The Chadwick Ring (9 page)

Although he had for some months noticed with irritation Amalie’s growing self-assured and possessive attitude toward him, still he had been stunned by her violent, very public reaction when he told her he was being married. He had planned the evening carefully: a lavish meal followed by a concert and fireworks at Vauxhall; when she was in a good mood, he would assure her that her
lease and
accounts were to remain open long enough for her to find a new patron; and then as a final gesture of their amicable parting he would present her with the magnificent ruby bracelet. But the evening had ended with fireworks of a kind Handel never orchestrated: instead of meekly accepting Chadwick’s decision, Amalie had shrieked and railed like a betrayed wife.

Chadwick stared at his mistress, as the explanation suddenly occurred to him, the motivation for her shrewish temper and her unconscionable intrusion upon his wedding day: Amalie had been so sure, of him that she had dared to imagine he might marry
her.
The very insolence of the thought took his breath away. Oh, certainly, almost every year some member of the aristocracy scandalized the
ton
by wedding his demirep, and of course many of those women who pretended to be high sticklers were in fact little better than married whores, but such would never be the case for a Marchioness of Chadwick, and he could not understand how Amalie had come to think otherwise.

Indeed, until recently he had little thought to marry again. His first marriage had been such a misalliance that he was in no hurry to repeat the experience. It had been the shock of the death of his son, so like him and yet a stranger, that had made him think seriously about reestablishing some sort of family life. He already had his mother and Bysshe who depended on him, and indeed the idea of finding some suitable young woman to grace his table and share his bed, perhaps give him more children, was not unappealing. He had taken time away from his political duties to survey the latest bevy of debutantes at Almack’s, but while his mere presence in that hallowed hall raised the hopes of sundry doting mothers, not one of the simpering misses paraded for his perusal had aroused any feeling in him other than boredom. His reaction had puzzled him, for certainly some of the girls were attractive, one or two even beautiful, and still another few showed promise of wit. He had not understood his indifference until the day he rode to Reading in answer to Sir Charles’s curious letter, and he spotted a girl with eyes like gold guineas cowering behind a beech tree.

Chadwick’s hard mouth quirked wryly as he shrugged his coat over his broad shoulders. How arrogant he had been, how supremely confident that he could order his own life! He would dismiss his mistress with a minimum of fuss, and then he would overcome his young bride’s very natural reluctance and with skill and consideration initiate her into the mysteries of womanhood. Instead his mistress declined to be dismissed, and his wife retreated from him as if from Beelzebub. Of course he hadn’t helped matters any, allowing himself to become so hipped by the presence of the hapless Ferris that he had lashed out at Ginevra and then stormed back to London. He had embarked on a binge unequalled since those long-ago days when his first wife died, and he had come to his senses only as he plunged himself feverishly into the familiar darkness of Amalie’s body. And all the time his mind had protested,
Ginevra, Ginevra
...

Amalie turned away from her mirror and looked at the marquess, trying to assess his strange mood. Her voice was carefully humble as she asked quietly, “Richard, are you still angry with me about last Tuesday? Is that why you will not stay with me? I tried to explain...” She gave a laugh that was just short of convincing. “I’m sorry I made a fuss, but you should have been frank with me,
mon chou.
Did you think I would not understand? How could I not? The French invented the
marriage de convenance.
I can see that you might decide to remarry if some girl’s
dot
were tempting enough, but of course it need make no difference between us.”

Standing by the door, Chadwick regarded the woman perched on her vanity stool. He looked at her—not sadly, but perhaps with a twinge of regret for all those times their bodies had merged in an act of love that had no love in it. He knew the contours and textures of her flesh as well as he knew his own, and he knew enough about the workings of her mind to be aware that she must resent being supplanted by a much younger woman. Had there been any tenderness between them, he might have pitied her. But despite her hurt pride, he knew also that Amalie would weather his departure. At thirty-two she was still a striking and desirable woman, one who would have no trouble finding someone else to offer her a
carte blanche.
Even if she did not, he had always been very generous with her; no doubt in typical French fashion she had prudently stored away a tidy sum against the day when her smooth flesh wrinkled and those voluptuous breasts sagged. He said gently, “I’m afraid you don’t quite understand, Amalie. After tonight I shall not be seeing you again.”

Amalie’s black eyes widened, and the warm gold surface of her skin showed ashen through the translucent negligee. “I don’t believe you,” she said hoarsely, jumping up from her stool. “
Ce
n’est pas possible.
You can’t leave me!”

“But I can,” Chadwick answered, “and I must. Don’t pretend to be surprised. I told you only a week ago that I intended to terminate our relationship.”

She shook her head fiercely, her hair reflecting highlights as ruddy as the gems on her wrist. “
Non. Non.
You told me some flummery about settling down with a bride, but now, bare days after your wedding, you come to me again, with gifts and—”

“I had planned to give you the bracelet the other night,” he interrupted. “It was meant to be a ... token in honor of my engagement.”

Amalie’s expression hardened. She gestured toward the tangle of scented sheets. “And what was
that
supposed to be, a wedding present?”

He took a deep breath. “No, Amalie,
that
was a mistake. I should not have come here. I wronged you, and I wronged my wife.” He stared at the great bed where he and Amalie had pleasured each other more times than he could count He wondered why the memory suddenly seemed so unpalatable. His blue eyes darkened as he remembered Ginevra lying across the cool, fresh linen of another bed, her hair sprayed out in a golden nimbus, her young breasts innocent and inviting beneath him ... Amalie’s harsh, raucous laugh ripped his reveries.

“Your wife!” she jeered scornfully. “What kind of wife sends her husband into another woman’s arms two days after the wedding? Was she frightened, is that it? Poor Richard, did she shy away from your embraces, scream and then run home to her
maman
?” In her fury Amalie’s eyes became as opaque as jet. “How could you?” she growled. “How could you throw me over for some milk faced virgin?”

Chadwick stared at his mistress. He had never seen her like this, and he thought curiously that in her rage no one would ever call her beautiful. Her features twisted and distorted until they were a grotesque caricature of themselves, like a pagan mask. In her vivid silk robe, with her nipples and navel clearly visible through the sheer fabric, she looked like an idol for some unsavory fertility cult. He thought of Ginevra again and knew that he did not want to discuss her with this woman. He turned away from Amalie and made a pretense of searching for his hat.

She grabbed his arm. Her long red fingernails dug into the sleeve that Weston had cut with such loving care, and she pleaded, “Tell me, Richard, I must know. Tell me what hold this girl has over you that you would give up me for her.”

Chadwick shook her off. “Leave it, Amalie,” he said sternly, impatiently. “My wife is no concern of yours.” His voice trailed off as he recalled similar words he had spoken only two nights before. He continued more soothingly, “Be satisfied that I have instructed my man of business to cover your accounts for another quarter. With three months at your disposal you ought to be able to secure a new protector who will suit you. Perhaps you should aim higher this time. I hear that one of the royal dukes is looking for—”

“No!” Amalie cried. “I will not let you discard me like an old shoe. You belong to me!”

From his superior height he stared down at her, and his blue eyes glazed with ice. “You mistake yourself, madam,” he said. “I belong to no woman.” He scooped up his beaver hat and stalked out of the room.

Amalie did not follow him. She collapsed against the doorframe and listened intently to his heavy footsteps marking his progress through the elegant
appartement meuble
whose lease he paid; she heard him utter a terse good night to the sleepy maid, whose salary he also paid (Ferris had been dismissed out of hand). The front door slammed, and from the window opening onto the street she heard Chadwick bark out orders to his startled coachman, drowsing on his high perch. When the jingle of the bridle and the hollow clop of the horses’ hooves on the cobbled pavement faded into the distance, Amalie gazed down at the jewels on her wrist, basking in their cold fire. “So, my lord, you claim you belong to no woman,” she murmured, letting out her breath with a hiss. “
Eh bien, nous verrons.
We shall see.” Her free hand twisted the sharp links of the bracelet until it cut into her wrist as if it were a garrote around a slim white throat.

Ginevra set the empty basket down by her feet and sank back wearily against the cushions as the barouche pulled away from the shabby little cottage. A few yards down the road two women bobbed respectfully as the carriage passed, and they watched its progress with curious eyes. Ginevra glanced at Emma and noted ruefully, “I don’t think I shall ever become accustomed to being curtsied to.”

“It’s your due,” her friend said unanswerably.

The folding top of the vehicle protected Ginevra’s bent head from the harsh rays of the noonday sun, but even in the half-shade her gold eyes were pensive. She tucked a strand of hair back beneath her fashionable bonnet and picked idly at the fine blue sarsenet of her day dress, in her mind contrasting the thin silk with the coarse, worn cotton that had garbed the woman whose house they had just left. Ginevra noticed that after several days of enforced idleness her fingers were smoothing again, and she remembered the way her hostess’s hands, so red and dry that the skin cracked, had bled at the knuckles when she offered her straw-colored tea in a chipped cup. Ginevra said, “It hardly seems fair. I’ve done little or nothing, yet everyone acts so pathetically grateful.”

Emma said, “You’re the new mistress of Queenshaven, and you’ve shown the tenants that you are interested in their welfare. You’ve visited them, you’ve inquired after their sick. That’s all they really want.”

“Well, I’m not sure it’s all I want. I’m not used to playing Lady Bountiful, handing out food baskets and patting babies on the head. I ought to be doing something of value.”

Emma chided, “Now that they’ve met you, I’m sure the people will feel free to come to you if they really need your help. I don’t know what else you think you could have done in the short time you’ve been at Queenshaven. Truly, for all the years your mother lived at Bryant House, I doubt that she could have been a more conscientious mistress than you have proved to be in these last four days.”

Ginevra nodded, smiling. “Thank you, Emma. I do try to follow her example. Queenshaven is much like ho ... my father’s house, only bigger.” She stared across the undulating fields of green, separated by neat hedgerows that stretched into the distance until they abutted with the dense woods that marked the boundary between Queenshaven and Dowerwood. Sleek cattle grazed near the wood, and Ginevra wondered if Lord Chadwick planned to fell those trees now that he owned her old home, to merge the two estates into one vast expanse of rich pastureland. When she was a little girl, Ginevra’s summer world had all been on the far side of those trees, and to her immature mind the marquess’s estate had been something immeasurably large, like the ocean, too huge and awesome to be comprehended. Yet now she found herself mistress of both properties.

Perhaps it was ironic that she had never regarded her future in those terms, the terms that had been so important to her parents. Even when she was engaged to Tom she had never considered at any length that she was destined someday to be the great lady of Queenshaven, the Marchioness of Chadwick. She had seen her future with her young fiancé as a continuation of their childhood, happy and innocent as the poems in that volume of Blake that the marquess had given her. She wrinkled her nose as she tried to remember what had become of that book; she had not seen it in months. She shrugged. It was gone forever, like the days to which it referred.

Ginevra sighed wryly. When she had thought with trepidation of her future as the marquess’s wife, the one thing she had never imagined it would be was boring, nor had she dreamed that she might someday miss the chores, the endless decisions she had faced when she ran her father’s house. Mrs. Timmons, the Queenshaven housekeeper, appeared to be in no great hurry to delegate her long-standing authority to a mere chit of a girl, and to date Ginevra’s only household duties had been to approve the menu and to preside in solitary splendor at table, gazing down the long, lonely expanse of gleaming mahogany to the empty chair that was used only by the master of the house.

Perhaps that was the most baffling thing of all about her new status: she missed her husband. She couldn’t imagine why—she did not even like the man!—yet during meals she found herself glancing surreptitiously at the massive carved chair opposite her, as if at any moment she might peek up through her lashes and meet his sardonic gaze. And at night ... at night she would lie awake, twisting with an ache she could not define, staring at the wall that separated their adjoining chambers, her thoughts piercing it to envision Chadwick’s hard, lean body stretched across his own bed, vibrant with nervous energy even in repose. Would he wear a nightshirt of fine lawn as her father did, or ... or would he sleep naked? Ginevra blushed at the tantalizing images conjured up by her fevered brain. Her fingers curled into her palms as she remembered the feel of his warm brown skin, the musky man-scent of him. Did he lie there in the dark thinking of her, picturing her in her wispy white gown, her slender form pinned beneath his? ...