No doubt she had found another to love by now. He wondered if Tilda had written to her telling her how happy his so-called bride appeared to be. Tilda, of course, had no notion of Barbara’s plan. He grimaced. He, too, had been positive that Alicia must hate Yorkshire. He had never expected her to settle into the abbey so easily, and though he was loath to admit it, she had made some improvements in the house. There had been the new cushions for the chairs, and she had arranged the furniture differently so that the rooms did not appear so cluttered. Unlike Barbara, she actually seemed to like the abbey and the ruins, but he doubted that she really did. Her supposed interest in the house was merely a ploy to win him to her side, and her home-made gown was also a ploy. Undoubtedly she was clever, but in
this instance she had been a little too clever. “The very soul of duplicity.” That was how Barbara had described her, and by heaven, she had been right!
The gown was, as he had earlier noted, quite becoming, but why had she not patronized Madame de la Tour, who was an excellent seamstress? Surely Tilda would have mentioned, her and he himself would have suggested the mantua maker had Alicia come to him. That she had not was further proof of that “duplicity” Barbara had mentioned. Clearly Alicia had wanted to prove that she had not married him for his money and his title, and so she had made her own gown out of fabric that must be near forty years old.
He could see the workings of her mind. In time, he had no doubt, she would approach him and ask for monies to send to her indigent parent and her brother. And eventually . . .
“Lucian . . .”
He started. “Well?” he demanded harshly, his response coated with his churning anger.
“We have arrived.”
“Oh, have we?” he responded unnecessarily since the post-chaise was drawing to a stop and from his window he could see the crush of other vehicles and the brightly lighted facade of the Hewes mansion. One of the footmen had placed the stairs in front of the carriage door, and Lucian, coming down them, turned to escort the woman he must perforce call wife to her first ball and into a world in which she had no right to be moving. It occurred to him that he would far rather have set her on the stage to London, but something told him that would take a much more detailed plan than either he or Barbara had originally ascertained.
Because, as Tilda had confided to Alicia, half the county would be present, the ball was held in the long gallery in front of what the hostess called a “singularly unprepossessing gaggle of ancestors.”
“If Hewes would allow it, I would drape the lot of them in black velvet,” she had said frankly.
That she had exaggerated was evident, Alicia thought as she scanned them. Though the Hewes generations had a definite family resemblance, none of them was ill-looking. However, before she had had an opportunity to view more than the seventeenth-century Hewes—one Lord Geoffrey, brave in falling curls and petticoat trousers—she was seized by her hostess and introduced to various people who banished any nervousness she might have been experiencing by being extremely cordial. She lost sight of Lucian, who had been in one of his silent moods—silent and. she had no doubt, disapproving. Obviously he was lamenting the fact that he was not being accompanied by the lovely Barbara Barrington. She belonged here and would have known every person present. More than merely acknowledging introductions—but, of course, she would not have needed those either—she would have been inquiring after their parents, their mutual friends, and so forth. She must not think about Barbara, she decided. That way led to depression and she wanted to and would enjoy herself tonight!
“Might I have the first waltz, Lady Morley?” A tall young man had come to confront her.
She had scarcely consented and inscribed his name on the spokes of her little ivory fan than another older man was asking for a country dance, and in a few minutes Alicia found to her surprise that she was surrounded by gentlemen. She smiled and was reminded of the assemblies at Brussels when she usually did not sit down during an entire evening. Dr. Hepworth also claimed a waltz, and a few minutes later there was Lucian also asking for a waltz—probably, she thought as she stared up into his unsmiling face, because he felt it was his duty to do so.
She consulted her fan. “I have one left,” she was pleased to tell him, equally pleased because it would not be taking place until much later in the evening.
“I thank you,” he said stiffly, and moved away.
She wondered a little at the anger she read in his eyes, but she forgot it as her first partner claimed her. She had always loved to dance and, she realized with surprise, she had not danced since the eve of Waterloo. She swallowed a lump in her throat, resolutely banishing the memories that had accompanied that thought, and let the music carry her along.
An hour later, coming off the floor from a country dance, Alicia remembered Tilda’s mysterious comments concerning the ball and guessed that she had instructed the young men who thronged about her, to demand dances. She smiled. She could not help but be pleased that three of these gallants had asked wistfully if she had another dance to spare and had seemed mightily disappointed to find that all had been requested. They had praised her grace with flattering surprise. Her thoughts fled as Dr. Hepworth came to claim his waltz.
He, she knew instinctively, would have required no prompting from his hostess, and as he approached, she felt the warmth of a flush on her cheeks. She could not deny that she found him attractive, and he was looking particularly well this evening. In common with Lucian, he was wearing black. The hue emphasized his broad shoulders and his slim waist, and under the light from an immense chandelier his fair hair shone like spun gold. She was pleased that he did not seem as somber as usual and she found him an unusually graceful partner. Furthermore, even though he said very little, he did seem to be enjoying himself. As she thought of his history, Alicia’s sympathy was mixed with empathy, and for a reason she did not care to examine too closely, she almost wished that Lucian had not asked her for a dance. He had done so out of duty, she was sure, and in a sense, it would almost be like dancing with a ghost. Another waltz with James Hepworth would be much more enjoyable.
The music came to an end and Dr. Hepworth bowed. He said a trifle breathlessly, “That was most pleasant. Lady Morley. Might one hope that you have another waltz to spare?”
She flushed, remembering that vagrant hope, and shook her head. “Alas, I wish I could give you an affirmative answer, but they are all taken.”
“And I wish they were not.” His blue eyes lingered on her face for another second, and then, bowing, he moved away.
As Alicia stood waiting for her next partner, Tilda came to her side. “I vow, my love, you are a great success. Several of the gentlemen have been begging me to add more dances, mainly so they can once again claim you as a partner. If you will look about you, you will see a number of females who have turned pea green with envy. You are marvelously light on your feet, my love, a veritable nymph.” She frowned. “But I do wonder what happened to the Duke of Pryde; he was supposed to be present tonight.”
“The Duke of Pryde?” Alicia demanded in some surprise. “Do you know him?”
“Did I not tell you? ’Twas in my company that my cousin met him. We were both at the home of Lady Ponsoby, who did not know better than to invite us at the same time—it being in London. Pryde came and, seeing me, stopped to exchange a few words, whereupon dearest Barbara quite forgot that she and I were not speaking and voilal I cannot think what has kept him away. I had thought to introduce you. I am sure that Lucian has heard some of the on-dit concerning the beauteous Barbara and his Grace. I thought it would do him good to meet his rival. Alas, the best-laid schemes o’ men an’ mice—or, I think, mice and men—gang aft agley, but no matter, I think I have achieved one purpose: you are approved, my dear, and are pronounced quite unexceptional, even by those ladies who envy your success tonight. I am entirely delighted myself, and if you do not mind a word of advice, you must plan a dinner. I will help you with the list of invitations.
”
“I will, of course,” Alicia said warmly. “And . . .” She paused, remembering Lucian. “But my husband—”
“He will concur, never fear. He has his pride, my love. Years ago, when his mother was still alive, the dinners at the abbey were famous, and even more so in his grandfather’s day. But enough! The music is starting and here comes Sir John to claim you for the quadrille.”
The quadrille was at an end and Alicia, fanning herself, found Dr. Hepworth at her side again. “I am happy to tell you that Lady Hewes has consented to add another two waltzes to the program. I hope that I am the first with this news, and may claim you for one of them? Unless, of course, you are too weary. Were I your physician, I might advise against such exercise as you have had tonight.”
She laughed. “I do not believe I have ever heard so quaintly worded a request, Dr. Hepworth.”
“ ’Tis a matter of conscience versus desire,” he said with a slight bow.
“And which am I supposed to heed?” she inquired.
“I hope that you will brush my professional scruples aside,” he returned, his blue eyes intent.
Alicia hesitated, aware of an emotion beyond mere pleasure, one that was resulting in a dangerous quickening of her pulse. That Dr. Hepworth admired her was evident, and given her situation, such admiration was sweet. Furthermore, in common with herself, he too had suffered. She said softly, “Of course, I will be delighted to dance with you. Which of the two waltzes will it be?”
He looked extremely gratified. “I would say both, but I must not be so selfish. May I be awarded the first?”
“The first will be yours, sir.”
“I thank you, Lady Morley. I am honored. And I will be back to claim it directly it is announced.” He bowed and left her.
Music was in her ears again. “My dance, I believe,” Lucian said.
When she looked up at him, all else faded from Alicia’s mind. Silently she moved into his arms. In her ears were the opening bars of the waltz, not the one they had played that night, but she could not help harkening back to those moments in the Duchess of Richmond’s vast ballroom. Even though this Lucian was not in his bright regimentals, the face above the beautifully tied cravat was the same. She had promised herself that she would not be visited by memories, but as they came onto the floor, these flooded over her. She blinked against moisture in her eyes, and then they were dancing. He did not speak and neither did she, nor did he smile. His face was grave, his eyes intent. He danced well, but not with the freedom of movement he had displayed on the night of that never-to-be-forgotten ball. Alicia wondered if his leg might pain him. She looked up at him and the question died on her lips. He had such a strange expression on his face: his head was cocked as if he were listening. Meeting her puzzled glance, he said haltingly, “Do you hear guns, Alicia?”
“Guns?” she whispered, her heart beginning to pound heavily in her throat.
“It seems to me that ... I hear guns,” he said, staring down at her dazed look in his eyes.
Across the floor, someone cried loudly, “Good God, what has happened, your Grace?”
Some of the dancers halted, Lucian among them, the dazed look beginning to fade, and Alicia, also glancing in that direction, saw that everyone was turned toward the door near the end of the gallery where a tall, heavyset man, his garments muddied and a streak of blood coursing down his face from a wound in his forehead, stood clutching the door frame.
Several of the men had stepped forward and now Lucian followed them. “What’s amiss?” he called.
“Highwaymen!" the newcomer cried. “They attacked the coach. My coachman fired at one of them. The postboy thinks he’s wounded, but meanwhile, Charles, our coachman, is dead, they have the horses and my mother’s diamond necklace.”
There was loud talking and two of the women seemed near
swooning. Alicia, following Lucian, moved forward almost automatically. She saw Dr. Hepworth striding in the direction of the heavyset man, heard him say, “Your Grace, let me tend your wounds. The bleeding must be stanched.”
“No, Dr. Hepworth, see to my mother, if you will, please. I carried her to the hall; she has swooned. Her health's in a precarious state, as you know.”
As Dr. Hepworth nodded and hurried out of the gallery, several other men ran out.
“We’d best go.” Lucian turned toward Alicia.
“Do you not think you should stay here?” Tilda asked, her face pale and her hair disarranged where evidently she had been running her hands through it. “The highwaymen must still be at large.”
“They will have done enough mischief for the nonce,” Lucian told her. “They never attack twice in a night. You know that, Tilda.” His face softened. “ ’Tis a pity your ball had to end on this note. ’Twas a very pleasant evening.”
"I—I had hoped it might be,” she said distractedly, and moved away.
“Come.” Lucian turned to Alicia again. “Unless you are afraid?”
“No,” she said dully, “I am not afraid.”
“Good." He grasped her arm. “We will fetch your cloak, then.”
Going to bed that night, Alicia buried her face in her pillow and wept as she had not wept since Lucian's supposed demise. Tilda’s plan to introduce the duke to Lucian had gone sadly awry. She remembered her husband’s face as he had mentioned the guns—the guns heard, if he but knew it, some five months back, when they had been waltzing in the ballroom of the Duchess of Richmond’s hired mansion in Brussels. His gaze had been far away. Had he been on the brink of remembering? She would never know, never, never, never! She sobbed, and then, most unwillingly, she recollected her slight exchange with Dr. Hepworth. For a moment or two she had felt oddly drawn to him and knew, instinctively, that he had experienced a similar sensation.
They did have a certain kinship in that they had suffered in much the same way. And he was dangerously attractive. Was she being punished for having experienced that attraction, however briefly? That, of course, was ridiculous! And in the moment that Lucian had asked her about the guns, the ghostly guns of Waterloo, Dr. Hepworth had been completely blotted from her mind. She could not even understand that momentary attraction. No, she was not being honest with herself. She could. In her unhappiness and her frustration over Lucian’s continued coldness, combined with his determined efforts to avoid her, she had reached out for comfort. Comfort was what she craved—not love—and she guessed that Dr. Hepworth had perhaps experienced a very similar feeling.
She sat up in bed, staring into the darkness. “Oh, Lucian, Lucian ...” she whispered. “Will you never come back to me?”
Her only answer was the mournful soughing of the wind around the comers of the old house. To her mind, it seemed to be moaning, “Nooooo, nooooo, noooo.”
11
The sky was an unprepossessing gray and the winds were chill. They were systematically stripping the trees of their brilliant autumn plumage. In another fortnight they would be bare, Alicia thought as she stood at her window staring into the ruins, bleak under an appearing and disappearing sun, a shy sun that had only been up for a half-hour. She had a half-smile for the fancy. It vanished as the panes rattled under a gust of wind. She shivered slightly, drawing the shawl she had put over her nightshift tighter, and cast a glance over her shoulder at her tumbled bed. It would be warmer there, but she was not moved to go back. She had risen, drawn by the light, a north light that was kind to artists. She had yet to paint the ruins. She smiled wryly. She had purchased her paints, but she had not used them.
In the three weeks that had passed since the Hewes ball she had not had the time to think, much less spend a morning at her easel. There had been invitations to routs, to another ball given by Lord and Lady Cavanaugh, whom she had met at one of Tilda’s routs. She had also been bidden to join an excursion to Easby Abbey in company with Tilda and Lady Shelbroke, or Charts, as she had been bidden to call her. She and Lucian had subsequently joined Lady Shelbroke and her lord at the Theatre Royal in
Richmond for a revival of Love in a Cottage. She smiled at the recollection. She had been half-afraid that Lucian would refuse to accompany her, but contrary to these expectations, he had. He had also seemed to enjoy himself, even though the production could not meet London standards of excellence.
Alicia had also enjoyed it and had been able to assure the Shelbrokes that it was much above anything she had viewed in Brussels. Somewhat to her surprise, she had found that in the eyes of the Shelbrokes and other county families, her years abroad had given her an aura of sophistication that they both envied and admired. Indeed, Lady Shelbroke began many a sentence with “Of course we are not world travelers like yourself ...”
Discussing this unearned reputation with Tilda, she had been advised not to protest it. “Let them defer to you, my love. It cannot harm you, and it will, I believe, impress dearest Lucian.”
Though Alicia had laughed, albeit rather wryly, at what she had not hesitated to call a “flight of fancy,” she had found to her surprise that Lucian was pleased, if not impressed, by her increasing popularity among the county families, to the point that when she tentatively suggested that they give a dinner to return the many invitations they had received, he had pronounced himself completely in accord.
The event had taken place last night—after a week of agonized preparation. Present had been Lord and Lady Cavanaugh, Lord and Lady Shelbroke, and Lord and Lady Hewes and their houseguests, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Rowley. Also present had been Dr. Hepworth and his cousin Clara MacAuliffe from Inverness, who was currently visiting friends in the vicinity. It had been a very pleasant evening. The cook had outdone herself, and Lucian, a charming and unusually gregarious host, had complimented her on a very pleasant evening before taking himself off to bed.
The Forgotten Marriage Page 17