Six tall, black-clad men sauntered in the opposite direction to grab drinks and nibbles from the buffet. Christie huffed in annoyance, but the other women laughed.
“They cannot be tamed, my dear,” the viscountess said. “And you wouldn’t want them to be. That they have come together for this purpose speaks well of their intentions, if not their manners.”
Clinging to the reason for this soiree—the reform that would save the kingdom—Christie prepared herself for the crush of strangers pouring through their front portals. With family there to introduce her and give Ash notice of who was passing down the reception line, she hoped she might endure the worst hour.
The first arrivals were apparently new to society and eager to make the acquaintance of a marquess and his family. Christie merely felt their curiosity and breathed a sigh of relief—or at least as much as her corset would allow.
Then the crush really began. A pair of gentlemen garbed in coats so tight, she thought they might be lined with whalebone, greeted Lady McDowell and the viscount, but she could feel their spite before they reached Erran and Celeste. She tried blocking them, but she only succeeded in muting their rather odd viciousness. She truly needed more experience with people to interpret what she felt. Or more experience at blocking strangers entirely.
“Who are these peculiar gentlemen?” she whispered to Ash, knowing he could hear them greeting his brothers.
“No one you need concern yourself about,” he said dismissively. “They’re here to gossip. I didn’t put them on the invitation list because they hold no vote or influence. We’ll need to be sterner with the servants should we do this again. The footmen are too new to know when guests lie.”
“My word, Ashford,” the older of the spiteful gentlemen said. “You’ve found a marchioness who can be your equal. How enterprising of you.”
“You have utterly no idea how correct you are, Wilford,” Ash said in a bored drawl. “Flutter on over to the punch bowl so you might critique the quality of my refreshments.”
He didn’t even bother making introductions. Christie thought she might splutter in laughter and outrage at his high-handed set-down, but the gentlemen didn’t seem to mind. They swaggered off to stare at the salon’s eccentric adornments.
Ashford’s equal—she was pretty certain they were insulting her size. And because Ash didn’t care—she shouldn’t either, she decided. He certainly knew she wasn’t small. As long as he couldn’t see how unprepossessing she actually was—or learn about her other strange disability—they were fine. If her size was all people had to complain about, she could manage.
Half an hour later, her mouth hurt from smiling, but she hadn’t fled the room in tears or punched anyone yet. Although she thought she might enjoy punching a nose or two as she had as a child. But the wife of a politician must smile, smile, smile.
And so she did, until she was introduced to a heavy-set older gentleman and his very young wife. He radiated hatred, and the lady . . . had to be another of Ash’s former lovers. Christie shifted instinctively toward her husband, who squeezed her hand.
“Good to see you again, Ballmer,” Ashford said with only a hint of dryness over his use of the word see. “Lady Ballmer, it’s a pleasure. Christie, the Ballmers are old acquaintances. My wife, Lady Ashford, of the Dorset Russells and Winchesters, relation of Sommersville’s, actually.”
The family names must have meant something to the Ballmers. Jealousy and anger spiked higher. Knowing how they felt was useless, Christie realized. She could do nothing about their hatred, and Ashford apparently already knew about it. He was needling them for fun by mentioning a duke she’d never met.
“They may be spiteful, but imitating their conceit is no way to influence votes,” she whispered as the Ballmers moved on.
“Erran will offer them what they want,” her arrogant husband said with a shrug of his manly shoulders. “What is more interesting is that you realized their general worthlessness as well as the various peculiarities of our other guests.”
“I recognized no such thing,” she retorted, remembering Celeste warning her not to tell Ash about her gift.
He narrowed his eyes as if he heard the lie in her voice, but he didn’t argue. From then on, however, he purposely tested her reactions, like a boy toying with an ants’ nest. She should never have told him that she felt disdain.
How could she pretend that she didn’t feel a man’s anger or sorrow or malice? If he asked her how she thought they’d vote, should she pretend she was an empty-headed idiot? Or lie and say she thought they seemed friendly or unfriendly toward his party?
She hated learning that he did not know what these men felt—and that she could not tell him. How could she assist him if her knowledge would give him a disgust of her?
In frustrated confusion, she lied and smiled and held out her hand to men who emanated distrust and in some cases, open animosity.
28
Uncomfortable looming over the more slender, petite younger ladies, Christie aimed for the company of stout dowagers and matrons after the reception line broke up. Most of these women seemed experienced and jaded enough not to be emitting any emotion stronger than boredom. They were more interested in how she’d met Ashford than in talking politics. Keeping them entertained was easier than dealing with the greed, ambition, and distrust of Ashford’s powerful associates.
Mid-evening, deciding no new guests would arrive, and she could shut off her protective scan of the room, she felt the stir of a new arrival in the salon. She halted in filling a plate for Ash and looked around to see why she’d sensed one person in a sea of many. Carrying the plate and a napkin, she wound her way through the eddying crowd to look for her husband’s tall, lordly form. Appearing masculine and elegant leaning his wide shoulder against the mantel, Ash had just been joined by two portly rural-looking gentlemen who suffered in comparison.
“You remember Sir George Caldwell, and this is Lord Henry Montfort,” Duncan said as she approached—as if he could see her approach. She’d worn her favorite perfume so he’d know when she was near. “These gentlemen will be our neighbors when we remove to Iveston, my dear.”
My dear. He never used endearments. She thought it was a warning of sorts. She nudged him with the plate so he could help himself to the bite-size bits she’d chosen, and opened herself to the emanations of these men.
They concealed jealousy, anger, and suspicion behind their polite façades. She knew that Caldwell had hoped to marry his daughter to Ash, so some of his turmoil was understandable. Montfort—she had to shut him out quickly. He was the kind of unpleasant person who harbored grudges that blackened his soul. He must be the person who had just arrived.
“We had the pleasure of Miss Caldwell’s company the other day,” she said, biding time while she tried to determine what was wrong here. “I hope we can see more of her when we return to Iveston. A Christmas ball, perhaps?”
She sensed an easing of some of Caldwell’s tension, but Montfort was still angry.
“The young people welcome entertainment, of course,” Caldwell said with caution.
“It’s doubtful if I’ll ever see my son again,” Montfort said. “Not while he’s being accused of murderous intent. The estate will fall to rack and ruin, and Grey and his policies won’t help. Breaking up Lansdowne’s consortium puts an end to us.”
Ah, there was the source of the anger. Remembering Aster’s warning of dark portents hanging over Ash, Christie shivered. Losing a son and a fortune would anger any reasonable man, and Montfort didn’t feel even slightly rational.
And Ashford could not feel his neighbor’s animosity? How could she warn him without sounding as irrational as Montfort?
“Roderick ran before he could be accused of anything,” Ash said with a shrug of his wide shoulders. “I can recommend a good estate manager who knows how to make Grey’s reforms work. And Lansdowne is on the verge of bankruptcy. You are well out of that scheme. If you’d like, we could discuss sharing labor once I return to Iv
eston. There is a great deal we can do to improve profits if we work together.”
Uneasily, Christie listened as the men dived into a discussion of farming and politics while Ash consumed a few bites of food to offset the drink he’d consumed earlier. He seemed in good health, not even rubbing his head as he was inclined to do when tired. He appeared content to be arguing with angry men who threw insults and insinuations.
She was the one battered by the tension. Once the plate was empty, she made her excuses and looked for a place to hide.
Unfortunately, every room downstairs was occupied with chattering, arguing, laughing people, except for Ash’s bedchamber. She feared it wasn’t appropriate for the hostess to go to bed.
“The reformists will be the ruination of England as we know it,” one loud voice shouted from the anteroom.
Christie winced and standing in the foyer, looked for a change of direction.
“A man like Grey might give hope to the working man and prevent a bloody revolution. Read your history! Look what happened to the French when the wealthy trampled the common man into the ground and treated them like slaves. Without reform, we will destroy this country.”
That sounded like Theo. He made it sound as if the fate of the nation really did ride on tomorrow’s session. She supposed it might, but that didn’t make her feel any better. Her insides roiled thinking her small soiree might influence history. Ashford could sway the future, though. He had that kind of power.
“Don’t trust them,” she heard a man whisper at the back of the corridor. “Lansdowne swears that they won’t have the votes, and we’ll be siding with the losing party if we throw in with the Whigs.”
“I don’t know how Lansdowne counts votes,” a stranger argued. “But I’m seeing the Commons overthrowing Wellington.”
“Ashford can’t lead his men,” the first voice whispered angrily, “and the rest of his family have no influence. Lansdowne owns a dozen pocket boroughs and influences a few dozen more. You’ll see.”
“Or we can all stay home,” the second voice said drunkenly. “Let the others fight it out.”
“Just do as you were instructed and we’ll be better off.” The whisper raised enough to almost sound familiar, but Christie had heard many voices this evening. She couldn’t pin a name to this one.
“It had better,” the drunken one slurred. “Lansdowne promised to pay off his debts once we’re in. The bank will take my house if he doesn’t.”
Afraid to confront such ugliness, Christie darted into the anteroom where she’d heard Theo. With a whisper, she pointed him in the right direction and let him manage their hostile guests.
The man who had spoken first had done so with such malice that she’d felt it even through her barriers. Someone hated her husband. Well, she already knew that. She could hope it was just Montfort and not a different enemy.
She thought she ought to identify the hostile speaker before he left, but a cluster of departing guests gathered in the anteroom to await their cloaks and carriages, and she had to say her farewells before she could work her way back to the foyer.
By that time, even Theo was gone.
When she couldn’t find him in the other rooms, she consulted with Aster.
“Oh, he and Erran are steering their more drunken representatives upstairs. All we need do is feed them tomorrow and let Ashford lead them down the street. You are a saint for enduring this as a newlywed!”
“Ask Theo about the belligerent gentleman I told him about when you have a chance, please,” Christie said worriedly. “I sensed violence when he spoke of Ash, but I did not see him and could not recognize his voice.”
“Violence? You’re certain it wasn’t Montfort or Caldwell?” Aster asked, her usual smile disappearing.
“The drunken one, I did not recognize. The hostile one was whispering, so I could not identify his voice. He said Lansdowne swore that Wellington would win, so I’m assuming he’s not a reform supporter.”
“Let us take it from here,” Aster said soothingly. “You need to do whatever it is you’re doing with Ashford to keep him rational. He did not once throw a vase or inkpot, which is a miracle of sorts.”
Christie offered a tired smiled. “He expresses his frustration physically. And he does so more often if he isn’t sleeping well. I’ll simply see that he gets his sleep tonight.”
Aster laughed. “Yes, and I don’t imagine that battering a boxing bag is on his schedule for the evening, but I can see how one might be useful for a man with so much physical energy to expend.”
Imagining Ash stripped to the waist for boxing, Christie wandered off in search of the marquess so they might send off the last of their guests and go to bed. Her husband had a way of making the world go away.
Since she could not protect him from dangerous portents or malicious men, she’d have to take one moment at a time for now.
Weary of all the lies exchanged this evening, Ash stood in the salon and accepted the farewell of the last of the guests capable of staggering out on their own. If there were more lingering in corners that he could not see, the servants and his family could toss them out.
He welcomed the oncoming scent of lilies, even though he knew she’d been lying to him as well. Until this evening, he’d thought his wife a fairly uncomplicated woman whose secrets he’d already uncovered. He’d been wrong.
He usually appreciated a good mystery, but not tonight. Dropping his arm over her shoulders, he steered her along the wall and toward the corridor, avoiding the dripping candles overhead.
“I trust the servants don’t need your aid in snuffing chandeliers?” he asked, just to gauge her mood.
“I think half the candles have guttered out and the others are on the verge, but the footmen know how to snuff them. You should consider gas someday.” She sounded as weary as he was.
“Someday when we’re not in residence,” he agreed. “I’ve had enough disruption for a while. I dare not ask if you enjoyed the evening, but how did you fare?”
She hesitated, so he knew she was about to lie again.
“It was . . . interesting,” she said. “I am in no hurry to repeat it.”
“What did you think of the Ballmers?” he asked, trying to prod more insights from her.
“I’m not sure I remember who they were. I fear I spent most of the evening entertaining dowagers, making certain the food and liquor flowed freely, and sending your brothers to snuff brawls.”
“That’s one task Ives know how to manage,” he said with a wry laugh. “You picked up no interesting information I could use?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know if it was interesting.” She hesitated again, then merely continued, “I am too weary to think. Perhaps in the morning.”
“You would not hide things from me, would you?” he asked more directly as he steered her into his chamber.
“Of course I would,” she answered airily. “Do you really think I would tell you of the ragged edges on my favorite corset?”
Ash hid his frown. He supposed prevarication was better than outright lies, but now he would spend the night wondering what she wasn’t telling him. He glared at the posset waiting for him, but if it had helped him sleep . . . He picked it up and sipped at it.
“Were there red flowers in the bouquet?” he asked rather than argue.
“You saw them?” Genuine excitement lit her voice.
At least he could rely on her enthusiasm for finding ways of helping him—despite her declaration that she would flee if he could see again. “I think I must have, if they were there. Will you wear red for me?” he asked provocatively.
“In the bedroom only,” she warned with a laugh. “I’d look a perfect fright in red.”
“I doubt that, but if it means only I will ever see you in red, I can live with it.”
He didn’t want to poke and prod the truth from her as he did the men he wished to manipulate. For now, he was satisfied with teaching his wife more of the pleasures of their marital bed. He
’d spent all the spare minutes of his day planning this part of the evening.
Monday morning, servants tapped at the bedchamber doors before Christie could remember sleeping. With no windows, she couldn’t tell the hour, but it was much too early. She yawned and rolled out of bed while Ash snarled and grumbled and told everyone to go to hell.
He’d spent a great deal of time last night pleasing her in ways she could not even think about without blushing. And she’d returned the favor to the best of her limited experience. It was a wonder the servants hadn’t come rushing in at his roars of pleasure. Really, they needed a large castle to lose themselves in should they continue to indulge themselves this way.
But the result, despite the posset, was a decided lack of sleep—not healthy for Ash’s temper.
Christie washed and dressed herself so she was ready when Ash called for his valet. Sharing a single bedroom on the public floor was awkward.
When Ash dragged himself into an upright position, she lit a lamp so she could admire her husband’s broad bare shoulders and chest emerging from the covers. He scrubbed sleepily at his tangled hair and scruffy beard. Without all his elegant clothing—he was still a magnificent marquess but more heart-breakingly human and masculine.
She pinned the fine wisps of her hair into a braided chignon, kissed her husband’s bristly jaw, and slipped out.
Aster had sent over extra servants to aid in the cleanup. They were already at work when Christie arrived to sort them out. The new housekeeper hadn’t quite learned priorities. Christie ordered the buffet table and dishes cleared before the chandelier wax was scraped, since they had several guests who would need to be fed before they left for Parliament.
Once the servants were efficiently tidying up, she didn’t know what to do with herself. Erran arrived bearing papers for Ash to sign and probably with news of the discussion in the Commons since the two of them holed up behind closed doors. It was too early for their few hungover guests to emerge, but the business of the household had started.
Theory of Magic Page 24