Marriage of Lies Page 11

  She stayed clutching the door, unable to let go. The morning air bathed her face. She was perspiring.

  “Sharla! Sharla! There you are!”

  Sharla made herself look toward the feminine trill. Vivian Munro was hurrying toward her, her hoops lifted to display lace and boots, her parasol bobbing over her head. She was wearing white muslin adorned with black flowers and a black belt about her tiny waist. Her face as she came up to Sharla was full of both alarm and delight. “You’re well again?” Vivian asked, stopping in front of her.

  The driver stepped away, giving her room.

  Sharla tried to smile. “I am…well.”

  Vivian’s face fell. She glanced at the driver, then leaned closer. “Then you are not with child?” she whispered.

  Sharla didn’t know where the laughter came from. It emerged from her mouth, startling her and Vivian, too, for Vivian’s eyes widened. The laughter didn’t stop. It caught at the back of her throat and scraped it. Her sight blurred as tears welled and suddenly, Sharla was crying, not laughing.

  Vivian’s arm came around her waist. “No, no, no, not here, where everyone can see. Up you go. Into the carriage. Come along.” She turned her around.

  Sharla reached blindly for the step with her foot and found it. She was shuddering. She lifted herself up into the carriage and Vivian’s hands guided her to the seat.

  Sharla hissed as her back pressed up against the leather. She jerked forward again and bent to put her hot face into her hands. She heard the door latch shut and the curtains pull over the window.

  As she shuddered and gasped into her hands, Vivian patted her shoulder. Each touch burned against the bruising there, yet Sharla could say nothing.

  “I thought you were ill in the conventional way,” Vivian murmured. “I’m so sorry, Sharla. I would have called if I’d thought it anything else.”

  Sharla sat up, in part to dislodge Vivian’s hand. She tried to steady her breath. “I am not ill,” she whispered. “Not in the conventional way. Not even with genuine sickness, but…oh, Vivian! I care nothing about anything!”

  Vivian leaned back against the corner of the bench, reclining in an artistic drape as she did so often. Her gaze was thoughtful. “You are in need of jollying up, my dear.”

  “Is that even possible?” Sharla whispered.

  Vivian sat up and put her reticule on her lap. “I have something you may like.” She withdrew a small bottle with a long, slender neck and held it toward Sharla. “Just a mouthful, this first time. It will help your troubles go away.”

  Sharla looked at the black and white label. “Laudanum? Is this not what the matrons use, to banish their vapors?”

  “And all mad artists, too,” Vivian said with a smile. “It is quite harmless, Sharla. It will help you feel so much better, too. Try it.”

  Sharla shook the bottle. “What does it do?”

  Vivian took the bottle from her and worked the cork loose. “Do you want to feel better?”

  “Yes,” Sharla said truthfully.

  “Then trust me and drink it. Then you will understand what it does and how it helps.” She held the bottle out.

  Sharla took it and sniffed the contents. It smelled of herbs and spices she could not name. Only a little reassured, she sipped it, then grimaced.

  “Take more,” Vivian pressed her. “A good mouthful at least.”

  The taste was not terrible. It was not pleasant, either, although it did not burn or make her gag. Reassured, Sharla took the mouthful Vivian advised. She held the bottle out for Vivian to take back.

  Vivian shook her head and held out the cork instead. “You keep it. You are in need of it more than I. I can always acquire more.”

  Sharla corked the bottle and put it carefully in her reticule.

  * * * * *

  “Ye not even going to put aside your fine gentleman’s jacket?” Israel Smith asked, as he fussed around behind Ben, setting out his wager slips on the bench beneath the coat hooks and totting up his investment in the match.

  Beyond the door Ben stood in front of, waiting to be called to the ring, he could hear the crowd as clearly as if he was standing among them. They were in fine voice tonight for there were two matches—or would be, if the police didn’t break up the gathering. The first had gone for ten rounds, giving them ninety minutes of entertainment.

  Now it was past eleven o’clock. The blood was rinsed from the cobbles and the ropes restrung between the barrels. Money changed hands. In a moment, the announcer would call for Monty Blackwood, as the visiting fighter, to come to the ring first.

  Ben had stood in front of the door for the last hour, his thoughts a hot slew of guilt and self-loathing. The window next to the door looked out upon the yard and the jostling, shouting men watching the fight. Mostly, though, Ben looked at his own reflection. He was a dark outline, the details missing, which matched his mood. He was merely a shape that took up space and air and moved through each day, unnoticed by most and cared about by even fewer.

  I thought you might say you objected to the dishonor, which would force me to name you a hypocrite. Wash’s slippery voice kept repeating in his mind. You are less of a lord than I.

  Ben growled, staring at the black silhouette in the window.

  You have no reason to care about losing.

  “How much do you have out on me, Israel?” he demanded.

  “Eh?”

  Boxing, Ben? It’s not like you. It’s not very…honorable. Sharla’s voice, the disappointment in it, whispered through his mind.

  “How much have you dropped on me?”

  “Against a champion like Blackwood? Oh, a few dozen pounds.” Israel rubbed his chin, his whiskers rasping. “More, actually,” he admitted, looking at the chits.

  “And what if I lose?” Ben asked.

  “You?” Israel shook his head. “That’d be the day.”

  The door pulled open.

  “Here we go,” Israel said, sweeping up his bets and shoving them into his pocket. “Make it a good showing, hm?”

  As soon as he stepped out into the night air, Ben was surrounded. Men reached for him, trying to pat his arms and shoulders, to touch him, or wish him well, or demand he win so they could take home a fat wallet. The barman who had opened the door shoved people aside, allowing Ben to reach the ring.

  He ducked under the ropes. Monty Blackwood was already in the ring, his big barrel chest gleaming as he stood breathing easily in the corner. Blackwood smiled when he saw Ben in his evening jacket, for Blackwood was a foot taller and much heavier.

  Ben shrugged out of the jacket and threw it over the barrel in the corner. He stripped to his undershirt, shoved the sleeves up to his elbows and nodded at the referee. The referee came over to him. “You don’t want to get rid of the undershirt, too?”

  “No.”

  “The blood’ll ruin it, but very well.” The man shrugged and moved back to the middle of the ring. He held up his hands, calling for the crowd to quieten. They fell in a restless, tight silence.

  Easton Wash was standing by one of the corner barrels, both hands resting on the top of his silver-headed cane. He was smiling. Relaxed.

  Ben’s innards tightened.

  The referee clapped his hands. “Begin!” he cried.

  Ben didn’t wait. He cross the diagonal of the ring at a run, giving him momentum. Blackwood barely got his fists up before Ben reached him.

  You have no reason to care about losing.

  Ben poured all his energy, all the pressure building in his chest, into the roundhouse punch. It landed square against the corner of Blackwood’s jaw. Ben felt the jaw shift. It dislocated with a pop and crunch.

  Blackwood staggered sideways, his face flung around by the blow.

  It was too easy. Ben’s left uppercut caught Blackwood’s exposed chin and took his feet out from under him. As the man went down, Ben made sure of it, with a right hook.

  Blackwood landed heavily and stayed down.

  Ben stood over hi
m for a second or two, to see if he would try to get up again. Blackwood didn’t stir. He didn’t even moan. The only sound in the yard was Ben’s breathing.

  He walked back to the barrel, shaking his fists loose. As he reached the barrel, the crowd explode with their vented surprise and indignation and rage, too.

  Ben dug in his jacket and pulled out the big, soft wallet Easton Wash had laid on the table in front of him three days ago. He turned and tossed it at Wash, just on the other side of the barrel. The wallet thumped against his chest and tumbled to the ground.

  Wash bent and picked it up. Ben waited until Wash looked at him once more.

  “Checkmate,” Ben told him, and spat.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sharla stared at her book. The words refused to come into focus. With a sigh, she looked up and around the morning room. She was alone here. Melody was in her rooms. Sharla did not care to enquire further about that woman’s state. Instead, when Wakefield had entered his library this morning, she had come here and laid upon the chaise longe to think.

  The Laudanum had been as effective as Vivian had promised. By the time the carriage had returned to the Wakefield townhouse, Sharla felt nothing but a dreamy detachment. Colors were brighter, the air warmer and softer, than she ever remembered them being. The scent of the lavender in the window boxes was heavenly and overpowering.

  She walked inside, out of the hot sun. As she struggled to remove her gloves, she realized she had been moving without pain. Her body had stopped throbbing. She felt nothing.

  With a sigh of relief, Sharla retired to her room, to rest and recover from the adventure.

  Eventually, the ache returned. The dreamy detachment, however, lingered long after the soreness came back. It felt as though Sharla was watching herself in pain, half of her mind coldly observant while the other half writhed.

  She pulled the bottle of Laudanum from her purse and put it on the bedside table and stared at it. Another small dose would not hurt and it would give her the relief she craved. It would be nice to experience once more that lightness of mind and heart. It had been so long since she felt carefree. She deserved to be that way again.

  No, you do not! She railed at herself silently, her fists held tight. You are wicked and bad and do not deserve any reprieve.

  It stopped her from reaching for the bottle a second time. She poured the contents into her washbowl, mixed with water from her ablutions and let the maid toss the water, ignorant of what was in it.

  The longing for relief did not abate, although over the next two days the urgency faded. Her sleep, though, was broken and restless. The heat of London in June did not help. Sitting here on the chaise took all the energy she could summon.

  Perhaps just one more dose of the Laudanum would help. Vivian said she could acquire more.

  Sharla shook her head, disputing her own thoughts. “No,” she said. Only, her voice was weak. Pathetic.

  Her eyes welled with tears.

  “Self-pity serves no one!” she whispered and thumped her fist upon her knee. Her back twinged heavily. She held back a sob.

  The door to the morning room pushed open, making Sharla gasp in shock. Wakefield, once he was ensconced in the library, would not leave until the noon meal was announced. Sometimes, she thought he escaped there to avoid her.

  Ben stepped in and closed the door.

  Sharla gasped again and sat up, putting her feet on the floor. “Ben, what on earth…?”

  He put his fingers to his lips and crossed the room. He was wearing the long jacket and striped trousers all solicitors favored, a dark cravat at his throat. He must have been at his offices. Why was he here?

  “The front door is not locked. I hoped it would not be, as I have no wish to meet the challenges of your butler, or stir Wakefield from his office,” Ben breathed. He dropped to one knee in front of her, so they were level with each. His gaze roamed over her face. He cupped her cheek. “I love you, Sharla. God forgive me, but I do.”

  Sharla lost her breath as Ben kissed her. Confusion swamped her, stealing her thoughts. Then the sweet delight of his kiss swept over her. Oh, this was good! It was better than she had ever imagined it might be.

  When his arm came around her, she barely noticed the little throb of pain in her back. She didn’t care. She would put up with any pain in exchange for a kiss like this, or to see once more the warmth in his eyes as he told her he loved her.

  He loved her!

  Sharla clung to him, her body firmly against his. He pulled her from the chaise and they knelt together, far far too close together. Sharla didn’t remember putting her arms around his neck. Instead, she focused on the pleasure of his mouth upon hers.

  Ben ended the kiss, breathing heavily. He didn’t let her go. His hands were everywhere—on her back and in her hair, stroking her face, her arms. He swallowed, looking at her.

  “Oh, Ben, you know I love you,” she whispered. “I always have.”

  “I do know,” he agreed, his voice low. He helped her sit back upon the chaise longue. Then he delighted her by sitting next to her and holding her hand in both of his.

  His black-eyed gaze was steady. “Last night, I would have beggared my soul. I was within inches of it. It was the thought of you that stopped me.”

  Her heart squeezed. “Me?”

  “I couldn’t do it, because I knew you would hate it.”

  “Fighting, Ben?”

  “Worse,” he admitted. “One day, I will tell you about it. Just not today. Today I want you to think well of me.”

  “Of course I do. Only, Ben…what are we to do?” she breathed.

  He turned on the pleated leather, his knee pressing against her hoops, pushing the layers against her leg. She didn’t mind at all. It was nice to feel the warmth of him through the layers. It was nice to know someone wanted to touch her.

  His eyes, though, were grave.

  Sharla leapt, before he could speak the words she knew he would say. “I’m married, Ben. One day, Wakefield will want me to be a real, proper wife and I must be pure for him, when that day comes.”

  Ben’s eyes widened. His lips parted. Then he closed both and pinched the skin over the bridge of his nose. “That is the trouble!” he breathed. “He won’t touch you!”

  The tears gathered in her eyes. “I don’t know how to fix it,” she admitted. “I don’t know what else to do.” She made herself say the words. “I don’t know what is wrong with me.”

  “There is nothing wrong with you!” Ben said in a hiss. “Any red-blooded man would tell you that.”

  “One just did,” Sharla said, with a small smile. Yet her tears still dripped. “I cannot do my duty as a wife, Ben. Wakefield married me to breed an heir. I have failed him on that score.”

  “He has not touched you? Not even once?” Ben asked. His voice was strained.

  “Not ever,” Sharla murmured. She remembered the long, bewildering hours of her wedding night, alone in the strange bed, waiting for an event she had been warned about, that did not happen. She had watched the sun rise, still confused and afraid.

  The fear abated as the nights turned into months alone, and then years. Only, the confusion still sometimes descended. “I don’t know what else I can do to fix it,” she confessed.

  Ben’s thumb stroked the back of her hand. “You’re expecting too much of me, if you want me to advise you on how to seduce another man.”

  She felt her cheeks burn. “No, never,” she said quickly. “Ben, do you understand what I am saying? We cannot be together…not now.”

  Ben brushed a wisp of her hair from her face. “Does that mean you wish we could?”

  Her cheeks still glowed. “I am not even sure how a man and woman do come together. How would I know if I wish it or not?”

  “Didn’t your mother advise you on this?” Ben asked. “Elisa, surely…?”

  Sharla hung her head. “I gave Elisa no chance to tell me.”

  “There has been tension between the two of you si
nce you married. I thought it was merely Elisa regretting the loss of you to marriage,” Ben said. “Is there more to it than that?”

  Sharla sighed. “Shortly after I became engaged to Wakefield—the very next day, in fact—Elisa took me to one side. She asked me…” Sharla hesitated. “I lost my temper,” she admitted.

  Ben’s mouth twitched. Warmth showed in his eyes. “Oh, I don’t believe that. You never lose your temper.”

  Sharla laughed. It was a sad little sound. “It was horrible, Ben. Elisa confronted me and asked me…”

  * * * * *

  “Do you truly love him, Sharla?”

  Startled, Sharla glanced away from Elisa, toward the archway into the big drawing room. Through the windows on the other side, she could see children playing cricket and croquet. Adults, too, with their sleeves rolled up.

  The magical part of the Great Family Gathering was that children were not dismissed to the nursery at all. They got to romp with their parents and other adults, and each other. As a child, Sharla spent every year of this annual week with her boots off, her skirt hooked up and out of the way, and her sleeves rolled to above her elbows. She adored these weeks.

  “If you seek your mother through those windows, she has retired to her bedroom for the afternoon,” Elisa said. Her words pulled Sharla’s thoughts back to where she was sitting with Elisa on the broad velvet-cushioned bench. “Corcoran never comes into the hall if he can help it because he doesn’t like the tapping his shoes make on the tiles. We’re quite alone here. You can safely answer my question. No one will overhear you.”

  Sharla swallowed. “Such a question, Elisa!”

  “A pertinent one, for this family. Do you love Wakefield, Sharla?”

  Sharla’s heart beat harder. “I don’t think it is any business of yours. Is it?” she tacked on the end, for even though her mother was sleeping upstairs, Elisa was her real mother, the one who had raised her and cared for her. She didn’t want to hurt Elisa.

  “I have no true familial standing,” Elisa admitted. “You are aware how little this family cares about such legal matters. It is what is in here that defines true family.” She touched her chest above the row of ruffles at the top of her dress. “You believe that, too. You are a part of the family in every way that counts.”