Chapter 5

5

Dougald had never been cruel before. He had been manipulative, unscrupulous, and thoughtless, but never had he taunted Hannah with the desperate events that had brought her to him. "My mother didn't sell me to you. She placed me with you. There is a distinction." Hannah took a breath, trying to ease the constriction in her chest. "I considered myself one of your philanthropic undertakings. You had so many."

He shrugged. He had never talked about the people he helped—the orphans he had placed with families, the women he had found jobs for, the men he had trained.

"Besides, what else was my mother to do?" Hannah's voice trembled as she remembered that dreadful time. "She was dying."

"Exactly. She did the best she could for you in the circumstances." He sat so still, watching her, weighing her reactions, seeing the sorrow the memory of her mother still brought her. "And you are wrong. She knew exactly what I wanted from you. She and Grandmama set it up between them."

She couldn't help but mock him. "But you, you poor little thing, didn't realize their plan."

"Indeed I did. They told me they had arranged a marriage for me with you. You were thirteen then, a pleasant child, handsome. Your mother was of good Lancastrian stock, and she assured us your father, also, had been healthy and of sound mind. Although the particulars of your birth were not savory, illegitimacy was not a great enough matter to disrupt our plans."

She had never heard the story of her betrothal. Not quite like this. Not explained so bluntly, so indifferently, without the patina of regard to ease the dose. "I still don't understand why an adult man would allow his grandmother to make a match for him."

"Arranged marriages are a tradition in the Pippard family. They are always successful." His mouth curled in self-derision. "Why should I have been any different?"

She knew it was stupid when she said it, but she had to. "Because people don't do that anymore."

"Nonsense, my dear, of course they do. You've been in society enough to know how ridiculous you sound. How young." He chuckled, a laugh rusty with disuse. "In some ways, at least, you haven't changed."

I have. She wanted to insist he acknowledge how much she had changed. But in this matter, at least, she still believed what he did not. "For a twenty-one-year-old man to agree to train and educate a thirteen-year-old girl for no other reason than to have a wife at hand when he chooses to wed—that is obscene."

He was still smiling, if you could call that arduous bend of the lips a smile.

"You must admit," he said, "that most marriages are forged of some ingredient other than mutual affection. Greed, usually, but occasionally expediency."

"Expediency would have been your motivation," she accused.

He tossed the accusation right back. "Yours, also. I doubt you would have enjoyed being thrown out in the street when your mother died."

"You and your grandmother were not the kind of people to pitch me out." Whatever Dougald and Mrs. Pippard had been or done, she knew that for certain. "But even if you were, I would have found a position somewhere doing something."

"You were always so convinced of your infallibility."

"Of my infallibility?" She was startled. "I don't think so. Of my competence, yes."

"Think about it. Think about it now, using what you've learned of the world. The best you could have done was become a maid, probably in the kitchen. You were pretty and refined. You wouldn't have been like the other maids, so they would have made fun of you. The men would have been after you. All the men, from the footmen to the master and his sons." His hard tone and rough-gravel voice could only come from a man repelled by the thought of such concupiscence. He pressed her for admission. "I saved you from all that."

"You're right, of course." She owned up to it freely. "So I thank you. But what you have never understood is that my gratitude to you for the education and the finishing school could have been repaid by the sweat of my brow, not with my body."

He stared at her body now, then flicked a glance at her expression of fierce intent. "You have never forgiven me for taking your virtue from you."

She hated that he talked about the day she had worked so hard to forget. "I was so young, Dougald, and you swept me away with your sweet words and your attentions." Your kisses.

"You had found out about the arrangement, and you were leaving me." His voice lowered to a whisper. "On the train. Remember the train…"

They were rumbling along, headed for Sankey viaduct, and she tilted the bottle of wine once more, tasting the flavors of grape and oak, thinking that Dougald hadn't had very much of it, she'd been so intent on filling her belly. But looking him over now, watching him munch his apple, she didn't think he appeared to be thirsty. In fact, he didn't appear to be missing anything; he was a good-looking man, tall, dark and handsome, and if a girl dreamed of a man, he would be the ideal man to dream of. But he was too old for her—what was he, twenty-six? And so damn complacent and self-assured. It was frustrating, that a man with so much presence, a man who could sweep any woman off her feet, should choose a girl that he did not have to exert himself with. Such a shame; it was probably a sign of some spiritual deficiency on his part.

"What kind of spiritual deficiency?" his warm, deep voice asked.

Hannah blinked. Had she spoken aloud? My heavens, she had had too much wine.

"Probably a little too much wine," he agreed. "What kind of spiritual deficiency do I suffer from?"

"Wanting to…marry someone without taking the energy to court her." His steady green gaze mesmerized her. "Why would you abandon the thrill of the chase?"

"I chased you, didn't I?" Dougald asked seriously.

"That's not the same, as you well know." She frowned. "I've watched you conduct business. You're an aggressive, arrogant competitor, and opposition whets your appetite."

He inhaled, expanding his chest fully. "You're opposing me. You've fulfilled my fantasy."

"Oh." Hannah swigged a drink from the bottle and passed it to Dougald. "Quite unintentionally, I assure you."

He stuffed the remnants of their lunch in the sack, closing that subject for the moment. Stretching hugely, he unbuttoned his shirt and rubbed his chest with the flat of his hand.

She covered her eyes with her hands. "Mr. Pippard. Please, this is improper!"

With a lazy purr, he said, "Surely not so improper between a man and his betrothed."

Dropping her hands, she glared at him. "Yes, it is, and you cannot make it the contrary by decreeing it so."

"You would be surprised what I can decree. Did you bring a blanket?"

"No, but I wish I had. At least then you could decently cover yourself."

"If I wanted to cover myself, I'd button my shirt again." Standing, he pulled his shirt out of his waist-band.

She wanted to cover her eyes again, but if she did there was no telling what he would dare remove next.

"I'm just looking for a pillow. Between the meal and the wine and the rocking of the train, I'm ready for my nap." He loosened the last of the buttons, walked over and collapsed in the loose pile of cotton. Propping his head on his rolled-up flannel shirt, he shuffled the cotton around to his satisfaction and closed his eyes. "As you keep pointing out to me, I'm not as young as you are."

"You're going to spill that wine if you're not careful."

Hannah blinked. The goblet in her hand was indeed tilting; hastily she righted it. She wished now she hadn't finished that wine. She wished she hadn't drunk at all. While she was at it, she should wish for a thousand pounds sterling and a pony of her own—and wish that Dougald didn't wear that knowing expression. Banishing her reminiscences, she pretended she thought of nothing but their discussion, abandoned for the Lord knows how long while she wandered the lanes of her memory. She groped for conversation, anything to take his attention away from her and her flushed complexion, and landed back at the Governess School. "These last three years have proved that I could be successful, so your concern for my youthful abilities is unnecessary."

"Success as an impostor is no success at all."

His charge took her aback. "What do you mean, an impostor? I'm not an impostor. I lived abroad and in London as a companion of Lady Temperly for six years. I was a good administrator and a good attendant, and it was as such I advertised myself and the school."

"You didn't use your own surname."

Indignation rose in her. "Illegitimate children don't have a surname. I didn't have one, as you very well know."

Briefly, the curtain of constraint lifted, and she got a glimpse of the snarling beast beneath his calm. "Yes, you did. I gave you my name when we married."

"I was grateful," she said tersely. She had been grateful. Her mother had called herself a widow, but always the truth followed them. Then Hannah would hear the taunts and the laughter. The gift of Dougald's name had been one of the blessings of their marriage—and the first chain she had thrown off when she escaped him.

"I didn't want gratitude, I wanted—" As his voice rose, he stopped himself.

But her voice picked up where his left off. "I know what you wanted. Undying love and devotion."

"I gave you much in return."

"When the thought of me intruded, then yes, you did. As long as I did as I was told, then yes, you did. As long as I didn't want too much or expect you to remember the promises you made that day when you convinced me that you loved me…then yes, you did."

In their raised tones, she heard the echoes of the past.

She thought, by the way he glared, that he did, too.

She had to master herself. If she did not, he would have the upper hand—as he had always had. Instead she had to show him her maturity, let him know he could no longer manipulate her by playing on her emotions. She'd learned how to curb her temper; dear Lady Temperly had instructed her, and she had refined her methods teaching the young ladies at the Governess School.

Hannah took several long, slow breaths, noting the faint odor of woodsmoke and the leathery scent of the chair. She allowed her gaze to roam about the drawing chamber, seeing the wide, black windows framed by heavy brocade curtains and the emerald brocade wallpaper, obviously new, that covered the upper walls. This room had been remodeled for a master's comfort.

She risked a glance at him.

A master who obviously knew what he wanted and how to get it. As she had been glancing around and separating herself from her anger, he had been observing her.

Had he once taken his gaze off of her since she entered the room? She thought not. So she must behave with sensibility and calm, for to be anything else would grant Dougald a victory. In a polite, even tone, she said, "If I had used your surname or my mother's surname, that would have made my departure a mockery. You would have found me at once."

"And saved us a damned lot of trouble."

"Saved you a damned lot of trouble," she retorted. "I didn't leave until…until our marriage had failed completely. Until I knew we had no chance."

His lips barely moved as he retorted, "We always had a chance."

"Nonsense." She kept her voice reasonable, pretending to herself she was explaining a sample situation to a particularly obtuse student. "You never listened to me. You patted me on the head and told me you knew best. I might as well have gone out and shouted my discontent to the wind."

"I adored you."

"I didn't want adoration, I wanted a life of purpose."

"Most women—"

Most women would be happy to be idle. How many times had she heard that before? She held up her hand to stop him. "Please. Not the same old argument."

Irritation flashed over his features. "I was going to say—most women would be happy to be idle, but I should have known that you would be different."

What did he mean? Was he saying he'd been wrong all those years ago? She glanced at him, but he sat there, austere and expressionless. If he had actually changed so much he could admit fault…She glanced at him again.

Now he was staring at her breasts with such a penetrating gaze they might have been bare, rather than wrapped in layers of clothing.

No, he hadn't changed. If he had actually changed so much he could admit fault, he did so to hide an ulterior motive. She had to remember who he was. She had to remember the hard lessons she had learned.

People didn't change.

And men were like people, only worse.

And Dougald…she chuckled softly. He was the preeminent man. Confident to his bones. Domineering because he was right. Raised by his grandmother and father to believe that the long line of their ancestors had been successful because they were inherently superior, and that Dougald was the ultimate result of all those generations of breeding. No woman had a chance against that kind of indoctrination. Certainly not a woman who did not know the truth surrounding her birth. Who even yet didn't know her father's family name. She would do well to remember that, and to ignore Dougald's broad shoulders.

So she began the flagging conversation once more. "Once, I had lived in the village of Setterington with my mother. A fair place it was, so I took that name as my own."

"You lived everywhere with your mother for a while." He was talking to her breasts as if they could hear. "Why not call yourself York, or Bristol, or East Little Teignmouth? Why Setterington?"

"I chose Setterington because I didn't think you knew about my time there."

"No." His fist tightened. "I didn't."

Hannah wondered if this new frankness between them would lead to a better understanding—or to violence. She didn't know this Dougald. In his face she sought some semblance of his former character, but this confrontation felt like the clash between interrogator and prisoner—and she knew very well which role Dougald fancied he played.

In as crisp as tone as she could manage, she said, "If you are done complaining, I would like to meet your aunt now—always supposing there really is an aunt."

"My dear Hannah, I would not lie to you about such a great thing." He allowed her to change the subject without objection. Of course. He would view her action as retreat. "Great-aunt, twice removed."

"I don't recall any mention of you having such a relative."

"Of course not. We are so distantly connected I had scarcely ever heard mention of her myself. But Aunt Spring has lived at Raeburn Castle all of her life." He sighed as if much put upon. "Gathering companions."

"Companions?" Hannah questioned. "I wasn't informed of any companions."

"Ladies of an elderly bent and interfering nature whom I have inherited along with the castle."

"Ah." She understood completely. If he wished to win the goodwill of the people on the estate, he couldn't fling an old woman from the only home she'd ever known; nor could he remove her friends.

Hannah looked him over, observing the lines of bitterness deeply engraved around his mouth, the severity he exuded. "I am to care for all of them?" she asked.

"Aunt Spring is the great-aunt. She suffers from moments of vagueness and is fond of rocks."

"Rocks?"

He didn't expatiate. "The other ladies are fine. More than fine. They are healthy with the exception of some hearing loss—that would be Miss Isabel, who owns a telescope and views the stars."

"Stars."

"Miss Ethel grows flowers."

"Growing flowers seems a more typical activity for an elderly lady."

"Typical." He seemed to consider the word, then shook his head. "I wouldn't expect typical. Miss Minnie takes a faint spell occasionally, and sketches. They all sew." He tapped his fingertips together. "You don't mind taking care of four such ladies, do you?"

What was she supposed to say? "Not at all."

"After all, the more work you're given, the happier you are."

Forgetting to be cautious of this new Dougald, she snapped, "Absolutely correct. Thank you for thinking of me."

One corner of his grim mouth lifted. She'd risen to the bait. He'd annoyed her; she had responded. If they were playing a game, he had won. If they were at war, then she had just handed him a weapon with which to wound her. She had to be more careful. She had to remember that, at this moment, he controlled her. Her comings and goings, her work and her leisure. He was the master, she the servant, at least until she had somehow worked out a way to escape him.

Escape Dougald…it seemed that with every encounter, she was trying to run away from him. Looking at him now, running away didn't seem like a bad idea.

Yet she held her cool composure like armor, and said, "It's good of you to hire someone to care for them."

She thought she annoyed him with her serenity, but before she could verify it his brief flash of irritation disappeared.

"It's not good of me at all," he said. "They are four eccentric women who have been making trouble ever since I arrived. I want them contained."

"Trouble?" Hannah searched her mind. "There was no mention of trouble in your letter…but then, there wouldn't be, would there?"

"The last main earl—the one who managed to survive for thirty-odd years—was Aunt Spring's brother, and he allowed her to take in any stray she wished. Once the number had reached overwhelming proportions, they were ungovernable."

Hannah scarcely contained a grin to see him so disarmed. "I thought there were only four of them."

With excruciating leisure, Dougald stood. "Do you find me laughable?"

Humor faded, and she found herself rising to her feet to face him. "Not laughable, but you speak of these ladies as if they were a battering ram and you a long-suffering portal."

For the first time since Dougald had turned from the window to face her, she was no longer fearing him, wondering about him, glaring at him; indeed, she feared she bathed him with a look too fond, for he was not mocking or glaring.

Oh, no. It was much worse than that.

He stared at her as if she were an unsuspecting fawn and he a ravaging wolf. Had he followed her into her mind and joined her in her memories? Or had he remembered other times, passionate times? Times when they had joined together despite the fights and the unhappiness, because their bodies demanded and they had no choice but to obey?

If he knew about the Distinguished Academy of Governesses, he knew at least of the tribulations and challenges she'd faced. He knew she was strong and tough, that she wasn't the innocent he had come so close to destroying before.

Only…only the way he looked at her had nothing to do with business, or the years they had been apart, or the changes in their bodies and their minds. He looked and she was bathed in pure, animal heat. He projected a package filled with memories…her faint moans, his desperate passion, their two bodies nude on a bed, on a table…on the train. Whatever trouble they'd had between them never mattered when they held each other in their arms.

Then his eyelids drooped, hiding his thoughts. Gracefully he slithered back into his chair, and in a voice rife with boredom, he said, "Of course you will care for the aunts. You didn't dream I brought you here to act as my wife—in any capacity?"

Blackguard. Knave, rascal, devil.

How dare he dismiss her imaginings when he'd led her to think exactly that? He had baited her, dangling memories before her, leading her where he wished. Proving she still wanted him.

With an aggression that was perhaps ill-advised, but necessary, she said, "You will not divorce me."

"No. I will not be the first to bring such a disgrace on the Pippard family."

"So what recourse do I have?"

"I think you know the answer to that." His fingers stroked the smooth, carved wood of his chair arm. "We can go on as we have. I will never tell anyone who you are and I will never be able to remarry. I will be the last of the Pippards and the title of earl of Raeburn will pass to yet another branch of the family." He paused, waiting for comment.

She knew very well he would not willingly suffer such consequences. "What other options?"

His voice, deep and sweet as syrup, warmed her as he suggested, "We can reconcile."

She took a quick, shallow breath, and she found herself looking everywhere but at him.

"Or we have a third option."

A third option? She could think of no third option. "What is it?"

"Everyone already thinks my wife is dead. So I could kill you."