The Reluctant Bride (11 page)

Pudding was cleared away and Caroline rose, the sign that she and Emily would withdraw, leaving the men to their port and coffee.

But Emily had no desire to listen to another lecture on the virtues of her new husband from her sister-in-law. Not when her own feelings were in such disorder.

‘I have a terrible megrim. Will you excuse me?' She passed a languid hand across her brow. ‘Angus, you must have a great deal to discuss with your brother. I promise I won't pry into details about your journey. I'm sure there is much information with which your wife ought not be entrusted.'

She sent Angus a wavering smile, for she did feel bad. Later, if he were interested, she'd try to explain the complicated state of her heart. Six months was not long enough to mourn the greatest love of her life.

Not when he'd died saving the man who'd won her by default.

‘So at last we are able to speak frankly.' Jonathan leaned back in his delicate chintz-upholstered chair by the fire and, as was his habit, laced his hands across his stomach. ‘Not a love match, I take it.' Then, as Angus opened his mouth, cut in, ‘On Emily's part, I mean.'

‘I can't imagine Angus marrying for anything but love,' Caroline said. ‘Remember, Emily is in a fragile state. She's mourning her baby. Cruelty is born of powerlessness. Give her time.'

The fire gave out a comforting glow in the dim room. After a silence, Angus reflected morosely, ‘Time is my only ally.' He was conscious of the dull ache in his breast. It had been largely absent during his time abroad. The excitement of clandestine meetings with the
Chevaliers de la Roi
, some in prison and others at society events, had given him little time to ponder the wisdom of his union with Emily. He'd had no idea until he met the Delons of the network or scope of the operation in which he was now involved. It was exciting, invigorating and hugely daunting, but he would play his part in bringing peace to England. It was his greatest role yet. And along the way he would be a good husband to Emily. He would win her respect and, ultimately, he hoped, her love.

‘No. Your kindness and patience are what will win her over.' Caroline reached across to pat his hand. ‘Then your charm and dashing spirit will make her your slave.'

Both brothers laughed.

‘It's true,' she protested as Angus looked at her fondly.

He was at his most relaxed with these two. There was never any pretence and matters were dealt with in the most down-to-earth fashion. ‘What a pity you don't have a sister, Caroline,' he jested.

‘If I had, she'd not have suited you, Angus. You are drawn to those with a flash of spirit and you have an eye for beauty, despite the image of yourself you like to project.'

‘You mean I always hankered after what I could not have and thus leapt at the opportunity to take advantage of Emily's predicament?'

‘I thought as much,' pronounced Jonathan at which his wife said, derisively, ‘My dear, as if that were not as plain as the nose on my face. But,' she added, turning to Angus, ‘your competition is fearsome. The dead betrothed has become a martyr.' Caroline's fingers beat a tattoo on the arm of her chair. ‘She carries his letters to bed with her and reads them each night.'

‘Still?' His hopes were dashed even further.

Jonathan grunted. ‘You've not yet told her the truth about this false fiancé?'

Predictably, Caroline pounced and Jonathan explained what his brother had told him of the circumstances surrounding Jack Noble's death.

Caroline threw up her hands. ‘Why Angus, if Emily's Captain Noble had been dallying with a camp follower – or any other woman for that matter – of course you must tell her. Why must you always play the hero?'

Angus gave her a laconic smile. ‘Caroline, for someone so wise, is it not perfectly plain? Would it elevate me in Emily's eyes to hear me call Jack faithless? Do you really think she'd believe me if I told her the truth: that he consorted with women of all ranks on a regular basis?' He shook his head. ‘You know it wouldn't and that I'd only damage my own position further by tarnishing what she believes is the one true and good thing that's ever happened to her. She'd assume I was knocking Noble off his pedestal in order to elevate myself.' He gave a wry smile. ‘Though don't think I haven't contemplated it.'

They digested this in heavy silence. Finally Jonathan said, ‘You'll just have to become a hero, abroad, won't you? Pleasant little sojourn, was it?'

The word hung, unsaid, in the air. Espionage. Perhaps the only way for England to ultimately defeat the Corsican pretender who held such control over Europe and whose Continental Blockade threatened England's prosperity. Six years earlier, Napoleon Bonaparte, having conquered or allied with every major European power, had established a trade embargo against Britain. The difficulty of importing and exporting for the island nation had pushed up prices and caused great hardship.

‘Really, Jonathan,' interposed Caroline, ‘Angus has to be discreet if he values his position.'

‘And his neck,' Angus supplied. He waved a hand the length of his newly and splendidly upholstered form. ‘Behold the Gentleman of Fashion. I move in different circles on the Continent. It has been opportune, in view of my recent marriage, to be able to afford a coat of decent cut.'

Caroline raked her eyes over his immaculate rig-out. ‘Your funds have come through then, Angus?'

Angus chose his words carefully. ‘My new clothes are courtesy of my employer, and my decision to lease Wildwood was on the expectation of the remuneration discussed with regard to my activities abroad'—he hesitated—‘supplemented by funds realised from selling my commission.'

He'd never quite forget the bleak horror in Emily's expression as she'd cast her eye around his lodgings. ‘Naturally, I want to supply Emily with a home where she can be comfortable. I was also led to believe my late father left me a small bequest, however there've been more important matters demanding my attention. My first priority is Emily. It'll be a while before I can leave her again.'

‘She mightn't feel the same way, Angus.' Caroline twisted her lawn handkerchief around one finger, as if weighing up whether to speak further. Finally, directing him one of her famous candid looks, she added, ‘Angus, she's not a porcelain doll. Emily needs and respects a strong hand. If you tiptoe around her, trying to please her, she'll only despise you for it.'

‘What are you trying to say, my dear?' Jonathan sounded almost embarrassed. ‘Angus never tiptoed around anyone in his life.'

Caroline turned to him. ‘He does when he's around beautiful women.'

‘I don't believe I've ever tiptoed around you, Caroline,' Angus remarked mildly.

Caroline dismissed this. ‘I've never been a beauty. I can see Emily has the potential to make you tie yourself in knots. Don't give in to her, Angus. You're her husband. Show her you're in charge.'

‘That's right.' Jonathan laughed. ‘See how well it's worked in our household.'

Emily listened to the discreet rapping on the door, her heart pounding.

It was four o'clock and she was sitting at her exquisite walnut-inlaid dressing table on the third day in their new home. Just now she'd been gazing out through the large sash windows at the lovely garden, watching the team of gardeners at work. She felt an imposter amidst the luxury which surrounded her. A wife, as yet in name only.

‘Won't I go and open it, miss?' Sukey, her maid replaced the silver-backed hairbrush on the dressing table and looked enquiringly at her mistress's reflection.

‘I'm not dressed to receive guests.' Emily clutched her peignoir closer around her.

‘It's the master, o' course.' Sukey knitted her brows, as if her mistress were queer in the attic.

The rapping came again. Polite, but insistent. Obviously Angus was not going to go away this time. He'd tried to visit her the previous afternoon, but Emily had ignored him on that occasion, also. Later, at dinner, she'd lied that she'd been taking a walk in the garden when he'd asked her over the oyster soup where she had been.

Before Emily could stop her Sukey was at the door, greeting Angus in her friendly, uninhibited country fashion.

She heard his voice, kind, but with an underlying note of authority not even the most fiercely protective lady's maid could act against. ‘Good afternoon, Sukey. I wonder if I might have a moment, alone, with my wife.'

‘Dinner is less than an hour away,' Emily murmured, staring at him in the looking glass as he smiled across at her, ‘and I've only just begun dressing.'

She glanced at her hands, now clasped in her lap to stop their trembling.

She hardly knew this man and here he was to …

What?

She felt the fine hairs on hers arm rise at the very prospect that he might touch her. Yet would that be so terrible? It was just that …

She hadn't the words to articulate, even to herself, the plethora of mixed emotions she felt.

‘I can see you're about to work magic on your mistress's hair, Sukey, but if you wouldn't mind leaving us now.' With a smile he dismissed the maid, holding open the door for her to leave.

To Emily's amazement the girl gave a little giggle as she passed through.

‘I didn't know you were in the habit of flirting with the housemaids.' She regretted the words – and the tone – the moment they were out. It was almost as if habit and a sense of forced loyalty to Jack were lacing her words with a hostility towards Angus she no longer felt.

Angus crossed the room to stand behind her. ‘My mother,' he said, ‘is notoriously difficult to please. My brothers and I became accustomed to placating tearful housemaids.'

‘You think I am notoriously difficult to please?'

Her voice sounded sharp in the silence. She tensed as his hands rested lightly on her shoulders, subtly pushing away the silk shawl. It was the first time her bare skin had come in contact with him in anything other than a medical emergency.

She caught his expression in the looking glass. He wasn't looking at her, but at her long, dark hair cascading over her shoulders and down her back; frowning, as if uncertain about touching it.

Remembering Jessamine, she flinched. Jessamine who, being French, quite possibly had had long dark hair. Had Angus been drawn to Emily through some perverse memory of his old mistress? She remembered sensing something that was more than just reluctance when she'd questioned him about her.

The thought made her feel appalled and indignant at the same time. Or was she manufacturing these emotions? The truth was, she hated the idea he might gaze at her and recall his mistress – a prostitute who followed the army, going from one protector to another. Jack had spoken with disgust about the vice and vermin-filled creatures.

Emily drew herself up proudly, but before she could register her aversion through honeyed barbs sufficient to send him scuttling back through that door, he'd picked up the brush.

Good Lord, was he going to brush her hair? The act seemed hideously intimate.

And at the same time she relished it.

The silent admission sent a wave of guilt through her. She closed her eyes, telling herself she relished it because it would only prove he was clumsy and without finesse.

No doubt he would tug, and the brush would tangle her tresses and it would be far from the romantic gesture he'd planned.

Emily closed her eyes, prepared to wince at the first opportunity.

But he did not tug and pull.

‘Emily, we have not spoken properly about the baby.' His voice was soft as he combed gently from the crown to the ends with long, even strokes. To her surprise, she found herself calmed by the contact.

Mention of the baby had not provoked the hysterical tears that she would have expected.

‘I feel like my heart has frozen and it will never thaw,' she murmured. She kept her eyes closed. While she didn't have to look at him she could pretend it wasn't Angus soothing her while they discussed this most painful of subjects.

‘It doesn't help to be told that one day you will feel again?' Angus continued the rhythmic strokes through her thick tresses.

Emily shook her head. ‘The mind and the heart do not always communicate.' She swallowed past the lump in her throat. ‘My head reminds me of the gratitude I should feel for you …'

She registered his stiffening before he supplied, quietly, ‘But your heart rebels.'

When she did not answer – could not, he replaced the brush on the dressing table with a sigh. ‘I am a patient man and I do not want what would only be reluctantly given, but I am your husband, Emily.'

She felt the tears rise. Opening her eyes, she saw the panic in their reflected depths in the looking glass before her. ‘Everyone tells me you are good man, Angus, and I wish I could …'

She shook her head, the tears finally coming, not resisting when he drew her up from her seat and took her into his arms.

‘… love me?'

Emily felt the warmth of his breath and trembled, though not from disgust, she knew that.

It was a strange and not unpleasant sensation being comforted by him. A stranger, still, but not such a daunting one.

‘I will try to be a good wife,' she added earnestly, raising her head to reassure him, and feeling a strange warmth that was more than simple gratitude pooling in her lower belly. ‘I … I'm so grateful to you for understanding my need for more time to get over my losses, but one day'—she drew in a quavering breath—‘I shall be a dutiful wife.'

She felt the tremor of his amusement. ‘A thrilling prospect,' he responded with more than a hint of irony as he set her away from him.

He stooped to kiss her forehead and she was surprised by his delicacy.

Extraordinarily, another frisson of sensation shot from her heart to join the curdling that now extended beyond her lower belly; a strange, confusing sensation she had no right to feel.

‘And now I shall leave you, Mrs McCartney, as the dinner hour is nearly upon us and you are not yet ready.'

Ready.

Would she ever be?

She'd convinced herself she could never love this man, but now her insides roiled with a cocktail of conflicting emotions. Nowhere could she identify revulsion.