Secrets of the Heart. Candace Camp

and it would cause little problem if he happened to stay away at least part of the spring and summer. The reason he would not stay the Season was because he preferred to be alone on his estate. He had lived with her the first year of their marriage—for appearance’ sake, she presumed—then after that he had retired to Westhampton, visiting her in London only rarely. He had told her that it would be “easier.” Easier, she supposed, for him not to be reminded of her treachery each day by the mere fact of seeing her. Easier not to have to keep up the pretense of civility towards her. It surprised her sometimes that the thought still had the power to hurt her.

      Miranda tugged at the bellpull. “I shall tell the servants to make up your roo—” She stopped abruptly, frowning. “I’m sorry. Your customary bedchamber is one of the ones that we are currently renovating….”

      Since Miranda and Dev had married, they had been restoring Darkwater piece by piece, beginning with the most desperate areas—the roofs and chimneys and worm-eaten wooden banisters and railings. The more cosmetic changes of painting and papering walls, replacing drapes and threadbare rugs, had followed as soon as the structures of the rooms were made sound. As a result, there had not been a time in the past seven months when there was not hammering or sawing or painting going on in some room or other. Miranda had put on a push to be finished with the family area of sleeping and sitting rooms before the arrival of her baby, knowing full well the value of peace reigning where the baby was, while the noisy construction was relegated to the other wings of the house.

      As a result, all the guest rooms besides the ones currently occupied by Rachel and the duke and duchess were unusable, including the one in which Michael usually stayed when he happened to visit Darkwater.

      Miranda cast an anxious look first toward Rachel, then back to Michael. She was aware, as they all were, that Rachel and Michael did not have the same sort of warm, intimate marriage that she and Devin did—or Jessica and Richard had, for that matter. Rachel had told her long ago that hers was not a love match, that she and Lord Westhampton “lived apart.” She also knew that when Michael and Rachel both stayed here, Michael slept in a separate room. However, that was a fairly common arrangement among the aristocracy, and it did not necessarily signify that the couple were not intimate.

      Typically, if rooms were short, one would expect to put a husband and wife in a room together. But Rachel’s was not a typical marriage. Though they had not, of course, ever actually discussed the matter, Miranda suspected that Rachel and Michael had never actually shared a bed. It made for an awkward situation, and it would be embarassing to even discuss the matter. To make some special arrangement for Michael would highlight the oddity of their marriage, which Michael and Rachel tried to keep normal in appearance. Yet it would create an uncomfortable situation for the couple if she simply stuck him in Rachel’s room.

      For a long moment, silence hung in the air, then Michael said easily, “Well, of course I would not trouble you for the luxury of a separate chamber in such a situation. Just tell the footman to put my bags in Rachel’s room.”

      “Of course.”

      “You would no doubt like to wash up after your journey,” Rachel said quickly, hating the red tint that she knew had washed up her neck into her face. “I will take you up to our room.”

      She slipped out of the room, avoiding looking at anyone, and Michael followed her. She did not look at him, either, as they crossed the entryway and began to climb the stairs. There was no need, of course, for her to show him where her room lay; he knew it well enough after all these years. But Rachel had had to get away from the eyes of the other couples. Her family knew, of course, the state of her marriage, at least in general terms, but it was embarassing to have everyone be reminded of it.

      “Don’t worry,” Michael said in a low voice beside her. “It will be easy enough to have one of the servants set up a camp bed in your dressing room for me. It is ample in size, as I remember.”

      “Yes, of course,” Rachel replied. Suddenly she felt foolish for having offered to show him the room. Of course he knew the way—did he think she had done it because she wanted to protest his sleeping in the same room with her?

      They continued up the stairs to the hall above. Rachel tried to think of something to say to break the silence. She wanted to tell him she was glad that he had come to Darkwater, but she could not think of the proper way to phrase it. “I—um, it was very kind of you to go to the trouble of journeying here. There was no need, I’m sure.”

      “Perhaps not,” he agreed with a formality to equal her own. “However, one can scarcely take the chance. A pretty coward I would look to let my wife travel on to London alone after such an event.”

      Of course. Appearances. That was all that mattered in their marriage.

      She nodded her head and walked down the hall to her room. “Well…” she said, opening the door and taking a step inside. “Here it is.”

      She glanced around the room, her gaze falling on the wide, high-testered bed on which she had slept all her life. She felt the treacherous blush returning to her cheeks. She thought about having to get ready for bed tonight in the same room with him. He had never seen her in anything less than her dressing gown; they had never shared a room, even sleeping in different beds. She wondered exactly how they would handle this.

      “Well,” she said again, glancing at Michael and away. “I, um, I guess you would like a chance to freshen up a bit.”

      Even this situation was awkward, she realized. He would doubtless like to wash off the dust of the road, and of course he would have to change for supper.

      “I shall leave you alone,” she went on quickly, flashing a brittle smile. “I, um, I’ll go tell Gabriela you are here. She will be quite pleased to hear it.”

      She backed out of the door and quickly closed it behind her.

      For a moment she stood in the hall. How had her marriage become what it had? But even as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer: she had done it. The cold, loveless state of their marriage was entirely her fault.

      She had not loved Michael when they became engaged, but he had loved her, and he was a kind and patient man. Looking back on it, she thought that perhaps with time they might have found their way to at least a satisfactory relationship.

      But before it even began, she had ruined everything….

      

      Three days before Rachel’s wedding, her mother took her aside and explained in vague terms what to expect on her wedding night. Rachel was shocked and even frightened. It was somewhat difficult to understand exactly what would transpire, because her mother’s speech was so roundabout and couched in euphemisms, but Rachel came away with the impression that it was distinctly immodest and unpleasant, and Lady Ravenscar’s frequent, faint assurances that “the pain does not last long” filled her with dread.

      She spent much of the next day worrying about her mother’s warnings. To make matters even worse, when she walked into the drawing room that afternoon, she found Anthony Birkshaw sitting there talking to two of Michael’s cousins. She had not seen him for four months, and the sight of him now jarred her. She had almost forgotten how handsome he was and how his thick dark hair curled upon his forehead. The smile that broke across his face when she entered the room was like a blow to her heart. In a rush, all the feelings she had had for him came back to her, and she wanted to giggle, to cry, to throw her arms around him and to run from the room, all at once. It took all her strength to greet him with some semblance of normalcy.

      They said almost nothing to each other after that, but when Anthony rose to politely take his leave, he murmured as he bent over her hand, “Meet me tonight at the bottom of the garden. Ten o’clock.”

      Rachel did not reply. Indeed, she did not intend to meet him. However much the sight of him had shaken her, however forcefully she had been reminded of the love she held for him, she knew that it would be foolish even to speak to him, let alone meet him in the dark of the garden. However much she loved him, she was honor bound now to Michael.

      But