Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 07] - Married Past Redemption (30 page)

Instinctively, Lisette shrank.

"Get up!" he growled, and when she only drew farther from him,
he picked her up and tossed her onto the bed.

"Do not—touch me!" she gasped out, cringing back, her lips
twitching pitifully. "Do not
dare
to—to strike me
again!"

"I'll not touch you, never fear. I've not the stomach for it!
But
one thing I demand, ma'am. Your vicious little intrigues have spread
over all London Town. As a result, we must face them down. Together.
I'll own my pride inferior to yours, but I'll not be mocked on
this
suit. Now or ever! Good night, Mrs. Strand." He stalked from the room,
but closed the door quietly.

Lisette turned and, burying her face in the pillows, wept
until she fell asleep from pure exhaustion.

The rain stopped shortly after midnight, and an hour later the
clouds had dispersed, allowing the full moon to paint all London with
its glory, silvering alike shabby houses and luxurious mansions, shops
and squares, slums and church spires and palaces; turning the wet
streets to rivers of light, and dimming the feebler glow of flambeaux
and street lamps. Slanting through a certain upper window of the now
silent house in Sackville Street, it shone benevolently on the man who
sat slumped forward across a table, his fair head cradled on one arm,
whole the other hand, clenched into a fist, beat and beat at the
inoffensive tabletop.

Strand
was not called upon to waken his
bride the next
morning. Coming heavy-eyed down the steps, he found Lisette and the
horses waiting. She was exquisite in a habit of dark red merino cloth
and a high-crowned pink hat with a red ribbon around it that fluttered
out behind her. "Good morning, Mr.

Strand," she said in a voice of ice. "I am here to receive my
orders."

Flushing, he swung into the saddle, and when they were out of
earshot of the grooms, he said, "I'd not intended to start this early,
but it is as well."

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to inform me what I must
expect."

His flush deepened before that contempt, but he said steadily,
"We
shall attend every possible event for which we receive invitations. We
will be inseparable; we will ride in the mornings, drive in the
afternoons, visit the galleries and museums and, in short, be seen
everywhere. And everywhere we are seen, we will bill and coo like a
pair of damned lovebirds."

"Sickening!" she judged with a curl of the lip.

"But necessary. You must appear to dote on me, madam. And I—"
he
looked away and finished harshly—"will worship you with my every
breath."

Lisette gave a brittle laugh. " 'Twould require a consummate
performance. Do you feel capable of maintaining such a fraud, sir?"

He did not immediately answer, looking straight ahead, his
posture
unusually rigid. Then he turned fully to her, a sternness in his eyes
she had never before witnessed. "We either convince London of our
devotion, Mrs. Strand, or become its laughing-stocks. You may take your
pick."

Her lashes drooped. She felt suddenly wretched and said
defiantly, "Oh, very well. When do we begin this foolish charade?"

"Now. Scene One commences this very moment and will continue
for as long as we are in |he public eye."

True to his word, he maintained an air of devotion whenever
they
encountered other riders. He also held to a moderate pace, for which
Lisette was thankful, since she was finding riding to be a somewhat
uncomfortable diversion this morning.

When they returned to the house, they breakfasted together,
Strand apparently engrossed in
The Gazette,
and Lisette going through her letters. While the servants were in the
room, they engaged in light conversation, but the moment they were
alone, silence settled over them like a blanket. Rising to pull back
his bride's chair, Strand told her that he was leaving to take up

Norman. "We visit Lord Wetherby this morning. This afternoon,
you
and I are invited to a musicale at Hilby House, and this evening we go
to a small dinner party at the Moultons. I trust these engagements will
not inconvenience you.''

"Your trust is misplaced!" Lisette snapped. "I plan to shop
with
Judith this afternoon, and am in no humour for dining— even with John
and Salia."

"Adjust your humour," he ordered dryly. "I have already
accepted. You may shop with Judith tomorrow. For an hour."

Lisette glared at him and went upstairs. Denise greeted her
with
awed timidity, and several times Lisette found herself being watched
with such sympathy that she was sure the servants were aware of what
had transpired the previous evening. She made a great effort to appear
calm and, having changed her dress, went into the parlour to write
letters. Alone, she sharpened a quill, but instead of writing her
letter, drew small circles in involved designs all over a sheet of
paper. Whatever, she wondered miserably, was to become of her? Although
she had entered a
mariage de convenance,
an odd
rapport had
sprung up between her and Strand. She had begun to enjoy his cheery way
of bustling them all about, his humourous grin coaxing them into
whatever he wished. She had begun to feel comfortable with him, sure
that whatever she attempted would win his encouragement, and that
behind his teasing was kindness and an unfailing generosity. She had
not dreamt he ever would visit so ferocious a temper upon her. Never in
her wildest fantasies had she imagined that she—one of the most nobly
bom debutantes in all England—would be brutally beaten! And so
unjustly, for she had not been the one to spread those wicked rumours.
Common sense said, "You should have told him the truth." Pride said,
"Why? If he was so base as to suspect me—let him suspect! At all
events, the damage is done! Whatever understanding may have existed
between us is gone forever, and besides, much I care what he thinks!"

If she told Mama and Papa what he had done, they would insist
that
she leave him. It was a comforting thought, but brief. She dare not
leave him; to do so would be a sure acknowledgement that the rumours
sweeping the Town were absolute truth. They would all be disgraced, and
Strand—Strand would be livid! He would come after her, beyond doubting!
She shivered, but at once decided that if ever he again attempted to
brutalize her, she would shoot him. Had she a pistol handy. She had
never fired a pistol, but Timothy would teach her. He had returned to
his Regiment after the wedding, but he certainly would come home on
leave, sooner or later. She could not tell him
why
she wanted
to learn how to shoot, of course. It might be rather awkward to ask for
instruction so that she could murder her husband, but she'd be able to
come up with some plausible reason, when the time came. Meanwhile, she
could always use a knife if the need arose. But Strand, she thought
broodingly, was so terribly strong: he would probably wrench the weapon
from her before she'd had the chance to plunge it into him. Her circle
went sadly awry, the contemplation of so dastardly a deed causing her
hand to shake. Perhaps, if she did it at night, and did not look, she
could manage it. But that seemed unsporting. And to wake one's sleeping
husband purely to inform him that he was about to be stabbed seemed to
rather diminish the chances for success. She tried to wish that James
had handled the business for her, but found it impossible to whip up
much enthusiasm for a duel between the two men. She finally came to the
conclusion that she would humour her husband—until the scandal had died
down—and then get a Bill of Divorcement.

It did not occur to her that this would create an even larger
scandal and, satisfied with her decision, she wrote her letter and went
downstairs. She was reading in the book room when Norman rushed in,
highly elated, and proclaimed Strand to be a prince of brothers-in-law.
"Such a splendid time we had!" he exclaimed excitedly, straddling a
chair and beaming upon his sister. "Lord Wetherby—he was used to be
Admiral Hawkhurst, you know—is the very best of men. I thought him
rather gruff at first, but Strand explained my interest in shipping and
we got to chatting, and we both agree upon so many things, including
the great possibilities of steam, Lisette! And the end of it was,
Strand and I are to refurbish an old yacht now in dry-dock at
Silverings, before the weather turns, we hope! Is that not famous?"

For Norman's benefit, Lisette slanted a warm smile at Strand,
who
had wandered into the room and was half sitting against the reference
table, swinging one booted foot and watching the youth's enthusiasm
with faint amusement. "Lovely," she agreed.

"But I was not aware the weather had ever settled into a
summer style, and you certainly cannot work on a boat in the rain."

Undampened, Norman said, "Just like a woman to throw a rub in
the
way before we've even begun. The yacht's shored up in the barn at
present, Lisette, and we can do some of the work inside, before we have
to—"

He was interrupted as Judith rushed in, her eyes enormous and
her
bonnet still on her head. "Lisette!" she gasped, having entered the
room at such speed she did not even see her brother-in-law. "I just
heard! Oh, how monstrous it is! What Mama will say, I dare not think!
And
Grandmama!
But how splendid of Strand to call
out Mr. Garvey!"

Norman sprang up, and exclaimed,
"What?
Justin—you never
did?"

"Oh, it's all right, Norman," Judith intervened, eyes
sparkling.
"Strand flung a tankard of ale in his face, but Garvey turned craven,
and—"

Strand, who had come to his feet when the girl arrived, said
bleakly, "And that will be about enough, if you please, miss!"

"What a bag of moonshine!" snorted Norman, his uneasy glance
lingering on his brother-in-law. "As if a famous Buck like James Garvey
would back down—even for Strand." Strand said nothing, and Norman
wailed, "Never say it
is
truth?"

"No." Strand gave a faintly apologetic smile. "I believe my
glass contained wine, not ale."

"Oh… my God!" Norman groaned, clutching his dark locks.

Strand's smile faded. The topic heightened Lisette's
nervousness,
and she interjected hurriedly, "Were I you, Norman, I would not offend
Strand. He is quite capable of beating you."

Norman sat down, but he still looked troubled. Strand's eyes
fell. His scowl vanished, and he changed the subject.

The
, musicale at Hilby House was an
ordeal Lisette would
long remember. She had chosen to wear a new blue silk round dress with
six rows of tiny frills at the hem, and despite the inclement weather,
carried only a gossamer scarf looped across her elbows. Denise was
admiring her beautiful mistress when Strand came in carrying a small,
flat leather box. Slipping it onto the dressing table, he bent to kiss
his wife's temple and murmur lovingly, "I am glad you chose the blue
today, my sweet."

The abigail sighed romantically, and left them. Lisette
glanced to the closing door. "Bravo. A good touch, sir."

"So I thought." He shrugged. "Wear this, if you please."

"As you command, my lord and master."

He opened the box savagely and took out a bracelet of gold
filigree.
Finely cut sapphires were set amongst dainty golden leaves and
flowerets of tiny pearls, the workmanship so exquisite that Lisette's
breath was taken away. "Oh!" she gasped. "How
very
pretty it is."

"I brought it back from India," he imparted grudgingly, "but
thought it too large, so Rundell and Bridge have sized it for me."

So he had not bought it purely for effect. Or perhaps he had
intended it for his bird of paradise, and changed his mind so as to
make a gesture in view of their present situation. Frowning, she
watched him fasten it about her wrist and was struck by the thought
that his thin fingers were so gentle now, whereas last night… She
trembled involuntarily. Strand looked down at her in brooding silence,
bowed, and went out.

They were quiet in the carriage, but from the moment they
walked
into the magnificence of Hilby House he was every inch the adoring
lover, the bewitched slave. Struggling to appear as infatuated, Lisette
more than once caught a glint of amused appreciation in his blue eyes,
and when she sighed audibly as he provided her with a chair, he bent
above her and murmured with a doting smile, "Not too much syrup,
m'dear—lest they suspect."

Patting his cheek, she cooed, "I strive only to be as cloying
as you, dearest love."

He nodded, took up her hand, and kissed it.

Each was aware of the many eyes that followed their every
movement.
Quite a number of those eyes surveyed Lisette with disapprobation. It
was a new experience, and she apprehended with a distinct shock that
Strand's belief that she had been engaging in an
affaire
with
Garvey was not an isolated one. She had refused to believe that others
would accept the tale and for the first time appreciated her husband's
present strategy.

The Duke of Vaille came over to remark on Lisette's beauty and
engage Strand in low-voiced conversation. His lovely fiancee,
Charlotte
Hilby, bending to Lisette's ear, said softly, "Don't be frightened,
dear. Most of them do not really believe it. They will soon forget."
Lisette was so moved by this kindness that a lump rose in her throat
and she could not speak. She squeezed Miss Hilby's hand and blinked her
thanks. The musicale began, and for a terrible few seconds she felt
quite unable to face down all these critical, shallow people who'd not
had the decency to know her above such despicable behaviour. She was
shaking and, in her already overwrought condition, knew she would burst
into sobs at any moment. Strand leaned to her and murmured with a
tender smile, "Keep your chin high, best beloved. Concentrate on
Leith—that should bring you safely through!" She was at first
flabbergasted, then so infuriated that she did indeed come "safely
through" the ordeal. But she did not concentrate on Leith. Instead, she
dwelt with wicked delight on the scene in court when she should plead
for divorce. And all the delicious things she would tell the judge.