The Reluctant Bride (14 page)

In the morning Angus was gone on business leaving Emily to fret and fulminate, though one unexpected consolation was her father's interest in her affairs. For the first time the sour expression beneath the shock of white hair warmed as it had not done since she'd been a child.

He was interested in her. Concerned with her thoughts on how she intended to make an impression on local society. Of course she knew impressions counted for a great deal in her father's eyes otherwise she'd not have been relegated to such a hopeless position and forced to marry Angus. But his interest seemed for the first time to encompass her feelings. Including, strangely, her feelings about her husband. He must be more concerned for her happiness than she'd thought.

‘He has been good to you, Emily?' Facing her from his seat opposite in her elegantly decorated private sitting room, while her mother was resting upstairs, he picked up a small painting of Wildwood which Angus had done. ‘Indeed, Angus has been very good to you, Emily. More so than Jack would have been.'

The statement shocked her. Her father had
loved
Jack. He'd sanctioned the match when Jack had neither wealth nor illustrious connections.

Unconsciously, he stroked the frame of the little picture as he bent forward.

‘Jack was involved in dangerous operations abroad, Emily.' The blue eyes beneath the thick white brows darkened. ‘I suspect you'd have been alone a great deal. Jack's political interests would always have come first.'

This was not the Jack she knew. Jack spoke lightly of the secretive work he was engaged upon, of being nothing but a slave to the British Government who paid the bills but who should have been more concerned with fighting the enemy at home.

Jack always put Emily first. She was astonished her father knew anything about Jack's priorities.

‘Jack spoke to you about this?' Her heart hammered. Was her father privy to information Jack had not confided to her? It was like a betrayal. Angus's words of the previous day returned with an ominous echo.

‘Jack commonly sought my trusted opinion, Emily.'

‘Jack trusted me, too, Papa.' She wished her voice sounded stronger. ‘He told me everything about his work and the people with whom he lodged.'

Her father leaned across and patted her hand which tapped in agitation upon the arm of the sofa. ‘A husband must confide in a wife, Emily.'

Unconsciously she pulled away. ‘Angus has me in his confidence.' It was a lie, but it seemed suddenly imperative that she carry it off if she were to maintain her elevated status in her father's opinion. ‘Major Woodhouse chose him as Jack's replacement.'

Immediately the words were out, Emily regretted them. Angus would not wish her to divulge this to anyone.

She was glad her father betrayed no surprise, suggesting he already knew.

‘Major McCartney strikes me as an effective and loyal servant of the British Government, and a good choice for such a role.'

On the heels of her wish that she'd not been so indiscreet was the undeniable power in bringing a look of interest to her father's face. He who had been singularly
dis
interested in her for most of her life.

Her father ran his hands thoughtfully over the arms of the fashionable Egyptian sofa Angus had bought Emily. ‘He lodges with the Delons when he is abroad?' Nodding at her shocked acknowledgement, he went on, ‘Jack told me about the Delons, Emily. Monsieur Delon is a faithful ally of the English.'

Guilt engulfed Emily. She stammered, ‘I don't think Angus would like to know we were speculating about Monsieur Delon. He is very secretive about his activities.'

‘How would your husband know we were speculating?' Her father's expression was benign, yet there was something uncomfortable about their discussion Emily could not put her finger on.

Her father leaned towards her, his manner conspiratorial. ‘Every husband must be master of his household, Emily, and yours has the added responsibility of ensuring both your safety and that of his country. Angus is a worthy husband, yet a wife must shore up her own position.'

Emily squirmed at the manner in which his eyes raked her, hiding her embarrassment when he added, ‘Now you've lost the babe – Jack's babe – you have never been more desirable to him.' He chuckled. ‘Use it as a weapon, Emily.'

She felt her mouth drop open while her skin prickled and she felt suddenly self-conscious in her fashionable sprigged muslin, with its skirt revealing every curve. Was her father truly referring to her body? When Emily had complained as a sixteen-year-old at the ugly dresses she was forced to wear, Lucy had muttered that to flaunt herself would upset her father.

Her father continued speaking. ‘A woman's powers of attraction are her only weapons. You are clever, Emily, but you allow your heart to rule you. That is a mistake. Jack is dead. Angus is your husband. You must learn to play him and that means using your powers of attraction to discover all you can. For your own survival.'

Her face burned. Was he intimating that she must play some wanton creature merely to gain information?

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Your Aunt Gemma told me you'd solicited her help in seeking an annulment.'

Emily's embarrassment was replaced by shame.

‘I'm glad the matter went no further, Emily, for look what you have gained from this marriage.' He made a sweeping motion with his arm. ‘Would you prefer to return to your old home and live out your life under my roof, spurned by society?'

She couldn't look at him. He would see how intolerable such a notion was. ‘But Father, how can I do as you tell me when—'

‘When what?' he asked sharply. ‘You do not love your husband?' He sat back and fanned his hands as if he'd already supplied her with the answers and she was a fool for needing clarification. ‘You live in a world of make-believe, Emily. We exist on this earth to survive as best we can – alone. In truth, we can trust no one for there is no one who will not betray us when their own self-interest trumps the transient affection that occurs with unexplained randomness. Our survival depends on the material world and you, Emily, would have nothing if your husband had not fallen in love with your pretty face. His honour was aroused by what would have disgusted most men.'

Including her own father. She wished one of the servants would interrupt them and bring an end to this horrible discussion.

‘You used to send small gifts to the child, Madeleine Delon.'

She flushed. ‘How did you know?'

‘Jack and I spoke often.' He looked at her searchingly. ‘Has your husband told you about Madeleine?'

Emily shook her head, embarrassed. ‘He … said he wouldn't take my gift to her because it would put me in danger and that he'd explain everything when he got back. Jack was very fond of Madeleine, I know.' The memory of the ribbons he and the little girl had chosen together for her sent a flood of nostalgia through her. She brushed away a tear. ‘He spoke of her often.'

Her father frowned while his lips formed a faint smile. ‘How interesting,' he said softly. To her astonishment he reached over and caressed her cheek. ‘Your husband obviously loves you very much, Emily, yet I sense that all is not well between you.'

Emily, embarrassed by the almost unprecedented intimacy, watched him stare thoughtfully at the ceiling. Her mind churned with confusion.

‘Let me pour you more tea, Papa.' Relieved to withdraw from such close proximity, she reached for the teapot.

Her father smiled suddenly and his tone was different, as if he'd come to a decision. ‘Inevitably there will be things your husband will tell you that you do not wish to hear, Emily. Such is the way of life.' He nodded as he accepted the dish of tea she offered him. ‘However, your happiness depends upon the harmoniousness of your union. You must be a loving wife, in whom Angus feels comfortable confiding. Promise me you'll try?'

Slowly, as required, Emily forced herself to nod. She was still angry with Angus for his wounding words though she'd decided it was only natural that her husband's long frustrated need to bring her into accord with him would lead him to denigrate Jack. Once he'd laid the facts before her she'd confidently dismiss them all. After that …

She swallowed down the lump of excitement as she reflected on the musings of her long, sleepless night. In the early hours of the morning she'd experienced an epiphany. The light had shone upon the path that would lead her to happiness and marital felicity. She would show her loyalty towards Jack by defending his memory with all her might, but she'd make it clear to Angus that she was ready to be on a different footing with her husband. The mere thought was enough to send the heat rushing to her cheeks.

She'd accepted other truths, too, such as the fact that the operation in which Angus was involved required the greatest secrecy. If there were any criticism to be made of Jack it was that he had been a little too forthcoming with his information during their tender moments together. Sometimes he'd surprised her with his detailed descriptions of places and people. She'd never forgotten his description of the beautiful spy that posed their greatest threat.

‘She's very cunning, Emily, and very wicked, but so beautiful that no man who has crossed her path has ever had the heart to see she receives justice.' He'd made a slicing motion across his throat which had made Emily feel a little queasy before she asked, ‘You've seen her?' Her distaste turned to wicked excitement when he replied, ‘She reminds me of you,' adding at her pretended outrage, ‘but you are virtue to her evil.' He'd laughed uproariously. ‘You're of similar height, with the same lustrous dark hair. She is a French Madonna hiding a wicked soul while you're an innocent blushing English rose. And aren't you blushing now!' The exchange had ended with giggles and kisses, but Emily never forgot that she had an evil counterpart across the channel.

She bit her lip as she checked the words she was about to say. ‘Papa, I have a book upstairs that I had intended to send'—she swallowed—‘with Jack on his last mission.' Rallying, she added, ‘I could not bear to part with it for Jack and I had bought it together, but when I mentioned it to Angus he said he wouldn't take it.'

Her father regarded her for a long moment. ‘He didn't say why?'

She shook her head again and stared at her hands, clasped in her lap. ‘He said he would tell me everything when he got back from his next mission in France. He leaves tomorrow.' Her misery increased as she admitted, ‘Angus and I spoke in anger about it. That's why he's not here now.'

‘Yet he said he would … explain … when he returned?'

She nodded.

‘And what do you think that means?'

It was difficult to force out the words. She could only guess, herself. Haltingly, she told him. ‘He said Jack lied to me. When I demanded that he explain in what way he said there was no point in carrying on the discussion when I'm angry but that when he returns he'll prove it.'

‘Prove it, eh?' Her father's look was one of sceptical interest. ‘Are you not consumed with curiosity, Emily? Have you not demanded that Angus stop keeping secrets from you?'

Miserably, Emily shrugged. ‘I don't want to anger Angus. Let him say what he has to say when he returns. He'll never convince me Jack was anything other than the kindest and most loyal of men.'

Her father chuckled. ‘Indeed he was, Emily, but Angus is your husband now. Now you must prove you're a cunning and intelligent wife and that it is not in Angus's best interests to keep you entirely in the dark. Why not slip the book into your husband's luggage when he's not looking? Once he's in France he'll not be able to resist giving it to the child.'

Emily rose. ‘I do not wish to make Angus angry.'

‘Indeed you must not.' Her father's smile was colluding. ‘Remember, Emily, the more you find out for yourself, without him knowing, the greater your power over him. Every woman seeks advantage over her husband because it is the only way she can survive.'

She could not believe she was having such a conversation with her father and took a step away, embarrassed and disgusted by his plain speaking. ‘But mother—' she began, too bravely, and was glad he cut her off.

‘My point exactly. Your mother is a hideous cripple.' His tone was dismissive. ‘She can wield no power over me when she is confined to a chair with absolutely no powers of attraction. You, Emily, must learn to wield the weapons God has given you. Wield them for your own survival, for if you do not, you will lose the affection of your husband upon whom your survival depends.' His eyes glittered over his steepled fingers. ‘The manner in which you and Angus have been thrown together is not the most auspicious and you will never know how deep is his disgust for your sin, therefore you must use all means to protect yourself for the future. Knowledge will give you power, Emily.'

She turned away as he added, ‘Remember, I am your father, and blood is thicker than water.'

The brief flare of camaraderie she'd felt towards her father at the beginning of this conversation was long gone. She put her hand on the door handle, anxious to get away. ‘Mama may have woken,' she muttered. ‘I must check on her.'

‘First, bring me the book. It would amuse me while you are with your mother. There is a small child, the daughter of a cousin, who is coming to visit and Marguerite will want to buy her a present. In fact, bring me the book now and I'll show it to your mother. I'm sure it would please her.'

Angus turned towards the small mirror on the washstand and ran his hand down the smoothness of his unscarred cheek.

Emily's parents' visit had been cut short at Mr Micklen's sudden behest. He'd cited urgent matters requiring him at home but had not countenanced his wife's pleas that she be allowed to remain.

They'd left that afternoon and Angus would be crossing the channel tomorrow.

He knew Emily was expecting him tonight, but God, this was not the right time.

He'd certainly not expected such an invitation. Not after their recent strained relations. But if the surrender of her body, her tacit acceptance of the marriage contract, were her way of indicating she wanted a truce, he'd not complain. He'd show her how much he loved her with his tender caresses. Early in their marriage, he'd been shocked by her claim that she'd been a slave to passion in Jack's arms. Now he understood better the deeply smouldering fires of her complex temperament and how they could be ignited. He wanted to prove he was capable of the same depth of love she'd attributed to Jack. Surely, then, he would be rewarded in kind.

Scowling at his reflection, he wished he felt eager anticipation. The truth was, he had no idea what had motivated Emily to indicate in such clear terms that she would accept him into her bedchamber that night. Not after his allegations of Jack's duplicity, which he deeply regretted. He should have remained silent if he'd not intended furnishing her with the entire truth.

He did not delude himself that Emily was excited about tonight. Dull resignation was most likely her overriding emotion; and yet, they had to start somewhere.

In the dim lamplight his scar stood out, raised from the smooth surface of his face and lighter in colour. Neither that nor the alignment of his features had ever been of concern, nor were they now. He focused on the silver blade of his razor lying upon the marble surface and contemplated the long walk down the passage to his wife's apartments.

To the only woman he'd ever desired.

Emily had presided over dinner like a queen. At Wildwood she was the consummate mistress, managing the servants with skill, though conversation with her husband had been even more strained since her parents had left.

No, after nearly two months of anticipation, dreaming of how he would prove that he, not Jack, was the better man, he was not looking forward to this at all.

Knotting the heavy silk banyan around his middle, Angus strode purposefully towards the door, pausing with his hand upon the doorknob. How engineered the whole act was. There was no feeling on her part but she was submitting like the good wife she'd promised she'd be.

It made him sick.

At the same time he could barely contain his desperate hunger for her.

He heard her stifled gasp when he entered her room.

‘I did not expect you so soon,' she said, rising from her dressing table and he watched, mesmerised, as her lawn-clad figure swayed over the candle she carried to the cabinet by the bed.

‘Don't snuff it out.' At her side in two steps, he put his hand on her wrist to stay her. He felt her trembling. Their eyes locked; hers black, reflecting her terror. The only relief he felt was that he could see no disdain.

‘Emily, I have something for you.' God, he sounded so desperate. The moment the words were out he knew this was not the time to present his gift. There had been no ‘right time' to present it to her before, but this was about as wrong a time as he could ever have decided upon.

Her eyes went to the slim velvet box he'd placed on the dressing table, but they did not brighten and he silently cursed himself for his gaucheness. She'd see his gift in a different light altogether.

‘Thank you.' Her voice was dull as she picked up the diamond choker Sir John had given him. It glittered in the candlelight.

‘Let me fasten it.'

His hands shook as they never had in battle when he swept back her hair, his fingertips brushing her soft, delicate skin.

Turning, she stepped back so he could admire his gift. ‘Do you want me to keep it on when …?'

At the catch in her voice he wished he could just call the whole thing off.

‘Whatever you wish.'

After a pause she shrugged, removed the silver locket she always wore, then took a step towards the bed as if resigned to her fate.

He followed, drawing back the covers. Slowly, he bent to scoop her up, placing her on the soft feather down mattress. Mutely, without expression, she stared up at him.

He felt the tightness within him grow. It gripped his heart, the pain of longing matching that which throbbed in the basest, expected region of himself.

Their shadows twined and danced upon the walls, then slid out of sight as Angus lowered himself onto the bed beside Emily. With his elbow supporting his weight, he gazed down at her.

Lord, she was beautiful. The purity of her expression, the sweep of her throat which curved down to meet the swell of her breasts made him catch his breath. She was perfection.

When his hand grazed her bare skin as he toyed with the ribbon which tied her night rail, her tiny intake of breath was a reminder of the weight of his great responsibility. He did not touch the diamonds around her throat; did not want to look at them.

Obediently, she lay pliant beside him while he practised the restraint of a lifetime. His lungs felt so constricted he could hardly breathe, his heart gripped by his awful responsibility, and all the while his loins were on fire, urging him to consummate the act which underpinned their marriage contract. She was giving herself to him in return for his continued protection.

Simple.

Like Jessamine had.

Raising himself above her, with just the insubstantial fabric of night clothes between them, he could feel the heat from her body, the rise and fall of her chest as she sucked in each anticipatory breath.

Her eyes did not leave his as she moved slightly beneath him, shifting her body to accommodate his weight more comfortably.

He couldn't kiss her. Of course he could not. That would be far too intimate. Reaching down beneath the covers he found the hem of her night rail.

She arched slightly, making it easier for him and he eased the garment upwards. As his hand skimmed her thighs, a lightning charge ripped through him in response to her heat, her shudder.

Her head rolled to one side and he saw that she fixed her gaze on a shadow on the wall, her whole body tensing.

She was anticipating the pain. She'd done this before. Jack had violated her. She'd taunted Angus with the fact she'd enjoyed it, but what did a good wife know of passion?

Women bartered their bodies for the things they could not provide for themselves. Emily's unpalatable marriage to Angus was the result of having been coerced by Jack. Now the time had come when she could no longer withhold her side of the bargain.

Parting her legs obediently, her eyes seemed suddenly vacant, turning her face into an inscrutable mask.

Also like Jessamine.

All the pent-up desire, longing and desperation drained out of him.

Angus gazed at her hair spread like a dark, glossy curtain over the pillow and the resignation writ so bleakly in her expression, while the memory of the dreadful night Jessamine first came to his bed returned to haunt him.

Beneath him, Emily stirred as he rolled away, her voice a hoarse whisper, though he heard fear and confusion there, too. ‘Where are you going?'

He had the gall, for a split second, to imagine she considered his retreat a disappointment.

Retying his banyan, he bent over her and gently brushed back a strand of dark hair from her cheek. The softness of her skin nearly undid him. He wanted to curl up beside her, feel the curve of her body pressed against his and stroke her into feelings which matched his own.

Only shame and disgust at the memory of the last time he'd bedded a woman stopped him.

‘I can't do this, Emily.' His throat was so dry he could barely say the words. He stooped to brush his lips across her brow. ‘Sleep well.'

She said nothing but the look in her eyes slashed at his heart. She might not have wanted this but his rejection had battered her pride.

On his way out, he saw the Book of Children's Verse, tied with red ribbon, on top of the escritoire near the door. Accompanying it was an envelope addressed to Madeleine and clearly he was to carry it to France with him.

Only the greatest self-control prevented him from picking it up and hurling it at the wall.

Most people observing the lovely, statuesque Mrs McCartney as she stood on the portico of the classical rotunda high on the hill might have thought she was simply admiring the splendid view of woods and chequered fields.

Little did Emily know she had become a figure of curiosity and that much drawing room gossip centred around the tea party the rector's wife was organising. The grand lady of the manor had earned a reputation for mystique. She was also referred to as the handsomest in the neighbourhood.

Unaware, and afraid the secret of her tarnished reputation may have been leaked, Emily kept to herself, preferring the solitude of her gilded prison which she left only occasionally to visit Caroline.

On this particular day, with Angus gone above two weeks on his second tour of duty, Emily watched dispassionately as Major Woodhouse laboured up the hill.

He greeted her with a lie: ‘I came to see how you were faring.' She knew he was simply checking on her. Perhaps he wanted further proof of her disloyalty as a wife.

‘That is kind of you, Major. Angus sends me regular updates on his good health. Little else, let me reassure you.'

She began to walk, forcing him to follow her, his company like a thorn in her side. She realised she'd made an enemy of him, but though she was well aware of the foolishness and unfairness of her words, she could not take them back.

‘Your husband is the height of discretion.' The corners of the major's mouth tugged when she glanced at him. ‘Has he asked you about your French connections?' The casual tone belied the sudden intensity of his look.

Furious indignation rose up in her breast but she managed tightly, ‘We have no communication with the French side of our family, Major. I can only assume them casualties of this terrible war.'

He raised an eyebrow and she bridled at his scepticism. ‘Did you interrogate my husband over his French connections?' she demanded, swinging round. Then when he appeared confused, ‘Did he not consort with a Frenchwoman on the battlefield?'

‘
Jessamine
?'

His shock appeared profound, as indeed it might. What good wife referred to her husband's mistress?

Emily was not about to lose the advantage. ‘So you knew?' Angrily she went on. ‘It would seem my husband's association with this … Jessamine'—she all but spat the name—‘who lived in France, did not constitute the same threat to national security that it appears his association with his wife, who has never set foot in France, does.'

His composure returned, Major Woodhouse continued walking, silent for some seconds until he asked, coolly, ‘So you deny having had any contact with any relatives in France?'

‘Why is my past plumbed as if I were a traitor?'

He cocked his head as he rested a hand upon the Greek column which supported the folly they'd been traversing. ‘An accident of birth does not make one a traitor. Only one's intentions and actions. I am asking questions, not to satisfy my personal curiosity, Mrs McCartney, but because I think it's important. I'm sorry if you feel I am interrogating you.'

Emily tried to steady her breathing, still deeply unsettled. ‘I have nothing to hide and my husband certainly does not regard me with the unfair suspicion you obviously harbour,' she said softly. ‘Despite my incautious words to you last time we met, I love and admire my husband.'

‘Bravo, Mrs McCartney.'

Emily regarded him through narrowed eyes while she gathered her courage to pursue what would, under normal circumstances, be a forbidden topic. ‘Since you brought up the subject, Major McCartney, I would like to know what else you know of my husband's former mistress.'

She registered the flare of shock in his eye at her unladylike words. Maintaining an air of cool control as she resumed walking, she prompted, ‘Naturally I am curious at the circumstances surrounding my husband's association with the … enemy, and as you instigated the topic I believe I am entitled to pursue it.'

‘That is, indeed, direct, Mrs McCartney.'

The discomfort in his tone felt like a point in her favour. She picked up her skirts as she carefully negotiated the steps that led down the hill towards the house. ‘You're a man who believes in the truth when it doesn't compromise the security of our country.' Stopping on level ground when they'd reached a small terrace built into the hillside, she turned with a smile that hid her pique at his reluctance to answer her. This man had insulted her. He'd all but called her a traitor. She dragged in a breath. Simply asking the question about Jessamine branded her the creature beyond redemption he must think her for her previous sins. ‘What was Jessamine to my husband and why did she kill herself?'

‘I'm afraid I can tell you nothing, ma'am.'

Beneath the cloud-studded sky, his look was evasive. Rather than her tormentor, he appeared to her suddenly as no more than a young man driven by conviction, whom she had highly embarrassed. Self-righteousness drained from her. So did her anger, for she had nothing to hide and Major Woodhouse's questioning had clearly been motivated by overzealousness. She relented as she contoured one of the smooth pillars which edged the terrace with the palm of her hand. ‘It's all right, Major Woodhouse. I behaved abominably the last time we met and you have every reason to be wary of what you say to me.'

The humiliation of Angus's rejection was still raw. Was there some deficiency in herself she was unaware of? As she'd waited for him to come to her, she'd reflected that her timing in requesting their marriage contract be honoured the night before he left for France might not be auspicious. However, her father's strictures were still ringing in her ears. The extraordinary thing was that the moment she gazed upon Angus's strong, lithe body in the candlelight and imagined his warm mouth and body pressed against hers, she'd been flooded with a fierce, hot desire that had nothing to do with enticing her husband for the reasons her father had told her were so necessary.