make any choice, she’s so locked up with fear inside.”
Gareth did not wish to feel one iota of sympathy for Antonia—and he very much suspected he knew the cause of her tears. It was shame, and something a good deal worse—outright bigotry. He thrust his finger at the door. “Get out, madam,” he said quietly. “Perhaps I cannot fire you, but I can bloody well have you thrown out of my house.”
“Aye, that you can do,” she agreed. “But if I go, she’ll go, for she don’t know what else to do, sir. And I think you don’t want that—do you? No, don’t answer me. Time will tell it, one way or t’other.”
Gareth balled his fists at his sides. Damn her. Damn her. He’d never had an employee he couldn’t dismiss on the spot—and he’d cheerfully let a few go, too. But he really didn’t know if the insolent hag was paid out of the duchess’s funds or his. Worse, she was right on the second point, too, damn her to hell.
“Get out.” His voice was quiet with fury. “Just get out, Waters, and never let me lay eyes on you again.”
With one last cutting glance, the woman left.
Antonia dragged herself up off the bed and dashed a hand beneath her eyes. For once Nellie had surprised her by doing as she’d asked and left her alone with her misery. At last Antonia had cried herself out. Her sobs had stilled, and now she was merely sniveling. That, apparently, was how she measured progress nowadays.
Dear God, what had she been thinking to lie to the duke? And she had lied; both of them had known it. But after years of being told what she should think and how she should feel, and how so much of what she believed and felt was just the result of her overwrought imagination, it had seemed so easy to simply…well, to imagine nothing had happened. To pretend that she had not made a moon-calf fool of herself, throwing herself at a man she did not know. A man who, in no small part, held her future in his hands.
In truth, there was much she did not remember, though it happened far less often than it once had. Certainly she did not remember getting out of bed, or going up onto the rampart in the rain. Indeed, she was not sure how she’d managed to get the heavy wooden door open, much less end up in the duke’s arms. Dr. Osborne called it sleepwalking, but most doctors had been less charitable.
The physician whose services her father had retained had termed it acute female hysteria. Antonia had been kept under lock and key in his isolated country house in the months after her first husband, Eric, had had his accident; a house so deep in the vales that no one heard her screams. The doctor’s treatment had consisted of a regimen of ice baths, physical restraints, purges, and druginduced stupors, most of which had been administered by a brutal staff. One soon learned not to cry or to show distress of any sort. One learned to be numb.
Antonia’s reward for her good behavior had been the Duke of Warneham, who had needed another pretty young wife—this time one who’d been proven to be fertile. But Antonia had possessed yet another desirable trait: she’d come unencumbered by another man’s children. A history of madness, Warneham had apparently decided, had been no great obstacle. His new duchess had needed to do only one thing with competence. Otherwise, she could have locked herself in the chapel to pray and to mourn until hell froze over.
Antonia set her palms against her feverish cheeks. What had she been thinking? To jeopardize this, the only sanctuary she had ever known? Warneham had been a selfish, soulless man; a man obsessed by the notion of revenge, but he had given her this. A place of peace. A home where, though the servants might whisper behind her back, they at least showed a modicum of respect to her face. And while she had not wanted his children, she would have borne them had God willed it.
But God had not willed it. Now the thing which her husband had most dreaded had happened.
Gareth did not wish to feel one iota of sympathy for Antonia—and he very much suspected he knew the cause of her tears. It was shame, and something a good deal worse—outright bigotry. He thrust his finger at the door. “Get out, madam,” he said quietly. “Perhaps I cannot fire you, but I can bloody well have you thrown out of my house.”
“Aye, that you can do,” she agreed. “But if I go, she’ll go, for she don’t know what else to do, sir. And I think you don’t want that—do you? No, don’t answer me. Time will tell it, one way or t’other.”
Gareth balled his fists at his sides. Damn her. Damn her. He’d never had an employee he couldn’t dismiss on the spot—and he’d cheerfully let a few go, too. But he really didn’t know if the insolent hag was paid out of the duchess’s funds or his. Worse, she was right on the second point, too, damn her to hell.
“Get out.” His voice was quiet with fury. “Just get out, Waters, and never let me lay eyes on you again.”
With one last cutting glance, the woman left.
Antonia dragged herself up off the bed and dashed a hand beneath her eyes. For once Nellie had surprised her by doing as she’d asked and left her alone with her misery. At last Antonia had cried herself out. Her sobs had stilled, and now she was merely sniveling. That, apparently, was how she measured progress nowadays.
Dear God, what had she been thinking to lie to the duke? And she had lied; both of them had known it. But after years of being told what she should think and how she should feel, and how so much of what she believed and felt was just the result of her overwrought imagination, it had seemed so easy to simply…well, to imagine nothing had happened. To pretend that she had not made a moon-calf fool of herself, throwing herself at a man she did not know. A man who, in no small part, held her future in his hands.
In truth, there was much she did not remember, though it happened far less often than it once had. Certainly she did not remember getting out of bed, or going up onto the rampart in the rain. Indeed, she was not sure how she’d managed to get the heavy wooden door open, much less end up in the duke’s arms. Dr. Osborne called it sleepwalking, but most doctors had been less charitable.
The physician whose services her father had retained had termed it acute female hysteria. Antonia had been kept under lock and key in his isolated country house in the months after her first husband, Eric, had had his accident; a house so deep in the vales that no one heard her screams. The doctor’s treatment had consisted of a regimen of ice baths, physical restraints, purges, and druginduced stupors, most of which had been administered by a brutal staff. One soon learned not to cry or to show distress of any sort. One learned to be numb.
Antonia’s reward for her good behavior had been the Duke of Warneham, who had needed another pretty young wife—this time one who’d been proven to be fertile. But Antonia had possessed yet another desirable trait: she’d come unencumbered by another man’s children. A history of madness, Warneham had apparently decided, had been no great obstacle. His new duchess had needed to do only one thing with competence. Otherwise, she could have locked herself in the chapel to pray and to mourn until hell froze over.
Antonia set her palms against her feverish cheeks. What had she been thinking? To jeopardize this, the only sanctuary she had ever known? Warneham had been a selfish, soulless man; a man obsessed by the notion of revenge, but he had given her this. A place of peace. A home where, though the servants might whisper behind her back, they at least showed a modicum of respect to her face. And while she had not wanted his children, she would have borne them had God willed it.
But God had not willed it. Now the thing which her husband had most dreaded had happened.
Similar Books
