Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Lord Havelock's List\Saved by the Viking Warrior\The Pirate Hunter (19 page)

‘Where has everyone gone?' Mrs Brownlow looked most put out to find that her efforts to whip up a tray of refreshments for their unexpected visitors had all been for nought.

‘Lady Peverell has gone home. And Miss Durant and his lordship have gone to the stables.'

‘And what are we to do with miss's luggage?' said Mrs Brownlow, plonking her tray down on the nearest table with a clatter. ‘There's boxes and trunks all over the hall. I can't just leave them there. One of my girls will be tripping over them and breaking her leg, I shouldn't wonder. What room shall I have them taken to?'

‘You could have them taken up to the guest wing and placed in...oh, I don't know. How about the room that has all that crimson brocaded wallpaper?'

‘It's not really suitable for a young girl, my lady. Far better to put her—'

‘Well, one of the rooms that overlook the stables, if you please,' she said more firmly. ‘And if she doesn't like it, she can pick another one. You needn't unpack anything. Just move her luggage up there, so it is out of your way.'

‘Hmmph,' said Mrs Brownlow, before bustling out with Susan in tow.

Leaving Mary in sole charge of an enormous pot of tea, half a dozen cups and more cakes than she could eat in a fortnight.

Chapter Twelve

‘J
ulia, I think you have something to say to Lady Havelock, do you not?'

Julia hunched her shoulders and lowered her head. ‘I'm sorry I was rude to you when I got here,' she muttered.

Good grief. Lady Peverell had said Julia was completely unmanageable, but at only a hint from her brother, she'd apologised for her behaviour. Grudgingly, it was true, but it was far more than she'd expected.

And she was very grateful. She hadn't been looking forward to enduring many more dinners like the one they'd just sat through. It had been bad enough getting used to the formality of the immense dining room anyway, and letting footmen wait on her, but having to try to make conversation with a girl who clearly wanted nothing to do with her, whilst grappling with the reminder of her unimportance to her own husband, had been downright demoralising.

‘Think no more of it,' she said. ‘It sounds as though you've had a perfectly horrid time with Lady Peverell. Frankly, I was appalled at the way she spoke about you as though you weren't even in the room. If it had been me in your shoes...'

She frowned at the recollection that it had been all too easy to picture herself in Julia's place. Though she'd never had the courage to make a fuss, the way Julia had done, or demand her own way. She'd just meekly allowed people to dispose of her as they liked. She'd let them parcel her off like...like a bundle of dirty washing for someone else to launder.

How she wished she had a tithe of Julia's spirit.

‘Well, anyway, I just want you to be happy here. It is your home, after all.'

‘I don't remember much about when I lived here before,' Julia retorted. ‘I was still quite young when Mama married again and we had to move away.'

And yet she'd requested her old room back, reflected Mary.

‘We can soon rectify that,' put in Lord Havelock. ‘There are some splendid rides to be had in the area. And now you've made the acquaintance of Panther I'm sure you'd like to put him through his paces. Tomorrow I'll start taking you about and introducing you to people.'

Julia's face lit up.

Mary's hackles rose. He'd never offered to take
her
about and introduce her to anyone. He'd never bought her a horse, either. Not that she had any use for one. But that was beside the point. He simply hadn't bothered.

* * *

Lord Havelock smiled back at his sister, then turned to Mary with a troubled frown. It was just as well he'd already reined himself in, in an attempt to spare Mary's blushes after that time Brownlow had nearly caught them out. He certainly wouldn't want Julia catching him chasing his wife through the house and tumbling her on sofas. It wasn't the kind of behaviour he wanted his sister to think was acceptable. And, dammit, it wasn't.

He rubbed his hand round the back of his neck, wondering just what had got into him lately. He'd never been one of those fellows who was led by the urgings of his cock. But ever since marrying Mary, he couldn't stop wanting her. Couldn't keep his hands off her.

True, she'd submitted to every demand he made on her and derived pleasure from every encounter, but didn't he owe her more respect?

He'd been a thoroughly selfish sort of husband, so far. He'd promised her she would always have a room of her own, wherever they lived, that nobody else could enter except with her permission. It was pretty much all she'd asked of him. But had he ever honoured that promise? Had he ever knocked on her bedroom door and asked if he could join her? No.

Well, he could rectify that situation tonight. From now on, he'd be the model of decorum.

He still hadn't provided her with the means to purchase her trousseau, either. Nor had she had the time, she'd been so busy putting Mayfield to rights.

Not that she'd complained. Not once. Not about anything. Most women would have nagged him half to death by now, but she just smiled sweetly and made the most of what little she did have.

‘You know, it's past time you saw a dressmaker about getting some new clothes,' he said, guilt making his voice a little gruff. ‘I know you've been busy, getting the place ready for Julia's arrival, but surely now you can spare the time to spruce yourself up?'

* * *

Spruce herself up? Spruce herself up! Mary took a deep breath and bit back the indignant response she would have given had Julia not been there.

But then that was just it, wasn't it? This was the second time he'd humiliated her by rebuking her in front of someone else. If he had complaints, couldn't he at least show her the courtesy of waiting to make them until they were alone?

It was bad enough feeling that she half deserved it. She'd known from the look on Lady Peverell's face that the way she dressed was letting him down. But did he really have to chide her like this, as though she was a...a...well, someone who wasn't his equal? When she hadn't complained about any of the things he'd done wrong. Not once.

To add insult to injury, neither he, nor his sister, noticed that she was sitting there, quietly simmering with resentment. They were chattering away happily about people she didn't know and places she'd never been.

* * *

After what felt like an hour of being comprehensively ignored, Mary'd had enough.

‘I am going to bed,' she said, getting to her feet. And then, because she didn't want to be rude, added, ‘Goodnight, Julia,' with a forced smile.

‘
I'm
not tired,' Julia declared with a toss of her head.

‘It has been a long day,' said Lord Havelock, getting to his feet, as well. ‘We'll all go up.'

The three of them mounted the stairs in various states of dudgeon. Julia was pouting at being sent to bed before she was ready to go. Mary was still smarting from her husband's cavalier attitude towards her tonight and tallying up all the other things he'd done to annoy her.

And Lord Havelock looked distinctly uncomfortable at being flanked by two women who were in the sulks.

‘What do you think of the room Mary chose for you?' he asked with determined cheerfulness as they mounted the stairs.

Julia shrugged.

‘You can always move to another if it's not to your liking. What about this one?' He flung open the door to a room they'd slept in only once. Mary hadn't liked it much. The wall hangings were of a cold greyish-blue, liberally spattered with muddy-hued hunting prints.

‘I'm in here, for the moment,' said Lord Havelock, to Mary's surprise, ‘but I can soon shift if you prefer it.'

Julia peeped inside, wrinkled her nose and shook her head. ‘I like the red room better,' she said.

Heavens, Mary reflected sourly. She'd actually got something right today.

‘Good. Mary is in here,' he said, striding to the door of the bedroom she had assumed they would be sharing.

‘It's rather poky,' said Julia, taking a quick glance round the room that Mary found so cosy that it had become her favourite. It was easy to keep warm, the chimney didn't smoke and the walls were decorated in a very restful shade of green, with sunny little details in gold here and there.

And then, as one, the siblings bid her goodnight and turned away, arm in arm.

She stared at the door they'd shut behind them on their way out.

What was going on?

And then various snippets of conversations she'd had began to trickle into her mind. The one she'd had with Mrs Brownlow, only the day before, about how lords and ladies always had their own bedrooms, dressing rooms and sitting rooms. About how her husband would have the ones that had been his father's, while she would have the other, prettier set. How she'd sadly accepted that one day, when the rooms were ready, he would move into his and she into hers.

She'd assumed, until that day, things would carry on as they were. But no. He'd stated, quite firmly, that he would be sleeping in that horrid blue room, while she was to sleep alone in here.

The worst of it was she'd look a complete idiot if she voiced a protest. Because she'd said, before they got married, that she
wanted
her own room. That she valued her privacy.

But privacy, she now realised, was the last thing she wanted. She'd got used to sharing her room with her husband. To sharing her life with him.

No—it was more than that.

Why hadn't she seen it sooner?

She uttered a strained little laugh. Over the years, watching her father's brutality towards her mother, she'd feared the power a husband had over his wife. She'd feared the deliberate oppression of a man bent on ruling his household with a rod of iron. And when she'd discovered her own husband wasn't the kind of man to treat anyone with cruelty, she'd let down her guard completely.

And fallen headlong in love with him.

Which meant he now had the power to hurt her without even noticing. The way he'd done today. Showering his sister with all the affection and attention he would never, ever, give her.

‘Stupid, stupid,' she muttered to herself as tears welled and seeped down her cheeks.

Why hadn't she guarded herself against falling in love?

Because she hadn't expected to do anything so stupid, that's why. She didn't even
like
men, as a rule. But Lord Havelock had entered her life like a whirlwind, sweeping her off her feet and into his arms. Totally overwhelming her with his generous, open nature. His spontaneity. His beautiful face and muscular body. His incredible lovemaking.

But now, like the whirlwind of a man he was, he was sweeping right on past her. His focus was all on his sister now. And she was left standing here alone, pining for a man who'd been completely honest about what he wanted from her from the start. And that didn't include
affection
, let alone love.

She'd excused him for not chasing her all over the house now that it was teeming with servants. Had told herself she was imagining he was being a bit more restrained when he came to bed.

But he wasn't the type of man to exercise restraint. He did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

He was bored with her, that's what it was. Why else would he have moved into a room of his own?

Unless it was because, from his point of view, the honeymoon was over.

Hadn't he warned her that his ardour wouldn't last very long? Oh, he'd couched it in terms of them going off each other, but that was what it boiled down to.

She was, after all, only a mouse.

She sucked in a great, shuddering sigh, swiping angrily at the tears she'd been weak enough to shed.

She'd never realised how boring he must have found it, spending the evenings alone with her, until she'd watched his face transformed by the amusing little anecdotes Julia could supply.

He chose that very moment to knock on the door. She only just had time to dash the back of her hand across her face, to swipe away the few tears she hadn't been able to prevent from leaking out, before he came in.

The fact that he was grinning, as though he hadn't a care in the world, felt like a slap to her face. He had no idea how badly he'd hurt her.

Well, of course he hadn't. She wouldn't
be
hurt if she'd managed to stick to the agreement to keep their marriage free from emotion. And she wasn't going to admit she was hurt either, by things he'd consider stupidly trivial.

She drew herself up to her full height and dammed up the flood of tears she wanted to shed behind a façade of pride.

‘What,' she said coldly, ‘do you want?'

His smile turned downright wicked. ‘You know perfectly well what I want,' he said, moving towards her.

But he couldn't want it all that much any more, or he wouldn't have decided it was time to have separate rooms.

She held up her hand, stopping him from coming any closer. How long would it be before separate rooms became separate lives altogether? Before they embarked on the second stage of their marriage? The one where they scarcely saw each other any more?

‘It's not what I want!'

Her outburst wiped the smile from his face. ‘Is something wrong?'

Wrong? Only the fact that she'd just discovered she no longer wanted a room of her own. That she'd be content to live entirely in
one
room, and cook for him, and do his laundry, and, yes, even wash his dishes without a word of complaint, if only she could be sure she mattered to him. Even half as much as his sister did.

In spite of her determination to avoid the humiliation of bursting into tears, she felt her lower lip start to tremble.

‘Wrong?' She managed to produce a laugh and a toss of her head. ‘What could possibly be wrong?'

He eyed her up and down dubiously.

‘I don't know. But I'd have to be blind not to see that something is wrong. You look, ah...'

Suddenly, she became conscious of the frayed hem of her gown and the patches on her petticoat.

‘In need of sprucing up?'

Suddenly, it seemed much easier to let him think he'd offended her with the criticism of her clothing, than to admit she'd breached the terms of their agreement. Temper he would understand. But love? No—to speak of love, when he'd warned her it was the last thing he wanted, would only serve to make her seem utterly ridiculous in his eyes.

‘Yes,' she therefore said as waspishly as she could manage. ‘You've made your point. Don't worry. I will find a dressmaker locally and smarten myself up so that I don't offend your neighbours with my shabby clothing.'

‘Look here—I didn't mean to offend you—'

‘You didn't!' And wasn't that the truth? But by flinging her head high, and letting some of her hurt flash from her eyes, she could give him the impression that he had.

‘Mary...' He came towards her, hands outstretched, an apologetic expression on his face.

She backed away hastily. For once she let him take her in his arms, she wouldn't be able to hold herself together any longer. She'd break down and sob into his chest. Like the idiot she was. And, being the man he was, he wouldn't rest until he'd winkled the truth from her.