Marriage of Lies Read online

  Sharla pressed her fingers to her temples. Her mother, Lady Laceby, had made withering comments about the peculiarities of the family and their insistence upon flouting conventions in every direction. “They are exceedingly well connected, all of them, yet they strain the goodwill of those associations at every turn,” her mother insisted during the long, long night when they had argued over Wakefield’s proposal. “I expected their connections to serve you, not their standards. They are not your standards, Patricia. You are a descendant of kings. You have higher considerations.”

  Now Sharla pressed her temples with shaking fingers. “It doesn’t matter what I believe, does it?” she asked Elisa. “There are expectations I must fill.”

  Elisa grew still. “Is that why you accepted Wakefield? Oh, Sharla, I worried that might be the case!” Her hand sought Sharla’s. She squeezed Sharla’s fingers. “My dear, tell me quickly. Do you love him? Have you found a way to make this work?”

  Sharla’s eyes prickled with tears. She hated crying in front of anyone, even Ben, who liked to tease her into tears or tantrums every year. Most especially, she hated crying in front of Elisa, for it felt like a weakness.

  She blinked, ridding herself of them. “Marriage is not like that for us,” she said stiffly. “He is a Duke. He has well-founded estates. My children will want for nothing.”

  “Is that what your mother told you?” Elisa asked, her tone cold.

  Sharla hesitated. Could she share with Elisa how her mother had made her doubt? How Sharla wondered if she had been wrong all these years to believe with wholehearted, unquestioning faith the lessons the Great Family taught her? Lessons about love, about personal freedom and choice? Above all, this family had insisted the true morals of the world were to never bring harm to another human. Could Sharla speak of the doubt assailing her over the family’s insistence that inside the family, they do as they wished, while presenting a united, bland front to the world?

  Sharla didn’t know what was right, anymore. Her mother’s explanations about duty and family obligations sounded much the same as Elisa’s, after hours and hours of listening to her lecture.

  “Marrying Wakefield is what my family wants of me,” Sharla said at last. “You taught me how important family is, no matter how family is measured. I should ignore that and flout my family’s expectations?”

  Elisa’s fingers tightened again. “Break the engagement, Sharla,” she said quickly. “It isn’t too late, yet. There will be hard feelings, but better that than a life of misery and loneliness.”

  Sharla looked at her, startled.

  Elisa nodded. “Yes, I know what awaits you, my dear, for I once faced the same decision as you, and abided by my family’s wishes. I married a man, whose family nearly destroyed me. Vaughn saved me. I would now save you from that fate.”

  Sharla pulled her hand from Elisa’s grip. “The Wakefield family is a great family,” she said stiffly. “I could do no better than to marry into it.”

  “You could marry for love,” Elisa said. “That would be doing considerably better.”

  Sharla shot to her feet. “You know nothing about it!” she cried, her anger flaring. “How dare you question my decision?”

  Elisa didn’t rise from the cushions. She looked up at Sharla, her expression one of weariness. “Who will question you, if I do not? Your mother returns to India straight after Christmas. She will not have to watch you go through a loveless wedding and an even lonelier marriage.”

  “How dare you!”

  Elisa sighed. “You have latched upon your mother’s wishes because she has not been in your life and you don’t know her very well. You believe you have no other way to please her and win her approval. It is the wrong choice, Sharla. There are other ways to make your mother happy.”

  “Marrying Wakefield will please her,” Sharla shot back.

  “It will not please me.”

  Sharla recoiled. Elisa had not spoken harshly or even loudly, yet Sharla felt as though she had been slapped. Her simmering temper bubbled over because Elisa was making her heart ache and her belly to roil with doubt and despair. “Then you must learn to live with your displeasure, for I shall not,” Sharla said. She walked swiftly away, as close to running as a soon-to-be-duchess should get.

  Elisa did not call her back or follow her.

  * * * * *

  “I didn’t speak to Elisa at all, after that,” Sharla said, the ache back in her heart. The doubts and uncertainties were no longer a factor. She knew the mistake she had made. She knew Elisa was right, in every way. “I was afraid,” Sharla told Ben. “Afraid and confused. My mother on one hand and Elisa on the other, saying completely different things.”

  “You chose to please your mother, then.”

  “I believed my mother would not forgive me if I didn’t,” Sharla said. “I thought Elisa would.”

  “She didn’t?” Ben said, startled. “That is not like Elisa at all. She is the warmest, the softest person I know.”

  Sharla pressed her lips together. “I don’t want her to forgive me, Ben. She was right and I was horrible to her.”

  Ben lifted her chin. “You are aware that wouldn’t matter to her, aren’t you? She would forgive you for anything and love you even harder than before.”

  Sharla’s eyes stung again. “I don’t deserve her kindness.”

  “That is why you avoided her at the Gathering,” Ben said, as if he was just now putting it together. He dropped his hand from her chin, although Sharla wished he would keep touching her. It felt nice.

  “What do we do now, Ben?” she asked. “We have both made terrible quagmires of our lives.”

  Ben picked up her hand once more. “I don’t know. I only know you represent everything I can’t have in life. Without you, though, I don’t give a damn. It is as if I have been shown velvet, then told to use sackcloth forever after.” He laid her hand on his knee and stroked the back of her fingers, making her spine tingle.

  “Yet we cannot be together.” She drew her hand from beneath his fingers. “It is wrong. It is dangerous.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, his voice low. His gaze met hers. “Tell me to go. Tell me to stay away and I will.”

  The words were there for her to speak. The sensible woman she aspired to be, the gracious duchess, insisted she show Ben the door and tell him never to return.

  Only, Sharla couldn’t say the words. In the last few moments, she had been kissed and held and wanted. Loved. She had not been held like that for a long time, and never with the warmth and closeness of a lover.

  Sharla had all but forgotten the freedom to speak her mind, as she had done just now. It was a relief to say what she thought without regard to the consequences, because the listener would not judge her for them. Even as a child, that freedom had not been as complete as it had been these last few minutes. She had bared her soul and heart and Ben had understood.

  How could she send Ben away and return to her curtailed, limited life, as she should?

  “I am weak,” she whispered. “I cannot let you go. I don’t know how we can be together. I only know I don’t want you to leave me.”

  Ben kissed her. It was as delightful as the first kiss. Sharla clung to him, her heart swooping, making her giddy. When he let her go once more, she pressed her hand against his chest. She didn’t want to lose contact.

  “For now, we must wait,” Ben told her.

  “Wait and hope,” Sharla breathed.

  “I must go.” He touched his mouth to hers once more. “The hour grows late and I must tend to my work. The longer I stay here, the higher the risk we will be discovered. While I am happy to have it out with Wakefield, I will not compromise your reputation.” He got to his feet. “Will you be at Lady Danforth’s whist evening tomorrow night?”

  Sharla eased herself to her feet. Her back did not hurt as much as it had before Ben appeared. “I was invited. I planned to decline.” She pointed to the lap secretary she had been neglecting for days. “I will accept,
now.”

  Ben nodded. “I will see you there.”

  He eased the door to the morning room open and glanced into the front hall beyond, then slipped out and shut the door behind him. She heard the heavy front door open and close with soft sounds.

  I love you.

  Sharla wrapped her arms about her middle and basked in the warmth his words generated.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Six weeks later.

  Sharla was the first to reach the dining room that morning, a unique occurrence. She stood behind her chair, her hand on the back of it. It was not unusual for Melody to breakfast in her room. However, Wakefield never arrived after her. He never failed to breakfast at the table.

  Concern curled through her. “Where is the Duke?” she asked Mayerick.

  “His Grace is bed-ridden, your Grace,” Mayerick said. “Will you be having kippers or bacon this morning?” He hovered with the tongs over the bacon, which was Sharla’s choice every morning.

  Sharla tapped the top rail of the chair. Wakefield had not once been ill since she had met him. What on earth could force the man to not only stay in his room, but lie abed as well?

  Wakefield would likely not appreciate Sharla visiting him in his room. She should go about her day.

  Her gaze fell on the place set across the table from her. The thought of eating breakfast with Melody sitting opposite her, without Wakefield there, was intolerable. Sharla picked up her hoop and hurried from the room.

  “Your Grace?” Mayerick called after her, his tone puzzled.

  Sharla hurried up the stairs. Wakefield’s room was at the top of the landing, while hers was at the other end of the wide passage. She dropped her hoop and stopped at the big door and tapped. “Wakefield?”

  Silence.

  Sharla knocked again, this time firmly, yet not loudly enough to disturb Melody, whose rooms were across the hall.

  When the silence continued, Sharla put her hand on the door knob and hesitated. She had never before entered Wakefield’s room. She had not even glimpsed beyond the door.

  The silence, though, was troubling. With a deep breath, she turned the handle and stepped inside.

  The room was dim, the curtains still drawn. She could see the top of a large, ornate bed in the corner. A shapeless mass lay beneath the covers.

  “Wakefield?” she murmured.

  Heavy, almost labored breathing whispered from the bed.

  “Dane?” Sharla said, her voice louder.

  Still no response.

  Sharla moved over to the curtains and pulled them aside with difficulty, for they were heavy. Morning light filled the room, illuminating beautiful furniture and fabrics. The bed, the wardrobe, the washstand and a big chair pulled up by the bed, holding a small pile of books, were all black lacquered, with clean lines and smooth angles. The chair was upholstered with a brocade made in a paisley pattern. Sharla had only ever seen paisley in women’s shawls, although the fabric on the chair was a riot of rich jewel colors and quite beautiful.

  The room was elegant and neat and a complete surprise, for Sharla had been expecting the usual heavy, claw-footed and varnished pieces she saw everywhere else.

  She made herself move over to the bed. Now there was more light, she could see Wakefield beneath the covers. He lay on his stomach, his head turned toward the wall, his dark hair tousled.

  Sharla bent closer to him. “Wakefield. Dane. Wake up.”

  The rough breathing ceased. Still, he didn’t move.

  She swallowed, drawing her courage together. Then she put her hand on the cover where she thought his shoulder would be and shook, then stepped back hurriedly.

  He turned his head to look at her. His eyes were narrowed in pain and his temples gleamed.

  “What ails you?” she breathed.

  “Why are you here?” His voice was hoarse.

  “You didn’t come to breakfast. I was…worried.”

  “I don’t want breakfast.” He closed his eyes.

  “What can I do? How can I help? Should I call a doctor?”

  “No. No doctors,” he said quickly, his eyes opening again.

  Sharla squeezed her fingers together. “Very well. No doctor. What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing,” he breathed, his eyes closing once more. “It will right itself, in a while.” His eyes shut.

  Sharla wanted to shake him and demand he tell her what was wrong. Her heart thudded. Wakefield was the solid cornerstone of her life. He was always there. She had not realized how much she relied upon his consistency, until now. If he was not up and about, she would be alone with Melody, too.

  She examined his face, all she could see of him. His color was high, although not high enough to indicate a fever.

  With a deep breath, Sharla laid her hand against his forehead. It was cool to the touch, yet clammy.

  She had reached the end of her medical knowledge. She should go back downstairs and leave Wakefield alone. The idea of returning to the dining room and facing Melody was repugnant, though.

  Sharla tugged on the bell pull and went to the door to wait for Mayerick. She held the door open a few inches. When Mayerick appeared, she said softly: “Please bring me some breakfast, Mayerick. You know what I like. And would you also fetch my book, the one I was reading in the morning room yesterday? Thank you.”

  “You’re staying here, your Grace?” Mayerick asked, his wrinkled brow lifting.

  “Yes. Please hurry.” She shut the door on him, then went back to the big chair and lowered all the books to the floor next to it, in a neat pile. She examined the titles as she stacked them. Man’s Place in Nature by Thomas Henry Huxley. At dinner parties and private gatherings, Huxley was often disparaged as offensive and amoral.

  Utilitarianism by John Stuart Mill. The History of the Intellectual Development of Europe by John William Draper. Writings on the U.S. Civil War by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels. The Conduct of Life by Ralph Waldo Emerson.

  None of the books were fiction. All of them Sharla had heard her family discussing. All the books were considered sensational, unorthodox or inappropriate by most of society. Yet here they were, close by Wakefield’s bed.

  When Mayerick arrived with the breakfast tray, Sharla took it from him at the door and shut the door on him once more. She carried the tray to the big chair and sat with the tray on her lap and ate, as Wakefield slept.

  Then she put the tray aside, picked up the Huxley book and read.

  Wakefield woke again just after eleven. Sharla heard him stir and put Emerson aside.

  Wakefield lifted his head, his hand emerging from the covers to press upon the sheet, as if he intended to raise himself. He paused, his head just above the pillow, his eyes narrowing.

  Then, slowly, he lowered himself back to the pillow and gusted out a breath. His gaze found her. “You are still here…” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes, I am,” Sharla replied. “You sound more awake now.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Will you tell me now what it is that bothers you, Dane? Let me help.”

  His gaze jerked to her face. Then away again, as if looking at her was uncomfortable. “I would, but my pride does not permit it.”

  Sharla stared at him. Did he suffer some sort of manly ailment that embarrassed him? Perhaps that was why he did not come to her bed. Perhaps the illness prevented him…

  Sharla twirled her hair as she considered him.

  Wakefield stirred once more. His gaze met hers. “There is no need to linger here. I will recover, given time.”

  “There is nowhere else for me to be, right now,” Sharla pointed out. “You sound awake enough that company will distract you from your woes.”

  “Better to be distracted from my thoughts,” he said, his tone dry. “Do you not have social engagements, Sharla?”

  “No.”

  He nodded, his cheek rubbing against the pillow with a rasping sound, for his chin was dark with stubble. “That is as I suspected,” he said
. “I would have spoken to you about it today, if I had not been confined here. You have canceled all your engagements, these last five days. Before then, you were abroad all hours of the day, and every evening, we attended…something. Now, nothing.”

  Sharla swallowed.

  His gaze was steady, prodding her to answer.

  “You are the patient, yet you diagnose me?” she asked lightly.

  “I diagnose everyone, remember?”

  Sharla thought of the Gathering, last year, when he had noted the secrets and weaknesses of everyone there, some of them facts of which even Sharla had not been aware.

  She glanced down at the books by her feet, recalling the heavy, rich thoughts and ideas she had glimpsed in their pages. She was beginning to understand why her family’s foibles had been transparent to Wakefield.

  “You should not give up on your friends, Sharla,” Wakefield added. “You should not cut yourself off as you have.”

  Sharla could find no quick and simple answer. The truth had to stay wrapped and hidden in her heart and mind. It throbbed there, hurting her.

  It had been six weeks since Ben had stolen into the house and told her he loved her. The first few weeks had been heavenly. She carried her secret love with her. It brightened her days and gave her reason to rise each morning. She would float through the weeks, barely noticing details. Ben had his work as a solicitor that kept him busy for long hours, helping his father. The chance of seeing him at one of the endless ladies’ luncheons or afternoon teas was remote.

  In the evenings, though, Ben was free to socialize. Sharla would attend whatever event to which Ben had also been invited, often accepting invitations on Wakefield’s behalf, forcing him to attend as well.

  Ben would always be somewhere nearby when they arrived, wearing a small, warm smile. They rarely spoke, yet his presence alone kept Sharla bubbling with happiness. She was an outgoing member of any function, laughing and chatting and dancing, which ensured even more invitations.

  Somewhere during the evening, Sharla would seek a way to separate herself from Wakefield and the other guests and find an enclosed, private corner. Ben would meet her there and then…oh, and then!