Unraveled By The Rebel (35 page)

Juliette stepped in front of the door, blocking Paul’s way. “We can’t endure years of marriage like this.”

Paul raked a hand through his hair. “I ken that. But it may be wise to have separate rooms at first.”

It was a direct contradiction to his earlier assertion last night. “I thought you believed a wife and husband should share a room.”

“I changed my mind.”

The look in his eyes was harsh, of a man frustrated beyond words. “Surely you don’t mean that.”

She started to reach for him, and without warning, he pressed her back against the bookcase. “What are you wanting from me, Juliette?” he challenged. “Are you wanting me to lose control?”

His hands slid from her waist up to the sides of her breasts. “I’m no’ Strathland. I won’t ever claim you, for we both ken the risk.” His thumbs slid over her tightened nipples, tempting her until her breath caught. “But don’t be playing games with me. I have my limits, and you’re pushing them.”

She didn’t know what to say, but her skin prickled with interest. He reminded her of a caged animal, pacing its bars. He wanted her but was determined not to take her.

And God help her, he was temptation in the flesh. He kindled a hunger in her, not only to be touched but to touch him as well.

“I don’t mean to push,” she whispered.

Though he was speaking good sense, to stay apart, she sensed that it would only heighten his frustration. And although she’d tried to warn him about wedding her, tried to make him stay away, he’d refused to let it go. Now that they were married, she wanted to make the best of their companionship. But without intimacy, she suspected that with each passing day, he would grow more resentful. Later, it might come between them, just as she’d suspected it would.

She couldn’t let that happen. Already she’d lost her son. She didn’t want to lose her husband, too.

Paul had tried to give her so much already—a gown for her wedding, a night together where he’d made her feel wonderful. Even a fine house that was nicer than the one she’d lived in for most of her life. The handsome physician had transformed into a
viscount, almost like the fairy stories Margaret had read to them when they were growing up. Only Paul didn’t seem happy about it. There was uneasiness in his demeanor, as if he felt unworthy of the title.

There had to be a way of making him feel comfortable in his new role. And she wanted to do whatever she could to help their marriage begin on the right note.

“You don’t even ken what you do to me,” he murmured, drawing his hands over her spine.

No, but she wanted to give him the same release that he’d given her. The idea of touching him intimately, of bringing him that same arousal that he’d given her, was a sense of power she’d never known. What would he do if she touched him and kissed him in the same way?

Without thinking, she drew her arms around him, bringing his body against hers. He was tense, his shoulders tight as she pressed close. “We should share one room. Not two.” She raised her mouth to his and kissed him softly. With her lips open, she teased at him with her tongue, hoping to coax him out of his dark mood. He opened slightly, his mouth responding, while his hands moved to her spine. Against her hips, she felt the rise of his desire and heard the shift in his breathing.

A sudden restless yearning took hold of her as she continued kissing him, and she took his face between her hands. His cheeks were bristled from not shaving, and it reminded her of the primitive Highlander he was. Yet he was holding fast to his control, never taking command of the kiss. Beneath his mouth, she felt his silent discontent, as if he were made of stone.

“No. We won’t.” With that, Paul stepped around her and unlocked the door, leading the way down the hall.

It seemed her husband had no intention of being close to her again. And Juliette wondered if it was even possible to change it.

Beatrice had not owned a new gown in nearly ten years. After it arrived as a gift from Victoria for her birthday, she marveled at the yards of blue silk. She almost felt like a girl of twenty again and was eager to try it on.

“Happy birthday, Lady Lanfordshire.” Mrs. Larson beamed, helping her to lift the gown over her head. “Ye’ll look bonny indeed in this. Lord Lanfordshire willna be able to keep his eyes off ye.”

Beatrice flushed, hoping that was the case. Over the past few weeks, Henry had immersed himself in the ledgers, uneasy about their profits from Aphrodite’s Unmentionables, but still trying to unravel years’ worth of financial problems. She hoped that he would put the books aside tonight, at least.

“Will Her Grace be joining ye and Lord Lanfordshire for supper tonight?” Mrs. Larson asked, as she finished buttoning up the new gown. “I could bake a cake, if it pleases my lady.”

“I’ve invited Victoria and His Grace,” Beatrice admitted. “I hope they will come, and yes, a cake would be lovely.” Though Victoria’s pregnancy was advancing rapidly, she was glad for her daughter’s company.

Mrs. Larson helped her fix her hair, and when it was done, Beatrice stared at the woman in the looking glass. The years had left their mark on her, and although she’d begun gaining back some of the weight she’d lost, she could no longer look at herself and see a young woman. There were lines around her eyes, and her neck showed the signs of aging. She gave a sigh and turned away. Some things couldn’t change.

When Henry came into their room, she forced a smile. “I haven’t seen you for most of the day.”

“I’ve been busy.” He hardly glanced at her, and she waited for him to say something about the gown. Instead, he went to the writing desk and opened several drawers in search of a pen.

Her earlier happiness deflated instantly. But then, he hadn’t really looked at her.

She crossed over to the desk and stood directly beside him, waiting. At last, he glanced up. His eyes passed over her updo, which Mrs. Larson had threaded with matching ribbon. Then he briefly saw the gown, but said nothing. “Was there something you wanted?”

Yes,
she wanted to blurt out.
I want you to notice me. I want you to see the wife you’ve been married to for over twenty years, and not just the mother of your daughters.

“Will you be joining us for supper tonight?” she asked. “Victoria and His Grace might come.”

He frowned a moment. “Shouldn’t she be at home, in her condition? Do you think it wise for her to travel?”

“We live a few miles from them,” Beatrice pointed out. “And it’s only supper.”

“Why would they come?” Henry asked. “And why are you all dressed up?”

“It’s my birthday today,” she pointed out. Clearly he’d forgotten. “And since this gown was a gift from our daughter, I thought it only polite to wear it.”

“Oh.” He found the pen he’d been searching for and closed the desk. “Then I suppose I ought to join you, then.”

“If it wouldn’t inconvenience you.” It took effort to keep the frost from her voice, as though nothing were wrong. She should have known he wouldn’t remember.

Henry nodded, and a moment later, a smile came over his face. “I do have a gift for you, Beatrice, as it turns out. I suppose since it’s your birthday, I might as well give it to you now. I sent for it from London.” He went to the chest of drawers on the far end of their bedroom and opened the bottom drawer.

Some of her resentment dissipated. Perhaps she’d been too quick to jump to conclusions. He
had
been gone to war for years, after all. With all that he’d been through, perhaps a birthday wasn’t something he thought about very much. Curiosity filled her when she saw the small brown-paper parcel.

When he gave it to her, the weight of the package surprised her. A sense of excitement filled her, as she wondered what gift he’d sent for, all the way from London. It couldn’t be the sapphire bracelet, for this was too heavy, and she’d sold that, years ago. Silver, perhaps?

She untied the strings and folded back the paper only to reveal a set of three brass doorknobs, complete with locks and metal keys. It took her a moment to realize that yes, he had indeed given her doorknobs for her birthday. Not silver. Not a token of affection.

Doorknobs.

A tightness took hold in her stomach, and she couldn’t find the words to say anything.

“After the fire, I thought we should protect ourselves with a set of new locks,” Henry explained. “I’ll have them put in, and then you’ll be safe from the danger.”

Beatrice set down the doorknobs, forcing the air in and out of her lungs. He truly thought it was a good gift. That was what rattled her the most. He didn’t know that anything was wrong.

With extreme effort, she kept herself from breaking into tears. “Take them, if you want,” she said quietly. “I wish to be alone for a while.”

“Don’t you… like them?” He rewrapped the doorknobs in the paper, staring at her as if he genuinely didn’t understand why she would be upset. “They’re made of solid brass, Beatrice.”

“I’m sure they will be fine. Please go.” Before she made a fool of herself and started weeping in front of him.

Only when the door closed behind her husband did she realize how utterly hopeless it was. She was wedded to a stranger who had been away to war so long, they didn’t know each other. She let the tears fall, gripping her handkerchief in one fist.

The door opened again, and he caught her crying. “Beatrice, what is it?”

“Nothing,” she sniffed, reaching for a handkerchief. She didn’t want to discuss it, especially now. Her own daughter had sent her
a lovely gown, remembering her fondness for the color blue. And as for her husband—she knew he hadn’t remembered her birthday.

“You didn’t like them, did you?” he said.

A bitter laugh caught her. “What woman would want doorknobs for her birthday, Henry?”

At his bewildered look, she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t need anything. Just… try to remember to come to supper tonight at seven. Your daughter will want to see you.”

His expression grew shielded, but he nodded. “I’ll be there.”

She went to sit beside the window, resting her face against one hand. Henry wasn’t going to change. She’d grown old while he was gone and had become the wallpaper wife. One always there, hardly noticeable at all.

She’d simply never expected it to hurt so much.

Although they’d gone their own ways in the house, Paul could see that Juliette didn’t understand why he needed the distance. He’d been an utter fool when he’d thought he could marry her and be content with not making love to her.

It wasn’t as if she were walking around naked. No, she was dressed like a lady, she behaved like a lady, and he needed to stop thinking of her in that way.

But his mind would not let go of the sensation of having her bare skin against his own. She’d been so trusting, letting him have that moment. He’d wanted to spend all night exploring her body, watching her unravel before him. She was the girl he’d dreamed of marrying… and he wanted her to be happy.

He’d never expected that the night they’d shared together would cause such resentment in him. Not toward her, but toward the man who had hurt her.

Paul walked outside, hoping the physical exertion would give him the peace he craved. Jealousy was darkening his temper, and
he needed to control it before he lashed out against the person he cared most about. Strathland had been inside her. He’d made her pregnant and given her a son she loved with all her heart. A son she’d had to give away.

Because of the violence, he couldn’t destroy those memories or eradicate Strathland’s presence. Every time Paul looked at his wife, he imagined her pain and fear. It broke him apart to know that he hadn’t been there for her. He hadn’t saved her.

And he still couldn’t save her, teaching her what it was to be with a man who loved her. She would never be mother to a son or daughter of his blood.

His gut twisted with anger and the need to kill Strathland. That would have to be his purpose now. Damned if poverty was enough for the earl. Paul wanted blood.

For nearly an hour, he walked across the land, unable to accept that it now belonged to him. It felt as if he’d stolen an inheritance from a more worthy man. He didn’t know the first thing about managing an estate or making sense of the ledgers.