Trust Me (8 page)

“You have it.”

He lifted his hand. “No, I don’t.”

“How can you say that after all we have
shared?”

“I am not speaking of the bedchamber and
the submission of your body, your carnal self. I am speaking of the trust you
should have in me to confide all your thoughts and feelings.”

“I do confide my thoughts and feelings to
you.”

“At times you do; but more often and at the
most crucial moments, you become maddeningly evasive.”

“Do you think that most husbands and wives
share every single thought and feeling?”

“No, I don’t. But I am not speaking of
others. I am speaking of what
I
want,
what I expect from you.” She hugged her arms, feeling hunted again. “What do
you want from me? What will please you?”

He pierced her with his gaze. “I want all
of you—I demand no less than your entire heart and soul.”

****

Lloyd House never changed. Cold white and
silver gilt, stark simplicity in the furnishings. The strong odours of beeswax
and lemon oil told of all the hard work that had been put in to make the marble
floors and wood-panelling gleam.

For a moment, Jon was once again a small
boy, standing in the vastness of the central hall, watching the liveried servants
line up in preparation for his grandmother’s inspection. Yet, today, they were
lining up for him, the Earl of Ruel.

Bloody hell.

The anger pulsing through his blood shocked
him. He had made peace with this whole bloody business. Long ago. But he had
never stood here in this hall and felt the full weight of his title bearing
down upon him. Having people scrambling to line up and pass muster just because
he’d sprung from the same bloodline as the previous earl, his grandfather.
Since returning home from the dragoons and inheriting the title, he had avoided
Lloyd House. He vastly preferred his townhouse on St. James’ Place, and his
grandmother had been content to remain in full control of this grand house for
all her balls and routs.

But of course a gentleman couldn’t take his
wife to his bachelor lodgings.

He took a moment and pushed all his anger
and resentment down. He was a married man now, and he’d pledged to himself to
approach his inherited title and responsibilities with a more positive attitude.
And he would keep that pledge, for Anne’s sake if nothing else.

She deserved a grand house like this.

He scanned the row of assembled servants. A
line of young faces he didn’t recognize. A few older ones he did. There was Mrs
Johnson, tall, reed-thin, her mouth set grimly, as if it were a funeral day.
The politics of the household. Good God.

The time had come for him to claim Lloyd
House as his own.

****

He reached behind him, Anne took his hand
and he pulled her gently forward. He addressed the line of servants. “This is
Lady Ruel. Her word is mine.”

He turned his gaze full on Mrs Johnson and
her puckered face instantly relaxed. She seemed to stand straighter. He
motioned her forward.

Mrs Johnson approached and sank into a
curtsey. “Welcome home, Lord Ruel.”

He couldn’t fault her alacrity or her
outward submission. However, he had seen that funerary look. “Anne, this is Mrs
Johnson. She is the housekeeper. You may rise, Mrs Johnson.” The matron rose
and then turned to motion to the line of servants. A small girl with bouncing
chestnut curls and round ruddy cheeks hurried forward, carrying a weighty posy
of pink roses with many green cuttings. She handed it to Anne and then backed
away and made a very nice curtsey.

“Welcome to Lloyd House, Lady Ruel,” Mrs Johnson
said.

“Thank you, Mrs Johnson.” Anne’s voice rang
clear and steady.

So she was holding up that well?

Thank God.

With no sign of the butler, Jon asked,
“Where is Mr Johnson?”

“I am sorry, my lord, but he turned his
ankle two days ago. Lady Ru—I mean the dowager countess is indisposed.”

“Is she really?” Anger burned through Jon.
Grandmother’s snub of Anne was unforgivable.

The whole time she spoke, Mrs Johnson
studied Anne. Covertly. Intently with a touch of horrified curiosity.

Of course. The housekeeper would always be
loyal to his grandmother. Well, no matter. The least disrespect from any of
them and he would dismiss them
en masse
.

His grandmother’s reign was over.

****

“She looks like a damned
governess.” Blue eyes framed by white lashes flashed like lightning and the
sharp tone sliced him right to the bone.

Jon let his eyes rake
the refined turban and expensive pale-blue silk gown clinging in graceful folds
over the thin, frail body. Skin stretched tight over high cheekbones and a
long, thin nose rendered into stark relief by age lent the once-beautiful face
a handsome, distinguished air. He curled the corner of his lip. “Peeked from
the top of the stairs, eh Grandmother?”

The old woman’s
cheeks flushed bright-red and her nostrils flared. “How could you let your wife
come to this house looking like some poor church mouse? She’s the Countess of
Ruel.”

Jon suppressed a
wince and compressed his lips, all the while glaring down at her.

Her eyes lost a bit
of their fire and she laid a hand over her collar.

She hated her
petiteness, he knew that. Ever since he’d reached his full height as a young
man, he’d been able to make her uncomfortable.

He took a somewhat
shameful enjoyment in doing so.

“You know better,”
she added in a slightly less strident tone.

“Anne has not been in
Society in many years.”

“They have no
seamstresses in Suffolk?”

“She doesn’t place
much importance on such matters. I will guide her. I intend to take her to the
dressmaker’s tomorrow.”

“Oh, how could you do
this! A drunken slattern who doesn’t care for fashion and has no pride in
herself. How will she ever take any pride in the House of Lloyd? How will she
possibly be your hostess?”

He chuckled softly.
“She’s not a drunken slattern.”

Flames of colour
returned to Grandmother’s cheeks. “She was drunk on wine, everyone can speak of
nothing else around me. They cannot wait to shame me with the news of your
unsuitable bride!”

“Look at you,” he
said in a purposely controlled, quiet tone. “You are overset. Calm yourself.”

“How dare you tell me
to calm myself!”

A lady having a few
too many alcoholic drinks at supper, in the country, among a group of people
who were not exactly known for always adhering to proper behaviour— Jon didn’t see
this as any great matter for worry.

Yet he knew that
Society would view it all very differently. What else could he do but defend
his wife? “It was one evening at supper, in the country.” Grandmother scoffed.
“Everyone is speaking of how she threw herself at your head. And how you
engaged her in a shameless, public flirtation.”

“We barely spoke in
front of others.”

She gave him an arch
look. “There’s no need to prevaricate with me, my boy. I know your ways.”

“It happens to be the
truth.”

“Is it?” she said
incredulously.

“I pursued her.”

“You pursued that…
that
mouse
of a woman? You really
expect me to believe that?” Grandmother clutched her collar tighter. “She looks
like a crow!”

He laughed, coldly.
“Good God, Grandmother. You took one glance at her from a distance.”

Grandmother lifted
her chin. “Lady Scott told me all about this girl.”

“Lady Scott is a
jealous, vindictive bitch.”

“Ah! That you would
use such language with me.”

“You just insulted my
wife.”

“
You
have insulted this house and our name—”

“Oh yes, the fine old
name of Lloyd.”

“It
is
a fine old name. And it is high time
you acknowledged that and made yourself worthy of bearing it.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yes, by God, since
you are wed, it is time you took your place in the Lords.” She drew her brows
together. “I mean took it seriously.”

“I am not a
politician.”

“You are a Lloyd, my
boy; politics are in your blood.”

“Grandfather didn’t
think so.”

“Oh, you could do
anything you set your mind to do. What did you choose? You went and played
solider. Well, you’ve had ample time to sow your oats. Now that you are wed—”

“Wait, so now you are
accepting my choice?”

“No, I do not accept
it. You have shamed this house. But I must—”

“Shamed this house?”
He gaped at her for several moments. “Listen to me, woman, her father’s
bloodline goes back to the both the Normans and the Saxons.”

Grandmother scoffed.
“Her mother was the offspring of a common merchant.”

“Not so common a
merchant.”

“Oh yes, I’ve heard
she was wealthy. Very, very wealthy. And I suppose that was your attraction to
her. I knew this sudden marriage was all about her wealth.”

“Oh yes?” he asked.

She looked up and
pierced him with her gaze. “It couldn’t be love.”

She’d raised him
since he was a boy and knew him better than anyone.

“So you don’t deny
it? Not going to regale me with avowals of how you were swept away by her
beauty, her grace, her—”

“Enough,
Grandmother.”

She made a moue with
her mouth. “You don’t have it in you to love.”

Cruel humour twisted
his lips. “I am your grandson, am I not?”

“But I’d have thought
that you would have had a touch more pride than to tie yourself to such a
woman. Didn’t you learn anything from the example set by your parents, and all
the shame and humiliation your mother caused your poor, pitiful father?”

“Anne is not like my
mother. She just happens to be a very shy, retiring person. She drinks when she
must be in company too much.”

“Ah, yes, a nervous
chit, just as they said.”

“There are worse
faults to have.”

Her gaze brightened.
He could see how torn she was, between her wounded pride over this damage she
felt had been done to the family name and her perverse enjoyment in trying to
vex and hurt him. Dread curled through his guts. Grandmother had something more
to tell. Another cannon ball to drop on his head. “What now?”

“They are saying she
is touched in the head, that she was with Cranfield when he died.”

He shook his head.
“She wasn’t with him,” he lied smoothly. He’d have lied to Saint Peter himself to
protect Anne from prurient speculation about what she had seen that day and how
it might have affected her.

A small, sad smile
gave Grandmother a fragile, somehow wistful look. Only a fool would believe it.
“They say she was with him. She saw that horse crack his skull. They are saying
the experience has left her unstable. Insane.”

Queasiness washed
through his guts and sank into his bones with chilling effect. “My wife is not
insane.”

 
“How can such a girl ever be worthy or fit to
shoulder the responsibilities of a Countess of Ruel?”

He tried to focus on
her but a fog, reddish and wavering, seemed to obscure his vision. It was the
kind of situation which made a gentleman’s hand itch for his duelling pistols.
And if it had been a man to blame, that was exactly how he’d handle this.
However, he knew exactly who had instigated this ugly gossip about Anne. A
woman. A bitter, jealous, frivolous woman. Lady Scott, otherwise known as
Cherry to her intimates.

“My wife is not
insane,” he repeated.

“It is not me whom
you must convince of that but the Ton.”

“She’s not insane and
may God damn anyone who says she is.”

****

It did not bode well
that the dowager hadn’t been waiting to greet them. They had sent advance
notice of their arrival.

Anne tried to ignore
the nervous cramping in her stomach by focusing on the play of sunlight on the
shimmering water. On the soothing trickling sound of the waterfall.

Boots sounded on the
paving stones of the courtyard. She looked up and recognized her husband’s
tall, leanly powerful figure.

Jon pinned her with
an intense gaze.

He touched her arm.
“Come, it has been a straining day and you must be tired.”

He seemed to have
reverted to the cold, cynical gentleman she had first met at Whitecross Hall.