The China Bride

A week at Dornleigh gave Troth a deep appreciation for why Kyle had fled the place. The feng shui was terrible-jarring angles, a combination of clutter in some areas and dead emptiness in others, and a general air of gloom.

Perhaps that suited her husband, who drifted around the huge old house like a ghost. Courteous, but so detached he was barely there even on the rare occasions when they spoke. Clearly he was suffering from a malaise worse than illness and fatigue. On some deep level, his spirit had been grievously injured. The intense curiosity and enjoyment of life he'd had when they met was gone, leaving a polite shell of a man.

She yearned to help him, but didn't know how and feared doing the wrong thing. It was hard enough keeping her own spirits up during a week trapped inside this mausoleum by relentless rain.

She spent her time reading, exploring, and cautiously building relationships with the senior servants. Most of all, she waited for some sign of encouragement from her husband. The doubts-and the power-were in his hands. He must make the first move.

How would he manage at the grand reception Wrexham was giving the next night to welcome his son home? Everyone important in the area had been invited. Though Kyle would know most of the guests, such a gathering would surely exhaust him. Troth found the prospect frankly terrifying and intended to stay in her room. Unlike at the Warfield Christmas ball, she wouldn't be missed.

Then the sun came out. As she brushed her hair from its night braid that morning, she feasted her eyes on the magnificent Northamptonshire hills. The rain had nurtured an explosion of spring greenery, and clumps of brilliant yellow daffodils bloomed under trees and hedges. Now she understood why Kyle had wanted to return-not for the grim house, but for this lovely land.

As she coiled her hair into a demure knot at her nape, she was struck by the happy idea of asking Kyle if he'd like to go for a ride. Perhaps he'd enjoy showing her around the estate. Since Wrexham's gout prevented him from riding, she and her husband could have an hour or two of privacy. Perhaps they'd recapture some of the easy conversation and pleasure in each other's company they'd known in China.

Buoyant at the prospect, she rang for Bessy, the maid who had been assigned to her, and asked for her riding habit. Even if Kyle refused her invitation, she would ride alone. Her body craved physical activity after being cooped up for so long.

She hadn't done chi exercises since before they'd visited Hoshan. First she'd been too busy traveling; then she'd been cramped in the tiny cabin on the sailing ship. Occasionally she'd considered starting again at Warfield, where any eccentricity would have been accepted without a blink, but such un-English activities didn't belong in the life of the decorous Lady Maxwell.

Troth swallowed a hasty meal of tea, toasted bread, and marmalade. She could face luncheon and dinner with Kyle and Wrexham, but she allowed herself breakfast in her room as an escape from the tension in the household.

With the assistance of Bessy, she donned her riding habit. It was a sober navy blue, but the seamstress had trimmed it with military-style gold braid, and the effect was rather dashing.

She caught up the sweeping skirts and skipped downstairs, feeling lighthearted and optimistic. Perhaps Kyle would enjoy the ride so much that he'd be interested in another, more intimate sort of gallop…

She chided herself for low thoughts, though she had them often. Kyle might be too drained for desire, but she wasn't, and it was a constant strain not to touch him. To go into his arms for a kiss, and hope to ignite a flare of mutual desire.

One step at a time. Seeing the butler, she asked, 'Do you know where Lord Maxwell is, Hawking?'

'I believe he's in the study, my lady.' He gave her riding habit an approving glance. 'A fine day for a ride, my lady. I'm sure Lord Maxwell would enjoy that.'

'I hope so.' Born and raised at Dornleigh, Hawking was very fond of the young master. Troth felt they had an unspoken pact on Kyle's behalf.

During her explorations of the past week, she'd learned that the study was a cozy room off the main library. With a fireplace, a writing desk, and several comfortable chairs, it was the most welcoming of the public rooms. It would be pleasant to sit there and read with Kyle in the evenings…

She crossed the library and was almost to the open door of the study when she heard voices inside. Gruffly Wrexham said, 'So there you are, Maxwell. Can't hide from me forever.'

'No?' Kyle replied lightly. 'I've done a decent job of it so far.'

Since neither of the men could see her, Troth paused, wondering if she should leave them to discuss business. But it was too beautiful a day to waste, especially since Kyle needed fresh air and sunshine.

A chair creaked as Wrexham sat. 'When are you going to deal with that girl?'

Troth froze. Kyle said in a forbidding voice, 'I presume you mean my wife.'

'She's no wife,' his father retorted. 'That ridiculous ceremony would have been irregular even in Scotland. In China, it didn't mean a damned thing. You must put her aside so you can choose a proper wife.'

'Though the legality is questionable, we both considered the ceremony binding.'

'She was your damned mistress! I don't blame you for that-she's an attractive wench, and nothing if not biddable-but you'd never have gone through that travesty of a marriage if you hadn't thought you'd be dead the next day.'

'It's true that being sentenced to death gave me the idea,' Kyle said wearily, 'but that's irrelevant. Having pledged myself in good faith, I can't casually set her aside now.'

'You can, and you will! I was willing to accept her as your widow, but not as the next Countess of Wrexham.'

'Why not?'

'For God's sake, don't play the fool,' Wrexham said with disgust. 'She's Chinese, and damned if I'll allow a future Earl of Wrexham to have slanted eyes.'

Shaking, Troth sank into a library chair. All of her efforts to act like an English lady had been useless. In Wrexham's view, the fact of her mixed blood would always outweigh any qualities of intelligence or character that she might possess.

'In the nature of things, you'll be dead long before this highly theoretical child would assume your honors,' Kyle said dryly. 'I promised Troth my protection and freely gave her my name. What kind of Earl of Wrexham would I be if I broke my word because things have turned out differently than expected?'

He hadn't said anything about love, or passion, or even friendship. To him, she was merely an obligation. A burden.

'Since she helped gain your release from prison, you can't just turn her out,' Wrexham agreed. 'You can afford to be generous. A settlement of two thousand pounds a year will make her a rich woman. She can go to London and collect as many lovers as she wants. You weren't the first, and you certainly won't be the last.'

As she buried her burning face in her hands, Kyle said in a voice of pure ice, 'Troth's honor and virtue are irreproachable, and I will not allow her to be insulted by you or any man. Do I make myself clear?'

Numbly Troth supposed she should be grateful for that, at least. But once more he spoke from duty, not caring.

Unable to bear any more, she rose and left the quarreling voices behind as she escaped into the front hall. Mercifully, no one was around to see her flight up to her room. There she folded onto the bed and wrapped herself into a tight, trembling ball.

Her marriage was over. Marriage? Not even that-though she'd felt he was her husband, he'd obviously never really thought of her as his wife. She was merely an inconvenient souvenir he'd acquired in his travels.

Even if he'd still wanted her, there could be no marriage in the face of Wrexham's adamant disapproval. Kyle might chafe, but ultimately he would surrender because a son must obey his father. There was no place for Troth at Dornleigh, and since they had never truly been married, there was no reason to stay.

Moreover, she didn't want to. Be damned to Wrexham and Maxwell both! She was a daughter of the Celestial Kingdom, and their rejection proved that Fan-qui truly were barbarians. She would rather die than stay here. She didn't need the Renbournes, nor any man's pity.

With a rage unlike any she'd ever known, she rang for her maid, then began to pack. The trunk was too large to carry, but she had a pair of carpetbags. One she packed with a basic wardrobe of practical clothing, and the