The Sometime Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  Slowly, Cat pirouetted, displaying the full extent of the dramatic shearing, her red-gold fall of hair now shorter by at least twelve inches. “You will have to like it, I fear,” she said lightly, “for there is no putting it back.”

  Amabel, recalling the reason for her visit, drew Cat away from Clara, Blanca and her own mother. “I have the most astonishing news,” she confided as the two young women found chairs in a corner far from the others. “Anthony’s brother Alexander is back in London. It was all a hum. He is not mad or disfigured but has been with Wellington all this time. As a spy! And, Cat . . .” Amabel was forced to pause for breath. “They are as alike as two sides of a clam—say nothing!—but Papa says Anthony was a spy too. They are both heroes. Is that not the most exciting thing?” Amabel’s blue eyes shone with adoration.

  Unable to summon kind words about either Trowbridge twin, Cat merely smiled and nodded, agreeing with Amabel’s every word. So Blas, the miserable bastard, was in London, staying at Marchmont House with Anthony. His first act, to call upon the Lovells.

  Cat’s smile faded to a grim line; her eyes glittered. Just because she had sent him away did not mean he was entitled to call upon the Lovells before he called upon the Everinghams. Of course, if he did call, his wife would not be at home. Former wife.

  Catherine Audley Perez would not be at home.

  “Catherine? Catherine!” Amabel, satisfied she once again had her friend’s attention, looked over her shoulder at her mother and the other ladies huddled near the fire. She pulled her chair closer to Cat. “You simply must tell me about Lord Byron,” she said in an urgent whisper. “Simply everyone is talking, but when I come near they fall silent and will not say a word beyond the usual bland on dits. I know about Caroline Lamb, of course. Who does not? She threw herself at him so shockingly Mama says everyone felt quite sorry for him.” Amabel fixed her friend with beseeching eyes. “He is so beautiful, Cat, and his poetry is so-so . . .”

  “Naughty,” Cat supplied drily.

  Amabel grinned. “That too,” she agreed, but I was searching for something more grand. It’s wonderful. Exciting. And makes me feel so–so . . .”

  “You and half the women in Britain,” Cat said, cutting off Amabel’s effusions. “I recommend taking his tales with more than a few grains of salt, my dear.”

  “He is so tragic.” Amabel heaved a sigh. “You can see how he glowers when people are dancing and he cannot. I know he must suffer far worse pain than that of his poor foot.”

  “You have a good heart,” Cat murmured, her cynicism slipping just a bit. She still thought of the now famous poet as the earnest young man who had come to Portugal to find inspiration for his first epic poem Childe Harold. The young man they—she and Blas . . . no, she and Alejo—had found vaguely pathetic and amusing. Although she had not fallen under Byron’s spell, Cat had to sympathize with his circumstances. Lame since birth, poverty-stricken, George, Lord Byron, had to struggle to survive on flamboyant genius in a world which worshiped conventionality. Living a life of exception rather than the rule was something Cat could understand all too well. She should grant the young poet a bit more tolerance.

  “Really, Catherine, you must tell me,” Amabel was urging. “What has he done that is so bad no one will tell me of it?”

  Cat frowned. It truly was not a tale for an eighteen-year-old just out of the schoolroom. Her lips twitched. At eighteen she had been married for three years, was intimately acquainted with most of the Peninsular War’s military secrets, and spent her evenings as hostess in a gaming house. And if Amabel Lovell was in danger of falling under the poet’s spell, a healthy dose of reality might be best.

  “Very well,” Cat agreed with a decisive nod, but not before a swift glance to make sure the three older women were still chatting before the fire. She leaned closer to Amabel, keeping her voice low. “As you said, Caroline Lamb’s conduct was so shocking everyone felt sorry for Byron. Lady Oxford even took it upon herself to–um–give him comfort.”

  Amabel’s eyes danced. Here was scandal she had heard and vaguely understood. “Is it true they call her children the Harleian Miscellany?”

  “I fear so. Lord Oxford must have been more disturbed over Byron than the others for, even though the war was still on, he took Lady Oxford abroad. And of course,” Cat added with the worldly detachment of a young woman whose acquaintances had been primarily male, “Byron is not one to be alone for long. Unfortunately”—Cat took a deep breath—”this time he turned to his sister, his half-sister Augusta, for comfort.”

  “But surely that is commendable,” said Amabel with a frown. “She is an older sister, is she not? Just what the poor young man needs.”

  “It was more than that,” said Cat simply. “Augusta has just given birth to a daughter.”

  Cat felt old, infinitely world-weary, as she watched Amabel’s eyes widen in shock. She had lowered herself to sullying the mind of a child. “I think he cannot help what he is, Amabel,” she added gently. “We ask too much if we expect him to be like other people. Enjoy his poetry, but do not, I beg of you, make him into a hero. For he is not.”

  Cat patted Amabel’s hand. Together, the two young women joined the older ladies for tea.

  Two days earlier Alexander Trowbridge had walked through the front door of Marchmont House in London for the first time in seven years, calling the elderly butler by name, asking if his brother Anthony was at home. The butler, believing he was opening the door to Anthony, dropped the marquess’s greatcoat and hat onto the black and white marble floor. He had to be helped to a chair by the grinning heir to the house of Marchmont. When the old man tottered into the library fifteen minutes later with a bottle of brandy, there were tears in his eyes. The housekeeper openly wept.

  When Anthony returned from a satisfactory bout of sparring at Gentleman Jackson’s, he walked into a house pregnant with emotion. Since the duke and duchess had not occupied Marchmont House in years, the place was lightly staffed, but it seemed every one of the servants was in the front hall, waiting for him, eyes gleaming with excitement. Since Tony had received a letter from his mother only the day before, he had no difficulty interpreting the situation. At the butler’s nod, he moved toward the library with eager steps.

  During their years on the continent the Trowbridge twins had managed to meet two or three times a year. Their natural bond strengthened by five years of shared experiences, they were, in fact, closer than they had ever been.

  Except for one small problem.

  Alex rose to his feet as his brother strode in. They grinned at each other quite foolishly until each stepped forward to wrap his arms around each other, their cool English upbringing forever warmed by their long days in Iberia. Alex poured his brother a brandy, and they fell into opposite chairs, legs stretched out, boots nearly touching.

  “I have been told I owe you an apology,” Alex said without preliminaries. “That I had no right to ask so much of you.”

  “Good God, who told you that?” said Anthony lazily. “You know I would have done anything for you.”

  “That seems to be the problem. I asked, and you did just that. Even as children, I was always the one who led you astray. And this time I seem to have outdone myself.”

  “Guilt? From you?” Tony mocked.

  “That’s all I’ve known since I got home. You’d think I’d murdered someone!”

  “That too,” Anthony agreed mildly. A man didn’t win the respect of Spanish guerrilleros without accounting for his share of the enemy. And both Trowbridge twins had accumulated a great deal of respect.

  Alex poured himself another brandy, downed it in one gulp. “I am indebted for what you said to Marchmont. You always could get round him better than I. Tony, the good twin. Tony with the kind heart and the silver tongue. You should have been born first, old man. Made everyone’s life easier.”

  “If there’s one position I’ve never aspired to, it’s to step into father’s shoes. Or yours,” said Anthony with feel
ing. “And you bloody well know it.”

  “A-ah,” Alex breathed, “but that’s not what you said in your letter. You threatened to take my place, I believe. Permanently.”

  Anthony’s hands went very still, his knuckles white on the brandy snifter. “You know I wasn’t talking about father. And I downed two bottles before I wrote that bloody letter.”

  “In vino veritas?” Alex inquired mildly.

  “It was a threat designed to bring you home. No one knows better than I that I can never take your place.” Tony could not quite keep the bitterness from his voice. “Every time I came home, I had to watch the excitement drain out of her when she saw it was just poor, simple Alejo. How she could tell us apart when she didn’t know there were two of us, I’ll never understand. But she always recognized which of us was with her. The one she loved as a husband, the one she loved as a brother. Believe me, she knew. And, yes, it hurt. There were moments, I admit—there were moments I almost forgot . . .”

  Anthony broke off, amber eyes challenging eyes exactly the same shade and shape as his own. “You do plan to marry her, do you not?”

  “And if I don’t?” drawled Alex, curious to discover his twin’s reaction.

  “Then perhaps I will take your place.”

  Alex gave up the game. His brother had suffered enough on his behalf. “I came home assuming I was married, that I had only to arrange a proper ceremony at St. George’s and the widow Perez would become the Marchioness of Harborough. We would live happily ever after, our union blessed by the family, the ton, the Regent, and all the powers that be. Instead, I have been cast out of Branwyck Park, told not to darken the threshold of my wife’s life, roundly scolded by mother, and sent to London to recoup my losses as best I may.”

  “Only to be challenged by me,” Tony murmured, thoroughly enjoying his brother’s discomfort. “Just what game were you playing, by the way, when you decided to charm Amabel Lovell in my name?”

  ‘Insurance,” Alex admitted smoothly. “It finally occurred to me I had created something which might turn on me. Cat’s mine, Tony. Then. Now. Always.”

  “You might have told her.”

  “I married her. It never occurred to me there was a need to say it was forever.” Simple. So very simple. Yet it had gone so wrong.

  Anthony drew a long sigh of relief. One of them owed Catarina Audley marriage. And if Alex rejected his responsibility, Tony would indeed have taken his place. But, in truth, as much as he loved her, he frequently found Cat awesome. Even frightening. Far too independent and headstrong to make a comfortable, and conformable, wife. Nor did he care to be at outs with his brother. Now, together, they would find a way around Cat’s anger. She had loved the man called Blas for seven years. How difficult could it be?

  The next day the twins made their London debut by calling on the Lovell family. Each was burningly aware of the duty they owed Sir Giles and Lady Everingham, to Dona Blanca Dominguez. To their wife. But they let the day slip by without paying a call at Everingham House. And the next. On Alex’s fourth day in London he sent a note of apology to Lady Everingham, explaining he was only honoring his wife’s orders to stay away. He thanked Lady Everingham quite prettily for her care of his wife. And would the ladies of Everingham House attend Miss Flora Hawley’s come-out ball the next evening?

  Clara’s eyes danced as she read the note from the Marquess of Harborough. It was quite as good as a play. More so. For she herself was one of the actors upon this particular stage.

  Dona Blanca also received a note from Alexander Trowbridge, Lord Harborough. Clara and Blanca got together for a very interesting private chat. Both were women of the world. Neither approved Catherine’s stand against her husband. With no effort at all, they crossed the line into the enemy camp, leaving Cat alone in the cold comfort of her pride and honor. If Alexander Trowbridge needed help in his campaign to win back his wife, Clara Everingham and Blanca Dominguez were more than willing to provide it.

  Both ladies were forced to hide their smiles as Cat, eager for the satisfaction of turning Alexander Trowbridge from the door, seethed with rage because he had not given her the opportunity to do so. Clara sat down to pen a reply to the marquess’s note, asking Blanca with tongue in cheek, if she thought she should warn Lady Hawley that Flora’s ball might not go as smoothly as planned.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Malvinia, Lady Ailesbury, and her daughter Lydia were among the members of the ton pouring into London for what promised to be the grandest Season of them all. As much as they might have wished to ignore the widow Perez, they made the obligatory duty call to Everingham House. Archibald, Earl of Ailesbury—in spite of his stodgy and determinedly conventional behavior—had a strong sense of family. He left his wife and daughter with no doubt he expected them to recognize his cousin Thomas’s child.

  When Lady Ailesbury and Lydia were shown into the drawing room at Everingham House, they were perfectly composed, coolly correct, determined to be gracious even if they should choke on their own words. Until they saw Catherine Perez and realized the men in their family had failed to tell them all. Lydia had endured numerous broad hints from her brother over the Christmas holidays, but nothing had truly prepared her for the startling beauty of her cousin Catherine. Beauty which eclipsed even the most celebrated Incomparables of the ton. Including herself.

  Only if one cared for red hair, of course.

  Lydia was beginning her third Season, her statuesque brunette beauty regrettably overshadowed by a tongue as sharp as her wit. She was almost exactly her cousin Catherine’s age, but there the resemblance ended. A good six inches taller, with a thin, willowy figure and large gray eyes, Lydia towered over her cousin. Her oval face was classically patrician with a fine nose, well-shaped lips, and delicately arched brows. Her dark brown hair made an intriguing halo around her damask rose complexion. If asked for an example of classic English beauty, most of the ton would have put forth only one name. Lady Lydia Audley.

  The cousins greeted each other, smiling politely through gritted teeth. On Lydia’s part, dislike was instantaneous. Cat, who had hoped for a friend, realized with regret that it was not to be. Lydia had inherited the handsome Audley looks, which had skipped her father the earl, but not the kind heart.

  The ladies conversed, took tea with graciousness and charm. The atmosphere remained just somewhat above freezing. Lady Ailesbury, however, was no one’s fool. On the carriage ride home she informed her daughter she was to make herself a part of the coterie of admirers which would undoubtedly form around her cousin. If the rumors which had begun to fly through the ton in the last few days were true, Catherine was very likely acquainted with the two most eligible men in England, Alexander and Anthony Trowbridge. And at least half the officers in Wellington’s army. Good God, imagine that blacksheep Thomas Audley a spy!

  Lydia, who was far from stupid, took her mother’s words to heart. The exalted position of duchess would suit her rather well.

  As early as half after nine, the Hawley’s ball was brimming over with guests. A thousand candles glittered in crystal chandeliers and wall sconces, illuminating the color and gaiety of society’s finest. Many had been trapped on their estates by the bitter winter, and now, on top of the freedom granted by the spring thaw, they felt the exhilaration, the surety, of knowing the Season of 1814 would be one of society’s most triumphant moments.

  Defiant of spring’s rebirth, Cat had chosen a gown almost as dark as her mourning clothes. A rich midnight blue silk satin whose severity was offset only by a bibbed cascade of her mother’s pearls which fell from neck to waist. The emerald parure was now shut away in Sir Giles Everingham’s safe.

  From the moment Cat left the receiving line she had been surrounded by eager admirers. She turned away from a charming viscount and was startled to discover her cousin Lydia hovering among the crowd. Cat forced a polite smile and drew her cousin into the circle around her.

  They were between sets, the music silent. Cat was introduc
ing Lydia to her admirers when the general buzz of conversation rose to a crescendo. Heads swiveled, as if by magic, toward the entrance of the crowded ballroom. Cat followed their gaze, felt her stomach heave. It couldn’t be . . .

  But of course it could. Frantically, she looked for a place to hide. An alcove, a door to the garden, a convenient pillar. Anything.

  “It’s only Byron,” said Lydia with deliberate ennui. “I truly cannot see why everyone fawns over him. Caroline Lamb was quite right when she called him ‘mad, bad, and dangerous to know.’”

  Cat’s stomach settled, only to plummet to her toes. Byron had not simply seen Don Alexis Perez de Leon from behind a faro table. On at least two occasions during his stay in Portugal, he had sat in the drawing room of the Casa Audley and talked at length. Cat pictured the long-ago scene. Yes, the Don Alexis with whom Byron had spoken was Anthony. An Anthony who had taken it upon himself to inform Catherine about men who, in spite of appearances, did not really like women. A capital offense in England, though not on the continent. A pity, Cat mused, that the young women of England had not had the benefit of Anthony’s shrewd advice. A warning about this young genius who flitted from flower to flower to flower, never finding what he was seeking, very possibly because it was forbidden by the laws of church and state.

  “Mrs. Perez, how delightful to see you again.” Adonis stood before her. Lord Byron, had not wasted time in seeking out the evening’s newest sensation.

  He was, Cat conceded, the most beautiful man she had ever seen, though his famed fatal attraction for women caused her heart not so much as a single flutter.

  Lady Lydia could not repress an indrawn gasp of shock. How like Catherine to be acquainted with someone as notorious as Lord Byron. She watched in fascinated disapproval as her cousin and the famed poet conversed in the easy banter of acquaintances of long standing.

  “Well met, my lord,” said Cat, gently retracting her hand from his lingering clasp. “I have a bone to pick with you. You once told me you were delighted with my recommendation to explore the Serra de Sintra, and then you wrote such words about my country. I was quite shocked.”