Susan Johnson - Again and Again

“The last time you said that, I was forced to fight him off myself because you’d disappeared into the card room. I’d rather not be put in that position again, thank you.”

“Well, one of us has to appear.” Pulling the card back, he perused it again, his mouth pursed.

“Give Prinny some excuse. Others do.”

Simon frowned faintly. “The dinner is in honor of some new decoration the king is awarding Wellington.”

“If you want to go, go.”

He looked up at the pettishness of her tone. “It’s not that I want to go. It’s just that all Wellington ADCs will be there.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Even as she realized how unreasonable she sounded, she couldn’t desist. Perhaps she was more thin-skinned than usual. She’d noticed recently how occasionally Simon would seem to be making a particular effort to amuse her, as if he were playing the dutiful husband. She should be grateful; instead, she was mortified and provoked.

And as if she wasn’t already irrationally jealous of his past, he was looking much too handsome lounging in his chair, his dark hair ruffling the collar of his partially opened shirt, a portion of his bare chest exposed, his shirt cuffs unbuttoned. He had that indolent look of a man who had dressed haphazardly after leaving his amorous play.

Which he had.

“I am right and you know it,” he said, evenly, taking issue with her pique over a dinner with the king that was unavoidable. “Don’t be difficult”

“I wouldn’t think of it. Go and see all your dear friends,” she murmured, her biting emphasis on the last words indicative of her feelings as to their gender. “I expect they’re all wondering why you’ve tarried so long in the country anyway.”

His nostrils flared for a moment, but he controlled his urge to respond.

“Speak up. I won’t tell Bessie or Rose that you dared argue with me.”

His housekeepers had warned him endlessly about the volatile emotions of pregnancy. Heeding their words, he’d been on his best behavior. As he continued to be now. “I’ll go up to the city later today and be back in two days,” he said, each word deliberately impassive. “Do you want anything from London?”

“No. I’m fine.”

The clipped, crisp words were considerably less than fine, but he did have to go. This wasn’t an occasion where an excuse would suffice. “I’ll see if Bessie and Rose need anything.”

“Maybe Daphne needs something.”

A small silence fell.

“What the hell does that mean?” he asked very softly.

“Exactly what I said. I’ve seen you looking bored.”

“Jesus, Caro. Sometimes it’s quiet here. That doesn’t mean I’m bored.”

“You mean too quiet-say it.”

“No I don’t,” he replied, curbing his temper with effort. “And I’m not going to fight over something ridiculous.”

“My concerns are ridiculous?”

“If they’re about Daphne, they sure as hell are.”

“I suppose she bores you too.”

He pushed away from the table. “I’m not taking part in this stupid conversation.” He came to his feet. “I’m going for a ride.”

“Because I can’t go riding.”

“Fine.” He sat down again. “I won’t go riding. Would you like to play cards?”

“Don’t talk to me in that tolerant, long-suffering tone. And, no, I don’t want to play cards.”

He slid down in his chair and shut his eyes.

“And don’t shut your eyes on me!”

His eyes came open. “I give up. What the hell do you want?”

Don’t go to London; stay with me; want to stay with me. “Why don’t you go to London right now!” she said, petulantly.

He came to his feet, his face a mask. ‘Thank you for your permission,“ he said with cutting sarcasm. ”I’ll give your fond greetings to the king.“

The door closed on him brief seconds later and she burst into tears.

The dinner for Wellington was the usual affair with all the usual crowd-people Simon had known and amused himself with all his life. It was easy to fall into the familiar patterns of entertainment and association. He didn’t openly flirt, but women surrounded him as they always did and he was charming as he always was… and hospitable. When the orchestra began to play after dinner, he refused the first few invitations to dance, but it was impossible to refuse them all and eventually he succumbed to the pressure of his admirers.

But he didn’t dance with Daphne. Even in these most casual of circumstances, he knew better than that.

Afterward, when the party was over and he was being cajoled by his friends to join them in their revelry, he had no trouble declining their invitations. He was content to go home.

And were it not for Dalhousie, he would have gotten there.

It was a pleasant night for a stroll. Simon was only a block from Hargreave House when Dalhousie’s carriage stopped at the curb and several of Simon’s friends manhandled him into the carriage.

He could have resisted. He knew how to say no as well as anyone.

Perhaps he was tired of being the brunt of their jokes, or maybe he was tired of saying no to amusements when he seldom had, or perhaps he was wondering if it was worth the effort when no matter how dutiful he was, it wasn’t good enough for his wife.

He accompanied his friends to a small house on Half Moon Street where he’d spent considerable time in the past. Although, on principle, he still remained aloof from the intimacies of the private rooms, restricting his entertainments to gambling and drink. It took considerable willpower, however, to withstand the persistent invitations of the ladies of the house who had sorely missed Simon’s talents in bed.

But he did.

It was daylight when he found his way back to Hargreave House.

And when he came awake late that afternoon, he was greeted by Dalhousie and several other of his friends who had made themselves at home in his rooms.

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.