The Bride Sale (18 page)

He rose to his feet and began to pace the room. Why had she lied? Why maintain the foolish pretense that he had not ripped her virginity from her like a raging bull? Why pretend he had not caused her pain?

His steps came to a halt at the library table where a full teacup sat in its saucer. Verity's tea. She must have been bringing it to him when she found him—what? Cowering before the fire?

He picked up the odiferous brew and all at once understanding slammed into him like a howitzer. Verity tried to ease suffering, whether it be a villager's toothache or his own insomnia. He did not like to consider what she might have seen of him tonight while he fought off his familiar demons. But she had offered herself up as a means of easing his torment. She had given herself freely. She was too concerned with
his
pain to allow him to know of her own. She protected him by pretending to be unharmed.

James spun around and flung the cup and saucer into the grate, where they smashed into a thousand pieces. How he loathed himself for what he'd done. How could he possibly make amends to this sweet woman who was only trying to help him in a moment of weakness? And then he had lashed out at her in anger as though
she
had done something wrong.

Verity had bestowed upon him the gift of her virginity, and he did not misunderstand the generosity of that gesture. It nearly broke his heart, assuming he still had one, to know what she had done for him, and he would forever honor her for that unselfish gift.

And he would treat it as a gift. He would not, would never, ask it of her again. He had done enough to compromise her proud dignity. He would do nothing further to erode it.

What was he to do with her, then, as she lived under his roof every day, ate meals with him, rode with him, and brought him foul-tasting tea each night? They could never marry—

The realization burst upon him like an electric storm. He stopped pacing. Marriage to Verity. By God, he
would
marry her if he could. She had already worked her way into his household, his village, and at least a small corner of his heart. There was nothing he'd rather do than spend his life with her.

He'd never meant to let another woman into his life. His relationship with Rowena had been troublesome and volatile from its youthful beginning. But he had loved her with the consuming passion of first love, and in the end he'd killed her. James never meant to allow love into his heart again.

He wasn't prepared to allow himself to love Verity. In any case, he was not ready to admit that what he felt for her was love. But if she were free and if she would have him, he would marry her in a moment.

He allowed the idea to roll around inside his head for a while, touching upon the possibilities of divorce and annulment. But it was pointless. He had nothing to offer but a soiled life, riddled with cowardice and culpability. Verity would end up despising him, just as Rowena had.

James poured himself a brandy, brought the decanter with him, and sank down into his chair again. He hoped to God his lack of control would not result
in a child. The thought terrified him more than almost anything else. How could he be depended on to keep a child safe when he still lost untold hours during blackouts over which he had no control, and during which he had no idea what he might have done?

He pushed aside all thoughts of fatherhood, as he always did, for they only conjured up painful images of Trystan, with his big, trusting blue eyes and a mop of blond hair that curled in all directions. James had barely known his son but had loved him desperately. When he returned from Spain, instead of letting the child into his life, he had kept Trystan at a distance. His blackouts were deeper and more frequent then, and he had feared what might happen. He had been right.

James took a deep swallow and let the brandy burn a path down his throat and warm his stomach. How he wished he could have been worthy of a woman like Verity Osborne. She had such courage, dignity, compassion, not to mention beauty. Did she realize how beautiful she was? He doubted it. Ah, but he could never be worthy. He had condemned himself forever in her eyes as a callous, rutting brute.

He downed the glass and poured another. What a worthless excuse for a man he was. He ought to have ended it years ago. In the days after the fire, he had wanted nothing more than to do so. Why should he be allowed to live when he had killed the two people he loved most in the world? If he had any strength of character, he would do so now before he caused any further harm.

But he had not the strength. He never had. He made excuses instead. He poured a third glass and
recounted them. His people needed him. The mine needed him. Winter had arrived and the pumps would be pushed to their limit during the rains. The cottagers would need fuel and food and medicine. He must look after the land, since he no longer had a steward. There was Agnes, too. As much as she hated him, she had nowhere else to go, no one else to depend on. And Verity depended on him now, too.

There were endless excuses why he could not take the easy way out. But James knew the real excuse lay in cowardice. Everything about him was based on cowardice. He had never been strong enough to do what any man of honor would have done years ago.

No honor. No courage. No heart. Only another empty glass to refill in hopes of dulling the pain, drinking himself into oblivion and forgetfulness.

 

Tears soaked the pillow slip beneath Verity's cheek. She had cried and cried—for the pain he had caused, for the anger he had flung at her, for her own inadequacy, for the ruins of her life.

When the flow of tears had ebbed at last, she rolled onto her back and pressed the heels of her hands hard against her eyes. She ought not be so shattered, having known all along how it would end. She had allowed her need to comfort him to overwhelm the knowledge that she could not. Not in that way.

Verity swung her legs over the side of the bed, rose, and walked slowly toward the dressing table. The ache between her legs had subsided somewhat, but she was still very conscious of it, of what had happened there, and she moved stiffly. One glance at
herself in the mirror and she turned away. She looked a fright. She reached for the tapes at the back of her dress. After much fumbling she was finally able to slip out of the bodice and allowed the dress to fall to her feet. When she reached to pick it up she saw the reddish stain between the folds of yellow muslin.

A little moan of despair escaped her lips before she balled up the garment and tossed it into the grate. It began to smolder but did not catch fire. A small bellows leaned against the hearth. Verity picked it up and pumped several times before the dress ignited with an explosive rush. She watched as it blackened and curled and finally fell to pieces. There would be no evidence of what had occurred downstairs.

James had been more furious over her supposed virginity than her other inadequacies. How could he know for sure? Was it possible for a man to be certain about such a thing? She had explained away the blood; how could he possibly have known?

It did not matter. Verity would never admit the truth to him, or to anyone. She had never told a living soul that her marriage had not been consummated. To do so would mean admitting to the humiliation of her wedding night, admitting the fact of her undesirability, admitting a man could never really want her in that way.

It had been difficult enough to admit to herself, but over the years she had come to accept her shortcomings. She did not dwell on it, and she had become resigned to a life without physical love. Or children.

Until she had come to Pendurgan.

When she found herself reluctantly attracted to
James, the old failures returned to haunt her. Every time her body reacted to him—to his touch, his kiss, a look, his mere presence—Verity had been reminded of all she could never be.

The extent of the pain the act had caused surely vindicated the truth of Gilbert's implications. There was something wrong with her, physically, that made sexual relations difficult, if not impossible, and made her sexually undesirable.

Tonight had been an accident of circumstance. James had been needy, and she had been the only one there. Any woman would have done. For that moment, though, Verity had been available and, God forgive her, willing.

She walked to the basin stand and poured water into the bowl. The water was icy cold and she relished its prickly sting as she splashed her face with it.

In the deepest reaches of her heart she had hoped that she might be allowed to experience what other women experienced routinely. For one fleeting moment, she actually believed she could be desirable to a man, to know what it was like to have a man want her.

She rinsed her swollen eyes one final time, then rubbed her face roughly with a towel, hoping to dissipate the last vestiges of foolishness. The sweet moment she had coveted had been fleeting, indeed, for as soon as James had entered her—stretching and tearing so she thought she must be ripped to shreds—he could hardly wait to be done with it. Had she somehow caused him pain as well? He had cursed her, then rolled away in disgust, unable even to look at her.

How could she have pretended it would be different this time? How could she have allowed herself to respond to his kisses, to believe they spoke of desire rather than simple need?

Worse yet, how could she have allowed herself to fall in love with a man who could never want her, who tonight vowed he would never touch her again?

Verity sat, carefully and slowly, on the stool in front of the dressing table and began to unpin her hair. She had lost several hairpins downstairs and the tight coil at her nape had become an untidy mess. She let it fall down her back and began the nightly ritual of brushing its thick length.

She remembered speaking with Edith when she was very young, about her dreams for the future, dreams of a home in the country, a husband, children. Ordinary things dreamed by most young girls. But it had all gone wrong somehow.

There had been nothing ordinary about her marriage to Gilbert, who, after being violently ill on their wedding night when he'd attempted to consummate the marriage, had abandoned her in a tiny, ramshackle house for more than two years, never to come to her bed again, seldom setting eyes on her until he'd come to take her to Cornwall. There had been nothing ordinary about being led to auction like a dray nag. And there was certainly nothing ordinary about falling in love with a man who needed her but didn't want her.

Verity stopped brushing and stared at herself in the mirror. “Stop it!” she said aloud and wagged the brush at her reflection. “Stop it. Stop it.”

She hated it when she gave in to self-pity, even for
a moment. She had never allowed the unexpected turns in her life to get her down, and refused to let the world see her as a victim. She had even adjusted to her new life at Pendurgan, however uncertain its nature. She had never been much of a fighter, but neither had she worn her disappointments on her sleeve. She quietly tucked them away and went about her life, head held high, as if they had never happened.

Just as she had told no one of her disastrous wedding night, neither would she speak of what had happened between her and James. Her love for him would remain a precious, close-guarded secret—unspoken, unacknowledged, unrequited.

There were, however, other ways in which she could act upon her love for him.

After what she'd witnessed tonight, when he'd been in the strange trancelike state, she realized James needed a friend more than ever. Not only to help him overcome his guilt and grief and shame, but also to help him rebuild his life, reestablish his ancestral position in the district, restore his good name. Anyone who saw him immobilized during such an episode could not possibly blame him for what happened in the Pendurgan fire. More likely, they would sympathize with the extraordinary pain he must surely have suffered from the deaths of Rowena and the children, when he realized he had not been able to help them.

It was sheer pigheaded male arrogance that drove him to foster his own black reputation. There was nothing to stop
her
, though, from trying to repair more than six years of damage. It should be easy
enough to do as she moved about the villages with her herbs and remedies. The local people had begun to accept her and, she believed, respect her. She would begin talking to them about James. Just a word here and there, but over time she hoped those words would take root and wipe out all the old bad feelings that had spread like a thicket through the community.

Verity finished plaiting her hair, then removed her undergarments and donned a nightgown. She felt much less like crying when she returned to bed at last. She had pushed aside what had happened that evening and come to a decision. Though she could not give James what he needed, there were two things she could give him: her friendship and his reputation. They were all she had to give.

 

James sat on the side of the bed and sipped Lobb's special coffee. His head throbbed and he felt more hung over from drink than he'd ever been in his life. Drink and conscience and self-loathing. All of it had exaggerated the effects of last night's alcoholic binge.

He had hoped to drink himself out of the despair he felt over what he'd done to Verity. It had not worked. The more he drank, the more despondent he'd become. The drunker he got, the more beautiful, the more compassionate, the more passionate Verity had become in his mind. By the time he had passed out in the chair, he had been sick with love for her.

In the reasonably clear light of day, he realized how foolishly maudlin and sentimental he'd been in his cups. He admired her, to be sure, and lusted after her as well. But guilt over what he'd done to her had
magnified his feelings all out of proportion. It would be exceedingly foolhardy to fall in love with Verity.

He rose slowly to his feet, the creaking of the bed frame painful to his ears. He grabbed the bedpost to anchor himself.

“You all right there, m'lord?”