Page 51 of Tamed By a Passionate Lady
James’ heart thumped harder in his chest. It couldn’t be true, could it?
He had imagined that he must have been wildly in love with Adaline before they had wed. And now, Reuben was calmly telling him that he had never loved her. That it had been a marriage of convenience. That he had only met her once before their marriage.
He swallowed down his bitter disappointment. What did it matter that he had not courted her as a lover would? He had obviously grown to love her, after they had wed.
His eyes flickered uncertainly towards Reuben. Now, he wasn’t sure of anything, anymore.
“Another whiskey, old chap?” Reuben stared at him, a little concerned. “You look quite floored by my revelations. Purely medicinal, of course.”
James nodded slowly. His friend poured them both another one, handing it to him. He felt the strong liquid hit his throat like a salve, as he threw it back, into his mouth.
The alcohol was doing its trick. He could feel it entering his bloodstream. Suddenly, he felt rather lightheaded. He remembered that he hadn’t eaten in hours; it was just before the evening meal. He needed to be careful. Dr. Brown had told him that alcohol and memory loss was not a good combination, that he might inadvertently do more damage to his mind.
He grimaced, sipping the rest of the golden brown liquid. What did it matter, now, if he did any further damage? He had just been told that he had been wildly in love with a woman that he didn’t even remember. So in love that it had ruined his life, forever afterwards. The woman that he had thought he had married out of love had been a stranger to him.
He rested the whiskey glass on the handle of the wheelchair. It was like a kick in the gut. He felt, instinctively, that he had always loved Adaline. But apparently, that was an illusion, like so much else.
He glanced at Reuben. “But Ididgrow to love my wife after our marriage?”
Reuben smiled slightly. “I am afraid not, old fellow.” He gazed at him, a little pityingly. “I am sorry to burst your bubble about all this, I truly am. I would not have said anything to you, except for the portrait. I do hope that you will not shoot the messenger…”
James blinked back tears. He turned his face away, towards the fireplace. The disappointment was so intense, it was almost like a punch to the stomach.
“You always said that you could never love another woman,” continued Reuben thoughtfully. “You said that Lydia was your one and only. You had no expectation of love with Adaline. You confided in me that you found her exceedingly lacking, and that you were deeply regretful that you had not eloped with Lydia…”
James felt a frisson of pure anger shudder through him. This, surely, was going too far. It was shameful enough that he had been in love with another woman, to the point of insanity, and still married poor Adaline regardless. But he could not accept that he would have confided in Reuben that he found her lacking. That he could have become such a man who railed against his wife. A wife who was perfect, in every possible way, as far as he could tell.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, but the anger still swirled in his bloodstream. He had been falling hard for Adaline and assumed that he was merely rekindling the love that he had felt for her before the accident. How he could not have loved her was beyond him. And he was utterly ashamed of the man that he had been.
He did not recognise that man. And he did not like him much, either.
“You are lying,” said James, glaring at his friend. “I cannot believe that I would be such a cad as to criticise my beautiful, kind and loyal wife, in such a way.” He took another deep breath. “Perhaps I never loved her, as you say, because of this previous love, but I cannot believe I would be so cruel…”
Reuben snorted derisively. “Have it your way, Townshend. But everything that I am saying is true. You never loved your wife, and you neglected her, treated her abominably.
The poor woman was always bending over backwards, trying to get your attention, but you were lost in your own world, dreaming about Lydia, and what could never be.” He paused. “It was almost pitiful to watch how Lydia took your balls and threw them away. You were a shell of the man that you once were, and it was your wife who paid the price for it…”
“Enough,” growled James. “You insult my character!” His chest was heaving. “Leave me, Reuben. I wish to be alone before the dinner gong sounds.”
Reuben shrugged his shoulders. “Have it your way.” He walked to the door, gazing back at him. “I did say not to shoot the messenger, old chap. The person who you are truly angry at is yourself. Just remember that.” He left the room.
James stared at the door, his fists clenching and unclenching, with impotent rage.
He gazed down at the portrait, still sitting in his lap. In a rage, he picked it up, throwing it across the room. It bounced against the hearth, before falling to the floor, at an awkward angle. He could just see one of the woman’s blue eyes staring at him, balefully, across the room.
He shuddered, in pure distaste, gazing at it. Lydia Hayward. A woman who had ruined his life, by the sounds of it. He didn’t know how. When he had gazed at the portrait, there had been no residual feeling, no echo of this great love he had apparently felt for her. In fact, it had almost been the opposite. He had wanted to flee from her image, as if it was dangerous.
Was Reuben lying about that as well? But then, why would he have kept her portrait in his study?
He clenched his fists again. He had done this to himself. He could have put that portrait back in the drawer and closed it forever. He was the one who had insisted he must know who the woman was, that it was important to unlock the past, so that he could become the man that he was before the accident.
Now, he was no longer sure, at all, if he wanted to know who that man had been.
Reuben claimed that he had never loved Adaline. He had gone further, and said that he had not liked her at all. That he was always comparing her to this Lydia and found her lacking. That Adaline had bent over backwards trying to please him, but he had treated her badly, ignoring her.
Tears of pure frustration prickled behind his eyes once again. If only he could remember. But on the other hand he shied away from memory, retreating from it, like a man before a rearing, wild horse.
He wanted to know…but hedidn’twant to know, as well.
