by Mary Balogh
“Aunt?” Aidan bowed to her. “I have the pleasure of presenting my wife, Lady Aidan Bedwyn. My—” He was given no opportunity to complete the introduction.
“Bless my soul!” she exclaimed again, her lorgnette sweeping down over his wife. “Whose schoolroom did you steal her from? Whose governess was she?”
Eve was, of course, dressed in her habitual gray.
“She was Miss Morris of Ringwood Manor in Oxfordshire,” he told her. “She is owner of the property, aunt.”
“Where on earth did you find her?” she asked. Aunt Rochester was famous for her bluntness. What would have been deemed unpardonable rudeness in anyone else was dubbed eccentricity in the daughter of a duke and wife of a marquess.
“I brought the news to Ringwood Manor of the death in battle at Toulouse of Captain Morris, Miss Morris's brother,” he explained.
“And she wept piteously all over that broad chest of yours, I suppose, and wailed soulfully about how all alone she now was,” his aunt said scornfully. “She smelled a fortune as soon as it walked through her door with its feet in your boots and spotted a fool at the same moment.”
“Aunt!” Aidan clasped his hands behind him and bent his sternest glare on her. If she were a man, by God, she would by now be lying prostrate on the Persian carpet, counting stars on the ceiling. “I really cannot allow you—”
But again he was interrupted.
“I am neither deaf nor dumb,” his wife said quietly, getting to her feet. “Neither am I feebleminded. I do not appreciate being spoken of in the third person as if I were all three. And I have a strong aversion to being insulted. I will inform you that I am really quite wealthy, ma'am, if that knowledge will help quell some of your fears that your nephew has been duped by a fortune-hunter. My father worked hard as a coal miner, married the owner of the mine, inherited through her, and then worked hard to amass an even greater fortune. I was and am proud of him and of my heritage.” She spoke in a more than usually lilting accent—deliberately so, Aidan suspected.
“You are Welsh!” his aunt said as if accusing Eve of some heinous crime.
“Aunt,” Aidan said stiffly, “you owe my wife an apology.”
She answered with a bark of laughter. “Impudent puppy!” she said.
“I did not bring her here to be insulted.”
“Sit down,” his aunt ordered suddenly. “Both of you. Sit! And you too, Bewcastle—and you may lower both those eyebrows and that quizzing glass. They do not intimidate me.”
None of them moved.
“You have already kept me from my committee,” Aunt Rochester said. “And I never neglect my duties to those less fortunate than myself. Now, sit, and tell me to what I owe this honor. I suspect that it would not have taken both my nephews to come here this morning merely to present Lady Aidan Bedwyn.”
Eve sat again and Aidan moved around the settee to take the place beside her. Bewcastle remained standing close to the window.
“Lady Aidan must be presented at court and properly brought out,” he said. “For better or worse she is Aidan's wife. Moreover, she has been included in an invitation to the state dinner for all the visiting European dignitaries at Carlton House. You will sponsor her, aunt.”
“Will I, indeed?” she asked him haughtily. “You take much for granted, Wulfric.”
“I do,” he said. “You are a Bedwyn. Lady Aidan must be brought up to snuff. There is no one better qualified to accomplish that than you.”
Aunt Rochester regarded him through her lorgnette.
“She will have to be taken to a fashionable dressmaker,” Wulf continued. “She will need everything. In particular, she must set aside her mourning. Gray does not become her.”
“Why is she not in black?” Aunt Rochester asked. “Her brother has just died, has he not?”
“He sent word with Aidan that she was not to wear mourning for him. But even if he had not done so, I would require her to set it aside for her appearance in society,” Bewcastle said. “You will undertake this task, aunt?”
“It would appear,” Aunt Rochester said with a sigh, “that I have no choice. It will be an interesting challenge. I have never before been called upon to sponsor a Welsh coal miner's daughter.” The lorgnette was turned upon Eve, who sat quietly enough under the scrutiny, though Aidan expected that at any moment she would jump to her feet again and demand to be taken away. “At least she has a passably good figure and tolerable features. Something will have to be done about her hair, of course.”
Bewcastle and Aunt Rochester proceeded to talk about her in the third person again—and rather as if she were inanimate. Aidan might have felt some pity for her if she had not brought this entirely upon herself. As it was, it was just as well, perhaps, that she know fully this morning what yesterday's ruffled pride had led her into. And interestingly enough, he was rather curious to know where, if anywhere, that pride was going to lead her today and in the coming days. He had not really seen it in full force until yesterday—a strange reminder of how little he knew of the woman he had married. Would he be taking her back to The Green Man and Still this afternoon or tomorrow?
“If I approve of what is suggested, ma'am,” she said after a minute or two, interrupting the conversation and drawing both his aunt's and Wulf's astonished attention to herself, “then I will allow the style of my hair to be changed. As for my clothes and my behavior, I would appreciate your help and advice, ma'am, before I decide for myself what is appropriate. Perhaps I should quell your worst fears, though, by assuring you that Colonel Bedwyn did not pluck me straight out of a coal mine. I have been given the upbringing and education of a lady.”
“Bless my soul,” his aunt said, “you have married a woman with claws, Aidan.”
“Yes, aunt,” he agreed.
“She had better keep them sheathed from me,” she said. “And she needs to learn that the English language is designed to be spoken, not sung—except by those who are members of choirs. Ladies do not sing in choirs.”
“It is her Welsh accent, aunt,” he said. And damned attractive it was too, even if she was exaggerating it to provoke his relatives.
Bewcastle interrupted what might have developed into a quarrel. As usual, he spoke softly. “You are willing, then, Lady Aidan,” he asked, “to put yourself in the hands of Lady Rochester? You can do no better, I do assure you.”
“Thank you, your grace,” she said coolly. “I am willing. Thank you, ma'am.”
She glanced at Aidan, and he could see the stubborn set of her jaw that he had not really noticed until yesterday, though it must have been there from the start, he supposed, recalling her unwillingness to accept his assistance, desperately as she had needed it.
“If all this is going to be too much for you,” he said, “say so now and I will take you home—to Ringwood. I will not coerce you into anything. It was no part of our bargain. And I will not have you coerced.”
“I am not going anywhere,” she said, looking steadily into his eyes.
“Oh, yes, you are, my girl,” his aunt retorted, her lorgnette to her eye again. With it she was assessing Eve's appearance from head to foot. “You and I are going to pay a call on my modiste without another moment's delay. Wulfric, Aidan, you may leave. Go! Who is your dressmaker, girl? No, do not pain my ears by answering. Some rustic unknown, I suppose.”
“Yes,” Eve agreed. “My aunt and I, ma'am.”
Aidan stood and looked at Bewcastle, who preceded him from the room after bowing distantly to both ladies.
THE NOTION THAT MISS BENNING, LADY ROCHESTER'S fashionable dressmaker, would cancel all her other appointments for the next few days merely because the marchioness was bringing her nephew's new bride to be outfitted for her court appearance and for what remained of the Season, had seemed to Eve to be a preposterous boast when the marchioness had mentioned it during the carriage ride to Bond Street. She had not really believed it.
Now she did.
The Marchioness of Rochester, she so
on realized beyond any doubt, was a very important personage indeed. And today she had the full weight of the authority of the Duke of Bewcastle behind her—another extremely formidable figure. And Eve was the wife of his heir. She was also that rare client all dressmakers must dream of wistfully all their working lives—the one who needed simply everything. Not a single garment of those few she had packed and brought to London with her would do for Lady Aidan Bedwyn making her debut appearance in British high society. Miss Benning took one look at the carriage dress Eve was wearing and agreed with the marchioness.
They looked through fashion plate after fashion plate, the three of them, selecting designs for morning dresses, afternoon dresses, dinner gowns, ball gowns, carriage dresses, walking dresses, riding habits, cloaks, pelisses—the list went on and on despite Eve's intense dismay. She might be in town for only three or four weeks, the marchioness pointed out when Eve voiced a protest, but she simply could not be seen in the same thing wherever she went. Such stinginess would reflect badly upon Aidan.
And then there was the all-important matter of the court dress in which she would be presented to the queen. Eve soon learned that Queen Charlotte had some quite rigid rules about what was acceptable wear for ladies in her drawing room. The high-waisted, loose-flowing gowns currently in vogue were simply not allowed there. Court dresses must be wide-skirted and hooped and worn with a stomacher and hair plumes and lappets, in the fashion of a generation ago. And there had to be a heavy train too, exactly three yards long. Eve wondered if someone at court, some lowly footman perhaps, crawled from one lady to another with a measuring tape in his hands. And what fate lay in wait for the poor lady whose train was one inch too long or too short? Banishment from court and social ostracism for the rest of her life?
There were fabrics to select and colors and trimmings to choose among. There were measurements—interminable measurements of every inch of her body—to be taken.
It was all progressively bewildering and exciting and dizzying and tedious and draining. At every turn there was a protracted discussion. Fortunately Miss Benning agreed with Eve on the question of color. Soft pastel shades would put the focus on Lady Aidan Bedwyn's delicate complexion, fine eyes, and lustrous hair, she told Lady Rochester. But she agreed with the marchioness that the court dress must be of a far richer shade, the unspoken implication perhaps being that at court the gown was of far more significance than the person inside it. In most cases Eve won her point too about fabrics. She favored light, plain materials over velvets and bold patterns. She was overruled almost entirely, though, when it came to design. Anything that hugged her figure too tightly or showed too much bosom or too much ankle frankly alarmed her—she would feel half naked! But such styles were the very height of fashion, she was told, and she came to understand that to the beau monde fashion was a sort of deity that must be obeyed without question.
There were no prices on any of the patterns or fabrics. Eve could only guess what all this was going to cost—especially when all the accessories were added. She was very wealthy indeed, but she also had many people dependent upon her wealth. And Papa, despite his great desire to move up the social scale, had never favored extravagance. Neither had she. She had lived frugally all her life. Yet there was to be all this for a mere few weeks!
Had Percy had any idea, she wondered, of the consequences of his final words to his commanding officer? But the thought of Percy reminded her of her indignation against the Duke of Bewcastle, who had so arrogantly and heartlessly dismissed any need she might feel to wear muted colors out of respect for her brother's memory even if she followed his last wish and did not wear full mourning. Even if Percy had not made his request, the duke had told the marchioness, he would have required her to put off her mourning for the next few weeks. Percy, of course, was a mere nobody as far as he was concerned. So was she. She was merely someone to be ordered about like everyone else in the duke's sphere.
“For someone who is to have a whole roomful of Miss Benning's coveted garments, you are looking decidedly blue-deviled, Lady Aidan,” the marchioness observed as she pulled on her gloves late in the afternoon. Her carriage had just returned, and a footman was jumping down from behind to come and open the shop door for her.
“I am weary, that is all, ma'am,” Eve said. “I am not accustomed to all of this.”
“You should have considered that before deciding to marry Bewcastle's heir,” Lady Rochester said, sweeping out of the shop with the footman scurrying after her to assist her into the carriage.
It was the final straw. Eve, about to follow her, hesitated and then turned back resolutely to Miss Benning.
“About my court dress,” she said.
Miss Benning was all ears.
CHAPTER XIII
EVE WAS SEATED AT THE SMALL ESCRITOIRE IN THE sitting room of the gold suite they shared when Aidan went up there after dinner. She raised her head and explained that she was writing to her family at Ringwood. He assumed she included in that term the orphaned children as well as her aunt—probably the governess and her child too, and more than likely the ferocious housekeeper, the half-wit lad, and all the rest of the odd retainers with whom she had surrounded herself. He would not put it past her to be sending her affectionate regards even to that scruffy mutt.
He sat in a deep armchair and watched her while he considered and rejected the idea of going back downstairs to find a book to read. He was unaccustomed to idleness. Freyja had gone out to a dinner engagement. Eve had left him and his brothers to their port after dinner, but Alleyne had left soon after to call at White's Club to meet some of his friends before proceeding to a ball. Wulf was going out later to some unspecified destination—to visit his mistress, Aidan suspected. He could have gone out too. He could have gone to White's with Alleyne. He would doubtless have met a number of acquaintances there with whom to while away a congenial hour or two.
But he had a wife who had insisted upon remaining in London for his sake even though he did not want her here and she did not want to be here, and of course she could not go anywhere, except perhaps the theater, until she had been properly presented. Aidan drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair while she blotted and folded her letter, set it aside, crossed the room to a sofa, and took her embroidery from a bag beside her—all without looking at him.
“You make me nervous,” she said after stitching for a minute or two.
“Do I?” He stopped drumming his fingers and frowned at the top of her head. “Why?”
“You are so silent,” she said. “And you stare.”
Silent? Just he? She had been writing a letter when he came into the room, her back to his chair. Had she expected him to chatter at her? And she had not spoken a word since finishing—until now.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
Now she was the one frowning as she looked up at him. “Do you ever smile?” she asked
What the devil? Of course he smiled. But was he to be laughing and chuckling and chortling every moment without cause?
“I have never seen you do it,” she said. “Not even once.”
“There seems to be not a great deal to smile about,” he told her.
“I am sorry about that,” she said, bending to her work again.
The devil! She would be thinking now that he was referring to their marriage and her company. But he had stayed home with her, had he not? Both last evening and this?
“I am a killer,” he said abruptly. “I kill for a living. There is nothing very amusing about that.”
She looked up at him, her needle suspended above her work. He frowned. Now why the deuce had he said that? He had not consciously thought that way for years. He had never spoken such thoughts to anyone, least of all a woman.
“Is that how you see yourself?” she asked. “As a killer?”
He wanted to shock her then. He wanted to shake her out of the complacence most English people seemed to share, perhaps because the realities of war were very remote to them, sa
fe as they were on their secure island.
“It is said that every woman is in love with a uniform,” he said. “At present I believe everyone in England, man and woman alike, loves a uniform, provided it is British or Prussian or Russian. Everyone loves killers.”
“But you have been fighting tyranny,” she said. “You have been fighting to free countries and the countless people who inhabit them from the clutches of a ruthless tyrant. There has to be something noble and right about that, even if you do have to kill some enemy soldiers in the process.”
“Next year,” he said, “or the year after, it will perhaps be Russia that is the enemy, or Prussia or Austria or America—and France that is the ally. The British, of course, are always on the side of good and right. On the side of God. God speaks with a British accent—did you know that? A refined, upper-class English accent, to be precise.”
She had lowered her needle to the cloth, but she continued to gaze at him.
“I am a killer,” he said again. “The great advantage of being a soldier, of course, is that I will never be hanged for my crimes. I will be feted and adulated instead. The ladies will continue to fall in love with me, even though I am already married—and even though I do not smile.”
What the devil was he babbling on about? He was feeling vicious—and alarmingly close to tears. He wished he could jump up and dash from the room without looking like an idiot, or that she would look down and get back to work. He could not remember when he had so lowered his guard before—perhaps it had not happened since he was a boy.