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Lucy could not bring herself to utter false assurances of forgiveness. Deliberately, she laid the hairbrush on her dressing table, and rose from the stool. “I believe I will retire now. I have not slept well of late.”
Drake made no reply, but she could feel his eyes upon her. Suddenly, she was conscious of her swollen, tender breasts, pushing against the light fabric of her nightgown, and a warm tingling sensation below her womb. What other unsettling symptoms had pregnancy in store for her? Lucy scowled to mask her embarrassment.
Perhaps he marked her expression and thought it was directed at him. “I’m your ally, not your adversary,” he said quietly.
“I know.” Snuffing her candle, Lucy climbed into bed and drew the covers up to her chin. “It’s just that…” She hesitated, unable to put her feelings into benign, neutral words.
He appeared to understand. “…you can’t help thinking how different this night would be if you were Jeremy’s bride?” He had his back turned to her, hunched forward on the chaise. “Perhaps you even wish I were lying in the churchyard in his place?”
Lucy shut her eyes and forced her breath to a slow steady rhythm. If Drake looked to see why she hadn’t answered, he might believe she had fallen asleep. For several long minutes, she heard nothing but the soft crackle of the fire. Then he spoke again, his voice almost too low for her to hear.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did. But the die is cast now. What we cannot change, we must endure.”
He sounded so bereft. It suddenly occurred to her that Drake had lost a beloved brother. At the same time, her pride smarted from his implication that their marriage was an ordeal he must endure. She hated these overwrought, contradictory feelings he constantly provoked in her.
Neville Strickland drained the last drop of port from his glass with a sigh of appreciation. When one had to abide a sojourn in the godforsaken wilds of Cumbria, one must needs take advantage of minor consolations. He fancied a drop more, but the decanter sat on a sideboard clear across the room. He could not work up the ambition to go after it. Perhaps a servant would happen by soon, to extinguish the dying fire. With a discreet belch, Neville slouched further in the thickly upholstered armchair and let his heavy eyelids slide shut.
He heard the door open, and footsteps enter the room. Presuming it must be a servant, he roused himself to order another drink. Then he heard the welcome clink of a heavy stopper being lifted from the mouth of the decanter. Say what you liked about old Drake—the man did have his servants well trained.
Neville coaxed one eye open in time to see Phyllipa emptying the last drop of port into a tall dipper.
“Greedy little pig,” he grunted.
With a muted shriek, she rose several inches off the floor, sending the port stopper crashing onto a silver salver. “Good Lord, Neville, you frightened me near to death! I thought you’d gone to bed.”
“Tsk, tsk, Phyllipa, do you know nothing of logic? There is port in the decanter—at least there was—ergo, I must be on hand to drink it. Besides, my bedroom is only two doors down from the bridal chamber. How would I get any sleep with the floorboards creaking under my cousin’s strenuous performance of his conjugal duties?”
Phyllipa shot him a withering look. “How crude you are, Neville. You must be drunk.”
“You sound exactly like Grandmama.” He pried his other eye open. “You make it sound as though people lie or talk nonsense when they’re drunk. In my experience, it is quite the contrary.”
“And we all know you have vast experience of being drunk.” Phyllipa took a long draft of her port.
“Do I detect a hint of malice? Nurture it, by all means. It might save your character from being thoroughly insipid.”
She responded in the most provocative way possible-by ignoring him. Pretending she hadn’t heard a word he’d said, Phyllipa seated herself opposite him and took another drink, smacking her lips with enjoyment. Such deliberate aggravation was not to be borne.
“Drowning your sorrows?” he sniped. “How long do you think before that toothsome little vicar’s daughter drops a dozen Silverthorne brats to supplant young Reggie?”
Phyllipa’s eyes bulged to a gratifying degree. If she’d been any closer, Neville was sure she’d have spit on him. “Damn you, Neville! You can sit back and laugh. You’ll never live long enough to see a ha’penny from Silverthorne. But darling Reggie…it is too bad!”
Having goaded her into such an outburst put Neville in a better humor. “There, there, old girl, I share a measure of your disappointment. True, I didn’t expect to outlive Drake with his monastic regimen, but I could have lived like a king on my expectations.”
The port in Phyllipa’s glass gleamed like liquid rubies in the flickering firelight She tipped it toward him in a mock toast. “Here’s to the death of expectations.”
“Don’t bury the corpse unless you’re certain it’s past revival,” quipped Neville.
The glass to her lips, Phylipa hesitated. “What drunken foolishness are you talking now?”
He’d managed to stop her from consuming the last of the port. Neville congratulated himself. “What if the bride is barren? She didn’t look robustly healthy to me. What if she miscarries? Stillbirth? Maybe she’ll bear him a daughter?”
“Even a fool like you wouldn’t pin your hopes on that.” Phyllipa gave him a sour look. “There hasn’t been a female born in the Silverthorne line since the Norman Conquest. Clarence reminded me of the fact every day while I was carrying Reggie.”
“Must you be so literal?” Neville smelled that last drop of port luring him from the bottom of her glass. “I’m only saying—a lot can go wrong.”
“Yes?” Phyllipa stared at him with intense expectancy.
“I’m sure if we put our heads together, we can shipwreck this ‘honest business arrangement’ of Drake’s before it produces any troublesome progeny.”
A hopeful smile spread across her long, pasty face. The port in Neville’s stomach sloshed around menacingly. Gad, the woman looked positively gruesome when she smiled.
“What must I do?” she asked eagerly.
Neville marshaled his wits for several moments of intense concentration. He hadn’t had an actual plan in mind, but surely he could devise one. After all, mischief was on his list of favorite pastimes, second only to drinking.
“You must stay on at Silverthorne and ingratiate yourself with the bride.”
Phyllipa’s thin upper lip curled in distaste.
“It won’t be so difficult,” said Neville. “You’ve been ingratiating yourself with somebody or other for as long as I’ve known you. And this is in a worthy cause. Sow seeds of discord between the newlyweds and get them to come down to London.”
“London? Whatever for? What is your part in all this?”
“Patience, my dear.” Neville beamed in admiration of his own genius. “While you are chipping away at the foundations of Drake’s marriage, like a good little sapper, I shall be mounting a marvelous ambush to topple it completely.”
“What sort of ambush?” Phyllipa sounded dubious.
Neville fumbled for his monocle, then screwed it up to his eye. He thought it gave his face a look of wisdom and mystery. “Never you mind. Suffice it to say, it will send our disaffected young bride bolting for the Continent like a hare with a greyhound on its tail.”
Phyllipa let out a high-pitched giggle that sent shivers down his spine. The port was obviously working on her. “Then if Drake wants to remarry, he’ll have to endure the public disgrace of a divorce. After that, no respectable woman will have him. Oh, Neville, you are too clever!”
He gave a wan smile in return. Her flirtatious glance made him distinctly nervous. He desperately needed another drink. “Shall we toast our alliance, then?”
“By all means.” Weaving over to Neville’s chair, she dribbled a generous splash of her remaining port into his glass.
“Here’s to the restoration of my expectations and Reggie’s inheritance.” Neville savored the rich body of the port on his tongue for a reverent moment before swallowing. Phyllipa settled on the floor beside him and rested her head against his knee. As he recalled a saying about necessity making strange bedfellows, Neville felt the wine in his stomach begin to curdle.
The fire in Lucy’s bedchamber had subsided into a handful of glowing embers. By the sound of her deep, even breathing, Drake judged her to be sound asleep at last. He had one final prop to plant in their little charade. With any luck it would fuel all the right sort of rumours, so no one would be suspicious when Lucy’s baby arrived “early.”
By rights he should have done it before she got into bed, but he hadn’t been anxious for her to strike him again. Drake reached up and touched his cheek gingerly. Contrary to his earlier protestations, it stung like the very devil. The little spitfire could muster considerable strength when roused.
Not that he could blame her, after his churlish remark. Drake had no idea what had compelled him to say such a thing, or why he hadn’t warned Lucy he would be coming here tonight. This whole marriage business had propelled him into territory he’d never expected or wanted to tread. Deliberately throwing her off balance helped him to regain some of his own equilibrium. Drake refused to consider that he might have provoked Lucy in the hope that he would feel her touch, however untender.
From his dressing gown pocket, he drew a small flask and uncorked it. Stealthily he approached the bed, reaching under the blankets to deposit the flask’s contents. Warm from the heat of his body, she would probably not even notice it. Until tomorrow morning, at which time he hoped she would play along with the ruse. Drake felt his hand brush her flesh.
Before he had an instant to savor the sensation, she sat bolt upright, throwing off the bedclothes and letting out a piercing scream. Dropping the flask, he managed to arrest her hand within inches of his face.
“Once a night is my limit for that kind of abuse, madam.”
“You deserve it for frightening me near to death. What are you doing? As if I need ask.”
Drake released her hand. He trembled with the effort to suppress his raging urges. He smelled her hair and the faint tantalizing musk of a woman’s body roused from sleep. For the first time in his life, Drake felt overwhelmed by powerful impulses beyond his control. It scared the hell out of him.
“Get it through your head, woman, that I am not racked with lust for the dubious pleasures of your body,” he lied, in what he desperately hoped was a convincing manner.
“Eeeuu! What have you got all over the sheets and my nightgown?”
“Keep your voice down,” Drake snapped. “It’s a few drops of pig’s blood. To convince the servants that I have relieved you of your virginity.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”
Drake rescued the flask and shoved it back in his pocket. “I have learned to pay attention to details.” Retaining a tenuous grip on his self-control, he backed away from the bed. “The way you have splashed it about will likely cause talk of my enthusiastic performance.”
“You might have warned me and done the deed before I lapsed into a sound sleep.” Lucy pulled the bedclothes up around her.
“Let’s just say I was not eager to feel the sting of your wrath again so soon.” Drake prayed she would attribute the breathlessness of his voice to anger.
“Have you any other nasty surprises in store for me tonight, your lordship?”
“None.” Drake did not trust himself to say more.
“In that case, I’ll thank you to leave.”
“With pleasure.” He stalked from the room.
In the gallery he could hear the muted sounds of celebration rising from the butler’s pantry. At least someone was getting a bit of pleasure out of his benighted marriage.
Back in his dressing room, Drake found the bathtub still set up and full of water, long since gone cold. Perhaps eager to take part in the festivities below stairs, his valet had neglected to drain it. Letting his dressing gown fall around his ankles, Drake stepped into the narrow tub. As he sat down in the chilly water, he half expected a hissing cloud of steam to rise from his fevered body.
What in heaven’s name had he let himself in for?
Chapter Four (#ulink_a25bdd54-bf97-5a85-9329-626060f5f5bc)
As the footman set breakfast before her, Lucy smiled wanly. In the weeks since her wedding, she had come to dread the morning meal. In the first place, her persistent nausea was always at its worst before noon.
She glanced down at her plate, mounded with food. Eggs, bacon, hotcakes, kippered herring, broiled veal kidneys in quantities fit to sustain a grown man at field labour. Lucy averted her eyes, before the sight made her vomit. What she would have given for a modest saucer of dry toast and a cup of weak tea! Somehow she could not bring herself to dictate special requests to Lord Silverthorne’s cook. His cousin kept the kitchen in a constant hop as it was.
“Not indisposed are you, my dear?” asked Lady Phyllipa as Lucy toyed with her breakfast.
“Not at all.” Lucy shoved a forkful of eggs beneath the veal kidney. “I fear my appetite is not equal to Mrs. Maberley’s generous portions.”
“Yes.” Phyllipa laughed. A high-pitched tinkling sound, like a spoon tapping wildly on a wineglass, it often sounded in danger of shattering, “Drake’s cook does consider it her mission in life to fatten everyone up.” She cast her cousin a teasing look. “I doubt she’ll ever succeed with him.”
Drake responded with a derisive grunt as he bolted mouthful after mouthful of his breakfast. Simply watching him made Lucy’s gorge rise.
Pushing her plate away, she tried to work up a smile. “You must find the food and the society here very dull after what you’ve been used to in London, Cousin Phyllipa.”
From the other end of the breakfast table, she marked the black frown Drake directed her way. No doubt he was angry with her for daring to insinuate that his cousins should leave Silverthorne. Well, too bad about him. If he had told her his marriage proposal included a honeymoon with Lady Phyllipa Strickland, she never would have accepted.
“I find nothing wanting in your society, Lucinda dear,” Phyllipa replied in her usual patronizing tone. Evidently, she had not recognized the broad hint. “Though I’ll own I have been pining for London of late. There are so many merry doings in the autumn, particularly if one is as well connected as Drake.”
Lord Silverthorne’s frown deepened into an outright scowl. Obviously, he could not abide -the notion of his boon companion, Lady Phyllipa, departing for the south.
More than once in the past weeks, Lucy had broached the subject. Phyllipa’s answer was always the same.
“I spoke to Drake about my returning home, but he would not hear of it. Protested that you could not spare me so soon. He is counting on me to help mold you into a proper viscountess, and I cannot let him down.after all the dear man has done for me since my poor Clarence died.”
A spark of resentment deep within Lucy began to smolder. She was heartily sick of constant sermons on aristocratic protocol and proper ladylike deportment. As interpreted by Lord Silverthorne and proclaimed by Lady Phyllipa, this consisted of doing a great deal of nothing. At least nothing enjoyable, stimulating or improving. Riding was for hoydens. Reading was for “blue stockings.” Tramping the countryside was entirely beyond the pale. Small wonder Jeremy had joined the army to escape his overbearing brother.
An awkward, expectant silence in the breakfast room recalled Lucy from her musings. Both Drake and Phyllipa were staring at her, waiting. She desperately tried to recall what Phyllipa had been talking about. Evidently she’d been asked a question, but she had no idea what.
“Don’t you agree, my dear?” Phyllipa prompted her.
If they expected her agreement, Lucy was sure it was something she would naturally oppose. Still, she must do her best to conform to their ways. For the sake of her child—the reason she had wed Drake in the first place.
“Of course. I do.” She made every effort to sound sincere, but sincere about what?
Lady Phyllipa spread her thin lips into a tight smile. “You see, Drake? Lucy is as anxious to get down to London as I am.”
Silently Lucy cursed herself. With Drake glowering at her, how could she retract her agreement and explain that she simply hadn’t been paying attention?
“What a welcome you would receive, my dear.” Phyllipa gushed. “Everyone would be avid to meet the new Lady Silverthorne.”
That, thought Lucy, was precisely her fear. She knew just what sort of welcome she would receive at the hands of the ton. Like some pitiful curiosity at the fairground—a dwarf donkey or a three-legged chicken. The vicar’s daughter masquerading as a viscountess. They would watch her like a flock of vultures, ready to rend her to pieces at the first misstep.
Abruptly, Drake rose from his place, hurling down his napkin. “We have been over this before.” He glared at Lucy, his tone icily formal. “I have pressing business matters to attend. I’ve recently bought a mining operation at High Head. The place has been losing money for years, and lately I’ve heard tell of dangerous conditions. I need to get to the bottom of the trouble and set things to—”
“I fear Neville is right about you, Drake.” Phyllipa looked surprised to hear herself agreeing with Neville about anything. “You are overburdened with a sense of ‘noblesse oblige.’ Do you mean to say this great hole in the ground is of more importance than your own wife?”
“Enough!” Though Phyllipa had been speaking, Drake addressed himself to Lucy, with cold loathing in his eyes. “I have business to attend, if you will excuse me. I may not be back in time for dinner this evening.”
Though she struggled to suppress them, tears welled in Lucy’s eyes. She had borne his grim censure for the past four weeks. Together with Phyllipa’s constant carping and her own unrelenting biliousness, she could bear it no longer. The sight of her distress did nothing to soften her austere, exacting husband. With a final look of glacial disdain, he strode from the breakfast room.
“My poor Lucinda.” Phyllipa caught her hand.
For an instant Lucy regretted her resentment of Drake’s cousin. Despite her nagging and condescending airs, at least Phyllipa tried to be sympathetic.
“Don’t worry your head about it. I’ll go talk to Drake.” She set off after him.
He had not gone far when Phyllipa caught up with him.
“Drake Strickland, how could you? We all know you married Lucy for one reason only, but must you flaunt the fact by paying her so little mind? Could you not see how crushed she was by your refusal to take her to London?”
Trying manfully to control his temper, Drake felt his back teeth grinding. The situation was intolerable. Other men had wives who nagged them. His wife enlisted an expert to nag him on her behalf.
“Lucy and I are staying at Silverthorne. If you are so anxious to get home, Phyllipa, by all means, go.” Drake reminded himself that by home, he meant his own town house in London. He had put the place at her disposal after the death of his cousin Clarence.
Phyllipa sighed. “Much as I would love to get back to London, I know my duty, Drake. Lucy is so very attached to me. She depends on me to steer her through these early days in her new position. I could not think of deserting the poor child.”
