by Mary Balogh
He was standing across the room by the windows, facing the doors. He was immaculately and tastefully clad in a dark green superfine tailed coat and buff pantaloons and waistcoat with white linen and highly polished Hessian boots, a dark, forbidding-looking gentleman who bore such a resemblance to Colonel Bedwyn that Eve's heart turned over. She closed the door behind her back and gazed wide-eyed at him.
“Why have you come?” she asked him, her voice all thin and trembling. “What has happened to him? Has he met with some accident?” That mud—all that mud.
He inclined his head with slight courtesy, his long fingers toying with the handle of a quizzing glass. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Aidan,” he said. “I am Bewcastle.” He spoke in a light, soft voice, not effeminate exactly—in fact, it was definitely not that—but one that lacked the depth and force one expected of a gentleman's utterance. Nevertheless, it sent shivers crawling up Eve's spine and somehow belied the words he had spoken.
Belatedly, she curtsied.
There were differences between the brothers, she noticed. The Duke of Bewcastle was more slender and not quite as tall, and his lean face with its prominent nose and thin lips looked cold and arrogant and cynical rather than harsh and grim. His eyes too were paler, a lighter gray than Eve's own. Almost silver, in fact.
“You will be pleased to know,” the duke said, “that I left my brother in good health at Lindsey Hall yesterday, all his limbs intact.”
“I am pleased to hear it,” she said. There was a duke standing in her drawing room. Why had he come?
“You will be wondering why I have come here,” the duke said, “since it is not to inform you that you are a widow. I came to make the acquaintance of my sister-in-law.”
Eve swallowed awkwardly. She was still dressed for the outdoors, complete with bonnet and gloves.
“You are welcome here, your grace,” she said. Was that the correct form of address for a duke?
“I very much doubt that,” he said coldly, raising his glass halfway to his eye and looking incredibly haughty. “But perhaps you can persuade that fierce housekeeper of yours to fetch a tea tray and we can discuss your future role as Lady Aidan Bedwyn over refreshments.”
Her future role? “Yes, of course,” she said, crossing to the bell rope and pulling on it. “Do have a seat, your grace.”
They sat in unnerving silence until Agnes came. Eve handed her her gloves and bonnet and ordered a tea tray. Where was Aunt Mari? And what must her hair look like? His eyes really were silver. They appeared to have the ability to look right through her.
“My future role?” she said when the door closed behind Agnes and she could stand the silence no longer.
“I wonder, ma'am,” Bewcastle said, “if you understand whom exactly you have married. I have not yet performed my duty to posterity. I have no wife, no child. Aidan is my heir presumptive. Only my fragile life stands between him and a dukedom—and between you and a duchess's title.”
She could feel color flood her cheeks. “You think I married Colonel Bedwyn for that reason?” she asked. “You think me ambitious and conniving? How perfectly ridiculous!”
“Oh, quite so!” He still had his quizzing glass in his hand. For one moment Eve thought he was going to raise it all the way to his eye.
“Marrying into an aristocratic family brings with it certain responsibilities and expectations,” the duke continued. “Marrying the heir brings even more. The wife of Lord Aidan Bedwyn, possibly a future Duchess of Bewcastle, must be introduced to society if it has not already happened. She must be presented to the queen. She must learn to move with ease in her husband's world.”
Eve's eyes widened. “But I have no intention of moving in Colonel Bedwyn's world,” she said. “He must surely have told you the nature of our marriage. It was agreed that we separate immediately after the nuptials and stay apart for the rest of our lives. I am sorry if you do not approve, but—”
“You are quite correct,” the duke said in his deceptively quiet, courteous voice. “I do not approve, ma'am—and that is a marvelous understatement. I do not approve of my brother's choice of bride or of the clandestine haste of his marriage or of the nature of it. I can do little about the first two facts since you are and always will be the daughter of a Welsh coal miner and you are and always will be married to my brother. I can do something about the third fact. The nature of your marriage must change.”
“There is a proverb, your grace,” Eve said, clasping her hands very tightly in her lap in the hope of hanging onto her temper, “that sleeping dogs are best left lying. There is no need to come here with threats. I have no intention whatsoever of shaming you by displaying my soot-blackened fingernails in public or murdering the ears of your acquaintance with my Welsh accent. I have no intention of traveling any farther than ten miles from Ringwood all of the rest of my life. You may safely forget about my existence. I will bid you a good afternoon.” She got to her feet.
The duke looked bored. “Do spare me the theatrics, ma'am,” he said, “and sit down. And do credit me with some degree of common sense. I would not have traveled all the way from Hampshire merely to instruct you to do what you are already doing. You misunderstand my purpose. Tomorrow you will travel to London with me.”
Her eyes widened in shock as she sat again, but before she could say anything Agnes came back into the room with the tea tray, which she set down none too gently on a table at Eve's elbow. She gave the duke the evil eye and looked as if she were itching for an excuse to toss him down the stairs and out through the front doors without first opening them. He was looking bored again, as if he were unaware of the housekeeper's very existence. Agnes sniffed and left the room, banging the door behind her. Eve poured the tea with hands that were not quite steady.
“Aidan is not only the heir to a dukedom,” the Duke of Bewcastle said as he took his cup and saucer from her hands. “He is also a high-ranking military officer, ma'am. In both capacities his presence in London is essential. There is to be a summer of victory celebrations in the nation's capital. Already there is one specific invitation to a state dinner at Carlton House with the Prince Regent and numerous other heads of state, an invitation that includes Aidan and . . . you, Lady Aidan Bedwyn. Your existence is already known of in the inner circles of the very highest society, you see, ma'am.”
“I have been invited to Carlton House?” She laughed, thinking of Cinderella and glass slippers and pumpkins. “Then you may decline on my behalf, your grace. I might, you will understand, arrive there in a crumpled cotton dress with rags in my hair and proceed to tell vulgar stories and dance on the table after I have imbibed a few drinks.” Her voice shook ignominiously.
He raised his glass three-quarters of the way to his eye. “Your scorn is misplaced, ma'am,” he said, his voice very soft and sounding downright dangerous. “If you neglect to put in an appearance, you will embarrass my family. It will be whispered that there must be something wrong with you—or with us—if we have hidden you away in the country a mere few weeks after your secret nuptials. I cannot expect you, perhaps, to have great regard for most members of my family, of whose number you are now one, I must remind you, but I would expect even a coal miner's daughter to have some respect for the man who sacrificed his freedom for her.”
She drew breath sharply. “Is that what he told you?” she asked.
“Is it untrue then?” He waited politely for her answer and then continued. “Use your sense, ma'am. My guess is that you possess your fair share. Aidan is thirty years old. If one uses the Bible as one's hourglass, he has approximately forty years of his three score and ten left, married to a woman he has pledged never to see again. Now clearly there is some sacrifice of freedom there.”
She drew breath to answer and then discovered that there was nothing to say. How could she argue with the truth—except that she would further curb his freedom by appearing in his life again unbidden.
“Does Colonel Bedwyn know you are here?�
�� she asked. “Does he want me to come to London?”
“Aidan will do his duty,” he told her. “It is something he has always done. Always.”
“Then why did he not come with you?” she asked. “Why did he not at least send a letter with you?”
“I believe,” he said, “my brother feels honor-bound not to intrude upon your life any further. I feel no such compunction.”
He did want her to go, then? It was just that he was too honorable a man to try to force her or even ask her himself?
“Aidan does not know I have come here,” the duke said.
“He does not want me in his life,” she said. “He would not want me coming to London with you. Is that where he is?”
“I do not have the power to interfere in the inner workings of the marriage even of my own brother,” the Duke of Bewcastle said. “If you choose never to live together, never to consummate your marriage, never to have issue of it, then so be it. But I am head of my family, and I will do all in my power to prevent any form of disgrace being brought upon our name. Your failure to appear at your husband's side for the victory celebrations, Lady Aidan, will bring disgrace on my brother and therefore on the whole of the Bedwyn family.”
Eve licked her dry lips. Was it true? She knew so little of aristocratic families and their sense of honor and propriety. But despising her origins as he clearly did, the duke would surely not have come all this way if her appearance in London was not of the most crucial importance. Was she really wavering, then? Was she really thinking of going? It was impossible. She laughed nervously.
“I would bring far more disgrace on you if I did go to London with you, your grace,” she said. “I have been given a lady's upbringing and education, but nothing in my background or training or experience has prepared me to move in such elevated circles as those who frequent Carlton House and mingle with the Prince of Wales's set. You may make any excuse you choose—I am indisposed; I have other pressing responsibilities; I am the village idiot; whatever you like. I will not refute you.”
“This,” he said, “is how you would show your gratitude to my brother, ma'am?”
She stared at him tight-lipped.
“Soon,” he said, “within the next couple of years at the latest, Aidan will be a general. He will reach the very pinnacle of his career and will without any doubt reap honors and glory for himself. He will, if he comports himself wisely and continues to distinguish himself as he has always done, be rewarded with titles and property of his own. Would you inhibit his steady rise to the top, Lady Aidan? Would you deprive him, if only in reputation, of what he had always valued more dearly than life? I refer to his honor.”
The colonel had told her none of this. Perhaps because it was not true? Or perhaps because he was too honorable to burden her with the knowledge of how she had blighted his hopes? How could she know the truth? How could she know his real wishes in this matter?
“This is ridiculous,” she said. “It is unthinkable. I could not possibly do what you ask without embarrassing myself horribly—and therefore embarrassing Colonel Bedwyn too.”
“There will be just time,” he said, “to bring you up to snuff, Lady Aidan. We must hope you are an apt pupil. My aunt is the Marchioness of Rochester. She will sponsor you in your presentation to the queen. She will help you in your choice of a suitable wardrobe for your various appearances, including your court dress. And she will instruct you in any aspects of polite behavior for which your education has not prepared you. There will be time for your presentation and for a ball at Bedwyn House to introduce you to the ton before the Carlton House dinner and all the other victory celebrations you will be called upon to attend with Aidan. Only one question remains—or rather, two. Do you feel gratitude even when your husband has not demanded it of you? And do you possess the necessary courage?”
There was a lengthy silence, which he showed no sign of breaking.
“If only I could know his wishes in this matter,” she said.
The silence stretched again.
“Very well,” she murmured at last. She licked her lips again and spoke more firmly. “I owe Colonel Bedwyn my home and my fortune and the security of many people who are dependent upon me. Most of all, I owe him my children, who mean more to me than life. If a few weeks in London will save him from the censure of his peers, then I will give him those few weeks. But I will do it for him, not for you. I will not be browbeaten every moment of every day and scolded whenever I fall. I will do my best—for Colonel Bedwyn's sake.”
“That is all anyone can ask of you, ma'am,” the duke said. “I suppose that inn I passed on the village street is the best accommodation the neighborhood has to offer?”
“It is,” she said.
“As I suspected.” He finished his tea, set down his cup and saucer, and got to his feet. “You will be ready to leave when I return in the morning, Lady Aidan.”
It was a command, pure and simple. Eve wished heartily that the Three Feathers was renowned for its fleas and rats instead of only for its insipid fare.
WHEN AIDAN RETURNED FROM AN AFTERNOON RIDE in Hyde Park with Freyja and Alleyne, he was feeling moderately cheerful. In the course of the day he had met a number of old acquaintances, including some military colleagues. All had conversed with him on a variety of topics. None had mentioned his marriage. So Wulf had been wrong. It was not general knowledge. There was not going to be any embarrassment and certainly no scandal. He was glad he had made the decision not to tell his other brothers and sisters.
He was feeling invigorated. His family had always been neck-or-nothing riders, including the girls. The three of them had galloped the length of Rotten Row several times without stopping instead of mincing along—Freyja's words—as most riders did, more intent on cutting a figure and impressing the pedestrians beyond the rails than in exercising their horses and themselves.
Fleming, Bewcastle's butler, was in the hall at Bedwyn House when they arrived, having come from Lindsey Hall the day before with several of the other servants and mountains of baggage.
“Has Bewcastle arrived yet?” Freyja asked him, pulling off her riding hat and shaking out her unruly curls. It had surprised all of them when they arrived yesterday to discover that Wulf was not yet in residence. Freyja had assumed out loud, quite unabashed, that he must have gone straight to his mistress's house upon his arrival in London.
“He has, my lady,” Fleming replied with one of his peculiar stiff bows. “He has requested that Colonel Bedwyn attend him in the library immediately upon his return and that you and Lord Alleyne join him for tea in the drawing room one half hour from now.”
“Requested,” Alleyne said with a chuckle. “Immediately. You are on the carpet over something, Aidan. At least Freyja and I have time to wash our hands before entering the august presence.”
The butler led the way to the library, knocked lightly, opened the door, and stood to one side while Aidan strode in.
She was seated to one side of the hearth, clothed in gray, her hair dressed severely in a knot at the back of her neck. Her complexion was pale, almost pasty. When she rose to her feet he was given the impression that she had lost weight. She gazed at him with wide eyes and compressed lips, and he stared back. It was only when he caught movement with his peripheral vision that he realized they were not alone. Bewcastle had got up from a sofa. Aidan turned his eyes on his brother.
“What is this?” he demanded.
“This?” Wulf asked with faint hauteur. “Is Lady Aidan inanimate, Aidan? I have brought you your wife.”
“That is where you have been?” Aidan asked, feeling cold fury gathering in his chest. “To Ringwood? Against my specific command?”
The ducal eyebrows went up. “Dear me,” he said. “Since when have I taken my orders from a younger brother? I believe you mistake me for one of your enlisted men, Aidan.”
“I do have the power to command my own wife,” Aidan said, taking one menacing step closer to his brother. “I told yo
u she was to be left at Ringwood. I told you I did not want her here. And I told you I was not to be shaken in that resolve.”
“You might be advised,” Bewcastle said softly, “that neither Lady Aidan nor I am deaf, Aidan—at least, I assume that the lady is not. You will reserve that voice for the battlefield, if you please. I explained to you the necessity of your wife's being at your side during the coming weeks. I do not intend to repeat the explanation. The business of my family is my domain.”
“You will have her conveyed back home,” Aidan said icily. “Immediately. Better yet, I will do it myself.” He turned on his heel to stalk from the room, angrier than he had been for a long time—perhaps since his last leave and his encounter then with Bewcastle's stubborn, autocratic will.
A flutter of movement caught his eye and he turned his head to see his wife sit back down on her chair, her back straight, her eyes on the floor in front of her, her face chalk-white and expressionless. Deuce take it, what had he just said in her hearing? He had been so furious . . . He stood still, looking at her.
“You have just recently arrived, ma'am?” he asked unnecessarily. “You made the whole journey today?”
She looked slowly up at him until their eyes met. Her own were flat and unreadable. “If you please,” she said, her words crisp and quite icy, “one of you will find out the name and direction of the inn from which the next stagecoach to Oxfordshire departs. I will need a hackney coach to take me there. Perhaps you will be so good as to call me one immediately. One of you.”
“Ma'am,” Aidan said, “I beg your pardon. I did not—”
“Immediately.” She got to her feet again.
Aidan glared at Bewcastle, but his brother had turned nonchalantly away as if he had not been the cause of all this.
“Perhaps,” Aidan said, “we should—”
“Immediately.”