How to Train Your Baron (What Happens in the Ballroom) Page 12

  “I suppose we should…”

  “We should probably…”

  They had both spoken at once, and they both stopped and smiled awkwardly. “Please continue,” he urged her.

  “I was just thinking, it’s late and I’m tired, we ought to get this over with.”

  Get this over with? So much for thinking she might find his attentions enjoyable. What he thought he’d felt that afternoon had been entirely one-sided after all. “What man doesn’t long to hear those very words on his wedding night?” Damned if he’d let her know he was disappointed.

  Elsinore did not respond to his sarcasm. Instead, she took a few wobbly steps toward the bed and struggled to turn down the counterpane. “It’s so heavy,” she muttered as she tugged at it.

  “Let me help you.” He turned down the summer-weight counterpane—it was no heavier than a fine cotton sheet—and she slumped onto the bed. When had she grown so peaked? What the devil was wrong with her?

  “Are you unwell?”

  After a long pause, she finally responded. “Just tired.”

  Perhaps her nerves had gotten the best of her. “Lie down then, and I’ll put out the candles.” She lay back, and he settled a light blanket over her before going about the room extinguishing candles. He left the one on his bedside table lit—he didn’t want to make love with her in the dark. He wanted to see her, watch her face and gauge her pleasure.

  Lying back on the bed, he reached over and gently touched her arm. “I’d like to apologize for what happened this afternoon. I failed as a gentleman and, more importantly, as your husband.”

  When she gave no response, he continued with the speech he’d so carefully planned to deliver that afternoon before he’d seen her gown. “Perhaps we might try to get along. There are certain advantages to the life I’m offering you. I would hope our time together could be amicable. I don’t expect you to completely understand my reasons, but I do ask that you respect them.”

  She still wasn’t speaking to him yet hadn’t brushed his hand off her arm, which he decided to interpret as a sign of encouragement. “In the end, you see, you’re getting exactly what you want—more choices. I’ll get you a house in town near your friends and family. As a married woman, you’ll enjoy a level of freedom that I think you’ll come to appreciate. You’ll be free to travel and attend society events of your own choosing. I assure you that I will continue to support you in the manner to which you are accustomed.”

  He decided to leave out the part where she would be free to take a lover. Somehow, that enticement seemed much less tolerable after this afternoon. When she still did not respond, he raised himself up on one elbow and gave her long hair a playful tug. “Elsinore, please, tell me what you’re thinking.”

  He reached for her hand and found it cold and limp. “Elsinore! What’s happened to you?” He reached over and gave her shoulder a gentle shake.

  Elsinore’s eyes flickered open, and she licked her lips before speaking. “Quin…so tired.” Her eyes drifted shut again.

  With growing alarm, he realized she was not feigning sleep to avoid the conversation. It was almost as if she’d been drugged. The tea. He scrambled from the bed to the small tray table that had been set up next to the writing desk. He took a cautious sniff, dipped his finger into the still-warm brew, and tasted it. Laudanum.

  “Elsinore! Elsinore!” He shook her hard in an attempt to rouse her again, and her eyes slid open. “How much tea did you drink? How many cups?”

  “Free,” she slurred while managing to hold up three fingers.

  He settled her back on her pillow and ran across the hall to his room long enough to pull on a pair of pantaloons before running up the stairs to the servants’ attic rooms. Not knowing which room Yvette had been assigned, he banged on each door until one opened.

  The housekeeper, Mrs. Nesbitt, poked her cap-covered head into the hallway. “The new girl,” he demanded. “Which room is she in?”

  “Yvette, my lord?”

  “Aye, that’s the one. Where is she?”

  She raised the single flickering candle she held in trembling hands. “Last door on the left, my lord.”

  “May I?” He reached for the candle. She handed it over without a word and slipped back inside her room, closing the door with a soft snick of the knob—immediately followed by the sound of a piece of furniture being dragged into place in front of it.

  Fine, let them think I’m mad, let them fear me—they’ll all be safer for keeping their distance.

  He made his way to the door at the end of the hall and banged twice before turning the knob and walking in. Holding the candle high he found Yvette sitting up in her cot, sheets clutched to her chin. Her breath, little short gasps of fear and surprise, punctuated the space between them.

  “What was it, and who gave it to you?”

  “I…I…my lord…”

  He took another step closer. “Who gave you the damned poison, woman, and how much did you give her?”

  “P-p-poison?” The single word came out as a squeak.

  “Where did you get it? Did someone pay you to do it? Tell me, damn you. I’ll have you locked up in Newgate by morning if you don’t speak up now.”

  “My lord, no! I don’t know about any poison. No one paid me to do anything.”

  “The tea, girl, tell me about the tea you gave my wife.” Shadows flickered and danced against the walls as his hand shook with rage.

  “She was so nervous, my lord. My mistress, I mean. When she asked…”

  “She asked you for something to make her sleep?”

  “She asked if I knew of something to calm her nerves.” The servant looked down and chewed her lip before continuing. “I found a small bottle of a sleeping tincture in the cupboard. I thought maybe a few drops…”

  “Where is the bottle now?” he demanded.

  “The corner cupboard near the butler’s pantry,” she whispered. “I would never do anything to harm my mistress, my lord,” she added, but he was already out the door and running down the hall.

  “Damn it.” The candle guttered out as he ran down the stairs, and he stumbled into the kitchens, stubbing his toe on the massive sideboard.

  He felt around for a spill holder, drew one out, and took it to the hearth where hot coals had been banked for the night. It caught in a moment and he walked slowly, carefully keeping it lit until he reached the butler’s pantry and lit a candle he found there. The small pool of light barely punctured the darkness of the small, windowless room, but he knew which cupboard he needed. Lifting the latch, he pulled it open and scanned the contents. Flints and candle stubs on one shelf, tightly wound strips of cloth on another, and, there, medicinals on the top shelf.

  He grabbed each bottle and held it near the candle. Calomel, unidentified tablets, headache powders, some dried-up ointment in an old tin, a nearly empty bottle of some herbal tincture that smelled like dirty feet, and finally, in the back, a small dark green bottle. An involuntary shudder crawled up his spine as he picked it up. Someone had written “Nerve Syrup” on the label. He pulled out the cork and gave it a quick sniff before holding it up to the candle. It was still three-quarters full. His shoulders relaxed. Probably not enough to kill her.

  He put everything else back in the cupboard but carried the bottle back to the kitchen. He emptied what was left of it into the hearth, the few hot coals left hissed and spit as he poured it out. He fought the urge to smash the bottle into a thousand bits, and instead placed it near the back door with the other empty bottles that would be picked up by the bottle boy long after he was well on his way back to Scotland. That is, if his new wife indeed survived the night.

  Calming tea, my arse. Did they not realize the consequences of playing with poison?

  When he returned to the room he found her just as he’d left her, in a deep sleep measured by slow, steady breathing. “Whatever shall I do with you?” he asked her sleeping form. Satisfied she would at the very least survive the night, he blew out
the candle and walked around to his side of the bed.

  “Ouch!” Quin hobbled to the bed and struggled to relight the candle while keeping his injured foot off the floor. A shard from the broken teacup had found its way into the bottom of his foot, and he could just see the sharp white tip of it protruding from a small but bloody gash. He contorted himself to get a better look. If he could just…no, his fingers couldn’t grasp it, it was too small. Grimacing against the pain, he pinched the sole of his foot, forcing the shard out with a generous ooze of blood. Damn.

  The drops of blood stained the white sheet, and he gathered up another handful to wipe the bottom of his foot. That was one way to mark his wedding night sheets. His hands stopped in midmovement as he stared at the dark stain. Suppose…no, it was too childish. He shook his head to make the thought disappear. It was ridiculous. And yet…suppose his new wife and her maid purposely sabotaged their wedding night? Had they not worked together to lie about her name and spill the wine?

  What would happen, he wondered, if they thought their plan had failed? Before he could talk himself out of it, he pulled back the sheets and removed Elsinore’s nightclothes from her limp body, tossing them haphazardly onto the floor. He allowed himself one brief appraising look at the lithe, perfect body he would not be enjoying this evening before climbing into bed. He spooned himself against Elsinore’s back.

  “Sorry, dear,” he whispered. “Turnabout is fair play.” He lay awake, listening to her steady breathing, willing it to continue through the night into morning. A second dead wife would be more than a little difficult to explain.

  Chapter Eleven

  “The curious behavior of any hound should be met with the knowledge that to the hound there is always a reason. It becomes the master’s task to ferret it out.” Oglethorpe’s Treatise on the Obedient Canine

  Elsinore woke slowly and finally acknowledged the soft daylight seeping past the window curtains by opening her eyes. Her head felt fuzzy, and her mouth was dry as face powder. A morning cup of tea with a pinch of sugar and a zesty lemon might be just the thing. “Yvette?” she croaked out hoarsely into the unfamiliar room.

  Sitting up in bed, she stretched her arms out and took a deep breath, willing herself to wake more fully. She flexed her toes and turned her neck this way and that, working the kinks out of her muscles. As she did, she spotted the empty pillow next to hers that still bore the impression of someone’s head. She stared at the pillow a moment longer, letting her brain awaken in short bursts of recollection. Her eyes widened and her stomach clenched. Last night was her wedding night.

  They argued before the ball. She remembered that experience all too vividly and felt her cheeks warm. The ball itself was a bit of a blur—music, dancing, champagne, and Quin’s irreverent teasing. She clearly remembered the silent carriage ride home afterward. Quin had seemed tense and distracted, yet his smoldering glances convinced her his thoughts centered upon her. She recalled tea.

  Elsinore looked to the tray table, confirming the recollection. A teapot stood alone, its lid resting on the towel beside it. But then the memory stopped, and there was simply…nothing.

  The blankness was oddly puzzling until she spied her nightgown and robe in silken puddles on the floor next to the bed. Even on the warmest of evenings she always wore a night rail. When, and how, had she discarded hers last night? Elsinore swallowed hard and pushed the top sheet aside to reveal the telltale bloody stain of a successful wedding night.

  “Milady?”

  Elsinore frantically pulled at the sheets to bury the stain and cover her nakedness. “Come,” she squeaked out.

  Yvette poked her head around the door. “I had thought to let you sleep a bit longer. Shall I fetch some…” Yvette’s face registered concern, and she stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind her. Once inside she kept her eyes on the floor, avoiding any view of the bed. “His lordship suggested I bring up a tray when you are ready. The kitchens are being packed up, and there’s no breakfast laid out this morning.”

  “Yes, a tray would be lovely.” Elsinore tried hard to sound normal when she felt anything but. “And if there are footmen to spare from the packing who could haul some water, I’d also like a bath.”

  “Yes, milady, I’ll see to it.” The servant, never once looking up, turned to leave.

  “By the way,” Elsinore spoke to the closing door. “Where is Lord Graham?”

  “He’s down in the mews seeing to the loading of the wagons.” Yvette turned back to her then and managed to raise her eyes to meet hers.

  The maid wanted to say something, but Elsinore didn’t want to hear any more of the girl’s pining over her footman. Not when her own life was in such a shambles. “Is there something else, Yvette?”

  The maid looked back down to the floor, frowned, and shuffled her feet. “No, my lady. I was just wondering, are you…well?”

  “Yes, of course.” In truth, there was a dull ache behind her eyes, and she was finding it a bit hard to concentrate amid a rising panic. Her lack of memory of her husband’s attentions could not be normal. Centuries of poets wouldn’t wax romantic about an act that elicited spontaneous amnesia.

  “I’ll take a breakfast tray while the bath water is heating. We’ll pack my last trunk and have it sent down afterward. Thank you, Yvette.”

  “Yes, milady.” The maid walked over to the tray table, collected yesterday’s teapot, and reunited it with its lid before backing out of the room.

  Tea and toast with strawberry jam did nothing for her memory, and Elsinore scrubbed herself raw in the small tub of warm water. How could she not remember anything from her own wedding night? Would Quin know, and more importantly, would it cause him to cast her aside even sooner?

  She dressed quickly and went in search of her new husband, following the trail of activity from the stairway to the home’s rear entrance. Her face warmed when she spotted him. Dressed in a midnight blue traveling coat with an embroidered silk waistcoat and snowy white cravat, he was a vision of male perfection. He was smiling and speaking to the servants as if this were any other morning and not the morning after what might prove to be the most important night of her life.

  When he did look up, he smiled warmly, and Elsinore felt herself relax a little. There was nothing in his manner to indicate that he suspected her ignorant of last night’s activities. Taking a deep breath, she dared to approach him. “It looks like the packing is nearly done; they must have started hours ago. You should have awakened me.”

  The warm smile faltered a second before he replied. “I thought you’d appreciate the extra bit of slumber this morning.”

  “Of course. That was thoughtful of you.” She tried to smile, knew she failed, and instead stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. Unable to look at him, she instead focused her attention on the last of her trunks being loaded up into a wagon and quickly covered with a canvas tarp and tied down with thick ropes. She’d bid her family goodbye as they left the ball, and there would be no hugs or tears when they left this morning. The coach that would take her away from all she had ever known was now fully loaded and ready to go.

  “Ready?” Quin asked as he opened the door to their coach and offered her his arm.

  “I…I suppose so.” Elsinore allowed him to help her up into the coach. She moved to the farthest corner of the forward-facing seat and sat quietly clasping her hands in her lap. Glancing out the window, she realized that it was quite possible she’d never see London again. When Quin set her aside, she knew she’d be too embarrassed to ever return.

  Blinking rapidly to forestall the tears that threatened to fall, she turned away and concentrated on the floor. It was her first day as a married woman, and she was already making a hash of it by being unable to recall her husband’s romantic endeavors.

  Quin called out last-minute instructions to their coachman, and the driver of the wagon carrying their belongings. The springs bounced as Quin climbed in and shut the door. Taking the seat next to her, he
knocked twice against the ceiling, and the coach jerked into motion.

  As Elsinore leaned back against the squabs, she closed her eyes and tried to recall something, anything, from the night before. The only thing her mother had told her about wifely duties was to close her eyes and try to think of something pleasant. If yesterday’s experience in the hallway was any indication, that advice was completely useless. How could any woman manage to think of anything other than what her husband was urging her body to do?

  She’d been shameless in the hallway—rubbing her breasts against his chest and spreading her legs for his clever fingers. Her face grew warm with the memory of it. So why couldn’t she remember any of last night?

  Oglethorpe’s Treatise wasn’t the only book she’d read in her brother’s extensive library during her season of banishment. Tucked behind the volumes of Greek tragedies, she’d found a most enlightening illustrated manual of marital congress. Sadly, she couldn’t read the descriptive text, as it was written in an ancient language unknown to her—but the figures, drawn in the style of India, told most of the story anyway. She could still recall the bodies shown intertwined in all sorts of curious configurations.

  She would remember doing any of that. Wouldn’t she? She dared a sidelong glance at Quin. He did not look like a man who was grossly disappointed in his wedding night. He looked tired and preoccupied, not angry and disappointed. He was fiddling with something in his coat pocket and looking out the window as if he expected to see something, or someone. He didn’t know, she realized. He had no idea she wasn’t even now sitting here, blushing, while reliving a night of rapture in his arms. There was really no good reason to enlighten him.

  That was it then; she’d ignore it. But suppose he thought last night had accomplished the deed? Did it normally take more than once to get with child? Well, her mother had never mentioned that. In fact, no one ever had. Oh, dear. If he thought her barren, what would he do? He would cast her aside even sooner, no doubt. And no amount of Oglethorpe would talk him out of it, then.