Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she placed her card on the silver tray. The servant gazed at the card, then respectfully bowed. Aidan thought his manner odd and nervously waited to be announced.
“Good luck,” Eugenia whispered as Aidan stepped forward.
Squaring her shoulders and smoothing the skirt of her blue satin gown, which she’d chosen from her newly arrived belongings, she listened for the words: The Right Honorable Lady Aidan Prescott. Instead she heard: “The Most Noble Duchess of Westover.”
Hot fire surged up Aidan’s neck as her head snapped around with force. Eyes wide, she stared at the man who had just announced her. In the ballroom, the music stopped; a discordant rise of whispers swept through the crowd to roar in Aidan’s ears.
“Obviously the word is out,” Eugenia said from close behind her. “I suppose the servants were told to be on the look out for you and to announce your true title. Hold your head high, smile, and face the lot of them. Now, go!”
Feeling like an automaton, Aidan woodenly descended the three steps into the ballroom. Her face frozen into a tight smile, she waited for Eugenia and David. Once they had joined her, the three tried to make their way to a secluded spot on the opposite side of the large room, but it was impossible. A crowd instantly surrounded her, offering their congratulations and inquiring why the duke was not with her.
“So you’re the one who’s captured him at last,” one young woman stated peevishly, her assessing gaze raking Aidan from head to foot. “I was given to believe he preferred true redheads.” She ran a critical eye over Aidan’s coppery tresses, then patted her own fiery locks, which Aidan realized were no more natural in color than a raven was red. With a sniff, the girl turned her back on Aidan and retraced her steps through the crowd.
After ten minutes of fielding question after question, which became more personal as each second passed, only to be followed by deliberate glances at her stomach, Aidan had had enough. “Excuse me,” she stated sharply, then turned on her heel and exited the Rothschild mansion, Eugenia and David close behind her.
“Of all the nerve,” Aidan said as their carriage slowly headed back toward Portman Square, her fan working vigorously as she tried to cool her flaming face. “The lot are nothing but a tribe of gossipmongers.”
“Well, at least now we know why there was such a crush at the Rothschilds’,” David said blandly. “They came to see you, Aidan. Or should I say, they came to see the woman who finally snared the evasive Duke of Westover.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say anything at all,” Aidan commented caustically. She noted David’s arched brow. “I’m sorry, David. I shouldn’t have spoken to you so sharply. It’s simply that I cannot believe what’s happened. I won’t be able to go anywhere, ever again.”
“I wonder how the word got out,” Eugenia said. “No one knew of it this morning. And Madame Sophie knows everything,” she said of her couturiere. “Practically everyone who’s anyone goes to her. She mentioned nothing about it.”
“Well, someone let the bird out of its cage,” David said, “and I’m certain it won’t be long before Westover discovers his wife is in London. The gossips won’t be silent over this one.”
Frightened by the prospect of seeing her husband again, Aidan felt the blood drain from her face. All her bravado failed her as she imagined the rage that would greet her. No doubt he would blame her for the ballyhoo which had arisen over their so-called secret marriage. “I can’t face him,” she whispered, fearing what might transpire between them, realizing none of it would be good. “I can’t.”
Seeing Aidan’s sudden pallor, Eugenia turned to David. “We have to get her home.” As Eugenia quickly switched seats to comfort Aidan, David commanded his driver to head home, fast.
“I’m sorry I’ve ruined your evening,” Aidan said in a small voice, tears glistening on her lashes.
“You’ve ruined nothing,” Eugenia replied, hugging her friend closer to her. “Heaven only knows why we attend these horrid things to begin with.”
“To show off our new gowns, I suppose,” Aidan said with a sniff and a small smile, eliciting light laughter from Eugenia.
“And David probably makes his appearance so he can place a wager on a horse,” Eugenia countered, winking at her husband, hoping to keep the light banter going and ease Aidan’s fears.
“What ho! Rather cheeky of you!” David cried, pretending to be peeved at his wife’s faked effrontery. “You’ve exposed me, completely! With the truth out, I suppose you will henceforth check my pockets each time we go to one of these gatherings.”
“Indeed I shall, sir,” Eugenia said with mock severity. “Especially since your bets produce little, if any, reward.”
“Can I help it if the last nag I bet on pulled up lame only yards from the finish line?” he asked, his brow rising.
“No, dear. But if you had wagered on the horse I chose, you would have won.”
“And how much did you win, wife?”
“Fifty pounds sterling.”
David frowned. “From now on, I shall defer to your judgment.”
As Aidan listened to the young couple’s repartee, which she knew was for her benefit alone, she wondered why she couldn’t have found a mate similar to the one her friend had. David was kind, witty, and he loved his wife beyond life itself. Instead, she’d found herself linked with a rogue: arrogant, self-centered, and faithless. Undoubtedly he was at this moment with his mistress, enjoying himself immensely. The blackguard! she berated him silently, losing some of her fear and regaining her former anger at the man. Although it was her husband who deserved censure, she was the one who had become the talk of the gossips, eyes inspecting her to see if she had fallen victim to the duke’s masculine allure.
Her reputation had been sullied. Never mind there was not an ounce of truth to the prattle. A vicious seed had been planted, which would grow to enormous proportions. Time would prove them all wrong, she knew, but until then, she alone would be the one made to suffer from the maliciousness, the looks, the innuendo.
Her indignation renewed, she decided whatever it took, she’d make the Duke of Westover release her from this farce of a marriage. And soon!
Justin felt a forceful finger poking at his shoulder. He peeled open one eye to see Cynthia standing over him.
“You say you are married, and now I believe you,” she railed at him. “I leave you alone for a minute and come back to find you dozing like some old dog in the heat of the day.”
Rolling his head from side to side, trying to release the kink that had settled in his neck, Justin smiled derisively. “You’re right. I am behaving like some feeble old cur.”
He rose from the chair situated in Cynthia’s parlor. Stretching, he glanced around him, trying to get his bearings. The last thing he remembered was Cynthia’s suggestively saying she was going to slip into something less restrictive. As he gazed at her, he noted she had.
“You look lovely,” he said, his voice husky with sleep, and the blond ran her hand over the whisper of material she wore, the low-cut silk nightdress clinging wickedly to her voluptuous body. As she did so, he envisioned a different beauty in the flimsy thing. The violet-eyed siren beckoned to him, and he instantly felt a stirring in his loins.
Justin shook his head, clearing the vision from his mind, then stifled a yawn. Immediately he noted Cynthia’s narrowed gaze.
“Have I become that boring to you?” she asked irritably. “If so, perhaps you should take your leave.”
In truth, Justin was bored, but he refused to admit it. “The fault lies not with you, but with me, Cynthia. I have a lot on my mind, lately—mainly, how to extract myself from my marriage. Forgive me if I seem disinterested.”
“Perhaps I can change your mood,” she said, moving against him, trying to inflame him.
Her arms crept upward around Justin’s neck, pulling his head ever closer to hers. As her full lips took possession of his, Justin tried to respond. Nothing happened. After a l
ong moment, in which he felt as dead as a fallen tree, he pulled back. “I’d best be leaving,” he said, unwrapping her slender arms from his shoulders. “I have an early morning ahead of me,” he said, gathering his cane and hat. “I’ll be out of London for a few days and will call on you when I return.”
Cynthia followed him to the door. “I suggest you inquire first,” she said snappishly. “You may find I’m out with someone else.”
“If that’s what you want, Cynthia, then so be it. I don’t ask that you wait. The decision is yours.” Justin placed his hat on his head, saluted her with his cane, and was out the door before the blond could respond. The hard thud of wood and a rattle of glass met his ears as he strode to his waiting carriage. “Home, Potts,” he said, settling in his seat.
Why he had gone to Cynthia’s in the first place, he did not know. But he was glad to be away from her. As they’d shared an intimate candlelight supper, he’d begun to notice her flaws. Not in her features, for there were none.
Peevish, self-centered, frivolous in nature, she had nothing to offer in the way of intelligent conversation. Did any woman? he wondered, feeling exceptionally disagreeable toward the feminine gender at the moment. Even more disrupting to him was the fact that he’d seemed to have lost his masculine vitality. Never had a woman been unable to rouse him, nor he, her. But tonight, as Cynthia had practically laid her ripe body at his feet, he was amazed to discover he felt nothing. Had his usually healthy male appetites suddenly been sucked dry? No, he quickly decided, for when he’d thought of a violet-eyed vixen, he’d responded with vigor.
Dammit all! he swore inwardly. She was ruining his life! Somehow he had to rid himself of her. But how? Unable to find an answer, short of murder, Justin stared at the starless sky, cursing his fate, and Aidan Prescott, as well.
8
“She refuses to go anywhere,” Eugenia said to David as the couple viewed Aidan from the window while she sat in the gardens reading. “The most she’s done is post a letter to Westover’s aunt. Otherwise, she simply sits.”
“Can you blame her?” David inquired. “If it’s not the dread of hearing what the gossips are saying, it’s the fear of running into Westover. Either one is enough to make her burrow in.”
“What shall we do?” his wife asked, her concern evident.
“Give her time,” David replied. “It’s only been two days since her encounter with the quarrelsome lot at the Rothschilds’. If I know Aidan, she’ll bounce back in no time at all.”
Eugenia turned clouded eyes on David. “How can you be so certain?”
“Because Aidan is not a quitter. At the moment, she’s licking her wounds, but as she does so, she’s also steeling her courage. Before we know it, she’ll be in the thick of the social whirl, boldly challenging anyone who questions her rank or her dignity. With the title she holds, and the power it affords her, the talk will soon stop.”
“But her husband is not of the disposition to support her on this. Without his backing, her title means little.”
David chuckled. “It’s not Westover’s support that matters here. Those who continue to malign her will risk censure from our Queen.”
“Victoria knows of all that has transpired?” Eugenia asked incredulously, and watched as David nodded.
“In fact, my love, as I’ve heard tell, it was she who announced the duke and Aidan were married. Hence the fiasco at the Rothschilds’ the other evening.”
Laughter bubbled forth from Eugenia’s throat. “With the Queen on her side, Aidan can’t possibly lose.”
“I’d say the likelihood of her doing so is precisely zero,” David replied, smiling. “And since you need not worry over your friend any longer, how about showing some concern for your husband?”
Seeing his boyish pout, Eugenia smiled up at him. “I’d be most happy to,” she said, then pulled him toward her waiting lips.
Sunlight danced through the leaves of the ancient elm as a light breeze languidly lifted and settled the foliage like a thousand fans in as many maidens’ hands. Absentmindedly Aidan flicked a loose tendril of hair away from her cheek, then moved restlessly on the stone bench where she sat. Having stared at the same page for the last ten minutes and not knowing a word it said, she shut the small book with a snap. Her eyes refocused as she took in the profusion of color surrounding her in the garden, but its beauty did little to lift her flagging spirits.
There had to be a way to extract herself from this terrible dilemma. After experiencing the disastrous turn of events at the Rothschilds’, she knew she could never face anyone again. Oh, what she would give to be able to walk among them, her head held regally high, and to disdainfully stare down her nose at them all. But that was an impossibility and would remain so, until things were settled between her husband and herself. And the only way to arrange that was to meet him head-on. For the past several days, she realized she’d been hashing and rehashing that thought in her mind, never finding the courage to take action. Short of strangling her, what could he possibly do?
Aidan’s hand climbed to her throat, covering it protectively. Knowing Justin Warfield’s hot temper, she feared he just might follow through. Ridiculous! They were two adults who had found themselves in an unwanted marriage. Surely they could work together to find a way to dissolve the thing! Yet, she realized that telling herself as much and mustering the heart for an encounter with the man were two different things entirely. Sighing, Aidan had to admit, until she’d found the courage to face him, she’d have to remain content in keeping herself hidden.
Aunt Patti reread Aidan’s letter for the third time, primarily the passage which stated her niece had managed so far to evade Justin’s detection.
London is abuzz with the news of our marriage. How the whole came into the information, I have no idea. Since your nephew has not made his appearance, I can only assume he is unaware I am here, and not at Warfield Manor. But after last night, I fear he may show up, and soon. What shall I do then?
“Fall into his arms, you twit!” Aunt Patti railed to her bedroom walls. “Seduce him! Whatever it takes so I might look upon my great-grandnephew before I die!”
Deciding that talking to herself did little good, the dowager marchioness ambled over to her writing table, whereupon she withdrew a sheet of paper and took pen in hand. She dipped the point into the ink, then wrote: The chit has managed to escape! You might find her at Lord and Lady Manley’s, Portman Square, London.
With her falsely dated note sealed, she called for a servant. “Have this delivered to Westover House, and be quick about it!”
When the man had left, Aunt Patti settled into her rocking chair. With her nephew having sent word two days ago that he would be away from London for close to a week in search of a stud for his mares, she was convinced he would have no idea when he’d received her letter. And since her nephew’s aging butler was showing signs of senility, she was certain Pitkin wouldn’t remember when it had arrived either. Positive her part in the matter would remain hidden, at least for the time being, she smiled with satisfaction. “A little nudge in the right direction will undoubtedly bring about the appropriate results,” she said, thumping her cane for emphasis. “And you, nephew, had better comply!”
Persuaded she had done all she could do at present, the dowager marchioness picked up her needles and painfully set to finishing the mate to the small pair of bootees she was knitting.
At Portman Square, Aidan stood in her bedroom, carefully viewing herself in the mirror. All morning long, she’d sat in the walled garden behind Lord and Lady Manley’s, continually worrying over her predicament, until, like the rosebushes, she’d felt certain she was about to take root herself. Now, with Eugenia and David having gone out for the afternoon, she’d become bored with her self-imposed exile and decided it was time she stop playing the coward.
Settling a plain straw bonnet atop her head to hide her coppery tresses, which were pulled back and netted into a bun, Aidan tied the blue satin ribbons beneath her
chin. She stepped back and ran her hand over her skirt, her eyes never leaving her image. Unadorned, the simple blue muslin gown provided her the appearance she’d hoped to achieve. To her own eyes, she looked no different from any other woman who traveled along the streets of London. And in no way did she resemble a member of the peerage—much less a duchess!—which pleased Aidan considerably.
Satisfied she wouldn’t be recognized, she snatched up her reticule, containing only a few shillings, draped a light shawl around her shoulders, and left the house. With determination in her step, she walked several blocks from the house, where she hailed a passing cabby.
Upon hearing her destination, the man arched a surprised brow. “Ye sure ye wants to go there, miss? Ye ain’t exactly escorted, and—”
“Sir, I’m quite certain of my destination. Escorted or not, I am paying you to take me there. Now, let’s be gone.”
Frowning, the man tipped his hat. “It be yer hide, missy,” he grumbled beneath his breath, but Aidan had caught the words.
“Indeed, sir, it is. And I’ll take full responsibility for it.” She settled into her seat and the driver shut the door. Within moments the hired cab was headed toward London’s East End.
Shod hooves clicked smartly against the cobblestone street, wheels rumbling along on a rhythmic drone. Inside the vehicle, Aidan gazed through the small window. As they neared her intended destination, she noticed how the buildings became shabbier-looking with each passing block, the smells more repugnant to the nose. Finally the hired conveyance stopped in front of a modest structure which stood behind a tall stone wall. The old place was greatly in need of repair.
Handing over her fare, Aidan walked up to the rusting iron gate, its latch broken. The small yard beyond was devoid of grass; no flowers bloomed in the unattended garden area, only weeds. Traveling the cracked stone walkway, she ascended three worn steps to knock on a scarred wooden door. As her violet eyes took in the sights around her, Aidan decided that feeling sorry for herself was extremely foolish, especially when there were those who were in far worse straits than herself.
A Heart So Innocent Page 14