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Dara submitted to the humiliation of the servants escorting her to her bedroom, having anything of pleasure removed from the chamber. The tearstained Estelle, quietly begging forgiveness, stripped off Dara’s gown and took away her saddlebag of clothes.
“So sorry, so sorry,” Estelle repeated.
From that moment, dressed only in a shift, Dara also assumed that he meant to visit her forthwith and claim her, perhaps with violence. But to her surprise he came not the first night, nor the next. He remained only her husband in name.
At four o’clock on the fourth day of her isolation, she was summoned to the library and he asked her again—where had she been for three months. With whom had she been? The same questions asked over and over. His anger had not abated. She was numb to it now.
She said nothing. The shame of walking through the house in the skimpy gown was as abominable as being locked in her room.
He sighed heavily. “I should send you back to your family.”
The numbness swiftly changed to sheer panic. “Please, you cannot. They will throw me out if I have sullied the family’s good name.”
“And you think keeping silent is not the same for me?”
She hung her head. “I cannot say where I have been, my lord.”
“Then what solution do you offer?”
She played a different tack to previous meetings. She had to know if he intended to force himself upon her or not. The wait was cr
ippling her nerves. “I only ask that you bed me. I wait for you, and you still do not come to my room.”
“I see.” He frowned, creasing his tanned face. Wherever he had spent the summer, the sun had shone brilliantly. “I do not understand you, Dara. You run off, will not say where, leaving me to assume you have been with another man, but then plead with me to consummate our marriage? Would you not prefer an annulment?”
Under any other circumstances, she would say yes. But the scandal of both annulment and the possibility of carrying another man’s child would bring her nothing but shame. Her parents would not send her a penny and Coleman might simply forgo anonymity and decide to reveal her name for further humiliation. As for Matthew, having witnessed his mother’s treatment at the hands of her own family, he would not countenance Dara’s reputation being dragged through the mud, and he would expect her to respect her vows. He also remained determined to protect his mother’s secret life. Both brothers had many traits in common—stubborn, controlling, and stern in manner, while at the same time, dignified and strangely honourable in their own ways. The likeness of personality was more obvious than in the faces, which was subtle and unlikely to be noticed.
She sank to her knees. “Please, my lord. I do not expect you to love me, or even care for me, but should not a man claim his wife to be wholly his?”
He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Your humility is beguiling. Where have you been, Dara? Tell me.”
“I will not tell you, sir.”
He thumped the desk. “Damn it, girl. Don’t you understand I must have authority in this house? I must know what you have done that warrants such secrecy.” He rubbed his fingers along his brow. “Of course, I could bring a doctor to your room and have him divulge the state of your maidenhood—”
“No, please, my lord, do not,” she said swiftly.
He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “That really frightens you, doesn’t it?”
“Just take me, as roughly as you like. You can tie me down and—”
“Good grief. I am not going to force myself upon you. What kind of education did you have? Were you tormented with stories of hell? Damnation,” he said with gloomy irony. “This was not what I had planned. I wanted to give you time to adjust to marriage, to living here while I travel. Then, when I came to you... well... as I said, it need not be a matter of love, only duty, which we are both agreed upon.”
“Yes. Duty.”
“Very well, return to your room and I shall come to you hence.”
She rose onto wobbly feet and stumbled out of the room, tears falling down her cheeks. Locked inside the room by a pale-faced Paul, she flung herself on the bed and wept. Tonight, she would betray Matthew. He knew it would happen, there was little he could do to prevent it, but still she would hate every second. As for the deflowering, she had to make Henry believe she was a virgin. When he entered her, she would scream as if breached and hopefully, he would see that as sufficient evidence.
She lay on the bed, as she had done so many months ago on her very first night in the house, and waited. Presently, after the sun had set, the key turned in the lock and Henry entered.
He wore breeches and a shirt, his necktie was gone. He paced the floor in circles. The light from the handful of candles created shadows that danced around the walls. Dara remained stiff and racked with guilt. She hated herself more than Lord Coleman. He was only performing his duties, as she requested, and the demands for her to explain her absence from the house were not surprising or even unfair. He had every right to her, and what little she understood of the law was that only prolonged mistreatment would justify her deserting him.
Eventually, he came to a halt at the foot of the bed, and pre-empting his request, she shifted her legs apart and lifted her gown above her knees. She stopped there, her hands shaking too much for her to move them again.
Why was he not upon her, kissing her, touching her? Should he not lust for her?
“Dammit,” he cried out in anger, and moved not toward her, but away.
