How could she regain his respect if she wilted all the time? She stood from the vanity and tugged on her gloves. "What if he orders me to go?"
Mrs. Gretling draped the shawl about Amora's shoulders. "I will be waiting outside. Even the short appearance will stop any rumors. And the master cares too much about what people say to do that. He'll know not to take ye for granted. Show him the Pharaoh in ye."
Proud like Mama? No, proud like Papa. He never hid, and if his life hadn't been stolen, he would have stopped the gossip. Together they would have walked through the village of Clanville with heads held high. He'd believed her, without question.
She'd go, not for Barrington, but for Papa. He didn't raise a Tomàs who hid from battle, one without fire. The girl who fought the monster couldn't be gone.
Barrington bent his head and talked more nonsense to some chattering miss. From witnessing Cheshire's disappointment to reliving his argument with Amora, he couldn't focus. No records of port had been located. The duke wasn't happy, and his devotion to finding answers for his duchess was palatable. New love was best.
Dying love was the worst. It dwarfed every thought and made every insecurity a man could possess grow.
Amora's frown saddened him. Excusing her from attending the Dowager's ball should've made her happy, but it didn't. Why couldn't he please her?
The wail of the violin drowned the young lady's dribble about a play or did she mention Prinny. Something with a P.
He'd never been so distracted. Months of planning for a son dashed and now this abduction business.
Who was the man with whom Amora disappeared? What did she mean, what she could remember? Getting her to admit the truth had to happen as soon as possible, or he might start having nightmares and throwing beefsteaks.
The thought that she might've fancied anyone else enough to run away with them stabbed at his vanity. His heart had been broken with her lie, so vanity was all he had left. It needed to be protected.
Trying to laugh at himself had become more difficult. The feeling of losing was difficult for a winning barrister. But Barrington wasn't stupid. He was losing Amora and he didn't know why.
Could the nightmares be bringing back her love for the man she ran away with? The affair turned dark, enough to traumatize her. There had to be something keeping her in bondage. Guilt couldn't account for all her fears, the unease in her spirit.
He released a strong sigh. No matter how it began, there was a blackguard out in the world who needed to be beaten to edge of his life for hurting Amora.
"Mr. Norton? Mr. Norton?" The blonde tapped his folded arms. "You haven't stated your preference?"
Oh, a nod wouldn't do. He relaxed his forearm, dragging them behind his back. "The first?"
"I knew you liked the theater." She smoothed the tufted sleeve, an indeterminate color of green or blush. Nothing like the blue Amora wore.
She looked so beautiful in his favorite of her gowns. The contrast of the lace trimming the pleats in her bodice and the slick sarcenet always made his fingers tingle. Maybe she could wear it to Cornwall. Maybe they could begin again. Could he truly forgive her?
Whatever the truth, an abduction or a scandalous seduction, he needed to know. James was right. Until things were resolved, dragging her to these events would not be well.
Barrington timed his exit from the chattering miss to the end of the musician's set and headed for air.
As he pressed on the balcony doors, the strains of an argument filtered through the crack. The sharp tones soon blended with the start of a pianoforte.
Barrington craned his ear. Who could so openly find disagreement at the Dowager's ball? He peeked through the curtains.
Cynthia stood there waving her hands, swatting a tall gentleman who stood in the shadows. He gripped her wrists and then tugged them to her sides.
No one manhandles a woman. Barrington shoved open the door.
The fellow dropped her arms. Cynthia came running to Barrington. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks.
The fiend came into the light. It was Mr. Charleton, the dowager's younger son, the womanizer.
Stepping to the door, he tugged on his patterned waistcoat and leaned close to Barrington's ear. "Don't fall for the waterworks, old boy. The wench can cry on demand."
"Never put your hands on her or any other." He put an arm about Cynthia to steady her, then lowered his voice. "Do you understand, Charleton?"
"I know better than to lay with snakes. You should smarten up, too." He trudged back into the ballroom, closing the doors behind him.
"Miss Miller, did he hurt you?"
"No." She swiped at her eyes.
"Then what was this about? You didn't go to him about Gerald, asking for help for the impostor?"
She pulled away and pushed at the tendrils falling from her braided chignon. "Well, I need someone to take me seriously."
He took what she said very seriously. When the investigators discovered the man's location, Barrington would personally take care of the problem. "You know Charleton is a rake. I've drafted many settlements for the dowager to cover his by-blows."
"Good." Her lips pushed out. Her breath sputtered.
"Someone needs to pay for those poor children. Then one of those mothers might keep her child and not wonder every day of what became of her. I look at every little red-haired girl of seven or eight and wonder if she's mine."
As she plodded to the stone barrier of the balcony, Cynthia's shoulders shook. Quiet tears flowed, glistening in the moonlight. The girl seemed in agony.
His gut twisted. The pain of losing his own child, all the plans he had for his son washed through him. A tremble began in his balled fists. God, I would've been a dependable father, nothing like the rake Charleton or my own.
He came near and put a hand on her sleeve. "At least you saw her take her first breath. You can sleep at night knowing she's gone to a good family."
She pivoted and placed a palm on his lapel. "How do you know?"
"My grandfather said Old Reverend Playfair handled things. He knows everyone's character, and wouldn't make arrangements to anyone unworthy."
She squinted at him as her voice broke into snivels. "I forgot how small Clanville is."
Yes, it was small, small enough to hide Amora's disappearance. No one, not his Grandfather or Reverend Playfair told him. At the war's end, how would he have handled the news after riding for days to marry a woman who didn't wait for his love?
Chapter Eight: Public Wife
Siphoning a deep breath, Amora entered the Dowager's glittering ball. The crystals of the chandelier danced and sparkled in time with the music. Her pulse slowed as she stared at the myriad of candles. The brightness gave her energy. Mrs. Gretling was right to convince her to attend. She should be here and show Barrington he could depend on her.
A pianoforte tinkled and followed the whipping of violins. Was it Bach? Whatever the tune, it made the carmine red walls seem so lively.
Blinking, she turned and started to look for her husband. A giggling couple missed her toes with inches to spare. Starched cravats and satins the colors of a Hampshire sky twirled around her.
She stopped twiddling her fingers and took six steps forward, but the press of people formed a barrier. Unable to navigate or even see over the thick crowd, Amora settled near the refreshment table. Perhaps when the set cleared, she could see Barrington's powerful form.
The music disappeared. Couples left the half-chalked floor.
Her stomach lurched when Mr. Charleton sauntered near. With no menacing husband to keep him away, she'd have to talk with him.
"Now, this is a sight to behold." He neared and bowed. "The lovely Amora Tomàs, alone."
"It's Norton, been so for almost five years." She craned her neck, even more so than with Barrington. It was impossible to look around the blonde mountain.
"That's a shame. How could I let him steal you away, Mrs. N-o-r-ton?" He ground out the word with his teeth clenched. His g
aze, large with coal black eyes, roamed her face and perhaps, the bugle beads edging her neckline.
The colorless gown might be a blessing tonight.
"To deprive Clanville, all of Hampshire for that matter, of the most magical pianist and painter. It's tortured my soul."
"Barrington Norton never has...tortured a thing." Her breath hitched. Only pure evil attempted such. Hackles rising, she whipped her fan, but the humid air brought no relief. "Sir, I am in no mood for teasing."
"Forgive my clumsy speech. Let me make amends and show you Mother's flowers. I remember how you so loved nature, and the garden should not be missed."
With a shake of her head, she set down her empty cup. "I am looking for my husband. Have you seen Mr. Norton?"
He ran a hand through his golden hair. An unreadable expression dimmed his countenance. "We need to chat. Forget about Norton, the dutiful son Mother wishes she had."
"Sir, don't trifle with me. I must find my husband."
"Your voice is a little loud. Someone might get the wrong impression." He fingered a large gold button on his waistcoat, the Charleton family crest engraved upon it shined in the light. "Fine. I'll help you look."
His insistence and hovering made her count the candle stands. The rumors always linked her to him. It was dangerous to be talking with him. Barrington might see and get the wrong idea. "No, that won't be necessary."
"Two can make better work of any task. I insist." He held out his arm.
Cornered, she took it. Cutting him direct, when the man was only showing kindness, would cause a scene. That would anger Barrington more than entertaining the handsome man.
Mr. Charleton craned his head with enthusiasm and steered her near the balcony.
If he thought her foolish enough to go out on a dark balcony with him, the man was mad. She took her hand away and pivoted. "You haven't changed your flirtatious ways. That's why people accuse you of bad things."
He shrugged. "No moonlight for us? Then I'll check the balcony for you." Pulling back the curtains, he peered through the glass. "Well, well."
She leaned near the opening, but he closed it with great speed, as if the fabric burnt.
"Nothing here, Mrs. Norton. Why don't we return to the refreshment table?"
She squinted at him. The overhead sconce reflected a halo above his light locks.
"What are you hiding, sir?"
His finger settled on the edge of her shimmerless glove. "Nothing a wife should see."
Leveling her shoulders, she pushed past him.
The man moved all too easily out of the way. He wanted her to see. What devilment was he up to?
She split the gold flocked drapes and stared through the glass.
Barrington hugged Cynthia in the moonlight.
Amora couldn't breathe. The curtain fell from her fingers.
"Close your mouth, dear." Charleton's voice stung her ear. "Someone will think something's wrong."
One, two, eight beads on her cuff. Fifteen paces from here to the negus on the table. Two. Two nights of smelling like chrysanthemums.
No crying. No crying. Not in public. Is this why Barrington didn't want her to come? So he could openly parade a mistress?
Her mother could suppress the tears, bottle up the hurt in public. That was, until Papa died. Maybe this is how out of control the woman felt when her world was gone. The Norton marriage was no more.
For the first time in years, she invited the memories of her mother's sharp voice, echoing decorum. "I must find my carriage. Will you escort me in the dark? My abigail's waiting."
"I think you need some punch or let's take a walk in Mother's garden. We can pretend it's summer in Clanville, and you've just painted my portrait."
How could Barrington do this? She peered at her trembling hands. "I've never painted you."
"If we are going to pretend, let's do it big." He nudged her with his elbow.
Men were the devil's handiwork, that and big bosomed singers. "If you're not going to escort me, I'll go alone."
"No, I'll take you. What's a gentleman for if not to be of service?" He led her through the thick crowd.
Disheartened, anger thickening her throat, she held onto his arm. She needed to think. Where could she go to be away from Barrington and everything else she'd lost? Right now disappearing from London, from all of England held an appeal.
"Just a few more steps. Miss Tomàs, remember when your mother sent us to gather apples?"
She wasn't going to correct him this time. Maybe it should still be Tomàs. If she'd told Barrington of the abduction instead of pretending nothing was wrong, he would've abandoned her then. Now, they continually hurt each other. She blinked her eyes, willing away the steam of anger threatening to explode.
They took two more turns and plodded out into a magical garden. Lavender scented the air. Everywhere blooms of yellow, purple, and white with hints of crimson waved in the gentle breeze.
She bristled and let go of his arm. "This isn't the way to my carriage."
He stepped between her and the house, blocking her retreat. "Dear, it's not every day you come face to face with a mistress. You don't have to pretend you're fine."
"From what I recall, you claim those women daily, hourly perhaps." She reached for a flower and counted the delicate petals. "Take me back to the house."
"This is the first time in years I've had a chance to talk with you. Your mother shipped you off to Bath and you took no visitors when you returned."
"I was in no mood to discuss the past then, nor do I wish to now." Heart-pounding, she trudged around him toward the orangery door.
He clasped her arm, stopping her exodus. "I needed to know you were fine."
She shook free. "What? You weren't amused by the rumors of my disappearance."
His eyes grew small. He looked toward the house. "We both know you didn't voluntarily disappear."
She couldn't look at his face anymore. The drumming of her heart eclipsed everything. "I need to go."
"If I'd known you were abducted, I would've looked for you. You're too good of a woman to suffer."
The man had been a favorite family friend. That's why everyone assumed she'd ran away with him. But she didn't. Never would she betray Barrington, even if he'd strayed.
"You in there, Miss Tomàs?" He cupped her chin, raising her head.
Her eyes opened wide as Barrington rammed her friend. He grasped Charleton's chest, hauling him off his feet.
The man broke free. The two exchanged blows.
"I warned you." Barrington made a quick side-step and lunged at the man, wrapping his fingers about Charleton's throat. "You laid hands on my wife."
Charleton sputtered for air. "Stop." He jerked away from Barrington. "Too public a place for murder. And you wouldn't dare, mulatto man, not to my pure blood."
"It was you who hurt her." Barrington seemed possessed. He pounded the stuffing from Charleton's middle and punched him in his fat mouth. "Then you turned on her, for her blood is mixed too. Not good enough to marry, just molest."
What? He'd kill the rake, for what, talking to Amora? She pulled on her husband's coat. "Let him go. He didn't harm me."
"No, I suppose he didn't. You're old friends." He dropped Charleton's lapel and shoved him to the ground. "Never touch or look at my wife again. She's fragile and easily duped by your false charm."
How? Barrington thought Mr. Charleton tried to charm her. Why did he care after spending the ball in Cynthia's clutches?
Cold gray eyes stared at her, but he couldn't possibly be hurt, not after keeping her at home to continue to his affair.
Charleton patted his split lip with a handkerchief. "Well done, old man. Didn't think you'd do it. Unlike Miss Tomàs, you're so conscious of stupid things. And I'd have married her if she'd consented. We can still wed and be fugitives in Scotland, Amora, my love."
She shook her at the foolishness spewing from both of them. "You're misguided, Mr. Charleton. You too, Mr. Norton."
Great. Someone else would see this humiliation. A barrister, a rake and a fragile wife. Right now, she didn't feel fragile. Trapped in the two men's rivalry forced needed heat through her veins. Egyptian pride and honor replaced the hurt of her broken marriage. "Goodnight, gentlemen. You can continue this without me."
"Amora, wait." Barrington reached for her, but she slipped away. She had had enough of smelling chrysanthemums.
Charleton leapt from the ground and dusted his waistcoat. His shiny gold buttons clanged. "Nothing happened, you Neanderthal."
Barrington raised his fists then lowered it turning to her. "Amora, I asked you to stay."
"I'll escort you to your carriage." Charleton shoved Barrington and came to her side.
Barrington charged toward them. "I told you, not to—"
Charleton's fist grazed Barrington's jaw, knocking him a few inches. The second strike hit like lightning dropping the mighty oak of a man into the hedges. "Bad form, Norton, deciding you now want your wife after flaunting your mistress. Mind whose company you keep. Go back to the singer."
A wince crossed Barrington's bruised cheek as he attempted to stand. "Charleton, we will settle this score later. Amora, stop."
"Mr. Charleton, Mr. Norton, enjoy the rest of the party. I'm sure you both can find other entertainment. Or go beat one another senseless. I'll have a footman escort me."
Lifting her head, she followed the lighted path back into the house. No more fighting for this marriage or her sanity, neither was worth the trouble.
It took an hour and a half for James to get the carriage out of the traffic. Being early to the ball didn't bode well for trying to leave and chase after his wife.
She came. Why?
The side of Barrington's face throbbed from the bone beneath his eye to his jaw. Charleton looked well pleased, taunting him. And he threw a vicious punch like old times. What would be the ramifications for darkening the rake's daylights?
Unveiling Love Page 9