.

As the men’s booted heels clattered on the staircase, Lady Helena murmured quickly, her voice low but insistent, “When Richard came back from the war, everything was different. Maria and Geoffrey were both dead, and Richard had changed. He was hard, wild. I have seen no gentleness in him since then, until now—with you.” She held out a supplicating hand to the girl. “I beg you, be kind to my son.”

Ginevra was clutching Lady Helena’s hand when the men reached the parlor. With dismay she felt thin, brittle bones under crepy skin, signs of a weakness far more advanced than the woman’s age warranted, and she knew the dowager had not long to live. She glanced sidelong at Lady Helena, and she saw that her sharp blue eyes had softened with longing as she gazed at the marquess. Was this the reason she had made the wearisome and risky journey back from France? Ginevra wondered. She claimed she had been happy on the Continent. Had she been driven home by the desire to make peace with the tall, handsome son she felt she had deserted?

Gently Ginevra squeezed the fragile fingers and declared with forced brightness to the men, “Well, you all seem excessively pleased with yourselves. Are we to assume then that the examination went well?”

Dr. Perrin nodded. “I believe I can safely say that Lord Glover is now completely recovered from his illness, with no side effects,
grace au bon Dieu
!”

“Yes, thank God,” Lady Helena echoed, and she waved them to their chairs. “Make yourselves comfortable, all of you. This sweet child and I have been having a pleasant enough coze while you were busy, but now that you are finished, you must acquaint us with all the latest
on-dits.
Since I no longer get about, you know I depend on you to bring me my daily ration of scandal ... Ginevra, my dear, will you be so kind as to pour for them?”

As they drove back toward the marquess’s house in Mayfair later that evening, Ginevra could not stop staring at her husband. She knew he must think her regard odd to say the least, but as she looked at his strong, stern, profile, she kept remembering the boy who had been hurt so cruelly. No wonder he seemed implacable sometimes; after being abused by his harsh and forbidding father, then failed by an ineffectual mother and a promiscuous wife, he must have decided long ago that he would never allow himself to be vulnerable to anyone again.

Bysshe, who had resumed his usual sulky pose the instant they departed from his grandmother’s house, had climbed up onto the high perch beside the coachman, and Ginevra, with a little more room to move around, turned slightly on the leather seat so that she could watch Chadwick without craning her neck. She studied the granite planes of his face, the deeply engraved lines that were only emphasized by the softness of the raven curls that ruffled in the breeze beneath his flat-crowned beaver hat. She tried to picture a time when his features would have been rounder and less rigidly defined, as Bysshe’s still were, a time when those deep blue eyes had sparkled with innocence. She could not conjure up the image. His mother claimed he appeared to have softened toward her, and yes, Ginevra knew now that her husband could treat her gently, with care and consideration, but even in his tenderest moments his face still showed the marks of past bitterness, carved there long ago by callous hands, and she knew that nothing she did could every truly erase them.

Ginevra blinked. Chadwick was staring back at her. His face was intent and oddly pale as he tried to decipher her expression. “Ginnie?” he murmured uncertainly, his voice strangely husky.

A jerky movement on the perch diverted her attention. Ginevra looked up to find Bysshe, flushed and grim, biting his lip and peering at something off to their right. Ginevra glanced around. The phaeton was moving at a steady pace through Hyde Park, its progress unimpeded by the usual afternoon crush of traffic now that most of fashionable society had departed the city. Only a handful of carriages and riders made the leisurely circuit through the park, and it was toward one small cluster that Bysshe directed his gaze. Ginevra looked in that direction and saw a couple on horseback. The man was dressed in the rainbow hues popular among the more dashing of young gallants, but it was the woman who captured Ginevra’s attention. She noted with surprise that she in turn was also being scrutinized thoroughly, although she could, not imagine why, for she knew she paled to insipidity beside that statuesque and fiery beauty. The two riders did not come closer, but even at a distance Ginevra could see that the woman’s skin was a warm gold, as if she hailed from some tropical clime, and the eyes staring back at her seemed dark and magnetic. But it was her hair that caught and held Ginevra’s enrapt attention. From beneath a diminutive feminine shako, in defiance of all rules of fashion, her long curls flowed like liquid flame over her shoulders, and against the hunter green of her very stylish riding habit they seemed almost alight.

Ginevra tore her eyes away and turned to her husband. “What ... what an astonishingly lovely woman,” she stammered, unaccountably shaken. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone like her. Do you know who she is?”

Chadwick’s face was absolutely expressionless, and he said nothing. “Richard,” she repeated, “do you know...?” Her voice died away as she became aware of her husband’s unnatural stillness, and under her gaze his rigid cheek twitched spasmodically.

As she watched him, his silence began to beat against her ears, louder than the clatter, of the horses’ hooves on the packed earth of the drive or the normal muted roar of the city. She could feel her pulse become erratic as blood seemed to drain from her body, seeping with inexorable slowness into the great hollow cavity forming at the base of her stomach. She sank back against the seat and drooped her head limply so that the brim of her straw hat hid the bleak expression in her eyes. She knew who that stunning beauty was. One look at the marquess, and she didn’t need the confirmation of Bysshe’s low, spiteful voice raining down on her like shards of shattered glass: “I’ll tell you who she is, Ginnie.. That’s your husband’s mistress!”

8

She wished she were older. She wished she had the sophistication to greet Bysshe’s sneering announcement with a shrug and a casual smile, as if it bothered her not one whit to come face to face with the woman who competed for her husband’s attentions. Instead, all Ginevra could do was bow her head and gnaw her lip painfully in a frantic effort to hold back the sickness that threatened to spill out of her as she visualized Chadwick making love to the Frenchwoman, his naked skin rubbing erotically against hers, bronze on gold. As if the images were seared into her brain by the heat of their desire, Ginevra could see the two of them wound together intimately, that glorious hair pouring over his strong throat like lava, and she knew there was no way she could hope to compete with that sultry and exotic beauty.

She kept her eyes resolutely downcast as she tried to compose herself. She did not want Bysshe to see the effect his words had had on her. Instinctively she knew that he had been striking at her as much as at his father when he threw that poisoned barb, for he still resented the way she had rejected him that morning. When he muttered her name again, she did not respond. At her side her husband growled in a harsh, icy undertone, “You’ve said quite enough, Bysshe,” and the boy fell silent. The marquess must have signalled the coachman to quicken his pace, for the phaeton accelerated as it left the park, its iron-rimmed wheels clattering over the cobbled streets. The carriage rocked slightly, and Ginevra swayed against her husband. He steadied her and caught her lace-mittened hand in his. She tried to pull away. His grip tightened painfully over her thin fingers, and he did not release her until they reached the house in Mayfair.

When he assisted her down from the carriage, Ginevra thanked him and murmured, “If you will excuse me, I’d like to go to my room.”

“I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

Her voice sounded strained and unnaturally high even to herself as she protested, “I’d really rather you didn’t. I’m tired and I’d like to rest.”

“I see. Will you be down later for dinner?”

She managed a semblance of a shrug. “I don’t know. Perhaps not.”

Chadwick sighed. “Very well. Enjoy your nap, my dear.” He watched her pensively as she made her way up the long staircase, her slender shoulders drooping as if pressed down by some great weight, while her stylish bonnet dangled limply from her fingers. When she had disappeared into the upper hallway, he turned and caught sight of Bysshe slipping stealthily into the billiard room. He barked the boy’s name, and Bysshe jerked around, his face alternately pale then flushed under his unruly straight hair as he met the marquess’s glare. Chadwick said, “In my study. Now.” Without waiting for a reply he turned on his heel and stalked away.

In the study Chadwick did not mince words. “Your conduct toward your stepmother is unconscionable,” he declared, facing the boy across the desk.

Bysshe stared down at the carpet. “I don’t think of Ginnie as my stepmother,” he mumbled sulkily.

Chadwick inclined his dark head. “No, of course not. In the circumstances it would be ridiculous for you to do so. However, the very, fact that Ginevra is an old friend of yours makes your actions even less excusable.”

Bysshe regarded him balefully. “I just thought she ought to know.”

The marquess snorted, “You mean you thought you could spite me. Well, my lad, I hope you enjoyed your little moment of triumph, because in the process you have managed to hurt and humiliate someone who has a deep affection for you. After the way she cared for you when you were ill—”

Color built up in Bysshe’s face; then suddenly he exploded, “If anyone has humiliated her, it’s you! You’re the one with the fancy ladyfriend! You’re not worthy to be Ginnie’s—”

“Quiet!” Chadwick roared, and the boy fell silent. Slowly the marquess rose to his full height, powerful and overwhelming. Bysshe retreated. With rigid control Chadwick stated flatly, “You forget yourself, boy. Ginevra is my wife, and neither your relationship to me nor your long-standing friendship with her gives you any right whatsoever to question the quality of our marriage. Do I make myself clear?”

“As glass.”

Chadwick continued, “I have tried to be lenient with you of late, overlook your increasingly surly behavior because I attributed it to the lingering effects of your illness, but now I can no longer do so. I think perhaps it would be advisable for you to return to Queenshaven and remain there until September when the new school term begins.”

“I won’t be packed off to the country,” Bysshe shouted, “and I’m not going back to school, either!”

“Indeed? This is news to me. I had assumed you would continue at Harrow until you were eighteen and could enter Oxford, as your brother did.”

“Why?” Bysshe demanded. “Are you hoping I’ll get thrown by a horse too?” Chadwick’s jaw clenched, and after a moment Bysshe muttered, “I’m sorry. That was uncalled-for.” His voice rose. “But ... but I think even a broken neck would be better than going back to school. ‘Chief nursery of our statesmen,’ they call it. Hell! I’ll wager sailors pressed onto warships don’t have it much worse than boys in school. In wintertime you rise at six; the sun’s not up yet, and the washwater is frozen in the basins. There’s never enough food, and what there is is foul. The smaller boys go hungry because some bully has stolen theirs, and when you’re not standing at attention while some tutor drones on and on in Greek or Latin, you work in the birch room making rods for the proctors to beat you with.”

“You needn’t convince me,” the marquess said quietly. “I went there too, you know, and somehow I survived.”

“Yes, but you quit when you were sixteen!”

Chadwick stared at Bysshe. Then, nodding, he agreed with an ironic sigh, “So I did.” After a pause he continued matter-of-factly, “It occurs to me that you may be suffering from a malady much more common than scarlet fever, and one that responds more readily to treatment I should have realized sooner, but it is difficult to acknowledge that the children one knows do make a habit of growing up. Your sixteenth birthday fast approaches, does it not?”

Bysshe said warily, “In three weeks.”

“Very good. I’ll tell you what I propose. If you will give me your word that henceforth you will conduct yourself as behooves a gentleman and a Glover and will cause your stepmother no further distress, I shall ask Harriette Wilson to arrange a very private, very intimate ... celebration for you.”

At the mention of the most notorious courtesan in London, Bysshe’s eyes widened and he choked, “You mean you ... you want me to consort with a ... a...”

“I mean,” the marquess amplified impatiently, “that there is—or should be—as much etiquette employed in the bedroom as in the ballroom, and it’s high time you learned it. Little Harry is intelligent and discreet, and she will know which of her associates would be most suitable to instruct you.”

“Damn you!” Bysshe shouted, almost sputtering with embarrassment and fury. “I might have known a rake like you would think of something like that! You think by playing pander you can make me forget I’m in love with—” As if suddenly realizing whom he was talking to, Bysshe cut off his words abruptly.

Chadwick smiled grimly. “That is one sentence you would be wise never to finish,” he said in a harsh undertone. “Once the words are spoken, they will have to be dealt with, and it would be far better for everyone if that sorry turn of events does not take place.” He paused. “I collect you do not care for my birthday suggestion?”

“No. I will never defile my feelings in such a shameful manner.”

“Oh, Lord,” the marquess groaned, shaking his head. “I forgot that no one is so self-righteous as the very young.” He shrugged and stood up, weary of the conversation. “As you will. Certainly you have the right to choose your own method of initiation. I will tell you bluntly, however, that when you do make that choice, I shall demand certain standards of conduct from you as Viscount Glover. You will offer insult to no lady, nor will you impose upon any of our dependents. Beyond that you must suit yourself, although I sincerely hope that you will have enough presence of mind to avoid acquiring either French pox or English bastards.”

“Yes, sir,” Bysshe murmured. His brown eyes were still rebellious as they watched the marquess exit the study.

When Chadwick knocked on the connecting door between his and Ginevra’s suites, there was no answer. Quietly he pushed open the door and stepped into her room. She lay fully clothed on the bed, motionless except for her eyes which followed the progress of a coin of sunlight across the wall. Only when her husband loomed over her did she glance up at him.

Frowning, he asked, “Are you feeling unwell?”

“No, only tired. It’s been a ... a trying day.” Her voice was flat and expressionless.

“Yes,” the marquess agreed. When she did not speak again, he noted, “You should have removed your dress. You’ll wrinkle it.”

“It doesn’t matter. Emma has not returned yet, and I couldn’t be bothered.”

“Shall I help you undress?”

“No, thank you.” With an air of languid indifference she looked away.

He sat down beside her on the edge of the bed and caught her chin in his long fingers. Only when he tried to turn her face back toward him did he discover that her studied lassitude was false, that she lay rigid and unyielding. Muttering an oath, he hooked his fingertips under her jaw and jerked her around with irresistible force. Bright blotches of red sprang up in the soft skin just under the bone, and he knew that by morning she would have four parallel bruises there. With an air of contrition he said, “Ginevra, we must talk.”

She rubbed her tender skin and glared at him through half-lowered lashes. “You mean you want to explain about that woman?”

His mouth hardened. “No. I owe you no explanations about my past life.”

Ginevra tried to shrug, an awkward movement in her reclining posture. She said, “I don’t think explanations are necessary, in any case. She is very beautiful. You ... you have good taste.”

He smiled sardonically. “Thank you, I expect Amalie would appreciate your approval.” He regarded her enigmatically before saying brusquely, “I’m sorry Bysshe acted like such an ass. His behavior was most definitely not that of a gentleman, a fact that reflects unfavorably on his upbringing. I’d make him apologize himself, but somehow I think that would only create more ill will. So I must ask you to be generous enough to forgive him without an apology.” His voice softened, became cajoling. “Perhaps it will help you feel more charitable if I tell you that his statement was incorrect: Madame de Villeneuve is no longer under my protection.”

Ginevra bit her lip to keep from crying out in surprise. She stammered, “You mean ... you mean you gave her up before we were married?” Her shimmering gold eyes widened momentarily with hope, a hope that subsided as she waited for his answer that was not forthcoming. She repeated hesitantly, “Richard, you ... you haven’t seen her since the wedding, have you?”

At length, with a sigh he replied, “My dear, that’s not ... precisely what I said.”

Ginevra winced. “I see.”

She rolled away from him to the center of the bed, where she lay huddled, eyes screwed shut, arms clenched tightly across her chest, her knees drawing upward against the pain gnawing at her vitals. When he leaned over her and stroked her trembling shoulders as he murmured against her ear, “Ginnie, please listen...” she shook him off fiercely.

“Don’t ever touch me!” she gritted, her eyes still closed. “Don’t ever touch me again!”

For just a second his fingers bit ruthlessly into her flesh; then she felt the mattress shift as he eased his weight off the bed. His voice was stiff and clipped as he inquired, “Am I to assume then that you would prefer I did not come to you tonight?”

For the space of a heartbeat she almost relented, remembering the comforting warmth of his hard, lean body, the security of his arms about her in the night—but then she thought of those same arms wrapped about the pliant body of Amalie de Villeneuve, and her resolve firmed. “I think it might be better if you stayed away.”

“Indeed.” His tone softened, became almost conversational. “In that case I shall not trespass here again until you ask me.” He turned and strode across the room without looking back at her, but at the door he paused, and she heard him groan, “Damnation, I am sick to death of fractious children!”

The days passed slowly after that. Each morning Ginevra would wake behind the draperies of the great four-poster and her hand would reach out instinctively for her husband, only to remember that he no longer slept beside her. The sun that had roused him, blue-black curls shining with iridescent delight on the white pillow, now reflected only the gleam of bleached linen, pristine and somehow accusing. Chadwick made no attempt to cross the threshold into her bedroom, greeting her instead with a chaste kiss at the breakfast table before he embarked each day on that mysterious male enterprise known as “business.” Often she did not see him again at all unless he returned briefly to change into evening dress before leaving the house again.

Bysshe also kept very much to himself, a fact for which Ginevra was now grateful, although she worried that the boy seemed so isolated and brooding. Her concern
lessened somewhat when the marquess presented his son with an early birthday present, a magnificent young stallion that even Ginevra’s untutored eyes could see would someday be the equal of Giaour, Lord Chadwick’s great roan. For just a second as Bysshe stroked the animal’s gleaming grey coat he smiled gratefully at the marquess, and Ginevra thought it was the first time she had seen the boy regard his father with anything but antagonism. But the atmosphere of tense hostility quickly returned when Chadwick asked Bysshe what he would name the horse. “His sire is called Aeneas,” the man noted, “so something classical might be appropriate.”

Bysshe looked thoughtfully at Chadwick and Ginevra standing side by side, and he suggested slyly, “What do you think of Hippolytus?”

Chadwick’s expression did not waver, but Ginevra observed with surprise the line of white that appeared around his thin mouth. When he spoke, his deep voice sounded steady but strained. “Well, lad, I’m delighted to know that you have retained some small portion of what you were taught at that school you hated so much, but perhaps you have forgotten that Hippolytus came to a bad end. I think something less ... provocative might be more suitable.”