Unsuitable Wife Read online

  “You, sir, are a complete hand, and if you are not careful I will put a painting of the Regent himself there instead!”

  “God forbid.” Justin rose, and Melissa did, too, rather sorry that this odd interview was at an end. He was much more approachable than she had realized.

  “Sir?” she said, pausing at the doorway, and Justin, seated behind the desk again, poring over the accounts, looked up. “Thank you.”

  “Go on, now,” he said, brusquely. “Got work to do.”

  “Yes, sir.” Melissa closed the door softly behind her, but in the corridor outside she executed a spontaneous dance step. There was hope for the future, after all.

  Christmas was fast approaching. The thought of spending the holiday without any of her beloved family, especially her mother, was enough to depress Melissa’s spirits, but she had her pride. No one could guess at the grief that hid behind her impassive face as she supervised the placing of greens over the windows, garlands of laurel around the doorways, and even the construction of the kissing ball and the preparation of the Yule log. Staff there was a-plenty, now; Mr. Elliott, her man of affairs, had sent down a veritable army of servants, kitchen maids and footmen and a proper cook. With Mrs. Barnes to serve as housekeeper, the house was at last functioning as it should. Everything was going well, Melissa thought, standing back to study the garland she had just draped on the balustrade of the grand staircase. If only life weren’t so lonely.

  She saw little of her husband. He was busy, learning about his estate, and he had no time for a wife. Melissa suspected that he saw her as a nuisance; he never smiled at her, never spoke to her except on trivial matters, never seemed to want her company. Oh, that was fine with her, she assured herself, because she surely did not want to be close to him. It was, however, also frustrating. In the past weeks she had come to know and love the estate and she was bursting with ideas on how to improve it, but she had no way to tell him. She, who had feared few people in her life, was oddly reluctant to approach this one man, though he had shown her no violence. He had the power to inflict on her a hurt greater than any physical pain.

  The fact that she was an heiress should have helped, but it didn’t. Instead, he seemed to resent her money and the uses to which she wished to put it, and that only made matters more difficult. It was not the kind of marriage she wanted. Just what she wanted, she wasn’t sure, but when she was young, before she had met him, she had dreamed of a real marriage, a marriage for love. Though that wasn’t possible now, surely she and her husband could deal together better than this? Perhaps she wouldn’t mind if he decided to make the marriage real, if he again took her in his arms and—

  The sound of the door knocker boomed through the hall, breaking into her thoughts. “Oh, drat!” she exclaimed, hastily retreating up a few stairs, so as not to be visible from below. She was dressed in old clothes and she knew her face was dirty. All she needed now were visitors. “Now what?”

  Below her the new porter crossed the hall to open the door. From her hiding place Melissa couldn’t see the visitor, but his voice piped up to her. “I’m looking for Miss Melissa—I mean, Lady Chatleigh,” he said.

  Melissa, for a moment rooted to the spot, suddenly gripped the banister. “Harry,” she whispered, and then said it again, a loud, joyous cry. “Harry!”

  The boy who stood in the doorway looked up as Melissa flew down the stairs, and a grin split his face. “Melissa! Oh, famous!” he exclaimed, his voice cracking on the last word.

  “Harry.” Melissa stopped short a few paces from him. “Your voice is changing.” A tide of color, nearly matching the bright red of his hair, flooded into his face. “Next thing we know, you’ll be shaving! Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. But you’ve grown up so.” She beamed at him, her brother, five years younger than she and yet, as always, looking oddly adult. Perhaps it was the spectacles that did it, she thought, reaching out and catching him in an enthusiastic embrace that he suffered stoically. “But what are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to spend Christmas, if I may,” he said, and at that moment the sound of boot heels on the marble tiles made them both turn.

  “And what is this?” Justin asked, mildly enough, but brother and sister gave him identically wary looks.

  “This is Harry, Chatleigh,” Melissa said. “My brother. And this, Harry, is the Earl of Chatleigh.”

  “How do you do, sir,” Harry said, his voice cracking again as he held out his hand Justin took it, glancing at Melissa, and though he said nothing she read the question in his eyes.

  “Harry is here to spend Christmas with us. If that is all right with you, Chatleigh?” she said.

  Justin looked from one to the other, and the look on Melissa’s face, as if she were frightened of him, suddenly made him feel very tired. He shrugged. “Do as you wish. Doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Chatleigh,” Melissa said, as he turned away, but he didn’t stop. “Oh, dear.”

  “Have I caused trouble for you, Lissa?” Harry asked, sounding very young and uncertain.

  “No, of course not, I’m afraid that’s just Chatleigh’s way.” She smiled reassuringly at him. “Now. Phelps will show you up to your room so you can wash off the dirt of the road, and then we’ll have tea in the drawing room. Is that all you brought?” Melissa indicated his bag.

  “No, there’s one more in the chaise. Oh, Lissa, the driver expects to be paid—”

  “I’ll handle it.” She smiled. “Short of funds again?”

  “Yes, you know Mr. Elliott keeps me on a short leash.”

  Melissa nodded. A new idea had just come to her, but now was not the time to mention it, not until she had a chance to talk with Chatleigh. “We’ll see what we can do. Now, do you go upstairs, and I shall see you in a few moments.”

  “Yes. This will be a capital holiday!”

  “I certainly hope so!” Her heart lighter than it had been in many a day, she turned away to instruct Phelps to pay the driver of the post chaise. Christmas would not be so unbearable, after all.

  It was late. Harry, exhausted from his journey, was abed, but Melissa could not sleep. Even the novel she had chosen from the library specifically for its soporific properties had failed to work, and finally she tossed it aside. Harry’s arrival had brought up problems that she had tried to submerge, and now they were preying on her mind. This afternoon she had glimpsed a possible solution. The question now was, did she have enough courage to go after it?

  Well, of course she did, she assured herself as she stared at her reflection, running a comb through her curls. Though her hair was darker in shade than Harry’s, both had inherited their coloring from their father. Just as Harry was definitely Major Selby’s son, so was she his daughter, and she was not going to back down from a fight. The only trouble was, she was tired of the constant struggle.

  Tapers in sconces lit the corridors and the staircase as she went in search of her husband. He retired late these days, spending the evening in his study. Melissa’s heart was thudding a bit as she stopped before the door, and she took a deep breath before she knocked.

  “Enter,” Justin called from within, and she went in. The room was in darkness, except for the fire in the hearth. Justin sat in an armchair near the fire, a nearly empty bottle on the table near him. Too late Melissa realized that he was probably foxed.

  “Well?” Justin said, when Melissa had stood there for a few moments without speaking.

  “May I speak with you a moment?” she said, her voice oddly breathless. Justin did not answer, but merely inclined his head, a response she didn’t find encouraging. “I’ve a problem.”

  “Have you?” He took a sip of his burgundy. “Something your money can’t solve?”

  “Oh, must you be so odious?” she snapped, and then controlled herself with an effort. “As it happens, it is money that is causing the problem. Harry’s money, not mine. Do you know anything of our stepfather?”

  Justin poured the dregs of the wine
into his goblet. “Not much. Rum sort, isn’t he?”

  “Most decidedly a rum sort. And that is the problem.” She leaned forward, her hands clasped upon her knees. “Mama was quite wealthy, and Papa controlled her money.” She smiled, fleetingly. “Grandfather didn’t trust aristocrats, you know, but he did like my father.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” he said, abruptly.

  “It’s important. Please, be patient for just a moment.”

  Justin shrugged “Very well.”

  “You’ve spoken with Mr. Elliott and so you know how my money was left. It came to me when I married you. Harry will get his when he reaches his majority. He also got Cleve Court.” Her voice grew worried. “And that’s the problem. When Sir Stephen married Mama he went through her jointure very quickly and then he thought he could start on Harry’s money. He claimed it was for improving the estate, and I’m afraid Mama believed him. She was one of the trustees, you see.”

  “Yes. Did he get it?”

  “No. Mr. Elliott is the other trustee and he always refused to give more than he thought necessary for the upkeep of Cleve Court. Unfortunately, Sir Stephen squandered whatever money there was and the estate went to rack and ruin.”

  “You sound bitter,” he said, sounding interested for the first time. “What did he do to you?”

  “Nothing very important,” Melissa said in a stifled voice, and because her head was averted she didn’t see the glance he shot her. “Oh, he wanted my money, too, but he didn’t get it.”

  “I see.” Idly Justin stroked his upper lip, not sure he did see. More here than met the eye. “So what, madam, is the problem?”

  “The problem is that he’s Harry’s guardian and, oh, my lord, I’m worried! He can be a vicious man, and I’m afraid of what he’ll do to Harry—”

  “Should think Harry’s safe enough at Eton.”

  “Ha! Did you attend Eton, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “And were you safe?”

  Justin grimaced. “Not at first,” he admitted. “But everyone has to go through it. Toughening up process.”

  “I’m afraid Harry isn’t very tough.”

  “He had better learn how to be, else he won’t survive. Boy’s not a coward, is he?”

  “No! But he has misinterpreted something Papa once said, about fighting never solving anything, and so now he avoids it on principle. I’m afraid the other boys see it as cowardice.”

  “Of course.”

  “No ‘of course’ about it! I think it takes more courage to stand on principle than to fight, willy-nilly.”

  “Perhaps. Boys that age don’t understand, though.”

  “No.”

  “So, madam?” he said, after a few moments. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “About Eton? I suppose there’s nothing we can do, short of withdrawing him, and I know his pride won’t take that. It’s the other problem. Sir Stephen,” she said, when he looked at her quizzically. “Sir, do you think you could assume Harry’s guardianship?”

  “Good God!” Justin drained his glass and set it down with a thump. “You presume a great deal, madam. Not only do you trap me into marriage—”

  “I didn’t!”

  “—but you take over my entire household, and now you think to saddle me with your family! Well, I will not have it. You may have taken over the Hall, but you cannot buy me.”

  “Oh, your stupid pride,” she said, bitterly. “Poor man, you’re so put upon, aren’t you? I’ve only brought you the fortune you need to restore this barn of a house—”

  “By God, madam, you had best be careful!” Justin exclaimed, starting up from his chair.

  “—and all you’ve done is whine and cry about it, like a little boy! To hear you tell it, nothing that has happened is your fault. Well, my lord, it is high time you grew up!”

  “Be careful, madam. I will not answer for the consequences.”

  “No, you never do, do you? I think it is time you did, my lord, and—”

  “If I didn’t think of the consequences, madam, I would not have married you.”

  “And whose fault was it?”

  “I warn you, madam, this is a dangerous subject,” he said, very quietly. “I do not wish to discuss the circumstances of our marriage.”

  “But you’ve been well paid for it, have you not?”

  “That tears it.” He advanced upon her and, finally realizing she had gone too far, Melissa began to back up, turning only when she reached the door. But he was too quick for her. Before she could escape he caught her up in his arms and swung her over his shoulder, her face against his back and her backside poking undignified into the air while he held her legs.

  “Put me down!” She pummeled his back with her fists as he strode along the corridors of the dark, quiet house and up the grand staircase. “Put me down at once!”

  “Cease to struggle, madam, or you will fall on your head,” he said, calmly. In spite of the burden of carrying her, his breathing was normal.

  “Oh, please!” she wailed. “Put me down, I promise I won’t bother you—”

  “Rather late for that, madam. You were warned.”

  “Oh, this is so undignified—”

  “Now who is the one with pride?” he said, and dumped her unceremoniously on her bed.

  Chapter Nine

  For a moment, there was silence. Melissa stared up at him, her skirts rucked up to her knees, exposing shapely ankles and calves in practical cotton stockings. Her breasts rose and fell with her agitated breathing, and her eyes were huge in her pale face, surrounded by her tumbled, disordered curls. The angry frustration that had driven Justin on suddenly died. God, but she was beautiful, and she was his. It was that which had driven him to the bottle these past nights, the frustration of knowing that her soft, sweetly rounded body should, by all rights, belong to him; the agony of knowing that to claim it was folly. He didn’t want to succumb to her wiles, but it was hard to remember that now, with the blood thrumming in his veins and the urge to make her his own pushing him on. By God, she was his wife!

  He reached out. Melissa, impeded by her skirts, scuttled away. “No!” she gasped. “You promised—”

  “You are my wife.”

  “But I will not be your whore!”

  That stopped him. The memory of once calling her that came back to him, and with it the knowledge that what he had been about to do was folly. With an oath he turned, slamming the bedroom door behind him and roundly cursing himself for a fool. And, once again, Melissa was left alone.

  The ground, crisp with frost, crunched under Justin’s feet as he left the house by a side door the next morning. Early rising was ingrained in him after his years in the military, and now, no matter how late the night before might have been, he rarely missed his morning ride. It helped clear his mind and prepared him to face the day ahead. After last evening, he could certainly use it. He had bungled things, all right.

  The path to the stables turned, and abruptly, through a break in the trees, the valley opened before him, so naturally that it was easy to forget this vista had been planned by a master landscape artist. His land. In the gray light mists rose from the fields, brown and sere now with the coming of winter. Nothing grew, and yet suddenly his heart swelled as he surveyed his holdings, with love and pride and a fierce possessiveness. This was his! He would do whatever he had to to hold onto it, everything he could to bring it back to full life. And, perhaps then, when the estate was running well and he was again making an income, he would pay back his wife every penny expended on this place. Perhaps then he wouldn’t feel so beholden.

  He frowned as he continued down the path, absently tapping his riding crop against his leg. Odd to feel this way. He’d known he’d have to marry money, and by a most unusual turn of events he had found himself with a fortune. Aye, and a wife who was not only beautiful, but hard-working and competent, kind and compassionate, brave and—

  Bah! He slashed at a tree with his crop. He
sounded like a lovesick moonling. Perhaps his wife did have some good qualities. Perhaps. He must never forget, however, the deviousness that lurked behind that pretty face. Women were not to be trusted. He’d learned that long ago.

  Voices floated out to him from the stable as he passed under the archway, the clock in the tower above striking the half-hour. He stopped in the doorway a moment. Jeffrey, the groom, had Diablo out of the stall already and was just saddling him, difficult though it was; Diablo was in a restive mood, prancing about and promising Justin a fine ride. Justin’s mouth quirked when he saw who Jeffrey’s companion was. Perched on a mounting block, chattering away to the groom, was Harry.

  “Morning,” Justin said, advancing into the stables, and Jeffrey looked up from tightening the girth.

  “Morning, milord. Him’s proper restless today,” he said.

  “So I see. Morning, Harry.”

  “Good morning, my lord!” Harry stood at attention, for all the world like a soldier on parade. Justin glanced at him, feeling an unwilling sympathy. Hard at that age to be at all different from the other fellows. Harry’s spectacles, Justin suspected, made life difficult for him.

  “Do you ride, Harry?” he asked, casually, stepping over to Diablo and running a hand down his flank. The horse nickered and then butted his head against Justin’s arm.

  “Yes, sir, but I’m afraid I didn’t bring any gear.”

  “Daresay we could fit you up with something.”

  “Really? You mean it, sir?”

  “Yes. Jeffrey, have we any boots that Master Selby could use?”

  “I’ll see, milord.” Jeffrey stepped away from the horse and headed for the tack room.

  “Oh, famous! I haven’t ridden in ever so long.”

  “Can’t promise you a good ride.” Justin reached into his pocket for a carrot, and the stallion nibbled at it eagerly. “Afraid the stables need restocking.”

  “My sister told me about the Hall,” Harry said, so intent on the horse that he didn’t see Justin wince. “I have the same problem with Cleve Court.”