Regency Collection 2013 Part 1. Louise Allen

of manual work.

      ‘I never received your letters, as I have just been telling you,’ Max said evenly.

      ‘You must have done,’ Drusilla retorted. ‘I do not believe you. But that is in the past now. I knew I could not trust you to help me, I was resolved not to live on your money, so I went back to my parents.’ She turned to face Bree, the light from the window highlighting the dreadful mask of her face. ‘The Countess of Penrith earned her living serving behind the counter in an apothecary’s shop, a pretty tale, is it not?’

      Bree could not answer the bitterness directly. She could not believe Max would lie, and yet, why would he not receive letters? Mail to peers of the realm did not go astray, and more than one letter had seemed impossible. Unless Drusilla was lying. Unless Drusilla was not who she claimed.

      ‘I suppose,’ she said, directly to Max, ‘that you are entirely satisfied that this is your wife?’

      ‘Oh!’ The other woman gave a strangled sob, and buried her face in her handkerchief.

      ‘That hair, those eyes, her voice—all as I recall from that very first meeting,’ Max said, his gaze on the bowed black head. ‘And she knows things that only my wife would know.’

      Drusilla raised her face from the handkerchief revealing a tear-streaked visage. Bree felt a pang of guilt at doing this, but it was her life, her happiness, her lover, all were being snatched from her.

      ‘I know about a certain ornament on his body,’ Drusilla said viciously, then, as Bree felt her face colour, added, ‘and so do you, I see, so that does not convince you it requires marriage to become that intimate with Max. Do you want me to tell him, in front of you, where we first made love, what he said to me? I can describe the nightgown I wore on our wedding night, I can tell you about the boathouse on the lake at Longwater and one endless night—’

      ‘Enough,’ Max snapped, his tone the first clue that he was as close to losing control as Bree felt herself to be. ‘I believe you. Bree, we must accept it, I am married.’

      ‘You sound as though you wish I were dead,’ Drusilla said.

      ‘I stood at your graveside,’ Max retorted. ‘How do you think I feel? Whose grave was it in truth?’

      ‘My sister’s. We all caught the smallpox, they died, all three of them. I do not know how I survived. I wish I had not! The register was not made up properly. I went to look. There were so many people dying in that outbreak, it was no surprise. I was about to tell the verger, then I saw my own face reflected in a glass and I could not bear it. I was alive—now I had the chance to vanish altogether.’

      ‘I am sorry,’ Bree said shakily. ‘I do not wish to add to your troubles with my own … feelings.’

      The other woman turned her head away, apparently overcome again, this time by the sympathy in Bree’s voice. In cruel contrast to her face, her nape was as white, tender and unscathed as her hands. The black glossy tendrils of her hair curled in stark contrast to the flawless skin.

      ‘How have you lived since then?’ Max asked, his voice softer.

      ‘I sold the shop and I went to Portsmouth. I make my living as a milliner.’

      ‘And what now?’ Bree asked. ‘What do you want now? To return to your husband?’ Husband, husband, if I say it enough I will come to accept it.

      ‘No!’ Drusilla’s response was instant. ‘Never. I do not trust him now he knows I am alive.’

      ‘For God’s sake!’ Max sprang to his feet. ‘Do you fear that I will murder you? Of all the outrageous, unfounded—’

      ‘You abandoned me before. I almost died.’

      ‘How was I to know? I never had your letters.’ He turned on his heel and strode to the window, his back to them. Bree could almost feel the tension in him as he strove for control. ‘What do you want?’

      ‘A little house somewhere I can live retired. Enough money for comfort. Is that so much to ask? There is a cottage ornée in the park at Longwater that would do very well.’

      ‘Is that before or after the divorce?’ Max asked quietly.

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      ‘Divorce?’ Bree’s eyes flew to his face. ‘No, Max, you cannot! Not, not when she has been so … ill.’

      ‘My wife left me after only days of marriage to live as another man’s concubine. She took my money, made every attempt to cover up her whereabouts until now when she can be assured of my very close attention to her demands.’ He spun round to face Bree, his face dark with anger. ‘She puts that look on your face, that hurt in your eyes, and you tell me to be kind to her?’

      ‘Max, I cannot marry you. And I do not believe you really could bring yourself to obtain a divorce. I love you,’ she burst out. ‘And I know the man I love is not someone who could do that to a woman he once loved. Imagine the scandal, the talk. She cannot defend herself, not now.’ She found she was on her feet, uncaring that Drusilla was sitting feet away. ‘I love you, and I am right, am I not?’

      ‘I love you too.’ Max reached out for her and drew her into his arms. ‘I love you, I would die for you, and, yes, you are right. I cannot divorce her.’

      Bree let herself stand within the circle of his embrace for a long moment, then slowly drew away. That was the last time, the last embrace. At least she had the satisfaction that they were doing the right thing. That seemed a hollow consolation.

      ‘What now?’ she asked Drusilla when she had control of her voice again. ‘Where will you go while things are being arranged? To the town house with Lord Penrith?’

      ‘No! I have told you, I will not stay with him, not in the same house.’

      Max looked so furious that Bree spoke before he could let rip with what he was so obviously feeling. ‘Stay here.’

       ‘What!’

      ‘But, Max, what else can we do? She will not go to you, she can hardly stay in a hotel with one tiny bag and no maid and you cannot send her on to Longwater until you have warned the Dowager and arranged for the cottage. This is the most discreet way.’

      ‘So you house my wife while we set about cancelling our wedding?’

      ‘I suppose so.’ Bree shrugged resignedly. ‘Max, unless you and Drusilla want to talk further today, I suggest I show her to her room and she can rest until dinner. I would be grateful if you could call tomorrow morning and we can discuss what to do about cancelling the preparations for the wedding when we are both a little calmer.’

      ‘Very well.’ His eyes were troubled, but he managed a smile for her, the tenderness in the curve of his lips, a caress. ‘I will call at ten. Goodbye, Drusilla.’

      His wife turned a shoulder on him, he shrugged and went out leaving Bree staring at her unwelcome houseguest. Drusilla looked up at her suddenly. ‘Do you hate me? You must wish I was dead. Do you really love him? You can’t, can you, not a pompous aristocrat like him?’

      ‘Pompous? Max?’ Bree stared at her. ‘He is anything but that, and, yes, I do love him. I do not hate you and I do not wish you were dead—I just wish you had never met him, that is all. But you did. And I do not understand how you can misjudge him so.’

      ‘You wanted to marry him—have you met that old dragon of a grandmother?’

      ‘No, not yet.’ Bree went to the door, anxious to get Drusilla upstairs before she vented the whole of her pent-up feelings.

      ‘She’s worse than he is. Must do this, must do that. Talk like this, pay attention to that. It was like being at school. Dr … dreadful.’

      That wasn’t what you were about to say. ‘Come upstairs and rest,’ Bree said firmly, to disguise her own puzzlement.