Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance) (31 page)

“I am going to confront him on the morning, when he returns,” Abbie said. “I am going to discover the reason for his coldness.”

“Abbie, he is a Duke! It is his business how he behaves, not yours!”

“Are you not curious, Mother? Do you not want to know why he chose me to be his wife, a woman he hardly knows, a woman who still feels uncomfortable calling him anything other than
Your Grace
?”

Mother scoffed and stared out of the window at the May sunlight. “Why can’t you just be content? You have a beautiful house and soon you shall have children running around it.”

I doubt that, Mother,
Abbie thought.
That night, that wedding night, when we—I fear he did not spill his seed in the—in the correct way. And he has not touched me since.

“I will confront him,” Abbie repeated, with more conviction.

*****

His Grace arrived early the next morning and Abbie and he broke their fast together. He barely acknowledged her as he sat down and waited as the footmen served the food and drink. They sat at opposite ends of a long table, meaning they had to raise their voices to be heard. Abbie swallowed and cleared her throat.
Do it, do it, do it!
she urged herself. The man opposite her seemed cold. His face was set as stone and he ate his food mechanically.

He was about to get up and leave her when Abbie blurted: “Your Grace, why did you marry me?”

His Grace stopped and stared at her. His square jaw was set and his eyes were narrow and devoid of all feeling. “Because I needed a wife,” he said.

“But why?” Abbie persisted, knowing that she was angering him, but not caring.

His Grace walked the length of the room and stood over her. She felt diminished in his presence, as though her body had halved in size; she felt like a child. “You will not like the answer,” he said quietly, and for a moment Abbie thought she saw a flicker of feeling behind his cold gaze. It was gone as soon as it appeared. “Can you not just be content? You are cared for; you have access to a vast library – one of the largest in England – and servants to wait on your every need? Why must you question?”

“I cannot help it, Your Grace,” Abbie said, looking bravely up at him. “I am curious. Why did you marry me?”

“You truly wish to know?” His Grace said, with a heavy sigh.

“Yes,” Abbie said.

His Grace put his hands behind his back and spoke in a slow, stilted voice. “The King commended me for my service in France. I have always been a King’s man, and it prided me greatly to be commended by him, personally. But upon my return – when the blasted war was over – he summoned me and said these words to me:
Zack, you must take a wife. I will not have my bravest solider spend his days without a wife.
He was referring to something I had said before, which was that I never wanted a wife or family. Ever.”

“Ah!” Abbie cried, unable to stop herself at the shocking words.

“
I know what is best for you,
he said.
So know that it is kindness that makes me do this. If you do not take a wife, I will not allow you to serve me. And I need you, my friend.
So you see?” He nodded gruffly. “I needed a wife to continue my life’s work. But I have not made you uncomfortable for it, have I? You are safe, cared for. Your mother has a place to live her final years.”

“Yes,” Abbie muttered.

But she couldn’t stop herself. The tears flowed, and then she was running from him, running from His Grace with her hands plastered over her face, the tears warm upon her fingertips. 

*****

She knew what His Grace said was right. She knew that she should have been happy with the marriage. She had it better than a great deal of women, and her family’s name had been raised from the dirt into which it had fallen simply by being near His Grace. But she felt unfulfilled, almost as though she was a piece of furniture, and His Grace’s revelation had just confirmed that. She wasn’t a wife at all. She was an encumbrance, a service, taken for the King. She fled through the halls to her bedroom – which His Grace rarely visited – and threw herself upon the sheets. The tears came fiercely and rapidly.

She cried for almost an hour. Each time she thought the tears had ended, they would attack once more, a veritable wave of them. She knew life had been sadder before His Grace, but that didn’t change the fact that she was upset now, here, with how things were. As she was wiping her eyes, there came a knock at her door.

“Not now, Mother,” Abbie said, in as clear a voice as possible.

The door opened. Abbie felt like screaming, but then His Grace walked into the room. He looked around – at the paintings, the plush furniture – anywhere but in her eyes. He walked over to the wall and stared at a picture of a landscape. “You are sad, my lady,” he said, as though he didn’t comprehend how that could be.

“I am, Your Grace,” Abbie said.

“May I ask why?”

He is like a child,
Abbie thought, enraged.
How can he not know why? Is he really that naïve?

“I was shocked, Your Grace,” Abbie said, in as calm voice as she could manage, “by your revelation. It shocked me to learn that I was merely a—a token! Yes, a token, to be exchanged for the King’s favor.”

His Grace sighed. “My lady,” he said, “I needed a wife, but I did not have to pick you. Does that not say something about the whole mess?”

“I do not know, Your Grace,” Abbie said. “Does it?”

“I am not a brute,” His Grace said. “I do not want you to be unhappy. I am going to be home now for a few months. The King has requested that I stay here for the rest of the year – to take a sort of holiday – to recuperate – and I have acquiesced, as the King can be extremely stubborn. Would it make you feel better if we—did things? Perhaps on the morning we could take a walk around the grounds, my lady? Would that assuage some of the pain?”

Abbie wiped her eyes.
At least he is trying
, she thought, even if it was in the most awkward, stilted, emotionally-dead way possible. The tone of his voice never wavered, and his eyes stared steadfastly away from her. “I would like that,” Abbie said.

“It is settled, then,” His Grace said. “I shall see you then.”

He left her, only stopping to bow briefly before turning and pacing from the room. That night, Abbie relived their wedding night. She knew it was wrong to think about such things, but when alone in her bed, the events would come back to her. She would imagine the way they had rubbed each other, touched each other, and the way he had thrust into her. Then he had pulled away from her and spilled his seed upon the sheets. “I am sorry, my lady,” he had said, before retreating from the room and from her life for five months. She had never talked of matters concerning the flesh, and she never would – not to Mother, nor to one of her “friends” that visited the estate every few weeks – no, she was far too embarrassed and it was far too improper. But she had to wonder. Had she done something wrong? Had she angered His Grace – her husband – in some way?

*****

On the morrow, she and His Grace walked the grounds, as he had promised. They broke their fast together – in silence – and then emerged into the cold May sunlight which shone in icy beams through the clouds. Abbie tilted her head to the light and let it rest upon her face. It warmed her reddened cheeks and she smiled. His Grace offered his arm, and Abbie took it tentatively. Apart from a few times when he’d been home and they’d had guests, he rarely took her arm.

They walked in silence around the lawn and toward the woods. His Grace seemed awkward; he kept chewing upon his lip; or opening his mouth as though to say something, and closing it directly afterwards. Abbie sensed that he either wanted to say something or felt obligated to. She wanted to say something, too, but she did not know what. She felt distant from this husband of hers. She felt as though he was a stranger. No, he
was
a stranger and there was no getting around that. She knew that he saw her as naught more than a token. He had admitted it. How could they bridge this gulf? Could it be bridged?

“The weather is lovely,” His Grace said, in uncertain tones.

“Yes,” Abbie agreed, because the silence was becoming unbearable. “It is, isn’t it?”

They made desultory and ultimately pointless remarks about the weather, and then they reached the woods. “Do you wish to walk further, my lady?”

“I place it in your hands, Your Grace.”

“Then we shall.”

His Grace led her into the woods fringes of the woods, where the foliage wasn’t so thick, and they saw the occasional rabbit. His Grace sighed after around fifteen minutes of further silence, and then turned and faced Abbie. “What do you want from me, my lady?” he said.

“Your Grace?” Abbie said, astonished by his frankness.

“You want something from me, my lady,” His Grace said. “I can tell. It seeps from your very bones. It pervades the very air around you. There is a need in you and I fear I am insufficient for it.”

“Are you a cold man, Your Grace?”

“You know the answer to that,” he said stiffly.

“Perhaps I wish for you to thaw a little, Your Grace,” Abbie said shyly, lowering her eyes.

“And how does one thaw?” His Grace said. “I serve the King, and the service of the King is a hot pursuit, I am afraid. Death, adventure, heartache, loss—loss most of all. France has been terrible to me. But all I do is in service of the King.”

“Even marrying me, Your Grace?”

He looked into her eyes; his expression was hard. “Yes, my lady,” he said slowly. “But perhaps I should explain why I chose
you
, and not another lady? Would that help?”

Abbie shrugged. “It may.”

His Grace nodded. “Very well,” he said. “I saw you and your family once before. It was four years ago, in London. You were with your father.”

“I do not recall seeing you, Your Grace!” Abbie exclaimed.
I think I would remember.

“No, my lady,” His Grace said hurriedly. “You did not see me, but I saw you. I was in a hansom, on my way to Buckingham, when I passed you and your family. Your mother was in a frightful mood. She was pointing her finger at your father and I remember thinking,
I pity the man
!” Abbie smiled; Mother could be a fiery vixen if riled. “And then my eyes turned to you. I asked my companion, who was a minor lord, if he knew you. Yes, he said, you were Miss Abbie Bain, of Somerset. You must have been one-and-seven then; and you were the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.” His words were flattering, lovely, but his tone hadn’t changed. It was still the same matter-of-fact tone. He was not serenading her, or even making love to her. He was merely stating the truth as he saw it. “When the King came to me and told me I must take a wife, I knew it had to be you. I made a point of finding out if you were married, and when I discovered that you were not, I made a point of making you my wife.”

“But, Your Grace,” Abbie said, struggling to take it all in. That had been a frantic day in London: visiting with Father’s old friends, only weeks before he became a full-time degenerate. “But,” she went on, “why have you waited until now to tell me? Why not share this with me before now, Your Grace?”

“I did not want us to be close,” His Grace said starkly. “I did not want to be close with my wife. But now I have been banished here—for eight months. Perhaps it will make it easier having me about the place if you know why I chose you over richer, nobler ladies.”

“Does it not embarrass you, Your Grace?”

“Does what not embarrass me, my lady?”

“Stooping so low.”

“Stooping?” His Grace almost smiled. “I am not stooping. Once you have experience war, the very idea of stooping is ludicrous. Abbie—”

Her Christian name hung in the air. Suddenly the atmosphere was intense and serious. Abbie looked up into his eyes. She struggled not to bite her lip. He really was very handsome. He clenched his strong jaw and went on: “Abbie, please, I want you to be happy. I do not wish to be seen as a brute by you, by my wife.”

“Then why, Your Grace,” Abbie said, but her voice faltered. “Then why—on our wedding night—did you—”

“I do not wish to speak of that,” His Grace said. “I do not wish to speak of matters like that.”

Abbie stared at the ground and nodded submission. They walked back toward the lawn arm-in-arm. Abbie had never felt so close yet so far from somebody in her life.

*****

May turned to June, and June to July, and as the weather grew hotter. His Grace stayed cool. They walked the grounds together and broke their fast together each day, but the gap between them only seemed to grow wider. He never slept in the same bed as her, and rarely visited her in her bedchambers. When he did, he stayed clear of the bed. Abbie began to think sordid, dirty, treacherous thoughts, thoughts unfit for a lady. She began to imagine what it would be like for him to sneak into her bedroom one night in the dark, and then—