carriage flickered over his hands and thighs, emphasizing strange patterns on one hand. He covered it with the other, and she finally understood and raised her gaze to his face.
“Did you fight?” she asked abruptly.
He shook his head. “Not really.”
But he had hit him. It was all that explained the marks on his hand. It was all that explained Ireton’s absence from the drawing room and the farewells. In spite of everything, she wished to bathe the abrasions for him.
“You shouldn’t have,” she said flatly. Not that she minded Ireton being struck. Reprehensibly, she wished it was for the insult to her and not for that given to Ireton’s wife.
He shrugged. “It was purely for fun. But, yes, I seem to have contributed more than my share to the awfulness of the evening. I shouldn’t have brought Lucy and Letchworth back to you. I just didn’t want to leave you alone with those two.”
Those two. Was that contempt? Or just his careless way of talking? Impossible to tell, and in any case, Lord Hawfield broke in with, “What are you talking about? It was a very odd evening. Started off very pleasantly, and with some hint of a great event, and then everything seemed to fizzle out. Dudley starts jumping about like a scalded cat, the son-in-law goes to bed, and we’re all in the carriage home by ten! What is going on?”
“Dudley got word his wife has arrived at Gosmere,” Christopher said. “It’s natural he should want to see her.”
Hawfield gave a bark of laughter. “Less natural that he’s afraid to leave her alone with his brother.”
Dudley glared but said nothing.
Deborah spent the rest of the journey pondering the point of marriage. There seemed to be no trust, no happiness in Dudley’s. There could certainly be none in her own. As for the Iretons, they seemed more interested in other people’s spouses. And Lucy… She was desperate to marry a man who was paltry enough to reject her on the grounds of lies told by a rake about her sister.
When they eventually arrived back at Gosmere Hall, Dudley strode inside, demanding of George the footman, “Where is my wife?”
“I believe Lady Bilston has retired, my lord,” George replied. “Immediately after a light supper. She was fatigued after her journey.”
Dudley seemed to deflate.
His grandfather laughed. “No need for us to have left early after all. Might as well have stayed!”
Clearly, Dudley did not think so, for he set off immediately upstairs, going in the direction not of his own and his wife’s rooms, but of his brother’s.
Lord Hawfield shook his head. “They’ll come to blows over this, Chris. You’ll have to stop them.”
“Don’t you think they’re old enough to sort it out themselves?” Christopher said impatiently.
“Obviously not,” Hawfield said dryly.
“Last drink?” Christopher suggested.
“No, I’m for bed,” his grandfather replied with a sardonic twist of the lips. “I’m sure I’ll need my strength for the morning’s histrionics. Good night.”
“Goodnight,” Deborah murmured. She barely glanced at Christopher as she made to follow Hawfield toward the stairs.
He caught her hand. “Wait. I would like to talk, to explain.”
She forced a smile. “There is no need. I am not offended. The rest of it, the scandal finally catching up with me, its effect on Lucy, we can discuss tomorrow. I am too tired now.”
His piercing eyes searched hers, and she had to work hard to keep from betraying her distress. She was only too aware of the latent strength in his fingers. God knew she liked his touch, but at this moment, she didn’t feel strong enough to bear it. She could shatter at any moment. Unthinkable to do so in his company.
“Deborah,” he said gently. “A moment clears up any misunderstanding.”
She smiled as kindly as she knew how. “There is no misunderstanding, Christopher. I was content to accept this marriage on the terms you offered it. I am still content.”
A frown tugged at his brow, as though he was either surprised or displeased, but it seemed his mind was not on his own indiscretion. “Ireton is a bit of a loose screw, but he now understands the line he cannot cross. We will get to the bottom of this scandal and reverse it.”
“Of course,” she said brightly, slipping her hand free. “Goodnight, Christopher.”
It was, of course, ignominious flight. But she forced herself to tread lightly, without obvious care or hurry. And she thought he watched her with something like consternation. Was there hope in that? Or was she still clutching at straws that