The Husband Plot Page 5

  For a moment, Adrian’s pulse spiked at the thought that she may have discovered the stack of books in his bedroom. They were his personal collection, ranging from the ragged copy of Robinson Crusoe that had been his comfort on the crossing from Kingston to the abolitionist writings of Ignatius Sancho.

  He had no intention of letting his wife discover his secret intentions.

  But he calmed an instant later when Lisbeth continued, “I mean, of course, amongst the Berkwell estates. I understand you have spent most of your time in the country as of late, so perhaps your larger library is still hidden away in the hedges of Kent.”

  “I’m afraid this is the whole of it,” Adrian said. “You have my encouragement to widen it at your discretion, and you may send any bills to my direction rather than pay them from your pin money.”

  “How kind.” Her smile was a little bigger now, but it did not quite feel genuine.

  Adrian chastised himself. He was supposed to be making conversation and developing a connection with her, not holding himself aloft out of fear. Setting down his fork, he asked, “Who is your favorite author?”

  At last, Lisbeth’s face flamed with an expression of something that felt real. “It is impossible for me to choose only one. Would you have me choose between a poet and an essayist? A painter of words and a speaker of truth? No, I cannot do it.”

  He couldn’t help his own little smile of amusement at her ardor. “What of novels? Do you subscribe to their reputation as trash for the mind, or do you include them in your list of great works?”

  “I contend that novels, like all other forms, can be brilliant, or they can be a waste of print. It depends on their content and execution.” Lisbeth raised a daring eyebrow at him. Adrian couldn’t help but notice how perfectly slender it was, as if painted by an artist to highlight her luminous eyes. “What of you? Do you forbid yourself the pleasure of stories?”

  “I wouldn’t say I forbid myself.” Adrian was surprised to find himself straightening in defense. “I simply don’t see why I would waste my time on make-believe when there are so many subjects to learn about.”

  “Do you not think the imagination is necessary in order to make room for the theories you read?”

  Something in the way Lisbeth said this, her eyes settling firmly on his, not wavering despite the distance between them and the rising candle smoke, made Adrian wonder if she sensed he had a dream for the future. One that certainly did require the use of an imagination.

  He shook his head to clear himself of the idea. She was simply a pretty girl with a good tongue for debating. She couldn’t see into his soul any more than he could properly kiss her.

  “If you make a recommendation, I would be happy to try a novel,” Adrian conceded.

  Lisbeth looked a little shy now, smiling down at her food. Adrian sipped his wine in triumph.

  After dinner, he retired to his study for an hour or two, until the sun had set on Upper Norton Street and the servants started turning down the house for the night. He waited to hear Lisbeth bid Ford goodnight, listened to her soft footfalls on the carpeted stairs, before ascending himself.

  Tonight would be different. Robert had coached him through the motions. First, he let Mr. Adkins follow the same routine as last night, including the shave and cologne. Second, he ordered a tray of sherry delivered to Lisbeth’s room. Finally, he brought a gift, the better to start a conversation before embarking on the physical journey.

  This time when he knocked, he found Lisbeth waiting for him at her little table by the window, the sherry tray already set out. With relief, he noted a Chinese print silk robe tied tightly around her body, with only her ankles and wrists and a little bit of her wide collarbone peeking out as bare skin. She rose at his entrance and gestured to the chair opposite her, inviting him to sit.

  Adrian had spent all day trying not to think of Lisbeth’s reaction to the night before. Did she cringe now, to receive him again, when yesterday had been such a disaster? Or was she such a miss that she didn’t even know he had failed the evening before?

  He covered his anxiety by handing her the gift, wrapped in a soft fold of velvet. Lisbeth took it with a cautious smile, which widened to a grin when she discovered it to be a first edition of a Jonathan Swift.

  “To begin your library expansion,” Adrian said, taking his seat.

  Lisbeth caressed her fingertips across the cover and spine. “Somehow you guessed that Mr. Swift is one of my favorites, even though I wouldn’t admit so at supper.”

  He had chosen the book based on price, not the content. Adrian decided he didn’t need to admit that. “Would you read me a passage?”

  He poured sherry while she lovingly turned the pages, finally selecting a section towards the middle. She held the book delicately in one hand, the other smoothing flat the open page.

  Some persons of a desponding spirit are in great concern about that vast number of poor people, who are aged, diseased, or maimed; and I have been desired to imploy my thoughts what course may be taken, to ease the Nation of so grievous an Incumbrance…

  Lisbeth’s voice took on a new quality as she read; while clear, she suddenly spoke low and husky. She took her time with each word, as if tasting it with her tongue before letting it loose. Adrian’s eyes were drawn to her lips, how gracefully they formed each syllable, how lovingly they reached for the next. Occasionally, she paused, her tongue darting forward.

  Adrian wondered if his had been her first kiss. Last night, he had been too consumed by his own horror to think of it. But she had been engaged before; had Lord Gresham taken physical liberties? And had she enjoyed it? Lord Gresham was surely a man of experience, the type of fiancé who could teach a woman how to kiss properly.

  This was a dangerous train of thought. Adrian tried to shake himself from it. Yet now he was convinced Lisbeth likely knew a thing or two about being physically loved, which meant she knew just how badly he had bungled it last night. Had she been sitting in judgment all day? Ruing the day she agreed to marry the West Indian grandson of the Duke of Berkwell?

  He wondered that she hadn’t locked the bedroom door to him entirely.

  Coming to the end of her selection, Lisbeth raised her eyes from the page to meet Adrian’s. She looked so happy, ensconced in the glow of her favorite words. Perhaps he was overreacting. Perhaps she was simply trying to make the best of the situation, just like he.

  “What do you think of Mr. Swift’s proposal?” she asked Adrian.

  Adrian blinked. Lout that he was, he hadn’t paid attention to even one word she’d read.

  “It reminds me of the discussion on transportation this afternoon,” Lisbeth continued, when he didn’t respond. “Everyone is so scared of the poor man, as if not having enough food is a sin, and so the government conjures up policies to remove him from our sight, when the worst crime he may be guilty of is stealing an apple.”

  Now Adrian’s stomach tightened for a completely different reason. “What discussion on transportation this afternoon?”

  It was almost imperceptible, how Lisbeth froze. But he saw it, before she batted her eyelashes with a guileless smile. “Why, tea at Lady Gresham’s, of course. I told you about it this morning.”

  “Yes, and I told you not to go.”

  “Did you?” Lisbeth raised her eyebrows, as if in surprise. “I don’t remember you saying anything like that at all.”

  Adrian studied her. The innocent expression was a disguise, one she knew how to pull on at a moment’s whim. She must have learned it to hoodwink her parents; he wondered how often it worked for her.

  He wondered if she really thought it would work on him.

  “You are an intelligent woman,” he said, squaring his elbows on the table. It was so small that leaning forward just this much put him practically in her face. “Let us not play games. I told you not to go, yet you went anyway. Does my word as husband mean that little to you?”

  That, at least, wiped the ruse off her face. Now Lisbeth’s ey
es lit with fury. “You married me sight unseen, Mr. Hathorne, with a plan to abandon me in a matter of months. Did you really think you’d get some meek, obedient girl who would let you command her about?”

  “I don’t intend to command you,” Adrian growled, “but suppose for one moment that I know better than you on this subject. Suppose I know how you attending a scandalous tea salon will bring ruin to my name. Will you permit me to exercise my right to tell you not to go?”

  Lisbeth scoffed. “My attending a tea with other respectable ladies of peerage cannot possibly bring ruin to your name.”

  That she could dismiss it so easily – dismiss him so easily – lit Adrian with anger. “You are a silly little girl to think so. Do you not see the complexion of my skin? Do you not hear the whispers that follow my every move? The ton is just waiting for me to do something scandalous to rip me from my family, to brandish me a stupid blackamoor. My wife, attend a tea where they discuss transportation? It could jeopardize our very status in society.”

  Lisbeth glared out the window. “You are the grandson of the Duke of Berkwell with an annual income of fifty thousand pounds. They would not dare.”

  They would dare, when they heard what he would do in Kingston. But he couldn’t tell her about it. He couldn’t explain why he needed every single alliance in perfect balance, why he needed a sterling reputation, why he wanted a wife without reproach. Not without revealing his secret intentions, and he wouldn’t ever trust Lisbeth with such a truth.

  “You will not return to Lady Gresham’s salons.”

  “Or what?” Lisbeth practically spat venom at him. “What will you do when you hear I have attended next week’s tea? Will you lock me up? Beat me into submission? Have me whipped like one of your slaves?”

  Adrian didn’t let his wince show. This had already gone too far. If they argued much longer, he might never want to speak to her again.

  He did not offer a bow in goodbye. He simply turned on his heel. It was at the door between their rooms that he decided to say one last thing. Not to win the last word in the argument, but to keep her from making the same mistake again.

  “Do not speak to me of slavery. You do not know the ground you trod on.”

  She glared at him, but Adrian felt better for having said it. Perhaps he would have one less nightmare because of it.

  Seven

  Chapter Seven

  Somehow, Lisbeth slept that night. She didn’t think she would, not with rage consuming every fiber of her being, but she must have, because the next thing she knew, pale daylight filtered into the bedchamber as her maid relit the fire in the hearth.

  “Did you sleep well, ma’am?” Hannah asked, seeing Lisbeth’s eyes open. “Would you like me to bring you up a tray?”

  Lisbeth considered. She could take that route: eat in her room, avoid Adrian all day, lock her door at night. She could freeze him out before he even left for the West Indies, so that last night’s were the last words they ever exchanged, save perhaps for a few conversations around logistics.

  But Lisbeth couldn’t sustain such a campaign. She knew that even as her pulse quickened at the memory of last night’s argument. She hadn’t expected this marriage to be one based on love or friendship, but she had assumed there would be a modicum of respect.

  Instead, she had heavy-handed commands and no physical relationship whatsoever. Adrian might have returned last night, robed and perfumed and looking every bit the fallen angel there to seduce her, but he hadn’t touched her. The way his eyes had flared, then frozen, when she compared herself to a slave; from that alone, Lisbeth could sense that he would never approach her again.

  She had spoiled herself in his eyes, with words she wasn’t even sure that she meant.

  “Perhaps some coffee?” Hannah prodded.

  “No thank you,” Lisbeth said, sliding out of bed. “I’ll eat with Mr. Hathorne. Would you help me dress? The yellow muslin should do.”

  It was one of her favorite day gowns, soft and loose with pretty white flowers embroidered down the sleeves. She had worn it the day her father first suggested a marriage to Adrian Hathorne, so it was only fitting that she wear it this morning, the day that she ended said marriage.

  Adrian was not at the breakfast table when she descended. Ford assured her he had not yet eaten, so she fixed a plate of food – though she couldn’t find even the tiniest of appetites – and waited. She considered the household as she did. Ford, at his post just outside the door, ready for her next request. Mrs. Siswell, no doubt bustling below stairs putting out some sort of emergency. They set a good atmosphere for the rest of the staff: they took their duties seriously, managed everything with good diligence, yet always had a kind word for both master and servant. Lisbeth would miss them, though she had only been with them two days. She would miss the experience of being mistress of the house.

  Still, she knew she must do it. She could not live shackled to a man who scorned her. Even if he were all the way in Kingston, she would know how he felt about her. She would wonder how quickly he’d forgotten her. She would imagine all the women he chased after and envy them for it. She would fear his letters, which would surely censure her. And she would never know if he was going to come back, claim his right as husband to ruin the life she built for herself, and carry her back to Kingston, just to punish her.

  Lisbeth was shuddering at this scenario when Adrian entered. He read a newspaper while he walked, even as he collected – one-handed – a plateful of cakes, eggs, and sausage, so that he didn’t notice her until he sat down and looked up to reach for the salt cellar.

  Incidentally, the salt cellar was a wedding gift from Lisbeth’s cousin, porcelain hand-painted with Eve frolicking in the garden. The pepper, naturally, had the partner illustration of Adam. Lisbeth supposed she would have to wrap the gifts back up and return them to the sender.

  Adrian’s whole being darkened when he saw Lisbeth. His eyes had been glittering with thought, but after connecting to hers descended with quick, decisive gloom to his plate. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.” Lisbeth tried to keep her tone impersonal. She was, after all, negotiating a business transaction. There were no feelings of the heart involved whatsoever.

  Still, she wasn’t quite sure how to start a conversation so important. She tried to think of an opener that would angle towards the state of their marriage, but in the end, she had to rely on the weather. “I think it will rain this afternoon. What say you?”

  Adrian did not look up from his portion. He was quiet for so long that Lisbeth thought he wouldn’t respond, that he’d decided to ignore her completely. Then he said, “It is England, after all.”

  “Yes.” Lisbeth had read about the West Indies – particularly in the last few weeks, when she knew she would marry a West Indian planter – and knew there, the sun always shone and the heat was enough to kill an Englishwoman. She supposed Adrian must miss the good weather.

  He cleared his throat. “I should like to apologize for my behavior last night. It was overly harsh.”

  Lisbeth had supposed he blamed her for disobeying him and saying unforgivable things. She was so surprised, it spurred her to admit, “I got carried away in anger, too.”

  He raised one of his black eyebrows, but he still didn’t look up. “As husband, I must model better behavior.”

  His words pricked her as surely as a blade in her ribs. She’d heard men speak this way her whole life, and it had never made one iota sense. As if she were a child who needed a better nurse, or a mare that needed a new groom. As if as a grown, married woman, she was helpless in behavior unless her husband showed her the way.

  She couldn’t believe she’d married a man who would speak to her that way.

  “About that.” Straightening her shoulders, Lisbeth summoned a calm energy for what she had to say. “Given our disinclination towards each other, Mr. Hathorne, I think it best to annul this marriage.”

  Now, at last, he looked up. His startling green eyes
clung to her. “Annul?”

  “Yes. It is the only logical conclusion to this situation. You and I don’t like each other. You want to order me about, and I won’t follow your orders. Then there is the question of our physical relationship…”

  Adrian launched out of his chair, the feet scraping in protest against the wood floor. “Out,” he growled to the footman entering with a fresh pot of coffee. He shut the door that connected the room to the kitchen, then stalked to the hall entrance, barking something at Ford before shutting those doors too.

  Then he turned to Lisbeth.

  “You should know better than to discuss sensitive matters where walls have ears, Madam.”

  There was an elegance to his ferocity that Lisbeth had to consciously not admire. His every movement might have been choreographed, he was so sure of himself.

  She had to work all the harder to remain calm in the face of his beautiful storm.

  “I’m sure they’ve already been discussing it. After all, there has been no evidence of a deflowering. The maids will have noticed.”

  She knew her face flamed red at these words, even though she worked so hard to say them as if listing the menu for supper. Adrian tore a hand across his scalp, turning to the window.

  “We do not suit,” Lisbeth said. “Surely you agree.”

  “That is something one concludes before marriage, not after.”

  “Everyone knows we married without meeting each other. They’ll understand if we conclude this experiment failed. I’m sure there are bets on at White’s about how long our marriage will last.”

  Adrian still stared out the window at Upper Norton Street. “The scandal would ruin us.”

  “It would ruin me,” Lisbeth corrected. “A failed engagement followed by a failed marriage. I will have to retire to the country, resign myself to life as a spinster, and return to ton only when I am so old and gray that no one remembers. You will be fine. I should expect you to be remarried by June.”