by Mary Balogh
The dowager duchess was not amused by his gallantry and showed her displeasure by inclining her head stiffly and regally to the colonel, taking a seat next to Mrs. Persall, and engaging her in conversation.
Henrietta smiled and extended a hand, which the colonel took and fetched to his lips. “La, sir,” she said, “I am but a widow, a dowager though not in name. My late husband was Luke’s elder brother.”
“A dowager?” he said, retaining her hand in his and seating her beside him on a sofa after Luke and Anna had sat down. “Your youth and beauty would make a mockery of the title, madam.” He released her hand.
Henrietta continued to smile at him.
He turned his attention to Anna. “I have been told, your grace,” he said, “that you have recently presented your husband with a child. A son, ’tis to be hoped?”
“A daughter,” she said.
“Ah.” He smiled kindly. “I am sure she is a treasure to you, madam, and to his grace.” He inclined his head to Luke. “Your husband already has his heir in Lord Ashley Kendrick, I believe?”
“Yes,” she said.
Conversation became general and the tea tray was brought in. The party from Bowden took their leave after half an hour had passed and more callers had arrived.
“I can see,” Colonel Lomax said with a laugh when he stood out on the terrace with them, “that I have been fortunate enough to take up residence in a hospitable part of the world. It means a great deal to me to have amiable neighbors.” He handed Henrietta into the carriage after Luke had done the like for his mother. “I shall look forward to furthering my acquaintance with all of you who have been kind enough to call.”
He smiled appreciatively at Henrietta and turned to Anna, hand extended. But she already had her hand in Luke’s and ascended the steps and seated herself with his assistance.
“I shall also look forward to meeting your young daughter, your grace,” he said. “I am inordinately fond of children.”
Anna inclined her head to him but said nothing as Luke seated himself beside her and their coachman closed the door and climbed up to his seat again. Colonel Lomax smiled and raised a hand in farewell as the carriage started on its way back to Bowden Abbey.
“Oh, la.” Henrietta laughed. “I cannot say I am sorry William has taken Agnes on a wedding journey. I vow the colonel is a most charming man. Would you not agree, Mother?”
“A little too free in his manners, perhaps,” the dowager said. “But he made an effort to make himself agreeable. When he returns our call, Lucas, you must invite him to dinner.”
“You may be sure I shall do all that is correct, madam,” Luke said.
Anna smiled brightly. “What a beautiful day it is,” she said. “And what a shame that we have had to spend a part of it inside a carriage and paying a call.”
“Duty is something that must be done regardless of the weather or one’s personal inclinations, Anna,” her mother-in-law reminded her.
Anna smiled warmly at her. “Yes I know, Mother,” she said. “That is why I am here. I wonder where Agnes and William are at this very moment. They were going to Paris first? You gave them introductions there, Luke, did you not? But ’twould not surprise me at all if neither of them calls on anyone you recommended to them.”
“Madam?” He raised his eyebrows.
“They will take fright, imagining that any friend of yours must be alarmingly grand,” she said. “And I daresay they would be right.” She laughed at his look of surprise and chattered brightly for the rest of the journey home.
• • •
At first Henrietta had not been sure. It had seemed too incredible. But there had been no mistaking those intent eyes and that perfect smile and the distinctive smell of his cologne. And he had squeezed her hand more tightly than a stranger would have done.
She brimmed over with excitement. He was a wonderfully handsome man. More handsome than she had imagined. And charming. All the other ladies there had devoured him with their eyes. While he had devoured her with his.
And Anna had known him. Oh, yes, indeed she had, clever as she had been at disguising the fact. She had known him yet not acknowledged the acquaintance. There had been fear in Anna, well contained but quite visible to Henrietta’s eyes.
It was all a glorious mystery, which was to be uncovered at last.
He had come back. And somehow—she had no idea how—he was going to destroy Anna. And perhaps Luke too.
Suddenly the world seemed a brighter place again.
• • •
Normally Anna would have made haste to the nursery after returning from an afternoon call. Joy was usually awake at this time of day even though she was not due for a feed for more than an hour yet. She had started to smile, though she was usually more willing to oblige for her father than for her mother. And she was a good child, placid and cheerful.
But today after excusing herself and hurrying upstairs, Anna did not turn in the direction of the nursery, but rushed instead into her sitting room and closed the door firmly behind her. She leaned back against it and wished there were a lock on the door, but it did not matter. Luke never came there now, and it was unlikely that anyone else would call on her there for a while. They would all assume she was with Joy.
Her hands were cold and clammy. She held them out in front of her and watched them tremble out of control. She was so breathless that for a few moments she was afraid she would not be able to suck in enough air to keep herself conscious. There was a coldness and a buzzing in her head. Her knees felt as if they would buckle under her at any moment. She sat down heavily in the nearest chair.
She might have expected it. Why had she not expected it and prepared herself? She had thought of it, of course, when William had first mentioned at Christmas that he was going to lease his house to a tenant, but she had been instantly reassured by his mention of the man’s name. She had gone to Wycherly today quite unsuspecting. She had entered the drawing room with a smile on her face.
Oh, dear God, dear God, dear God. She spread icy, shaking hands over her face and lowered it into her full, hooped skirt. Dear God. But there was nothing particularly dear about God to her these days. He had not helped her at all in the last three years unless it was in the gift of Luke and Joy. It was a cruel gift—one that had brought illusions of happiness and security. One that was about to be snatched away from her.
He had behaved exactly as he had always behaved at Elm Court and in its neighborhood. He had behaved with warmth and charm and had made everyone like him and feel an eagerness to have him return their calls, to have him become part of their social life. He had looked exactly as he had always looked there—handsome, fashionable, virile, attractive. Henrietta had fallen under his spell. Even Luke’s mother had thawed noticeably after that first and only mistake he had made in trying to flatter her.
Anna sat up again and set her head against the cushions at the back of the chair. It was all going to start again in earnest, then. It was going to be just as it had been at Elm Court. There would be the visits and the demands for money in payment of her father’s debts, as there had been by letter in the months following her marriage. And perhaps demands that she help him in other ways—help him to cheat and steal from her neighbors and friends. No. She gripped the arms of the chair tightly. Not that. Never that again. There at least she would draw the line.
What was she to do? Her instinct at this very moment was to go to Luke and tell him everything, every sordid detail. She tried to imagine the overpowering relief she would feel at being able to unburden herself to her husband. To the man she had grown to love more than life. She tried to imagine it, but all she could see behind her closed eyelids was Luke’s face, first disbelieving, then disdainful, and then cold and thin-lipped. And she pictured him taking their daughter from her and hiring a wet nurse. And having her carried off to a magistrate elsewhere, far away, s
o that the scandal would be somewhat lessened.
Her breathing quickened again. She would never see them again. Ever.
The imaginings were ridiculous, she thought. Luke would never react that way. She was his wife. Lately he had made her his friend. He felt . . . surely he must feel some affection for her. Surely he would listen with sympathy. Surely he would help her.
But she thought of how he had reacted on a previous occasion to someone who had offended and hurt him. His brother George. Not only had he never forgiven his brother in this life, he would not even go near his grave.
Oh, no, she could not risk it. She could not risk losing everything. The stakes were so much higher now. There was Joy now as well as Luke.
But she was going to lose everything anyway. She felt that the final denouement was somehow near. At some time, perhaps soon, perhaps far in the future, he was going to take her away—away from Luke, away from Joy, perhaps away from England. Was she going to go meekly? Or was she going to fight? But how would she fight? Tell Luke? If she was going to tell him when the time came, why not tell him now?
Why had she not told him that day he came to propose marriage to her? Or better still, why had she not just refused his proposal? By now she would be with Sir Lovatt wherever it was he planned to take her. She would know what he had in store for her—as his mistress, as his wife, as neither. But at least she would know. And she would not have allowed herself the treacherous luxury of happiness. And hope.
Anna’s mind teemed with conflicting thoughts and emotions and decisions. Her body fought against the urge to send her hurtling into her dressing room to vomit.
• • •
Luke was in the library, thumbing through a book he had drawn from a shelf but not really seeing it. He, too, would normally have gone up to the nursery at this time of day. The lure of playing with his daughter when she was awake was usually irresistible. Under other circumstances he would probably have suggested that he and Anna take her outside for a walk. It really was a lovely day.
But he had come to the library instead and shut the door firmly behind him.
Colonel Henry Lomax was a gentleman of some refinement. He had presence and conversation and a fashionable appearance for an Englishman. He had displayed an easy amiability toward his male guests and charm toward the ladies. He would doubtless be much in demand through the summer until the novelty of his presence in the neighborhood had worn off, and perhaps even beyond that. Henrietta had been noticeably drawn by his charm. That at least was a promising sign.
Luke frowned and snapped the book shut. But what the devil had the man been doing standing half hidden behind a tree in the middle of the square outside the church on the day of his wedding to Anna? Had it been pure coincidence that he had been there and curiosity that had held him there to watch? But if that were so, would he not have commented this afternoon on the strange fact that he had seen the duke and duchess on the day of their wedding? There had not been a flicker. of recognition in his eyes when they had entered his drawing room.
Luke himself had not mentioned it either, of course. Perhaps the colonel was too embarrassed to admit the fact that he had stood and watched a wedding party, like an uninvited guest, just like the people of the lower orders.
Luke replaced the book on its shelf and absently drew out another. That was not the only peculiar fact, though. There was also his strange conviction—but surely he must be wrong—that Colonel Lomax was the man who had walked with Anna at Ranelagh. He had been cloaked and hooded and masked. It had been impossible to gain anything more than an impression of height and slimness. There were probably a few thousand tall, slim men in England. It was foolish to imagine that he had recognized the same man in the new neighbor he had called on this afternoon. Lomax and Anna had shown no sign of having recognized each other.
But Luke could remember on both occasions—outside the church and at Ranelagh—that fleeting feeling he had had that he should know the man, though he had made no connection at the time between the two incidents. He had had the same feeling this afternoon. Lomax, Lomax . . . the name meant nothing to him, and physical recognition, if that was what it was, had eluded him.
It was all very foolish, he thought now, pushing the second book back into place impatiently and turning resolutely away from the bookshelf. If Lomax was the man outside the church—and Luke was almost sure he was—then his appearance there had been coincidental and of no significance whatsoever. And Lomax was surely not the man from Ranelagh—he could not be. If Luke had seen him before—possibly in France—then it had been so fleetingly that the memory of the occasion would not come back to him. It was quite unimportant.
He sat down behind the desk, rested his elbows on its top, and steepled his fingers, tapping them absently together. He realized that he had not taken the simple step of asking Anna if she had any previous acquaintance with Lomax. And he realized too, with some unease, that he would not ask her.
Was he afraid of the answer? Or the lack of an answer?
He frowned across the room. Why the devil had he not asserted his full authority from the start? Why had he permitted her to retain a secret that had deprived him of one of his marital rights? Why had he not forced her to tell it right then at the start?
His frown deepened. And what the devil connection was he imagining between her secret and the arrival of a perfectly amiable neighbor whom he had spotted once before, quite by accident, on his wedding day and whom Anna had never seen in her life before this afternoon?
• • •
With the coming of spring there were changes at Bowden Abbey. Luke had found a new steward, Howard Fox, who came well recommended. He was to begin work within a few weeks, as soon as he had served out his notice at his previous employment. Ashley was to join the East India Company and to leave for India as soon as he was called. He was enthusiastic about his future, and Luke was happy for him. There he would be able to make his own way in life, as Luke had done. But things would be different for Ashley. He would know that he had the love and support of his family behind him—though his mother thought he was disgracing his name by associating himself with a business enterprise. Ashley would know that he could come back at any time.
And with the coming of spring Doris was returning to London for the entertainments of the Season. Indeed, she would have been on her way there sooner if the christening and the wedding had not kept her and her mother at home. Luke had not done quite as well at making his peace with Doris as he had with Ashley, though they had at least been able to treat each other civilly for a few months.
He wished for her happiness. He hoped she would have better experiences this year to obliterate the bitter memories of the year before. Nevertheless, he would probably have been content to let her go without any private or personal word had Anna allowed him to get away with it. But she would not.
“Doris will be leaving the day after tomorrow,” she told him two nights after they had made their visit to their new neighbor.
He grunted a reply. He was only half a remove from sleep, having just finished making love to her.
“Are you going to have a word with her?” she asked.
He resigned himself to staying awake for a few minutes longer. “A fatherly admonition to behave herself and not repeat last year’s indiscretion?” he said. “Hardly, Anna.”
“I would hope not,” she said fervently. “Have you ever told her that you love her?”
“Not since I was twenty,” he said. “I believe she has passed the age of craving an outpouring of love from a mere brother, Anna.”
“Oh, there you are wrong,” she said. “And I know you love her, Luke. There is no point in reminding me that you know nothing of love as I am sure you are about to do. She needs to hear that you trust her, that you desire her happiness, that you love her. ’Tis what she has waited for all year.”
He considered her wor
ds. Did it matter to Doris? She seemed to have done very well without him for the past year. Except at the beginning, she had not appeared either sullen or moping as he had fully expected. But he knew that Anna was right. He had felt the rift himself. And fleetingly—just fleetingly—he felt the old resentment at the responsibilities and obligations that he had been burdened with though he had not asked for any of them.
“Yes, madam,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “May I go to sleep now?”
“Yes, you may,” she said, snuggling closer, but he thought he detected disappointment in her voice. Just as he had felt the suggestion of desperation and clinging in her arms and her body while they had made love. The same sort of desperation, but more controlled, as he had experienced on two previous occasions. But he did not want to consider the reasons for it just now.
“I shall have a word with her tomorrow,” he said. “And I shall have a word with Theo next time I see him about talking me into marrying you.”
This was better, he thought when he heard her chuckle against his shoulder. And yet he was learning something about himself. He had not suspected himself capable of cowardice before. But he had teased her instead of confronting the issue that was in the forefront of his mind.
And he no longer felt sleepy at all.
Damnation.
• • •
Doris looked at him in some surprise the following morning when he strolled into the breakfast parlor and asked to have a word with her when she had finished eating. But he did not make the mistake he had made on a previous occasion. When she came into his office a short time later, looking rather wary and defiant, he did not remain behind the barrier of his desk.
“’Tis a little cloudy outside this morning,” he said, “but not cold. Shall we stroll in the garden?”
She looked even more suspicious than she had before.