Fortune's Lady (37 page)

When she'd told him once that making love with him would be “wrong,” she hadn't been being coy. It wasn't religion and it wasn't social disapproval and it certainly wasn't parental guidance that had formed the basis of Cass's sexual morality. It was her own hard-fought conviction that people who loved each other had the responsibility to postpone their physical union until they'd made vows of commitment to each other in marriage. That conviction hadn't stopped her from almost giving in to him more than once, before their charade of a marriage, only to have her heart's desire thwarted by some timely, or untimely, interruption. And therein lay the source of her anguish: Despite her best efforts, the strongest utilization of her will, Philip Riordan could make her do anything he wanted. The soul-shriveling part of it was that she would have to take money from him when this was all over—she'd have no choice, she had to live—and then there would only be one word for what she would have become. Whore.

Or so it seemed to Cass's fevered reasoning as she went through the motions of social civility with his friends, some of whom had become hers, dancing and laughing and sparring in conversation, while a shrill whirring in her ears increased and a sense of unreality encroached on her perceptions. Her skin began to seem too sensitive to touch; people and objects began to look backlit, unfamiliar. She saw herself as if from some distance away, swirling among a colorful crowd of dancers, endlessly changing partners. And then slowly, so gradually she wasn't aware of it until it was too late to be frightened, it all began to fade away, until at last there was nothing but a pinprick of light far away and a faint humming sound. And then there was nothing at all.

From across the room Riordan saw his wife falter in the dance, missing an intricate connection with her partner. Frozen motionless, he watched her take a tentative sideways step, one arm outflung, frowning a little, her eyes half-closed. He dropped his punch cup and was halfway to her before he heard it shatter on the floor. He had no sensation of running, only of movement, and no idea he was shouting her name. His only thought was that he must catch her before she fell.

He was too late. Like a heap of bedclothes, she seemed to fold in on herself, her arms and legs boneless. Her head struck the floor last, with a sharp
crack.

Kneeling beside her, hands shaking, he straightened her crooked limbs, unaware of the oaths and startled gasps of the crowd gathering around him. He held her neck and explored the back of her head with feather-light fingertips, not daring to breathe. A swelling behind her right ear, but no blood. Gradually he became aware that people were urging him to lift her, offering to help him. He waved away assistance and lifted her himself, feeling a painful catch in his heart at how light she was. A man was telling him to follow. He did, blindly, down a hallway to an office of sorts, with a desk, chairs, a divan. The man said something about “Mrs. Willis's room” and waved toward the divan. He laid Cass down and croaked out, “Get a doctor!” before crouching beside her.

Her skin was clammy and cold and sheened with perspiration. Her face was absolutely without color. He kept saying her name, holding her hands in a tight clench, trying to warm them. When he realized her breathing was shallow and erratic, he pulled her dress down and lifted her, frantically pulling on the laces of her corset in back. When he laid her back down she took a deep, shuddering breath, her eyelashes fluttering. But she remained unconscious, and after that he could think of nothing to do but hold her.

A doctor came. Helpless, he watched him examine her pupils, her pulse, her heart, the back of her head. Through it all he remained in a cocoon of misery, hearing the reassurances of his friends like the buzzing of insects in another room. He was urged to go into the hall for a few minutes and he went, numbly, half-conscious that the doctor must be examining her in some intimate way he wasn't allowed to see. When the minutes stretched too long, he went to the door and brought his fist back, but at that moment it opened and the doctor told him to come in.

Cass had her eyes closed, but her color was better; she looked asleep, not unconscious. He bent over her and touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers, then straightened. “How is she? Is she going to be all right?” When the doctor nodded, he closed his eyes and privately uttered his first prayer in many, many years.

The doctor, whose name was Mason, spoke softly; he had to go closer to hear him. “Your wife fainted, Mr. Riordan; I imagine she was unconscious before her head hit the floor. In that, she was very lucky—the skull was not broken, though the brain is concussed. She knows her name, however, and where she lives; none of her limbs is paralyzed.”

“Dear God.” He felt relieved, but chilled to the bone.

“Apart from all that, she doesn't seem to be in very good health. Has she been ill recently?”

“No.” He was shaking his head positively, then stopped. He went rigid. “Has she?”

“Well, I couldn't say for sure, but she seems weak, perhaps even undernourished, and definitely below her normal weight. My first thought was that she was pregnant, but I've examined her and she is not.”

Riordan leaned all his weight against the door.

“I say, she's going to be all right, you know,” Dr. Mason assured him, patting his arm in a bracing way. “All she needs is a good rest and plenty of wholesome food. And of course she should be kept quiet for the next several days, no activity or upsets, that sort of thing. I'll look in on her in the morning.”

“Can she be moved? May I take her home?”

The doctor looked thoughtful. “Ye-es, I should think so, if it's not far—”

“It's not.”

“—and proper care is exercised. You want to avoid a lot of jolting, is the thing, which would certainly be painful and perhaps even dangerous. Can you manage that, do you think?”

“Yes, I can manage that.”

A little while later, Riordan carried Cass home in his arms.

She awoke completely towards dawn, though she'd been swimming in and out of a hazy consciousness for hours. In the light of a single candle at the bedside, she made out that she was in Riordan's room, in his bed, and that he was sitting beside her with his back to her, his head in his hands. She thought he might be dozing, he was so still. Events of the evening came back to her in short picture-bursts. She knew she was ill, but she couldn't quite recall the chain of events that had brought her to this moment. Was it the next day? How had she gotten home? She had a memory of being carried…but no, that was preposterous, it must be a hallucination. She raised a tentative hand to her forehead. Her vision wasn't perfect; she was seeing things through a cloud of little black dots. Her head felt like a hollow glass bowl and ached in the oddest way.

She must have made a sound or a movement; Riordan swiveled around to look at her. She thought he looked strange in the candlelight, whiter than usual, and haggard. He whispered her name as a question. She had to run her tongue over her teeth before she could speak, her mouth was so dry. “What happened?” Then he did a curious thing. He took her hands in both of his and pressed her knuckles against his forehead hard, just for a second. When he looked up, his eyes were fierce.

“Most wives just say they have a headache,” he murmured, his tone a failed attempt at lightness. “Must you always go to such extremes?”

She peered at him, uncomprehending.

He cleared his throat and blinked something out of his eyes. “Do you remember fainting?”

She started to shake her head, then reconsidered. “No.”

“You fell and hit your head on the floor. You were unconscious for a while, then you were sleeping.”

“Last night?”

“Yes. At the reception. Do you remember now?”

“Maybe,” she said after a moment's thought, then gave it up. “May I have some water?”

He reached for the glass on the bedside table. With his arm behind her neck, he supported her while she took a few swallows, but he could see the movement pained her. “How do you feel? Head hurt?” She gave a noncommittal hum, and immediately he knew she was one of those sick people who never complain. “The doctor's coming in a few hours. He says you're going to be fine.” Her eyelids were drooping; she was falling asleep again. “Cass?”

“Mmm?”

“You scared the hell out of me.”

Her eyes closed. “Serves you right,” she murmured on a tired sigh, and slept.

When the doctor examined her again, he merely confirmed what he'd said the night before—she'd injured her head, wasn't in any danger, and needed rest and quiet. Nevertheless, Riordan kept up an almost constant vigil for the next few days, leaving her only to sleep for a couple of hours in her old room next door, and always instructing Clara to come and wake him if there was any change at all. After two days, Cass's headache faded away, a little of her appetite returned, and she was afflicted with nothing more serious than a profound fatigue. She slept large chunks of the day away and was, perversely, much more awake at night. Riordan liked to come into the room and find her with her knees drawn up, a book on her lap, reading by candlelight. She'd pull her glasses to the end of her nose and look up at him, and she would look so wifely to him, so beautiful. Sometimes she even wore a nightcap, and he would experience a queer feeling in his chest, at once hungry and protective. As much as he could, he kept his hands off her. But when he adjusted her pillows or straightened the sheet for her, it was almost more than he could stand and sometimes he had to touch her—lightly, fleetingly. After, they would both look way, pretending it had been an accident, never speaking of it.

Their conversation was quiet, calm, designed to keep her tranquil. Yet it wasn't bland; if anything, it recalled the days before Wade, when they'd enjoyed reading and talking, and simply taken pleasure in each other's company. For Cass it was a time to put aside bitter thoughts and allow herself to heal, in body and as much in mind as possible. Nothing had been solved, everything was waiting down the hall or around the corner, a little out of sight. But it was peaceful here in the eye of the storm, and she was permitting herself to enjoy it a little longer.

One evening about a week after the accident, following a solitary meal in the dining room, Riordan climbed the stairs to her room with a slow, measured tread. His tap at the door brought Clara into the hall. “She's awake, all right. Talkin' about gettin' up tomorrow, too. Appears like she's gettin' restless. That's a good sign, ain't it?”

He didn't know. He sent Clara away and went in.

She was reading the
Gentleman's Quarterly
, and she sent him her usual reserved smile in greeting. He startled her by sitting beside her on the bed instead of taking his customary chair. She shifted to give him more room and put her paper down.

“How are you feeling tonight?”

“Much better, thank you.”

It was her standard answer; he no longer set any store by it. He was quiet for a while, fiddling with the coverlet between them. “Cass,” he said presently, then paused again.

His tentativeness was unusual; she looked at him curiously. All at Once she knew what he wanted to say. A mistress was one thing, but a pathetic invalid was another. He was tired of coddling her and he was going to send her away. An arctic coldness crept through her, along with the stunning realization that she didn't want to go. As bad as things were between them, not seeing him at all would be a thousand times worse. She turned her face away and focused her body and mind on one thing: not crying.

“I know our marriage was a bit unconventional,” he was saying, still hesitant, “and we didn't start out with some of the advantages other couples begin their lives together with.” He forced a little laugh. “Like a few minutes to think it over beforehand.”

Her head came around and she looked at him in amazement. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm trying to say I want us to make it work, Cass. It was good before, you can't deny that.” An instinct for self-preservation kept him from saying exactly how good he thought it had been. “But something's gone wrong, and for the life of me I can't figure out what it is.”

She couldn't believe her ears; she'd thought they were long past this. “You must be mad,” she breathed. “Or you must think I am.”

His lips tightened, but he kept his tone calm and conciliatory. “Perhaps so, but I still want us to try to start over.” He brought something out of his pocket and reached for her hand, holding it firmly when she tried to pull away. It was a ring. He didn't put it on her finger, but opened her hand and pressed it into her palm. “I was buying this for you that day you saw me with Claudia in the shop. Our kiss was innocent, Cass, I swear it. Take this for your wedding ring and let's begin again.”

The heavy gold seemed to burn in her hand.
Tu et nul autre,
she read.
You and no other.
She put the ring down between them carefully. “Philip, is this a joke? Take it back, please, I don't want it. Your hypocrisy takes my breath away.”

There was nothing but stunned silence while she kept her eyes on the ring, not able to look at him. It goaded her into saying more. “I told you once I wouldn't be your mistress. Now I find I have no choice. I suppose I should kill myself, to avoid what a better woman would call a fate worse than death, but I haven't the courage. I only ask one favor, that you stop calling this squalid thing between us a marriage. For God's sake, lie to your family and friends, but at least be honest with me!”

His shock and anger were warring with bewilderment. He took her shoulders, bore her down to the pillow, and brought his face close to hers. “We
are
married! I'm your husband! Are you saying you don't think we're married?”

“I know we're not!”