The Baron's Betrayal Page 10

  A return to the early days of her marriage, with she and Tristan together all the time, but with no “call to Royal Navy service” hanging over their heads, would be glorious. They could live a normal life now, raise a family, grow old and crotchety together. She grinned at the image of Tristan with silver hair, a lined, well-lived face, sitting across from her at the breakfast table.

  After taking special care with her morning toilette, making sure the perfume Tristan loved so much was dabbed on her pulse points, she descended the stairs and almost skipped to the breakfast room. “Good morning,” she sang as she entered the room.

  The space was empty. She frowned. Apparently Tristan had gotten a very early start this morning and had already broken his fast. A young maid, someone new who had been recently employed, entered the room. “Good morning, my lady. May I bring you some fresh tea?”

  “Yes, please do. And will you ask Mason to attend me?”

  A quick curtsy and the maid left the room. Marion touched the teapot on the table with her fingertips and found it warm enough, so she poured herself a cup.

  “Yes, my lady?” Mason’s grim expression as he stood in front of her gave her a start.

  “Good morning.” She smiled brightly. No amount of derision could interfere with her mood today. “I assume his lordship has already breakfasted, so I wonder if you could relay a message to him to join me?”

  His lips tightened and a look of pity crossed his face before his usual butler demeanor returned. “I’m sorry, my lady, but his lordship is not at home.”

  “Not home? How odd. I didn’t know he had an early appointment. Do you know when he is expected?”

  If ever there was a man who looked as though he wished himself several miles away, it was Mason. He cleared his throat, worked the muscles in his shoulders, and in general appeared as skittish as a newborn colt.

  Her alarm grew the longer it took the man to answer. Had something happened to Tristan? Had there been an accident that she had not been told about? “What is wrong, Mason?”

  “My lady…” He looked beyond her, at the wall above her head. He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. “His lordship left for London this morning.”

  “London?”

  His lack of further comment hit her like a fall she’d taken from a tree when she was a child. All the air left her lungs, and nausea gripped her stomach. Not really wanting the answer, but knowing it made no difference because in the next few seconds she would insist upon knowing, she asked in a whisper, “When is my husband expected home?”

  The silence in the room was smothering. She knew the answer without hearing the words formed. Gathering the remnants of her pride around her, she stood. “He is not coming back, is he?”

  The butler shook his head, looking as if he would be needed to catch her swooning body any moment.

  “I see. Thank you, Mason.” Head held high, she left the room and hurried up the stairs to her bedchamber which was thankfully empty, Jane having finished her duties for the day.

  She stood in the middle of the room, her arms wrapped around her middle.

  I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

  Bursting into sobs, she threw herself on the bed, pounding her fists against the counterpane.

  Damn you to hell, Tristan Tunstall! Damn you to hell!

  …

  “I don’t have to be able to see you to feel your disapproval, you know.” Tristan finally broke the silence. The two hour carriage ride had been painfully quiet. Tristan leaned his head against the back of the leather seat. “I have my reasons, and I don’t intend to share them with my valet.”

  Ellis grunted, but remained quiet.

  “She is better off without me.”

  Four beats later, Ellis responded. “There is no reason to share your thoughts with a mere valet, my lord.”

  “I cannot give her the life she deserves.”

  “As you say.”

  “Her ladyship seems to think my blindness makes no difference.”

  “Please pardon the pun, my lord, but how very insightful of her.”

  “I shall fire you when we reach London.”

  “I shiver with anticipation.”

  How was it he could not seem to even have his own employees agree with him? And why did he permit such insolence?

  “May I make a suggestion, my lord?’

  “No, you may not.”

  “I suggest you take a day or two to ponder your actions, and then perhaps send for her ladyship.”

  “Definitely being fired when we reach London.”

  “I shall look forward to my new duties.”

  Tristan tapped his foot, boredom setting in. “Did you pack any books? Perhaps you can read to me to pass the time.”

  “I noticed an open copy of One Thousand and One Nights in the library this morning, but since I know her ladyship was reading it, I left it there.”

  “Her ladyship was reading it to me,” he bristled.

  “Ah,” Ellis said, with no regret in his voice. “If only her ladyship were with us now. With the book…”

  “Never mind. I could use a nap.”

  “Yes, my lord. A nap might restore your good humor.”

  “When I fire you, there will be no reference.”

  “I have no expectation of one, my lord.”

  Tristan settled back, knowing full well that sleep would never come. He was perhaps halfway to London, and he already regretted his actions. Cowardice was not part of his makeup, despite his fear of fire. He’d fought on the ship even though the flames had gotten closer and closer to the ammunition stored mere feet from where he had wielded his sword at the pirates.

  But now he was afraid of a slight, soft-spoken woman. The woman who had held his heart in her delicate hands since he’d been a boy. Marion was so different from her sisters. Abigail was all spit and fire, and the twins, Sarah and Sybil, bubbled with excitement and joy. Young Mary had a sweet disposition but with much more energy than his Marion.

  His Marion. God, he missed her already. Her touch, her voice, her fierce loyalty. To him. And now he’d cast her aside. Was she angry? Or accepting of his refusal to resume their marriage?

  Why would she accept his words when he’d broken his vow to stay away from her? No, it was better this way. He needed to get away from her. It was impossible to think clearly in her presence.

  …

  “My lady, the Duke of Manchester has arrived.” Mason stood aside to allow Drake to enter Marion’s sitting room. She rose from her spot on the settee and raced across the floor, flinging herself into her brother’s arms.

  “You didn’t have to come, you could have sent the carriage.”

  She nuzzled his jacket, the familiar smell of horses and leather surrounding her, the roughness of his jacket scratching her skin. He gently patted her back, giving her time to calm down.

  “Nonsense. Of course I would come after your cryptic note.” He gave her a firm hug, then set her from him and studied her face. “All you said was Please send a carriage to bring me home. M.”

  Just having her brother here, the man who’d taken on the role of head of the family when their father had died unexpectedly, anchored her. He had always solved the problems for them all. But now she doubted there was much of anything he could do for her.

  He moved her back to the settee where they both sat. “What is wrong?”

  Marion swiped at the two lone tears tracking down her cheeks. “Everything.”

  He took her hand in his. “Tell me what’s happened. Let us see if we can figure this out.”

  “There is nothing to figure out.” She clutched her handkerchief and took a deep breath. “Tristan is gone.”

  His eyebrows almost reached his hairline. “Gone? What the devil do you mean, gone?”

  Too agitated to sit, she hopped up and paced. “Just that. I awoke this morning, and he was gone. Our butler, Mason, advised me that Tristan and his valet left for London this morning, with no pl
ans to return.”

  Drake just stared at her, his eyes wide, apparently at a loss for words.

  “And the worst part?” Her voice quivered.

  “My dear, what could possibly be worse? The cad has abandoned you.”

  “He took Argos with him!” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

  “Who the bloody hell is Argos, and why does he accompanying Tristan make it worse?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Tristan’s arrival at his London house was unspectacular. Unless the disapproval of one’s staff counted as memorable. Ellis had hurried up the stairs before him, apparently advising all within earshot what a lowly man his employer had become.

  A footman arrived at his side. “My lord, such a surprise to see you. May I assist you to the library? Or would you prefer to go directly to your bedchamber?”

  All the questions were vexing him. He wanted to be left alone. That’s precisely why he had fled Donridge Heath. No, he corrected himself. He hadn’t fled, he’d merely decided that living apart from Marion was the best solution to their problem.

  They had barely cleared the door when hurried footsteps and a strong Irish brogue announced the arrival of Mrs. O’Rourke, his combination housekeeper and cook. “Sure and that’s not our laddie returned from the country withou’ a bit a warnin’?”

  Despite his gloom, he managed a smile for the woman who had taken him under her wing when he and Mrs. Gibbons had arrived from Portugal. She’d come with the house along with a butler and one maid.

  “Yes, Mrs. O’Rourke, I am back from the country. I could no longer stay away from your colcannon and soda bread.”

  “Oh, go on with ya’ laddie.” The pride in her voice turned his smile into a full grin. “And where is the lovely Lady Tunstall? You haven’t left the poor woman to fend for herself up the stairs, now have ye?”

  How the devil had the woman known about Marion? When he had lived here in hiding for two years he’d never referred to his wife. Apparently some exchange of information had occurred between his soon-to-be-fired blathering valet and his London staff.

  “Lady Tunstall decided to remain in the country.”

  “Not that she had a bit of choice,” Ellis mumbled as he moved past him, most likely heading to his bedchamber to unpack his clothing.

  “Will yer wife be joining you soon, then?” Mrs. O’Rourke was another employee who felt no need to observe the finer points of her position. Why was his staff so comfortable sticking their noses into his personal business? Since he had never been an overly stringent employer to begin with, always enjoying an easy relationship with his servants, there would be no putting Mrs. O’Rourke in her place.

  “That has yet to be decided.” Before she could question him further, he added, “I would like to have warm water sent up to my bedchamber. I find the need to refresh myself from my journey.”

  “Right away, my lord.”

  Was that reproach he heard in her voice? He was obviously becoming much too sensitive to nuances in every word uttered to him. Perhaps it was guilt, or maybe he saw demons where there were none. In any event, he was here to stay, and his staff must adjust to his decisions. And he needed to stop second-guessing himself.

  A few hours later, Tristan sat at the dinner table, pushing his food around his plate. Mrs. O’Rourke’s Irish stew was as good as ever, but he had no taste for it. He sipped his wine, but had no taste or desire for that, either.

  He missed her.

  How was it two years of not being with Marion had passed easier than the one day since he left her bed? Even though she’d never resided in this house, he could smell her. The combination of rosemary and chamomile. The scent of her hair, the touch of her fingers grazing against his hand when she wanted to gain his attention. He missed their conversations at dinner, the sound of her voice as she read the newspaper to him and discussed all the gossip and political events of the day.

  “I am the worst sort of fool, Argos.”

  The dog whimpered at the sound of his name, his tail thumping against the floor.

  “I can’t live with her, but now it seems I can’t live without her. I love her, but can’t make love to her. Actually, I did make love to her, and she is hoping a child will come from it. Meanwhile, the monster that I am, I hoped nothing would come of it. Why doesn’t she understand that I can’t be a father?”

  Argos laid his chin on Tristan’s knee and let out a warm breath.

  Tristan pushed his plate aside and rested his hand on the dog’s head. Slowly, he ran his fingers through the warm fur. A poor substitute for running his hand over Marion’s curves. Her warm skin was like silk. He closed his eyes and groaned. When he’d decided to remain “dead” back when his memory returned, it had all seemed so simple.

  At this point there were no easy answers and no well-fitting solutions. He was miserable, and Marion was either angry or heartbroken. He stood and pushed his chair back. Perhaps a brandy before bed would settle him a bit.

  His cane waving in front of him, he started toward the door. Argos walked beside him, then gave a sharp bark and tugged on his pantaloons.

  “What?”

  The dog nudged him to the left, almost causing him to stumble. Waving his cane again, he realized he’d been about to walk into the wall. He’d missed the doorway by more than a foot. If Argos hadn’t nudged him, he’d be rubbing a sore nose about now. Having been away from this house for a couple of months, he’d become disoriented.

  “Very good, Argos. Maybe you can serve some purpose after all, besides slobbering all over me with your tongue and eating every scrap of meat in the house.”

  He and the dog proceeded into the library where he settled with a brandy, Argos at his feet. After sitting for a while, attempting to pretend the silence was welcome, he murmured, “Well, old boy, it looks like it is just you and me.”

  The fire warmed him, but the chill inside would not cease for a long time. It came from the coldness in his heart. Thank goodness he left before Marion could break through his determination. He took a sip of his drink. “It is for the best.” He patted the dog on his head.

  Argos inhaled deeply and blew out a loud sigh.

  Perhaps if I say it enough times, I will begin to believe it. Because the dog sure as hell doesn’t.

  …

  The ride to Manchester Manor was very quiet. Marion spent the time gazing out the window. She had to give credit to Drake, who hadn’t opted to send the carriage but instead attend her himself. Just his comforting presence kept her from wailing and gnashing her teeth in frustration.

  And hurt. Either Tristan did not love her as he said he did, or he didn’t trust her when she said his blindness didn’t matter. He’d always been a bit reserved. She’d sensed a deep emotional scar in him from the time he had come to live with them. Something that hadn’t been there prior to the fire that had claimed his family.

  She remembered talking to her father about that when Tristan had been with them a few weeks. The former duke had always been available to his children when they were in need of advice, opinions, or even just a listening ear.

  “Something is wrong with Tristan, Father.” At only ten years, she’d been very sensitive to her friend’s moods, but this was one she hadn’t understood.

  “He just lost his family, Marion. It will take quite a while for him to recover from that. And he may never be exactly the same again.”

  “I miss him.”

  He wiped the tear tracking down her cheek. “Give him time, little one. Sometimes when a person is the only survivor of a horrendous accident, they carry a sense of guilt about their life being spared.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. He should be grateful he did survive.”

  The duke pulled her onto his lap. “Life isn’t always so plain and simple, sweeting. We are made up of more than merely skin and bones. Tristan is a fine young man. He will sort it all out. Just give him time.”

  Just give him time.

  It was almost as
if her father were whispering those words once again in her ear. Give him time. Hadn’t the more than two years they were apart been enough time? Was she to spend the rest of her life waiting for Tristan?

  Her thoughts shifted as the carriage slowed down. Manchester Manor came into view, the family abode not providing her with the warmth and comfort it normally did when she spotted its familiarity from the coach window. This was no longer her home. But if her husband didn’t want her, where was her home?

  “It will be all right,” Drake said, touching her hand as the footman opened the door.

  Nothing would be all right again. Tristan was in London, with no expectation of returning, and she was the cast-off wife, living on her family’s benevolence. She shook her head and stiffened her spine. She would not permit a return to the melancholy that had engulfed her for the two years she believed Tristan to be dead. For he was not dead, and she had to believe all would be well in the end.

  “Marion!” Her twin sisters, Sarah and Sybil, dashed down the stairs, their arms outstretched. Their normal exuberance cheered her a bit. With all her worries, she’d forgotten how lively and entertaining her sisters were. They’d barely cleared the door when Mary, her youngest sister, made her way a bit more sedately to join the reunion.

  The girls hugged one another, Marion picking up some of their joy. “Where is Mother?”

  “On her way. She is cleaning up from her gardening duties.”

  “And Penelope?”

  “Where else?” Mary rolled her eyes. “In the nursery with Robert. Most likely the baby is conjugating Latin verbs.” She grinned at Drake. “At least that is what his parents want us to believe.”

  Drake tapped his youngest sister on her pert little nose. “Just wait. One day I will roll my eyes at you and your offspring.”

  Their arms around one another, the sisters entered the house. Marion looked about, feeling as though she’d been gone for a very long time, not mere weeks. She’d left with so much enthusiasm and hope for the future. Even though at the time Tristan had refused to resume their marriage, she’d planned on it taking very little time before he relented.

  So much for her plans.

  “Marion, dear.” The dowager duchess enveloped her in a hug that did more to ease her mind than anything that had happened since she’d discovered Tristan’s disappearance.