Page 22 of The Broken Marchioness (Lords of Inconvenience #3)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“N o!” the word escaped Frederica in an explosion. She thrust both palms into Lord Wetherington’s chest, and in his surprise, he released her, falling into the shallows of the water on his rear.

Such rage emanated off him that Frederica scrambled up the bank to be rid of him.

“I would never do that. I couldn’t betray Allan in that way, and the mere thought of being intimate with you makes me sick,” she spat at him over her shoulder. “I came to you to tell you to stop, not to give you the chance to bully me into your bed.”

She was halfway back across the path when he caught up with her, his clothes now completely sodden after his fall in the water.

“You want to refuse me?” he said, his voice dangerous in its seething quietness.

“Take the hint, My Lord,” she said angrily. “I’ve been refusing you ever since you came into my life. Would you at last just accept defeat and go away!”

He advanced toward her. She reached out at branches behind her, taking hold of them in the trees, ready to use them to defend herself in any way she could think of though he pushed them aside as if they were nothing to him.

“He cannot love you,” he hissed.

“He cares for me,” she insisted, thinking of the way he had kissed her.

“You can’t know it.”

“I do know it. I know it with all my heart, and even if he did not, I’d rather stay married to a friend than go anywhere near you.” She gestured toward him.

“You don’t mean that. Who in this world doesn’t want to marry for love, Frederica?” He moved toward her, and she took off in the other direction, walking purposefully back down the path. She was intent on making it back to the carriage, now, escaping as quickly as possible. “Everyone does, you want it as I do.”

He caught her wrist though she flung it out of his grasp. “Don’t you want to feel loved?”

“Not by you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“What is wrong with your intelligence?” she rounded on him, losing patience entirely. “Can you not hear properly? I want nothing to do with you. Leave me be. I do not want to be loved by you. The only thing I ever want from you is silence.”

He looked like a kicked puppy in that moment, his expression so hurt that it alarmed her. She took advantage of his sudden sadness, trying to walk away from him again.

Any pity she might have felt for that expression was quickly drowned when she felt his hand take hold of the back of her skirt.

“Release me!” she demanded as she was flung back into his chest. He pressed his head close into the curve of her neck though she fought him constantly, pushing him off her. “Do not touch me again.” She stamped down on his foot, forcing him to let go.

“If you do not give me what I want, you both shall pay for this,” he called to her.

She burst onto another path, certain now that she was lost. She doubled back in the other direction, surprising Lord Wetherington so much at one point that he jumped out of her way before he realized his missed opportunity and raced after her again.

“Do you hear me, Frederica? Be my mistress —”

“Never.”

“Then you and your husband will pay.”

“You will never touch him.” At a turning in the path, she turned to face him again, now recalling where she was. “If you so much as touch him, I know to tell the constables exactly who did it. Crimes are taken very seriously in this country, MyLord. You’d find yourself in Newgate within a day.”

“You are imagining a man who is subject to the law.” He smiled, a malicious smile that made her quiver. “There are men who know how to bend the laws, to get around them, to obtain what they want.” His eyes shot down at her again.

She stumbled away, now so frightened that she couldn’t summon any more words. She turned and sprinted down the path, heading back toward the carriage. Bursting out of the gate, she hastened to the carriage where Trevor was waiting for her, standing in the rain. He had the door open for her within a second.

“My Lady—” Yet any enquiry of concern he may have tried to make was silenced by Lord Wetherington’s appearance.

“Time to go,” Frederica called to the driver and Trevor, who both nodded.

“Frederica!” Lord Wetherington hissed. He reached the carriage door shortly after Trevor had flung it shut. He tried his best to open it again, but the carriage was now pulling forward.

“Faster,” Trevor yelled at the driver who flicked the reins harder.

“You will pay for this,” Lord Wetherington called, now running alongside the carriage in order to keep up with it, but he was falling behind in the rain. “Your husband will not live long if this is how you treat me!”

Thunder rolled at the same time as his words. Frederica flattened herself to the carriage bench, uncertain she had heard him right because of that thunder. It was possible that Trevor and the driver may have heard it too.

Wishing to believe it had been in her imagination and that he hadn’t threatened Allan’s life, she buried her face in her hands.

This was not how it was supposed to go. I wanted to be free of him today.

Yet she had made it worse. As the carriage raced on at a quick pace through the wet streets of London, she knew something with complete conviction.

In her mind’s eyes, she saw the kiss she and Alan shared, and she saw the way he had caught her the first night they had met again. How he had protected her, how he had made his vows to her in church, and how he had kissed her hand.

“I can’t let anything happen to him,” she said aloud, the misery overtaking her. She had to protect him, even if that meant sacrificing herself.

* * *

Allan sat in the darkness in the parlor, drinking heavily though he knew it was unwise. The carafe was open next to him, the brandy glass spent from the three brandies he had already downed. His tailcoat was slung somewhere in the room along with his cravat that he had torn off after the dinner that Frederica did not arrive in time for.

He stared through the open doorway of the parlor toward the entrance hall, knowing that when Frederica returned, he would be the one to greet her. He had rather eagerly asked the butler and housekeeper to retire for the night as he did not need an audience for this next part.

Eventually, after he had poured his fourth glass of brandy, he heard the carriage return. Horses neighed, clearly unhappy to have worked for so long through such humid and wet conditions. The driver and footman called to one another as they took the carriage back to the stables then at last, there was a click at the door.

Frederica put her key in the lock and turned it, entering the house.

From his position, Allan cocked his head, watching her. She was sodden to the bone, her gown so drenched it was as if she had fallen in water because of the rain. She sighed as she stood in the hallway, unaware he was watching her.

Abruptly, he turned in his seat and took hold of a tinder box, lighting the candle beside him. The sound alerted her to his presence, and she turned to face him, her eyes wide as if she was a deer standing at the end of musket fire.

“Allan?”

“You’ve been gone for hours. Do you know, I really was thinking you weren’t going to come home again.”

“The ride was long. The rain didn’t help.” She gestured to the window as she walked into the room. Her attempt at nonchalance failed miserably.

Slowly, he shook his head, and she let her hand fall at her side.

“Are you having an affair?” he asked, thinking of the letter that had arrived.

“No!” she said sharply at once, such pain in her face that he nodded. She was not lying. He could tell.

“Thank God,” he said, reaching for his glass and taking another sip.

“How many of these have you had?” she asked, turning to take hold of the carafe.

“A fair few,” he answered, brushing aside her concern. “I needed something soothing for the soul.”

She sighed, gripping the carafe tight and closing her eyes.

“I’m causing you such pain.”

He didn’t seek to challenge her, for how could he? He was in pain. The pain was from the fact that she wanted nothing to do with this marriage when all he wanted to do was make her happy.

He took another sip of his brandy, staring up at her.

“Where have you been?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Of course, you can’t,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “I should have been able to pre-empt that answer for you.”

“It would only hurt you more to know.”

“That is hardly a comfort, is it?” he said, reaching for the carafe, but she put it far out of his reach.

“We need to talk,” she said softly. He let his hand fall limp. No conversation which started in this way could lead to anything good.

He looked up at her, waiting to begin, but she seemed in no hurry to do so. She rubbed a hand over her face, releasing a shuddery breath.

“You’re frightened of something,” he surmised.

“I am,” she agreed. “You can tell that even in your drunken state?”

“I’m not that bad,” he lied, for he was hardly eager to stand up at the moment. He hadn’t eaten well at dinner, so his legs felt hollow with the alcohol having done its work very quickly indeed. “What has frightened you?”

Her lips parted. For one moment, he thought she was going to answer him then she appeared to change her mind and closed her lips firmly. She retreated from him, perhaps not physically, but he had done this with her enough times over the last few weeks to discern that mentally, she was pulling back from the openness of this conversation.

“There’s something I need to say to you,” she whispered. “I fear you will not like it, but I need you to trust me when I say it is for the best.”

“You ask me to trust you?” he murmured in amazement. “My wife has just spent half the day God knows where. She’s late back and won’t tell me where she has been. You think it easy to trust the word of that wife now?”

“I know, Allan. I know it’s mad to ask for trust, but I need you to believe that what I am about to ask for is for the best.”

“Then what is it? What do you want to ask for?” he said haphazardly, waving his hand toward her, wishing she would just get on with it and tell him what she had to say.

He eyed her carefully as she raised her hand and laid it over her chest, perhaps once more trying to calm her erratic heartbeat. His heart was certainly pounding now as he considered the way she glanced at the door then looked back at him.

She wanted to escape though perhaps this time, that escape was not so temporary.

“Don’t say it,” he said, realizing all too late what she wanted to ask of him. “Please, don’t ask me for that.”

“It’s for the best,” she urged again, her voice light and mild.

“No, no, it’s not.”

“Allan, I want an annulment.”