by Mary Balogh
“Helen was fortunate,” he said. But when she turned her head sharply to glare at him, he forestalled her. “Leave it, Moira. Let us have these two weeks or so. We have done moderately well this morning and this afternoon, have we not?”
“Moderately well,” she agreed.
“But then, we did not expect to fall instantly in love with each other and find that everything about the other was perfection itself, did we?” he asked her.
“Heaven forbid,” she said fervently.
“I would expire from boredom in a week,” he said.
“I believe I would do it,” she said, “in six days.”
Neither of them laughed. They did not even look at each other. But somehow they were back to the near amity they had shared this morning up until the moment he had bought her the fan.
19
“WELL, Ken.” Lady Rawleigh had taken Moira to the drawing room for tea following dinner, leaving the two men to enjoy a glass of port together. The viscount had just filled their glasses. “You and I have come to a sorry end very soon after regaining our freedom.”
“Sorry?” Kenneth said. “Is that what it is?”
His friend smiled and sat back in his chair. “We are both in marriages not of our own choosing,” he said. “I was seen slinking out of Catherine’s cottage at the dead of night—after she had roundly repulsed my less-than-honorable advances, I might add—and set a villageful of tongues to wagging and my twin to threatening death or worse if I refused to do the honorable thing. I did the honorable thing—poor Catherine. I understand your situation was not vastly different?”
Kenneth was not about to describe a certain snowstorm—even to one of his closest friends. “And yet,” he said, “you both seem reasonably contented, Rex.”
“Then we are remarkably good actors, Catherine and I,” Viscount Rawleigh said. “We are far more than reasonably contented.”
“Why do you tell me this?” Kenneth asked. “Merely as a boast?”
His friend laughed. “That too,” he admitted. “One feels exceedingly clever to have discovered love in one’s own life—in one’s own marriage. And one feels constrained to share one’s wisdom with others. Lady Haverford is a very charming lady, Ken. And extremely handsome too, if I may be permitted to say so. She and Catherine appear to have taken well to each other.”
Kenneth sipped from his glass and then pursed his lips. “Correct me if I am wrong, Rex,” he said, “but do I detect a scold coming? Or is it merely a lecture?”
“It seems to be an inescapable fact that you abandoned the lady for three months following a certain, ah, event,” Lord Rawleigh said, “and then hurried home, married her, and rushed back to town. Now, two months later, you have brought her here for a couple of weeks of entertainment. Will you pack her off home again afterward while you go to Brighton? Eden is going there, I gather. Or to one of the other spas? Or to Paris?”
“I would be obliged to you,” Kenneth said, “if you would mind your own damned business, Rawleigh.”
“But I am your friend,” the viscount said, sounding quite uncontrite. “And I know you rather well. I know your conscience. It used to puzzle and even annoy the rest of us at times. You have not had a woman since your marriage, have you?” He held up a hand. “No answer needed or expected. Nat and Eden have been merrily sowing their oats with a wide array of willing beauties—though Ede has a cozy nest now with his little dancer, of course—while you have been abstaining. But you need a woman. You were always quite as red-blooded as the rest of us.”
“I am a married man,” Kenneth said, almost in a growl.
“Precisely.” Rex raised his eyebrows. “Even I have realized that marriage vows lay a great obligation on the conscience, and I was never much of a one for conscience where women were concerned, was I? You are doomed to a celibate life, Ken, if you do not remain with Lady Haverford.”
“Rubbish,” Kenneth said.
“I would wager a fortune on it,” his friend said. “And an unhappy life too. And it seems a distinct possibility, Ken. You have sat here tonight being amiable to me and charming to Catherine. Lady Haverford has smiled and been charming to both Catherine and me. And you have both behaved as if the other was not even in the room.”
“The devil!” Kenneth said.
“Perhaps I have misread all the signs,” Lord Rawleigh said, lifting one hand in a gesture of helplessness. “Perhaps—”
“Perhaps,” Kenneth said through his teeth, “unlike Lady Rawleigh, Moira refused to allow me to do the honorable thing after the certain event, as you so euphemistically describe it. Perhaps she refused several times, even to the point of lying about her condition. Perhaps after she was eventually forced to marry me, she sent me packing, declaring she never wanted to see me again. Perhaps I have invited her to town in the hope that we can piece together something of a marriage after all. Perhaps I do not need my friends poking their noses where they do not belong. And perhaps we should have joined the ladies ten minutes ago.”
“And perhaps”—Viscount Rawleigh was smiling—“you have married the very woman for you, Ken. Has she really treated you so shabbily? Not the other way around? I have seen women by the score use every wile imaginable to lure you into matrimony or even simply into bed. I have never—no, I really have not—met one who gave you your marching orders. Until today, that is. Yes, do let us join the ladies, Ken. I want to take an even closer look at the lady who clearly has you rattled. This is far more interesting than I ever realized.” He got to his feet and gestured toward the door.
His mother was going to take Moira under her wing, Kenneth thought irritably as he pushed back his chair. Lady Rawleigh was going to befriend her. Rex was going to take a closer look at her. Nat and Eden, after dismissing her as a pale cadaver and a consumptive at Tawmouth, were now going to fall under her spell. Ainsleigh and Rex and doubtless half the male population of London were going to dance with her this evening. Was ever an attempted reconciliation conducted so much in the public eye? He had been a fool. He should have taken himself off to Dunbarton instead of bringing her here.
He wanted to dance with her himself this evening. Every set. Instead of which, he would be fortunate to have the two dances with her that proper decorum allowed.
“If you scowl like that, Ken,” Viscount Rawleigh said, slapping a hand on his shoulder, “you will be frightening Catherine and inviting your wife to abandon you for another two months or so.”
“The devil!” Kenneth muttered while his friend chuckled.
* * *
“OH, we will certainly stay until the end of the Season,” Lady Rawleigh said in answer to a question Moira had asked. “I must confess that I am enjoying it. I shall enjoy it even more now that you have come. We must go walking together and shopping and visiting together. You know very few people here, I suppose.”
“None except Kenneth,” Moira said, “and his mother and sister.”
“They will all help you feel more at home, of course,” Catherine said. “But it is important to have friends—of one’s own gender. Rex does not enjoy looking in the shops. I do.” She laughed. “I am so glad you have come to town at last. We have been very curious.”
She smiled and Moira smiled back. There was an awkward little silence.
“We will spend the summer at Stratton,” Catherine said. “In Kent, you know. We will probably stay there for the autumn and winter too. I am increasing, you see, and Rex is afraid to allow me to travel more than necessary, though I have never felt so well in my life.”
“You must be very happy,” Moira said with a stabbing of envy—and fear.
“Yes,” Catherine said softly. “I had long expected that I would never marry. I had accepted my spinsterhood quite cheerfully and had learned to lavish most of my affections on Toby.” She glanced affectionately at the little terrier who had frightened Moira earlier with his barking bu
t who was now stretched out fast asleep before the hearth. “And then Rex came along. How I hated him for upsetting the quiet contentment of my days.” She laughed. “And upset it he certainly did. But it is wonderful to be married when one expected never to be, Lady Haverford, and to have a deep affection for one’s husband when one expected to dislike him intensely—and to be increasing when one had expected to be childless.”
But her smile faded suddenly as she looked into Moira’s face. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she said. “You lost a child, did you not? It is the worst feeling in all the world.”
“Yes,” Moira said.
“We did not even know of it until very recently,” Catherine said. “Your husband kept it all bottled up inside, poor man, and hid the truth even from his closest friends. Mr. Gascoigne told Rex that Lord Haverford actually cried when he finally mentioned it. Which only proves how fond of you he is. We were puzzled by his leaving you in Cornwall so soon after your marriage, but all was explained then. The pain was too intense for him, and he must have felt quite helpless to ease yours.”
“Miscarriage is very common,” Moira said. “It is foolish, perhaps, to feel it as such a grievous loss.”
“I once lost a child,” Catherine said, “a few hours after his birth. It was a number of years ago. Perhaps your husband mentioned to you the duel Rex fought just a few months ago against the father, my seducer? I should have been glad to lose that child when there had been so much ugliness and so much ruin surrounding his conception. I was not glad, Lady Haverford. I hope never again to have to face the nightmare of grief I lived through for a long time after he was gone, my son.”
“But you are happily risking it all again?” Moira asked, frowning.
Catherine smiled. “The desire to bear life is far stronger than fear,” she said. “Especially when the man is very dear to one. And one cannot allow fear to rule one’s life, can one? Not unless one wishes to be endlessly unhappy—and lonely. Do you not feel the need to try again too? Or is it a little soon yet? Am I embarrassing you? But you will, I am sure, Lady Hav—oh, may I call you Moira? I am Catherine.”
“I felt wretched the whole time,” Moira said. “But perhaps that was because . . .” She bit her lip.
“Yes, I am sure it was,” Catherine said. “I was very ill that other time too. And miserable. And unwilling and unable to eat or to rest. This time I am fit to bursting with good health. But this time I am happy.”
Moira smiled.
There was no chance to continue the conversation. The drawing room door opened to admit the two men, and in the half hour before they left for the ball, Moira’s attention was taken by Lord Rawleigh, who sat beside her, instructed her to tell him all about Cornwall, and focused the whole of his attention on her answers. Kenneth accompanied Catherine to the pianoforte at the other end of the room and stood beside the instrument, watching her play.
One cannot allow fear to rule one’s life. . . . Not unless one wishes to be endlessly unhappy—and lonely.
The words repeated themselves at the back of Moira’s mind all the time she spoke and smiled. But she was not afraid, was she? Of conceiving again, perhaps. But not of anything else. Not of—loving. Not of loving Kenneth. One could not be afraid of something one was in no danger of doing.
. . . endlessly unhappy—and lonely.
* * *
KENNETH experienced both the success and frustration of his hopes in the course of the Algerton ball. It was a large squeeze of an affair, as most entertainments were at this stage of the Season. It was a fitting setting for what was, in effect, Moira’s debut into society. And she certainly looked lovely enough for the occasion, dressed as she was with her usual elegant simplicity in pale gold. The only glittering detail of her appearance, in fact, was her diamond bracelet, which she wore over her long glove.
He enjoyed the interest and curiosity with which the ton looked at his wife when she first entered the ballroom on his arm. News traveled faster than lightning in London, of course. He would wager that everyone present knew her identity after the first five minutes. And he would wager, too, that for the past two months there had been a great deal of avid curiosity about the mysteriously absent Countess of Haverford.
He danced the first set of country dances with her and watched her dance with skill and grace—and with open enjoyment. He would waltz with her too, he decided. But later, perhaps after supper. He would not dance with her again too soon and know that he could not dance with her any more for the whole evening. That would be too dreary.
But once the first set was over, it seemed that control of the evening was taken from his hands. His mother, true to her word, took her daughter-in-law under her wing and moved about the ballroom with her, presenting her to all the female dragons whose every word was law in London society. Moira, he could see, was acquitting herself well. She was behaving with quiet poise, though she was not mute. He resisted the temptation to follow her about. This was women’s business, and she did not need him. He did not know if she enjoyed being with his mother, but she appeared to have accepted her sponsorship with quiet good sense. He was very pleased with the development.
And of course she danced—every set. Rex danced the second with her and Ainsleigh the third. Nat and Eden both danced with her, of course, as did Lord Algerton and Viscount Perry, Lady Rawleigh’s young brother. She danced the supper waltz with Claude Adams, Rex’s twin brother, who was in town with his wife, and of course went off to supper on his arm afterward.
After supper, her evening did not lose momentum at all. She danced with gentlemen to whom his mother had presented her, most of them the highly ranked, highly respected husbands of the dragons. It might be said, Kenneth thought, watching her with mingled pride and jealousy, that the ton had taken the Countess of Haverford to its bosom at her first appearance in its midst.
“She is really rather handsome,” a lady’s voice said from behind his shoulder, and he turned to find Mrs. Herrington standing there, languidly fanning her face, “if one likes unusually tall women who are as dark as Spaniards. Some officers, I have heard, my lord, grew tired of Spanish beauties from too long a familiarity with them.”
“Did they, indeed?” he said, fingering the handle of his quizzing glass, though he did not raise it to his eye. “How extraordinary.”
“Of course,” she said, smiling at him over the top of her fan, “some men grow tired of their wives for the same reason. If such should be your fate, my lord, there is consolation close at hand, I do assure you.”
“Sometimes, ma’am,” he said, lifting his glass to his eye and watching his wife smile and converse and perform the rather intricate steps of the dance all at the same time, “one can be fervently thankful that one is neither some officers nor some men.”
She sighed and then laughed. “There are other tall, broad men,” she said. “There are other men who have been officers. There are other blond men. But none have all those attributes so splendidly united as they are in you, my lord. I must regret your wife’s timing in arriving in town just now. But I shall renew my search. Perhaps the next time I am between lovers, or the time after that, you will be in a different frame of mind.” She touched him on the shoulder with her closed fan and was gone.
She was amazingly brazen, he thought, and found himself chuckling.
But he was not chuckling after he had approached his wife and his mother at the end of the set and discovered that Moira could not dance the next waltz with him, as it was already promised to someone else. And indeed every set for what remained of the evening was already taken.
“So you need not worry about me, Kenneth,” she said. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were shining—not at his arrival at her side, he suspected, but at the excitement of the ball and her own success.
“I never for a moment doubted, ma’am,” he said, bowing to her, “that you would have more partners than there are sets to
be danced. Enjoy yourself.” He took himself off to dance with Lady Baird, Rex’s sister.
And so their first day together was over, he thought when the ball had ended and he handed his wife into the carriage. It had not been quite what he had anticipated. When he had suggested to her that they simply enjoy what remained of the Season and put all else from their minds, he had pictured them together, carefree, laughing, talking—perhaps a little as they had been when they were very young. He had forgotten that the whole idea of the Season was that people mingle and enjoy themselves with one another. He had forgotten that husbands and wives rarely spent more than a few minutes of each day in company with only each other when they were in town.
It had not been a total disaster of a day, he thought as he settled onto the carriage seat beside his wife. It had not been a total success either, but then, he had not expected miracles. Perhaps tomorrow would be better.
“Lady Rawleigh—Catherine—has asked me to walk in the park with her tomorrow morning,” Moira said, turning her head to look at him in the darkness, “while Lord Rawleigh spends a few hours at White’s. I thought you would wish to go there too.”
“I am pleased,” he said, “that you have made a female friend.”
“I believe Lady Baird is coming too,” she said. “She is Lord Rawleigh’s sister, you know. Your mother wishes me to make some calls with her during the afternoon. I thought it wise to say yes. She was kind to me this evening. And making afternoon calls is the thing to do here, I understand, just as it is at home. Does this meet with your approval, my lord?”
It did not. She might as well have slapped him in the face. She was not going to have need of him all day? “You are asking for my approval?” he asked. “Dare I give it? If I do, you will be sure to think you have done something drastically wrong and will change all your plans. I most certainly do not approve, ma’am.” He looked at her sidelong and had the same impression he had had fleetingly during the afternoon when they had been returning from Ainsleigh’s. He felt almost as if they had teased and understood and amused each other.