Unsuitable Wife Page 19

  They regarded each other for long moments, her eyes glazed and her lips swollen. He reached out to trace the outline of her lips with his fingertips and then, slipping his arm under her knees, stood with her in his arms. There was no one in the hall to see the earl carrying his wife up to bed, no one to notice the way she nestled against his shoulder or pressed kisses into his throat. Justin was breathing heavily by the time he reached her room, though she was as light as a feather in his arms.

  At her door Justin reluctantly set her down, while she whispered that she would send her maid away. A little while later, he knocked on the door that connected their rooms. Melissa had removed her jewels and taken down her hair, but she was still dressed. Swiftly he crossed the room to her and pulled her against him, hard, claiming her mouth in a fierce, triumphant kiss as the blood sang in his veins. She was his! His hands slid over her satin-covered curves, and then his fingers fumbled at the laces at the back of her gown. At last they came free, and he impatiently pushed the gown off her shoulders, letting it fall into a molten pool at her feet, leaving her clad only in her shift and stockings. As he reached for her, she gave a little giggle, which turned unexpectedly into a hiccup.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, and hiccupped again, as he swung her into his arms and carried her over to the bed, invitingly turned down for the night. She hiccupped yet again, and as he stood gazing down at her, a nasty suspicion struck him. She had had too much champagne, and then the cognac. Damn, she was foxed. She wasn’t responsible for her actions. If he took advantage of her now, he would be a cad, the veriest bounder. She would never forgive him, or herself.

  “Justin?” Melissa said, softly, when he made no move to join her, and he came out of his thoughts. All his instincts, his very soul, demanded he give into the desires raging through his body, but he couldn’t. Not like this.

  He took a deep breath. “Best get some sleep, m’dear,” he said, bending and kissing her swiftly on the forehead as he pulled the covers up. “Likely to have quite a head tomorrow.”

  “Justin!” Her voice came out as a wail as he crossed the room. He stopped for a moment, his shoulders stiffening, but then resolutely went on. This was for the best, he told himself, and closed the door, cursing himself for a fool. There’d be no sleep for him this night.

  “Good morning, my lady,” Liza said, opening the curtains and letting brilliant sunshine flood the room. “‘Tis a fine day.”

  Melissa groaned and turned her aching head into her pillow, sick with shame and the effects of too much to drink as memory came back to her with a rush. Somehow, perhaps because of exhaustion or the combination of brandy and champagne, she had managed to fall asleep last night. Now, unfortunately, it was morning, and she had to face her husband. It would be difficult, indeed. “Go away,” she muttered.

  There was the sound of a door opening, and someone spoke in a low voice. “Here, my lady, drink this,” Liza said a moment later, and Melissa looked with undisguised loathing at the tumbler in her hand.

  “What is it?” she said, revolted by the murky brew.

  “It will make you feel better, my lady. ‘Tis his lordship’s idea.”

  Melissa looked up sharply, which she immediately regretted, and she realized for the first time that Justin stood at the foot of her bed. “Good morning,” he said, quietly.

  Melissa glared at him. “You!” she said, bitterly.

  “Yes. Liza, leave us, please.”

  “No, Liza, stay. His lordship will be leaving.”

  Liza looked from one to the other and then made her decision, hastily scuttling out of the room with this tit-bit of gossip. Melissa looked after her resentfully and then dropped her head into her hands. “Go away,” she said in a muffled voice.

  “We need to talk,” Justin said, bringing a chair near the bed and turning it around, so that he straddled it.

  “I don’t want to talk to you ever again.”

  “I understand you’re upset—”

  “Upset? Upset?” Melissa’s hand flew to her temple in response to the renewed pounding there. “Go away!”

  “Melissa—”

  “Go away, get out! Get out!” Her voice rose. “I don’t want to talk to you. Get out!”

  Justin gazed at her for a moment, and then rose. “Very well. I can see you’re in no shape to talk right now. We’ll talk when you’re feeling better.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you ever again!” she yelled after him as he crossed the room, and then sank lower in the bed. I wish I were dead, she thought as she turned her head into the pillow, and the shame brought on by the memories of last night’s events washed over her. I wish I were dead.

  Justin paused at the door as he heard her sob, and his eyes briefly closed. He could bear almost anything but a woman’s tears, particularly this woman’s. He thrust his hand into his hair as he went into his bedroom. What he’d done, he’d done for the best, difficult though it had been for him, and all he’d accomplished was to make matters worse. In trying to spare Melissa pain, he had only caused her more.

  Justin crossed the room and stood at a window, looking out. The streets below were as busy as usual, with private carriages and tradesmen’s vans going by, and as he watched he felt a sudden revulsion for the city scene. He wanted to be back at the Hall, walking over his own lands, living a life unfettered by the conventions of the ton and the demands of a political career. He wanted to choose his own way of living.

  Idly stroking his upper lip, Justin turned away from the window and sank down into a chair. So. It was time for him to think about what he really wanted, instead of letting fate, or other people, dictate to him. Did he want a political career? Oh, he was good enough at it, better than he’d thought he’d be, but he detested the machinations and scheming necessary to get things done. That wasn’t how he wanted to spend his life. No. He sat up straighter as the force of his decision hit him. No, he would not stay in politics, no matter what Aunt Augusta might have to say. He would make his maiden speech, for which he was beginning to have some ideas, but after that, he would live his life as he saw fit. And that life did not include politics.

  As for his wife. Justin shifted uneasily in his chair. She, too, had proven to be a revelation to him, not the hussy he had once thought her, but a lovely, enchanting woman he might well have chosen, had he had the chance. That led him to another question. What kind of life did he want with her? For certain he didn’t want the arid, lifeless marriage all too common among the ton, but, on the other hand, he was still wary of being ensnared by her. Not that, after last night, that was much of a possibility. He suspected it would be a very long time before Melissa let him get close again. He was, he reflected dispassionately, the world’s biggest fool.

  Alfred came into the room and stopped short. “My lord,” he said in surprise. “Thought you was out.”

  “Not yet, Alfred,” Justin said, and rose, while Alfred watched him covertly. Word was in the servants’ hall that something had happened between the earl and his lady, but, try though he might, Alfred could see no hint of it in the earl’s face. “I plan to ride out to Richmond later today,” Justin went on as he crossed the room. “Care to accompany me?”

  “Won’t you be taking the barouche, sir?”

  “No, I’ll leave that for her ladyship. Diablo and I need the exercise. Well?”

  “Yes, sir, of course. Be good to be out riding together, sir,” he went on. “Like the old days.”

  Justin’s brief smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Quite,” he said, and left the room to begin the day. The old days were gone. Ahead of him was only the confusing, perplexing future.

  The days were growing longer, but still it was dusk, footpad hour, when Justin and Alfred at last started home from Richmond. It had been an enjoyable afternoon. Justin had looked over the set of matched greys Lord Radcliffe had for sale, and was interested enough to consider buying them. Perhaps Melissa would like to drive her own team and would take it as a peace offering. Lord knew what
else he could do.

  Beside him, Alfred stirred uneasily in his saddle. “My lord,” he began, and at the same time a shot rang out up ahead.

  “Stand and deliver!”

  “Good God!” Justin exclaimed, wheeling Diablo around. This stretch of road was not known for highwaymen, but it appeared that was what they faced. His first thought was to run, but there were four of the ruffians, too many to outrun. They would have to fight. He reached in the pocket of his greatcoat for his pistol, kept primed and loaded for just such eventualities, and came out shooting. The shot went wild, but its report startled one of the ruffians’ horses into bolting. That left only three, two of whom were advancing upon him. A quick glance showed that Alfred was busy with the remaining ruffian, and so he wheeled Diablo around again, pulling back on the reins so that the big horse reared. But one of the ruffians caught at the bridle, and there was no choice for it. Justin swung off the horse, his foot catching the ruffian squarely in the face. The man yelled and went down, and Justin whirled, dropping into a crouch to face his other attacker. The other pistol was in the saddlebag, if he could reach it.

  The ruffian suddenly kicked out, and Justin jumped back. There, Diablo was just to his right. Justin’s hand fumbled at the saddlebag as the ruffian kicked again, this time connecting with Justin’s kneecap. Pain exploded in his leg and he bent double, and the reflex made him jerk the trigger of the pistol, still in the bag. There was a deafening report, and even Diablo, seasoned campaigner though he was, danced away as the ruffian fell to the ground. Good, he’d got him!

  Justin turned then to see Alfred struggling with his attacker, and as he pulled his arm from the saddlebag he was only dimly aware of motion to his side. There was a rush of movement, and then a sudden, stunning, blinding pain in his head, and he knew no more.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “My lord! My lord!”

  Hands pulled at him. He was at Talavera again and the surgeon had just told him he would lose his leg. The pain, the pain—had anyone seen Major Selby? Justin had seen him go down, attacked by four ruffians. But, no, that was Alfred, he thought, and opened his eyes.

  “Oh, m’lord, thank God, thought they’d done for you!” Alfred exclaimed, pulling at Justin’s arm. Pain lanced through Justin’s head, and he put his hand to his eyes. “Come, m’lord, best go. No tellin’ how many more there are of them.”

  Justin got to his feet, barely able to stand for the pain. “What the devil happened?”

  “You did for one of ‘em, m’lord,” Alfred said, in tones of great satisfaction. “Diablo went for the other.”

  “Did he!”

  “And the third, when he saw what happened to his mates, why, he just ran right away.”

  “I see.” The pain in his knee was settling into a steady, throbbing ache as he stood and surveyed the carnage. “I think we’d best go to Bow Street with this, Alfred.”

  Spring was coming, and more and more people were returning to town from their estates, where they had spent the winter. That meant more parties, more routs, more balls. Melissa was growing adept now at separating those affairs which would do Justin’s career some good from those at which the Chatleighs’ presence meant little, and which ones they’d be most likely to enjoy. So it was that Melissa, in a gown of turquoise silk, stood chatting with several other acquaintances at the Bainbridges’ ball, on the surface enjoying the evening, but inside a mass of insecurities and unhappiness. Some two weeks had passed since the evening Justin had rebuffed her advances, and in that time they had spoken little to each other. He kept busy in Parliament; she, with plans for their ball, scheduled for a week hence. Sometimes she had looked up, from her plate at breakfast, or from reading a novel after dinner in the drawing room, to see him watching her, but she had always looked away again before he could speak. Sometimes she wished he would approach her; at others she was glad he did not. What had happened had struck hard at her self-esteem, not strong at the best of times, and the hurt went deep.

  “Good evening, Lady Chatleigh,” a voice said at her side, and she turned to see the Marquess of Edgewater. He was as neatly turned-out as ever, his evening coat fitting faultlessly, his shirt points so high and so starched that he was in danger of cutting himself if he dared to turn his head. “Strange to find you here.”

  “Good evening, sir. In the enemy camp, you mean?” Melissa said coolly. “But the Bainbridges are our friends. If you will excuse me, I was about to return to the ballroom—”

  “Let me escort you, then.” Edgewater deftly took her arm, and they began strolling down the corridor towards the ballroom. “I gather Chatleigh intends to stay in politics, then?”

  “Yes, of course. Why would you have thought otherwise?”

  “I had thought perhaps you had convinced him to change his mind.”

  “No, sir, I wouldn’t do that. I believe Chatleigh has something worth saying.”

  “Do you. Well, I very much fear, my dear, that you are in for a sad letdown. I’m afraid the only thing Chatleigh is likely to do is fall on his face. It won’t be the first time.”

  Melissa pulled away from him and glared at him, her hands on her hips. “Why do you persist in belittling him?” she demanded. “You make him out to be a clumsy fool.”

  “But he is, my dear. At Eton he was always falling over his own feet. Quite the laughingstock, I’m afraid.”

  “And you, I suppose, laughed the loudest.”

  Edgewater bowed. “Much as it pains me to admit it, dear lady, I am afraid so. But then, he was so deliciously laughable. And there was such scandal about his parents.”

  “I see,” Melissa said, her lips tightening. In spite of her feelings towards Justin at the moment, she couldn’t help feeling a pang of pity for the boy he must have been, tall even then, and probably not used to handling his height. Of course he would have been clumsy, and if he had already been in the habit of downplaying his talents, few would have guessed what he was really like. “You, I take it, were never clumsy yourself?”

  “Perish the thought!”

  “And of course you never made a mistake.”

  “I won’t go that far, my lady.” His tone was smug. “But I must admit I did quite well at school.”

  “I see. Do you know what I think, sir?” Melissa ran her finger along the edge of her glass. “I think you are not nearly as secure as you seem. In fact, I’d wager that you dislike yourself so much that you must set down other people to feel good about yourself.”

  Edgewater’s eyes blazed for a moment. “Do you, my dear?” he drawled. “I assure you, you are far out there.”

  “Am I? I don’t think so. I think you’re afraid he’ll show you up.”

  “I don’t care what you think. Chatleigh will regret it if he stays in politics. You may tell him I said so.”

  “Tell me you said what, Edgewater?” Justin said smoothly, coming up and taking Melissa’s arm. She started, and then relaxed, though she was very conscious of his touch.

  “I’ll leave it to Lady Chatleigh to tell you,” Edgewater said, and bowed. “My lord, my lady. If you will excuse me.”

  “Damned fop,” Justin muttered as Edgewater walked away. “I will not have you seeing him behind my back.”

  “It’s no such thing!” Melissa exclaimed indignantly.

  “Isn’t it? Best listen to me, madam. You will not take up with another man.”

  Melissa stared at him and then smiled in pleased surprise. “You’re jealous!”

  “Of that coxcomb? Hardly.”

  “Yes, you are. Oh, Justin!” She laughed. “As if I would!”

  Justin looked uncomfortable. Not so long ago he would have believed it of her. Now he was not so sure. “What did he want, then?”

  “He would like you to get out of politics,” she said, and told him the gist of the conversation. “He said something like that once before. I think he means it, Justin.”

  “Man’s a lightweight,” Justin said.

  “But, Chatleigh, just now
he sounded threatening.”

  Justin looked briefly startled, and then shook his head. “Don’t worry about him, m’dear. It’s nothing new.”

  “Oh?” She glanced up at him as they began walking towards the ballroom. The glorious strains of a waltz filtered out into the hall.

  “No. Been going on since Eton. Once I got used to the place I didn’t do so badly, and that was what he didn’t like.” It was Justin’s turn to sound smug. “He didn’t like not being at the top.”

  “I thought as much.” Melissa glanced into the ballroom. The waltz was in full swing, and the floor was a swirl of jewel colors, offset by the darker tones of the gentlemen’s evening clothes. For just a moment a pang went through Melissa that she was not dancing with Justin, but she ruthlessly suppressed it. She did not wish to be that close to him, ever again.

  Justin was watching her. “Melissa, I—” he began, and at that moment, Lord Beverley came up to them.

  “There you are, Lady Chatleigh,” he said. “This is my waltz, I believe.”

  “Of course it is,” Melissa said, and walked off on his arm, tossing Justin a brilliant smile over her shoulder. His fists clenched in response, and he forced himself to relax. Easy, now. It would take time to repair the damage he had done, and a good deal of patience, but he was beginning to think the prize would be worth the effort. There was passion in her, waiting to be awakened by the right man, and just the thought of her in his arms was enough to make him ache. She was his wife, and someday she would be that in more than name.

  “There’s money behind it, my lord, that’s for certain.” The man who sat across the library table from Justin was thin, small and nondescript, but his chin was firm and his eyes were steady. When Justin had gone to talk to the magistrates at Bow Street, Alfred had suggested hiring a Runner to look into the attack by the ruffians. Justin had at first refused, but on second thought, remembering the incident on the hunting field on Boxing Day, he had changed his mind. If someone wished him dead, he wanted to know who it was.