“Beautiful Harmony,” he said against her cheek. “How you please me.”
She ducked her head into the shelter of his neck. “Court…” She paused, gathering her courage.
Please accept me. Please love me as much as I love you.
She believed she loved him. At the very least, she needed him, even if everything seemed confused in the light of day.
“What is it you wished to say, my dear?”
“Do you love me?” she blurted out in anxious misery.
He stroked her cheek, once, twice, a fleeting touch that made her lift her head and meet his gaze. “God help me, Harmony. There are times I love you more than I can bear.”
Just like that, he didn’t seem a stranger anymore.
*** *** ***
Court lingered, reluctant to leave her. He held her close until her chest rose and fell in deep sleep, until the storm outside blew over and silence reigned, and still he stayed and watched her. Wretched puzzle, this marriage. How could they be so connected in this way, and so frightfully disconnected in every way else?
He looked around her room in the candlelight. Everything appeared in order as it had always been. There were no clues, no easy answers to the problems between them. He eased from the bed, drew on his dressing gown and went to stand at the window, staring out at the wet grounds of the garden. Spring in England. It would come no matter what, bringing the cursed Courtland ball and the social season. If he couldn’t fix their marriage, he wasn’t sure they’d survive.
He crossed from the bedroom into his wife’s adjoining sitting room, and prowled around and touched her things as if they might give him some idea how to mend their rift. He looked over her book collection, which was growing at an alarming rate. She needed more shelves to hold them all. Very well. He would have more added.
At the very least he could do that. Give her things. Dresses, jewels, bookshelves and books, horses and fancy bonnets and a grand old house around her. Material things. Despite his intentions to the contrary, he could envision his marriage becoming like so many of his friends’. An economic transaction, a lifeless and loveless arrangement only serving to secure the all-important family line. Harmony had not conceived yet, though. Why?
He paused at her desk, seeing a shuffle of papers in a pile. Notes, perhaps, on her most recent historical interests? He sat down to see what she was studying, what had captured her attention after her flurry of interest in Mongol civilizations. He did not find notes in her scrawled hand, however, but a letter.
Dear Michael,
What a pleasure to receive your most recent note. I look forward to them with a fervor you cannot believe. I am glad to hear you are safely returned and with so much of interest to share.
I have given thought to your request for a meeting but I’m not sure it is possible.
The letter ended there, still in progress, a note she had written to another man perhaps moments before he arrived at her bedroom to lie with her. He remembered her pensive, faraway look as she stood at the window. “Not sure it is possible” indeed. With shaking fingers he opened her desk drawers, finding other letters in the top left one. Stacks of letters, all from him, this “Michael.” Mr. Michael Thomas Burgermeister. Why did that name sound familiar?
How busy she had been, to have such packets of letters.
I look forward to them with a fervor you cannot believe.
When had she begun this acquaintance with her prolific Mr. Burgermeister? Perhaps before she and Court had even wed. He took the entire stack of letters and crossed back into his wife’s bedroom.
“Wake up, Harmony,” he said, nudging her shoulder. How innocent and sweet she could look in sleep, the little deceiver. All this time she’d been withdrawing from him, he’d blamed himself for being an inadequate husband, for being too strict and unbending to suit her, while she’d been writing letters to some mister who lived in Brook Street—the street where she used to live. “Harmony, awaken at once,” he said as she stretched beneath the sheets. In
his
bed, beneath
his
sheets.
She blinked and raised her head. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
He threw the pile of letters on the bed before her. She sat up, gathering them before they could slide to the floor. “What on earth?”
Court made a sound that betrayed far too much of his pain. “You won’t pretend you don’t know what these are.”
She looked up at him, her brows gathered in those little thinking lines he used to find so sweet. “I know what they are. I don’t know why you have dumped them on me at this hour of the night.”
“Pardon me for not waiting until morning to confront you about your paramour.”
She burst into laughter. “Mr. Burgermeister? My paramour?”
By God, he did not enjoy being laughed at. “You called him Michael in your letters,” he said, pointing at the messy stack. “The one you were writing mentioned a meeting.”
“You read my letters? What were you doing? Snooping about my desk?”
“Yes,” he snapped, annoyed that she would attack him when she was the one who had behaved—yet again—so poorly. “Yes, I was trying to discover what it is that has so set you against me. Now I understand that another man has secured a place in your affections.”
“My affections? Mr. Burgermeister is a scholar, a historian, not some paramour of mine! And if you wish to know what has set me against you, you are exhibiting a prime example of it right now. Will you always expect the worst of me?”
“A scholar?” Court scowled down at the pile of letters. “He has an exorbitant amount of time to write, for one engrossed in studies.” A confusion of facts in his mind snapped together. “Michael Thomas Burgermeister. That damn book Lightmore brought you.”
“I’d been meaning to explain—”
“Has he been ferrying notes for you two? Is Lightmore involved in this?”
“Involved in what?” Harmony sat up straighter, grasping the sheets to her chest. “We’ve been corresponding by post, and that is the extent of it. I’ve hidden nothing. Well, not intentionally.” Her lips pressed into a sullen line. “I didn’t realize I was supposed to apply to you for permission to write to those of my acquaintance.”
“A
man
of your acquaintance,” he pointed out. “You cannot imagine it was appropriate to carry on this sort of relationship without my approval.” He gestured to the packets on the bed. “There are fifty or more letters here.”
“Surely, not so many,” she said, looking down at the pile.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever written fifty letters to anybody.”
“Well, you haven’t many friends, so why would you?”
He made a warning sound. “Do not test my patience, Harmony. You should be begging my forgiveness.”
“For writing to a friend? Did you read them? We only spoke of Greece, of ancient history. Mr. Burgermeister is planning an expedition and he hoped I might become a patron of his. You’ve plenty of money. I was going to ask you about it.”
“Ask me to finance this man’s travels?”
“His historical expedition. It’s a worthy endeavor. He is planning to go to Athens and Delphi, and Peloponnesia to study ancient villages and ruins. It is too costly without the aid of charitable patrons. We spoke of nothing inappropriate.”
“If that’s so, why the secrecy? You hid these letters from me.”
“They were not hidden,” she said. “The latest note was on my desk. Before you accuse and shame me, why don’t you read them?” She picked up a handful and flung them at him. “Read them all if you wish, if I’m not to have any privacy or trust.”
“Trust?” He waved a hand at the mess on the floor. “So many letters to a gentleman not even of my acquaintance. Don’t you understand why this discomposes me? Who knows of these letters, of this correspondence between you? Lightmore? He will tell everybody—”
“Is that all you ever care about? What everyone will think? Meanwhile I cannot converse with another person on a topic I’m interested in?”
“This isn’t conversing on a topic. This is a prodigious collection of letters, in which you address him familiarly as Michael!”
“In later notes I did, because we became so…familiar.” She seemed to realize, at last, the impropriety that upset him. The blush deepened across her cheeks. “But we spoke of nothing but history. Niceties and news now and again, perhaps, as friends will do. But nothing torrid or in poor taste. We’ve done nothing to be ashamed of!”
“Haven’t you? How different our morals are. And I daresay you will feel ashamed indeed when Mr. Lightmore and his foppish group spread rumors of your
affaire de lettres
with this thrice damned ‘historical scholar.’ The truth doesn’t matter, only the gossip. You of all people should realize that.”
“Oh, I realize about gossip, and I don’t care. I am sick of it!” She threw another handful of letters at him. “Burn them, then. Do what you will. I will never speak to him again if it pleases Your Grace, and he shall never go to Greece or anywhere. I hate this. I hate these letters. I hate society and gossips, and your accusations. I hate this horrible house and I hate that I ever met you. I hate being your wife. I hate you! Now get out and let me sleep if you will not let me be happy. At least give me peace.”
He could not say precisely what made him snap. Hurt feelings? Jealousy? How small of him. Perhaps he was only incensed by the boldness of her tirade. “I don’t think I’ll give you peace, Harmony. Not if you will persist in behaving like a disordered child.” He crossed to her and pulled her from the bed, grabbing her nightgown from the nearby chair. “If you cannot be reasoned with, if you cannot behave as a thoughtful and respectable wife, I will not treat you as one.”
She fought him as he worked to pull her garment into place. He felt ridiculous grappling with his wife but if he released her now, she would not respect his authority. He tightened his hand on her arm and gave her a sharp shake.
“Enough. Your behavior alarms me.”
“Then don’t pull at me.” She gazed up at him with tears in her eyes. “Why are you always so angry with me?”
“I’m not angry,” he lied. “Just resigned. Come.”
She clung to the bedpost. “Where are we going?”
“To the place where misbehaving wives learn lessons. Your screaming and tantruming has pushed me beyond my limit.” He kicked at the letters covering the floor. “Beyond my limit of patience and far beyond my limit of understanding.”
“No,” she wailed. “Please, no.”
“Yes,” he said, peeling her fingers from the bedpost. “And this time, hopefully, I will teach you a lesson you won’t forget.”
*** *** ***
Harmony thought if she fought him hard enough, someone would intervene on her behalf. She cried out for the dowager when he dragged her past her rooms. She cried out to the footmen and servants they passed, but each and every one of them pretended not to hear her. At last, tired of her struggles, he lifted her and carried her in the bands of his arms. “The more you fight me,” he said through gritted teeth, “the greater your penalty.”
By the time he crashed through the study doors and released her, he seemed in a fury indeed. If she could have gone back then and done things differently, she would have. He was going to punish her, probably more harshly than he would have, because she’d so infuriated him. Now she’d also embarrassed him in front of the dowager and his servants. She’d behaved horribly.
As usual.
She couldn’t help it. That must be clear to him now. Nothing he could do to her here would change the fact that she was impossible. “Just leave me alone,” she said, turning on him and backing away. “You can’t fix me. I don’t want you to
fix me
.” Her voice rose to a scream.
“I
can
fix you, and I am going to fix you,” he returned in a stern and cool voice. “By whatever method it takes. Come with me.”
He took her by the arm and dragged her over to the rack of rattan canes. “If you are so fond of being punished, choose one.”
“I am not fond of being punished, and I will not choose one,” she cried.
“Very well.”
He promptly chose the stoutest one when she might have chosen a less threatening option.
Stupid, stupid girl.
As he walked her back over toward the desk, she broke away from him and ran. The cane clattered to the floor behind her as she bolted for the door, but he caught her long before she reached it, hauling her back against his front. He put a hand at her neck, not to choke her but to immobilize her. His voice was low and intent at her ear.
“Listen to me, dearest. You will submit to this punishment, willing or not. If you will not submit under your own power, I shall enlist the help of two strong footmen to hold you until I’m done. Which would you prefer?”
She shook her head against his palm. “You wouldn’t.”
With a violent sound of anger, he dragged her toward the door. “Once I call them,” he warned, “I will not give you the chance to reconsider.”
Harmony could not bear the ignominy of witnesses. It was bad enough to be punished again like this, but to be held down by servants? She dragged her heels, shaking her head. “No, please. I will… I will submit. Please don’t call for anyone.”
He hauled her back toward the desk. Harmony fought him, only because she was tired of being dragged around. “Release me, then. Stop it! I will walk.”
“You had your chance to obey me with dignity earlier. Now you’ll be treated like the headstrong termagant you are.”
Moments later, she found herself bent over the horrible desk, gripping the hard edge of it. Her skirts were swept up, Court’s hand braced at her back.
“I hate you,” she screamed.
“I’m sure you do.”
Whack!
The pain was so much worse than she’d remembered, so hot and cruel.
“No,” she wailed, arching off the desk. She must escape this. She must...
“Shall I fetch the footmen?” he asked.
He would. His voice communicated complete and utter inflexibility. He was angry and cold. “No, but...please...” she whimpered. “Please, I can’t bear this.”
“You will hold the edge of the desk. Each time you let go I will add five additional strokes to your punishment.”