Lady Harriet got to her feet as they approached and flung her arms about Clare’s shoulders in a fierce, brief hug.
‘Good luck,’ she whispered, under cover of the hug, then darted a glance in Lord Rawcliffe’s direction and one back to her, full of sympathy. Suddenly, Clare had had enough. No matter what she thought of him, Lord Rawcliffe was her husband now and part of her duty as a wife was to support him. She’d always despised those women who did nothing but complain about every single little flaw their husband possessed. It was so disloyal.
So she lifted her chin. Patted her husband’s hand where it lay on her arm.
‘Thank you for your good wishes, Lady Harriet. And for your generosity to me.’
And then, with her head held high, she walked out of the room on her husband’s arm, determined not to look back.
CHAPTER TEN
His heart was beating so fast it was making his hands shake. She’d clung to his arm. Recoiled from the way Lady Harriet had practically invited her to bemoan her lot and walked out with her nose in the air as though she felt offended.
The way a wife ought to behave.
He wasn’t sure what it meant, but whatever it was, he was not a man to look a gift horse in the mouth. He kept her hand clamped to his arm until the very last moment, handing her into his carriage himself rather than allowing his footman the pleasure.
By the time he climbed in she was sitting bolt upright, her hands folded primly on her lap.
‘Are you comfortable?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied, looking anything but.
Still, he acknowledged her statement with a nod before thumping on the roof with his silver-topped cane.
Her eyes widened as the coach lurched forward. As though she couldn’t believe that he’d consulted her before giving the driver the office to depart. As if he was incapable of thinking of anyone but himself and his own comfort.
Which was much more like her. For this was the woman who had never believed him capable of doing anything good. Even today, even after all he’d done for her, her little mouth had pursed up with scepticism as he’d repeated his marriage vows. And when he’d tried to offer her some comfort by holding her hand, when he’d seen how nervous she was, to demonstrate that at least he could fulfil the cherishing part, all he’d got was a dirty look for defying the vicar.
He’d been sorely tempted to show her exactly how a man behaved who didn’t give a rap for his marriage vows, on the way to their wedding breakfast. He’d had to grit his teeth and recite whole chunks of Ovid under his breath to prevent her from arriving with bruised lips and rumpled clothing, rather than with her dignity intact.
He’d been the very model of propriety. And what was his reward?
There wasn’t one.
‘Don’t look so surprised,’ he drawled, leaning back in his seat as though her total lack of faith in him didn’t matter in the slightest. ‘It is only good manners to ensure that any passenger in my coach is ready before signalling to the driver to depart. I wouldn’t want anyone flung from their seat and landing on the floor with broken knees.’
‘Not even me?’
She had that look on her face. The one that showed she was spoiling for a fight.
‘Especially not you,’ he flung back at her. ‘Since I have so recently vowed to cherish you.’
‘Yes, well…’
There! He knew it. She thought him the kind of man who would make vows, in public, he had no intention of keeping.
‘But then, you surprised me, too,’ he continued. ‘When you resisted the temptation to join Lady Harriet in bemoaning your fate.’
‘I have never approved of wives,’ she retorted, ‘who behave as if their husband was a cross they had to bear.’
It felt like a slap. He should have known it would be something to do with her principles, or her pride, that had made her refuse to stoop to Lady Harriet’s level, rather than any tender feelings she might be developing towards him.
‘Not even the ones,’ he bit out, determined to force her to see how absurd she was being, ‘whose husbands come home intoxicated and beat them?’
‘Oh, well, yes, those ones may have some excuse for complaining, but ironically those are the ones who rarely do. In my experience, that is. In the parish of Watling Minor, anyway. I cannot speak for wives of violent men in general.’