He clasped her arm harder, pulling her right against him. “You’re not leaving me, you understand? I never should have said that, because I won’t allow it.”
“You can’t stop me. I’m a baroness with my own land and fortune.”
His derisive snort hurt even worse than his grip on her arm. “Your land and fortune? Good luck with that, darling.”
She stuck her chin out. “I have enough to get by. Enough to live quietly and comfortably, which is all I ever wanted to do. And you’ll be happy to be rid of me.”
He scowled down at her, not answering. What did she want him to say? That she was wrong? That he needed her and loved her? Tonight’s events proved beyond a doubt that he’d be better off without her. He probably wished at the moment that he’d left her to Stafford. Stafford ought to have been her fate.
“Why can’t you just let me be who I am? An inappropriate and awful person whom no one likes?” Her voice rose to a shriek. “I won’t change, not ever. This is who I am and who I’ll always be. I’m going to Maitland Glen and I’m going to stay there, and you can’t stop me.”
The groom witnessed all of this, blank-faced, the door in his hands. Warren’s expression broke her heart. He felt no pity, no sympathy.
“You are ridiculous when you get this way.” He hustled her up the steps and into the carriage’s dark interior. “I can’t even speak to you in this state. But rest assured we’ll continue this discussion later.”
She had very little trouble understanding the tone of threat in his voice. This continuation would doubtless include some sort of severe punishment. Anxiety rose and constricted her throat.
“I don’t want to discuss anything,” she said. “I’m going to Maitland Glen.”
“Like hell you are. You’re going home to wait for me, as I instructed you. In the meantime, I have to go back in there to try to fix the damage you caused. I’ll have to tell everyone some made-up story about why your nerves were frayed to the breaking point, so they can talk about that rather than your melodramatic tirade.”
“People shouldn’t kill tigers,” she yelled as he backed down the steps. “Even pompous Lord Wester-whoever-he-is.”
“Westmoreland. Damn you, Josephine,” he yelled back, slamming the carriage door.
She was shut in darkness, cradled in the cushioned luxury of her husband’s largesse. Silence resounded after their heated exchange and her arm throbbed where he’d gripped it. She felt as if she were falling to pieces, one trembling limb at a time.
Why had he said such things to her? And why had she shouted back at him that she wanted to leave him? It wasn’t true. She only wanted him to accept her, to see her as more than some form of career currency. She needed him for his laughter and his smiles, and the way he encouraged her, but she’d failed him, and the truth was, she always would. She was a wild, pathetic creature like the poor elephants and lions that man had killed. Like the tiger on his study floor…
She knew she would dream of tigers tonight, toss and turn in terror-filled nightmares. Escaping that ballroom had been like running out into the jungle, fearful for her life. The feelings of danger and hysteria had been right there, vivid as the day her parents died. She put her head in her hands, chasing away the memories. Perhaps she ought to go back to India or Africa, where at least she wasn’t expected to fit in. But such travel was out of the question, at least for now.
There was only one place she could run to in England, one place that was completely her own, where she could hide from her pain and feelings and love for Lord Warren. Once she was there he would understand it was best, and perhaps he’d let her remain there.
It was her home, her only home, no matter how shabby and run-down it was.
*** *** ***
Warren knew he shouldn’t be at the club. He ought to be home working things out with his wife, but he was too disturbed by the wretched things they’d said to each other. Hated him, did she? He rather hated himself.
He’d sat down to a game of cards with Stafford, for no other reason than to punish himself for his actions. He was losing badly, but he deserved it and so he kept throwing down money and playing more hands. Finally Townsend showed up and extracted him from his spiral, inviting him to a quieter parlor for a drink.
Why not? He was already spectacularly drunk and hoped to be even drunker before he stumbled home to pass out. Towns caught him when he tripped and almost pitched to the floor. Not very dignified, falling down drunk. Certainly no more dignified than Josephine bawling out Westmoreland, but Warren was a man, and therefore permitted to publicly act like an arse every once in a while.
“Steady on,” murmured Townsend, leading him to a deep, upholstered bench. “You’re losing your touch, Warren. You used to be able to drink all of us under the table, and still get the prettiest ladies.”
“Because my cock is impervious to spirits,” he said.
“Maybe a little quieter,” replied Townsend, glancing around. “Was it necessary to drink yourself into a stupor over this?”
“You were there. You tell me.”
Townsend grimaced. “They hounded her a bit, I think, and that’s why she snapped the way she did. I tried to change the subject several times, but you know Westmoreland when he starts blathering on.”
“Someone told me she called him a fat old hound.”
“She didn’t. People are exaggerating, as they always do when something sensational happens. Westmoreland won’t hold a grudge.”
“Yes, he will.” Warren groaned, burying his head in his hands. “Why’s the fellow got to go around shooting wild animals and bragging about it to my wife, anyway? She apparently loves the damn things.”
“She has a good heart.”
He grasped his friend’s sleeve. “She’s good all over, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. She’s a magnificent woman.”
“Of course.” Townsend gently disengaged his fingers.
“I married her because I had to, sure, but I wouldn’t have anyone else now, not for anything. She lets me do things to her that even Odd Sally—”
Townsend shushed him. “Let’s not talk about that here. Blast, you’re tipsy as a wheelbarrow.” He took away Warren’s half-filled glass of brandy before he could drain the rest. His friend asked the attendant for strong tea and Warren swore at him. Meddling friends.
Townsend swore back at him, oath for oath. “It’s time to stop wallowing in liquor and cards and put your mind to fixing this mess,” he said when the attendant left them. “My wife did what she could to defend Josephine afterward, but you know how ladies are. If you don’t do something to stem the tide of gossip, they’ll still be talking about this next season.”
“By next season, Josie will have done a dozen more outrageous things for people to talk about, and Westmoreland will hate me forever.”
Townsend gave him a sharp look. “Does Westmoreland’s regard mean more to you than your wife?”
“Westmoreland could be prime minister,” Warren slurred in his defense. “She oughtn’t to have ripped up at the man.”
“But she did, and what’s done is done. Do you care for her? Enough to forgive her?”
Warren felt old and tired. And guilty. Poor Josephine, his tiger girl.
“I shook her and yelled at her out by the carriage,” he said. “I swore at her. She dreams about tigers, Townsend. She cries sometimes in her sleep. It’s even worse than Minette and her wanderings.”
His friend watched him. Warren wasn’t sure he was making any sense but it was all too clear in his own mind. He’d been a horrid, selfish bastard. All he had cared about was himself, his need for her to be accepted, to be social and outgoing when it wasn’t in her nature. Why can’t you just let me be who I am? Inappropriate and awful, she had said, but it wasn’t true.
“She wants to leave me. She wants to live at Maitland Glen.” He put his head down on his arm and slumped upon the bench.
“I’m sure she doesn’t want to leave you,” said Townsen
d. “She was only upset.”
“She ought to leave me. I’m a bastard of a husband.”
“You’ve been a good husband to her. You’ve been faithful. You’ve tried to help her.” He nudged his arm. “Listen, we all make mistakes. I’ve done things to my wife I’ll always regret, but she forgave me. I’ve tried not to do them again, but I probably will one day, and I pray she’ll forgive me again. That’s love, Warren. It’s not always pretty.”
Warren levered himself up. He must look a sight, mumbling and slobbering drunk. He took some of the tea, thinking of life without Josephine. She hated him. He believed that she did. He also believed he deserved it.