The Sometime Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  “Go!” Alex barked to the coachman as he slammed the carriage door, then groped frantically for his wife. Hell and damnation! He had not meant to hurt her. Beside him, where she should have been, there was nothing. “Cat!” With a stifled cry Alex flailed about in the dark. There! The soft smoothness of satin, the stiff silk of his jacket, soft curls, a handful of pearls. She was kneeling on the floor, forehead against the seat cushion, body quivering. Pain? Tears? Rage?

  “God, Cat, I’m sorry!” Alex gathered her up, pulled her onto his lap. Alternately murmuring apologies and endearments, his lips sought, but did not find, hers as Cat frantically twisted away from what could only be danger.

  “Don’t touch me!” she hissed. “And get this jacket off!”

  “Make up your mind,” Alex retorted, guilt drowned in a rush of temper. “Unless I touch you, you’ll be wearing that jacket ‘til hell freezes over.”

  With a quick intake of breath, Cat went very still.

  Admittedly, his hand strayed as he fumbled over the knot he had made in the heavy silk. By the time the jacket had found its way to a far corner of the carriage, they were breathing considerably harder than the simple exercise warranted. Each from passion, though not necessarily of the same kind.

  The carriage turned from the cobblestoned street onto the hard-packed earth of Hyde Park. The movement of the wheels became slow, fluid, peaceful. No sound but the steady clip-clop of the two horses, the call of an occasional nightbird breaking the steady background chirp of nocturnal insects.

  Alex had planned this stolen hour with the care he gave to planning an attack by Spanish guerrilleros. Tony would explain the situation to Blanca and Clara Everingham, whose cooperation he never doubted. The ladies would announce Cat had been taken ill and returned to Everingham House. Tony would then circle the ballroom, sometimes as himself, sometimes as his brother. A dozen people would be able to swear they had spoken with the Marquess of Harborough well after midnight. Nor did Alex doubt one of his co-conspirators would concoct some story about Cat feeling faint and Harborough gallantly rushing her out for air. Then finding her no better, he escorted her to her carriage before returning to the ball. Considering the Trowbridge twins’ enormous consequence at the moment, they would very likely get away with it.

  But all the words Alex planned to say welled up in his throat, choking him into silence. He wanted to gallop to Marchmont House, carry Cat up the stairs to his bed, make love ‘til morning. And through all the evenings and mornings to come. But first, there must be peace between them.

  Forcing himself to a gentleness he did not feel, Alex wrapped his arms around his wife, pulling her tight against the white blur of his shirt, the pearl gray brocade of his waistcoat. The momentary resistance he encountered melted away as, with a small sigh, she nestled against him, tucking her head beneath his chin. He lost himself in the feel of her, the scent of her, the aura of fierce contentment which enveloped him, overwhelmed him, as it always did when he took her in his arms. She was his, and he would never let her go.

  “Do you remember the night Major Martineau followed me to the Casa?” he asked, his voice low and husky, “The night I had to hide in your bed?” Rhetorical question. Neither of them would ever forget. “You were so damn young and innocent, Cat. I’ve never seen eyes as wide as yours when I started to peel off my clothes. You must have thought I’d gone mad. And there I was, all of twenty-one, feeling like the ultimate old lecher. In a way, I was. I was shockingly, secretly, delighted to have such a fine excuse to jump into your bed. It’s a good thing my back was toward you when I stood up. You would have gotten the shock of your young life.”

  “You mean . . . you were . . . Martineau saw you . . . like that. His men? Marcio . . . Lucio?” Cat choked. Not even many years of marriage could keep her from blushing fiery red. “No wonder they believed you,” she murmured when she got her voice back.

  “Oh, God, Cat, we were both children,” Alex groaned. “Yet we thought ourselves so worldly and wise.” He shifted a hand to cup her chin. “Cat, you do understand I want to marry you. Properly. At St. George’s with all the pomp and circumstance anyone could want. I never had any other intention.”

  She could find no words to answer him. No way to make him understand her terrible, lonely hours of doubt and pain, the certainty he loved her dissolved by an unrelenting succession of events. Her father’s caution that Blas might put her aside, the sterile letter of condolence Marcus had brought back from the Pyrenees, the odd behavior of the Blas who was Anthony Trowbridge. The tragedy of discovery. Of betrayal. The ultimate loss of trust.

  In that awful moment when Cat realized her husband was not one person but two, she had lost what remained of her faith in the power of love. If Blas could keep a secret such as this, there was no life left for them to live. No chance for harmony or peace.

  Bitterness helped focus her thoughts, the coldness of her tone. “When would you be off on new adventures, my lord? Three months, four? And then there is the matter of fidelity. We both know having a wife has never kept you out of other women’s beds. Tell me, please, what is your opinion of Tit for Tat? What if I wished to have your privileges? What if I wished to be a Lady Oxford and start my own Miscellany? How would you feel about that, I wonder.”

  Alex’s groan echoed through the darkness. She had a right to taunt him. To twist the knife. It didn’t make her words more palatable. “Damn it, Cat, I’m not a bloody monk! I’d never mount a mistress when we’re together, and you damn well you know it. And if you ever so much as thought of starting a Trowbridge Miscellany, I’d lock you up first and kill your lover directly after. Believe me, complacency is not one of my virtues. If it can be called a virtue,” he added on a feral growl.

  “Nor is it mine,” was Cat’s pointed response.

  Silence.

  Alex found his wife’s face, tilted up her chin. He brushed her lips with his. “That night, Cat, when we were first naked in your mother’s bed,” he whispered against her mouth, “I should have been ashamed of myself. But I wasn’t. Not then or ever, because I always thought of you as mine. We were meant to be together. So stop fighting. Come and be my wife.”

  Cat’s rage wavered, dimmed. Always—forever—his body could do that to her. The only solution was separation. She knew it, but could not force herself to move.

  Beneath her cheek the sharp facets of the diamond in his cravat bit into her soft flesh. She welcomed the reality of this pinprick of pain. Desire was a terrible thing. As was rage. Sapping a person’s will, plunging reason into a black pit where compromise and common sense dared not go. If only the carriage could roll on forever, shutting out the world, carrying them to some fantasy land where they could pretend the war never happened. That they were two strangers newly met at the Hawley’s ball. Strangers who could marry and live the fairy tale lives which only happened in books.

  Mistaking Cat’s silence for assent, Alex was shaken by a wave of relief. He had been certain, given time alone with her, he could make her understand. He warmed her bare skin with slow, rhythmic movements of his powerful hands. His fingers slid down, the thumbs alone toying with the swell of her breasts. Cat’s head screamed No! while her body refused to deny him.

  The bodice of her gown seemed to fall of its own accord, parting before him, revealing what he could not see but needed with all his being to feel. He took the fullness of her into his mouth, nibbling, sucking. He backed away, gloried in her murmured protest. He returned to lick, nibble, a valiant attempt to swallow her whole.

  It was too dark for him to see the grim set of Cat’s mouth, the flash of her eyes as she twined her fingers in his hair, murmured his name: “Blas.” If only he were. If only she could have her Blas again, this terrible pain would go away. There would be only love.

  Rational thought eluded her. There were, after all, no rules which said she could not enjoy herself. Mindlessness, complete loss of self, were only a caress away. And blessedly welcome. For this small moment of time she w
ould pretend the man who was driving her mad was not Alexander Trowbridge, Lord Harborough. He was Blas. Husband. Love. Friend.

  With a soft sigh Cat plunged into the world of sensation and desire. Rage and sorrow fell away, drowned in delirium as her husband knelt on the floor of the carriage and threw her gown up into her lap. She scarcely noticed as her slippers were discarded, her garters and stockings following hard on their heels. There was no way in this world or any other she could have resisted the exploration of his tongue from her toes, up to her ankle, along her calf, behind her kneecap. Up her inner thigh to the source of their very personal and private delight.

  To Alex’s intense satisfaction, Cat gasped, shudders wracking her body almost as soon as he touched her there. In moments his pantaloons were peeled down around his ankles and he was sheathed hotly inside her. For all the driving power of his need, he held back, bringing her with him, back to a need as great as his own, a wanting that demanded two become one in nature’s oldest rite.

  Only later, much later, as the stars were fading and horses growing tired, was Cat able to feel guilt at what she had done. She had deliberately allowed him to believe their differences were settled. And they were not. Loving him and living with him were two quite separate things.

  “Blas?” She trailed her fingers over his face. He was lying on the seat, his back propped against one side of the carriage, clutching her firmly in his arms even as he slept. “Alex?” She ran a finger down the bow of his full, sensual lips. His eyes flew open. He gave her a lazy smile, kissing the fingertip that lingered on his mouth. A smile which faded when he saw the misery on her face.

  “I have been very bad,” Cat confessed, her face pale and wan in the faint gray light. “I have always loved you. Will always love you. There will never be a time when I do not need you or want you. But tonight I took from you unfairly. I should have found the strength to tell you nothing has changed, but I couldn’t. I loved you, and let you love me. Knowing you thought you had won, I let this happen. And that was cruel. I am sorry. “No, don’t say anything!” she cried, placing her fingers against his mouth. “I have been lying here thinking of what I must say, so you will please allow me to finish.” Cat took a deep breath and plunged on. “Nothing is changed from what I told you at Branwyck. We must lead separate lives, you and I. I must find someone else to marry, for then honor will keep me out of your arms and out of your life. It is my only protection. The only way I can live with myself. If you suffer at all from my little deception tonight, keep in mind it is only a tiny portion of the hurt you have done to me. The good Lord may someday forgive you, Blas, but I shall not. Now, if you please, tell the coachman to take me home.”

  As his grip went lax, Cat moved away to sit primly on the opposite seat. Slowly, mechanically, she put her clothing back in order, tying on stockings, smoothing her hair, searching out her slippers and her reticule. Alex watched, fascinated, through half-closed lids, swearing softly. As much as he loved her, as well as he knew her, he had underestimated her. He should have explained about the foreign service, about adventuring together, about his never ever needing another woman if he could have her at his side. But the moment was past. He would have to bide his time. Find other ways. For he would never let her go.

  Wearily, Alex ordered the driver to take them to Everingham House, his disappointment somewhat allayed by the thought that eyes might be peering through the neighbors’ curtained windows when he delivered the widow Perez to her door as the sun was rising. Almost he was sorry he had left his father’s crested carriage at home in favor of the discretion of a hired vehicle. If scandal was what it took . . . Alex leaned back into the corner of the squabs, folded his arms and closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of his wife now sitting there so properly with her hands folded in her lap. There would be another day.

  That same afternoon the Marquess of Harborough drove his newly acquired curricle on the road south into Surrey. Arthur Goggans, who was still set on becoming an unflappable London butler, was unable to conceal his shock when he opened the door of Branwyck Park to the young man who had purchased the house three years earlier. The young man to whom the Widow Perez was married. The young man who should have been dead. Mrs. Plumb screamed, two maids fainted, and Cook, when she heard the news, dropped a pound of salt into the soup pot, spoiling that course even as slops for the pigs.

  Alex, who was thoroughly enjoying the scene he had created, introduced himself as the Marquess of Harborough, and without further explanation asked to see Pierre. Rosalía Santos, Pierre’s nurse, was not at all shocked by the return of the master of the house. Don Alexis was a man of many names and personalities. And not an easy man to kill. No matter what he might call himself, she would recognize him, though it were at the gates of Hell itself. So in the nursery there was only joy.

  Pierre let out one high-pitched squeak and charged across the room to throw himself into the arms of the man who had come along when he was so alone and afraid. The man who had taken him far way to live with Mrs. Cat. Mrs. Cat was good to him. Very pretty. And smelled nice. But she could never be a man. Like his papa. Who would come for him. Mrs. Cat had told him so. And if he did not, Blas would be his papa. That too had been a promise. It had been a long time ago. In Spain. But Pierre remembered. As Alex knelt on the floor, Pierre’s small arms clung to his neck, determined never to let go.

  When Alex left after a visit of several hours, his dark mood was considerably eased. Children were a very fine thing. He would provide Pierre with younger brothers and sisters as rapidly as possible. If he had not already gotten a start on that pleasing process. And if we prove successful, pray name it after me . . . Alex’s face lightened into a grin as he hummed the old tune. Oh, yes, he would definitely be successful. If he had to lock his wife into a tower and keep her there until she saw reason. Barefoot and pregnant. Wasn’t that the old expression? Harborough Castle had a very fine tower. Fourteenth century. Perhaps he should consider a visit to Somerset and set in motion the design of a velvet-lined prison.

  She’d kill him. But it would be a magnificent battle. Daydreams, Alex mocked himself. Castles in the air. Yet, he suspected, Thomas would approve his daring. As he would have approved today’s visit to Branwyck Park. Thomas Audley understood the breaking of rules, the underhanded plotting that twisted fate to the direction you wished it to go. Thomas had wanted Blas to be willing to fight for his daughter. And that he was surely going to do. The opening skirmishes had begun. The real battle was yet to be joined.

  Over the next ten days the Marquess of Harborough squelched all rumors about his acquaintance with Catherine Perez by setting up a flirtation with her cousin Lydia Audley. Lady Ailesbury was ecstatic, Lydia merely pleased she had finally attracted the attention of a nobleman worthy of her beauty and ancient bloodlines. Lord Anthony continued to call upon the three ladies at Everingham House, but the Marquess of Harborough was seen only at social events, where he nodded graciously to the ladies and passed on by. Cat danced, chatted, and laughed with Anthony, Wrexham, Gordon Somersby, and a coterie of other admirers. With her husband she exchanged not a single word. The smug smile which continually creased Lady Lydia’s fine features was enough to incite Cat to nausea. And yet she was too fair-minded to blame her cousin. Blas was up to his tricks again, and another poor female was going to be hurt.

  Word of Harborough’s visit to Branwyck Park reached Cat the day after it happened. She recognized a battle cry when she heard it but kept her tongue between her teeth. Blas had undoubtedly saved Pierre’s life, and in all fairness each was entitled to enjoy the other whether Harborough’s sometime bride liked it or not. Within three days rumors of the shocked servants at Branwyck Park and speculative whispers about the child had made their insidious way into the on dits of the ton. Bored ears pricked up, straining toward the next delicious whiff of scandal.

  On the day before Amabel Lovell’s come-out ball, Anthony called at Everingham House and asked to speak with Cat in private. When they were
seated in the room overlooking the garden, which was now alight with tulips and daffodils, Tony spoke with unaccustomed seriousness. “I wanted you to know Alex hasn’t given up, Cat. He’s planning something. If I knew what, I’d certainly tell you. I just–ah–thought you ought to know.”

  Cat frowned. “Are you sure? He has not so much as spoken to me in over a week.”

  “I’m sure. Last night at the Billingsley’s rout Lady Lydia mistook me for Alex. I got the impression she may be aware she’s merely part of some plot he’s hatching. He has that gleam in his eye—you know the one I mean.”

  Oh, yes. She knew quite well. “You never stop playing tricks, do you?” said Cat absently. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “That was unkind. Tell me of yourself, Tony. Are you . . . all right?”

  “Have I gotten over my tendre for my brother’s wife?” he inquired lightly. “The answer is I doubt I ever shall, but I long ago realized we would not suit. At heart I am much more conventional, much less dashing than big brother. If you were mine, I should treat you like a fragile flower, and you would be bored to tears inside a month. Believe me, I shall do much better with Amabel. But it is much like a divorce, I think. I need time to adjust to the idea of a new wife.”

  Cat swallowed hard. “Anthony, I want you to have passion and romance, not just a suitable alliance.”

  “Do you not care for Amabel?” he asked, startled.

  “She is a darling. I cannot think of a better wife for you, but if you are not happy . . .”

  Tony took both her hands in his, looked her straight in the eye. “Frankly, Cat, if passion and romance are what you and Alex have, I think I am better off with simple love. It’s you I’m worried about right now, not myself. Amabel and I will make a good life together, but you and Alex seem hell bent on destroying yourselves. Think, girl! You’re making a mistake. When Alex does whatever it is he’s planning to do, I beg a favor of you. Go along with it, listen to him. Don’t reject him out of hand. Think what a future without him means.”