Chapter Eleven

"Your Grace, Lord Terrence is—" Carlton began, poised on the threshold of Malcom's study. The butler's announcement was rudely interrupted when Terrence himself appeared from the hall behind him and, without invitation, strode into the room. He was nattily attired, as usual.

"No need to stand on formality, Carlton, old fellow. I'm expected," he drawled, crossing the rug and throwing himself into his favorite easy chair by the hearth. "But I'll have a brandy if you would be so good," he added.

Carlton glanced at Malcom, who was sitting at his desk, surrounded by piles of correspondence. He gave the butler a resigned nod and held up two fingers, indicating he too would have a brandy.

"Certainly, Your Grace, My Lord." Carlton promptly poured them both a drink and served it to them on the low table that stood between them before the fireplace.

Malcom took a much-needed sip of the golden liquor. A taxing evening of social interaction loomed ahead, and fortification was required if he was to get through it.

Terrence picked up his glass and raised it in the butler's direction. "Cheers, Carlton. You're a good fellow," he said before drinking to the butler's health.

"My pleasure, My Lord," the inscrutable butler told him with a small bow.

"Will that be all, Your Grace?" he asked Malcom.

"For the moment, Carlton, thank you," Malcom replied with a nod.

"Very good, Your Grace." With a smart bow, Carlton left the room, closing the door behind him.

Immediately, Malcom felt his cousin's eyes scrutinizing him over the rim of his glass.

"Glad to see me?" Terrence asked.

"Not really. You invited yourself, remember. I can't help thinking, going on your past form, that you are going to be troublesome," Malcom replied, although it was not strictly true that he was not pleased to see his cousin, his only friend. Of course he was. But being alone with Terrence was far different than spending it with Cassandra and him at the same time.

"I thank you for your warm greeting, Cousin. You have a knack for making people feel welcome." Terrence replied, shooting Malcom a crooked smile. He paused, his eyes still riveted on Malcom, who tried to avoid meeting them. "So?" Terrence said, raising his dark brows questioningly.

"So what?" Malcom countered, knowing exactly what his cousin was asking but refusing to give in easily to the inevitable interrogation.

"Oh, don't try to appear obtuse, Malcom. It doesn't suit you. But if you insist on being difficult, let me make it easier for you: So . . . how is married life treating you?"

"Did Madeleine send you to quiz me?" Malcom asked, deflecting the question as long as he could. He was scrambling for a way to answer that would not alert Terrence to the uncomfortable status quo that currently existed between Cassandra and him.

"No, she did not, although I told her I was coming to check up on you," Terrence freely admitted, raising his glass to his lips and sipping his brandy.

Malcom bridled, glaring at his cousin. "Check up on me?"

"Of course. The suspicion was that, knowing your temper, you might have eaten the poor girl by now. Or locked her in an attic room. Mind you, I would have put money on you boring her to death first."

"For God's sake, Terrence, at least make an effort to act sane, will you?" Malcom replied, finding Terrence's jibes irritating in this case, though he was used to them. "I may have my faults, but I do not make a habit of eating women."

"Well, we only have your assurance on that. By the way, don't think I haven't noticed that you still have not answered my question."

Malcom sighed, feeling trapped. The fleeting thought occurred to him that unburdening himself might be a good thing. "Oh, very well. Married life is . . . satisfactory." It was the best he could do.

"Satisfactory? Is that it? Good Lord, man, you sound as though you're reading from a school report," Terrence remonstrated, shaking his head in disbelief.

"What do you want me to say?" Malcom shrugged irritably.

"I don't know, but not that! Maybe something along the lines of, ‘Married life is wonderful,' or ‘we are blissfully happy,' or ‘my darling wife lights up my life.' And the Lord knows, your life needed lighting up," he added more darkly. He looked around the study, gesturing with his glass. "Nothing has changed in here, I see. I'm guessing you've been locking yourself away in your little bolt hole as usual." His keen eyes turned on Malcom again, making him feel very uncomfortable, especially when Terrence added drily, "I suspect you're still keeping little wife at bay, eh?"

Malcom could not outright deny it. He sighed and finally voiced his thoughts. "It is hard to make the transition from being a bachelor to suddenly being . . . married, from no choice of my own. I didn't ask for it, and I resent it. I'm not used to having someone else in the house, making demands on my time. I'm not finding it easy."

"Ah, now we are getting closer to the truth. What demands on your time has your wife made so far? I require specific examples."

"Um," Malcom murmured, wracking his brains, unable to name a single occasion when Cassandra had directly asked him for anything. "I can no longer dine alone in my study. I must dine with her each evening, which means dressing for dinner and making ridiculous small talk about the weather, and so on."

"I see. And do you spend time together after dinner? Play a hand of vingt-et-un perhaps?" his cousin inquired, draining his brandy glass and setting it on the table.

Malcom shook his head. "No, we go our separate ways," he said, aware it was not an answer Terrence would approve of.

"Do you take breakfast or luncheon together? Have you given her a tour of the house, or taken her out riding to show her the estate? Have you taken her to visit the neighbours perchance?"

Malcom just stopped himself from openly grimacing from the guilt that suddenly washed over him.

"Oh, Lord, Malcom," Terrence sighed. "You need not bother to answer me. It's obvious things are just as I feared. You have stuck to your old habits and made hardly any concessions to being wed at all. You are not making an effort to spend time with her at all, are you? You are ignoring her needs entirely and are, in fact, avoiding her."

"I told you, we dine together each evening," Malcom defended himself weakly. He knew he should tell Terrence about the music room incident and how it had affected him but was having trouble overcoming the lump that had suddenly lodged in his throat.

Terrence sat forward in his chair, his hands clasped between his knees. His usually genial expression had turned deadly serious. Malcom's heart sank, knowing what was coming.

"Malcom, please believe me when I tell you that I am speaking from my heart on this because I care about your happiness, as your cousin and your friend. It's clear to me that you are very unhappy and that things between you and your wife are far from ‘satisfactory,'" Terrence intoned. "Obviously, you are still intent on punishing the poor woman for, as you put it, "stealing your life."

Anger rushed through Malcom then, banishing all other emotions. "And why should I not feel that way? She has ruined my life!" he exclaimed. "On a thoughtless, childish whim of hers, I have been unfairly ensnared, and now you expect me to do . . . what exactly? Welcome her with open arms? I-I cannot do it."

"Malcom, listen to me now. I know what you think you have lost—"

"Yes, my freedom!"

"If your idea of freedom is spending your time hiding from everyone, lonely, miserable," Terrence, said.

"I was not miserable."

"Then why is it that you have lost all your former friends? You, who used to be such a merry fellow about town? Why will nobody but me and Maddy put up with your morose, reclusive ways? The facts speak for themselves, Cousin. You have driven everyone but us away because you insist on cutting yourself off from the outside world, indulging in the luxury of punishing yourself over and over because of what happened with—"

Pushed almost beyond endurance, Malcom held up a hand and croaked out, "Do not say it."

"All right. I won't, but you and I know perfectly what I am talking about. You tell me you had this ‘freedom' you feel you have been cheated of by this marriage. I say you have been miserable for the last six years. You are deluded if you believe you were free. You were in a self-imposed prison. You may throw me out for saying this, but it could be called a form of extreme self-pity."

"What! You dare to put my grief down to shallow self-pity?" Malcom exploded, furious.

"If the cap fits, then wear it," Terrence replied laconically, getting up to go and pour himself another drink, taking both of their glasses.

"Why, I should throw you out!" Malcom growled, flexing his hands into fists.

"Feel free. It's your tomb, sorry, I mean, your house. The thing is, Malcom, though what has happened is far from ideal —in an ideal world you would have met a young lady and fallen in love with her naturally. Even with your walled-in heart, there was always a chance that some woman would finally be able to break through, that you would find happiness under your own steam. But, don't you see, in your effort to punish yourself for your so-called crimes, you fixed things so finding that woman was almost impossible. You simply stopped going out and meeting people. Admit it, you were caught in a vicious circle of your own making, a self-fulfilling prophecy of deserved doom."

Terrence came back and placed the fresh brandy before Malcom before sitting down again. He snatched up the glass and drank deeply from it. Terrence's words were lacerating his soul, and he could not find a single rational argument against them.

Hardly knowing what prompted him, he suddenly burst out, "She broke into the music room the other day."

Terrence looked at him curiously. "What?"

"Cassandra. I found her in the old music room, playing the pianoforte. Mother's pianoforte."

"Ah!" Terrence nodded knowingly. "So, the poor girl was no doubt desperate from loneliness and boredom and had the temerity to explore her own home—presumably because you refused to show her around—and ‘break into' your hallowed shrine, did she? Well, what a crime. You may feel vindicated, for she surely deserves the cold shoulder in that case."

Malcom's anger drained away under Terrence's sarcasm. "Damn you, Terrence," he muttered, embarrassed by his own behavior.

"Too late, Cousin, for I am surely damned already. Well, are you going to tell me what happened, or do I have to guess?"

Haltingly at first, then more confidently, Malcom spilled the story of the encounter, how she disobeyed his orders and went into the east wing, and then played his mother's piano . . . badly.

When he had finished, Terrence was frowning over his brandy. "I cannot work out if you were more upset that she opened up the music room and played the piano on her own initiative or because she played it so terribly," he said.

For some odd reason, Malcom could not help smiling when Terrence put it like that.

"I have to admit, I strongly objected to it. Every wrong note grated on my ears. Plus, the instrument is out of tune." He paused for a moment, suddenly recalled his wife's singing. "But though she does not play very well, she has a lovely voice," he admitted.

Terrence regarded him with interest. "You heard her sing?"

Malcom nodded. "Yes, she sang Fair Colleen. Well, part of it. She stopped when she saw me," he explained.

" Fair Colleen , eh? Oh, Lord. Your mother's favourite if I remember correctly."

"And mine," Malcom supplied. "Cassandra's voice is . . . as beautiful as Mother's used to be. She is also a soprano."

"Now I am beginning to understand why you ran away," Terrence said, nodding. "It must have brought back a lot of memories for you."

"Painful memories."

"Yet you enjoyed hearing her sing, I can tell."

"Yes, I-I did."

"Refresh my memory, will you, Malcom, please? Am I right in saying that you are passionate about music and are an accomplished player of the piano forte?"

"I used to be both those things."

"But since losing your mother . . . you gave up playing. Another form of self-imposed punishment."

"It is not that, Terrence. It just hurts so much to play, to hear all the tunes she loved and know she will never be at my side again, to enjoy the music with me. To find Cassandra there at the piano, well, it felt like sacrilege. "

"Of course, it did. As I said, you resented her disrupting your carefully preserved shrine. Have you spoken to her about it, explained your behaviour?"

Malcom shook his head sadly. "I cannot. I knew I was being unreasonable, that I let my emotions get the better of me. I almost decided to have the piano tuned for her, let her play if she wants. After all, I don't have to listen. But I just could not bring myself to do it."

"Then I suggest you pull yourself together, Malcom, and do it without delay. Not to do so could be considered cruel," Terrence told him sternly. "What is she, nineteen, twenty?"

Malcom had to think what was on the marriage certificate. "Um, nineteen, I believe."

"So, we have a genteel young lady, aged nineteen, torn from her home, her family and friends, likely never so much as kissed a man before, who made a small mistake, and she finds herself imprisoned in this old mausoleum with a man who barely acknowledges her presence. I should hardly be surprised if she puts rocks in her pockets and walks into the lake. I am sure I would in her place."

"Terrence, that is a terrible thing to say," Malcom protested, truly shocked.

"It sounds dramatic but put yourself in her place. Have you considered for one second how she might be feeling?" He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. "Of course, you haven't. You are far too self-absorbed."

Guilt bit sharply at Malcom's conscience. Terrence was right; he had not given it a thought.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

"Yes," Malcom was forced to admit, berating himself for his selfishness. He had not behaved like a gentleman at all. He dared not admit how he had fled from her that day at the copse. He felt pathetic enough about it already.

"Malcom, you must face up to the situation or you will both spend the rest of your lives in misery. I do not want that for you, and if you do not want that for yourself, and can summon some vestige of sympathy for Cassandra, then it is up to you to change things."

Malcom spread his palm helplessly. "How? "

"Are you jesting with me, Cousin? You ask me this, you who once moved with such ease through the drawing rooms and ballrooms of the Ton, charming all the ladies, old and young, single and married? How do you think I learned my social skills with the fair sex? I learned them from watching my much-admired older cousin. And now you ask me how to be kind to your wife? That is rich."

Malcom looked at him in surprise. "I had no idea," he murmured.

"That you were my model of gentlemanly behaviour? Yes, it was so, though it pains me now to admit it."

Terrence sat forward again, his eyes filled with a sincerity Malcom could not doubt was genuine.

"I seem to have forgotten a lot," he said.

"Nonsense. You have forgotten nothing. I saw you in operation at Madeleine's ball. You were conversing and dancing, just like the old Malcom, even if you were forced to do so.

"No, you cannot get out of this. You have a wife, and whatever the circumstances of your marriage, you now have to forge a life together. I found her to be perfectly charming at your wedding, though I could see she was terrible upset. She is educated and far from silly. Plus, she is also extremely easy on the eye and has excellent taste in clothes. Now you tell me she can sing. What is the difficulty? Many men would be over the moon to have a such a lovely wife. If I was not your friend, I would say she deserves better."

"Your support is greatly appreciated," Malcom replied with deep sarcasm, knowing it was likely the truth.

"What you should have done when you found her in the music room, instead of complaining about her bad playing, would have been to offer to accompany her while she sang, you know that don't you?"

"Yes, I know," Malcom agreed with a sigh.

"And if you really want my advice, try being a bit more approachable, talk to her, take her out around the estate, give her a tour of this gloomy old pile. Try to be kind to her, even in small ways, Malcom. If she likes horses, then buy her a new horse. If she likes dresses, then send her to town to shop with a generous allowance. Such things will prove your concern for her, and she may come out of her shell. What you find may pleasantly surprise you." Terrence swallowed the last of his brandy and stood up. "It is almost six. Dinner is at seven, I presume."

"Yes."

"Well, I am going to change. And I look forward to meeting your wife again. She is a part of this family now, and I for one intend to do my best to make her feel welcome. And may I add that you are lucky that it is me who visited you first? Because if Madeleine had come and found such a poor state of affairs, things might have been much worse for you. I trust you will be duly grateful."

With that he strode from the room, leaving the door wide open, another one of his annoying habits. Somehow, to Malcom, that was worse than if he had slammed it.