Letters to a Lover, page 4
Gunning stared at him. Oh, yes, he understood the threat plainly enough. Trench drained his coffee and rose.
“Alas, I must leave you to the beverage of your choice. Good day, gentlemen.”
Roberts jumped up in surprise while Gunning scowled. Trench sauntered away, but by the time he reached the door, Gunning caught up with him.
“A moment, my lord,” he said stiffly.
Trench paused, holding the door half-open. “Just one.”
“If you have something to say to me,” Gunning said with dignity, “be so good as to say it plainly.”
“I thought I already had.” Trench smiled, though he made sure his eyes were icy cold. “But if you will have it plainer yet, it is this. If you anger my wife again, if you upset her, or even cause her as much as one moment of irritation, I will annihilate you.”
Still smiling, he threw the door wide, forcing Gunning to jump back, and strolled out. He felt like dusting off his hands as he left the club and turned his feet toward home and luncheon with his wife.
*
As Trench entered his townhouse in Mount Street, his heart beat rather faster than was warranted by a brisk walk.
“Any luncheon, Mrs. G?” he asked the housekeeper carelessly as he passed her in the entrance hall.
“It will be served in five minutes, my lord. Her ladyship is in the morning room.”
Trench was careful not to bat an eyelid, although his relief was ridiculously profound over such a trivial matter. In truth, he would not have been entirely surprised to discover his wife’s apologies awaiting him with the news that she had been obliged to attend a previous engagement.
“Inform her I’ll join her directly, if you please.”
It was the work of moments to reach his rooms, which he had begun to hate because Azalea was never in them, and wash hands and face. Lowering the towel, he gazed at his reflection in the glass. His naked, anguished face gazed back at him.
He was setting too much store by this midday meeting. The troubles of years could not be mended in a day. But still, an unexpected beginning had been made yesterday. He had not expected it to grow out of the discovery of a man importuning his wife, and indeed, his initial desire was to tear the man limb from limb.
But she had already poured the contents of the teapot over him, which had given him a moment’s time to realize that violent reaction would have seemed to accuse her, to assume her guilt. He was walking on eggshells with this familiar wife of eight years, like a new suitor uncertain of his welcome.
But she had welcomed him last night. Her kiss, sweet and eager, had told him so, even before her husky invitation. He had lashed himself for not giving in to that temptation, for part of him—the arrogant, over-confident part—had been sure that in one night of passion, he could enslave her once more.
His lips curved into a rueful, self-deprecating smile. There had been other nights since Lizzie’s birth. Infrequently, it was true, but they had happened. He had given her pleasure and received his own, and yet it had not been…enough. It had been as if they were both holding something back. In his case, at least part of it was imposing gentleness and care on a desire that had grown fierce with suppression. In hers, he had been very afraid it was mere lack of interest. She would submit to her lord, her husband, but that was not enough. It had never been enough.
And now, she was no longer that young, naïve girl melting with wonder in his arms. She had a life that barely included him.
As I have one that barely includes her.
Swinging away from the glass, he picked up his coat and put it back on. He ran the comb through his hair without looking, removing all vulnerability from his expression and replacing it with his usual sleepy amiability that came quite naturally, now. But he had to force his eager feet to stroll, not run as he made his way to the morning room.
She sat at her desk, writing in a beam of summer sunshine. Her beauty caught at his breath. It hurt him, though he couldn’t work out where. And yet, the very sight of her lifted his heart and made him smile.
Sensing his presence in the open doorway, she glanced up and smiled. She put the pen back in its stand. “Ah, there you are. I believe luncheon is served in the dining room.”
She rose, crossing the room with graceful tread as she spoke, and he offered her his arm with exaggerated formality. She took it in the same, humorous manner, and as they walked along the passage to the dining room, he wondered if she even guessed the effect on him of her mundane, simple touch on his sleeve.
A light luncheon was laid out on the table. Azalea dismissed the hovering footman and said she would ring when they wanted anything else. As he had done last night, Trench held her chair, and as she sat, he caught a whiff of her familiar perfume, a delicate rose with a hint of spice, elegant, elusive, and sensual as the woman who wore it.
He could not resist leaning nearer to inhale the scent of her skin beneath. No other woman in the world had ever smelled as delicious as Azalea. Or possessed such a tempting, slender neck. He let his knuckles brush against her nape and could not help delighting in the swift catch of her breath. He just hoped it was pleasure and not tension.
Straightening, he released the chair altogether and sat in his own. Azalea ladled soup into their bowls, and he murmured his thanks.
“So, what have you done with your morning?” he asked lightly.
“Oh, I have been terribly busy,” she replied. “I took the children to the park, and I wrote to the agency to send me three excellently qualified governesses to interview, as soon as may be possible. And in between, I called on Griz.”
“And how is she?”
Azalea smiled. “Happy. Busy. When we arrived, she and a group of friends were playing music I would not disdain at one of my soirees. She was always accomplished. What a pity she would not play the usual debutante games.”
“If she had, she would, no doubt, have been well married before Tizsa even thought of coming to England.”
“That is true,” Azalea agreed. “I am so glad she held out for true love.”
He could not help his quick glance at her face. Was that it? That she had married too young to know her own heart? He had grown adept at hiding such pain, so he was able to smile as he held her suddenly stricken gaze.
“I did not mean—” she began.
“Of course you did not,” he agreed blandly. “That would have been rude.”
She bit her lip and elected to change the subject. “What did you do this morning? Something much more important, I’m sure.”
“I boldly saw off a challenge to my authority in the new housing venture.”
“In Belgravia?”
“And St. Giles. Fenner wants to cut costs in building and increase prices.”
“Were the others behind him?”
“A few. Until I explained graphically the consequences of poor building and the subsequent loss of reputation and revenue. It seemed to carry more weight than other consequences such as misery and death.”
“I am glad you are there,” she said stoutly.
“Most wifely. Thank you. I, then, made arrangements that will enable us to leave for Trenchard tomorrow.”
Her gaze flew to his. “Tomorrow?” she repeated in clear dismay.
“I was under the impression you wished to go.”
“Oh, I do,” she assured him. “Only, I have agreed to go to the theatre with Griz tomorrow evening. There is a comedy she particularly wishes to see. You should come, too.”
“Should I?” He spoke blandly, but he searched her eyes very carefully, for, in eight years of marriage, he had learned enough about her to know when she was hiding something.
“Please. Dragan will be there, also.”
“Anyone else I should know about?” Only when he asked did he realize it made him sound like a suspicious husband. Which, in fact, he suddenly was.
“Such as whom?” she asked.
He set down his spoon and poured a little wine into each glass. Picking up one of them, he sat back in his chair and regarded her. He might as well say it, he decided, since they had begun clearing the air.
“I hope, Azalea, that I have never given you the idea that I would ever become that creature of scorn, the complaisant husband.”
She stared at him, raising one haughty eyebrow. “Is he more scorned than the jealous variety? I do not recall marrying either, who would need, in any case, an adulterous wife to function correctly.” She offered him new-made bread and an herb-scented salad. “If you are making arrangements to go to Trenchard, next week would suit me better. It would give me time to prepare and, hopefully, even appoint a governess before we depart.”
The spontaneity of youth had vanished, it seemed, into the responsibility of parenthood. It was understandable, and yet he missed it.
“Then we are both content,” he said and sipped his wine.
“Are we, Eric?” she asked suddenly. “Are you not at least a little less content with me?”
For an articulate man, it was odd to find his tongue fixed to the roof of his mouth. This was his moment for poetry and tenderness. A thousand words, foolish, passionate, and loving, jostled to get out. And stuck.
“No,” he managed at last. “I am only less content without you.”
Her lips parted as though she would at least admit, And I without you. But instead, she closed her mouth again and seized his hand. “Then let us go next week to Trenchard.”
Oh yes, something was definitely wrong in Azalea’s world. But he knew her well enough to understand that he could not demand or trick it out of her. He turned her hand, tracing one of the lines across her palm with his thumb.
“By all means. And what is this play Griz is so desperate to see?”
“I don’t even remember,” Azalea replied with a quick laugh. “I am just glad to spend time with her.”
She rose to ring the bell, so if he betrayed the sudden fierce and childish desire to be the one she wanted to be with, she did not see it. The servants entered to clear away the leavings and place a lemon tart and a jug of vanilla cream before Azalea. A board of cheese and fruit was set down in front of Trench.
“What are your plans for this afternoon?” he asked casually.
She was cutting the tart and did not look up. “Oh, the usual round of calls and charity meetings. Donations to attend to. What about you?”
“I find myself at leisure,” he replied, not entirely truthfully. There were a few matters he really needed to set in motion, but they could go hang, at least until tomorrow, if only she suggested it.
“You could take the children out,” she suggested brightly. “Perhaps to call on your mother. She is always complaining she doesn’t see them often enough.”
“That is only until she does see them,” Trench said, hiding his disappointment. He cut a wedge of cheese. “Perhaps it is time to remind her how badly we bring them up.”
“How badly I bring them up,” Azalea corrected, spooning cream over her tart. “You are merely their father, saddled with an incompetent wife.”
Trench bit into a plum. “I prefer my wives incompetent.”
“I prefer my husbands to be masters of the back-handed compliment. Or is that no compliment? In any case, I thank you for the preference.”
“You’re welcome.”
In this way, they bantered through to the end of the meal, which was amusing enough, although it avoided the matters pressing on his heart.
When she stood at last to go and change for her afternoon outings, he imagined a certain reluctance that both warmed and worried him. He stood with her, deliberately blocking her way, and took her hand.
She watched it, lying still, white and soft against his.
He said, “You would tell me, would you not if anything were amiss? Large or small, I am happy to help.”
He felt the slight pressure of her fingers, although it may have been involuntary for her eyes sought only escape. Her smile was faintly nervous as she said, “Of course I would!” And yet, as she slipped past him, her eyes shone. It might have been relief or unshed tears.
*
Azalea could not explain it to herself. Having admitted her memory lapses to Griz, she should have explained them to her husband, too. But they were so wrapped up in her mind with something shameful, something that might truly be an impediment to their reconciliation, that she could not force out the words. Had he not just said he would never be a complaisant husband?
It was one of the many things she would find the words for when they went to Trenchard. When the blackmail business and, hopefully, the memory problem was dealt with, or at least diagnosed.
And this afternoon, she hoped to have that dealt with. She had already summoned the family physician and had every expectation that he would be punctual. Such were the advantages of her birth and position in life. She had chosen the time when Eric was nearly always out, though he could be unpredictable. To her relief, she saw from her sitting room window when the town coach arrived at the front door, and he bundled the children into it. It seemed he was taking her advice.
As it drew away, she noticed a young woman who had pressed herself into the railings around Trench House, as though trying to appear invisible. She was young, wearing a cheap little hat, and she seemed very unsure of herself. She moved toward the area steps, then changed her mind and hurried away. Perhaps she had been considering asking about work and taken fright.
Azalea sighed. There was nothing to do but wait, pacing, for Dr. Gibson’s arrival. Perversely, she now wanted the comfort of Eric’s presence, to assure her all was well and that whatever was wrong with her would be fixed. And part of her knew only too well that she did not deserve that comfort, that she had made her bed of solitude and must lie in it.
Returning to the window, she saw another carriage had stopped outside. Her heart lurched. A knock on the door made her jump.
Morris appeared. “Dr. Gibson is here, my lady.”
“Show him in, if you please,” she said calmly.
*
“I see no cause for alarm, my lady,” Dr. Gibson said comfortably. He was a stocky yet imposing man who oozed a soothing aura of confidence. “You report only minor headaches of a quite normal frequency, and in all other ways, you are a fit and healthy young woman.”
“Then why have I forgotten things?” Azalea demanded.
He smiled. “We all forget things, my lady. And if your lapses are a little larger, it is due to your sensitive nerves. Such as you exhibited after the birth of your daughter.”
“I did not forget things after Lizzie was born,” she pointed out.
“No, but they are both symptoms of the same nervous condition. You are merely highly strung, like an over-sensitive pianoforte.”
“Then what can I do?” she asked helplessly. “I cannot have chunks of my life disappearing. It could be dangerous for my whole family.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” he soothed, standing up. “If you are worried, I would prescribe you a drop or two of laudanum to calm your nerves when you are overwrought, but you should not rely on it.”
“I do not want laudanum.” Indeed, she could imagine nothing worse for an already unreliable memory. “Is there nothing else that would help me?”
“Rest,” he said, rising and closing his bag. In his mind, she could see he had already moved on to his next patient. “Remove yourself if you can from situations which stress you.”
“My husband and I were talking of retreating to the country for a while.”
Dr. Gibson beamed. “The very thing. A month or two in the country, with plenty of fresh air and gentle exercise and nothing to worry you. Town can be too busy, entertainments too overwhelming for ladies of sensitive nerves. I thoroughly recommend peace and quiet, and you will soon be right as rain.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Somewhere, she could not believe it was quite as simple as that, but she was certainly happy to try. And there was undeniable relief in his clear belief that nothing serious was amiss. She rang the bell. “Morris, show the doctor out if you please, and then come back.”
As the doctor left, she walked to her desk and sat down to scribble a quick note to Griz, telling her of the doctor’s diagnosis. When Morris returned, she bade her have a footman deliver the note by hand and rushed to prepare for the calls she had told her husband she would be making.
Tomorrow morning, she thought, would be the best time to go to the bank and withdraw the money for her blackmailer.
Chapter Five
One hundred pounds in cash was not an unusual amount for a lady of Azalea’s wealth and position to withdraw. It may have been unusual to do it herself, but Eric had never kept a close eye on her spending, and she doubted he would pay any attention to this, if he even noticed.
All the same, she felt guilty as her smart carriage brought her home. The banknotes in her reticule seemed unduly heavy.
Her well-trained servants handed her out of the carriage and bowed as she hurried into the house.
“Lady Trench is in the drawing room, my lady,” Given, the butler, told her.
“Lady Trench?” she repeated in annoyance. Eric’s mother was the last person in the world she wished to see right now—or at any time, really. “Is his lordship with her?”
“No, my lady. His lordship is not at home.”
Then why the devil did you admit her? She did not ask aloud, for she already knew the answer. Several of the servants here, including Given, had been here for many years, and the dowager viscountess, as their former mistress, still held rather more sway over them than Azalea liked.
“I trust her ladyship has something to entertain her in our absence?” she said coldly.
“Her ladyship was content with a cup of tea.”
“So shall I. Have a fresh pot sent up, if you please.”
With her heart sinking further, she contemplated going straight to her rooms to leave the money and perhaps even change her dress. It would waste more of Lady Trench’s time, and with luck, she would leave as soon as Azalea appeared. Or even before.
However, the woman was Eric’s mother and was owed more respect than that. Forcing herself, she climbed only to the first-floor landing and turned her steps toward the drawing room.
