First Comes Marriage

by Mary Balogh

She laughed.

  “Of course I am not,” she said. “Besides, I am a married lady and of no interest to anyone.”

  His eyebrows rose.

  “Not even to your husband?” he asked her.

  She laughed again.

  “I was not fishing for a compliment,” she said. “Of course, if you wish to pay me one anyway…”

  “With a smile on your lips and in your eyes,” he said, “and clothed in that particular shade of green, you look like a piece of the springtime, Vanessa.”

  “Oh, well done,” she said. “Are you about to add that so does every other lady present?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “No one else does. Only you. And springtime is everyone’s favorite season, you know.”

  Her smile faded slightly and for a moment she felt a desperate yearning for she knew not what.

  “Is it?” she said softly. “Why?”

  “The renewal of life and energy, I suppose,” he said. “The renewal of hope. The promise of a bright future.”

  “Oh.”

  She was not sure she made any sound. Was it a compliment? But of course it was. Had he meant by it all she dreamed he meant? Or had he merely found a deft way of avoiding telling her quite bluntly that no, indeed, she was not as lovely as her three companions?

  Their eyes locked and he opened his mouth to speak again.

  “Oh, I say,” Stephen said suddenly, sounding as exuberant as he had looked since the moment of their arrival at the theater, “there is Cousin Constantine.”

  “Where?” Katherine and Cecily asked together.

  Stephen indicated a box almost directly across from theirs, and Vanessa looked and saw that sure enough, there was Constantine Huxtable with a party of ladies and gentlemen. He had seen them too and was smiling and raising a hand in greeting as he tipped his head sideways to listen to something the lady next to him was saying. She too was looking across to their box.

  Vanessa waved back with her fan hand, smiling brightly.

  “It is to London he came, then,” she said to Elliott. “He is accepted here?”

  “Although he is illegitimate?” he said. “But of course. He is the son of a former Earl and Countess of Merton and was raised as such. There is no real stigma on his name. It was just that legally he could not enjoy the privileges of the eldest son.”

  “Does he have any money?” she asked. “I mean did he inherit anything?”

  “His father provided for him,” he said. “Not lavishly, but adequately.”

  “That is a relief to know,” she said. “I did wonder, especially after we arrived at Warren Hall and effectively turned him out of his home.”

  “Con will always find a way of looking after himself,” he said, both his eyes and his voice hardening. “You must not worry about him, Vanessa. Or pay him too much attention.”

  “He is our cousin,” she said.

  “A relationship that is best forgotten,” he assured her. “And he is best ignored.”

  She frowned at him.

  “But unless you give me a good reason,” she said, “you cannot expect me to ignore him just because you hate him. I do not believe there is a good reason.”

  He raised his eyebrows, his eyes still cold. But at that very moment a sudden hush descended on the theater. The play was about to begin.

  Vanessa’s mood had taken a downward turn. She was very much afraid that the evening had been at least partially ruined. Her hand was still on Elliott’s arm, and his hand still covered it, but there was no real warmth in either and she wondered if it had been a move designed for the benefit of the audience rather than a spontaneous gesture of affection.

  She glanced at Margaret, who was smiling, her attention already fixed upon the stage. She had scarcely stopped smiling since her arrival in London. The expression was like a mask. Vanessa could only imagine what lay behind it. Meg was studiously avoiding all personal conversation.

  And then the play began.

  And all else was forgotten.

  There were only the actors and the action and the play.

  Vanessa leaned forward in her seat, unaware of either her surroundings or her companions, unaware of the arm she gripped a little more tightly, unaware that her husband beside her watched her almost as much as he did the performance.

  It was only later, when the interval began, that she leaned back in her chair and sighed.

  “Oh,” she said, “have you ever seen anything more wonderful in your life?”

  It was clear that four of her companions had not. They were all eager to talk, to exchange impressions, their voices bright with enthusiasm. Even Meg’s smile looked genuine.

  “I suppose,” Vanessa said, turning to Elliott, who had not joined in the hubbub, “you have seen a thousand performances just like this and have become quite jaded.”

  “One never becomes jaded by good theater,” he said.

  “And is this good?” Katherine asked.

  “It is,” he said. “And I agree with everything that has been said during the past minute. If you wish, we may all step outside the box to stretch our legs before the next act begins.”

  The corridor outside was crowded and noisy as people greeted one another and commented upon the performance.

  Elliott introduced his party to a few of his acquaintances, and Vanessa was gratified to note the interest with which everyone greeted Stephen as soon as they knew who he was. Even in such a glittering setting he looked bright and golden and handsome, she thought fondly—and very youthful. More than a few ladies stole second and even third glances at him.

  And then Constantine appeared among the throng. He must have circled half about the theater with the express purpose of greeting them. He had on his arm the lady who had been sitting beside him in his box. She was extremely lovely, Vanessa noticed with interest. She had shining blond hair and a figure to rival even Meg’s.

  “Ah, cousins,” Constantine said when he was close enough to make himself heard. “Well met.”

  They all exclaimed with delight—except Elliott, of course, who made a stiff half-bow.

  Cecily squealed with delight and caught his free arm and clung to it.

  “Con!” she cried. “Is this not wonderful? I am so happy you are here. You must not forget my come-out ball tomorrow evening. You promised me a set.”

  “I believe, Cece,” he said, “it was I who begged you for a set. I will hold you to your promise to reserve one for me, though. Doubtless you will be swarmed by young cubs when the time comes. And so will my cousin Katherine.”

  He grinned at Kate and even winked.

  “Lady Lyngate, Miss Huxtable, Miss Katherine Huxtable, Miss Wallace, Merton,” Constantine continued, “may I have the pleasure of introducing Mrs. Bromley-Hayes to you? I believe you and the lady have an acquaintance already, Elliott.”

  There was an exchange of bows and curtsies and polite greetings. She was a married lady, then, Vanessa thought. Or perhaps a widow. She and Constantine made an extraordinarily handsome couple.

  “My congratulations to you, Lord Merton,” the lady said, “on your recent inheritance. And to you, Lord and Lady Lyngate, on your recent marriage. I wish you all the happiness you deserve.”

  She had a low, musical voice. She was smiling at Elliott and wafting a fan languidly before her face. It must be very pleasurable, Vanessa thought, to be that beautiful.

  “I say,” Stephen said, “have you ever seen a more impressive performance than this?”

  They talked about the play until it was time to return to their respective boxes.

  Elliott did not take her hand again, Vanessa noticed. His eyes were like flint, and his jaw was hard set. He drummed his fingers slowly on the velvet armrest of the box.

  “What were we expected to do?” she asked him softly “Ignore our own cousin when he was civil enough to come around to greet us?”

  He turned his eyes on her.

  “I have not uttered one word of reproach,” he told her.


  “You do not need to,” she said, unfurling her fan and cooling her face with it. “You look thoroughly bad-tempered. Whatever would Mrs. Bromley-Hayes have thought if we had given them the cut direct?”

  “I would not know,” he said. “I am not privy to the lady’s thoughts.”

  “Is she a widow?” she asked him.

  “She is,” he said. “But it is quite unexceptionable, you know, for married ladies to be escorted to social events by gentlemen who are not their husbands.”

  “Is it?” she said. “Must I cultivate the acquaintance of some obliging gentleman, then, so that you may be saved the bother of taking me to the museum and Gunter’s and the theater and other places?”

  “Who said it was a bother?” He removed his hand from the armrest and turned to her. He set her hand on his sleeve again and patted it with his own. “Are you trying to provoke me into a quarrel, by any chance?”

  “I prefer your irritability to your coldness,” she said, and smiled at him.

  “And I have only the two moods, do I?” he asked her. “Poor Vanessa. However are you to make such a man happy? Or comfortable? However are you to give him pleasure?”

  He was looking very directly at her with what she thought of as his bedroom eyes. His eyelids were half drooped over them. She felt a thrill of sexual awareness, which had seemed somewhat pointless since the end of their honeymoon.

  “Oh, I will think of ways,” she said, leaning a little toward him. “I am endlessly inventive.”

  “Ah,” he said softly just before the play resumed.

  She enjoyed the rest of the performance. She watched it with avid attention. But she was no longer as absorbed in it as she had been earlier. She was terribly aware, though she did not once turn her head to look, of her husband’s fingers stroking lightly over the back of her hand and sometimes along the full length of one of her fingers.

  She desperately wanted to be in bed with him— though bed since their honeymoon had lasted for five minutes from start to finish, if that.

  Had he been flirting with her just now?

  It was a ludicrous idea. Why would Elliot of all people flirt with her?

  But what else could he have been up to except flirtation?

  18

  AFTER dismissing his valet for the night, Elliott stood for a long time in his bedchamber, looking out through the window onto darkness, the fingers of one hand drumming on the windowsill. A night watchman made his round of the square, his lantern swaying as he walked. Then he passed on elsewhere and again there was darkness.

  Elliott wondered if it had been deliberate. It was just the sort of thing Con would do. It was the sort of thing they might have done together once upon a time, during Elliott’s irresponsible youth. Afterward they would have derived enormous amusement from the memory of the discomfiture of their victim. Though he could not remember anytime when they had been deliberately malicious, involving an innocent who might get seriously hurt.

  Would Vanessa. be hurt? He suspected that she might.

  How could Con have known, though, that they would be at the theater this evening? Elliott had not known himself before making the impulsive suggestion at the end of the morning’s outing.

  But of course Con had not known for sure. He could have made several educated guesses, however, of places Elliott and Vanessa were likely to appear over the next week or so. It certainly would have been no secret that they were in London. If they had not been at the theater this evening, then they would surely be at this function or that soon.

  Yes, it had been deliberate. Of course it had. Had there really been any doubt?

  Had it been deliberate on Anna Bromley-Hayes’s part too, though? That was the more pertinent question.

  But if it had not been, why had she come during the interval to meet his party and be introduced to his wife? If it had not been deliberate, would she not have avoided such a painful encounter?

  Yes. It had been deliberate. He would have expected better of her but had no right to demand it. He had undoubtedly hurt her. He had disregarded her feelings and presented her with a fait accompli quite without prior warning.

  And good Lord, was this Vanessa’s influence, this new tendency of his to analyze everything, to wonder about people’s feelings?

  However it was, his wife and his ex-mistress had not only come face-to-face but had also been introduced. It had been an excruciatingly embarrassing moment for him and doubtless equally intriguing to a number of the onlookers.

  All of which Con would have known in advance. And Anna too.

  Revenge had been of more importance to Anna, it seemed, than good taste or personal dignity.

  She had been looking her loveliest and most ravishing. Con had been at his most charming and his most mocking—both very familiar facets of his character to Elliott. He had never expected during his youth, though, that one day he would be one of Con’s victims.

  Vanessa would surely be waiting for him, he thought suddenly, bringing his mind back to the present. He was probably keeping her awake. If he was not going to go to her tonight, he ought to have told her so.

  Was he really not going to her then?

  He had actually enjoyed the day—morning and evening—right until the moment when young Merton had called their attention to the presence of Con in the box opposite and Elliott had looked and seen not just Con, but Anna too beside him. His eyes had met hers, and he had read a challenge there despite the distance between them.

  He had been enjoying himself until then. For some odd reason he had been enjoying his wife’s company. There was something inexplicably fascinating about her.

  His fingers drummed harder against the windowsill for a moment.

  He moved away from the window and wandered through to his dressing room, leaving the door open so that the light from the candle would shine in.

  What he ought to do was walk firmly into Vanessa’s room and tell her what she wanted to know She wanted him to give her a good reason for his quarrel with Con, a good reason for her to avoid him. He should simply give it to her. Con was a thief and a lecher. He had robbed his own brother, who had trusted him totally but had not been mentally capable of knowing that his trust was being abused. And he had debauched servants of the house and other women of the neighborhood, something no decent gentleman would ever do.

  But how could he tell Vanessa, any more than he had ever been able to tell his mother or his sisters—even though he had sometimes reasoned that they ought to know for their own good? How could he betray his own honor as guardian to Jonathan? How could he breach the confidentiality of such a trust? Besides, he had no incontrovertible proof. Con had not denied the charges, but he had not admitted to them either. He had merely lofted one eyebrow and grinned when Elliott confronted him, and had invited him to go to the devil.

  How could one blacken someone’s name to another person when one only had suspicions, no matter how certain one was that those suspicions were well founded?

  Dash it all, it was still hard to accept that Con was capable of such villainy. He had always been up for any mischief and tomfoolery and devilry—but so had Elliott until fairly recently. He had never been a rogue, though.

  And it was hard to accept that Con could hate him so much—and that he could be willing to risk hurting Vanessa in order to demonstrate that hatred.

  He opened the door into his wife’s dressing room. The door into her bedchamber had been left partly open, something she had done each night since demanding that he knock upon closed doors. There was the glow of candlelight beyond it.

  He went to stand in the doorway, remembering another occasion when he had done so without an invitation. This time, though, she was asleep in bed.

  He crossed the room and stood looking down at her. Her short hair was untidy and spread about her on the pillow Her lips were slightly parted. In the light from the single candle her cheeks looked flushed.

  She looked slight, girlish. Her breasts scarcely lifted the sheet tha
t had been pulled up over them. Her arms and hands were slender.

  For an unguarded moment he thought of Anna and made the contrasts. But strangely they were not thoughts he had to make any great effort to suppress.

  There was something about Vanessa. She was not beautiful. She was not even pretty She was plain. But there was something… She was not voluptuous. If there was an antonym for that word—he could not think of any at the moment—then she was that. There was nothing about her that should be sexually appealing.

  And yet somehow there was.

  He had desired her almost constantly during what she called their honeymoon—ghastly word! He had desired her every night since even though he had made their encounters brief and businesslike because …

  Well, why exactly? Because she still loved her dead husband and he felt slighted? Hurt? No, certainly not that. Because he had wanted to punish her, to make her feel that she had only one function in his life?

  Was he really so petty? It was an uncomfortable thought.

  He desired her now He had done all day, in fact— right from the moment she had appeared unexpectedly in George’s office doorway before breakfast.

  What was it about her?

  He set two knuckles against her cheek and drew them lightly across it.

  She opened her eyes and looked sleepily up at him— and smiled.

  That was definitely a part of her appeal, he decided. He had never known anyone else whose eyes smiled almost constantly with genuine … what? Warmth? Happiness? Both?

  Was she happy to see him? When his behavior toward her in the bedchamber for the last several nights had been little short of insulting?

  “I was not sleeping. I was merely resting my eyes,” she said, and laughed.

  And there was her laugh too. Genuine. Warm. Al most infectious.

  Some people seemed to have been born happy. Vanessa was one of them. And she was his wife.

  He undid the sash of his dressing gown and shrugged out of it. He was wearing a nightshirt, something he had done each night since coming upon her in tears that afternoon at Finchley He pulled it off now and dropped it to the floor while she watched him.