Mary Putney - The China Bride

Troth hid her face against his shoulder. "What happens now? "

"Damned if I know. What made perfect sense in a Chinese dungeon seems rather mad here in England." He stared sightlessly at the ceiling. "The question is how to set you free without creating a scandal in the process."

She became utterly still. "You wish to end the marriage, such as it is?"

The question wasn't about his wishes, but about what was right. Choosing his words carefully, he said, "You have a whole world of possibilities in front of you, while I… well, I'd never intended to marry again and don't think I'd make much of a husband. You deserve better."

"How very noble you are," she said dryly.

He laughed a little for the first time in months. "Not noble. Confused, but trying to do the right thing." Giving in to temptation, he continued, "Still, unless you're in a hurry to leave we can wait until I'm feeling stronger and you've had time to decide what you want. You must still be in shock from my miraculous return from the dead."

Her dark head nodded vigorously.

Lightly he touched her silky hair. "I'm sorry. There was no point in writing, since I'd reach here about as soon as any letter."

"That part I understand." Her voice turned cool. "As for the rest… I gather you don't want us to… to behave as husband and wife while you decide on the best way for us to part."

He winced. Did she suspect his fear that if they became lovers again, he'd never have the strength to let her go? Trying to make a joke of it, he said, "Once you see Dornleigh, you'll be eager to end the marriage. It's the most dismal great house in England."

"But it is your home."

"For my sins, yes." He smiled self-mockingly. "I must admit that I'm looking forward to returning. Seven years is a long time to be away."

Long enough to fulfill all his dreams, leaving… nothing.

« ^ »

Dornleigh matched its reputation. Looming against a cold, rainy sky, the sprawling structure should have ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE carved over the gate. Troth drew back from the carriage window, not sure if she was glad the miserable journey was ending, or sorry that her destination was as uninviting as Kyle had warned.

She sat opposite her husband and his father in the heavy, luxurious Wrexham traveling coach. They'd shared the space for two long days, each avoiding eye contact with the others.

The last fortnight had been tiring for all concerned. Lord Wrexham's coach had reached Warfield Park two days after the prodigal's return, within an hour of Lady Lucia's arrival. Under his usual brusque manner, the earl had been like a mother hen whose lost chick had just been restored. Kyle accepted everyone's attention with weary courtesy, though Troth suspected he would have preferred more peace and privacy.

Not that her opinions mattered. From the day he arrived and was given a room of his own, she felt less his wife than when he'd been thought dead. No one was rude, and there was no suggestion that she didn't belong at this Renbourne family reunion. But she felt… unnecessary. During the long days and longer nights, she'd reminded herself frequently that Kyle's detachment wasn't just from her.

The only person whose company he welcomed was his brother. Dominic was edgy and impatient with everyone except Kyle, and Troth had a sense that chi was running between them, with Dominic's energy going to strengthen his twin. Though perhaps she imagined that. In practical England, assumptions imbedded in the fabric of her homeland began to seem like superstitions.

Luckily Meriel's behavior didn't alter. She kept Troth busy with the children, with riding, with work in the glasshouses in anticipation of spring planting.

But there would be no Meriel to support her at Dornleigh. After ten days at Warfield, Kyle had been deemed well enough to return to the family seat. Wrexham was anxious to take him there, as if only then would Kyle's homecoming be complete. Or perhaps he wanted to separate Kyle from Dominic so he could have his heir to himself. Troth had the dismal feeling that she didn't figure in the earl's calculations at all.

Despite her yearning for her husband's attention, Troth practiced patience and hoped the situation would improve along with his health. She dressed and spoke and behaved like a perfect English lady, striving to earn Wrexham's approval. Occasionally she felt Kyle's puzzled gaze, as if he barely recognized her, and guessed he was surprised at how well she'd learned to mimic the manners of the well-bred female. She'd always had a gift for blending in, and her mother had taught her feminine refinement.

The coach pulled up in front of Dornleigh, and a footman rushed to open the door and lower the steps. Troth climbed out into the rain with relief. While she would have welcomed two days alone with Kyle, Wrexham's presence changed everything. No doubt the earl had felt the same about her. And Kyle? He'd probably been glad to have three people on the journey to spare him private discussions.

Waiting inside the Dornleigh entry hall-the cold, echoing, barren entry hall-was an army of servants lined up in honor of the heir's return. Kyle passed along the rows courteously while Troth waited at one side, invisible except for curious glances.

To her surprise, when Kyle had finished reviewing the Dornleigh troops, he took Troth's arm, leading her forward. "My wife, Lady Maxwell."

A spark of hope flared inside her at the public acknowledgment. Yet as Kyle introduced her to the senior servants, she saw that Wrexham watched with tight-lipped disapproval. As the housekeeper led her up to her new quarters, Troth renewed her vow to be patient, and to always act as an irreproachable English lady.

Beyond that, there was nothing she could do but hope and pray.

A week at Dornleigh gave Troth a deep appreciation for why Kyle had fled the place. The feng shui was terrible-jarring angles, a combination of clutter in some areas and dead emptiness in others, and a general air of gloom.

Perhaps that suited her husband, who drifted around the huge old house like a ghost. Courteous, but so detached he was barely there even on the rare occasions when they spoke. Clearly he was suffering from a malaise worse than illness and fatigue. On some deep level, his spirit had been grievously injured. The intense curiosity and enjoyment of life he'd had when they met was gone, leaving a polite shell of a man.

She yearned to help him, but didn't know how and feared doing the wrong thing. It was hard enough keeping her own spirits up during a week trapped inside this mausoleum by relentless rain.

She spent her time reading, exploring, and cautiously building relationships with the senior servants. Most of all, she waited for some sign of encouragement from her husband. The doubts-and the power-were in his hands. He must make the first move.

How would he manage at the grand reception Wrexham was giving the next night to welcome his son home? Everyone important in the area had been invited. Though Kyle would know most of the guests, such a gathering would surely exhaust him. Troth found the prospect frankly terrifying and intended to stay in her room. Unlike at the Warfield Christmas ball, she wouldn't be missed.

Then the sun came out. As she brushed her hair from its night braid that morning, she feasted her eyes on the magnificent Northamptonshire hills. The rain had nurtured an explosion of spring greenery, and clumps of brilliant yellow daffodils bloomed under trees and hedges. Now she understood why Kyle had wanted to return-not for the grim house, but for this lovely land.

As she coiled her hair into a demure knot at her nape, she was struck by the happy idea of asking Kyle if he'd like to go for a ride. Perhaps he'd enjoy showing her around the estate. Since Wrexham's gout prevented him from riding, she and her husband could have an hour or two of privacy. Perhaps they'd recapture some of the easy conversation and pleasure in each other's company they'd known in China.

Buoyant at the prospect, she rang for Bessy, the maid who had been assigned to her, and asked for her riding habit. Even if Kyle refused her invitation, she would ride alone. Her body craved physical activity after being cooped up for so long.

She hadn't done chi exercises since before they'd visited Hoshan. First she'd been too busy traveling; then she'd been cramped in the tiny cabin on the sailing ship. Occasionally she'd considered starting again at Warfield, where any eccentricity would have been accepted without a blink, but such un-English activities didn't belong in the life of the decorous Lady Maxwell.

Troth swallowed a hasty meal of tea, toasted bread, and marmalade. She could face luncheon and dinner with Kyle and Wrexham, but she allowed herself breakfast in her room as an escape from the tension in the household.

With the assistance of Bessy, she donned her riding habit. It was a sober navy blue, but the seamstress had trimmed it with military-style gold braid, and the effect was rather dashing.

She caught up the sweeping skirts and skipped downstairs, feeling lighthearted and optimistic. Perhaps Kyle would enjoy the ride so much that he'd be interested in another, more intimate sort of gallop…

She chided herself for low thoughts, though she had them often. Kyle might be too drained for desire, but she wasn't, and it was a constant strain not to touch him. To go into his arms for a kiss, and hope to ignite a flare of mutual desire.

One step at a time. Seeing the butler, she asked, "Do you know where Lord Maxwell is, Hawking?"