Regency Society. Ann Lethbridge

over her assertions of barrenness and all that such a state implied.

      Barren with her late husband, but not with him? He counted the time in his head since Maldon.

      A few weeks past three months! Enough time for a child to swell and the morning sickness to come. How the hell could she not know that when even his limited knowledge of childbirth encompassed such information?

      The answer came easily. She had been a barren wife for all of the time she had been married, so why should the question of being otherwise occur to her now?

      He felt a growing sense of worry after yesterday’s accident and knew that he could not just leave Beatrice in London. No, Falder represented the only chance of safety and sanctuary and perhaps there they could fashion a plan for the future. He kicked his leg against a chair that had been left out from under his armoire and swore soundly.

      Blindness.

      Barrenness.

      Beatrice’s oft-stated penchant for independence and his own adherence to autonomy.

      But a child changed everything. Everything! When the clock on the mantel chimed eleven he summoned men to bring down his luggage and walked out to the carriage.

      She was ready, but she did not seem pleased. Indeed, when he took her arm to help her she snatched it away as soon as she was sitting in the carriage and placed a small bag in the space on the seat between them. Like a barrier! He could feel the leather when he brushed it with his hand.

      Bates came with two maids. Both addressed him in greeting, and a new sense of quiet tension filled the space.

      ‘It should take us about three hours to arrive at Falder. There will be food and drink supplied to you on arrival there.’

      He spoke to all those present in the carriage though no one responded.

      ‘The journey will take us east through Wickford and Raleigh.’

      Still the silence was absolute.

      Taris Wellingham was trying to make her feel better with his small talk, but Beatrice did not feel even remotely in the mood for chatter.

      His orders from the morning still rankled, as did the way he made no mention of what had happened last night. A man who would take a relationship only up to a certain point, the control men valued more important than truth.

      The truth of being together and intimate, nothing held back at all.

      She ground her teeth and tightly clasped her hands together, the vestige of nausea still dogging her and the lack of sleep she had suffered last night making her feel heavy and cross. When tears pricked at the back of her eyes she willed them away by taking a deep breath. Perhaps if she tried to sleep the journey would go more quickly. Ramrod stiff and upright, she closed her eyes.

      Her cheek was against a hard pillow, but the soft feel of an arm holding her close made her snuggle deeper, reaching for the comfort so thoughtfully provided.

      ‘Taris,’ she whispered, thinking that the night was still before them and they had all the time in the world.

      ‘We are almost at Falder, Mrs Bassingstoke. Perhaps now would be a good time to wake up?’

       Mrs Bassingstoke? Falder? Wake up?

      Horror hit her as she opened her eyes and realised the extent of her contact.

      She was literally draped across him, her hand resting in his lap and her head on his chest. My God, had she snored, had she talked in her sleep, had her fingers crept where her dreams had lingered? Instantly she pulled away.

      ‘I cannot believe that I fell asleep. I rarely do so in any conveyance, my lord.’

      ‘Perhaps you slumbered fitfully last night?’ he questioned, and she heard the humour of complicity in his words.

      Ignoring it, she made much of smoothing out the creases in her skirt. ‘How long was I asleep?’

      ‘All of three hours. Enough rest to improve anyone’s temper, I should imagine.’

      She smiled despite the rebuke, for she did feel immeasurably better and far more able to cope. Her hat had all but been dislodged and she leant forwards whilst Sarah fashioned it into place, glad for the small interruption, though the interest in her maid’s eyes was unwelcome.

      ‘Falder should be coming into view in the next few minutes.’ Taris Wellingham’s voice interrupted her ministrations. ‘If you look to your right, you will be able see the sea off Fleetness Point. The finger of land jutting out into the ocean is Return Home Bay.’

      He did not look himself, she noticed. Memory was as potent a force as any sight and the land of your birth would be an easy recall. Still, she thought, as the peninsula he spoke of came into view, he had an uncanny ability to place himself in the landscape he was in and as her maids craned their necks to look she could not help but admire such a characteristic.

      The castle was huge and rambling with turrets and gables and it dominated the grassland around it. The Wellingham family seat for centuries. She imagined what it must be like to belong to a place where your ancestors had roamed and where the family still gathered for the celebrations and tribulations thrown at them.

      Taris. Emerald. Asher. Their children. Lucinda. The Dowager Duchess. What must it be like to be a part of a group of people who would see to your back and protect you for ever?

      She bit down on the poignant memory of her own parents’ deaths and the aloneness felt since. No one had ever looked out for her. If they had, then perhaps…? Shaking away memories, she concentrated on the moment.

      A large group of servants were waiting as they pulled up into the circular drive, white pebbles clattering beneath the wheels of the carriage. She saw how Taris clasped his ebony cane and placed his fist against the handle, a habit she supposed of realising the exact moment when they stopped and when the door might open.

      Always in control. Always cognisant of the slightest change in circumstance so that he would not be surprised.

      The old man who opened the carriage door looked delighted by Taris Wellingham’s arrival.

      ‘Master Taris.’

      ‘Thompson.’ Instant recognition and his hand thrust forward. ‘I trust you are faring well up here.’

      ‘Better than in the city, my lord.’

      ‘And your wife, Margaret. Is she keeping well?’

      ‘Indeed, my lord. I will tell her that you asked after her.’

      Another man strode up to join them and the same sort of conversation ensued. Taris Wellingham was a lord who would take the time to know old retainers on a familiar basis. Frankwell had never made an effort to learn the name of even one servant and consequently there was a never-ending stream of them through the house. Another thought occurred to her. Perhaps the ploy had been deliberate on his part to keep her isolated from any friendships? Loyal servants might have bolstered her revolt and led her to believe the fault did not lie entirely within her.

      How naïve and stupid she once had been. That was the worst of it. The knowledge that a man had kept her so trapped and down-trodden made her feel diminished and guilty. A woman with a secret of shame.

      Following Taris down the line of servants, she was surprised when he stopped and brought her to his side to make introductions to the housekeeper and the head butler. This was what a husband might do when first bringing a wife to his family domain, and she was hardly that. The strangeness of it all was confusing and she was glad when they walked up the front steps and came inside.

      The entrance hall was beautiful. A wide staircase wound its way from the ground to the first and second floors, the banisters of old polished oak. Off the hall to all sides were numerous doors.

      When one opened suddenly she saw an old woman sitting in a wheelchair, a blanket across her knees and a very fine gold-and-ruby necklace resting in the folds of her heavy