Marriage of Lies Page 7

  “What opera company member is not here, tonight?” he asked.

  “I mean, what are you doing here? On this level? You prefer the stalls, do you not?”

  His brow lifted. “Yes, I do.” He lifted a hand. “You look wonderful, Sharla. I’ve not seen that shade of green satin before. How do you enter the box, with hoops that wide?”

  He was teasing, yet he had noticed. Her heart gave a little flutter. “The usual way,” she replied.

  “Carefully,” he finished, the corner of his mouth lifting.

  “Did you come upstairs to see your family?” she asked. “I’m sure nothing would keep Annalies away from a Wagner opera.”

  “I came to see you,” he said.

  Her heart didn’t simply flutter this time. It dropped sharply, along with her middle. She drew in a breath that shook. “You mustn’t say things like that.” She pressed against her bodice with a desperate pressure, trying to soothe her trembling.

  Ben’s gaze dropped to her fingers. His eyes narrowed. “What is that, on your wrist?” he demanded.

  Fright tore through her. Sharla dropped her bare hand, hiding it in a fold of her dress. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said coldly.

  Ben snatched her arm, drawing it up and out, so he could inspect the wrist.

  “Benjamin!” she protested and tried to take her arm back. “How dare you! Let me go!”

  Ben pushed the loosened glove further up her arm, exposing her wrist and the black bruises around the bones. He turned her hand over to examine the inner side of her wrist. There were more bruises there, too. A neat row of four of them ran down the side of her wrist.

  Sharla had bathed them in buttermilk and cold water, and convinced herself they were not severe. Now she saw them as Ben would see them. The bruises were dark, ugly marks against her skin. No one would mistake them for anything but what they were.

  Ben lifted his gaze to meet her eyes. Fury built in his.

  “I was stupid, I tangled the reins around my wrist,” Sharla said. She yanked her hand out of his grip and this time Ben let her go. Her fingers shook as she untucked the glove and put her hand back inside it.

  “I will kill him,” Ben breathed, his voice thick with anger.

  She tried to fasten the buttons. Her fingers shook too much. “You will do no such thing, Ben,” she said, her voice low. “It isn’t what you think.”

  “No? What should I think, then?” he demanded. “He’s beating you!”

  “He is not,” Sharla shot back, alarmed. “Ben, you don’t understand, you don’t know…”

  “Then explain it, or by God, I will demand satisfaction from him!”

  This time, her fright was a cold thing, bringing even her trembling to a halt. “Ben, no,” she whispered and glanced over her shoulder, for his voice had been loud. Was Wakefield on his way back? Had he heard?

  “Do you search for your husband?” Ben’s tone was withering.

  Sharla knew she must deflect Ben and stop this from progressing any further than it had already. Ben’s temper could run as hot as hers, although he was less quick to anger than she. Injustice would stir him to rare fury, though. That was why his jaw worked now and why his hands curled into fists.

  She shuddered at the idea of him using them. There was only one way she would prevent it. She poured all the chill and haughtiness she could gather into her voice. “This is of no concern to you, Mr. Hedley. I would ask that you cease prying into private matters to which you are not privy.”

  Ben breathed heavily. “If he does more harm to you, even a single hair’s worth, I will have it out of him. I swear it.”

  “You have no right to speak for me,” Sharla shot back, her own temper rising. The heat radiated through her chest. “Stay out of it, Ben!”

  He blinked, looking at her as if he was only just seeing her properly once more. Ben shook his head. “He’s hurting you,” he breathed and there was a note in his voice that made her heart shift.

  “It is not what you think.”

  “I think I have left you to fend for yourself for too long,” he said bitterly. He glanced over her shoulder. “Here he comes,” he added, his tone rich with contempt. With a deep breath, he pulled himself together and bowed. “I will leave you, my lady. I’d sooner insult you than speak to him.”

  He strode away, shouldering his way through the press of people, at least half a head higher than any of them.

  Wakefield was returning, with three of the tall glasses in his hands. He was not alone. A woman walked with him, wearing a black velvet dress that was shockingly low and embroidered with dramatic, startling white flowers. The huge cabbage roses climbed up from the hem and trailed down from the top of the bodice.

  Her hair was more red than Sharla’s, with a quality to the color that made Sharla almost certain it was artificial. It was not a color one found in nature.

  Her cheeks were also pink. More artifice.

  Sharla stared at the woman, trying to encompass the oddity of such a creature being in the company of the Duke of Wakefield, one of the most propriety-conscious and morally upright men she had ever met.

  Wakefield was smiling as he handed Sharla her glass. Sharla gripped the glass and drank deeply.

  The woman was also smiling as her gaze swept over Sharla, measuring her.

  “My lady,” Wakefield said. “May I present to you an old friend of mine, Miss Vivian Munro.”

  Miss. A commoner. Sharla inclined her head. “Miss Munro,” she said. She was disinclined to socialize—most especially not with strangers, who required energy and concentration to greet and speak with.

  “Vivian is an opera singer and a member of this company,” Wakefield added. “In fact, she is the understudy for Miss Louisa Pyne.”

  Vivian. Wakefield had used her given name. Sharla considered Vivian Munro once more, in light of Wakefield’s revelation.

  The woman smiled at her. “It is quite unlikely I will perform this season, for Miss Pyne is a most talented singer and Wagner suits her.” She inclined her head. “It is a pleasure to meet you, your Grace.” Her dark eyes twinkled with good humor. “You have the most delightful hair.” She touched her own pinned curls. “It is a color I aspire to, as you can see.”

  “Excuse me,” Wakefield said. “I will give my mother her glass.” He stepped around the two of them and moved to the box door.

  Vivian Munro was studying Sharla again.

  “I like your dress,” they both said at once.

  Sharla pressed her lips together, her brow lifting.

  Vivian laughed. Her laugh was light and musical and heads turned, to see who made that merry sound.

  “How do you have the courage to wear a dress so…?” Sharla began.

  “Vulgar?” Vivian asked, her own brow lifting.

  “Dramatic,” Sharla amended.

  “You are rather eye-catching yourself.”

  “Not nearly as much as you.”

  “Opera singers are all quite bold and some say a little mad, too. Have you not heard that about us?”

  “No,” Sharla said.

  “We are all amoral wretches. A startling dress is the least of my transgressions.”

  “I don’t believe that of you,” Sharla said. “Not if you are a friend of Wakefield’s.”

  “Dane is a dear,” Vivian said, stoutly. “He is loyal to his friends. Is that not the best trait a friend could have?”

  “Yes, it is,” Sharla said, in complete agreement.

  The waiters rang their little bells to announce the beginning of the next act.

  “Come and sit in our box,” Sharla said to Vivian.

  “That would be lovely,” Vivian said. “I have not seen the second act from the front of the house, yet.”

  Sharla led her to the box and stood aside to let Vivian through first. Vivian saw Melody, still seated upon her chair, and inclined her head in a regal way. “Your Grace.”

  “Miss Munro,” Melody replied, her tone icy.

  “
Your daughter-in-law requested my company for the next act.”

  “Indeed.” Melody’s voice was even colder.

  Wakefield held the chair that had sat empty between him and Sharla for the first act. “Please, take a seat, Vivian,” he urged her.

  Vivian smiled at him, startling Sharla once more with the novelty that Wakefield had a friend and that she would be a Bohemian. The dowager Duchess clearly disapproved of the friendship, which made it all the more extraordinary. It was rare that Wakefield and his mother disagreed about anything.

  The curtains swept aside and the act began with a soaring of strings, as Sharla settled herself on the chair.

  Vivian focused on the performance, which left Sharla alone with her thoughts once more. She could not rid herself of the awareness of Melody Wakefield sitting behind her, her knees a bare inch or two from the back of Sharla’s chair.

  She could also still feel Ben’s hand on her arm, through the silk of her glove. The heat of him. The strength.

  I will kill him.

  She might have expected an outsider, even Ben, to misinterpret. After all, she had been surprised, too.

  It had happened after breakfast that morning. Sharla had been late to breakfast. It was rare for her to be sluggish in the morning and she had considered calling for a tray, to eat in her room. In the end, she had dressed with Smither’s help and ventured to the dining room of the London townhouse because lately, being on her own had grown uncomfortable. The Gathering in Cornwall had stirred feelings she believed were long dead, wrapped them up with guilt and left her reeling with a growing despair.

  Why could she not order her life more successfully? Why was she such a failure as a wife?

  Wakefield studied her when she stepped into the big dining room—one of the largest in London. He and his mother were both seated at the near end of the long table, with a third place set opposite Melody. “Are you well?” he asked sharply.

  “I’m sorry I am late,” Sharla replied, for Wakefield and his mother insisted that even at breakfast, everyone sit and be served at the same time.

  Melody looked at her with narrowed eyes. She said nothing, merely sipped her tea.

  Sharla ate listlessly. She had no appetite. Even sitting was uncomfortable. Silence held the table while Wakefield read his newspapers and correspondence. Melody kept her head bent, studying a letter as she ate tiny forkfuls of her kidneys.

  At last, Wakefield got to his feet and consulted his watch, then slid it back into the fob pocket with a small pat. “The opening of the opera season is tonight,” he reminded both women.

  Sharla nodded. She had ordered her dress weeks ago. It was hanging in her wardrobe, gleaming and new.

  “I’m not sure I approve of Wagner,” Melody said, her gaze on her letters. “He is too vigorous for polite people.”

  “Wagner is a capital composer,” Wakefield said. “He is popular. Miss Louisa Pyne will be starring, to celebrate the season opening, Mother. You must be there.”

  He was almost glowing with enthusiasm. Sharla had not seen him show such energy before. This was their first Season in London since the wedding and therefore the first year she could observe Wakefield’s appreciation for the artform.

  Wakefield left for the library, where he would spend his morning tending business and estate matters.

  Immediately, Melody put her toast back on the plate. “Thank you, Mayerick,” she told the butler. “That will be all.”

  Mayerick lifted a brow. He finished refilling Sharla’s teacup and put the teapot on the table in front of her, then gave a short bow with his head. He swept up the other footman with a gesture and both of them left the room. The door closed with a soft snick.

  Sharla looked at the closed door, puzzled.

  “It is true you are not well this morning?” Melody demanded.

  “I am…tired,” Sharla said.

  “Tired enough to forego the opera tonight?”

  “I would not dream of disappointing Wakefield,” Sharla replied. “He is looking forward to it.”

  “Then you are not ill?”

  Sharla cleared her throat. “Only in the usual way,” she said, her cheeks burning. She had never shared information about her monthly courses with anyone, not even Elisa.

  Melody put down the heavy silver knife with a clatter, her eyes narrowing even more. “For yet another month you have utterly failed in your duties as the wife of my son.”

  Sharla gripped the napkin on her lap, twisting it. What could she say? She could not share the truth, that was for certain.

  Melody got to her feet, her chair scraping across the rug and tipping backward. She came around the end of the table and bent over Sharla.

  Sharla shrank back in her chair, her heart thudding. “What are you doing?”

  Melody snatched at Sharla’s arm, moving faster than Sharla had ever seen her move. Her fingers gripped Sharla’s wrist and squeezed with an astonishing strength, grinding the bones and flesh together in a way that made Sharla cry out. “You’re hurting me!”

  Melody’s face worked. There was a light in her eyes and an angle to her mouth that said she was enjoying this moment, which could not be true. “You are a failure as a wife,” Melody hissed. “What were we thinking, to choose you of all the debutantes available?”

  “Let go of me,” Sharla said, trying to pluck Melody’s fingers away.

  Melody dug her nails in deeper and shook her arm. “More than two years, yet you have failed to deliver an heir. Are you barren?”

  “I said, let go!”

  Melody slapped her. The blow was not very hard, but fast and stinging, with enough energy in it that Sharla’s cheek turned numb and the vision in that eye faded.

  Sharla stared at the woman as she squeezed and worked her wrist, stunned. Her throat was so tight she could not swallow. Her heart labored.

  “You will work harder to fulfill your role,” Melody hissed. “I want a child by the end of the year, do you hear? I will not have my son disappointed. I will not have the world whispering about him.”

  Sharla tried to get her lips to work properly, to respond.

  “I said, do you hear?” Melody said, bending close. Her breath fanned Sharla’s face, hot and redolent of braised kidneys and tomato sauce.

  “Yes, I hear,” Sharla whispered.

  Melody tossed Sharla’s hand into her lap. “Do not be late for this evening’s departure,” she warned. She left Sharla sitting at the table, nursing her wrist, too shocked to move and writhing with the knowledge that Melody was right—she was a failure as a wife.

  Only, she did not understand how she had failed. Where had she gone wrong?

  Chapter Seven

  Cian didn’t enjoy the opera as much as Ben did, although he certainly didn’t suffer through the performance the way Jack and Will did, just to linger in the corridors outside, to talk to certain ladies and drink the inadequate house brandy the theatre offered. There was a precision to music that Cian enjoyed. He liked to identify the patterns in the chords and notes, to anticipate how the composer built themes. Wagner was particularly good at developing his patterns.

  Because he was pre-occupied with the music, he didn’t participate in that other great opera tradition—namely, observing the audience—until the intermission, when Jack, Will and Ben all escaped to the front of the house as soon as the last notes sounded.

  It left Cian sitting alone in the row of four chairs. He was in no rush to sample the champagne or the brandy and instead turned in his seat to see who he knew in the audience. Most of the faces were familiar, until he looked at the upper levels, where the middle class in their street clothes sat with their heads together.

  He turned and scanned the other side of the auditorium. His gaze was halted on the second level, at the box three down from his mother’s and Raymond’s box. The Duke of Gainford’s box, Cian suspected, although he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her to check who sat beside her.

  She was a stranger to Cian, and h
e thought he knew everyone in the Gainsford household. Certainly, he knew James, the heir.

  Was she a friend of the family’s? A long lost cousin?

  Who was she?

  She sat at the far corner of the box in the first row, her gloved hands crossed and resting on the ledge, her fan beneath them. Dark hair…not quite black, he thought. A deep, rich brown, which was complimented by a golden yellow gown and cream gloves. Deeply arched brows over dark eyes.

  She was beautiful. Not perfect, the way Jenny was gloriously lovely. The woman had high cheekbones, slender cheeks and a jaw that was a touch too sharp. She moved her head in a determined way that matched the line of her jaw, the angle of her neck and the straightness of her back. Her beauty did not arise from the symmetry of her face, but came from within. It was a part of who she was, not simply handed to her as a product of birth.

  The woman’s gaze met Cian’s.

  There were very few people sitting around him. There was no need to wonder if she was looking at him. He knew he was the object of her stare.

  Invisible fingers walked up the length of his spine. He let out a slow exhale.

  A gentleman wouldn’t stare. A gentleman would nod politely and turn his gaze away. Cian couldn’t move.

  Her breasts beneath the unadorned edge of her golden dress rose and fell. She was not looking away, either. Unlike modest debutantes, she continued to stare at him openly and directly.

  A man standing behind her chair bent to speak to her. She pulled her gaze away and looked at him.

  The moment was broken.

  Then she turned her head and nodded at Cian.

  The man straightened to look at him, too. It was James.

  Cian acknowledged his look with a bow of his head.

  James bent to speak to the woman once more. He was telling her who Cian was.

  For the first time, Cian felt an absurd pride in his rank and the family name and reputation. All the years his mother had worked to raise the estimation of the family amongst society came home to roost in this single moment. If this strange, beautiful woman was a friend of the Duke’s family, then Cian, as the son of an Earl and step son of a Marquis, would be a suitable match for her. She could not possibly protest that he was not of sufficient rank.