A Wicked Liaison. Christine MerrillЧитать онлайн книгу.
He strode from the room, then she heard him in the hall calling for his hat and stick, and the adamant snap as the front door closed behind him.
She sat, staring into the fire, her mind racing. Jeremy was to have been the answer to all her problems. She had been so sure of it. She had been willing to overlook a certain weakness of chin and of character. She had laughed at his boring stories. She had listened to him talk politics, and nodded, even though she could not find it in herself to agree. And she had found him foolish, sober or in mirth. She had been more than willing to marry a buffoon, and smile and nod through the rest of her life, in exchange for a little security and consistent companionship.
Maybe Jeremy had been a fool, but an honest and good-hearted one, despite his offer. And he had been right when he’d hinted that anything was better than what Lord Barton might suggest, if she allowed him to speak to her again. Jeremy could at least pretend that what he was doing would be best for both of them. There had never been any indication, when she’d looked into Jack Barton’s eyes, that he cared in the slightest about anyone but himself.
‘Your Grace, can I get you anything?’ It was her maid, Susan, come downstairs to see what was the matter.
Constance glanced up at the clock. An hour had passed since Jeremy had gone, and she had let it, without moving from the spot. ‘No, I am all right. I think I will put myself to bed this evening, Susan. Rest yourself. I will see you in the morning.’
The girl looked worried, but left her in peace.
When Constance went to stand, it felt as if she had to gather strength from deep within for the minor effort of rising from the chair. She climbed the stairs with difficulty, glad that the maid was so easily persuaded. It would be better to crawl up the stairs alone on her hands and knees than to admit how hard a blow Jeremy had struck with his non-proposal.
Susan knew the trouble she faced. The girl had found her before when she’d come to wake her, still dressed and dozing in a bedroom chair. Constance had been poring over the accounts in the wee hours, finding no way to make the expenses match the meagre allowance she received from her husband’s nephew, Freddy. If only her husband had taken him in hand and taught him what would be expected, Freddy might have made a decent peer.
But Robert had been so set on the idea that they would have a child. There would be an heir, if not this year, then certainly the next. And if his own son were to inherit the title, he might never need bother with his tiresome nephew.
And now Robert was gone, and the new duke was heedless of anything but his own pleasure. He knew little of what it took to run his own estates and even less what Robert might have expected of him in regards to the welfare of the dowager.
Dowager. How she loathed the word. It always brought to mind a particularly unattractive piece of furniture. The sort of thing one put in a seldom-used room, allowing the upholstery to become faded and moth-eaten, until it was totally forgotten.
An accurate enough description, when one thought of it. Her own upholstery was sadly in need of replacement, but with the butcher’s bill and the greengrocer, and the cost of coal, she dare not spend foolishly.
Of course, she could always sell the house and move to smaller accommodations, if she had the deed in hand. She had seen it, the day her husband had drawn it up. The house and its contents were clearly in her name, and he had assured her that she would not want, when his time came.
Then he had locked it in his safe and forgotten it. And now, the new duke could not be troubled to give it to her. When she asked, it was always tomorrow, or soon. She felt her lip quaver and bit it to stop the trembling. She had been a fool not to remove the keys from her husband’s pocket, while his body was barely cold. She could have gone to the safe and got the deed herself and no one need have been the wiser. Now the keys and the safe belonged to Freddy and she must wait upon him to do the right thing.
Which was easier than waiting upon her suitors to offer something other than their false protection. She had been angry the first time someone had suggested that she solve her financial problems on her back. When it had happened again, anger had faded to dread. And now, it had happened so many times that she wanted nothing more than to hide in her rooms and weep.
Was this the true measure of her worth? Men admired her face and wanted her body, there was no question of that. And they seemed to enjoy her company. But never so much that they could overlook a barren womb when it came time to wed. They wanted the best of both worlds: a wife at home, great with child, and an infertile mistress tucked away for entertainment so that they could remain conveniently bastardless.
Damn Jeremy and his empty promises. She had been so sure that his hints about the future were honourable.
What was she to do now, other than to take the offer, of course? It would solve all her worries if she was willing to bend the last little bit, and give up on the idea that she could ever succeed in finding another husband. She shut the door behind her and snuffed her candle, letting the tears flow down her cheeks in the dark.
And in a corner of the room there was movement.
She caught her breath and held it. It was not a settling of the house, or a mouse in the wainscoting. That had been the scrape of a boot on the wood floor near the dresser. And then something fell from the dresser top. Her jewellery box. She could hear the meagre contents landing like hailstones on the rug.
A thief. Come to take what little she had left.
Her fatigue fled. A scream would be useless. With all the servants safely below stairs, no one would hear her. To get to the bell pull, she would need to go closer to the thief, and he would never allow her to reach it. She turned to run.
The stranger was across the room and caught her before she could move, and a hand clamped down over her mouth.
Chapter Three
‘Remain silent, your Grace, and I will do what I came for and be gone. You are in no danger from me, as long as you are quiet.’
His hand eased away from her lips, but he held her close in a most familiar way, one hand at the back of her neck, the other cupping her hip, and his legs bumping against the length of her.
And suddenly, she was sick and tired of men trying to sample the merchandise without buying, or wanting to rob her, or dying and leaving her penniless and alone. She fought to free her arms and stuck him hard in the face. ‘I’ll give you silence, you thieving bastard.’ She hit him again, in the shoulder, but his hands did not move. ‘Is that quiet enough for you, you dirty sneak?’ And she beat upon him with her closed fists, as silently as possible, shoulders shaking with effort, gasping out tears of rage.
He took the rain of blows in silence as well, except for the occasional grunt when a well-landed punch caused him to expel a puff of air. And when her blows began to weaken he effortlessly caught her wrists and pinned them behind her. ‘Stop it, now, before you hurt yourself. You’ll bruise your hands, and do more damage to them than you might to me.’
She struggled in his grip, but he held firm until the last of the fight was gone from her and there was nothing left but tears.
‘Finished? Good. Now, tell me what is the trouble.’ He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her, and she was appalled to recognise it as her own.
‘Trouble? Are you daft in the head? There is a man in my room, holding me against my will. And going through my lingerie.’ She crushed the linen square in her hand and tossed it at his feet.
‘Before that.’ She could barely make out his face in the embers from the banked fire, but there was sympathy in his voice. ‘You were crying before you ever knew I was here. Truth, now. What was the matter?’
‘Why do you care?’
‘Is it not enough to know that I do?’
‘No. You have a reason for it, and as a common thief, you must wish the knowledge to use against me in some way.’
He