Page 10 of The Secret Love of a Gentleman
He left the room.
She stared at the door as it shut behind him.
Before their marriage, and throughout the first year, Albert seemed love-struck. Though she could never remember him saying the word ‘love’ now. Adore, treasure, worship, those words were said. Albert had asked the Marquis of Framlington for her hand, and the marriage had been arranged swiftly so the Marquis could be rid of his wife’s illegitimate daughter.
At the time they wed, Albert had been so impassioned he would devour her body whenever he could, until she became pregnant and sickly, then his interest waned. He set up a mistress then and spent his evenings with her at the theatre and in the sitting rooms of the demimonde. Yet in the days and attonballs, he would talk to and look at Caro as though he respected and felt something warm for his wife. That was when she learned how fake those looks and gestures of love could be.
It was when she lost her first child that the beatings and hatred began.
He was so used to beating her now, when she conceived, he would not even think of her condition. She knew at least two of her miscarriages were his fault. This time… she did not know why. The doctor said her womb may well be too damaged to carry a child to full-term.
Albert was a handsome, powerful man. She was spellbound in the beginning. Even now, when he came to her bed, he joinedwith her as though he loved her. Her childhood had not contained love. He taught her what love could be, and even now she clung to those moments of intimacy and affection.
She cared for him.
‘Ma’am, may I help you retire?’
Caro had forgotten her lady’s maid was in the room. ‘Please bring some fresh water.’ The servants were as afraid of Albert’s temper as she was. Like her, they sought to be silent and invisible like mice.
Caro watched her reflection in the mirror as the maid dabbed at her face with a cloth to wash away the blood from her cut cheek and lip. She masked the bruises with powder and reddened Caro’s lips with rouge. Albert would expect Caro to look well when he came to her later.
The sun had long since set by the time Albert returned. Caro’s bedchamber was entirely dark and he had not brought a candle. His footsteps quietly crossed the room, then the sheets beside her lifted and the mattress dipped when he lay down.
‘Caro,’ he said as his hand reached for her waist. He turned her to him.
The scent of brandy carried on his breath. His lips pressed on hers and his hand held her breast, gentle now, denying that his hands could ever be brutal.
Even though her lip had split, his kiss eased away the pain from the blows. The thoughtfulness he showed her at night wrapped about her soul and held her heart as his prisoner. This Albert was the man she loved.
This was her marriage – cruel, heartless, beautiful love.
His fingers rubbed and groped her breast, teasing her nipple to a peak through the cloth of her nightgown, then he released the few buttons at her chest, and helped her strip the garment off. He was passionate in all respects, in admiration, in anger and inbed. Yet passion was not love, she had learned the difference. She longed for his love. She imagined it when he was in her bed – that he touched her with love.
Her hands rested on his shoulders as he moved across her. He kissed the bruise on her cheek. He did this every day, ripped her apart then put her back together at night, and she did not even think it deliberate or mean, he was simply cold-blooded like a frog, or a snake. She truly believed he had no idea how his behaviour hurt her.
His fingers touched her between her legs, gently caressing and calling to her body.
The passion in his character pulled her to do things for him, to be what he wished, to love him with her whole self.
When he entered her, she was damp between her legs. His intrusion was hard and fast, yet not painful. This was always how he loved her, with force and strength that sent her reeling. The little death swept over her after a few minutes, and in a few more he spilled his seed inside her. Another minute’s tick of the mechanism of the clock on the mantle above the hearth and he was withdrawing, disengaging, mentally as well as physically.
The pain of her bruises flooded her senses, while the pain of his loss filled her soul.
He kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you. God willing there will be a child soon.’ Then he got up and left her rooms.
When Caro rose in the morning, her maid powdered her face and neck. The powder hid the bruises but not the swellings, so the maid used rouge to help disguise some of the swelling on her cheek. Caro chose a gown with long sleeves to hide the bruising on her arms.
As she walked down to breakfast, her stomach trembled as much as her hands. The marble-lined hallway was as cold as the man who waited for her at the table. A footman bowed his headwhen she entered the morning room. She no longer felt humiliated by the violence in her own home; every servant in the house knew how she was treated. It had gone on for too long for embarrassment to be a burden here. But outside the house… Yes, it embarrassed her.
A newspaper was folded beside his place at the table, so he could read it more easily. He looked up from the newspaper as Caro entered, and his fork lowered to the plate.
She longed to see the reverent look that used to hover in his eyes. His expression today said he was watching an oddity in a village fair.
When he frowned, terror – sharp and violent – cut into her chest. Had something happened? Everything that went wrong in this house was a reason to beat her; a silver spoon left with a smudge, a glass broken, a meal he did not enjoy. The servants were her responsibility and therefore their errors were hers.
‘Good morning, Caro.’ He stood up and bowed his head, then sat again.
A footman withdrew a seat for her at the opposite end of the table and served her breakfast.
