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“My wife is not a child.” She was very much a woman, and Drake wished to heaven he could ignore the fact. “Sooner or later she must learn to manage on her own.”
Phyllipa blinked her eyes in a look of mild reproof. “Only yesterday I mentioned to her how I should like to get back to London before the snow flies. If you could have seen the tears in her eyes as she pleaded with me to stay another fortnight, you would not be so unsympathetic, Drake.”
Another fortnight in the company of Phyllipa and her odious little Reggie? Drake wondered how he would bear it. Mentally he added another item to his tally of grievances against his wife.
“Of course Lucy couldn’t object to my leaving if the two of you came along with us for a visit. That is why I broached the subject. Didn’t you hear how eagerly she greeted the idea? She has never been there, you know, but I can tell how she longs for it. She gets such a sweet wistful look when she talks about spending last winter with her aunt in Bath. Why, only the other day she said to me, ‘Phyllipa, do you suppose Drake is too ashamed to take me out in society?’’’
To cover his acute discomfort, Drake made a few derisive noises deep in his throat. Ashamed? What nonsense!
“It quite broke my heart to hear her,” continued Phyllipa. “I hastened to assure her that nothing could be further from the truth. However, when she learns of your latest answer on the subject, I fear she will take the news very hard.”
Drake suspected his cousin Clarence might have been glad to die and escape this woman’s fretting and badgering.
“Nonetheless, I have made my decision.”
Shaking her head dolorously as she started back for the breakfast room, Phyllipa cast him a reproachful look. Drake chose to ignore it. Beneath the frigid surface of his composure, resentment seethed. If Lucy had cause to complain of their marriage, why did she not speak to him directly, instead of setting her bosom companion, Phyllipa, to hound him?
He gained the entry hall with a mixture of relief and exasperation. Relieved to be making his escape for another day. Exasperated at how his wife and her crony had made him a fugitive from his own home.
“Begging your pardon, sir.”
Drake spun around to find the cook waiting on him, neat as a pin in her starched apron and cap, with every grey hair smoothed into place. A tiny scrap of a woman, somewhat plump from sampling her own good cooking, she’d been the only motherly influence in his life. Drake smiled in spite of himself.
“I am at your service, Mrs. Maberley. What can I do for you this morning?”
“Well, your lordship.” She addressed Drake’s knees, a purplish flush creeping up above her high collar. “I’d be most obliged if you’d start interviewing for a new cook.”
Drake didn’t think he’d heard right. “Surely you’re not giving notice, Mrs. Maberley.” The very idea! “Did I forget to mention how much I enjoyed your seedcake the other night?”
The cook shifted from one foot to another. “Very kind of you to say so, I’m sure, milord. I am giving notice, as soon as you can find a replacement.”
“I couldn’t possibly replace you, Mrs. Maberley. At best I’d get someone to prepare our meals. You have been the heart of Silverthorne for as long as I can recall. How often I used to steal down the back stairs, when I was a little fellow, to find a bit of seedcake or gingerbread for bedtime tuck.”
A nostalgic smile momentarily lit Mrs. Maberley’s motherly features. “You were such a spindly little shaver in them days, Master Drake. A body couldn’t help wanting to fatten you up. You still want filling out,” she added tartly.
“So you won’t desert me…I mean us.” He had a devil of a time over that collective pronoun, Drake mused. Try as he might, he could not think of himself as part of a couple.
Mrs. Maberley shook her head. “It’s been many a year since you were a lad scavenging for a bite at bedtime, Master Drake. And likely you thought me an old woman back then…”
If only Jeremy was here, Drake thought. His charming half brother had always known exactly what people wanted to hear. What’s more, he’d been able to deliver it with an air of candid charm that ensured he always got his way. Though a trenchant observation or a mordant jest slipped easily enough from his own tongue, Drake had never mastered the skill of putting his deepest feelings into words.
“Never,” he protested. “Well, perhaps a little…”
Mrs. Maberley nodded knowingly. “I am getting on in years. Thanks to the handsome wages you pay me, I’ve been able to save a little nest egg to retire on. You need some fresh blood around Silverthorne, to do everything up proper for your new missus.”
Suddenly Drake understood. “Has my wife been giving you any trouble, Mrs. Maberley? Is that why you want to leave?”
“Oh, no, your lordship, not at all. Her ladyship’s a lovely girl.”
“But…?” Drake prompted. He could sense it coming. What airs was the vicar’s daughter giving herself as mistress of Silverthorne?
The cook looked torn between a desire to avoid trouble and a need to voice long-stifled complaints. “It’s just that her ladyship isn’t partial to my cooking. Her plate always comes back to the kitchen hardly touched.”
Drake opened his mouth to explain Lucy’s lack of appetite. Then he shut it again. Was it too early for the symptoms of pregnancy to be appearing, if Lucy had conceived on their wedding night, as they wanted everyone to believe? If it had been a case of equine gestation, he would have known instantly.
“I promise I will speak to her ladyship, Mrs. Maberley. I doubt she meant any intentional insult. Do say you’ll stay on. If you feel the workload is becoming too much, I’ll engage you a battalion of scullery maids.”
“It’s not just her ladyship, milord. There’s Lady Phyllipa and Master Reginald. Always pestering me for special dishes and trays sent up to her room. Complains the boy won’t eat what I give him. Then I catch the young rascal stealing my fresh jam buns out of the pantry. I wouldn’t mind it if he et his supper like a good boy. He don’t need no fattening up, I can tell you.”
“They won’t be staying much longer, Mrs. Maberley,” Drake assured her. One way or the other, he’d have them out by the end of the week. If his wife couldn’t manage without her friend, she could go off to London with them and good riddance.
“I’m sure I don’t want to leave if I don’t have to.”
“And I…that is, we…don’t want you to go. So it’s all settled. If anyone gives you trouble, do as you like with them. Tell Lady Phyllipa to go whistle for her tray. Give Reggie a good smack if you catch him in the pantry. I’ll stand behind you completely.” Drake hoped his cook would mortally offend Phyllipa into leaving Silverthorne posthaste.
The pedestal clock in the entry hall chimed nine. Drake bowed to Mrs. Maberley. “If you will excuse me, I must be off now. Thank you for bringing these matters to my attention.”
Minutes later as he rode away from Silverthorne, Drake added yet another black mark against his wife to the rapidly growing list.
“That man!” Phyllipa chuckled as she reentered the breakfast room. “You mustn’t mind him, Lucinda. He’s been too long a bachelor—that’s his trouble. I can tell what you are thinking, my dear, but it simply isn’t true. Drake is not the least bit ashamed of you. You mustn’t on any account think that is why he refuses to take you to London. What matter your humble origins or your rustic manners? Your beauty and sweetness of temper more than compensate for those deficiencies.”
Ashamed of her? Lucy felt the blood drain from her face, leaving behind a frigid mask. For weeks now, she had tried to follow Lady Phyllipa’s advice and mold herself into the kind of wife a man in his position needed. For her baby’s sake, she owed Lord Silverthorne that much. Had he offered a word of encouragement? Recognized and applauded her efforts?
Hardly. The more strenuously she tried, the more quietly antagonistic he became. She had grown to detest his frosty politeness and his look of silent censure. Now to discover he was ashamed of her. If her husband had returned to the breakfast room at that moment, Lucy would have throttled him!
If she stayed a moment longer, she feared she might throttie Lady Phyllipa in her cousin’s place. “Please excuse me, Cousin Phyllipa.” Lucy pushed away from the table. “I feel the urgent need of fresh air. I believe 1 will take a walk.”
“Not to visit those common people in the village, I hope,” Phyllipa cautioned. “What would the viscount think of his wife consorting with those so far below her new station?”
Of all the strictures imposed by her position, this rankled Lucy the worst. She longed to stop by Mrs. Sowerby’s cottage for a talk or drop in for tea at the vicarage. Apart from Sunday matins, she’d scarcely seen her father since her marriage. She’d invited him to Silverthorne of course, but Phyllipa made them both feel so ill at ease. In recent weeks, he’d begun to turn down her invitations on various pretexts. Perhaps it was just as well, thought Lucy. Though she didn’t want her father to worry on her account, she was hardpressed to keep up the pretense that all was well in her new life.
“I don’t plan on going into Nicholthwait.” Lucy strained to keep her tone civil. “I only mean to stroll in the garden and sit under the great elm.”
Phyllipa squinted in the direction of the windows. “The weather does look unusually clement. Perhaps I shall join you in the garden this morning. Get a taste of this fresh air and see if I can fathom why you and Drake are so addicted to it…”
Lucy heard no more, for she was out the door before Lady Phyllipa finished speaking.
Returning to her bedchamber to fetch a shawl, Lucy deliberately took a roundabout route. In the main gallery of the east wing, she paused for a moment beneath a portrait of Jeremy Strickland, aged sixteen. Even then, his features had shown the promise of manly beauty. The artist had managed to capture that engaging light in his eyes. Lucy almost fancied he was looking out at her from the painting, knowing she was carrying his child, understanding how much she still loved him.
How hopeless her love had seemed when he was a poised and handsome young man of sixteen and she, a timid, graceless adolescent adoring him from a worshipful distance. She had lived for his school holidays, gazing raptly at him in church every Sunday morning, prowling the fringes of the estate praying for a glimpse of him. Year after year.
Then one day, long after she had stopped hoping for it, the miracle had happened. She had not even heard he was home. Hurrying back to the vicarage from picking wildflowers, she’d collided with Captain Strickland on a wooded path by the lake. He had called her by name, and for the first time, he had truly looked at her.
“There you are, ma’am.” The housemaid’s voice shattered Lucy’s bittersweet reverie. “Lady Phyllipa’s looking for you.”
Lucy touched a finger to her lips. “You haven’t seen hide nor hair of me, Mary. Is that clear?”
The girl raised her eyebrows knowingly. “Odd. Could’ve sworn I saw her ladyship. Must’ve been a shadow.” She glanced up at the portrait of Jeremy. “What an awful shame about poor Captain Strickland. We so miss his high spirits around here.”
Feeling her eyes begin to sting in an ominous fashion, Lucy turned away without another word. She now understood why Jeremy had chafed under the tyranny of his formidable brother. She must stand up to this unfeeling despot and she must do it now. Otherwise she and her child might never know a moment’s unfettered happiness.
Chapter Five (#ulink_16c8e3c8-3fad-5d33-bbcd-dd5ad9d32e87)
He had not been at High Head colliery for more than half an hour, when Drake scented something foul in the wind. And it was not the miners. Oh, they weren’t a promising lot by any means, shifty and evasive in answering his questions. Irritatingly servile, yet obviously mistrustful of his intentions as the new owner.
Only the mine’s overseer, an affable fellow named Janus Crook, appeared ready to be the least bit forthcoming.
“This here could be a real going concern, your lordship, if you don’t mind my saying so. That’s a good vein we’ve tapped.”
Drake cocked an eyebrow. “The previous owners assured me of that as well, Mr. Crook. However, through my inquiries I’ve discovered High Head has been steadily losing money for some years. How do you account for that?”
The overseer’s rather prominent ears turned scarlet. “Not my place to criticize my betters, your lordship, seeing as the previous owners was gentlemen like yourself.”
“Save your breath, man.” Drake did not try to hide his exasperation. He knew what the fellow was hinting at, for he’d seen it often enough in his other business ventures. Scions of indebted noble houses trying to raise some capital by dabbling in business ventures they knew nothing about. Arrogantly refusing to take the advice of smart young chaps like Janus Crook, whom they considered their social inferiors. Drake didn’t care a tinker’s damn for those pompous fools. What he regretted was the damage done to the local people.
“You’ll soon discover I run a much tighter ship, Mr. Crook. I won’t tolerate waste or corruption. I demand loyalty and an honest day’s work, but I believe in paying for it.”
Grinning with indulgent tolerance at his new employer, the overseer shook his head. “A noble goal, your lordship, but if you don’t mind my saying so, I think you’re wasting your concern on these louts.” He jerked his head toward the office window, and the miners milling about outside. “As shiftless and surly a lot as you’d ever want to meet. They stole the last owners blind. If you ask me, I’d say sack the lot and bring in a new crew.”
Drake could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “Where can these people go if we dismiss them?”
“Not your lookout, is it governor? Leeds. Sheffield. Who cares, eh? Long as they’re not being a drain on your operation.”
Drake drew himself up to his full impressive height. “Much as I appreciate your advice, Mr. Crook, that is not how I do business. My policy is to keep Westmoreland folk at home. Pay a man a fair wage, treat him with respect and he will be your ally in the quest for success. Another point on which I won’t compromise is safety. I’ve heard rumors of dangerous conditions at High Head.”
The overseer looked genuinely shocked. “Can’t think who’d be spreading malicious lies like that, your lordship. High Head colliery is as safe as any in Britain.”
No great boast, Drake mused. He’d heard of atrocities in the Welsh mines that made his hair stand on end. “If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Crook, I’ll judge that for myself.”
“As you wish, your lordship. Always at your service.”
To his surprise, Drake found little fault with the operation. Some of the equipment was not in top repair, but otherwise he was fairly well pleased at the end of his tour. The morose silence of the miners made him uneasy, though. They went about their work listlessly, almost tentatively, as though used to getting away with doing as little as possible. Perhaps Janus Crook was right about the people of High Head after all.
Late in the afternoon, following a brief inspection of the accounts, Drake took his leave, promising to return for a more thorough scrutiny later in the week. He rode back to Nicholthwait, preoccupied with plans for putting High Head on a more profitable footing. Remembering his intention not to return to Silverthorne for dinner, he stopped to eat at a small inn outside Eastmere.
As he ate, Drake contemplated his mistake in marrying Lucy Rushton. Alienating his servants, clinging to the detestable Phyllipa, angling for an excursion to London-she was no longer the sweet, unspoiled creature he’d once thought her. Perhaps she never had been. With a shudder of distaste, Drake ordered another tankard of ale.
What he resented most was the mysterious, potent power she exerted over him. Though he’d tried to shut her out during the past weeks, Lucy drew his eyes at every opportunity, intruded upon his private thoughts, and boldly invaded his dreams. How dare she hold his body and his emotions in such thrall, when she obviously held his most cherished ideals in contempt!
Darkness had fallen by the time Drake reached Nicholthwait. He rode silently through the village, aware of hearth light shining through chinks in the window shutters, hearing snippets of talk and laughter. Thinking of what awaited him back at Silverthorne manor, his hackles raised in a chill of aversion.
Absently drawing the brush through her unbound hair, Lucy sat by her bedroom window watching the well-lit drive for some sign of her husband’s return. After pondering her choices all day, she had finally come to a decision. She would take her trip to London, like a dose of castor oil—unpleasant, but necessary to purge Lady Phyllipa from Silverthorne.
Ever since dinner she had been nerving herself to broach the subject with Drake. The wait for his return from High Head was becoming intolerable. Just as Lucy was beginning to fear the brush had rubbed her scalp raw, she caught a glimpse of a tall erect figure riding up the drive. As Drake passed beneath her window, illuminated by the bright lamps of the main entry, she saw his mouth grimly set Somehow he looked weary, too. And sad. Perhaps a few weeks’ diversion in London would be just the tonic for him. An opportunity to forget about business and indulge in a little enjoyment for a change.
As she waited by her chamber door, held open a crack, listening for the sound of Drake’s brisk step, Lucy rehearsed her speech. Her nerves had worked themselves up to a tense pitch by the time she finally heard him approaching.
“Your lordship…” She swung the door wide to block his path, but affected mild surprise at seeing him. “I am pleased to see you home at last. I was hoping to have a word with you.”
He said nothing, but swept her with a scornful glance. Lucy wondered if she had neglected something in her evening toilette.
“Will you…that is…won’t you come in?”
She stepped back into the room and Drake followed her just past the threshold. He drew the door closed behind him, but not tightly enough to latch.
“Do I take it this is an official invitation into your bedchamber, madam?” he asked coolly. “To what do I owe this unexpected honor?”
His tone stung Lucy like gust of cold wind. Just once she wanted to put him on the defensive. “I thought it wise, your lordship. I fear your servants might grow suspicious of an infant bred from a single act.”
“I have your word that my brother got you with child on his first try.”
Lucy flinched as though he had struck her.
“Was there anything else you required of me, your ladyship?”
She grasped for one of her rehearsed speeches, but her mind was suddenly a blank. “London,” she blurted out. “It would do us both a power of good to make the journey to London.”
A spark of antagonism blazed in the depths of Drake’s dark eyes. “London again?” he growled. “I grow tired of hearing about your longing for London. I have urgent business that keeps me here. Let me hear no more talk of London.”
“So, it is true. You are too ashamed of your wife to introduce her in society.”
Drake’s lip curled in disdain. “You can quit this pity mongering, woman. I assure you my heart is quite impervious.”
His words and his manner fanned a month’s worth of smoldering resentment in Lucy. It flared into a blistering blaze. “If you have a heart, Drake Strickland, I do not doubt it is impervious to any tender emotion.” She trembled in an effort to contain the power of her rage. “I don’t care if you are ashamed of me. I am who I am, and I will not change—least of all for you.”
“When have I ever asked you to change?” In response to the heat of her anger, Drake became colder and more restrained. His voice sounded menacingly quiet, his words clipped and precise.
There he stood, as hard and uncaring as an effigy of cold black marble. It goaded Lucy beyond bearing that he should provoke her to such a pitch of turbulent rage, while remaining so aloof and impregnable himself. She longed to throw herself at him, pounding on his chest, battering him into some answering flicker of feeling.
“You needn’t condescend to ask.” Her voice sounded ragged and breathless. “You have others to issue your edicts. Besides, your lordship underestimates what he can convey with a haughty look. I know just what you would mold me into.”
“If you are so aware of my displeasure, I wonder that you made no effort to win my approval.” All that displeasure and more was etched plainly on his arrogant features.
“No effort!” Lucy fairly shrieked. “You have no idea of the effort I have made, without receiving the least sign of encouragement or appreciation from you.”
Drake’s black brows knit in a frown of cold vexation. He folded his arms across his chest. “If you think I mean to encourage your recent behavior, madam, you are mistaken.”
Years of ingrained propriety fell before Lucy’s consuming anger. “Then to hell with you! I don’t care twopence what you think of me.” She snapped her fingers beneath his nose.
His hand shot up, gripping her wrist in a hold that brought tears of pain and rage to her eyes. “Remember your promise, my dear,” he urged her in a grating whisper. “You vowed to treat me with the respect and honor due a husband.”
A thrill of victory blossomed momentarily in Lucy’s heart. As he crushed her arm in his forceful hold, she could feel the answering waves of wrath pulse through Drake. His nostrils flared as his breath came fast and shallow. He wanted to toss her over his knee and thrash her within an inch of her life, and she had the satisfaction of knowing it. She’d lured him out of the fastness of his granite citadel into open combat.
“For a time, I thought I might have been mistaken about your character, Viscount Silverthorne.” She willed her voice not to break. “Now I see I was right in the first place.”
Abruptly, he loosed her wrist, casting it from him as if it were some loathsome form of reptile life. “I thought I knew your true character, madam,” he replied stonily, retreating once again into his icy fortress. “Now I see I was entirely deceived.”
Beneath his scornful words, Lucy heard a note of genuine disillusionment. Why should she care for the opinion of this insufferable tyrant? Though Lucy insisted to herself that she cared not one whit, she knew in her heart that she did want Drake’s approval. What sort of life stretched before her if she did not have his regard at least? What sort of family life could she hope to make for her child? She turned away, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
