Just Wicked Enough (19 page)

She felt her defenses crumbling and forced herself to shore them up. How could she resist him when he looked at her as though he’d like nothing more than to gobble her up? She shifted her gaze to his hand, holding the bedpost until his knuckles turned white, as though he needed that solid anchor to keep his distance.

“Your hand looks swollen.”

“I rammed it against something last night.”

“In anger?”

He nodded.

“Does it hurt?”

“I suspect the discomfort pales when compared with the pain I’ve brought you.”

“I promised myself I wouldn’t ask, but I have to know. After my father outbid the others, did you tell him that it was me you wanted to marry?”

She could see him struggling to hold her gaze. “No.”

“You wanted to marry Jenny.”

“I thought she stood less chance of being disappointed.”

“Because you can’t love me?”

“I don’t know how to love you, Kate. Love is not something with which I’m intimately familiar. I can tell you that I never meant to hurt you.”

“And how did you plan to accomplish that when your selection of a wife was based on the highest bidding father? You couldn’t even be bothered to court a lady. You wanted the fastest, easiest—”

“What I did was not easy.” It sounded as though he’d shoved each word out from the depth of his soul. “It cost me everything that I valued, my pride, my dignity as a man. And now it’s going to cost me you. I need you to understand why I did it.”

“Your reasons are obvious. The condition of your estate, your London residence—”

“I could live with the deteriorating conditions of my life. There’s more, but I have to show you. Give me an hour of your time and if at the end of it, you want to be rid of me, then we shall find a way to make it happen.”

Even now, as much as she hurt, she didn’t want to be rid of him. She wasn’t certain what she did want. But she did know what she didn’t want.

“I don’t have proper clothes here. All I have is the gown I wore to the ball last night and it’s hardly suitable attire—”

“Our residence is not that far away. We’ll stop there first.”

“Where are we going after that?”

“To visit hell.”

K
ate had tried to get more information from her husband on the pretext that she needed to know exactly where they were going so she could dress appropriately. But he’d refused to offer even a hint, and she knew him well enough to know that he could be as stubborn as she. They were alike in that way.

So she’d decided on a simple gray dress with red velvet trim, an elegant matching cape, and a tidy hat that sat perfectly atop her upswept hair. She’d even spent a few minutes with slices of cucumber over her eyes to reduce the swelling. She fully intended to arrive at hell looking her best.

If he’d sought to intimidate her with his succinct response, he’d learn she wasn’t easily intimidated. Although she suspected he was well aware of that. They’d not spoken on the way to their residence, and he seemed determined to be equally noncommunicative as they made their way to wherever it was he wanted them to go.

“How did you know I was at Louisa’s?” she finally asked, because the oppressive silence was beginning to grate on her nerves.

Sitting beside her, he merely angled his head slightly to meet her gaze. “I simply knew.”

“Did you go to my parents’ first?”

He nodded. “I spoke with your father this morning. He was quite concerned. I sent word to let him know you were all right.”

“I’m still angry at him.”

“Still angry at us both, I suspect.”

“Both of your actions degrade me.”

“I beg to differ. They degrade us, but you’re innocent…above all this.”

It seemed to be a time for honesty between them.

“I didn’t arrange to meet Wesley in the garden last night. Jenny and I were going for a stroll. She forgot something and left me…and Wesley was there. I was so surprised by his appearance that I didn’t leave immediately, and I should have.”

“Thank you for that.”

“You know, one of the reasons that I wanted to marry a man who loved me was because when you love someone it’s much easier to forgive their faults, and I have a good many faults.”

“Will you think more of me if I list them rather than your favorite color?”

His eyes held the familiar glint of teasing.

“Are you saying that you’ve noticed them?” she asked tartly.

“I’m saying they’re easier to deduce than your favorite color, but then I have faults of my own and far more than you.”

“You’re very secretive.”

“I’m not accustomed to sharing.”

They began to move into an area of London sparse with buildings and people. Just as quickly her curiosity intensified. What if he had a child…someone he visited in secret?

“Are we going to see someone or some
thing
?” she asked.

“A bit of both. It’s just up here.” He indicated a building in the distance that became visible whenever there was a break in the trees. A wrought iron fence apparently circled the property.

“Is it one of your residences?”

“No. It’s the Glennwood Lunatic Asylum.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she twisted around to face her husband completely. She’d read far too many novels where the innocent lass was locked away…

“Why are we coming here?”

He was studying her, a speculative, yet grim expression marring his handsome features. “Good Lord. You’re afraid I’m going to lock you away.” Reaching out, he tucked stray strands of hair behind her ear. “Perhaps
I
should have insisted you deduce my favorite color.”

“What has your favorite color to do with anything?”

“Perhaps if you knew it, you’d know me well enough not to have such silly notions.”

She was a bit disconcerted he could read her so easily. When had he begun to have such an understanding of her thoughts…her needs…her fears?

“If you were going to lock me away, you would have done it the first night,” she said with conviction. “And your favorite color is black.”

“Wrong on both accounts. It’s not as easy to deduce someone’s favorite color as you might think.”

She realized that their discussion had taken a silly turn, and that perhaps he was perpetuating it because he wasn’t at all comfortable with where they were going and what he was about to share. As the driver turned the carriage on to the dirt path and through the gates where “Glennwood Asylum” was carved in stone on either side of the gates, Michael’s eyes grew incredibly sad. Reaching out, she wrapped her hand around his and squeezed comfortingly. “Why are we here, Michael?”

“I want to introduce you to someone.”

“Who?”

“My mother.”

“But you said she was ill…with a cancer.”

“No. I said she wasn’t well. Your mother voiced her concern that it was cancer. I never acknowledged it, although I suppose cancer is as good a way as any to describe her condition. It’s as though something is eating away her memories.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure anyone does.”

The driver brought the carriage to a halt in front of the looming building. Kate wasn’t certain when she’d stopped squeezing Michael’s hand and he’d begun to squeeze hers.

“Kate, I need you to understand why I…stepped on the bidding block, as it were.”

“Not for new wallpaper or draperies.”

“No.” He gave her a wry smile. “Besides, you wanted to meet my mother.”

She swallowed hard. “Is it contagious?”

“I don’t believe so. At least I’ve not displayed any symptoms. I don’t think. Although I suppose I wouldn’t remember if I did.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My mother’s affliction. She doesn’t remember things.”

Kate shook her head in disbelief. “That’s not a reason to be placed in an asylum. Sometimes I can’t remember where I set down my book or my purse—”

He cradled her face and there was such a depth of sorrow in his eyes that she almost wept.

“Kate, my mother doesn’t remember me.”

Before she could respond, he moved away, opened the carriage door, stepped out, and turned back to her, his hand extended. “I need you to come with me so you’ll understand.”

Only she was afraid, afraid to know the truth.

And yet, how could she not stand beside him. He was her husband. And more, he’d become someone she’d begun to care about. “Don’t be afraid, Kate.”

Only she was. “I’ve never known anyone who belongs in a place like this.”

“I’m not sure anyone belongs in a place like this.” He took her hand. “Come meet my mother.”

Taking a deep breath, she alighted from the carriage. “How could she not remember you?” she asked as they walked toward the door.

“To her, I’m as inconsequential as the book you mentioned misplacing earlier.”

“You can’t possibly believe you mean that little to her.”

“Some days I no longer know what to believe.”

Forcing herself to walk through the door he opened for her, she stepped into a cavernous entryway. Stairs swept up either side, and she thought she could hear the distant tormented cries of lost souls.

A young man sitting at desk came to his feet. “Lord Falconridge.” He smiled. “Your mother is having a good day. She’s in the garden.”

Michael looked as though he’d smashed into a brick wall. “A good day? Do you mean she’s getting better?”

Kate heard the hope in his voice, saw it reflected in his eyes, leaving her with no doubt as to the extent of his affection for his mother. And yet he claimed not to know how to love?

“I’m not certain I’d go that far,” the young man behind the desk said. “You’d have to ask Dr. Kent.” He called out to another man passing through the entry. “Charles, will you take Lord Falconridge to see his mother?” Then he turned back to Michael. “I’ll let Dr. Kent know you’re here.”

Charles, who looked to Kate like a man she’d never want to meet in a darkened street, lumbered through the foyer to a set of double doors at the back.

“Was this someone’s residence?” Kate asked, anything to distract her from the upcoming meeting. She didn’t want to be nervous, and yet she was.

“I’d heard once that it was,” Michael said. “But I don’t remember who it belonged to.”

They stepped outside. Michael reached out and touched Charles’s arm. “I see her. Thank you.”

“Good day, m’lord.” Charles went back inside, leaving Michael and Kate.

“It’s a lovely garden,” Kate said for want of anything better to say.

“Let me speak with her first, prepare her for the introduction,” Michael said quietly. “Wait here until I return for you.”

“Let her know that I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

“She doesn’t always understand”—he shook his head—”I’ll let her know.”

Kate watched as Michael strode to a table beneath the shade of a towering tree, where a woman sat in a very simple dress, her wispy silver hair flowing over her shoulders. He bent slightly, before speaking, and while Kate couldn’t hear the words, she could see his mouth moving.

Suddenly the woman lunged, and Kate watched in horror as she ferociously attacked Michael.

“You’re a liar! I have no son! You’re a liar!”

Standing in the garden, Michael could still hear his mother’s shrill shrieks, her accusations echoing around him. She’d hardly seemed aware of her surroundings until he’d spoken, and then she’d come at him with a viciousness that had astounded him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he’d seen Kate rushing—what? to his rescue?—and he’d slapped his mother. Slapped the woman who’d given birth to him, to try to calm her down and all he’d managed was to worsen the situation.

It had taken two attendants to pull her away from him, to drag her—screaming and sobbing—back to her room. While Kate had stared at him, obviously horrified, by what she’d witnessed.

“What happened?” she finally asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I told her I wanted to introduce her to my wife.”

“My lord!” Dr. Kent hurried over, his long legs eating up the distance between them. “I heard there was an incident. I’m frightfully sorry. I should have been here—”

“It doesn’t matter. They won’t hurt her—”

“We’ve had to restrain her.”

Michael squeezed his eyes shut. He’d seen the awful jacket they used. He looked over at his wife. “Lady Falconridge, allow me to introduce Dr. Kent. He runs the facility.”

He bowed toward Kate. “My lady, ’tis an honor to have you here.”

“An honor? For God’s sake, it’s—” Michael began.

Kate placed her hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Michael.” She looked at Dr. Kent. “Do you know what ails the dowager marchioness?”

“A severe form of dementia, the likes of which I’ve never seen. She doesn’t respond to our treatments. As I’m sure his lordship has told you, she’s incurable. Our policy is to only house those we can cure.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Michael said. “We’ll take our leave now.”

“What about your mother?”

“I shall let you know when arrangements are made.”

As Kate placed her hand on his arm, she asked, “May we walk to the front by going around through the garden, instead of through the facility?”

“If you prefer.”

“I definitely prefer.” She opened her purse and removed a linen handkerchief, pressed it to her mouth to dampen a corner, then tenderly touched it to his cheek. “She scratched you—”

He stepped away from her.

“Michael, it’s bleeding.”

He thought if she were kind to him, he might crumble. Right there, in the midst of the garden, within the walls of the asylum. Instead, he reached into his jacket, removed his own handkerchief, and pressed it against his cheek, still feeling the sting from his mother’s sharp nails scraping along his face, no doubt leaving bloody furrows.

“How long has she been here?” Kate asked softly, as though she realized he could easily shatter.

He didn’t want to talk. All he wanted was to return home and bury himself deeply within her.

“Five years.”

God, it had been a mistake to bring her here, to try to show her, to explain—

“I’ll meet you at the carriage,” he said.

Stunned, Kate watched as her husband began striding toward the copse of trees. “Michael!”

Lifting her skirts, she hurried after him, not catching up until he’d reached the trees. Their leaves rustling in the breeze sounded obscene. Nothing here brought comfort.

“Michael—”

“Go to the carriage, Kate.”

How could he demand that of her when she could see how badly he suffered, how much he hurt? It was one thing to be told that his mother didn’t remember him, but to hear the words flowing from her own lips.

“Why did she say she has no son?”

He spun to face her and the anguish she saw in his eyes nearly felled her.

“I told you! Because she doesn’t remember me!”

He dropped to his haunches, dug his elbows into his thighs, and pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead.

“Why did she attack you?”

“She’s in a damned lunatic asylum! You can’t actually believe that I can explain her behavior.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about her sooner—”

“Allow me to repeat: My mother is in a damned lunatic asylum!”

He lowered his hands and dropped his head back, his gaze on the clear sky.

“You’re bleeding again.”

“What does it matter? What does any of this matter?”

Her heart ached for him as it had never ached before. Everything in her life seemed so trivial in light of his torment. She’d never felt so helpless, so unprepared for anything as devastating as what he endured.

“We can find a better doctor,” she said. “We have enough money that we can make her well again.”

He searched her face and she could see the wonder in his eyes. “So innocent, so naïve.”

“We can at least try—”

“Do you think I haven’t?”

“Oh my God.” She knelt in front of him, studied his face, felt the tears stinging her eyes as understanding dawned. “She’s the reason you…you auctioned yourself.”

“Private asylums have an expectation of curing people. I don’t want her in a public asylum. Now that I have funds, they’ve agreed to keep her here a while longer, but I need to make other arrangements for her. I want to bring her home. I want to build her a haven near Raybourne, hire a staff to care for her.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “She’s a marchioness. She deserves better than this.”