Anne O'Brien – Regency High Society Vol 6: The Enigmatic Rake / The Lord And The Mystery Lady / The Wagering Widow / An Unconventional Widow (страница 35)

‘I have matters to attend to.’ Tall and straight, her lord continued to face her, face shuttered and cold, refusing to acknowledge her plea, resisting every need to close the space and enfold her once again into his arms. Better that she hate him, heap blame on his head, than that he take her to his bed with such issues between them.

‘Please.’ Soft, little more than a murmur, her voice reached him. ‘Don’t leave me like this. Do I mean so little to you?’ Never during their short marriage had she been so outspoken of her feelings, so uncertain of his response.

‘I must.’ He fought the temptation to rake his fingers in desolation through his hair, fought against the pain in his heart. How difficult it was to turn her away. But he would do it to protect her from further anguish. ‘Don’t look so tragic, my dear. Scandals always die a death when the next one surfaces to replace it. You will soon become used to the taint of scandal, now that your name is coupled with mine.’

The bitterness in his words scorched her. ‘No. I will not accept that.’

‘You were aware when you took my name that it was a tarnished commodity.’ He heard his cruel words, wincing at their power to hurt. But to fuel her anger would lessen her pain.

‘How can you do this? I do not believe it… ‘

‘You have no choice, my lady.’ He bowed his head, a curt cold gesture, and left her standing alone in the room.

Sarah was left to contemplate the cold ashes of the day, one thought following rapidly on the heels of the former. He had rejected her, with cruel barbs and harsh words. And why? What had he seen in her face to make him walk away? Whatever it was, he had misread it, for she trusted him with her life. One moment to hold and kiss her, passion firing his caresses, the next to walk away with such sneering disdain. Her fragile confidence, which had begun to blossom under his caring attentions, all but shattered. But she would not. She would not sink beneath spiteful gossip or bow to those who would destroy her happiness. She might not know the reason for his behaviour toward her, but of one fact she had total conviction—Joshua Faringdon was not capable of cold-blooded murder. It was not possible that she could have judged him so wrongly and given her heart to a man capable of such evil.

She allowed her mind to play over the tension-filled confrontation. When she had told him of the whispered accusations against him, a hard cold rage had touched his face. So much anger, yet not, she thought, directed at her. He knew more than he was saying, admitted it even, but she could not imagine what it could be.

Sarah walked to look out of the window at the darkening sky, watching the rain spatter on the glass and the trees bend before the icy wind. It exactly matched her mood, she thought as she wrapped her arms around herself for comfort. How was it possible that she could simply trust and love Joshua, accepting his silence, when he stood accused of murder? It was not reciprocated. She brushed tears from her lashes with the back of an impatient hand. He never talked of love to her. She did not expect that, accepted that he did not love her. But there were shadows all around them—so dark and impenetrable. Layer on layer, they invaded her mind. He was often absent, for lengthy periods in the day and without explanation. Letters were delivered to the house by elusive individuals who left no name or visiting card. It would seem that he had another life quite separate from her. Well, that should not surprise her. Of course he had business dealings of which she knew nothing. But what was it that he was not telling her? Did he not respect her enough to trust her with the truth, whatever it might be? Her mind returned again and again to that one concern. The fears would not leave her.

And she was being followed!

Sarah retreated from the drear outlook to sit on the little stool before her dressing table, her heart sore. She rarely wept—it did no good, solved no difficulties—but she wept long into the night for the man who now appeared, through his own choice, to be as far distant from her as the stars that shone with such icy indifference.

* * *

But when Sarah rose from her bed the following morning, it was to a new inner strength, a new resolution. She would not accept his rejection. She would destroy the distance of his making. If trust was to be an issue between them, she would show that it was not lacking from her side.

Her lord was in no better frame of mind. Joshua was left to contemplate the fact that his relationship with Sarah, still so new and untried, had been put in jeopardy by the impossibility of laying all before her. How could a marriage survive and bloom on lies and deceit? In truth he could not take her to his bed. Not with the weight of guilt on him. The rumours, as clearly intended, would blacken his name even more with the Polite World, from rake to murderer in one discreetly whispered on dit. Why should Sarah believe any good of him? He found himself confronted by a growing need to tell her the truth, to strip his soul bare and to appear a man of integrity and principle in her eyes. Little chance of that! Morosely he studied the blank sheet of paper on the desk before him.

Why should it matter what she believed? Why should it matter to him if he simply covered his tracks with a few well-chosen lies to prevent her from questioning him further?

Because you are falling in love with her, you fool. You need her to believe in you, see the best in you. As simple…and as complicated as that.

The little voice spoke insistently to take him completely by surprise. He recalled her standing there, offering her lips, the warmth and shelter of her arms, Sarah who rarely offered anything of her own volition, whilst he deliberately, coldly, distanced himself from her, holding her at arm’s length. Love? It was not so, of course. He cared for her, felt a strong urge to protect her. Without doubt desired her physically. But love? He would never in his life love another woman. Marianne had taught him that much. To allow one’s heart to be held by the slender, elegant fingers of a beautiful woman—of any woman—was inarguably a recipe for pain and disillusion. No—he did not love Sarah. He would not love her.

Even though he regretted his callous treatment of her from the bottom of his heart.

Having disposed of that little problem to his liking, Lord Faringdon was still faced with the prospect of the damaging rumours destroying any hope of a calm and satisfactory marriage. He doubted that anything could be done to smooth over the immediate damage. It was simply a matter of riding out the storm, taking his own advice, which he had so cavalierly flung at his unsuspecting wife. A subtle flash of colour tinted his cheekbones at the memory. He was not proud of that moment.

There was, however, one conversation that he was determined to have, and as soon as might be. Anger returned in good measure, causing him to place his pen carefully on the desk before he snapped it in two. He knew where these rumours had begun. He would wager his best hunter on it. And he knew damn well who was responsible for Sarah being shadowed. He could most certainly put a stop to that. Picking up the pen again, he scrawled a few terse lines. Between them, Olivia Wexford and Wycliffe were threatening to undermine Sarah’s new-found happiness and contentment and create a bottomless abyss between them. He could not tolerate that. He could do that quite well enough on his own, it seemed! His lips curled at his own clumsy attempts to spare her further pain, where he had signally failed. But Wycliffe was resident in England for a few months, his sources suggested. It was time for Lord Faringdon to have some plain words with this elusive gentleman.

Sarah rose early, dressed, drank her chocolate in an abstracted manner and listened unashamedly at the door of her lord’s dressing room. He, too, was up betimes. Perhaps he, too, had not slept well. She paced her bedchamber for half an hour until she heard his valet leave the room and walk past her own door. She walked through the dressing room, knocked briskly on the door of her husband’s room and entered without waiting for a reply. Then she stood and watched her husband, dispassionately, she hoped.

Joshua looked up from the diamond pin that he was about to secure in his cravat. Still in his shirtsleeves, a little pale, heavy eyed, he was still outrageously attractive and Sarah’s heart performed its usual breath-stopping leap of awareness. But she gave no indication of her emotion or of the residual ache caused by his cold retreat from her. She hoped that he had slept as badly as she. He deserved it. She was, she realised, not dispassionate at all.

‘Sarah—’

‘I have something to say.’

Lord Joshua made no move toward her, but shrugged into his coat. For once he could not meet her eyes, which held the bright light of imminent conflict.

‘When Eleanor felt most under threat from the Baxendale scandal,’ she spoke of it without a tremor, ‘when my brother seemed likely to succeed and the haut ton turned against her, when she was not invited to the homes of those whom she would have once called friends, do you know what she did?’ Sarah did not wait for an answer. Not that her lord was capable of giving one. ‘She went to the opera at Covent Garden. She insisted that Henry take her, to show the world that she believed in her own innocence and she did not care that others would question the legality of her marriage to your cousin Thomas. She sat there throughout the whole performance, with every lorgnette raised in her direction. She smiled, she flirted a little, she conversed. And hid from the world how much she suffered. Henry sat beside her, to shield her and support her with his presence because he could do no other. I admire them more than I can say.’