Marry Christmas (Zebra Historical Romance) (22 page)

Rand stood outside her door and stared for several long minutes at the small slice of light showing through the bottom, willing his body to relax. He should get drunk, as he’d done on the other nights when his desire nearly made him mad. He would have, too, if she hadn’t strolled into the stable and looked at him as if she wanted to eat him alive.

Rand took a deep breath.
I just need a good fuck. That is all and I’ll be fine.

He wiped his forehead where a fine sheen of sweat had formed, and then knocked on his wife’s bedroom door.

“Yes?” came the muffled response.

He opened the door to find her sitting on her bed in her nightgown, her bare feet not quite touching the floor, looking quite shocked to find her husband standing there. She was not looking at him with desire at the moment, but with a certain amount of wariness, which only increased the farther he walked into her room.

“I need to discuss something with you.” When she nodded, he continued. “Do you remember when we first met we discussed how our marriage would be?” he asked, keeping his voice even.

Elizabeth nodded again, her blue eyes suddenly holding a spark of something he couldn’t identify.

“I think it best that we proceed based on that conception of marriage. It will be best for all, I think, that we don’t get all muddled up in emotions. Then you will have a child, something to keep you occupied. And I will have done my duty. My mother will be quite happy,” he added as an afterthought.

“And then?”

“And then we shall go about our lives. I have been giving a great deal of thought to this marriage of ours over the past few days and I realize that I have been unfair to you. I changed the rules, so to speak, without even letting you know. You, on the other hand, have never swayed from that original conversation. Your expectations remained the same.”

“You need an heir,” she said.

Ah, she understood. Good. “Precisely. We don’t have to make each other miserable, do we? We can go about our business, live our lives. Many couples do.
Most
couples, in fact. It’s what we planned.”

“Yes. That sounds…”

Horrid.

“Fair.” She even smiled a bit, a smile that tore into his heart, for she looked so damned relieved. Ah, hell. He realized at that moment he’d secretly been hoping she’d argue with him, get affronted. Anything but sit there calmly and accept what seemed now to be a completely dismal proposition.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” he said. He forced a smile, just to show her he was in agreement, as if glad to have finally gotten this tedious conversation over with. “I shall visit you in your room perhaps two or three times a week, if that is fine for you. Until you conceive.”

Elizabeth stared blankly at him, her stomach knotting uncomfortably. She simply could not believe what he was saying to her.

“We could start this evening, if that is convenient with you.”

“I have no other plans,” she said, feeling much like she was making an appointment with her seamstress.

“Well, then.” He shut her door and walked toward her bed, unbuttoning his trousers as he did so, and Elizabeth cringed involuntarily. This is not what she wanted. She wanted what they’d had before the discovery of that wretched note. She wanted him to love her again, to make love with her. Seeing her cringe, he hesitated for a moment, before shucking off his shoes and taking off his pants completely, a look of determination on his face.

Dismayed, she lay down on the bed, uncertain what she should do. Instinctively, she knew not to embrace him or kiss him or say even a single word. It was dreadful, and much like she’d imagined the marriage bed would be, with her lying stiffly, uncertain and nervous. He climbed onto the bed and she looked at him, afraid what she would see in his eyes—or not see, perhaps. But at that moment, he looked at her, his eyes tender, his touch when he brushed the hair from her face almost loving.

Then, he moved between her legs, spreading them with his body as he lifted the hem of her nightgown up. And without touching her but with his large body, he entered her, finding her humiliatingly ready for him. Silently he plunged in and out, the only sound his harsh breath, the movement of the bed. Just as she was beginning to feel the slightest bit of a pleasant tingle between her thighs, he groaned and stiffened, his face pushed against the pillow next to her head.

Almost immediately he withdrew and pulled up his drawers, which he hadn’t even bothered to remove completely.

“Good night, then,” he said, tumbling off the bed and grabbing up his pants. As almost an afterthought, he looked back at her, then leaned in and kissed her forehead. “This is better, Elizabeth. You’ll see.”

She stared at him, her nightgown still shucked up about her waist, feeling his seed seep from her body.

“Better than what?” she asked, feeling angry and hurt.

“You misunderstood,” he said, his voice unusually clipped. “This is better for me. I really don’t give a damn about you.”

With that, he left.

Elizabeth sat there stunned for perhaps three seconds before she rose and picked up the first thing her hands found—one of her slippers—and flung it at the door. “You son of a bitch,” she screamed. She could almost swear she heard him chuckle on the other side of the door. “You’ll not have me again. Do you hear? Do you?” She glared at the door hoping he’d come crashing in so she could truly yell at him the way she wanted to. “You son of a bitch,” she said more softly, but with just as much venom. “Treat me like a broodmare, will you? I hate you Rand Blackmore.” And then, feeling as if she might explode, she screamed, “I hate you.” Then, just like that, the anger was gone, replaced by a terrible despair and she found herself sobbing into her pillow and praying he wouldn’t hear just how much he’d hurt her.

“Your Grace, if you’ve a minute.”

The housekeeper, Mrs. Stevens, hovered at the parlor door as if she were interrupting some great and important meeting. Elizabeth sat alone, as always, staring out a window. As always. “Yes, Mrs. Stevens. Come in.”

“Now that you’re all settled in, I thought it was time for you to take over the rounds,” she said, her cheeks flushing a bit, as if she were stepping out of bounds for saying such a thing to a duchess.

“Rounds?”

“Yes, Your Grace. You see, it’s a Bellingham tradition that the duchess takes food and the like to the poorest of the villagers. I’ve been doing it these past years with the old duchess in London. But for years and years before that when she was in residence, the Duchess would bring a basket ’round to the poor, as her mother did before her. There’s many more now that need the food, and since it truly is something Your Grace should be doing…” Her voice trailed off and she seemed to tense for some wild reaction.

“All that food,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully. “I wondered what became of it. I’m so glad it went to help someone. Of course I’ll take over the rounds if you just tell me where to go. Perhaps the first time you could accompany me.” Elizabeth couldn’t have been more excited than if she were a child on Christmas morning. Finally, something to do except sit around this house moping and feeling sorry for herself.

“The baskets are all prepared. I’ve put the names of the tenants on each one. The old Duchess used to just scrape all the leavings, desserts and all, into one large pile, but since she’s been gone we started arranging it a bit more nicely.”

“How wonderful,” Elizabeth said, meaning it. Something to do. Some meaningful thing to do to keep her mind off her hateful husband and his awful visits. She’d bar the door if she thought it would keep him out. He continued coming to her even though he knew she hated him, hated the way he released himself with a grunt and then left her lying on her bed wishing for her own release. She lay there like a statue, refusing to look at him, refusing to touch him, refusing to let him do anything but empty his seed into her. She prayed to become pregnant, but just that morning her monthlies had begun again and she was beginning to despair that she’d ever become pregnant. She’d been married for two months already. Surely that was enough time to have become pregnant.

“Let me get my wrap and muff,” Elizabeth gushed, rushing off to her room to fetch a suitable hat. Tisbury apparently had been alerted to Mrs. Stevens’s mission, for he stood at the door holding her coat and muff.

“Thank you, Tisbury,” Elizabeth said happily. Oh, she was so glad to be out of this mausoleum even if it was only for a few hours.

As they headed out of the long drive, Mrs. Stevens filled Elizabeth in on who they would be visiting. Most were widows, with or without children, who were left to fend for themselves with little income coming in. But more than a few were families who could hardly afford the little food they needed, never mind the rents they owed the duke.

“The new duke has been a savior, as I’m sure you know. I think they’re planning to write to the Pope to nominate him for sainthood and they’re not even Catholic,” Mrs. Stevens said, giving off a hearty laugh.

Elizabeth didn’t know what she was talking about, but sat back enjoying the sound of a voice that wasn’t her own. She didn’t even care that a fine drizzle fell from the gray, heavy sky. To her it was the most glorious day.

“We’ll stop at the Gibbons’ house first. It was a sight before His Grace came back, but now it’s the coziest little cottage in all of Bellingham.”

Elizabeth smiled at the small cottage, thinking it looked like the perfect little English cottage. In the spring it would be covered with roses, no doubt, if the multitude of dormant rosebushes were any indication. The roof looked new, the outside walls freshly whitewashed, and the multipaned windows sparkled as if they’d just been polished.

“It’s lovely,” Elizabeth said, smiling as Mrs. Stevens handed her down a basket heavy with food.

“There’s Mrs. Gibbons now,” the housekeeper said with a nod toward a woman who was hurriedly smoothing down her skirts and patting her hair to make certain it was neat.

“Mrs. Gibbons,” Elizabeth said. “You are the first of my husband’s tenants that I’ve met. It’s such a pleasure to meet you. Your home is lovely.” Elizabeth didn’t care if she wasn’t acting like a duchess might, and from the shocked face Mrs. Gibbons was giving her, she probably wasn’t. Or perhaps it was simply her American accent that was so enthralling the woman.

Mrs. Gibbons gave a quick curtsy. She was wearing a stained apron over her blue flower-print dress, which she hastily removed, throwing it somewhere behind her. “So glad to meet you, Yer Grace,” she said, smiling widely. “Please come in.”

Elizabeth followed the older woman into the house, expecting it to be as cold as her own house when she noted the empty fireplace, but was pleasantly surprised when she was greeted by warmth.

“Don’t need a fire ’cepting on the coldest nights now,” she said, seeing where Elizabeth looked. “His Grace put in heating. And indoor plumbing.”

“You have a toilet?” Elizabeth asked, purely surprised given that she had been using a chamber pot since she’d come to England.

“A
flush
toilet,” Mrs. Gibbons said, beaming. “Come an’ see.” Elizabeth followed Mrs. Gibbons into a room that had obviously been recently added to the house to accommodate a sink, toilet, and, heaven above, a bathtub. Mrs. Gibbons proudly flushed her toilet, then turned on the hot water. “It’s like a little bit of heaven right here in my own house,” she said.

“It certainly is.”

Mrs. Gibbons flushed, as if suddenly aware how she was going on about indoor plumbing. “I’m certain you’re used to such luxuries.”

“No, indeed, Mrs. Gibbons. In fact, you have far more indoor plumbing than Bellewood. I’m quite jealous,” she said, laughing a bit. “His Grace wanted to make certain his tenants’ homes were brought up to date first, you see.”

“His Grace is a saint,” the woman said, meaning every syllable. “Why, I see him at a different house every day, making sure the workers are doing their jobs, inspectin’ the goods that come in. He even helps out some, and no duke I’ve ever known would do that. It’s a miracle.”

Elizabeth let the woman gush on, feeling none of the charity toward her husband that everyone else did. She had to stop herself from telling the woman that the money her “sainted” husband was using was her own. No doubt, the woman knew that. She felt rather catty just thinking such a thing, but he had been so wretched to her lately she couldn’t stop herself, even if such a thought made her immediately feel guilty.

They made their way from the new bathroom to the kitchen, where again a new sink and faucets had been installed. “Makes me feel like a queen,” Mrs. Gibbons said.

Elizabeth looked around the small cottage, smiling at its quaintness. It was obvious they were poor, but the cottage was neat, the floor spotless, even if the furniture was a bit worn or covered with blankets, no doubt to hide something unsightly. Above the mantel, Elizabeth spied a lovely collection of carved figures that seemed out of place in such a humble home. They appeared to be costly works of art that would look far more appropriate in an expensive home than in this tiny English cottage.

“These are lovely,” Elizabeth said, picking up one figure of a woman sitting on a chair knitting, a small cat at her feet playfully batting a bit of yarn. She realized, with a start, that the woman look remarkably like Mrs. Gibbons. The detail, given the piece was carved from wood, was nothing short of remarkable.