Chapter Twenty-Six
Christian stood stiffly beside her. Even though she couldn’t look at him, Ravenna knew he gazed out the window the same as she, that he was playing with that hat again, for she could tell by the way he wiggled that he tapped it impatiently against his thigh.
“Heathens built this horrid house,” he was saying. “To locate it in such an exposed position next to the sea—you’ll have to forgive my ancestors, Sir. Like my wife, I’m afraid they didn’t know any better.”
“Yes, yes, I can see we’ll not finish today, either,” the painter replied. “You may move now, Lord Launceston, as it seems there’s no stopping you. We’ll try again tomorrow.”
Mr. Copley went on sketching even though Christian immediately took his arm out of Ravenna’s and, loosening his shoulders in obvious displeasure, turned his back on her. “Oh, incidentally, I won’t be here tomorrow,” Christian said. “I’ve been summoned to Launceston—what a pity.”
“And I’m just now finding out?” Ravenna asked.
“If it suits me, I needn’t tell you at all.” He tossed the hat on the painter’s table. “He has enough now to finish. Besides, I can’t imagine why you should care what I do. I know you and James will only rejoice in being rid of me.”
“With that attitude, maybe we will.”
“I’m certain you will,” Christian replied. “Perhaps in my absence you could reminisce about him. You could even set an extra place at table, lest his spirit be attracted by your gloom and wander in for supper. God might let him come, you never know.”
And seeing that Ravenna was already conjuring up images, Christian turned away in disgust. With wine bottle in hand, he made for the door. “Paint the dog as her husband, why don’t you. She loves him better.”
White, well-mannered, and with a ruff around his neck reminiscent of a collie, the dog he referred to was a wedding present from James. Ravenna called him Shasta. It amused her that Christian hated the dog; Shasta couldn’t get enough of his master, would often follow him room to room until finally Christian would relent and pet it. This, to Ravenna, was the best entertainment—watching her husband driven crazy by a pet.
And Ravenna loved to irritate Christian. Trailing him upstairs, she watched as he slopped down the bottle on the table, pulled off his jacket and, in a grand show of obvious distaste, threw it to the floor. Searching for another in the clothes-press—probably the coat with the diamond buttons—he said, “Must you trail me like a bitch in heat?”
She merely smiled. While he fiddled with his hair in the girandole mirror, put each strand in place so his full concentration was engaged in his appearance, she came up behind him. She knew how to get even with him. She knew what would put the fear in him, and leaning up against his back, setting her chin upon his shoulder, she slid her hands up his arms and waited for the expected response.
He froze, his fingers stilled in mid-preen.
“Don’t go with Richardson tonight,” she said.
He took in a deep breath. “Do you listen at all?” He pulled roughly out of her hands. “I’m going to Launceston, I told you as much. I’ve been sent for to offer my inspection of the roof, and if you’d for a moment put the Paddy out of your thoughts, you’d know that, Ravenna.”
“No, you’re going with Richardson.” She watched him straighten his starched cravat. “I know you, Christian. You’re going to the clubs. Haven’t you lost enough of my money?”
“There you have it wrong again—it’s our money, not yours.”
She shook her head. “James gave me that money for the roof, not for gambling. What will you pay those workmen with?”
“How unhealthy, this preoccupation you have with money. Why must the world—”
“I know, why must the world revolve around money? Just stop it. You’re going to end up in debtor’s prison and I’m warning you, I won’t bail you out.”
When his eyes met Ravenna’s in the girandole mirror, his brow wrinkled dangerously. “You’d leave me the way you did at Nootka, wouldn’t you? You’d let me die in prison, after sharing my company, my meals, my bed?”
“You won’t die.”
He stifled a snicker. “I’ve heard that one before, Beloved.”
“If you’d just stay home and stop gambling, stop drinking and try to do something constructive with your life—”
“Why? So I may live in celibacy beside you, sober enough to hear your every prayer to him? I’ll have the money through you or through James, but either way, I will have it.”
“I don’t believe you anymore.”
He picked the dog hair off his sleeve. “Believe what?”
“That you’d challenge James’s inheritance just to have money to gamble with.”
“Oh, but I would,” he said, and slipping off his shoes—the ones he’d gotten in Barbados for the wedding—he put on his favorites with the pointed toes. “After all, what else do I possess that fulfills me as much as spending money? Whores in Covent Garden come very dear these days, especially when they know I’m Lord Launceston.”
“I’m paying for whores now?”
“Should there be a reason for me to stay home, perhaps a wife who kept her word and performed her wifely duties, then I’d not find so much to interest me beyond the bedchamber door, would I?”
“If I had a husband who respected me,” she said, “then I might be more interested.”
“I do nothing but respect you! If you can’t appreciate the self-discipline I’ve shown in your bed, when you dress, even in the face of your advances when you’ve no intention of according me satisfaction, then perhaps my generosity is wasted upon you.”
“I don’t think it’s generosity, Christian. I think you’ve spared me because you’re afraid.”
“There you go again. How many times must I tell you, only women are capable of fearing copulation. It’s the size, you see. But then, with the Paddy, you wouldn’t understand about size, would you? Perhaps I should educate you. Perhaps then you’d forget about him.”
“If you were going to force me, you’d have done it long ago.”
“Maybe I’ve only just determined that my services are called for, to eradicate his memory and make you understand that what you need is not kindness or respect, but a good—”
“You won’t do it.”
“I won’t?”
“You know if you do any of the things you threaten, there’s no chance at all that I’ll ever love you.”
“If I had James’s fortune at my disposal and my sex between your legs, perhaps I wouldn’t care so much you didn’t love me.”
Ravenna met his cold stare. “You can threaten all you want, but I don’t believe you’d really hurt me.”
“And what about your Celtic runt? Do you trust me with him?” Christian stepped nearer, regarded her carefully. “Perhaps he’d like to visit the Foundling Hospital? I hear they give their orphans the very best in musical education.”
“You wouldn’t hurt the baby, Christian. You wouldn’t do it, I know you too well.”
“Do you think so?” The cast of desperation to his gray eyes then, the strength of his intended threat, it made Ravenna think she didn’t know him. “You’ve no idea what I’m capable of,” he snarled in a low voice, “the horrors I’ve committed in your name.”
Turning away, he tugged on the rope that would ring for the servants. He went to the clothes-press, and she glowered while he gathered his breeches, his shirts, his strong perfume. When a footman appeared, he ordered the carriage readied for London, and without so much as glancing at Ravenna, he went to the window and looked out over the lawn.
Rain pooled on the window casement. A strong wind blew off the ocean swells, and the sky was so dark that the clouds and the sea seemed to have melted into one. With his back to her, Christian continued to stand in front of that window. She knew the weather didn’t concern him. He was avoiding her. He’d insulted and threatened, and next he would leave.
“Oh, don’t loo
k at me so,” he said at last. He still hadn’t turned around. “You know I wish the baby no harm.”
“I know you love me,” she whispered. “No matter what you say or threaten, I know inside you do love me.”
Where he stood before the window, Christian’s blond head inclined slightly toward the glass. He cleared his throat, and it was a moment before Ravenna heard his reply, gentler this time. “Then let me spend the money. Give me at least that.”