A Masked Deception

"Good night, Richard."

The draft Doctor Pearson had given her was taking effect almost before Brampton left the room. Margaret felt herself sink into a welcome fuzziness. Of all the teeming details of the day's happenings, her mind latched on to a very minor one for its last conscious thought.

He called me Meg, she thought, and plunged into a deep sleep.

Chapter 13

Two days later all the house guests had left Brampton Court except the dowager countess and Charles. Margaret had got up to see them on their way. It seemed that all had enjoyed themselves; some seemed almost reluctant to leave. A

It was midafternoon by the time all the carriages had been seen on their way. Brampton turned to his wife and offered her his arm.

"Would you care to walk in the air for a few minutes, my dear?" he asked.

They strolled in the direction of the rose garden, leaving Charles to accompany the dowager and Charlotte into the house for tea.

"You are looking much better," Brampton commented. "You even have roses in your cheeks."

"I am afraid all the excitement and preparations proved too much for me," Margaret said placidly. "I feel fine now. I felt most lazy for those two days I spent in bed."

"The gardener tells me there are some new buds here," he said. "Let us find them."

They chattered amicably for an hour or more. Brampton explained to his wife that now that his guests had left, he was pla

Margaret sat before her dressing-table mirror while Kitty patiently brushed out her waist-length hair and rebraided it. She stared sightlessly at her own reflection, trying not to give in to a mood of depression.

What was the matter with her that she could not hold her husband's attention? She felt over the last few weeks in the country that they were growing closer. On the day of the fair she had been convinced of it. Surely she could not have imagined the look of tenderness in his eyes on that night. He had kissed her for the first time (knowing it was she), and it had felt like a loving kiss. He had called her by name for the first time, and he had even used the shortened form that only her family had used before. And Margaret remembered the real alarm that had been in his voice as he had called out his orders to the footman when he was carrying her upstairs to her room. It had been such a magical night. If only she had not chosen such an inopportune time to faint!

But she had fully expected Richard to come to her the next day and call her Meg and look at her with the new tenderness. She had pictured him sitting on the edge of her bed and holding her hand as she told him about their child. Then he would hold her and kiss her again and tell her that he loved her. And they would live happily ever after.

Instead, she had waited until well into the afternoon and then he had come and stood beside her bed for no longer than five minutes and had called her "my dear." He had asked after her health, had forbidden her to get up either for di

Margaret had been bitterly disappointed-and she still held the secret of her pregnancy. She had hoped desperately that today, when Richard had finally allowed her downstairs to bid good-bye to their guests, he would treat her again with the intimacy that had begun three days before. Her hopes had soared when he had suggested a walk and then had led her directly to the rose garden. She had thought his suggestion a deliberate attempt to recapture the atmosphere of that earlier occasion when she had spoiled an intimate moment.

Yet all he had done was look at her new rosebuds with her and talk about his drainage schemes. And she was still just "my dear." They had strolled past the fountain as if it were just any fountain anywhere.

Margaret could have cried with vexation. Had he changed his mind? Had his behavior of the other night been motivated only by the music and the moonlight and the smell of roses? Had it only been wishful thinking to imagine that he was growing to love her?

In his own room, Brampton was feeling equally dissatisfied with the way things had gone in the last few days. He had been worried about his wife, but had concluded that the doctor must be right in saying that it was really only rest that she needed. After his insisting that she stay in bed for two days, she was looking better today. Some color had returned to her cheeks.

But in those two days they had returned to their former relationship, all trace of the warmth that had been growing between them gone. He had realized fully on the night of the fair that he loved his wife-loved her as a whole person. He loved her character, her sweetness, her quietness, her kindness; he loved her appearance, the slender daintiness of her, the heart-shaped face with the large, calm eyes, and the heavy brown braids; and he wanted her with more sexual longing than he had ever wanted any woman-even his angel, incredible as it seemed to him.

On that night he had believed that she felt the same way. He remembered the way she had danced with him, as if she shared in perfect harmony the rhythm of his body, and the way she had clung to his arm as they walked to the rose garden, and the way her body had fitted itself to his of her own free will when he kissed her. He remembered that she had not pulled away from him when the kiss was over, but had nestled her head on his shoulder and had seemed contented to be held.

Brampton had felt desire rise in him as they had stood there. He had been about to tell her that he loved her, about to suggest that they abandon their guests to their own devices for a while and return to the house. He had wanted to take her to his own bed and make love to her.

It had seemed to him that it was a singularly inopportune time for her to faint! And why had she done so? Could tiredness after all the busy activity of the previous few weeks entirely explain it? Was it possible that she had been frightened by the passion she could feel developing in their relationship? Was she contented to let things remain as they always had been? And yet her ma

When he had visited her the next day, Brampton had been nervous and unsure of himself. He did not know how he should behave. He had decided to take his cue from her. He had hoped desperately that she would smile at him, perhaps even hold out her arms to him, or at least show by her expression that she remembered the night before and wished to continue what they had started.

But there had been nothing. She had been lying on her back, the bedcovers drawn up under her arms, her hands clasped loosely over one another, her face with its usual expression of calm. Her eyes had watched him as he approached the bed, but there was nothing in them to encourage him. He had stood there formally, asking about her health, playing the heavy-handed lord and master by ordering her to remain in bed, leaving after five minutes, when he had really wanted to sit down beside her, draw her into his arms, and…