The Devil's Web (21 page)

She lifted her face to the sky. “You do not need to offer me marriage,” she said.

“I am afraid you have no choice,” he said quietly from the ground behind her. “I have just had your virginity, Madeline. We must now play out the part expected of us by society. We are not free agents after all. You are Lady Madeline Raine, sister of the Earl of Amberley. I am James Purnell, Lord Beckworth. People like you and me do not take a roll in the hay and shake hands and go our separate ways. They marry.”

“We cannot marry,” she said. “We would be miserable together.”

“It seems to me,” he said, “that we are rather miserable apart. If we must settle for one of the two miseries, it might as well be marriage. We have no choice anyway. We made it an hour ago. We both knew when we left the house what was going to happen and what must happen after that. There is nothing more to be said.”

He got abruptly to his feet and strode away from her. She dressed herself quickly, with shaking fingers, and went after him. But he had not gone far. He stood looking down into the valley, his face hard again, his eyes bleak. She stood silently beside him.

His teeth were clamped so firmly together that they felt as if they might crack. But he could not relax his jaw. He stared down into the valley as if it were daylight and he had set himself to counting every blade of grass there. But he could not withdraw his gaze. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his fingernails digging painfully into his palms. But he could not stretch his fingers.

For if he moved a single muscle, he would break down entirely. He would grab Madeline, who was standing silently beside him, and sob out all his pain and despair.

He could not so demean himself. He had been brought up to a stoical self-discipline. It was almost impossible for him to show his deepest feelings to another human being.

Especially such feelings. An aching grief for a father he had loved and had been unable to draw close to. A gnawing guilt over the knowledge that he had disappointed his father and spoiled the last ten years of his life. An emptiness of despair over not knowing for sure if he had been loved or if he had been forgiven. And now he would never know.

Madeline. Every ounce of feeling in him wanted to turn to her so that he could sob out his grief in her arms. So that he could seek love again, risk love again. So that he could tell her that what had just happened had been love, the instinctive reaching out for the one person who meant more to him than the whole world.

But he could not turn to her. He dared not move. He would come all to pieces if he moved.

Love! How could he ever persuade her that what had just happened was love? He had taken her quite cruelly. He had hurt her. He had said and done nothing that would even suggest tenderness. He had not made love to her. He had taken her, used her for his need.

But he loved her. God, he loved her. He would give his life if only he could make her happy.

Was there anything he could say? Anything he could do? What had he said a few minutes before? Something doubtless to hide his feelings, to hide the pain of rejection that must come when she had recovered from shock and pain.

He had ravished her. God, he had ravished the one woman in this world he would die for.

He stood as if turned to stone.

“He did not love me, you know,” he said after several minutes. “Or Alex. Or my mother. He was cold and unfeeling to the core. I asked for his love before I left here. I asked for his blessing. He gave me only a handshake and no words at all.”

“He had very high standards of behavior,” Madeline said. “But who knows what his inner feelings were?”

“He was incapable of love,” he said. He turned to look down at her, and knew that the tension inside him had not uncoiled at all. His eyes were cold and unfathomable. “Like father, like son, I suppose. You cannot expect love to flow from the members of such a family.”

“Your mother loved him,” Madeline said, “and she loves you. Alexandra is capable of great love.”

“Then perhaps it is a malady just of the men in the family,” he said. “You must hope that you will bear me female children only. We had better go back to the house. We have a betrothal to announce. Is it distasteful to have a funeral and a betrothal both within the same day, do you think?”

“We should wait,” she said. “And perhaps there should be no marriage at all. James, we must think about it, talk about it more.”

But he could not think, and he could not talk. Not about the feelings closest to his heart, anyway. And he could not lose her now. He would die rather than lose her.

“I shall leave for London in the morning,” he said, “and return with a special license. We will marry within a week, Madeline—in the chapel at Amberley before I take you into Yorkshire. There is no point in delay. I am eager to begin this new life of mine, to return to a home I swore I would never see again.”

“James,” she said, “this is madness. You …”

He spread one hand behind her head and kissed her again, his mouth as hard and ungentle as it had been before.

“Hush,” he said. “You are mine now. You have given yourself to me. I will make the decisions from now on.”

Madeline shivered, but she bit her lip and did not tell him, as she had been about to do, that he sounded just exactly like his father. And she did not tell him, as she might have done and as her self-respect told her to do, that she would not marry him, that he could not force her to do so.

She took his arm silently and walked back to the house with him. They did not exchange one word on the way.

M
ADELINE LIVED
in something of a daze during the following week. A deliberate daze. She could not think clearly, and she did not want to do so. She would leave her thinking to do during the following week, after she was married.

James was not able to make his announcement immediately on their arrival home. His mother fell sobbing into his arms, and it took the combined efforts of James, Ellen, and Mrs. Harding-Smythe to calm her down and persuade her to sit down and sip some tea.

But the announcement was made. And Madeline was surprised when Lady Beckworth threw her arms about James's neck and kissed him and called him her dear, dear son. And she hugged and kissed her future daughter-in-law too. Only later did she resume her crying, and lament the fact that her dear Beckworth would never know.

There did not seem to be any objection to the haste of the marriage, either. It seemed that Lady Beckworth interpreted James's decisions as a sign that he was taking on himself the responsibility of his new position.

And so he left the following morning for London. They had not had a private word together since they were out on the hillside.

“Are you quite sure, Madeline?” Edmund asked her the night of the betrothal, taking both her hands in his when they were left alone in the drawing room and looking directly into her eyes. Alexandra had retired to bed some hours before. “There is a heightened emotion surrounding such events as funerals. And I know you have a regard for James and must sympathize with him in his loss. Are you sure you want to marry him?”

“Yes,” she said, “it is what I want, Edmund.”

He frowned. “Something is wrong,” he said. “You are not smiling. James did not look overjoyed, though of course one would not expect him to forget what day this is. You did not sit together or speak together all evening. Reassure me. I want you to be happy.”

“I will be happy,” she said, releasing her hands from his and putting them about his neck. “He is what I want, Edmund. And is it not quite typical of you to be showing concern for me when you must be worried about Alexandra and eager to check on her. Don't let me keep you.”

She hugged him before smiling at him and preceding him from the room.

Dominic was in her dressing room waiting for her when she went upstairs. He was lounging against her dressing table, playing absently with a brush.

“Well,” he said, tossing down the brush and getting to his feet. “Hugs?”

She let him hug her tight, and rested her head briefly on the safety and comfort of his shoulder.

“Why aren't you happier?” he asked her, holding her at arm's length.

“Lord Beckworth was buried today,” she said. “It cannot be a time of great rejoicing.”

“This is your twin, love,” he said. “What's the matter?”

She looked at him before letting her eyes fall before his. “I am marrying the man I love most in all the world,” she said. “The man I would be miserable without for the rest of a lifetime. And yet I know I will not be happy with him either, Dom.”

“Does he not love you?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Why is he marrying you, then?” he asked.

She shrugged and reached out without thought to do up a button that had come undone on his waistcoat.

“Are you increasing?” he asked.

She looked, startled, up into his face and flushed. “No!”she said.

“But there is the chance that you might be, isn't there, Mad?” he said. “You have been with him.”

“Just tonight,” she said. “ He needed me. And I love him. Nothing mattered but that I loved him.”

He nodded. “But it should have been a mutual need and a mutual love,” he said. “And perhaps it is, too. I don't pretend to understand Purnell, Mad. He is so withdrawn and his face is always so impassive that it's impossible to know the man. But something obviously draws him to you. Perhaps you will be able to penetrate behind the mask. And perhaps you will find there is love there after all. I hope so.”

“I have to marry him,” she said. “I could not say no, and he would not allow me to, anyway.”

“No,” he said, “I know you have no choice. And so I know this is the real thing for you, Mad. With all the others the choice was always yours. I know you have to marry him, so I won't give any brotherly lectures. I could do so, you know, because from the outside this seems all wrong. I'll only hug you again and wish and wish that you will be as happy in your marriage as I am in mine. You know I'll always be here for you, don't you? Anytime you need me.”

“Yes, Dom,” she said. “I know.”

Her mother was pleased for her.

“He is a hardworking young man,” she told Madeline next morning after James had already left, “and takes his responsibilities seriously. He is rather reticent, it is true, and somewhat severe in manner, but then Alexandra was much like that too when she first met Edmund. Love and marriage and children have brought out all the charm and love that were hidden within. They had a harsh upbringing, you know. You will do for James what Edmund has done for Alexandra. How could you fail, dear, with your sunny nature? Do you love him?”

“Yes, Mama,” Madeline said. “He is the whole of life tome.”

Her mother smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “Then what more is there to say?” she said. “Your mother and father and your two brothers married for just exactly that reason. I would say you are in very good company. James is a good young man. I shall be proud to have him for a son-in-law.”

Alexandra sought her out the same morning even before breakfast. “I feel guilty,” she said, taking both her sister-in-law's hands in hers, “to be feeling any happiness today. But I am happy, Madeline. James is home to stay. And what is far more precious even than that, he is going to marry you next week.” She hugged Madeline hard.

“If something good could come of Papa's passing,” she continued, “it is that James will stay in this country and go back home to Yorkshire again. And that he will be taking you with him as his wife. He will be happy with you. And I have always wanted his happiness more than almost anything else in life.”

Word spread long before the week was out, and callers arrived daily to pay their respects to Lady Beckworth and to wish Madeline all the joy of her coming nuptials.

Fortunately, it was a time in which it was easy to keep the mind in a daze. Easy and very desirable. For though she knew that she had to marry James—for a variety of reasons—she knew too that there was no happily-ever-after ending waiting for her the other side of the altar.

There was the memory of James sneering at her and telling her she had been caught in the devil's web. There was James telling her that he was incapable of loving, as his father had been. James kissing her and loving her without any trace of tenderness. And James telling her to hush because she was his possession now and he would make all the decisions affecting their lives.

And there was herself not making any protest against anything he had said or done. She who had fought her way through childhood and girlhood with the demand to be treated with respect despite her gender. And she who had always been in command of every flirtation she had ever indulged in.

She had let James take her maidenhood out there on the hillside, though she had known that he did so without love. And she had allowed him to bully her into a betrothal and hasty marriage. And she had allowed him to tell her to hush, without lashing back at him with either tongue or fists.

Madeline shivered. After her marriage she would have to learn how to fight against this man who had always frightened her, or she might lose herself completely. She might become another Lady Beckworth—in more than just name.

T
HE DOWAGER LADY BECKWORTH WAS SOBBING in James's arms. She was very happy for him. Her life was over, she said. There could be no more happiness for her with his papa gone. But James had shown himself their son again. He was not going back to that heathen land but was on his way to Yorkshire and Dunstable Hall. And he had made a very eligible marriage. She was more proud of him than she could say. He was looking so very handsome on his wedding day.

She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him soundly.

Then Alex was hugging him and laughing and saying how wonderful it was to be sending him off only as far as Yorkshire.

“Have a safe journey,” she said into his ear. “And be happy, James. For years you wanted only my happiness—and your wish was granted. Now I want yours. And you will be happy, I know. You and Madeline are meant for each other.”

Edmund was holding out a hand to him and smiling. “Well, James,” he said, “it seems that we liked each other so well as brothers-in-law that we had to do it again.”

James shook hands with him.

“Have a safe journey,” Edmund said. “And look after my sister.”

“As you look after mine, I would hope,” James said in all seriousness.

His Aunt Deirdre was awaiting her turn to hug him and wish him a good journey.

Madeline was in her mother's arms, he saw at a glance. Eden and his wife were standing close to them, their arms about each other's waists. Madeline turned and lifted an arm about the neck of each.

“You had better get on your way as fast as you can,” William Carrington said, gripping his hand firmly, “before the ladies drown themselves and each other. There is something about weddings that always has them turn on the waterworks.”

“Well, William,” his wife said, “weddings are serious business. You look very handsome, James, my dear—I may call you that now you are our nephew by marriage, may I? But I can see that you want only to snatch up your bride and be on your way.” She gave him a hearty kiss on the cheek.

Albert was hovering in the background.

Madeline was hugging Anna and Walter. She was not dressed in black. He had forbidden her to do so when she had mentioned the subject on his return from London the day before. There would be no mourning clothes for her. She had not been related to his father in any way when he died.

She was in tears, but smiling. His new mother-in-law was hugging him.

“James,” she said, “I am so proud to have you as a son-in-law. Welcome to my family, my dear. Now, my experience is that these farewells can go on forever and ever. I would suggest that you disengage Madeline from William's embrace and make off with her.” She smiled at him. “I can see that all this sentimentality is making you thoroughly uncomfortable.”

By the time he crossed the distance between himself and his wife, she was holding one of Ellen's hands in both of hers and talking very fast and very eagerly to Dominic. He took her by the elbow.

“It's time to leave, Madeline,” he said. He should smile at her. A bridegroom should smile at his bride, especially when all her family and all his were looking at them and were themselves smiling. But he could not force the muscles of his face to obey his will.

“Oh, yes,” she said breathlessly, “of course.”

She came with him immediately and allowed him to hand her into his father's carriage, now his—the carriage they would share by day for a week or more until they arrived at his home.

There was a great deal of noise and laughter. More tears. Edmund closed the door of the carriage and smiled and lifted a hand in farewell. And they were on their way.

Married two hours before, husband and wife, and on their way into a future together.

“You would have liked a large wedding, doubtless,” he said. “In St. George's or elsewhere in London.” He had meant his tone to be sympathetic. It sounded stiff, even cold.

“I always dreamed of getting married in the chapel,” she said, “with just family present. That is where Dom and Ellen were married last year because she was in mourning at the time, too.”

She leaned forward as the carriage began to climb the hill opposite the house and looked out the window until they were at the top of the rise and beyond sight of the valley. But even when she leaned back again, she kept her head averted. He could hear her swallow several times.

He wanted to reach a hand across to her. He wanted to move across the seat to her to dry her tears with his own handkerchief, to let her do her crying against his shoulder. He wanted to assure her that she was not losing a home but gaining one, that as much love as she was leaving behind her, there was so much more traveling with her and waiting ahead of her.

He too swallowed and turned his head to look out the window beside him.

“I expected that your mama would come with us,” she said after several silent minutes.

“It will be better for her to remain with Alex for a month or so,” he said. “She is fond of the children. She will go to Aunt Deirdre's after that—for an indefinite stay, I believe. She would not enjoy being at Dunstable Hall with my father not there.”

Her hands were fidgeting in her lap. He would not even have to move in order to reach across and take one of them in his own. It would be a small enough gesture of support. She was his wife. He would not have to find words. Just hold her hand in his.

“James,” she said, her voice shaking and breathless, “I cannot stand this. Is this what I am to be subjected to for a week of travel? Perhaps for a lifetime?”

“What?” he asked, holding his expression blank as he looked into her flushed and angry face. Though, of course, he knew very well what she meant.

“This silent treatment,” she said. “This coldness. I look into your eyes and I am frightened, for I can see nothing beyond them.”

“Perhaps there is nothing to see,” he said.

“We were married this morning,” she said. “I am your wife. Am I to be treated now like a stranger?”

“If you were a stranger,” he said, “doubtless I would feel obliged to make polite conversation with you. Is that what you want? Shall we converse? Is it like to rain later today, do you think? Are those clouds gathering on the horizon, or is it merely a heat haze?”

“I hate it when you sneer,” she said. “I think I would prefer your morose silence.”

“Would you?” he said. “Then we will be silent. I am intent on obliging you, you see.”

Her jaw set hard and her nostrils flared. “You may go to the devil,” she said. “And I'll be damned along with you before I feel a moment's further embarrassment at your silence.”

“You forget that I
am
the devil,” he said. “You would do well to get used to me, Madeline. It seems that you are stuck with me for the rest of your life.”

“Yes,” she said, almost hissing the word. “But you will not find me a docile and teary-eyed victim, James Purnell. You will not drag me down with you into gloom, I can safely promise you. I shall fight you every inch of the way.”

He did not answer her. He turned his attention to the window again.

And so they journeyed for the rest of the day in near silence, turned away from each other, looking through the windows as if it were a new and fascinating country through which they traveled. She took his hand to descend when they stopped to change horses and to take tea, but her chin was raised at a stubborn angle. She did not once look at him.

And he began to feel that there must be something wrong with him, that he was treading a sure road to his own permanent unhappiness and sealing the doom of the woman he had taken to wife just that morning. He was doing so quite unwillingly but was totally powerless to do otherwise. It was as if he really did have the devil inside of him.

He had told himself during his ride to London and back to procure a special license that there was hope. It was true that he was his father's son, unloved and unforgiven by the man who had given him life. And it was true that he lived in terror of being like his father indeed, incapable of loving or bringing any joy into the lives of those closest to him.

But it was not so, he had told himself. He loved his mother. Despite the weakness of her character, her lethargy, her constant low spirits, he loved her. And he loved Alex with a deep concern for her happiness. He loved her children.

He was capable of love. He loved Madeline. He had told himself that repeatedly on his journey to London. And it was true. His need for her on the day of his father's funeral had been a monumental thing. And it had been a need not just for her body, though that was how it had shown itself. He had needed
her
. He had needed her arms about him, her voice soothing him, herself part of him.

He knew he had not been gentle. It had been her first time, and he had done nothing to ease her pain or to soothe her shock. And he had felt her pain in the tension of her body—it had not been the tension of passion.

He had taken her with the need and the desire to take her into himself, to make her forever a part of him. And of course he had known even as he took her that he must have her with him for the rest of his life. She was as necessary to him as the air he breathed. He could not possibly let her go.

He loved her, he had told himself during the interminable days away from her. So far he had shown his love only in the fight he had made against the inevitable, and in the selfish grasping to satisfy his own needs.

When he got back to her it would be different. He would smile at her and tell her that he loved her. His wedding day would be the beginning of a new and wonderful life for both of them. He would make her a gift of himself at the altar of the chapel at Amberley, not just of his name.

Madeline and his love for her would free him. He would no longer be his father's son, no longer a product of his background and upbringing. He would be Madeline's husband and friend and lover. He would learn to laugh with her and joke with her and share the whole of himself with her.

It had been a heady dream. It had sustained him through the tedium and fatigue of a lonely journey. He had not thought at all about the old nagging guilt, the old need to punish himself for his destruction of another's happiness. He had given himself up to his dream.

But a dream was all it had been. One cannot after all change one's nature in a matter of days, he had discovered the day before on his return to Amberley. The will to change was not enough.

And yet it was not his nature to be surly to the point of rudeness. It was only with Madeline he was so. He could not seem to treat her even with common courtesy. After sustaining himself for days with the need to be back with her, he had avoided being alone with her all the day before. And when she had contrived to be alone with him during the evening, he had been abrupt and domineering and downright cruel to her.

“James,” she had said, “I do not know what I should wear tomorrow.”

He had looked at her with cold eyes. “I thought women arranged such matters as a bride's clothes,” he had said.

“But I don't know if I should be in mourning,” she had said. “I have black dresses. Should I wear one for our wedding? Will you expect it?”

And instead of taking her hands in his and smiling at her and telling her that he wanted his bride to be like the sunshine, as she usually was, he had looked at her without any expression at all.

“You will not wear mourning on account of my father,” he had said. “Try wearing a black dress, Madeline, tomorrow or any other day in the next year, and I shall tear it off you and rip it to shreds before your eyes.”

Because he loved her and wanted her to brighten his life, not add to its gloom, he might have added. Because he did not want her tainted by the gloom that had always hung like a pall over his own family. He did not want to look at her and see mourning. He wanted to see the hope, the light of his life, in her.

But he had said none of those things. He had stood, his hands clasped behind his back, watching her flush, waiting for her to turn away and seek out other company.

He had hated himself and realized that his dream was as insubstantial as those that trailed through his sleep at night.

And so he sat beside her on their wedding day, knowing with each passing mile that he had bullied his wife into a marriage that would bring her nothing but an enforced hell.

• • •

M
ADELINE WAS WALKING
back and forth in the rather magnificent bedchamber of the inn where they had stopped for the night. She was wearing a white silk and lace nightgown. Her hair had been freshly brushed by her maid and lay in soft curls about her face and along her neck. She was waiting for her husband to come to her.

Waiting in anger. She would not deny him, of course. They were at a public inn, and he could scarcely take himself off to another room. Besides, she had a feeling that he would insist on taking his conjugal rights and he would doubtless be able to force himself upon her. Not that that would daunt her if she really wished to deny him. She would be quite unabashed by the necessity to yell and scream and punch, kick, and claw. She would enjoy doing so even knowing that he would be able to subdue her with ease.