Louise Allen - Regency Surrender - Passion And Rebellion

She could have spent ten times the amount of money she’d laid out on her new clothes and didn’t think her husband would have flinched. Julia was even starting to return her tentative smiles, once she’d realised Mary had no intention of trying to change a single thing about her. She’d even confided, one evening at supper, when Mary had put on the first of her new gowns, that a lot of the trouble with Lady Peverell had stemmed from her attempts to turn Julia into one of those fashionably demure girls who would have done her credit in a ballroom.

Lord Havelock had laughed. ‘You’re a hoyden, Ju. A regular out-and-outer. You’d cause havoc in a ballroom.’

He’d had a sort of fond twinkle in his eye as he said it that showed he was proud of his sister just as she was.

And Mary’s spirits sank even lower. She’d never cause havoc in a ballroom. Why, the first night they’d met, he’d had to virtually drag her out from behind that potted palm.

No wonder he’d thought she was a mouse.

And still did. Because she was acting like one. Putting up with the way he and his sister overlooked her. Putting up with his coolness towards her in the bedroom, too.

What had happened to her determination to make a stand? To her wistful yearning to have some of Julia’s spirit? Hadn’t she decided, the day Julia arrived, that she ought to cease being the kind of woman who let others post her round the country like a parcel?

Spending the days waiting for her husband to come home, only to endure his obvious preference for his sister, was draining what little self-respect she’d ever had.

What was the point in hanging around, hoping he might, one day, come to return her feelings? He’d told her in no uncertain terms it was the last thing he wanted from a wife. And how would she attempt to go about it, anyway? There was nothing about her to attract him. She sat there, night after night, with nothing to add to the conversation apart from domestic trivia that was bound to bore him.

Eventually he would cease knocking on her bedroom door at all. And then what would she do? It made her feel like a condemned woman, waiting for the axe to fall.

And then one night, it all became too much. While she was waiting in her bedroom, half-convinced this would be the night he gave up, her stomach contracted into a cold knot. Sweat beaded her upper lip. For a moment, she thought she might actually be sick.

Head swirling, she tottered to her dressing-table stool and sank down on to it, shutting her eyes.

When the room stopped spinning, she lifted her head and stared bleakly at her wan reflection. She couldn’t go on like this. Enduring his indifference was taking its toll on her health.

And the only way she might, just might be able to recover from this hopelessly painful case of unrequited love would be to remove herself from the situation altogether. Surely, if she spent some time away from him, she’d be able to get used to the idea of living separate lives?

And at least she’d be the one doing the separating. She would be able to leave with her head held high, rather than collapsing in floods of tears if he should be the one to go.

So, when he knocked on the door, she didn’t bother getting up from her stool. Taking her brush in her hand, she began to swipe it through her hair, to disguise the fact that her hands were shaking.

‘Any point in asking if I may stay tonight?’ His face bore the look of resignation he’d adopted after her very first refusal.

‘None,’ she said tartly, carrying on brushing her hair. ‘Though before you go,’ she added hastily, as he turned on his heel, ‘I may as well inform you that I plan to go to London tomorrow.’

‘London?’ He swivelled round, his brows drawing down into a knot. ‘What the devil for?’

Did his frown mean he didn’t want her to leave, after all? Would he ask her to stay? And if he did, would she do it? Would she carry on trying to endure, just so she could be near him?

‘I...’ Well, she couldn’t tell him the truth, could she? That loving a man who was never going to love her back was destroying her.

‘I thought I might buy some more clothes. For...for the Season.’

‘The Season?’ He looked thunderstruck. ‘But you’ve just bought a whole lot of clothes, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. But...’ She did some quick thinking. ‘They have been made by a provincial dressmaker. Society people will know.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought you would want to mingle with society people. Or take part in the Season.’

No. Because he didn’t think she would fit in.

Which was true enough, but, oh, so insulting.

‘It isn’t just for me though, is it? I shall have to start paving the way for Julia to make her come-out, won’t I?’

‘I don’t see that at all,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve plenty of aunts and such who have the entrée into the kind of circles where Julia will find a husband, once she gives any sign of wanting to look for one.’

So, he intended to sideline her even when it came to Julia’s come-out, did he? He was going to get some aunt, with the proper connections, to launch her?

Setting down her hairbrush, she half turned on her stool and glared at him.

‘You promised me I could do as I pleased, as long as I don’t cause a scandal. And I feel like going to London and buying some fashionable clothes. I don’t think that is the slightest bit scandalous. Do you?’

‘No. But, hang it, Julia has only just got here. You leaving so soon may well cause talk. Couldn’t you...wait a bit? And we can all go up together?’

Together? They wouldn’t be together. He would be with Julia and she would be hovering on the fringes. Enduring the pain of being the unwanted, unloved wife in a new location, that was all.

And the fact that he was bringing Julia’s welfare into the equation was the last straw. Julia. Julia. It was always Julia who mattered. Not her.

Well, two could play at that game.

‘And what sort of state is Durant House in, do you happen to know? Will it be fit for her to move into? I really do think it would be better if I went on ahead and checked. After all, one of the reasons you asked me to marry you was to refurbish the place.’

* * *

Hoist with his own petard. He turned and walked over to the fireplace, so she couldn’t see the devastation her words had wrought. He’d known this day would come. Every time he’d knocked on her bedroom door and been turned away, he’d felt it coming closer.

Even so, he hadn’t expected it to hurt so much. Dammit, he’d taken steps to ensure it wouldn’t! He’d deliberately picked a woman who wouldn’t expect too much from him, who wouldn’t nag him for more than he was willing to give. He’d even sat down and spelled out the terms of their marriage, to make sure neither of them would get hurt.

What he hadn’t factored in was that Mary would work her way so far under his skin that hearing she wanted to leave him was like having every single bone removed from his body.

Moodily, he kicked at a smouldering log, sending sparks flying up the chimney, when what he really wanted to do was yell, and rampage up and down, and hit something. But he’d learned his lesson, fighting that second duel. As he’d stood there with the smoking pistol in his hand, watching Wraxton fall to the earth with blood gushing down his neck, he’d known he had to change. Never attempting to keep his temper in check had brought him to the brink of killing a man. He’d grown up, that day. He was no longer a child who might be forgiven for lashing out when people let him down, or hurt him.

Though this was the very reason he had got into the habit of lashing out. His temper had kept people at bay. He’d learned early on that all people did was hurt him, if he let them get close.