The Baron's Betrayal Read online

Marion wiped her sweaty palms down the front of her gown. Now that Tristan had been hustled upstairs, she took a deep breath and allowed her heartbeat to slow. While his reaction wasn’t what she had hoped for, it wasn’t what she’d dreaded either. He hadn’t ordered her from the house.

  She wandered to the drawing room window to gaze out at the darkening sky. Not sure if she wanted to tell him immediately about the baby, she relegated that problem to the back of her mind.

  After twenty minutes of pacing, Marion looked up to see Tristan enter the room with Argos right beside him. Her heart melted at the sight of him. After what she’d gone through when she thought him dead, she would never tire of gazing upon him. He’d been shaved, and his jacket and cravat replaced with fresh garments. He looked splendid, and she wanted nothing more than to rush into his arms and hold him close.

  “Would you like me to pour you a brandy?” She was alarmed at the squeakiness in her voice.

  “Are you having a drink?”

  “No.”

  He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “In that case, allow me to escort you into dinner.” Tristan extended his elbow and she grasped it. Argos walked slowly alongside him and seemed to be guiding him. It was then that she realized Tristan wasn’t using his cane.

  “Do you no longer use your cane?”

  He smiled as he pulled out her chair. “Sometimes, if I’m in an unfamiliar place. Argos has become my eyes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Ellis and I have been working with him, and after one early mishap when I ventured outside the house, we have found success in our jaunts.”

  “That is amazing. I remember hearing about blind people using animals to help them.” She nodded her thanks at the footman who poured her wine. “You see, there was a reason that Argos came to us.”

  “Ah. Women must always justify the decisions made in conflict with their husbands’ wishes.”

  “May I serve you?” Marion remained a bit uneasy. Tristan seemed happier since she’d last seen him, but she still felt as if she needed to be careful about how she approached him on providing assistance.

  “Yes. Please do. As I told Mrs. O’Rourke not to expect me for dinner, I had planned on a cold sandwich. But I smell her wonderful lamb and roasted potatoes. And is that asparagus as well?”

  “Yes, that is precisely what we are having.” After placing the items on his plate, she served herself and found she had quite an appetite. The dinner was as excellent as anything Cook in their country home would have served.

  Almost as if they’d agreed to forestall any discussion about the future, they chatted during the meal, Marion telling him about the festival and her family. She passed along a great deal of information about her sisters and their continued refusal to accept suitors.

  “It is quite amusing to see how frustrated Drake is with Sybil, Sarah, and Mary. They will be entering another Season in a few months, and I think he is becoming frantic that he might never get them off his hands.”

  “Being responsible for five sisters is a burden. At least Abigail is now settled.”

  “As am I.” She said softly. Perhaps too softly for Tristan to hear, since he did not respond.

  “One bit of interesting news. Sybil is headed to Scotland in a few months.”

  “Is that so? And for what purpose?”

  “A dear friend of hers is betrothed to a Scottish laird. Sybil will be attending the wedding. This is an arranged marriage, and Lady Margaret—that’s Sybil’s friend—is very nervous over the entire thing. She has only been in the man’s company a handful of times.”

  “That’s terrible. I had no idea arranged marriages still went on.”

  “Yes. And Margaret is such a sweet girl.”

  “And Drake is willing to let Sybil travel that distance by herself?”

  “She will be well chaperoned. One of our housemaids is being trained to act as a lady’s maid and will journey with her. Two footmen will assist the driver. And then part of the way there, she will meet up with the bride and her parents, Lord and Lady Somerville. She will be sufficiently cared for.”

  They continued their meal in silence until Tristan cleared his throat and asked the footmen to leave. Marion’s breath hitched. She had all of her reasons to stay at the ready, but now that she faced him across the table she could not remember any of them. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she found it difficult to access enough air.

  “Marion, I have finally come to the conclusion that you will not give up on your quest for us to be together.”

  Even though he couldn’t see her, she raised her chin. “Yes. That is precisely true.” She placed her shaky hands over her stomach, still uncertain whether she should tell him of his pending fatherhood.

  “Very well. In that case, I will no longer attempt to chase you off, or leave myself.”

  A rush of pleasure washed over her. She’d won!

  “However, there is one caveat.”

  “What is that?” she asked warily.

  “We will not share a bed. I am adamant that I do not wish to father any children, and on that point I will not budge.”

  Oh good Lord. I am truly in a pickle now.

  Chapter Fifteen

  After a pleasant evening spent in the drawing room, Tristan escorted Marion up the stairs and stopped at the door to her bedchamber. “I have no idea what your room looks like—obviously—but if you desire to change anything, redecorate in any way, please feel free to make it as comfortable as you would like.”

  “Tristan. I understand you wish to refrain from intimacy, but cannot we at least sleep in the same bed?”

  “No.” His sharp tone jolted her. “Despite what you might believe, I desire you a great deal. And I am only human. If we are to continue with this marriage, you must obey me in this. There is no room for negotiation where children are concerned.”

  Marion released his arm, the blood leaving her face. Feeling herself sway, she grasped the door latch.

  “Are you all right?”

  It still unnerved her how much Tristan could sense without having his sight. “Yes, I am just fatigued from my journey.”

  “No doubt. Then I will bid you good night.” With a slight nod, he turned, Argos at his heels.

  Marion released the latch and entered the bleak room. Someone had at least lit a few lamps, and the fire in the grate helped a bit. But she had seen the space in daytime. If she must be relegated to sleep in here, redecorating was definitely needed.

  “My lady, are you ready for me?” Jane dragged Marion from her somber thoughts.

  Once the maid had assisted her into her nightgown, Marion sat on the chair in front of her vanity, viewing herself in the mirror as Jane brushed her hair. She already showed the strain of early pregnancy and her inability to enjoy the experience as well as share it with the father of her child. She ran her fingertips over the dark circles under her eyes. Both Penelope and Abigail glowed from impending motherhood. She, on the other hand, looked like a tired old woman.

  After Jane readied her for bed, Marion climbed onto the mattress with a copy of Miss Austen’s book. The novel remained unopened while she considered her dilemma. Here she was most likely several weeks pregnant and, not only could she not share the good news with her husband, it would be necessary to hide her condition.

  Hiding it from him, at least for a while, wouldn’t be too hard, but the day would arrive when it would become obvious to everyone in the house. Then what would she do? Despite what he’d said tonight, would he cast her out? Send her back to her family?

  At one time they’d spent hours talking about their future, the children they would have, the love they would share with them. Now it all seemed very unlikely. Not that she could do anything about her condition. She was pregnant and, unless something unforeseen happened, she would present her husband with a child in a little less than seven months.

  She pushed the book aside and slid farther under the covers. Resting her face on her folded hands, she star
ed at the faded wallpaper and considered the babe growing deep inside her. Would she be blessed with a son, or a daughter? Did she really care? No. If Tristan remained adamant about his intention to have a chaste marriage, this would be her only opportunity to be a mother.

  A constant thumping noise from the other room brought to mind Tristan’s punching bag, and how he’d looked the one time she’d spied on him. All golden muscle, sweat dripping from his hair as he’d pounded away. She clutched a pillow to her middle and groaned at the memory. If he insisted on them not sharing a bed, she might have to take up boxing herself.

  …

  Tristan’s arm shot out one last time and came into contact with the punching bag. He panted as he leaned over, his gloved hands resting on his knees. Sweat dripped from his soaked hair, landing like raindrops on the carpet. “It doesn’t help.”

  “I cannot imagine why you would think beating a cotton bag full of finely shredded wood clippings would take the place of a woman in your bed.”

  “You are impertinent,” Tristan gasped. “Pack your bags and be gone in the morning.”

  He could punch his fist through a wall right now and it wouldn’t help. Knowing Marion was mere steps from him, lying in bed, warm and soft, with skin like silk that he wanted to run his hands over…

  “Your bath has arrived, my lord.” Ellis moved in front of him and began to remove his boxing gloves. “Perhaps a good long soak will ease your…muscles.”

  “Be off with you. I will attend to my own bath.”

  Despite his directive, Ellis continued to strip him, mumbling just loud enough for Tristan to hear the valet’s observations about Tristan, his life, and his poor decisions.

  Once he was submerged in the warm water, he allowed himself the luxury—or torture—of thinking how wonderful it would be to leave the tub, dry himself off, and crawl into bed with Marion by his side. As much as he desired her and wanted to make love to her, right now just the comfort of her body alongside him would be enough.

  Enough to drive me out of my mind, that is.

  With her right next door once again, sleep would not be at all peaceful.

  The next morning, the scent of fresh-baked rolls and coffee, mixed with rosemary and chamomile, alerted him that Marion was already at breakfast, despite the early hour.

  “Good morning.” Her melodious voice brought sunshine into his darkened world.

  “Good morning to you, as well.” Quite familiar with the London townhouse due to his two year stay, he easily maneuvered his way around the table to fill his plate with eggs, kippers, and a roll. The servants always placed the food in the same place on the table.

  “Tristan, there are quite a few invitations here that have been arriving since your presence in Town was known.”

  Tristan snapped his serviette and placed it on his lap. “I generally have Landers decline them all. I do not wish to be a source of amusement and entertainment for bored members of the ton.”

  “That is a terrible attitude. Perhaps these people are extending invitations to parties and dinners to be sociable.”

  The wistfulness in her voice startled him. Comfortable being alone all the time, it had never occurred to him that Marion might wish for more social outlets. Drake had mentioned she’d spent two years in her rooms when she thought him dead. If he couldn’t give her what she wanted most—children—at least he could allow her some joy in her daily life.

  “Very well. You may select one or two gatherings, and I will escort you.”

  “Oh, thank you. I know just which two we shall attend.” He sensed her face light up with excitement, which only made him feel worse for having caused so much unhappiness in her life.

  “And which events will you insist on dragging me to?” He hoped the mirth in his voice hid the fear of being on display. Some members of the ton could be quite brutal in their cutting remarks. All that polish and good manners cloaked vicious intent. But, for Marion, he would accept it.

  “Lady Johnson is having a musicale this very evening, featuring her niece, Miss Shrimpton, who is quite talented, I understand. She plays the pianoforte and sings like an angel.” She paused for a moment. “At least that is what Lady Johnson says in her invitation.”

  “And the second one?”

  “Next Thursday, a dinner party at—”

  “No dinner parties.”

  “Why not?”

  “I prefer to eat in the privacy of my own home.” He laid his fork down and regarded her. “I know you need, and want, a social life, and I will try to accommodate you as well as I can. But there are some things I am just not comfortable doing. At least, not yet.”

  After a lengthy pause, she rested her palm on his hand. “I understand. And please forgive me for being so inconsiderate.”

  “Not inconsiderate, my dear. Just enthusiastic. Which is one of many traits I admire in you. Please don’t allow my grumpiness to interfere with that.” He linked their fingers together and gave her hand a slight squeeze. “I am trying, sweetheart. Truly, I am. But please don’t push me.”

  …

  Please don’t push me. Marion had no intention of pushing him. At least not when it came to social events. But her little secret was gnawing at her, keeping her tossing and turning at night. That and the thought of comforting arms only steps away from her.

  Give it time.

  Almost as if her mother were sitting right next to her, she heard those words. Tristan had already relented on keeping them apart. For now that would have to satisfy. The social engagements would be fun, but the big problem looming in the not-too-distant future was the one thing he’d been adamant about. She placed her hand over her thickening waist.

  No children.

  Several hours later, Jane smiled at Marion in the mirror, having just finished her hair. “My lady, you look splendid.” She’d done a remarkable job of pulling the mass of hair up into a topknot with a ribbon wound throughout. Several tendrils of curls hung down along her temples and the back of her neck.

  Marion wore a peach muslin gown with a bodice low enough to be interesting, but sufficiently modest to announce she was a happily married matron. A darker shade of peach grosgrain ribbon hugged the underside of her breasts.

  She stood and pulled on her gloves. “Jane, please fetch my white beaded reticule.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  Her heart beat with excitement. This would be the first time she and Tristan would appear in public together since before he left for his assignment at sea. She felt like a young miss at her come-out. Memories flowed over her of that special event. The night she had known Tristan was the one for her. With a sigh, she took one final glance in the mirror and set off to meet her husband.

  Marion joined him as he waited at the bottom of the stairs. “How I wish I could see how beautiful you look, my love,” Tristan said wistfully as he took her hands in his. “Tell me what you are wearing, so I can imagine it.”

  She described her gown and hair, watching Tristan smile and his eyes soften as she started at the top of her head and proceeded all the way to her dainty white slippers. The way he stared at her, his eyes unflinching, almost made it seemed as if he could actually see her.

  Tristan was well turned out in high fashion with a ruffled shirt, a white double-breasted embroidered waistcoat, and black satin breeches that clung to his muscular legs. Her gaze wandered down to his clocked stockings and highly polished shoes. His starched cravat had been tied in a jaunty style.

  “You will undoubtedly be the loveliest woman there.”

  His words snapped her out of admiration for her husband’s form. She turned to Carson to be helped into her pelisse and blushed at the knowing smile he cast at her.

  “Alas, Argos, I will not be able to take you with me.” Tristan chuckled as the animal let out a whimper and crumpled to the floor, his head on his paws.

  “Do you think Lady Johnson would allow Argos? He is a help to you.”

  “I don’t wish to call any more attention to
myself than necessary. I will be fine with my lovely escort and fashionable cane.”

  Taking a deep breath of the cold night air, she headed down the stairs to the carriage on Tristan’s arm. A bit surprised at his jovial mood, she pondered whether to share her news. She immediately disabused herself of that idea. There would be no better way to ruin the evening than to bring up that subject. Tonight was a night they would enjoy without strife or discord.

  They arrived at the Johnson townhouse rather quickly, since it was merely a few blocks away. Lady Johnson was a middle-aged widow with no children. Her niece, the said Miss Shrimpton, had been her companion for several years. Although not able to be classified as “pretty” the young woman had a passable visage, but was shy almost to the point of painfulness. Which made her performance for an audience tonight most unusual.

  “Lord and Lady Tunstall!” Their hostess cried out with such fervor that everyone in the room turned in their direction.

  “Good evening, Lady Johnson.” Marion curtsied. Tristan took the woman’s extended hand with ease, amazing Marion at his perception. Why he thought he needed to avoid society was a puzzle.

  “Thank you for having us tonight. We are so looking forward to hearing your niece perform.”

  The lady tittered—actually tittered—at Tristan’s words. Marion hid her smile as she turned toward the music room. Miss Shrimpton was already seated at the pianoforte, her eyes cast down, probably trying to avoid speaking to any of the guests.

  She and Tristan made their way to the music room where several rows of chairs had been placed. With very little help, Tristan maneuvered his way down an empty row and found seats for the two of them. They’d barely been settled when Lord Boniface slid in alongside Marion.

  The man’s reputation for dissipation was legendary. He was forever in dun territory, and his vowels were scattered all over London. He had attempted to gain her attention during her come-out year, but she’d been so smitten with Tristan she had never encouraged him.

  “It is so nice to see you out in society, Lady Tunstall. We have sorely missed you.”

  “Lord Boniface, a good evening to you.” She leaned back, a bit uncomfortable as he edged closer.