Brenda Hiatt (13 page)

“Of course, Mother. To the triumph of Justice and Hunt’s release; To a Christmas Season that’s sure to please. Welcome home, son!”

Hunt scarcely drank to the toast, as it was patently to him, but he could not resist a glance in Holly’s direction as she dutifully sipped. She appeared perfectly composed, he thought cynically, not the least bit discomfited at drinking a toast to his freedom from an imprisonment he owed entirely to her. The wine, the finest from the Wickburn cellars, tasted like vinegar in his mouth.

He had been in a foul humour all day. Travelling with his stepmother was never pleasant—her constant complaints about her health, the stops and the condition of the roads nearly drove him mad. After nearly two months of enforced inactivity, though, he could not ride for long at a stretch and had perforce to listen to much of it. Relieved as he was to be free, there had been moments when he wondered whether it were worth the price.

And now he had to face Holly again. During his confinement—as luxurious a confinement as money could buy, but confinement nonetheless—he had laboured to uproot all tenderness for his wife from his soul. He’d thought he had succeeded, right up until the moment he saw her again. But after one glimpse of her face he had known he was in peril of falling in love with her all over again.

Sternly he reminded himself of how she had deceived him, how she had not even troubled to write to him during his imprisonment. It helped a little. At the very least, it enabled him to keep his voice and face impassive when he glanced across the table at her again.

She was even more beautiful than he remembered, her long black hair sweeping down to frame her ivory face before it was looped up behind in an intricate knot. Irresistibly, he was reminded of the first time he saw her, at Lady Chittendon’s ball more than a year ago. In spite of everything that had gone since, he felt even more drawn to her now than he had been then.

During the remainder of the meal, Hunt determinedly engaged his grandmother in a conversation about the tenant
families and their prospects for the coming year. It was a subject about which both of them felt strongly, and served—almost—to distract him from the woman across the table.

“The Kellers lost the best of their two milk cows in October,” the dowager was saying. “’Twill be a difficult winter for them, I fear. Their farmland has never produced much, rocky as it is.”

“I will visit them tomorrow, to see what can be contrived,” Hunt said, a bit more loudly than necessary. “Perhaps the Grants would be willing to exchange a heifer for a few of those acres. Mr. Grant spoke to me last summer about wishing to expand his barley crop.”

His grandmother nodded. “Have you given any thought to the Feast of St. Stephen? The tenants will be looking forward to a grand celebration, with you at home again.”

Hunt suddenly remembered last year, when that holiday had fallen only two days after his wedding. He and Holly, filled with the euphoria of their new union, had gone themselves to hand out gifts to the tenants, staying to drink cider, watch the mumming plays and dance to the tune of old Mr. Wilson’s fiddle. It had been one of the happiest days of his life, he thought now.

“Certainly, we must do something special,” he finally answered. “I will think on it, Grandmama.”

Though Hunt had never cared much for the custom of remaining with his father and brother over port, tonight he saw the ladies depart with relief. Thinking ahead to the moment when he would be sleeping—or trying to sleep—only one room away from Holly, he applied himself to the bottle with vigour.

“I’d been meaning to ask you, brother,” said Reginald, when the men were alone at the enormous table. “Did the Foreign Office ever discover which one of the servants hid that letter in your house? Or was it connected to the real traitor at all?”

“I…don’t believe it was,” replied Hunt carefully.

“Whole thing was a tempest in a teapot, if you ask me,” declared the duke. “Said so at the very beginning. I heard what that letter said after they deciphered it—sounded like a billet-doux to one of the maids from her lover.”

Reg laughed. “No, really? A love letter?” He turned back to Hunt and immediately the laughter left his face, to be replaced by concern.

“Yes, that is what it sounded like,” Hunt agreed, not meeting his brother’s eyes. He realized that he would rather believe Holly a traitor to England than to their marriage.

During the inquest, he had convinced himself that he merely wished to avoid the scandal that would result if it became known that the Marchioness of Vandover was a traitoress. But now he suspected that he had, in fact, had another motive for his silence.

He motioned for the footman to refill his glass.

“T
HE SNOW
seems to have stopped for the moment,” Holly observed from her post by the drawing-room window. She felt far too unsettled to sit. Tonight she would surely have an opportunity to ask Hunt about Teasdale—and then to tell him as much of the truth as she dared. How would he react?

“Anne should be here by early afternoon, if the weather holds tomorrow,” said the dowager, moving a bit away from the fire, where Holly had insisted she sit.

“Yes, the children will be clamouring to be here in good time for the festivities,” agreed the duchess, spreading her silken skirts into a picturesque arrangement on the other sofa. “Monday will be the mistletoe hunt, and they would never miss that.”

Unbidden, a memory came to Holly of last year’s mistletoe hunt, when she and Hunt had found themselves briefly alone in the woods and he had stolen a quick kiss. She had
been so carefree then, looking forward to her marriage with happy anticipation. She shivered suddenly.

“Are you, Holly?” asked the duchess, in the tone of one repeating a question.

“I beg pardon, your grace! I fear I was wool-gathering,” said Holly hastily, turning from the window.

“I was concerned that you are not feeling quite the thing tonight, despite your protestations at dinner that travelling did not tire you.” She slid a look at the dowager as she spoke.

“No, I feel perfectly well, your grace. I was merely daydreaming.”

“Of tonight, I doubt not,” said the dowager with a chuckle. “We’ll not be offended if you youngsters wish to retire early, shall we, Camilla?”

The duchess’s mouth tightened ever so slightly. “Of course not.”

Unable to smile, Holly turned back to her contemplation of the wintry darkness that seemed to reflect her own bleak expectations for the future.

A hum of voices gave her a moment’s warning before the gentlemen entered the room. The duke came in first, followed closely by Reginald. Hunt followed more slowly, as though reluctant to join them—or her.

“We were beginning to despair of you,” said the duchess, offering a smooth cheek for her husband’s kiss, and then her son’s. “I trust you haven’t drunken yourselves insensible.”

Wickburn and Reginald seated themselves on either side of her, while Hunt moved to join the dowager by the fire.

“Hunt was the only two-bottle man at the table tonight,” said Reginald. “I daresay he has cause enough, though. I’d wish to forget the past two months, as well, if I were he.” He shuddered expressively.

Holly darted a quick glance at her husband, where he was fully engaged in spreading a rug over his grandmother’s lap.

“Now, Hunt, you can fuss over me anytime,” the dowager admonished him. “I was saying to Holly not ten minutes ago that none of us oldsters would find it amiss if the two of you preferred to make it an early night tonight. Why do you not take your wife up to bed?”

Holly braced herself for his refusal, but it did not come.

“An excellent thought, Grandmama,” he said pleasantly. “My wife and I are quite overdue for our reunion, are we not? Two months is a very long time.”

The smile curving his lips did not reach his eyes, but Holly doubted anyone else in the room noticed it. To all outward appearances, he was every inch the ardent, attentive husband. He put one arm about her shoulders and drew her to his side, but there was no warmth in his touch.

For a wild moment, Holly wanted to protest, to remain below with the others, where it was safe, rather than go upstairs alone with this stranger her husband had become. But of course that was absurd. She forced herself to assume an artificial smile, much like Hunt’s.

“Avery long time indeed, my lord,” she said, keeping the quaver she felt from her voice.

Hunt’s smile broadened, though his eyes glittered dangerously, with wine, and perhaps with something else she could not decipher. “Then shall we to bed, my lady?”

I
F
H
OLLY
had been uncomfortable going upstairs with Hunt earlier, she was now far more so. She was beginning to fully realize just how deep her husband’s animosity towards her went. It was up to her to set things right. As they approached the door to her boudoir Holly moistened her lips, but before she could frame a suitable opening phrase, Hunt spoke.

“For a moment I thought you meant to refuse to accompany me. It is well you did not. I am determined that my grandmother’s final days be good ones. I owe her that much, at the very least, after all she has done for me. If it pleases her to think us a happy couple, a happy couple we will contrive to appear. You will help me to give her that final gift.” It was a statement, not a request.

Holly closed her eyes for a moment against another stab of sorrow. The dowager had taught her far more, both about running an estate and about life itself, than her own mother had ever done. During the evening, the dowager’s brave performance had nearly convinced her that the spirited old lady would recover, that the doctor had been wrong. Hunt was speaking again, and she sternly suppressed her tears to look at him.

“I see my plan disgusts you.” His mouth twisted cynically. “No matter. You are my wife and will do as I bid, for this fortnight, at least.”

Though she had intended to be conciliatory, Holly glared at him. “I have as great a desire as you to make the dowager
happy. However, if you wish me to portray a loving, contented wife, you would do well to consider your own performance, as well, my lord,” she snapped. “Do you suppose that your grandmother does not see how you act towards me? She is not a stupid woman, you know!”

Hunt blinked as though her show of spirit startled him, but then his jaw tightened. When he finally spoke, his words dripped ice. “Your desires are of no concern to me and I take no responsibility for them whatsoever. Your person is another matter, and still under my control. I want your word that you will do all in your power to preserve the fiction that all is well between us while we remain at Wickburn—that you will do nothing to cause the dowager greater pain.”

“Of course,” said Holly, her anger evaporating as quickly as it had appeared. “I—I care deeply for her, too, you know.”

“Then you have an inducement beyond your
given word
to play along.” His smile was still mirthless, but now a flame, perhaps of anger, danced behind his eyes.

“There is another thing.” He reached past her to open the door to her suite, then motioned her to enter. “My grandmother has more than once expressed a desire to see an heir to Wickburn before she dies. It is unlikely now that she will have that wish. Still, it would doubtless bring her comfort to be assured that one will make his appearance in the near future.”

Holly’s heart hammered as he followed her into the room, hope and a vague fear warring within her. “So much for your fine promises that I might lock the door,” she retorted, striving to subdue the quaver in her voice. “And yet you choose to doubt
my
word?”

He took a step closer to her so that she could hear his rapid breathing and smell the warm scent of him that she remembered so well. “Don’t worry,” he said softly, his voice sending shivers down her spine, but whether of fear or anticipation she could not be sure. “I do not intend to ravish
you. I merely wished you to understand that I’ll not shirk my duty in this matter, nor allow you to shirk yours.”

He turned abruptly away from her as he continued. “After the Christmas season, I shall return to London. You may come with me if you wish, or go to your mother. In any case, we need have little to do with each other, save what contact is necessary to fulfil that duty. The sooner we get an heir, the sooner we can part to follow our own lives. If that can be accomplished during this fortnight, we need never see each other again.”

With that, he left the room, pulling the door behind him. A moment later, Holly heard the door of his chamber open and close, and then silence.

H
UNT STOOD STOCK-STILL
in the middle of his own room, breathing hard. What the devil had he been about to say that about producing an heir? That was not a part of his plan. The dowager had not said so much as a word about it to him since his arrival. Nor was an heir an absolute necessity, since there was Reginald as well as Anne’s two sons to inherit if he should remain childless.

But when Holly had stood before him, breathtaking in her sudden anger, his desire for her had overwhelmed his reason. The wine he had overindulged in at dinner had likely played a part as well, he reflected wryly as his pulse slowly returned to normal.

Absently, Hunt began to unknot his cravat, unwilling just yet to ring for his valet. Weeks of frustrating idleness had given him ample time for thought—far too much time, in fact. Now he wondered if the elaborate scenario of deceit he had worked out while in prison was simply the product of boredom combined with an overactive imagination.

Holly had originally married him, he’d decided, in order to have access to secret information from the Foreign Office; she had spied on him all along, possibly copying documents from his desk when he was away. After he caught
her burning a message from her superiors, she had fostered the coolness between them to avoid giving explanations. Then, when he had caught her returning from a secret, treasonous meeting, she had deliberately placed that letter to be found, making certain that it contained no information that would be useful to the authorities.

But just now, when he had looked into Holly’s wide green eyes, all those suspicions had suddenly seemed vaguely absurd. The only thing he knew for certain was that she had received letters from France. They might even have been from a relative, he supposed, rather than a lover. Other than those letters and her secrecy about them, he knew of nothing Holly had ever done to betray his trust.

If she were innocent, though, why had she not come to London the moment she heard of his arrest to dispute the charges? Surely she’d have come if she really cared. Whatever secret she was keeping had to be more important to her than her husband’s life.

Why had he not demanded the truth from her just now?

Because he was afraid, he realized. Afraid of what her answer would be—afraid of losing her. Whatever she had done, however little she cared for him, he still desired her and—yes, he could no longer deny it—still loved her. And now, with his brutish ultimatums, he had pushed her further away than ever.

He stared for a moment at the door that separated their chambers, then crossed swiftly to it. Perhaps he could still undo the damage…

From the other side of the door, he heard a faint noise. Pressing his ear to the panel, he deciphered the soft sound of sobbing. Holly was crying. Something inside him twisted, hurting him. He reached for the doorknob.

No, he had done enough damage already tonight. If he went in there now, saw her huge green eyes wet with tears, her long black hair falling about her shoulders, he might well ravish her, after all. After what he had just said to her,
he had no confidence in his ability to control himself. And still, there was the distinct possibility that she
did
merit some of his suspicions.

He would take things slowly, regaining her trust while gauging whether she deserved his. Then, perhaps, she would finally tell him the truth about those blasted letters that had led to so much trouble. Slowly, reluctantly, he dropped his hand to his side and moved away from the dressing-room door to ring for his valet.

W
HEN
H
OLLY AWOKE
the next morning, her eyes felt gritty and her nose swollen. Not since the day she’d left London after Teasdale’s last threats had she indulged in such a protracted bout of crying. She had managed to suppress her tears briefly when Mabel came in to help her undress, but the moment the maid left, they had flowed anew, from an apparently inexhaustible source.

A part of her had died last night. She had been so certain that she could make things right with Hunt, that if only she explained and apologized he would forgive her. But now it seemed plain that she had lost Hunt’s love along with his trust through her silence.

Still, she would have to try. But first she needed information. If Hunt remained unapproachable she might be able to discover what she needed to from the dowager, or Reginald. Rising, she rang for Mabel.

When she went down a short time later, she found everyone but the dowager at breakfast. Reginald, clad today in varying shades of pink, rose quickly to hold her chair while the duke and duchess bid her a good morning. Hunt nodded, but said nothing.

“I trust you slept well, my dear,” said the duchess, her eyes sharp as they roved over Holly’s face.

“Yes, your grace, I thank you.” She was glad she had not given in to the temptation of more tears—last night’s had
left ravages enough. Hunt was watching her, too. Did he notice? Did he care?

A footman efficiently filled a plate from the sideboard and placed it before her. Holly regarded it uneasily. She did not think she could eat a thing. Her appetite had been off most mornings of late, and even more so today—but if she did not eat, the duchess would be certain to notice and perhaps to demand explanations. Holly picked up a piece of toast and nibbled at it halfheartedly, willing her faint queasiness to subside.

“Looks like snow,” remarked the duke. “Do you still intend to ride round the estate today, son?”

“Later, perhaps,” replied Hunt. Holly could feel his eyes on her, but she kept her own focused on her plate.

“Oh, Holly, I nearly forgot,” said Reginald then. “Grandmama wants you to come talk to her this morning. Something about the Christmas preparations, I think.”

“Oh…of course. I’ll go up to her rooms now.” Holly was glad of an excuse to leave her scarcely touched breakfast, though she would rather have liked to hear her husband’s voice again, now that it was not angry. But this would give her an opportunity to ferret information out of his grandmother.

The dowager inhabited an imposing suite of rooms on the second floor, the same ones she had used before her husband, the old duke, had died. There had never been any question of her removing to the dower house, as she was so integral to the management of the household.

At Holly’s tap, she called out at once for her to enter.

“Good morning, my dear.” The dowager greeted her brightly from the chaise longue where she reclined under a light rug. Again Holly was struck by the difference between the way the dowager faced a serious illness and the way Camilla faced trifling or nonexistent ones. “I trust you rested well?”

“Very well, Grandmama, thank you.” Holly had to smile at the old woman’s waggling eyebrows, despite the pang she felt at recalling what had actually occurred between Hunt and herself last night. “You wished to speak with me?”

“Yes, dear. Have a seat, do.” As Holly pulled a chair near to her, the dowager asked abruptly, “What do you know about what went on in London, after Hunt’s arrest?”

Holly stopped in the act of seating herself to stare. “After…nothing, your grace. That is, the duchess wrote to tell me Hunt had been accused of treason, and later that he had been cleared of all charges. But I know none of the details.” She wondered whether Reginald had told the dowager about her arrival in London and equally rapid departure.

“Did Hunt not write to you at all?”

Holly shook her head before remembering that the dowager was not to know how things stood between them. “Not…not of anything pertaining to the case,” she qualified quickly.

“I see.” The old woman’s eyes were as bright as they’d ever been. “Then I suppose you are no more able than the rest of them to tell me why Hunt refused make a statement in his defence. At Wickburn’s behest I wrote to him, encouraging him to be open with the investigators, but apparently to no avail. ’Tis the reason he remained there so long.”

This was news to Holly. “Do you mean that Hunt was cleared despite his refusal to defend himself?” she prompted, mainly to distract her thoughts. The reason for that refusal seemed painfully clear to her, for Hunt must have known that the letter belonged to her. Her heart swelled to think that he had protected her, even after everything, at such grave danger to himself.

“Yes, once the letter was translated—and it took a small army of agents to do it, I understand—they found nothing in it to justify holding him longer. However, being of an insatiably
curious disposition, I still wished to know
why
he remained silent for so long.”

Holly had to smile, and not only because this information gave her hope that Hunt still cared for her. Curiosity was one more thing she and the dowager had in common, it appeared—though she doubted it had ever landed the dowager into the sort of trouble it had herself.

The dowager now leaned forward to place a dry, papery hand on Holly’s knee. “Hunt’s name is cleared now, but I can tell that the whole business still preys upon his mind. Only you have the power to make him forget it, my dear. Will you try to do so?”

Holly swallowed. More than ever she wished she could pour out the whole truth to this wise old woman who loved Hunt as much as she did. Her own power over her husband was now far less than his grandmother’s, but of course she could not say so. Instead, she forced herself to meet the dowager’s eyes, hiding the pain in her own.

“Yes. I will try.”

The dowager sat back and smiled, apparently satisfied. “You ease my mind, dear. I do believe—But here are my two favourite young men. Good morning Hunt, Reginald.”

Turning, Holly found her husband’s eyes on her, his expression inscrutable.

“Good morning, Grandmama,” said Reginald cheerily, then turned to Holly. “I am glad to find you still here, sister. Hunt says he and Grandmama need to discuss some estate business or other.” He made a moue of distaste. “I, however, am going out to sketch from the hill above the river, as I mentioned last night. Would you care to come along?”

“Certainly.” Time spent out in the air might help to clear her mind—and this would be an excellent chance to ask Reginald about Teasdale. “That is, if you have no other
plans for me, my lord?” she asked Hunt belatedly, recalling his attitude last night.