Susan Johnson - Again and Again

His head hurt; he shouldn’t have drunk so much the previous night. Compensation perhaps.

When Dalhousie handed Simon a brandy-laced coffee-another familiar ritual from the past-his headache was soon gone. His scruples were considerably compromised by the third brandy and coffee. And in time, Simon and his friends moved on to Brookes.

He won at the tables-another familiar ritual.

As was the later excursion to a smaller club known for its excellent chef, discreet staff, and luxurious private rooms.

He was at ease in the unconstrained world of male pleasures and merrymaking. All his friends were delighted to have him back in the fold and he smoothly slipped back into the habits of a lifetime. He had no one to please but himself. Self-indulgence was not only permitted, but encouraged. There were no expectations or obligations beyond purely selfish ones. And there wasn’t an unreasonable woman in sight.

Simon was still in London three days later when a groom from Monkshood arrived at Hargreave House.

The man had ridden hard. He was out of breath, muddy, soaked through from the rain and clearly indifferent to the fact that the duke was still abed. Shoving past the footmen without so much as a word of explanation, he raced up the stairs and entered Simon’s darkened bedroom without knocking. Jerking open the draperies, he shook Simon awake roughly, gasped, “You’d best come home,” and thrust a note in his face.

Simon came awake instantly, realizing nothing but the most tragic of circumstances would bring this man so unceremoniously to his bed. Quickly reading the few lines Bessie had written, he immediately understood what everyone at Monkshood knew-including this groom. “I’ll be out in five minutes,” he said, throwing back the covers. “Have Templar saddled.”

“They already be doin‘ that… sar.”

Simon took note of the grudging courtesy. He waved the man out, needing a moment alone. But he saw the look the groom gave him before he turned away. They all blamed him.

It was all her fault, Caroline silently bemoaned as she lay in bed at Monkshood. She should never have fought with Simon over something so nonsensical. She shouldn’t have let herself become angry. Hadn’t Bessie and Rose constantly warned her against becoming upset? Hadn’t they insisted she be serene and even-tempered for the sake of the child? Hadn’t they told her all the gruesome stories about babies being harmed by their mothers? looking at something grotesque or thinking bad thoughts?

She never should have pressed Simon over some silly invitation. He’d been like a saint since their marriage. Couldn’t she have been more grateful? More understanding? Less quick to take offense?

Had she been, perhaps God wouldn’t be punishing her now for her stupid jealousy.

The spotting had started almost the moment Simon left, as though it was divine retribution for her ingratitude.

Like an implacable eye for an eye.

Why couldn’t she have been satisfied with her life?

She had a husband who had been kind and gracious and obliging. Hadn’t he brought her home to Monkshood because she wished it and stayed with her even when he was obviously chafing at his confinement?

And even without Simon’s benevolence, wouldn’t the glorious hope of a child have been more than enough to bring her happiness? Hadn’t she wanted a child with Simon for as long as she could remember?

Why had she pressed him on such a ridiculous issue when she knew Simon was the last person in the world who was likely to acquiesce to a demanding wife?

Oh, please God, please let the bleeding stop, and she’d never be ungrateful again.

In her dizzying grief, she promised a thousand good faith promises, and a thousand more abject penances if only her plea would be granted.

She was frantic with fear, desperate for hope. She hadn’t moved since the morning disaster had struck. She’d lain completely still as directed by Bessie and Rose. She’d drunk the restoratives they brought to her, vile concoctions of herbs and roots. She’d drunk every drop without once complaining.

Hoping God would notice her new meekness.

Simon was riding dangerously fast, using whip and spur, forcing Templar to foolhardy limits. The roads were a quagmire, rough going even for riders not intent on breaking their necks. But Simon was heedless of all but his need to reach Monkshood and his massive thoroughbred seemed to understand, pounding through the treacherous mud and muck with phenomenal, unfaltering strength.

The two riders thundered through the villages between London and Monkshood, shouting villagers out of their way, not slowing for man or beast When the driver of a pony cart was unable to pull off the road quickly enough at the entrance to a narrow bridge, Simon lashed Templar and the powerful horse cleared the cart in a high soaring leap. The lighter groom, up on the second best horse in Simon’s London stable followed like a leaf in the wind.

Throughout the perilous run to Monkshood, the catastrophe Simon was about to face took center stage in his brain, a chaotic jumble of emotions jostling for position-fear, anger, frustration, sadness… guilt, too, for his part in what had transpired when last he spoke with Caro. He could have handled the situation better that morning; he should have. And an inchoate sense of melancholy at what might have been, overwhelmed him.

How could something like this happen? Was it normal or abnormal? Was it avoidable? Then his brain would loop back to the niggling unease that persisted beneath the labyrinthine disorder of his thoughts, the intangible damning resentment spurred by the contentious pattern of their marriage.

At base, he didn’t trust his wife.

And during the whole of that maniac, headlong sprint to Monkshood, the obsessive question remained: Had she done this in retaliation?

Both horses were lathered, and beginning to falter as Simon reached the drive at Monkshood. Templar’s great chest was heaving, the groom’s mount a quarter mile back barely able to walk. But when Simon called on his racer for one last effort, the black thoroughbred dug in with gutsy heart and turned on an additional burst of speed up the incline to the house.

Whispering his thanks to his gallant mount, Simon jumped from the saddle before Templar had fully plunged to a stop. Standing in the entrance hall a moment later, dripping water on the floor, he stripped off his wet gloves and growled, “I want Bessie,” to those servants unlucky enough to be within range. Sweeping his wet hair back with both hands, he bit out in a voice as cold as the grave, “this instant.”

Everyone scattered before his wrath.

Ignoring the puddle forming at his feet, he didn’t move, not sure he might not explode with rage if he took a single step. Not sure he was equipped to deal with the answer to the damning question burning through his brain.

When Bessie came running down the stairs, he waved away the servants who accompanied her and waited, his nostril flaring with impatience, until they were alone. Then he turned to the only person he knew who would tell him the truth and asked, harshly, “Did she do this to herself?”

“No! No!” Bessie cried, wringing her plump hands in anguish. “She didn’t! She’s terrified!”

The duke’s gaze was murderous, a convulsive tick pulsated over one stark cheekbone and the young boy she’d rocked on her knee was entirely absent from the towering man with icy eyes who seemed not to have heard her. Taking a small breath, she forced her tone to one more reassuring and calm, hoping to mitigate the fury in the pitiless gaze. “Lady Caro would never do anything to harm the babe. On God’s oath, she wouldn’t.”

“You’re sure?” As if God wasn’t guaranty enough.

The small, elderly woman nodded. “Yes, yes… I’m sure.”

“Very well.”

The sound of his voice was wholly forbidding. He could have been the old duke, speaking in that unrelenting tone. And while she knew he wasn’t likely to take kindly to advice, she courageously spoke from her heart. “Please, Your Grace, don’t frighten the dear child. She’s pitiful scared.”

His gaze came up. Bessie had never used an honorific when addressing him. “You believe her.”

“She wants this child. By all that’s holy, it’s the truth.”

An uncomfortable silence fell, the duke’s scrutiny abrasive, as though the rasp of his anger was an audible friction in the air. And then he sighed. “Can the child be saved?”

The bitterness had lessened in his voice, although a faint echo remained and Bessie debated how best to reply. Did he want the child or not? “We’ve had Lady Caro take some herb potions that may help.” She watched his reaction.

“I’ll go and see her now.”

It was impossible to read his thoughts. His gaze was shuttered, his words restrained. “I’ll take you,” she said, knowing she had to be there to protect Caroline whether he approved or not

He looked at her, his head tipped in a quizzical way she recognized from his youth. He smiled, faintly. “Don’t you trust me?”

She exhaled in a great rush of air. “Now I do.”

She once more recognized the man before her and back on familiar ground, Bessie’s trepidation vanished. When she left Simon at the door to Caroline’s bedroom, she gave him warning. “That sweet child has always loved you,” she declared. “I don’t want you to forget that when you get your temper up,” she added, firmly. “In fact, you’re not even allowed to have a temper until this babe is out of danger. Understand?”

He grinned. “I sort of miss that, ‘Your Grace.’ ”

“Humph. As if your arrogance needs any further bolstering. Just mind your manners now. She’s right scared.”

“Yes, ma’am.” But beneath the mockery, he was pleased Bessie had been there when Caro needed her. Reaching down, he put his arms around the rotund little lady who always had been there when he needed her too, and gave her a quick hug and a kiss.