The Seduction, page 31
Tears began to glisten in her eyes. "How could you do this? Don't you know how hard things have been for us this past year? Mutton every night, and a fire only in the library even in the winter. No parties at all." She sniffed, and a tear fell with perfect timing down her porcelain cheek. "How can you be so cruel?"
He laughed. "Oh, Lizzie, you should have been an actress. You would have done so well with melodrama."
She crumpled the sheet of paper in her hand, and her tears dried as easily as they had begun. "This is insufferable!" she said and paced back and forth across the floor. "You're such an arrogant bastard. You always were."
He grinned at her. "You're only saying that because I didn't succumb to your charms ten years ago."
She turned around and faced him. A mocking smile curved her lips. "What conceit you have! You always did. And I didn't want you because you were so irresistible, you know."
"Yes, I know. But that hardly mattered, since I didn't want you at all."
The smile disappeared, and she looked at him with loathing. "God, how I despise you."
"A thought that breaks my heart." He watched her storm out, and he sighed. He really was losing his touch with women.
***
His next meeting was with his mother, and he suspected she would not be as easy to deal with as Elizabeth had been.
He was proven right. The moment she swept into the room, she began to speak. "Ashton, really, I'm glad you wanted to meet with me this morning. We must discuss what is to be done with your wife."
"Yes, Mother. That's exactly—"
"I realize that she's an American and cannot be expected to know how an earl's house is to be run, but really! She came down this morning wanting to know if we could breakfast at nine instead of eight so that she could go riding beforehand. I explained about the servants' schedule, and she actually said we could change that. And she asked about taking out the Michaelmas daisies in the south gardens and putting in ox-eye daisies instead. You know how I have continued to keep up the south gardens myself and how I detest ox-eye daisies. They become so shabby, you know. And she says she is going to redecorate the entire house. Redecorate! Can you imagine? I said, of course, that wouldn't be possible, but—" She broke off and frowned at him. "What are you smiling about?"
He didn't say it was because his mother's obstinacy would spur Maggie on with her decorating efforts, a consequence that suited his plans very well. "You," he answered. "How you hate anyone usurping your power. Now I finally understand why you and that frivolous chit Elizabeth rub along so well. She never tried to take over."
"I don't know what you mean. I certainly have no wish for power. That belongs to men. We women have a different role, and that role includes the smooth running of the household. Now, I'm sure she's a sweet and charming girl—for an American—and I can fully understand why you married her. But she simply must understand how things are done. Until this morning, she expressed very little interest in the household, and I must say, that was a blessing, for she knows nothing! She is greener than Elizabeth ever was."
"Mother—"
"I cannot understand why these American girls insist on marrying into our great families, then try to make everything here the way it is in New York. Why on earth don't they just stay home, then? That reminds me of another thing. Bathrooms, Ashton! She wants to put in bathrooms! And electric lights! What would your father say?"
"Mother, I told her we would—"
"I know that Americans have no sense of tradition themselves, but can they not at least respect ours? You mustn't misunderstand me. I appreciate the financial assistance she brings to this marriage, indeed, I doubt we should have managed much longer without it, but. .."
She continued to ramble on about Margaret's money, and Trevor decided to employ his father's technique. "That will be enough, madam!" he roared, slamming his fist down on the desk. "Sit down."
It worked like a charm. She immediately fell silent. Staring at him in shock, she sank into the chair across from his desk.
"Really, Trevor, you sound just like your father," she said with injured dignity.
"Since my father was the only person in this family besides myself who seemed to have any sense, I will take that as a compliment."
"There is no need to insult me."
"I wanted to meet with you because I wanted to clarify a few things for you. I have asked Margaret to redecorate the house, and although she is to consult with me about major renovations, the decorating is to be totally left to her." He could see his mother becoming incensed, and he added, "I have advised her to consider any advice you may choose to give, because I know it will be sound advice, if rather conservative."
She frowned at the backhanded compliment. "How gracious of you, Ashton. And you intend to allow the installation of these bathrooms and electric lights, I suppose?"
“Allow it? I arranged it.”
"This is impossible!" she cried. "I cannot allow Ashton Park to be polluted in such a way!"
"You seem to forget that I am the earl, madam," he said coldly. "You answer to me, and you have no choice but to allow it."
She went pale, appreciating for the first time that her power was indeed being taken away. "And what on earth shall I do while she is turning Ashton Park upside down?"
"You can help her."
"Help her? You must be joking. Help her turn Ashton Park into one of those vulgar New Plymouth mansions?"
"It's Newport, Mother, and I suspect you only find them vulgar because you've never lived in them. If Mr. Van Alden's mansion in London is any indication, they are the most gracious and comfortable houses imaginable."
"There are things more important than comfort, Ashton," she said with haughty scorn. "There are traditions, time-honored ways of doing things."
"Very well. Then you may go to London and help Elizabeth settle into her new home. After that, you can return here if you wish and live in the Dower House. You may assist Margaret—should she wish for your assistance—with managing an English household."
"I see. And after I have trained her to take my place, what shall I do with my time then?"
"Travel," he said promptly, and winked at her. "I recommend Italy, myself. It's quite romantic, you know. Maybe you'll meet some wealthy gentleman who'll sweep you off your feet, and you'll fall madly in love with him. You might even marry him."
"Really, Trevor, I've never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. Where on earth have you been developing such romantic notions?"
***
Margaret was still awake. Trevor dismissed his valet and began to undress, staring at the crack of light beneath the closed door that connected his room to Maggie's. He could imagine her sitting up in bed reading a book, clad in one of those flimsy silk nightgowns from her wedding trousseau. Or perhaps she was sitting at her dressing table, brushing her hair.
Those thoughts brought an instant physical response from his starved body, and he pushed aside erotic imaginings with a curse. He didn't want to imagine her. He wanted to see her. He wanted to touch her. He just plain wanted her.
He jerked off his tie, removed his waistcoat, and began unbuttoning his shirt. Maybe he should just go right in there and tell her that from now on, they'd be sleeping together. Hell, she was the one who hadn't wanted separate bedrooms to begin with, and if he could just get her into bed, seducing her into lovemaking would be much easier.
He yanked off his shirt and tossed it aside, thinking about that notion, but reluctantly abandoned it. She wasn't ready yet. He knew that, as hard as she tried to pretend, she was not indifferent to him. Their picnic had proven that. He knew that if he had pressed her, he could probably have taken more than just a kiss. But if he had, she would have resented him all the more for it afterward.
He could at least talk to her. He walked over to the door and hesitated a moment, wondering if he should knock. But this was his house, and his wife, and he had every right to walk into her bed chamber any time he chose. He grabbed the handle and opened the door.
She was reading a book, but not in bed. Instead, she was curled up in one of the overstuffed chintz chairs by the window, her hair flowing loose. She looked up as he entered the room, and quickly shut her book. She shoved it into the drawer of the table beside her chair almost furtively, as if she didn't want him to know what she'd been reading.
"I'm glad you're awake," he said. "I wanted to talk with you."
He sat on the edge of her bed. Her robe was open, and he could not help noticing how the pale pink silk of her nightgown could not disguise her generous breasts. In the lamplight, he could clearly see their swelling shape, the darker pink skin of her aureoles, the taut nipples. He didn't want to talk.
She flushed and drew her robe closed.
He looked away and drew a deep breath, trying to remember what he'd intended to say, what vague pretense he'd come up with to be in here, to be with her.
"I wanted you to know that I've arranged for Elizabeth to live in London. She'll be leaving within the week. My mother will accompany her, and help her settle in. My grandmother also wishes to go, since she wants to do some shopping."
"I see."
"And I've spoken with my mother about you. She now understands her role quite clearly. And yours."
"My role is only a temporary one. I still want a divorce."
"I don't."
"Let me go."
"No."
"You can keep the marriage settlement you already received. I won't fight you for it."
"No."
"Why not?" she said in frustration and genuine bewilderment. "If we divorce, you can remarry and still gain an heir for your precious title."
"That's not the point."
"What is the point?" she cried, her frustration dissolving into despair.
"You are my wife, you belong to me, and I won't let you go. I will not relinquish what is mine."
She drew herself up proudly, pulling her delicate robes around her like a shield as she rose to her feet. "I don't belong to you, and I will not stay here as your wife. You don't love me, our marriage is a farce, and I will not live as a hypocrite in a loveless union. As soon as my father returns from New York, I will go to London and live with him."
Trevor suddenly rose to his feet, wrapped his arm around her waist, and brought her close, all in one fluid motion that gave her no time to react. He brought his mouth down on hers and kissed her, a hard kiss intended to demonstrate possession.
She was stiff in his hold, but she was not pushing him away. He gentled the kiss, pulling her lower lip into his mouth, tasting her as he slid his hands up and down her rigid spine, using persuasion instead of force. He kissed her and stroked her until she yielded with a tiny sound against his mouth, relaxing in his hold to mold herself against him, a reaction that made him want to explode in response.
In that moment, he would have done anything to have her, promised anything she asked for just to lie down with her and relieve the aching tension. He wondered who had just demonstrated the greater power. With an abrupt move, he let her go and walked away.
"I will not consent to a divorce," he said quietly, turning to look at her from the doorway between their rooms, "so if you want one, you'll have a fight on your hands. Furthermore, you made a promise to me that you would stay long enough to renovate the house, and I expect you to keep your word."
"As faithfully as you have kept yours?" she countered. "Or have you forgotten that promise in church about love, honor and cherish?"
She was still fighting him. Stubborn, proud, skeptical, absurdly sentimental—the Maggie he knew, in other words. "I’m trying to cherish," he said quietly. "You’re not being very cooperative about letting me. If you honor, I will honor. And as for love..." He paused and cast a long, lingering glance over her body. "I'd be happy to stay the night and love you as much as you want."
Hot color flooded her cheeks, but he suspected it was more from anger than embarrassment. "You don't understand anything," she murmured. "You're not talking about love, you're talking about, about mating."
"They are both the same, and it is only romantic women and foolish men who think differently."
"You really believe that, don't you?" She slowly shook her head. "That only proves how ill-suited we are."
"On the contrary, I think we are perfectly matched, and I intend to do everything I can to make you think so, too. And to do it, I won't play fair."
"You never do," she shot back as he closed the door.
Inside his own room, Trevor thought about their conversation. He had no doubt she meant what she said, but so did he. He would do everything in his power to change her mind.
Two things gave him hope that he could. She'd responded to his kiss like the passionate woman he remembered. And she'd been reading a book, not one of the novels he'd given her, but something even more promising than that. It was a copy of Debrett's Correct Form. She was reading up on titles and proper forms of address.
A slow, satisfied grin spread over his face.
***
During the two weeks that followed, Trevor waged the seduction of his wife with all the strategy and planning of a military campaign. He followed her on her morning rides. He forced her into conversation at meals and let her defensive barbs slide off him like water off a duck. He left her gifts—bribes, she called them—in special places where he knew she would find them. He went to her room every night to talk, using the renovation of the house as his excuse. He did everything he could think of to breach her defenses and force her surrender.
The frightening thing for Margaret was that his campaign was beginning to take its toll. Her resistance was eroding, and she sometimes caught herself actually beginning to believe in him again and imagining that he really did love her. And every time she did, she berated herself for being a fool. She tried to avoid him, but that was impossible. She tried to ignore him, but he would not be ignored. She tried to harden her heart and hate him, but that was futile.
By the time Cornelia and Edward arrived for their visit in May, she was at the end of her rope.
"Honestly, Cornelia, he's making me insane," she said, pacing back and forth across her sitting room. "He won't leave me alone."
Cornelia settled into a chair and removed her traveling gloves and bonnet. "What do you mean?"
"He follows me when I go riding. He leaves these little gifts—lemon verbena cologne and chocolate truffles and romantic novels—all over the house for me to find. Last night, there was an emerald bracelet in my soup plate. He's driving me crazy!"
Cornelia was smiling long before Margaret reached the end of her list of grievances. "Poor Maggie. What an awful husband you've got."
“This is not amusing!" she cried. "I know why he's doing
this, and it isn't out of any love for me. He wants an heir, for one thing."
"Well, of course he does. Children are the primary purpose of marriage, you know."
"And," Margaret went on as if her cousin hadn't spoken, "he's trying to charm me into stopping divorce proceedings because he's afraid that when I succeed in obtaining a divorce, I'll take my money with me."
"A divorce!" Cornelia sat up straight in her chair. "You can't be serious."
"I am completely serious."
"Do you realize what you're saying? A divorce is impossible. The scandal alone would ruin you."
"I don't care."
"Why on earth should you want a divorce? From what you've said, Ashton is turning out to be quite an adoring husband." She paused, then added, "I must admit, I'm relieved. Surprised, too. I never would have thought him the romantic type."
"He's not. He's just trying to manipulate me again for his own purposes. Trevor will do anything to save his estates. Once he has his heirs and his investments are profitable, he'll grant me a divorce quick enough."
"Forgive me for saying so, but you're not making sense. The gifts, the attentions—"
"It's all for show. He's not doing these things to demonstrate affection for me. He's only trying to keep me around long enough to get what he wants. I cannot live like this, in an empty and meaningless marriage. He doesn't love me."
"Are you certain?"
"Oh, yes. I heard him say so."
Cornelia looked up as the maid entered with a tea tray, then glanced at Margaret. She waved it away. "I hope you don't mind, Maggie, but I think both of us would do better with some Madeira." Margaret dismissed the maid and sank into a chair.
"I don't need a drink," she said with a sigh. "What I need is a divorce."
"Oh, Maggie, think about what you're doing. If you divorce, it's highly unlikely you'll be able to remarry a respectable man."
"Why should I want to remarry at all?"
"A divorce in England is almost impossible to obtain."
"So I've been told."
"Wouldn't it be simpler to try to make your marriage work? Even if he doesn't love you, he's fond of you, and you have a lot in common. You both like adventure and excitement. Not all good marriages are based on love. Many couples are quite content with shared interests and some degree of affection."
"I would not be content," she said. She looked at her cousin with hopeless resignation. "I could not bear it. I love him too much to be content with his fondness and affection. Don't you see?"
Cornelia sighed. "I'm sorry you're so unhappy. I feel as if I am to blame."
"No, you're not. I know you and Edward were persuaded to cooperate in Trevor's plans and felt you were doing what was best for me. Trevor never told me he loved me, and no one forced me to marry him. That was my choice. I convinced myself he loved me when he did not."
