The Sometime Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  Byron, obviously enjoying the change from a steady diet of adoration from females of all ages, flashed a wicked smile. “But I wrote only praise for the beauties of the Serra de Sintra,” he protested, one shaggy brow twitching upward to match the lopsided curve of his full lips.

  “But not for the country,” said Cat. “Do you not recall? A nation swoln with ignorance and pride, Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword To save them from the wrath of Gaul’s unsparing lord.

  “Oh, that,” said Byron with a careless wave. “Surely I only spoke the truth. We have turned the greatness of Portugal into a British colony where the natives fawn upon us on one side and despise us on the other. I saw the beauty, and the rot as well. Can you honestly say I was wrong?”

  “No, you were not wrong, my lord,” Cat admitted. “But where would Portugal be without Wellington?”

  “With fifty thousand more citizens,” Byron riposted without so much as a second’s pause.

  “You have been listening to the Sousa family,” said Cat, her face turning somber. The family of her old friend Pedro de Sousa had been severely critical of the great loss of life suffered by Portuguese displaced by Wellington’s scorched earth policy north of the lines at Torres Vedras. “I cannot deny many died,” Cat acknowledged sadly. “At the time I had no idea how many. To some the freedom of Portugal was worth the sacrifice. But, in truth, I find it difficult to blame those who would rather be ruled by Napoleon than dead.”

  In Byron’s agile mind Cat’s words set off another unpopular passion. “I am sending my books to the Emperor on Elba,” he declared. “Perhaps they may bring him some comfort. Exile is a terrible fate for a man of such genius.”

  A pool of silence had grown around them as Catherine and Lord Byron talked. Bristles of hostility vibrated on the air. Appalled, Cat wondered if Byron’s words were intended to shock, or did he simply not care what he said or where he said it.

  “Napoleon brought his country out of disaster into true equality,” Byron declared, his voice ringing with passion. “And now they are once again to be ruined by fat Louis and his Bourbon sycophants. ’Tis said he’s to parade through the streets to Grillon’s where Prinny will grant him the Order of the Garter.” Byron snorted with disgust. “Imagine, if you will, Prinny’s fat hands clasping the garter around Louis le Gros’s even fatter leg. Monarchy triumphant! I, for one, will stay in my rooms at the Albany. I’ll not lower myself to watch the spectacle.”

  As if he had only now become aware of the disapproving audience around them, Bryon shot a disdainful glance at his open-mouthed audience, then suggested he and Cat go in search of the refreshment room. “For I believe we have something further to discuss,” the poet announced, adding an arch look calculated to inspire salacious speculation in even the purest minds.

  Catherine made her excuses to her cousin and her admirers, while endeavoring to project nothing but innocence. Byron offered his arm, and they made a slow progression toward the refreshment room. Behind them Cat could hear the outbreak of indignant, derisive chatter. She stiffened her back and kept smiling.

  Strangely enough, she had to admit Byron’s radical views seemed genuine. Somehow honest emotions were not something she expected from him. Was there, after all, more to this exceptional young lordling than she had thought?

  It was well before the traditional midnight supper hour, and the servants were still laying out the platters of delicacies with which Lady Hawley hoped to tempt her guests’ discriminating palates. Catherine and her provoking companion had no trouble finding two chairs in a corner where they might be private. Lord Byron allowed himself an openly admiring survey of Catherine Perez from the pearls entwined in her short, shining curls, over the pale perfection of her complexion, down the length of the intriguingly rounded dark blue satin to the shining tips of her matching shoes. His admiration was sincere. She was, after all, the epitome of a romantic poet’s dreams. A pity there was not so much as a smoldering ember of desire between them. Then again, as he recalled what he intended to tell her, it was undoubtedly just as well.

  “Harborough and Lord Anthony paid me a visit,” Byron confided, a gleam of amused self-mockery dancing in the depths of his eyes. “I wish to assure you, you need have no fear I shall mention either’s remarkable resemblance to your ah–late husband. As you can well imagine, I am a strong adherent to ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ My lips are sealed.” Lord Byron clasped one hand over his heart in a gesture which almost sent Catherine into whoops despite the seriousness of the situation. No matter how outrageous his conduct, no one could dispute the poet’s talent, intelligence, or charm.

  Recovering quickly, Cat expressed her sincere gratitude. Which was somewhat dimmed when Byron added, in a confiding tone, that he was not yet ready to depart this vale of tears and, really, two Trowbridges were a most frightening prospect. The noble poet stood up to take his leave but bent back down and whispered in her ear, “Tell me, my dear, what can it have been like to be married to both of them?” A wink, a slight smirk, and he was out the door, leaving Cat to regard a tray of lobster patties with utter loathing.

  “Scarcely a wise choice of companion,” Lord Wrexham chided a few minutes later as he claimed a promised waltz.

  Catherine shrugged it off. “We met in Portugal when he was only a boy struggling to become something more.”

  “Best to keep it that way, my dear,” the earl cautioned. “The scandals that follow that young man are not at all what a widow needs. It is all too easy to fall from Beauty of the Hour to the Cut Direct.”

  They moved onto the dance floor, joining the throng of dancers swirling to the lilting sound of strings. Wrexham danced well and could be depended upon for conversation as lively as the music. Light flirtation, a soupçon of cool admiration were just what Cat needed after a half hour with Lord Byron. Her nerves settled back into place; she began to enjoy herself.

  “I fear I cannot like it,” said Wrexham, his head angled judiciously to one side as he stared down at her.

  Wanting only to lose herself in the music, Cat’s quick wit was pardonably slow. “Cannot like what, my lord?”

  Wrexham swung them into a daring spin, scattering several less adept waltzers toward the sides of the dance floor. “Your hair, my dear. No man could possibly approve such a profligate waste of magnificence.”

  Dear God. Her hair. She had forgotten about her hair. Blas—Alex—could walk through the door at any moment. He was going to see her hair. Now. Tonight. Blanca was right. He would kill her.

  Cat continued to examine the gold buttons of Lord Wrexham’s waistcoat. “It seemed quite necessary at the time,” she murmured.

  A gentleman did not divulge private conversations. Particularly to the female subject of such a conversation. The circumstances, however, were highly unusual. After a relatively sedate circumnavigation of the ballroom floor, Wrexham broke through his scruples. “I received a pair of fascinating callers yesterday,” he said.

  Cat missed the beat, stumbled, was swept off both feet by Wrexham as he kept moving. He allowed her slippers to touch the floor only when her eyes came back in focus. “It gave me great satisfaction,” Wrexham continued smoothly, “to inform them I already knew most of the story. They were excruciatingly polite, I assure you. But somehow I received a clear picture of pistols at dawn if I ever repeated anything I knew. And as for my relationship with you, my dear, you must grant me the courage of a lion for claiming this dance. They protect their own, the young Trowbridges. I am forced to admit there is something exceptionally intimidating about the two of them together. Almost, I felt sorry for the French. I wonder if Wellington ever had to deal with them both at once,” he mused.

  Cat was waltzing by instinct, relying on the strength of Wrexham’s hand in hers, his other firmly around her waist. The world was crumbling in on her. The twins hovered like malevolent gods on high, controlling her life. Oddly, it had not occurred to her to picture them together. Alex and Anthony
. Blas and Tonio. Side by side, shoulder to shoulder. United against her. It was too much.

  Unfair.

  Cruel.

  But she was Thomas Audley’s daughter. This was a battle she would not lose. Cat turned her face up to Wrexham and smiled. The perfectly brilliant, smoothly confident smile she had perfected in the gaming rooms of the Casa Audley. She settled into the rhythm of the dance. The game, as always, must go on.

  After the waltz with Wrexham, Cat begged Gordon Somersby to allow her to sit out the Quadrille. The two old friends retreated to an area of gilded chairs where Blanca and Clara were seated, watching, and commenting upon, the panorama of the London ton at play.

  The orchestra re-tuned its instruments, then commenced the opening strains of the Quadrille. The sets of dancers ceased their conversations and moved into the series of intricate figures. Ordinarily Cat loved the challenge of the Quadrille. Tonight she commanded a cheerfully compliant Gordon to fetch punch for the three ladies, then proceeded to pour out her anger and frustration at the twins for thinking they could take over her life.

  “For shame, Catarina,” Blanca scolded. “They are protecting you,”

  “She is quite right, my dear,” Clara added. “They are not interfering. I am exceedingly grateful they are so obviously aware of their obligations. Honor demands they attempt to right the wrong they have done to you.”

  “Honor!” Cat sputtered. “May they choke on it! I want them out of my . . .”

  Cat’s voice trailed away in the sudden silence which enveloped the ballroom. Those immersed in the complexity of the Quadrille turned to look, missed their figure, faltered to a halt. As the dancers slowed to a stop, the band dwindled to a single violin and an oboe, then faded into nothingness. An entire roomful of society’s sophisticates swallowed by silence. They gaped, they gawked, they swore oaths for which they forgot to beg pardon.

  “Madre de deus!” breathed Dona Blanca, and made the sign of the cross.

  “I knew it, but I still cannot believe it,” murmured Clara Everingham. Sir Giles left his game of piquet to pause in the door of the cardroom, completely fascinated by the tableau before him.

  The Trowbridge twins had been formally introduced to London at the age of eighteen. Their father had sponsored their membership at White’s, introduced them to Gentleman Jackson’s and Manton’s shooting gallery. They had found Harriet Wilson and her sisters on their own. Both brothers were up at Oxford. The idea of spending what few precious days they could manage in London at any affair sanctioned by their parents was unthinkable. It was, therefore, close to a decade since society had seen the two of them together.

  Everyone had heard the gossip, knew of the heir’s resurrection, knew both brothers were heros. But being aware of the Trowbridge twins and seeing them standing next to each other, as identical as two persons ever were, were vastly different things. Cat had been drawn to her feet, as had even the most elderly dowager, by the desire to see what had silenced the ballroom. And there the twins stood, shoulder to shoulder, at the top of the shallow flight of steps leading down to the dance floor. They were surveying London’s finest through matching quizzing glasses with what appeared to be a very nice sense of their own worth and more than a little amusement at the sensation they were causing.

  Their waving black locks matched the sheen of their black silk coats, their black silk breeches, their finely knit black stockings and black patent dancing slippers. Their modestly ruffled white silk shirts, their pearl gray waistcoats embroidered silver, each crease in their perfectly starched white linen cravats, the number of sparkling carats in the single diamond nestled among the folds were as well matched as the two strikingly powerful faces. A far cry from black velvet and mother-of-pearl buttons, yet Cat was overwhelmed by memories of the debut of Don Alexis Perez de Leon at the gaming tables of the Casa Audley. He had been so calm, so sure of himself. So perfect for the part.

  She recalled the little girl—for fourteen was not at all the mature woman she had thought herself at the time—the foolish child who hid behind red velvet draperies, watching. Wearing her heart on her sleeve. The child who loved. Read Romeo and Juliet. And dreamed.

  Was it prophetic? Shakespeare’s play was, after all, a tragedy.

  The first violinist hissed at his musicians. The sets of the Quadrille reformed. The music swelled; the dancers once again bent to the intricate figures, though their loss of concentration resulted in a less elegant performance than usual. Gordon Somersby thrust a glass of punch into Cat’s hand. “Do you wish to go home?” he inquired anxiously.

  The liquid sloshed over the rim of the cup as her hand shook. Her eyes clouded, her heart pounded with alarm. She was sick. She should go home. Gordy would take her. Gordy. Always reliable. And safe.

  Receiving no answer, Gordon lowered his white-faced friend back into her chair. Clara plied her fan in front of Catherine’s face, while Gordy went in search of something stronger than punch. Blanca could only sit and stare at Catarina in perfect understanding. She too was speechless.

  Gordy was urging brandy down Cat’s paralyzed throat when he heard Blanca’s gasp of alarm. There they both stood, Anthony clutching his brother’s arm, fiercely murmuring, “Not here, Alex. Not now! Remember what we planned. Later, dammit, later!”

  Clara Everingham watched in fascination as the Marquess of Harborough took the brandy snifter from his wife’s hand, handed it with a curt nod to Gordon Somersby. After an equally brief acknowledgment of Blanca Dominguez, he simply swept an arm around his wife’s waist. Ignoring the shocked audience, he propelled Cat out the French doors behind the rows of gilded chairs and into the cool damp stillness of the April night. He did not stop until he found his way down a path between tall yew hedges. Until they were fully out of sight of the light spilling out of the ballroom.

  Anthony stood just inside the French doors which his brother had kicked shut in his face. After a long, resigned sigh, he went back to comfort Blanca and Lady Everingham. And do what he could to stem the tide of disaster.

  All their carefully laid plans blown to hell the instant Alex had gotten a good look at his wife.

  The Marquess of Harborough was so furious, he was shaking. Which for Blas, Don Alexis, Alex, or whoever he was, was an extremely rare loss of control. “How could you?” he hissed at Cat. “I know you think you hate me, but to butcher your hair, your goddamn bloody beautiful hair? How could you do it, Cat? How?” By the time Alex finished, he was shouting.

  The cool air revived Cat’s wits. And her courage. “You know perfectly well why I did it.”

  He did know. She had done it to hurt him. And succeeded all too bloody well. He adored her hair, every shining glorious inch of it. She could grow it out for the rest of her life and it would never be the same. That golden red spill of hair dangling over the balcony rail, splashing the white of her apron with a waterfall of color. Burnished copper spilling over the white of her pillow, fisted in the bronze of his hand, tickling his chest, his stomach, his . . .

  Alex threw himself back away from her, loosing the grip on Cat’s arms which he suddenly realized must be painful. It was war. And this battle he had lost.

  “As if that were not enough,” he ground out, his tone more controlled but still deadly, “I had not been in the receiving line five minutes before I heard the on dit circulating about Byron and his latest flirt. And of whom were they talking? My wife.” He stepped back, close enough to shock them both with the intense recollection of games once played. “You will have nothing to do with Byron, Catarina. Frankly, I thought you had better taste.”

  “You can say that when I slept with Blas the Bastard?” Cat inquired sweetly, her nerves steadying into the satisfaction of the quarrel.

  “At least I never tried boys.”

  “Blas!” She almost laughed. And yet, to her astonishment tears welled up and trickled down her cheeks. “It’s over, don’t you see?” she whispered. “We can only hurt each other. With trust gone, there is nothing left t
o hold us together. Accept it and let me go.” A shiver rippled over her, the fine hairs on her arms bristling in the cool night air.

  In silence, never taking his eyes from hers, Alex shrugged himself out of his tightly fitted black jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. His hands found the flapping sleeves, pulled them tight, swiftly knotting them in front of her, pinioning her arms inside. “I’ll let you go when hell freezes over,” he murmured. He threw her up over his shoulder, headed toward the gate in the fence at the rear of the garden. This part of the evening had been scouted and planned in advance. He knew exactly what he was doing. Dragging his wife bodily from the ballroom in front of hundreds of people had not been part of the plot, but Tony would manage. He always did.

  The blatant kidnapping of his wife was no impulse, but yet another daringly executed raid to be brought to a swift and successful conclusion.

  Hell, even a hairless wife was better than no wife at all.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “You can scream,” said Alex, “but the Hawleys wouldn’t welcome the scandal. Nor Sir Giles and his wife. O–oof!” Cat’s arms may have been immobilized, her head and shoulders dangling down his back, but she managed to connect the sharp point of her slipper with his groin, barely missing her goal of his most tender part.

  Alex reacted with a vicious kick to the mews gate, which had cost him a hefty bribe to find unlocked. None too gently, he thrust his still struggling wife through the yawning blackness of a carriage door. The upholstery was neither soft nor welcoming as Cat was pitched against it, helpless to direct her fall. If she exaggerated her cry of pain as her knee hit the floor and her chin smashed onto a cushion causing her to bite her tongue, it was not by much. With the taste of blood in her mouth, anger swelled into a red haze of fury.