Louisa was worth a dozen simpering Society wives! She gave him friendship, and laughter, and the shared delight of their joining. Now, for perhaps the first time in their long relationship, she was giving him advice—to leave her.
‘My wife, whoever she may be, will know better than to interfere in what I choose to do. If she marries me to gain a title—and what other reason could there be?—she would be well advised to learn to content herself with that, and to concentrate on giving me the heir I need. She will do as I bid her, Louisa, and that includes turning a blind eye to my relationship with you.’ He managed to stop the rush of angry words. She was staring down at the coverlet now. ‘Unless you wish to be rid of me?’
‘Oh, Max, you know very well that I do not. But I understand you better than you think. Perhaps better than you understand yourself. The marriage you have described is a stony-hearted business alliance. If you go that route, you will end up hating your wife, and hating yourself, too. You need to marry where there is love…or affection, at least.’
He shook his head wonderingly. In the course of their long liaison, she had never presumed. On his rare visits to England, on leave from the Peninsula, she had always been warm and welcoming. She had treated him as if he were her only lover, though he had known full well that he was not. Without a protector, she would have starved.
And when he had returned for good and was able to afford—just—to set her up for himself alone, she had not changed. She took his money, but she was generous of herself. She was a diamond. He would never give her up.
‘Marriage is a matter of business, Louisa. You know that as well as I do. You are right that I shall have to take a wife. And since my earldom is threadbare, she must be richly dowered. I do not doubt I shall find a rich father who is willing to sell me his daughter in exchange for a title. Believe me, I plan to drive a hard bargain in return for assuming the shackles. I must have control of her fortune; and she must be biddable. I do not insist on any great degree of beauty, though it would not go amiss if—’
He stopped short. Louisa was gazing up at him with an expression of profound distaste on her lovely face.
‘Confound it, I sound like a coxcomb, do I not? Whoever she is, I shall treat her well, I promise you. There have been quite enough downtrodden women in my family—’ a vivid picture of poor Mary Rosevale came immediately to mind ‘—and I have no intention of forcing another into that sorry state. She will have money, and influence, and, God willing, children at her skirts.’
‘But she will not have your love.’
He laughed harshly. ‘Come, Louisa, do you really think me capable of that? Is any man of my station? I never saw a love match, neither in my own family nor in all my time in the army. The poets have much to answer for. Love, if it exists at all, comes between a man and his mistress.’ He lifted her hand from the ruined sheet and raised it to his lips. Her eyes widened in surprise at such an unusual display of affection.
A sharp knock interrupted them. The door did not open, however. Louisa’s servants were too well trained to intrude.
‘What is it?’ called Louisa.
‘His lordship’s carriage is at the door, ma’am.’
Max settled Louisa’s hand gently on the coverlet and looked towards the door. ‘Tell Ramsey to walk the horses. I will be down presently.’
‘Aye, m’lord.’
‘I must go, my dear. I will…think on what you have said.’
‘You will consider it for the space of a second or two, you mean, and then discard it.’
He shook his head, smiling wryly.
‘What is more, you have had no breakfast.’
Trust Louisa to know exactly when to change an unwelcome subject. She was a companion that any man would envy. ‘I shall take something when we stop to bait the horses.’ He bent to put a hand on her cheek and drop a tiny kiss on her lips. ‘And, in any case,’ he went on, straightening and turning for the door, ‘what need have I of food? I am already very well satisfied this morning.’
She was blushing deliciously. It was a good memory to take with him on this unwelcome journey.
‘Goodbye, my dear. I shall return as soon as I may.’
He ran lightly down the stairs to the tiny hallway where the servant was waiting with his heavy driving coat and his hat and gloves. At this time of year, he could not complete the journey in the day. There was too little daylight and the roads were always bad. Curse the woman! With her background, she could not help but be a thorn in his flesh, but why did she have to choose the middle of winter to inflict her scheming ways on him? He shook his head impatiently. He had no alternative. It would be a long, cold journey but he must confront her now, while he had the advantage of surprise.
The servant opened the door. Outside, the streets were white with frost. The horses’ breath rose in great clouds in the half-hearted winter light.
By the time he reached Rosevale Abbey—if he ever did reach it in such weather—he would have devised some very choice words for his unknown cousin. Very choice indeed.
Chapter Three
‘H ave you seen my thimble, Angel? I seem to have mislaid it and I cannot possibly go to London without my canvas work.’
Angel sighed. Aunt Charlotte had been getting worse and worse since Pierre’s visit. For days, she had talked almost non-stop about how she planned to help Pierre to oust Cousin Frederick. Only Angel’s announcement that they were leaving for London, no matter what the weather, had served to divert the old lady’s mind. Now the subject of her endless lectures was London Society and the need for her niece to make her mark there. Angel had become heartily tired of hearing about modistes, and fripperies, and Almack’s.
‘It is probably at the bottom of your workbag, Aunt. I am sure your woman will be able to find it for you.’ She rose from her desk and crossed to the library door to give her aunt an affectionate peck on the cheek. ‘Forgive me, dear Aunt, but I must finish these letters or we shall never be able to leave. I will join you for a nuncheon in an hour or so.’ She patted Lady Charlotte’s hand and turned back to her desk, forcing herself to give all her attention to the paper before her.
Angel waited, trying to read, until at last she heard the click of the door. Aunt Charlotte had gone. She began to write swiftly then. Her instructions must be quite clear or—
A sudden cramp bent her almost double. Oh, no! Not again. It was not even three weeks since the last time. She threw down her pen and put both hands to her belly, kneading her flesh in an attempt to allay the pain. The spasm receded. But she knew it would soon come again. She would have to go upstairs to her abigail. Benton was as bad—worse—than Aunt Charlotte. She meant well, but she would go on and on about Angel’s erratic courses even though they both knew that there was no remedy to be had.
Angel shuddered at the sudden memory invading her mind. She tried to push it away but it was too vivid—the midwife’s filthy hands forcing her legs apart, probing into the most secret recesses of her body, ignoring her screams of pain. And the doctor’s sneering voice in the background, bidding her to be silent. She shuddered again. She could almost feel those freezing fingers tearing at her body.
Another spasm racked her. Dear God, why was she so cursed? It made no sense to have
