The Chadwick Ring (7 page)

The marquess regarded him enigmatically. “A most ... intimate message to be carried by a third party. I wonder why Amalie did not choose to write it.”

Even Ginevra could have advised Ferris that when the marquess’s voice became quiet, too quiet, it was prudent to avoid taxing him further, but she no longer monitored the men’s conversation. She had sunk back against the squabs, her face as colorless as the bleached straw of her bonnet. Amalie de Villeneuve—who was she? No, no, better not to ask. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to think about this London lady who pursued Lord Chadwick, who wanted him not for a debutante daughter but for herself. Who had already had him.

Ginevra felt sick. Ever since that world-shattering moment earlier in the day when her husband kissed her, she had moved in a daze, flattered by his attention, hypnotized by his charm. He enticed her with every glance from those compelling blue eyes, and she succumbed, forgetting completely the sort of man he was. He was a rake, a libertine, a practitioner of the seductive arts since before she was born. Against him a green girl like herself was utterly defenseless. She shivered with disgust at the incipient tenderness she had left for him, the childish hope that they might be “friends.” How could she overlook the fact that he had married her to acquire a piece of property? He cared nothing for her personally. He hadn’t bothered to invite anyone to the ceremony, and he intended to spend no more than the minimum acceptable time alone with her in the country. With his deceitful tongue he wove poignant images of a man forced to curtail his honeymoon out of duty to his sovereign, but in truth he was probably anxious to return to London to the arms of his mistress, the one he had flaunted publicly not a week before the wedding.

Chadwick’s voice, thick with cynical amusement, penetrated Ginevra’s brown study. “Why do I have the suspicion that Amalie sent you to spy upon my bride?”

The small man stammered, “My lord, forgive me, I ... I beg y-you! Madame was most insistent, and I ... I dared not contravene her. When she becomes angry—”

“Yes, I know what Amalie is like,” Chadwick said dryly. “I do not blame you for fearing her, but I am afraid I cannot let you accede to her orders. My wife is not to be ogled like an animal in a zoo. I think yon had better be on your way, Ferris.”

“M-my lord—”

“Ferris, I said go!” The marquess’s voice was cold and implacable. “If Amalie is cross with you, tell her I said to remember who pays your salary—and her rent.”

The man snapped to a salute. “Yes, my lord!” He jumped into the curricle and whipped the horses to a gallop, spraying gravel as the light vehicle careened down the driveway.

Chadwick returned to the carriage. He smiled and said, “Forgive the delay, my dear. I know you must be anxious to go inside.”

Ginevra blinked. Was this all there was to be, a casual dismissal and nothing more? He must know she had heard some of his conversation with the other man. Would he not offer some explanation of why his name was coupled with that of another woman even after the banns had been called?

Chadwick said, “Ginevra, are you coming?”

She looked down, and her eyes were caught by the flash of sunlight on her rings. Of course there would be no explanation—for there would be no inquiry. She was Lord Chadwick’s wife now, and wives did not ask such questions. If a man pursued his lightskirts even after marriage, his wife must pretend ignorance of his activities. She was expected to console herself with the protection of his name and perhaps even be grateful that other women diverted his unwelcome attentions from her person. She looked up again. “Of course, my lord, I am ready when you are.” She laid her small hand in Chadwick’s, and as he assisted her down from the coach, he glanced at her sharply, wondering why she suddenly seemed so much older.

When she glanced back over her shoulder, the yellow curricle was just disappearing down the drive, and the footman returned to stand stolidly by the front door. Chadwick gave Ginevra his arm and escorted her into the welcome coolness of the vast and obscure entry hall. He patted her hand as he turned to address the manservant. “Her ladyship is tired from the journey, and I think we’ll postpone any tour of the house until tomorrow. Tell Mrs. Timmons to show her to her apartment and send up someone to attend her there until the coach with her own abigail arrives.” The footman quickly left in search of the housekeeper, and Chadwick made as if to go.

“But ... but, my lord ...” Ginevra stammered, suddenly clinging to him as the one familiar object in this strange new world.

He smiled down at her, his dark face lined with fatigue or anxiety, she wasn’t sure which. “Go on, little Ginnie,” he urged softly. “Rest awhile. I’ll tell Mrs. Timmons to have our supper sent up to your room later, and we’ll talk then.” He raised her hand to his lips; then he turned and strode away, his heels echoing on the stone floor.

“Good night, Miss Gin ... my lady.”
The dull thud of the sitting-room door as it shut behind Emma echoed through Ginevra, a reverberation of her own unease. She dug her fingers into the dark velvet upholstery of the Queen Anne wing chair whose back she leaned against, clinging to it in an effort to prevent herself from running after the maid, begging her not to abandon her to the man who would come soon, soon... Ginevra sighed. She could not recall Emma now. She must face what was to come alone.

She sank into the chair, and the gossamer silk of her white negligee fluffed up over her knees, weightless as thistledown. She smoothed down the fabric nervously while she glanced around. She did not like this tenebrous room. The light from candles in a massive floor sconce was absorbed by the dark furnishings. The only bright spots anywhere were the reflections on the silver covers of the supper dishes spread on a low table beside her. A draft caused the yellow flames to flicker, casting distorted, oscillant shadows on the obscure hangings, the drab furniture, the portrait of some dour female Glover over the mantel. It was Lord Chadwick’s fault that she was in this awful place, she thought resentfully. Like Pluto carrying Persephone off to the underworld, he had abducted her from her bower of sunlight and flowers to bring her to this dreary, lifeless chamber that looked as if it had not seen daylight in a century. Oh, certainly the antique furniture was of excellent quality, the very best, and the practical side of Ginevra’s mind did note with mild satisfaction that under the housekeeper’s direction the room had been meticulously aired and dusted. But it was all so dark, so gloomy and ominous, and she hated it, she hated it. She wanted to go home.

Tired and agitated, Ginevra bowed her head in despair. Her thick gold tresses tumbled loose over her shoulders, flowing in gleaming waves almost to her waist. Home. Now home was wherever her husband chose it to be, whether Queenshaven or London. She pondered the choice, trying to cheer herself. Queenshaven she detested, but London might not be so dreadful. She had never been there, her father had never permitted her to accompany him on his business trips, but she was sure the city had much to commend it. She could frequent the parks, the lending libraries, and perhaps Lord Chadwick would occasionally take her to a theatre on the Tottenham Court Road or to a concert in Vauxhall Gardens...

Vauxhall. Where he liked to go with his mistress.

Ginevra shuddered. For hours she had curbed her thoughts, refused to contemplate the exchange she had overheard between the marquess and the intruder, but now her imagination was loose, racing unrestrained over parlous paths she had tried to avoid. Her husband had a mistress, some Frenchwoman, probably the latest of a long line. Exactly how many women had there been altogether in his life? How many compliant females had basked in the hot glow of his blue eyes, quivered under his caressing fingers? Scores, hundreds? He was a father at seventeen, a widower before he came of age, and God alone knew the number who had succumbed to his practiced charms since then. To his credit, not all the running was on his part, he was a man women would never ignore. His looks guaranteed that, if not his title and wealth. When he called on her father, Ginevra noticed how one of the Bryant housemaids, a buxom wench not long in service, eyed him appreciatively. Ginevra reluctantly conceded that as far as she knew, the marquess had not accepted the girl’s blatant invitation. Most men would have done, and not only when the girl was willing. A merchant from Leeds who once visited Sir Charles ordered tea to be brought to his room at midnight, and nine months later Ginevra helped deliver the result of that late summons. A young farmer married the unfortunate mother in time to save her from public disgrace, but Ginevra resented the way the man responsible had escaped. When she complained to her father, he seemed unconcerned even though the incident took place under his roof. These things happened, he shrugged, it was the way of the world. A lady like Ginevra would do well to pretend ignorance of such matters.

But how could she pretend ignorance when any moment now her husband, a virtual stranger to her, was going to walk into her bedroom and demand her submission?

As if in answer to her thoughts, Ginevra heard the connecting door from Lord Chadwick’s suite open, followed by the sound of his footsteps striding purposefully across her bedroom to the sitting room where she waited, rigid with apprehension. In the doorway he paused.

Ginevra brushed a burnished lock of hair from her eyes and glanced up nervously. He was staring at her .In the dimness his eyes were shadowed and inscrutable, his austere features only faintly limned by the wavering candlelight. He had not changed his clothes, but his jacket and waistcoat were gone, and his ruffled white shirt was partially unbuttoned, revealing the triangle of dark hair on his chest Ginevra quickly averted her eyes from that disturbing, intimate sight. Her cheeks grew hot. She pretended great interest in the silver tea service as she waited for him to speak. He did not. At last she stammered without looking up, “G-good evening, my lord.”

“Good evening, Ginevra.” His voice was low and surprisingly husky. He settled onto the couch across the table from her, never taking his eyes off her. In the dark room she seemed ethereal, illuminated. She intensified her scrutiny of the teapot. The silence became unbearable. She quavered, “W-would you care for some tea?”

He smiled. “Yes, thank you. One sugar, no milk.” Ginevra glanced up just long enough to give the cup to him. When she folded her trembling hands diffidently in her lap, he asked, “Are you not having any?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. I ... I don’t want anything right now.” She stared at her white knuckles.

Chadwick set his tea aside untasted. “I’m not thirsty either.” He studied her pale face, the downcast eyes with golden lashes fluttering long and silky against ivory skin. He sounded not unsympathetic as he murmured, “Poor little Ginnie, are you very nervous?” She nodded jerkily. He said, “There’s no need to be afraid. I won’t hurt you.” She quaked silently. He stood up and held out his hand. “Come here, Ginevra,” he said softly.

She looked at him then, her amber, eyes travelling up the long, strong length of him until they met and were held, hypnotized, by the dark intensity of his blue gaze. Slowly, almost against her will, her hand reached out to join his. His grip was gentle but irresistible, and he pulled her from her chair. When she stood, her negligee floated down around her, clinging like wisps of mist, and her skin gleamed pearl-like through the sheer silk. He caught his breath. His hands encircled her slender waist, and he drew her toward him until her small breasts brushed the front of his shirt. She was still staring at him, entranced, when he bent his head to kiss her.

It was a light kiss, his warm lips just grazing hers in a fleeting caress, and she blinked with disappointment when he drew away. He sensed her chagrin and smiled complacently. Stepping back, but with one arm still around her, he asked with the neutral air of a concerned host, “Are you settled into your new quarters? I hope they meet with your approval.”

Yet a little dazed from that kiss, she took a moment to adjust to his abrupt change of mood. “Ev-everything is quite ... comfortable,” she said at last.

“How diplomatic,” he drawled, his tone lightening. He gave her waist a squeeze. “I’m sorry, my dear, when I ordered this suite prepared for you I forgot what a horror it is, positively Gothic. I don’t think the rooms have been redecorated since my grandmother’s day. Now I know why my mother has always preferred the London house! Ah, well, your first domestic duty as my lady can be to engage a decorator to do everything over. Mrs. Timmons can give you the names. Do you think you’ll like that?”

“It might be fun,” Ginevra ventured shyly, glancing around and envisioning the grim chamber stripped of its depressing hangings and made light and airy with tones of white, gold, and apricot. “Yes,” she repeated more firmly, “it would be fun.”

“Good,” Lord Chadwick said. “I like amusing you.”

Ginevra paused, frowning, as she caught the nuance of something he had said. Astonished at her own temerity, she questioned, “Did ... did your wife not use this suite?”

Instantly her husband’s face became shuttered. “No,” he said flatly. “My father was still alive then, and he and my mother used this wing. On those rare occasions when Maria honored us with her presence, she stayed in rooms in another part of the house altogether.”

“I ... I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” Chadwick’s tone sharpened. “Ginevra, those days are long past. You are my wife now. You would do well to ignore matters that do not concern you.”

Ginevra bridled with irritation. He sounded just like her father! Driven by an impulse she would have been incapable of explaining, she demanded fiercely, “Do those matters include Amalie de Villeneuve?”