Secrets of the Heart. Candace Camp

left the inn and rode silently back to Westhampton, Rachel riding on her father’s horse behind him. On Friday, as scheduled, she became Lady Westhampton.

      

      They had been married for seven years now, and she had never been truly his wife.

      Michael had still hoped—foolishly, he soon found—that somehow, someday, Rachel would grow to love him, or at least to like him well enough that her innate desire for a normal life, with intimacy and children, would lead her to ease into a true marriage with him. He had reassured her, of course, the afternoon before their wedding, that he would not press her or expect a physical relationship with her, knowing her feelings. But inside, he had still believed that in time, with care and consideration on his part, she would change in her regard for him.

      But over the years, their relationship had scarcely changed. They had begun their marriage in a careful, polite way, and they had continued that way. Hurt and still somewhat stunned, not wanting to rush her and cause her any pain, Michael had been scrupulously courteous and restrained with Rachel. They had spent their honeymoon in Paris, once again open to the English now that the war with Napoleon was over. Their rooms had been separate, joined by a door in the common wall that was never opened. They went to operas and plays, and to a ball at the British ambassador’s.

      They returned home to London, to a life that was much the same. Rachel made her cautious entry into the life of a Society matron, starting with small card parties and dinners, and growing to a spectacular ball by the end of her first Season. Michael helped her through the sometimes treacherous shoals of a Society life, and she responded with gratitude and, he thought, a certain degree of liking. But there was always between them a certain awkwardness, a formality. Though they learned sundry small facts about one another, they remained, on an important level, strangers. It seemed as though the more awkward he felt, the more polite and restrained he grew, and Rachel responded in kind, until at last he realized in despair that there would never be any love between them. He did not know if Rachel still loved Anthony Birkshaw. He would not have dreamed of violating her privacy by asking her; he knew only that she had not seen the man again after they had wed, for that was the only stipulation he had made regarding their marriage. But whether she loved Birkshaw or not, it was clear to Michael that she did not love him.

      After a year of marriage, he decided that it was worse to live with Rachel, loving her, wanting her, and receiving no love or desire in return, than it was to live without her. Their parting, as in all things, was polite, even amicable. He reminded her of his liking for the country and quiet calm, but assured her that he had no intention of making her suffer a country existence. She could remain in London, living the life she enjoyed, while he would retire to the estate in the Lake District. There had been in him, he thought, some small, lingering hope that she would protest that she did not want to live alone in London, that she would go with him, or that they must split their time between the two homes. But she did not. She merely agreed, polite and passionless.

      That had been a lonely, bitter trip north for him, and an even harder winter in the snowy landscape of Cumbria. There was all the beauty he had always loved; there were his books, his studies, repairs to the house and gardens, experiments to try in the fields, letters to write and read—in short, all the things that had made up his life before Rachel. But none of them satisfied.

      But so it had been for over five years now. He and Rachel lived separate lives. He visited London sometimes during the Season, just to make an appearance; she returned to Westhampton for Christmas. They were married. And they weren’t. He had grown accustomed to it, if not reconciled.

      There was a discreet tap at the door; then his valet opened it and carried in the tray containing his breakfast. He set the tray on the small table in front of the pair of chairs in the sitting area of the bedroom, then proceeded to pour Michael’s tea and remove the covers of the dishes.

      “Good morning, my lord,” the valet said politely. Garson was a person of rigid ideas concerning etiquette, and he was careful never to cross the line into friendliness with his employer, despite the fact that he had been Michael’s valet for almost fifteen years.

      He bustled about the room, opening the drapes and letting in the morning glow, then paused beside Michael’s chair, waiting until Michael had taken several sips of tea. Michael looked up at him inquiringly.

      “You had something to say to me?”

      Garson folded his hands prissily at his waist. “There is a person who arrived here this morning. A groom, I believe, from Lord Ravenscar’s estate. He left there yesterday morning, as I understand, and rode straight through.”

      “Lord Ravenscar!” Michael set the cup of tea down with a clank and jumped to his feet. “Why? Is something wrong? Did something happen to Lady Westhampton?”

      “He said that all was fine, my lord, or I would have delivered the note he carried to you immediately.” With this, he produced a small note from his pocket.

      Michael snatched the missive from his valet’s hands. “Good God, man, why didn’t you?”

      Garson looked pained. “I thought to give you a moment to take your tea first, my lord.”

      Michael grimaced. He broke the seal, unfolded the letter and began to read Rachel’s familiar hand. A moment later an oath burst from him, then he sat back down in his seat and read through the note again. “Bloody hell!”

      Garson had remained in the room, ostensibly laying out Michael’s clothes for the day, but in reality waiting, Michael knew, to find out why Lady Westhampton had sent a letter winging swiftly back to the house she had just left. He paused now beside Michael’s chair. When Michael said nothing, he prompted, “Everything is all right, I trust, with her ladyship?”

      Michael tapped an irritated tattoo on the arm of his chair. “No,” he snapped. “Everything is most definitely not all right.” He paused, then added, “Pack my bags, Garson. We will be joining Lady Westhampton at Darkwater.”

      5

      Rachel glanced across the sitting room to where Jessica stood looking down at the bit of knitting in Miranda’s hands. Jessica pressed her lips together, then pursed them.

      Miranda looked up at her and sighed. “Oh, go ahead and laugh. I know it looks absurd.”

      “No, it—” Jessica glanced at Miranda, and a laugh escaped her lips. “Actually, you’re right. It does look absurd. Whatever did you do?”

      “I haven’t the faintest idea,” Miranda confessed, chuckling, too. “Obviously my education was sadly neglected. I cannot do any of these things that you and Rachel do so easily.”

      “Ah, but I cannot shoot a gun,” Rachel pointed out with a smile at her sister-in-law.

      Miranda, the daughter of an American who had grown wealthy in the fur trade, had been raised in a manner almost inconceivable to Rachel. She had accompanied her father on fur-buying trips to the wilds, where she had met Indians and trappers, and learned not only how to shoot but also how to use a knife to advantage. As her father’s business had grown, she had moved naturally into it, keeping track of his accounts and investing his money in real estate in the raw, burgeoning city of New York, so that his fortune—and her own—doubled and even tripled. Although Rachel had quickly come to love her sister-in-law dearly—not the least because she had brought Dev back from the edge of ruining his life—there were times when Miranda’s bustling energy left her feeling rather breathless and inadequate.

      “That’s true,” Miranda agreed, but added, “However, that is hardly a useful skill when one is trying to prepare for the arrival of a baby. Right now, a blanket would be more practical.” She looked over a trifle wistfully at the soft pale-yellow blanket that lay on Jessica’s chair. “How did you learn to knit so well?”

      “Actually, my father’s batman taught me,” Jessica, the daughter of a soldier, replied with a small laugh. “He was quite good at darning, mending, and knitting socks. “But fine sewing was not his forte. That is why, while I will knit you oodles of little caps and