Regency Surrender: Passion And Rebellion. Louise Allen

Only the fact that she’d just discovered she no longer wanted a room of her own. That she’d be content to live entirely in one room, and cook for him, and do his laundry, and, yes, even wash his dishes without a word of complaint, if only she could be sure she mattered to him. Even half as much as his sister did.

      In spite of her determination to avoid the humiliation of bursting into tears, she felt her lower lip start to tremble.

      ‘Wrong?’ She managed to produce a laugh and a toss of her head. ‘What could possibly be wrong?’

      He eyed her up and down dubiously.

      ‘I don’t know. But I’d have to be blind not to see that something is wrong. You look, ah...’

      Suddenly, she became conscious of the frayed hem of her gown and the patches on her petticoat.

      ‘In need of sprucing up?’

      Suddenly, it seemed much easier to let him think he’d offended her with the criticism of her clothing, than to admit she’d breached the terms of their agreement. Temper he would understand. But love? No—to speak of love, when he’d warned her it was the last thing he wanted, would only serve to make her seem utterly ridiculous in his eyes.

      ‘Yes,’ she therefore said as waspishly as she could manage. ‘You’ve made your point. Don’t worry. I will find a dressmaker locally and smarten myself up so that I don’t offend your neighbours with my shabby clothing.’

      ‘Look here—I didn’t mean to offend you—’

      ‘You didn’t!’ And wasn’t that the truth? But by flinging her head high, and letting some of her hurt flash from her eyes, she could give him the impression that he had.

      ‘Mary...’ He came towards her, hands outstretched, an apologetic expression on his face.

      She backed away hastily. For once she let him take her in his arms, she wouldn’t be able to hold herself together any longer. She’d break down and sob into his chest. Like the idiot she was. And, being the man he was, he wouldn’t rest until he’d winkled the truth from her.

      And then her humiliation would be complete.

      ‘That’s far enough,’ she snapped, holding up her hand to halt him. ‘I am not in the mood for...for...’

      Actually, that was true, too. She most certainly wasn’t in the mood for the decorous brand of lovemaking that only went on behind closed doors, not any longer. Not when she knew he was capable of so much more.

      Not when she wanted so much more.

      His face closed up.

      ‘Forgive me,’ he said, looking very far from apologetic any longer. ‘I have no wish to annoy you. So I’ll take myself off.’ He turned on his heel and stalked to the door. ‘Goodnight,’ he tossed over his shoulder as he went out.

      The moment the door snicked shut, her legs gave out, her resolve gave out and the tears flooded out.

      How could he just turn and walk away, without making even a token protest? Even a few days ago, he would have done his utmost to cajole her into bed.

      But then how could she have hoped to hold his interest? She just wasn’t an interesting person. She was a mouse, that was all. That was why he’d picked her. Because there wasn’t the slightest risk he would ever feel anything for such a creature.

      She wasn’t anything special, even if he had made her feel as though she was, for those few, heady days. Of course he’d enjoyed the adventure of the situation. Of foraging for themselves, and letting go of all the restraints society imposed on men and women. It was nothing to do with being stranded, alone, with her.

      The only reason she’d had his undivided attention, when they’d first arrived, was because there wasn’t anyone else there.

      * * *

      For the whole of the following week, every time he knocked at her bedroom door and she turned him away, she told herself she was doing the right thing to make a stand. Not letting him walk all over her and treat her like some plaything he could pick up, or set down, as the whim took him.

      Yes—she had the satisfaction of sending him away looking disgruntled. But it was a bittersweet kind of satisfaction. She’d much rather he put up more of a protest. Instead, the way he simply turned and walked away convinced her he just wasn’t interested any more, and that the only reason he did persist in coming to her room was because he wanted an heir. It was the second most important reason he’d given for marrying her.

      Every day, she grew more and more unhappy, as he made it perfectly plain in dozens of little ways that he didn’t return a tithe of her feelings.

      He was out practically all day, for one thing, galloping all over the countryside with his intrepid sister. They came back full of stories about the people they’d met and the feats they’d performed, all couched in a kind of jargon that was well-nigh incomprehensible to her.

      Not that either of them was unkind to her. They just made her feel like the odd one out, so alike were they. It wasn’t just in their looks. They were both happiest outdoors, on horseback, wearing clothes that didn’t fetter their movements.

      Whereas she didn’t like going outside at all in winter. Having known what it was to fear being homeless, she relished being able to sit indoors in front of a blazing fire.

      She didn’t even need to go into the village to visit a dressmaker. After consulting Mrs Brownlow about who might be suitable, the housekeeper sent for a local woman, who brought fabric samples and pattern books to Mayfield.

      The only time Mary left the house was to attend church on Sundays. People flocked round, after the service, for introductions, but Julia was so much more lively that they invariably ended up talking to her, rather than Mary. Especially since they remembered Julia from when she’d been a little girl. Anyway, Mary felt downright uncomfortable when people curtsied to her and called her my lady, when she still felt like an impostor, so tended to hang back, behind her husband and his sister, and let them bear the brunt of local curiosity.

      Apart from Sundays, each day fell into the same dreary pattern. She’d drag herself out of bed after hearing her husband and his sister go out and go down to the deserted dining room to eat breakfast alone. She’d listen to Mrs Brownlow’s suggestions for meals, have a fitting, or try on a new outfit, then sit in front of a fire, toasting her toes and wishing she could be content with her new, lazy, luxurious lifestyle.

      She could have spent ten times the amount of money she’d laid out on her new clothes and didn’t think her husband would have flinched. Julia was even starting to return her tentative smiles, once she’d realised Mary had no intention of trying to change a single thing about her. She’d even confided, one evening at supper, when Mary had put on the first of her new gowns, that a lot of the trouble with Lady Peverell had stemmed from her attempts to turn Julia into one of those fashionably demure girls who would have done her credit in a ballroom.

      Lord Havelock had laughed. ‘You’re a hoyden, Ju. A regular out-and-outer. You’d cause havoc in a ballroom.’

      He’d had a sort of fond twinkle in his eye as he said it that showed he was proud of his sister just as she was.

      And Mary’s spirits sank even lower. She’d never cause havoc in a ballroom. Why, the first night they’d met, he’d had to virtually drag her out from behind that potted palm.

      No wonder he’d thought she was a mouse.

      And still did. Because she was acting like one. Putting up with the way he and his sister overlooked her. Putting up with his coolness towards her in the bedroom, too.

      What had happened to her determination to make a stand? To her wistful yearning to have some of Julia’s spirit? Hadn’t she decided, the day Julia arrived, that she ought to cease being the kind of woman who let others post her round the country like a parcel?

      Spending the days waiting for her husband to come home, only to endure