Secrets of the Heart

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 then, that evening, Michael unexpectedly kissed her, and his kiss was deep and hungry, completely unlike the gentle, patient Michael she was used to. She had felt the twist of something dark and unknown deep within her abdomen, something almost more frightening than the sudden strong grip of Michael’s arms around her, pinning her to him. She was thrown into a panic—a panic that sent her slipping down through the garden to meet Anthony a few minutes later.

Anthony was there waiting for her, and as she hurried toward him, her heart swelled with love. Even after this time, despite all the discouragement her family had given him, he had not given up on her! He had come at the very end, like a knight in a story, to rescue her.

He turned and saw her, and he came to her, pulling her into his arms. He cradled her against him, his head against hers, murmuring, “Rachel, my love…my love. I was so scared you would not come—that they had turned you against me.”

“Never!” she cried in a low, choked voice, stepping back and looking up at him. In that moment she was sure that what she said was true: she would love him forever; nothing could ever make her stop loving Anthony. She would be married, tied for life to a man she did not love, her heart all the while aching with the sorrow she felt right now. “I will always love you.”

“Then marry me.”

“What? I cannot!” She looked up at him, horrified. “I am promised to Lord Westhampton.”

“You do not love him!” His voice throbbed with emotion. “You love me. You cannot marry him.”

“But Father would never—”

“He doesn’t need to know,” Anthony argued. “Come with me now. We will ride to Gretna Green and be married. Then you will be my wife, and your father will have no power over you. I will deal with him if he comes after us. And you and I will be together for the rest of our lives.”

“But the money—”

“I don’t give a damn about the money! Not as long as we are together. What is money compared to our happiness? Would you rather live in this huge cold mansion without love, or with me in a cozy little cottage?”

“With you! You know I want to be with you!”

“Then what does wealth matter? I will work. Lord Muggeridge told me only last week that he needed an aide. I know he would hire me. There is no shame in honest work.”

“Of course not.”

“And knowing that I would be coming home at night to you would make it all worthwhile.” His dark eyes shone down at her with love.

Rachel gazed back at him, her heart filled with emotion. She ignored the small cold voice of practicality, listening only to the pounding of her heart, seeing only the sweet love that shone in Anthony’s eyes. It was nothing like the fierce fire that had leaped to life in Michael’s gaze that evening. Anthony was sure and safe, and the warm, pure glow she felt when she looked into his face was nothing like that breathless twist of sensation that had curled through her when Michael kissed her. Love was what was important, she reminded herself. She was not the mercenary sort who would marry for money.

She thought of making that long walk down the church aisle, everyone watching her, giving her entire life over to a man whom she did not love, a man who was little more than a stranger to her. “But everyone is expecting me to—”

“Damn what they expect of you!” Anthony rejoined. “What is important is what you expect of you. You are too fine a lady, too gentle and good, to marry for money! Please…I cannot stand by and let you give yourself to a man who—”

“No, you are right. I cannot do it!” Rachel cried, panicky at the thought.

“Then come with me. We shall be happier than you could ever be immured in some castle married to a man you barely know, no matter what his title. Give yourself over to love.”

For a moment Rachel hesitated. Then she flung herself into his arms. “Yes!” she cried, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from her. “Yes! I will go with you.”

He put her up on his horse behind him, and together they rode through the night. She was blissfully happy at first, clinging to Anthony’s strong back and thinking only of the joy that awaited her. It wasn’t until she stood in the courtyard of the inn in the village, waiting while Anthony tried to arrange for a post chaise for them, that reality began to sink in. She felt like a criminal, lurking out there in the dark because it would be too scandalous to let anyone see her, and the feeling tainted her joy.

They had to continue on his horse, for the inn had had no carriage to lease, and it was slow going with the double load. As they rode, she thought about what she had done and what would happen the next morning when Michael and her family discovered that she was gone. It occurred to her that she had not even left them a note. Would they think that something had happened to her? Be frightened and set out on search parties?

Her guilt and unease grew, until by the time they stopped at the inn in the next village, she was beginning to realize the enormity of what she had done. She sat huddled in the private dining room, chilled through and through from the night air and numbly tired, while Anthony tried to convince the innkeeper to have a post chaise prepared for them. She could see in the innkeeper’s eyes his doubts about Anthony’s story, as well as her propriety, and she realized how she must look to him—how she would look to everyone. She wanted to cry; she wanted to turn and flee back to Westhampton.