Regency Rogues: Disgraceful Secrets

‘That is all?’ she said, surprised.

He nodded. ‘If it bothers you, then I suspect you will be even more disturbed when you see the rest of me.’

She had been thinking just such a thing when trying to imagine him naked.

He laughed again and gave a lascivious waggle of his eyebrows to show that he had been talking of other scars, but knew full well what she’d been thinking.

She shrank a little farther under the covers. The papers had said nothing of such things. They’d left her to imagine entire scenarios based on the phrase heroic charge. ‘Were you injured often?’

He gave a non-committal shrug as he pulled off his stockings and threw them towards the wardrobe. ‘As much as anyone, I’m sure. But not as much as those who did not come home.’ Then he stood, turned to face her and displayed his chest. There was another cut across his upper arm, but it was clear from the wide scar that this had been deeper than the one across his back. And lower, just above his waist, was a puckered puncture.

He pointed. ‘This is the one that should have done for me. A hole in the guts is a damned ugly way to die. But it managed to miss my vitals and come right out the other side. Of course, you won’t see that until I take off my breeches.’

‘But you recovered,’ she said with a sigh of relief.

‘I was feverish, of course. But I fought it off and was back in the saddle in a month and a half. The surgeon said it was a miracle. I assume I should be thanking you for your prayers for my safety.’ He said the last with an ironic twist of his lips.

For all she knew, it was exactly how he had survived. Would he believe her, should she tell him so? ‘I prayed fervently for your good health each night for seven years.’ When she saw the answering glare, she added a smile as ironic as his had been. It seemed to satisfy him more than her sincerity.

‘And now you have got your wish.’ He undid the buttons on his breeches, dropped them to the floor and kicked them out of the way as he pulled back the bedcovers and climbed in beside her.

She had known for some time that it would not be the soft dumpling of a boy who came to her, should her wedding night ever occur. But she had not been prepared for Gerald Wiscombe in the flesh. Even flaccid he was a formidable specimen. His lack of embarrassment at his own nakedness made him all the more intimidating.

Despite the scars, he was also blessedly intact. She’d seen more than her share of veterans of the Peninsula walking the halls of the Chase on wooden legs and crutches, or with empty coat sleeves pinned up to keep them out of the way. But whether from luck or answered prayers, her captain had returned with two strong arms and two good legs.

Now that she could see all of him, she’d noted the tracery of smaller scars that accompanied the major wounds. This was a man who viewed injury as mere inconvenience, should it stand in the way of what he wished to achieve. Once he had begun, resisting would be futile.

For a moment, the old fears returned and she shrank back even farther towards the edge of the bed, glancing towards the door of her room.

He made no effort to reach for her. ‘You may leave if you wish. I have no intention of holding a wife by force, especially you.’ Then he rolled on to his stomach. ‘Or you might make yourself useful and rub the knots out of my shoulders. After three days in the saddle I am as stiff as an unsoaped harness.’

‘H-how would I do that?’ It was an unexpected request. But it would be less frightening to do than to be done to.

‘It will not be difficult. Begin by putting your hands about my throat and pretending that you wish to choke the life out of me.’ He laughed into the pillow.

She could not see his face. But by the tone of his voice he seemed to be honestly amused by the idea that she might want to hurt him. At least he trusted her enough to turn his back to her while naked and defenceless. She responded to his trust with her own and pulled her legs up under her to kneel at his side. Then she placed her hands on his shoulders and began to knead.

It was easy to see why he’d wanted her help. The muscles beneath her fingers were as hard and unyielding as bags of sand. Or perhaps that was normal. She had never touched so much bare male skin in her life. As she worked over them, she felt the flesh begin to soften and relax.

Her own tension was easing, as well. The warmth of his body and the rhythmic kneading of her own hands worked as a soporific. The last of the pain in her head diminished to a dull throb, then disappeared.

It was replaced by hesitant pleasure. She liked touching him. There was something very comforting about the feel of his warm flesh beneath her hands, as if he could transfer his bravery to her through the skin. She wanted to curl up next to him, to press her cheek into his shoulder and stay there until the world felt right again.

In response to her massage, her husband grunted in satisfaction. ‘You are almost as good at this as an army leech. Of course, he used horse liniment.’

In spite of herself, she smiled. Then she dug her fingers more deeply into the space beneath his shoulder blades. ‘I am sure we can find something better than camphor and turpentine to use in the bedroom. My maid has a recipe for a balm made with beeswax and peppermint…’

He was laughing again, his shoulders shaking with mirth. Then he gave a lurch and rolled, catching her wrists and pulling her off balance and on to her back. ‘By all means, we must render me sweet-smelling if we are to share a bed.’

The sudden change in position left her breathless and light-headed. But this time it was a good feeling, more like floating than fainting. There was something about his smile, so close above her, that kept her from being afraid. She answered him with a hesitant nod.

He leaned on his elbows so that he might look down into her eyes. ‘You are a comely wench, Lily Wiscombe.’ He ran a fingertip along the line of her jaw. Then his smile was coming closer and his lips met hers.

Wiscombe.

She was not a North any more. She was a Wiscombe. One of two. Soon, two would become one. If it was anything like this kiss, she had nothing to fear. His mouth was open and his lips moved slowly against hers. Very gently, she reached out with the tip of her tongue to taste the crooked smile and the tiny imperfections that made him so fascinating to look at.

In response, his body stirred. His arms tightened around her. Their breath mingled in a sigh.

‘He mounted his horse in the night at the door,

‘And sat with his face to the crupper.’

The song, bawdy and off-key, came like a nightmare interrupting a dream. Mr Carstairs was in his cups, and walking down the corridor of the family wing at the worst possible time.

Her mind immediately flew to the hall door of her own room. She replayed the memory of locking it after her maid left. She’d set the key upon the dresser, just as she did every night. She was safe.

But that room had never been the problem. This was the room that was dangerous. It might look different, but underneath the paint and paper it was the same. And the doors here were not locked as they ought to be. Anyone might enter from the hall. Her head was pounding now as she waited for the sound of a hand testing the handle.

Her husband pulled away from her, staring at the door. ‘What the devil…?’

‘Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse,

‘While I was engaged with the bottle…’

The song was even louder now, even closer. But she was not alone this time. And it was not just her husband come too late to save her from dishonour. Her hero, Captain Wiscombe, was finally here and bristling with righteous anger.

Suddenly, her fear of the drunk in the hallway seemed overblown. She touched her husband’s bare arm. ‘It is nothing,’ she said, praying that was true. ‘If we ignore him, he will go away.’ She would lie awake the rest of the night fearing that he, or someone else, would return. But as long as Captain Wiscombe was here, she would be safe.

‘Which went gluggity, gluggity, glug.’

All the same, she could not seem to control her body’s response. She was trembling, quite out of character with the foolishness of the song. Please let him go, she entreated silently. Please. The day had been hard enough without this.

‘Enough.’ Wiscombe pushed away from her and swung his legs out of the bed, reaching for his breeches.

‘It is nothing,’ she repeated, if only to convince herself.

‘It damn well is not. It is Carstairs. The man is a bloody nuisance,’ he said, throwing a shirt over his head and pulling boots over his bare feet. ‘Despite what may have been condoned in my absence, my home is not a tavern and my bedroom is not a music hall. I mean to put a stop to it.’ Then he was through the door and it slammed behind him.

‘’Tis strange headless horses should trot,

‘But to drink with their tails is a—’

The song came to an abrupt end and the silence was profound. She waited, breath held, to see what would happen next.

The minutes had stretched out into an hour and still nothing happened. The singing did not continue, but neither did Captain Wiscombe return. Had he locked the door when he’d gone? She stared across the room, at the door handle, watching for movement.

She debated the sense of slinking back to her own room so that she might safely lock herself inside. Then it occurred to her that, should someone look for her, this was the one place they would not search. Even if they suspected that she was here, they would not dare enter the bedroom of a decorated soldier. She was safer in Wiscombe’s room than she had been in her own.

The thought was strangely comforting. She was in her husband’s bed, where she belonged. She eased back into the pillows and pulled the coverlet up. Then she closed her eyes to rest them until her husband returned.

Chapter Eight

When Lily woke the next morning, it was in her own bed. She lay perfectly still for a moment, trying to dredge up the memory of the previous evening. Had she roused sufficiently to get herself here, or had she fled? If so, had it been before or after her husband’s return?

She searched both her body and her mind for any trace of disturbance that could explain this situation. She was a sound sleeper, particularly after a megrim when she had been stressed to the point of exhaustion. But if Captain Wiscombe had returned to bed her, she’d hoped she would have some memory of it.

It appeared that he had returned to find her sleeping and carried her to her own bed without waking her. She had a vague recollection of arms lifting her up and a sigh of soft breath at her temple. It seemed he had chosen to prolong this part of his homecoming for another night, at least.

She rang for her maid. As usual, she selected a day gown that was both simple and sensible. Her father sometimes accused her of dressing no better than an innkeeper’s wife. When he did, she invariably told him that since he insisted on housing strangers in her home, she saw no reason to behave as if she were entertaining friends.

But this morning, when she went down to breakfast, she would be greeted not just by her father’s friends, but by the critical eye of her husband. She rejected the first gown and chose a snow-white muslin with a wide border of violets embroidered about the hem. There were purple ribbons at her waist and she requested that Jenny thread more of them through her curls. When they were finished, she looked as fresh as a spring morning.

Before he’d arrived, she’d imagined what it might be like if the past between them did not exist. Suppose they had never married and she was meeting Captain Gerald Wiscombe for the first time at a ball or garden party. This was the way she would want to look if she wished to capture the attention of the hero of Salamanca.

Against all reason, her stomach filled with hopeful butterflies. Things had seemed different last night. Though he had refused to discuss the war while at table, he’d been willing to tell her about his injuries. While she had been touching him, he’d been happy and content, as had she. Perhaps this kernel of trust might grow to be something more.

Would he notice a difference in her look or manner when she arrived at the breakfast table? If he did, he did not say. There was no indication that he approved, other than a slight raise of his eyebrow as he examined her over his coffee cup. When he smiled, it was the same false grin he had been using at supper. Whatever truce they’d achieved while together in the bedroom did not extend to the other rooms of the house. ‘Good morning, my dear.’ His voice was just as dispassionate as his expression.

She could answer in kind. But if she wished for a change, there was no point playing games with him. She gave him her warmest smile and curtsied. ‘Good morning, Captain Wiscombe.’

‘I trust you slept well?’

Was he asking because he had put her to bed, or was it nothing more than polite conversation? ‘Yes, thank you.’

‘I suspect it was difficult because of the noise in the hall.’ This was said to no one in particular, as if he meant to call the perpetrator to task over it.

‘That was Carstairs,’ her father announced, as though there were nothing particularly strange about drunken serenades. ‘We really must teach the man a new song.’

‘Or teach him to sing the current one correctly,’ Ronald added. ‘He cannot seem to hit the high note, for all the times he tries. I see he is sleeping late this morning.’

‘Perhaps feeling the ill effects of the bottle,’ Mr Burke added.

‘He is not sleeping late,’ Mrs Carstairs announced. ‘At least he is not doing so in our room. He was not there at all last night.’

All assembled shifted in their chairs, trying to pretend that they were not hearing accusations of infidelity over breakfast.

The offended wife’s gaze swept down the table, searching for signs of guilt. ‘Miss Fellowes is not present, either.’

Mrs Burke made sympathetic noises of disapproval.

‘Neither is Sir Chauncey,’ her father supplied. ‘Perhaps Miss Fellowes is with him.’

‘What would they be doing together so early in the morning?’ Mrs Wilson’s smile was positively evil.

‘I am sure they are both in their own rooms where they belong,’ Lily said, trying to stop the rampant speculation. ‘And Mr Carstairs…’ Really. She had no idea. ‘Perhaps Mr Carstairs is hunting.’

‘If he is, he must be told to leave the old stag for me,’ Greywall announced to no one in particular. ‘That fellow is mine.’

‘I do not think that is the game he is after,’ said Mrs Burke with a sniff. ‘More likely he has caught a young doe.’

Mrs Carstairs hissed through her teeth and pushed away from the table as if preparing a physical response to the insult.

Before Lily was forced to intervene, there was a shriek from the hall and the sound of breaking glass. The residents of the breakfast room hurried to the doorway, eager to see what fresh scandal was brewing.

All except Captain Wiscombe. He merely helped himself to more fish and refilled his coffee. She left him to it and followed the others into the hall.

Once there she found something far more interesting than the gossip over last night’s serenade. Mr Carstairs was standing in the hall, sporting a blackened eye and naked as a jay except for the silk runner he had seized from a nearby side table. Sally, one of the younger and more impressionable parlourmaids, was collapsed in a dead faint, surrounded by the sherry glasses she had been retrieving from the parlour.

‘I had no intention…’ stuttered Mr Carstairs. ‘I awoke in a horse trough in the stables. But my clothes… I do not know… And there was a black stallion snapping at my…’ He gripped the table runner even tighter over his unmentionables.

‘Was the trough not full, then?’ Wiscombe said innocently. He stood at the back of the group, coffee cup still in hand. ‘Poor Satan must be starving. I will go and speak to his groom.’ He passed his drink to an approaching footman and walked past the shivering Carstairs as though he did not see him, muttering to himself about the need to set in a decent supply of oats and mash.

Since Mr Carstairs had been just outside their door before the singing stopped, Lily suspected that her husband knew perfectly well about the condition of the horse trough, the source of Carstairs’s black eye and the location of the gentleman’s clothes. But if he did not wish to speak of them, neither did she.

She pushed through the knot of guests blocking her way and went directly to the maid, who needed more help than her embarrassed guest. She positioned herself so that Sally would be spared from witnessing more nakedness if she woke. Then she called for a footman to bring a glass of water and spirits of ammonia.

Behind her, in the doorway to the breakfast room, Mrs Burke could no longer contain herself. Her stern disapproval of moments earlier dissolved and she let loose with a braying guffaw worthy of Satan the stallion. Mr Burke joined her, as did the earl. Mrs Carstairs answered them with a torrent of words that no lady should know.

Phineas North made a desperate attempt to re-establish a semblance of decorum and tried to shoo the ladies back towards the table. But no amount of gesticulating and tut-tutting sympathy from her father could quell the general mirth at the poor man’s misfortune. With a moan, Mr Carstairs fled for the stairs, the table runner fluttering behind him.

Mr and Mrs Carstairs left later that day, citing urgent business in London. Gerry smiled to himself as he watched from his bedroom window and saw the carriage disappearing around the last bend of the drive. He had been successful in removing the first two interlopers. The rest would follow soon enough.

A single punch to the eye had been enough to stop the singing. But Gerry had not wanted the man sleeping off the liquor on the floor of the hall, only to awake unabashed and resume the song. He’d deemed it best to provide a lesson that could not be unlearned. He had thought about the matter for less than a minute before his own infernal sense of humour had taken hold. It had ended with him carrying the man like a sack of grain out to the stables, stripping him of his garments and leaving him.

He had not intended to abandon his wife. It had just taken more time than he’d planned to settle with the drunk in the hall. He’d meant to return to Lily with an amusing story to tell. When he’d left, she’d been shaking beneath the covers like a half-drowned puppy. He’d felt almost sorry for her.

Before the interruption, things had been going better than he’d expected. He’d had a damned fine reason for his foul temper yesterday afternoon. But the satisfaction of besting North at billiards had improved his mood. Retiring to that most suitable of bedchambers to have his shoulders caressed by a ministering angel had left him as tame as a kitten. To finish the night with his needs satisfied and his head pillowed on a soft breast would have made a fine end to a difficult day.

Then Carstairs had come and ruined everything. He’d lost his temper and the lady had lost her nerve.

By the time he’d got back to his room Lily had been fast asleep, curled into a ball beneath the blankets as if she feared attack. It had been an impulse to carry her to her room and put her to bed properly. There, she had settled in her own place with a happy sigh and continued sleeping.

What was he to make of her strange behaviour? When he’d imagined his return to Wiscombe Chase, he had assumed his wife was as conniving and crooked as the rest of her family. She would come up with a dozen unlikely stories for the condition of his house and the child presented as his heir. Perhaps she would try to seduce him into forgiving her. He would allow her to attempt it, at least for a time. She might be faithless, but she was every bit as beautiful as she had been on the day he’d married her. Back then, he’d been too embarrassed by his own inexperience to take what was his by right. Despite himself, he still wanted her. He would not miss the opportunity again.

But she was not the scheming jade he’d expected. Her dress was modest, her manner apologetic and obedient. At dinner she’d remained polite but aloof from the dinner guests. He wondered if she had feigned illness to escape them. When she’d come to his room, there had been no sign of the chronic headache that had been described to him by her brother.

Instead, she had been concerned and sympathetic to his injuries, old and new. She had talked of beeswax and peppermint, hinting at massages to come. And she had returned the kiss he’d given her.

She had been cautious of him, but not frightened. She had not shown fear until they’d been interrupted by the man wandering outside in the hall. But why? Carstairs had been no threat at all. He was just a jolly drunkard who could be tricked by his own weakness. It served him right for treating his hostess’s hospitality with the same contempt he had for the billiard-room ceiling.

This morning, it pleased him that Lily had needed no instruction to hold her tongue. She’d taken her cue from his indifference and pretended there was no logical explanation for the naked man in her hall. But he suspected she had been amused by it. Had he seen a faint flicker of a smile on her lips as she’d rushed to help the maid?

She approved. Her approval should have meant nothing to him after all this time. But it did.

But he had far more approval in this house than he really wanted. He frowned down at the paper on the writing desk that sat under the bedroom windows. When he’d returned to his room after breakfast, he’d found it on the rug in front of the door, as if it had been slipped beneath to lie in his path as he entered.

The rectangle of parchment was folded once, the crease bisecting the writing with a razor-sharp line. Opening it revealed the multiplication table copied out in ink. It would have been an exaggeration to call the writing neat. There were smudges and blots, and a few grains of sand still clinging to the drying ink. But it was hard for a small hand to manage a pen. At that age he’d been using pencil, or chalk and slate.

This was clearly an attempt to impress him. And damn it all, he did not want to be impressed. He wanted to forget the one doing the writing so he might enjoy his new life at home. He wanted to clear the house of undesirables and stare into Lily’s soulful brown eyes and pretend that she had never betrayed him. That would be impossible with a child underfoot, trying to get his attention.

He crumpled the paper and turned to throw it in the grate. Then, something stopped him. Too much work had gone into the preparation of this gift. While he did not want it, he would feel guilty if he destroyed it. Perhaps the child’s mother would wish to see proof of the boy’s educational success. He smoothed it flat again and tucked it between the pages of the Théorie Analytique where it would be out of sight until he was ready to deal with it.

He smiled down at the books. They were just the sort of gift he appreciated. How had she known he would want them? For that matter, how had she known to do any of this? Did she have some ingrained talent for homemaking and hospitality, to turn his detested childhood home into such a welcoming place?

Now that he’d got a look at it in daylight, he was even more eager than he had been to evict the guests, so he might enjoy his home in peace. The old heap of stone was comfortably familiar, yet so very different from the way he remembered it. It had been a sad house when he’d left it. Generations of neglect had worn on it, making it seem not just old, but tired of spirit. Even on the best days, there had been an odour of rank greenery and loam about the place, as if in a few more years the forest would reclaim the land and leave nothing for the last of the Wiscombes.