“Charles,” she said before he could speak, “I don’t know when I have been so lazy. Please forgive my tardiness, and.. .and please forgive my ridiculous behaviour of last night. I can’t imagine what came over me!”
His eyes quickly scanned her face with a penetrating look of concern. But when he could discern no evidence of illness, he relaxed.
“Oh, no need to beg my forgiveness,” he said offhandedly. “I understand perfectly how it was. With all that has befallen you, a lesser female might very well have been thrown into strong convulsions!”
“Well, so I was,” she answered meekly.
“No, no!” he teased. “I fancy yours was no more than a mild emotional frenzy. Don’t let it cast you into despair! We shall speak of it no more.”
And to show his good faith, he turned the subject. “The snow has stopped, you know, but I doubt we shall be able to set out before morning. In spite of the thaw, I’ve seen no vehicles pass by, so I can only assume the roads to be still impassable.”
In fact, the first vehicle passed the inn later that afternoon, and Elizabeth knew that time was running out with a swiftness that was frightening. Though she held a book in her hands, and turned the pages periodically, she could not, if her life depended upon it, have said what she’d been reading. How would he take her confession? What would his reaction be?
So deeply engrossed was she in improvising various scenarios in which Charles was, in some, wonderfully understanding, and in others, coldly condemnatory, that the sound of his voice startled her into jumping slightly.
“Now, what can you be thinking of with such very deep absorption? You have been staring off into space for at least the past five minutes!”
“I...” She faltered, knowing full well what she should say, but unable to make the words come. “I... was simply wool-gathering.”
He stood abruptly. “What we need is a new diversion,” he said decisively. “Shall I challenge you to a few rubbers of piquet?”
She eyed him thoughtfully, suddenly glimpsing a means of deliverance from a confrontation which, in her mind, grew ever more malignant with each postponement. Though she recognized that it was most probably a very foolish thing she planned, and one she was likely to regret in the near future, in her present state of mind it seemed the lesser of two evils. She was at the point where she thought she might attempt anything rather than lose Charles completely.
She agreed to the game with alacrity, and moved to the table where he was setting out playing cards, asking, “What stakes?”
“What is this?” he quizzed her. “Am I betrothed to a hardened gamester?”
“Hardly,” she informed him, with more confidence than she felt, “for I only wager on certainties.”
He raised an amused eyebrow. “A little too cocksure, my pet!”
“I think it only fair to warn you that I am very good. Papa taught me all he knew about cards!”
“Did he? Well, in that case, what stakes would you like?”
She hesitated, watching him deal the cards. “If I win—” she paused again, then rushed on before she could change her mind “—if I win, that you will agree that ours will be a marriage in name only.”
His eyes met hers piercingly and his hands halted briefly before resuming their motion. “I see,” he said somewhat shortly. “And if
I
win?”
“Oh, if you win, then you must name your own stakes.”
“Fair enough,” he replied ambiguously, taking up his hand.
It was decided that the winner must take two out of three rubbers, and the contest began in earnest. There was no bantering between them as the game progressed.
Elizabeth’s belief in her infallibility was not mere boastfulness. Sir Jonathan had taught her well, to the point where he, no mean hand at cards himself, had seldom been able to best her. The game had scarcely begun, however, before she realized that Charles was proving to be a formidable opponent. In the ordinary way of things, this discovery would have done no more than increase her enjoyment of the competition, but in this case, it was essential that she win. To lose the contest would mean to lose Charles, for if he would not agree to a marriage of convenience, then she must make her past known to him. And there had never, really, been the slightest doubt in her mind as to what his response would be: after revulsion would come rejection.
They each won a rubber, but the games were very close, and unfortunately for Elizabeth, Charles had an uncanny ability to sum up her hands with disconcerting accuracy, as well as having the devil’s own luck. Once the third rubber was begun, there was not the least question of the outcome. He won it in two swift hands.
His rather mocking smile caused her to say defensively, “You might have warned me!”
“Your mistake, my love, was in taking me for a flat!”
“I did not, but...” she shrugged slightly, hiding her chagrin and trying to tell herself that she had not had any real faith in so foolhardy a plan. “Well, I must bow to your superior ability, I see. Shall we play another rubber?”
“It is growing late, and our dinner will be here shortly. But don’t you wish to know what stakes I choose to claim?”
“Oh! Yes, of course,” she said with as much unconcern as she could inject into her voice.
He said softly, “Our marriage, my dear, will be, in every way, a real one.”
To her credit, she only blinked and inclined her head slightly, showing no sign of the sick turmoil she was feeling. In truth, she was filled with dread and did not afterwards know how she contrived to get through dinner with him with any degree of normalcy.
However, she did contrive, and after the table was cleared, Elizabeth went to stand by the fireplace, her back to Charles, while he poured them each a glass of wine. When he brought the glass to her, she took it distractedly and set it upon the mantel-shelf without tasting it. The moment had come for the denouement. The time might be wrong, but she could think of no time that might be favourable for such an announcement. She only knew that she was making herself ill with the burden of holding it in.
Charles was standing at her side, one arm resting casually along the mantel, and she threw one quick glance at his face before turning her head away.
“Charles, I must tell you... that is, there is something you have a right to know. I...”
He said nothing, but simply waited patiently for her to continue.
She had rehearsed what she would say at least a thousand times, it seemed, but in the end none of those practised speeches came to her aid. To her horror, she heard herself blurt out the words baldly, with no pretty euphemisms to soften the telling. “I am not a virgin.”
Though loud enough for him to hear, her voice came out very low, and she deplored the unsteadiness of it.
He remained completely silent as the seconds ticked by, until she, her nerves stretched taut, wanted to scream at him to say something—anything.
After an eternity, which in reality could have been no more than a few moments, he said quite calmly, “I see. So I have at last learned the secret behind your reluctance to marry.”
“I am so sorry, Charles, but—”
“No doubt!” he interrupted her tersely. “May I ask... Good God! Not Braxton!”
“Certainly not!” she said with revulsion.
He gave a sharp bark of mirthless laughter. “Well, at least you show some taste.”
“There is no call to be insulting,” she told him indignantly. “What happened was not my fault.”
His brows came together sharply and his whole body seemed to tense. “Were you taken against your will?”
Her eyes met his, then moved quickly away. She suddenly knew that if she could say that she had been taken by force, Charles would, in all probability, be able to accept her unchaste condition, and might even sympathize with her. But she knew, to her lasting regret, that it was not so. She had put up very little resistance that night, innocent fool that she had been, and as much as she would have liked to change that one damning fact, she could not. And she had never been a very good liar.
“No, don’t lie!” he said harshly, as though he had read her mind, giving her no opportunity either to lie or to speak the truth. “Believe me, your face gives you away,” he continued with a slight sneer. “So it was a seduction, then. May I ask who your lover was? Or should I say
is?”
“Was—and he was
not
a lover!” she exclaimed.
“Who, then?” he demanded.
As though the words were dragged from her, she whispered, “I do not know who he was. I...”
“You allowed yourself to be seduced by a total stranger? How old were you?”
“Nineteen, but—”
“Nineteen! Certainly old enough to know what you were about,” he said with contempt.
“If you would stop interrupting and allow me to explain...” she cried desperately.
“Spare me the sordid details!” he replied coldly.
Ignoring his scathing tone as much as she could, and attempting to remain as calm as possible, she said quietly, “I see that you are far too angry—”
Another humourless bark of laughter cut her off. “How very observant you are!”
Doggedly she persevered. “And it is obvious that there is no point in trying to reason with you now. You are in no mood to listen.”
“I am not a gullible fool, and I can think of no plausible excuse which you could offer—but you may try!”
She lowered her eyes and shook her head slightly, knowing that nothing she might say would convince him or alleviate his anger.
“No? I thought not!” He stared hard at her, taking in her downcast eyes as well as the innocent-appearing blush on her cheeks, and was furious with himself for the strong attraction she could still exert over him. “My God! To think that I was considering you as the mother of my children, when you are nothing but a strumpet!”
She gasped, but he went on inexorably, “At least I suppose I ought to be grateful that you did not wait until I had married you before springing the truth on me! Damnation! When I think—” He broke off, slammed his fist down onto the mantel, then resumed in a quietly cold voice, “You will understand if I do not relish any more of your company tonight. Kindly be ready to leave early in the morning and do not keep me waiting.”
Looking into his eyes, Elizabeth could see no trace of the warmth and humour she was used to finding there. They were now as cold and hard as his voice had been, and she wondered helplessly, and hopelessly, what had become of the man she thought she had come to love. Surely this angry, unbending stranger could not be he.
But, even in her distress, she recognized that further attempts at explanation, in the face of his determination not to hear any, could serve no purpose other than to leave herself open to more insults. Besides, she was dangerously close to tears once more, and she was resolved that he would not see her weep again.
With great dignity, and without saying another word, she turned and left the room. Surprisingly, she slept that night, but only after crying herself into that state of unconsciousness.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
If this was love, thought Elizabeth, as she dressed by the cold light of dawn the next morning, it was vastly over-rated and she was well out of it. The joys that had been hers since meeting Charles Seemed scarcely to compensate for the misery she now felt.
She faced the dismal prospect of their return drive to Bath with as much dread as she had previously experienced when she had contemplated telling him of her fall from virtue. In point of fact, she felt almost faint from apprehension at the mere thought of enduring his animosity over the breakfast table, and she knew that if there were any other way of reaching Bath, other than in his company, she would have avoided him altogether. As it was, all she could do was try to console herself with the knowledge that once that ill-omened journey was accomplished, she need never see him again. Strangely, this assurance failed to bring her the comfort it should have.
Determined, despite her reluctance, that she would give him no opportunity to reproach her for the sin of unpunctuality, in addition to all else, she did not delay her descent to the parlour.
He was there, already having his breakfast, and did not bother to rise when she entered the room or even when she came to take her place at the table. That, as well as the one disdainful glance he flicked her way, was enough to convince her that his feelings towards her had not softened during the night. She gave a resigned sigh. So be it: she would not grovel to him, nor would she lower herself to beg for his leniency or understanding.
But his rudeness did not justify discourtesy on her part, and keeping her tone as pleasant as possible, she said, “Good morning.”
He stared at her for a moment, his eyes like shards of ice, before saying with indifferent coolness, “Is it?”
Thankfully, his attention returned immediately to his plate, so he could not see how her face blanched at this evidence of his lack of regard for her. She barely suppressed a gasp of shock at the extent of his hostility and reached, with an unsteady hand, for a piece of toast. She did not trust herself to try for her cup for fear it would clatter or slosh, thus betraying her cowardly trembling.
She watched him covertly from beneath her lashes, saddened and somewhat bewildered that he could be so much changed, but she was forced to acknowledge, after a moment, that she really had not known him for so very long. Perhaps she had never truly known him at all; perhaps
this
was the real Charles, and the man she thought she had known was only a facade. If she could believe that, it would be easy to despise him as much as he despised her, for how could she care for a man who was such an implacable judge as to condemn her without a hearing?
But the sad truth was, as much as she wished to hate him, she could not. She could no more stop longing for one of his smiles, for that certain look of warmth in his eyes, or for one of his teasing comments, than she could stop breathing. There must have been something frightfully wrong with her to continue loving him this way.
If she could only meet his anger with her own, it might help to alleviate her unhappiness, but she hadn’t even that consolation. How could she be angry, or blame him, when she felt such remorse over her own complicity in her seduction on that long-ago night? She had never, afterwards, understood what had happened to her then, but she knew that ladies were not supposed to enjoy that sort of thing. With such shame on her conscience, how could she not feel that he had a right to hold her in contempt?