The Taste of Innocence (35 page)

Crisp bowed and withdrew.

Ruthlessly suppressing the spurt of temper that news had evoked, she smiled easily—the situation was certainly not Sinclair’s fault—and with a wave invited him to join her in the drawing room. “As Crisp no doubt told you, Charlie has yet to return from his morning ride…”

She let her words fade as footsteps—long striding boot steps—sounded on the tiles, heading their way. She drew herself up, clasping her hands dutifully before her; she could manage her expression—unperturbed—but could do nothing about her eyes. If her temper showed there, so be it.

Poised before the drawing room door, she and Sinclair turned as Charlie emerged from the corridor leading to the side door and the stables.

His hair was windblown, a ruffled crest of spun gold. He was wearing an olive-green hacking jacket, a neckerchief tied loosely about his lean throat, a brown waistcoat over an ivory linen shirt tucked into tight buckskin breeches. His riding boots were brown.

Sarah absorbed his appearance, all the details, absorbed the full impact of his presence on her senses, in one swift glance. And wondered as she realized that although she’d seen Sinclair for rather longer, she had no idea what he was wearing beyond that he was dressed as a gentleman.

Given the situation, her sensitivity to her husband was more irritation than comfort.

He’d been looking down, tugging off his gloves; he glanced up, saw them, and his stride hitched. But then he came on, his cool, detached mask in place, his negligent, easy—entirely worthless—smile curving his lips.

She marveled that she’d ever thought that smile charming.

“Malcolm.” Charlie offered his hand and Sinclair took it. “Sorry I’m late—I was with one of my tenant farmers.”

His smile in place, Charlie turned to her. “My dear, Malcolm and I have much to discuss. You’d find us boring company, I’m afraid. If you could send lunch in to us? We’ll be in the library.”

He inclined his head and turned away, with a gesture indicating that Sinclair should accompany him to the library.

But Sinclair didn’t immediately fall in. He looked at Sarah, then turned to her and bowed. “Thank you for your time, Lady Meredith.”

Sarah drew breath, and inclined her head politely. As Sinclair straightened, she saw unexpected understanding and a degree of compassion in his hazel eyes. She was aware, too, of the sudden frown that leapt to life in Charlie’s eyes as he noted the glance she and Sinclair exchanged.

As Sinclair turned away, she lifted her gaze for a brief instant to Charlie’s eyes, then she turned and let her feet carry her into the drawing room, not glancing back as Charlie and Sinclair walked away down the corridor.

Stopping in the middle of the room, she drew in a huge breath, and held it.

She wasn’t, definitely wasn’t, going to lose her temper in front of Sinclair.

Two nights later, she was lying in bed on her side, facing the windows, the covers around her shoulders, the candles doused, when Charlie entered the room.

It was late; the wind outside was howling.

She lay still, biting her lip to stifle the unwise words that rose to her tongue. She wanted to tell him what she thought, what she felt—wanted to rail at him over how stupid he was being with his present tack—but what would that achieve? Absolutely nothing; he was nearly as stubborn as she was. If she was going to succeed and gain all she wished, she needed a plan, not just anger. Not just pointless pleading.

Come what may, she wasn’t going to plead.

That morning she’d reached the breakfast table to find a note by her plate. From Charlie. He’d apparently made arrangements to spend the day at Watchet with Mr. Sinclair, sharing with the latter his knowledge of the local shipping and warehousing businesses.

She’d sat and stared at the note for a full minute, wondering why he’d neglected to mention his day long appointment with Sinclair last night. Last night, when she’d swallowed her earlier ire and responded to his honest warmth, his transparently genuine desire when he’d joined her in their bed, she’d wanted to encourage his affection, his love, rather than allow his stilted behavior outside the bedroom to spill into it.

Eventually setting the note aside, she’d grimaced, then gone about her day’s work alone—as her husband clearly intended.

Until Mrs. Duncliffe called in the afternoon. Just a courtesy visit, but given that shrewd lady’s knowledge of her, combined with the fact that although she was no gossip, Mrs. Duncliffe knew her mother extremely well, Sarah had been forced throughout to play the part of delighted and blissfully happy new wife; by the time Mrs. Duncliffe had left Sarah had a headache.

Luckily, it was unlikely that any other of the neighborhood ladies would call until the following week, such was the general custom; her position as vicar’s wife gave Mrs. Duncliffe special dispensation.

Feeling unusually wrung out, Sarah had actually retired for a short nap. She’d awoken to the sound of the wind rising, to the softening late afternoon light, then she’d heard Charlie’s booted feet on the terrace below the bedroom windows. He’d clearly just returned; she’d wondered, caught between sleep and reality, in the realm of waking dreams, whether he’d come looking for her, whether, when he didn’t find her in her sitting room, he would come looking for her up there.

Of course he hadn’t.

He’d retreated to the library and hadn’t emerged until it was nearly time for dinner. Their evening ritual remained the same; she’d asked and he’d told her what he’d done in Watchet, how he and Sinclair had met with various merchants and agents, and also with the aldermen to discuss their visions for the future of the town. Later she’d embroidered and he’d read. Then she’d retired and climbed the stairs to bed.

She felt as though a weight were pressing down on her chest, making it difficult to breathe. He seemed determined to deny what she knew to be true; if he denied love long enough, would it die, converting his version of the truth into fact?

Listening as he crossed to his dressing room, hearing him move about as he undressed, she tried to define her way forward, a way to claim the love she knew existed between them, to force him to acknowledge it…

He never had.

Staring through the darkness softened by the dying fire’s flames, she realized, quickly scanned her memories and confirmed, that he never, not once, had said that he loved her.

She’d said the words for him, once, and he hadn’t denied them.

But he’d never acknowledged them, or their truth.

He came out of his dressing room; she heard the shush of his robe as he let it fall. Then the bed bowed as he climbed in beside her.

Something inside her tensed, the deadening weight coalescing to a hard tight knot in her chest, yet her traitorous senses stretched and reached for him. She continued to lie still. He shifted closer—and through the darkness she caught the scent of the sea.

He’d been sailing. While in Watchet, he’d taken Sinclair out on his boat. She hadn’t thought to ask, yet neither had he mentioned it.

The hard knot in her chest grew colder, sank deeper.

For the first time in their marriage, she didn’t turn to welcome him into her arms. Instead, she pretended to be deeply asleep, until he turned away and settled, and then fell asleep himself.

She lay still and stared into the night.

Outside the wind howled, as if winter were returning.

The following morning, Charlie felt his chest tighten as he laid another note on the breakfast table beside Sarah’s place.

Lips compressing, he turned and strode from the room; going out to the stables, he swung up to Storm’s back, turned the gelding’s head south, and let him have his head.

He was riding for Casleigh; Gabriel was there, along with Barnaby, who’d elected to use the more southerly house as his temporary base while he and Gabriel covertly examined the possibilities for profiteering and extortion along potential routes for a Bristol-Taunton rail line.

It was time he caught up with Barnaby’s and Gabriel’s findings, and doing so was the perfect way to spend another day away from Sarah.

He forced himself to ease his tightening grip on the reins, but neither the thunder of Storm’s hooves nor the rush of air past his face could distract him from the uneasy, unsettling thoughts circling ceaselessly in his brain.

Over the last days he’d done his best to do what he felt increasingly certain he had to. With every night that passed, he experienced the power of what had come to be between him and her, and it was too strong—it could so easily rule him. If he let it. If he let it out, let it flow through his life, and not only the hours spent in their bed.

And despite all, his tack seemed to be working, at least in the sense that she seemed to be gradually coming to accept that during the day, beyond their bedchamber, there would always be a wall between them.

But then last night…he tried to tell himself that she’d simply fallen deeply asleep before he’d reached the room, yet some more primitive, instinctual part of him knew she’d been awake. That she’d chosen…to remain apart.

One part of him, that same primitive part, railed and roared, cut and insensibly hurt. Yet that’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? At least during the day.

He wanted distance between them, wanted her to understand and accept that. What right had he to complain if she took his stance one step further?

Yet that wasn’t what he wanted. Not now. Now love had come to be, now he’d sampled it, he couldn’t bear to cut himself off from it entirely.

The wind bit through his hacking jacket and stroked icy fingers down his chest, yet the chilled tightness he felt inside owed nothing to the elements.

He needed to build the wall higher, needed to make it thicker. Perhaps then he wouldn’t feel this peculiar cold pain.

Containing love was proving very much harder than he’d thought.

14

She felt betrayed.

Not, admittedly, as many ladies did, married to a philanderer, but betrayed in an even deeper sense.

She felt deceived. Knowingly, deliberately, and senselessly deceived.

The following morning Sarah completed the task of writing thank-you notes to all those who had sent formal congratulations and good wishes for their wedding. She stacked the neatly addressed notes, then, lips thin, carried them into the library—and sat them in the center of Charlie’s blotter.

As usual, he was out riding. She stepped back, considered the teetering pile, then turned and marched out, leaving the notes for him to frank.

She returned to her sitting room, but with no immediate occupation offering, restlessness claimed her. Peering out the window, she assessed the day; the weather had turned finicky, patches of bright sunshine interspersed with gloom, but the skies appeared clear enough to risk a walk in the gardens.

Going out via the French doors onto the terrace, she descended the steps and walked briskly to the rose garden, an area between the shrubbery and the lake where neatly paved paths ambled between curved beds. Harris was particularly proud of his roses, so the paths were always well tended and swept; even in winter with the roses pruned back to collections of stumps and sticks, it was the perfect place for ladies to take their constitutionals.

She stalked down the paths, stared at the stumps and sticks, and prodded experimentally at her bruised heart.

The ache within was intensifying.

She hadn’t wanted to marry without love; she’d only agreed to wed Charlie because, even if he hadn’t told her he loved her, he’d shown her that he did. She hadn’t been some silly ninny placing too great a reliance on a gentleman’s promises; she’d waited until she’d seen that he loved her. And he did.

Still did.

She’d taken every precaution possible. What she hadn’t known was that despite loving her, Charlie had had no intention of allowing love into their marriage. That despite his vows, in the very teeth of his love, he was refusing to allow it…loose. Refusing to allow it free rein in their lives, refusing to let it be a source of support and strength for them both, as instinctively she knew it could be, and indeed should be.

All but scowling, clasping her hands behind her, she paced on, at the end of the path kicking her skirts around so she could turn and pace back.

He’d shown her his love but had never intended to properly share it, to live up to love’s implicit, age-old promise; betrayal and deceit darkened her mind, yet what set spark to her temper, what made her so angry she had to grit her teeth against a frustrated scream, was why.

Because there was no reason why.

None she could logically conjure; none she could understand.

He was set on his path, inflexible, determined, and as ever ensuring he got his own way, simply because…he thought that was how things should be?

She had no idea, but what ever his excuse, it wasn’t good enough.

Hurt and anger warred within her, but the latter was stronger; far from retreating to lick her wounds, she wanted to…grab Charlie by the shoulders and shake him until he woke up and saw what he was so wantonly turning his back on.