Roxana wasn’t sure what to do. Pretend she hadn’t heard, and breeze past them? Hang back until they moved away? She hesitated, hoping they would simply leave.
The captain grinned. “Yes, but can you really believe anything Wyatt says?”
The cornet took out a snuffbox, flipped it open and offered it to his friend before availing himself of its contents. “I don’t know. I’m more interested in a different question—namely, if we’re celebrating Wyatt’s engagement to a blonde, why was he encouraging that little brunette?”
Roxana’s mother had often warned her that eavesdroppers never heard good of themselves, but she’d failed to mention the same risk applied to what they might hear of their fiancés. Unsure whether to step forward or turn on her heel and walk away, Roxana remained helplessly rooted to the spot.
The captain shrugged. “Wouldn’t you encourage her, if you had the chance?”
“You have a point.” The cornet sneezed violently and pocketed his snuffbox again. “Good old Wyatt. Always popular with the ladies.”
They went on examining George from across the room. “He ain’t a nabob, and his uniform’s the same as ours,” said the captain. “What do you suppose they all see in him?”
Now it was the cornet’s turn to shrug. “Lots of white teeth, and a pretty compliment or two. Ladies love that sort of thing.”
The captain grunted. “My compliments would be pretty, too, if I got that much practice.”
Turn around and go. Go now. But Roxana couldn’t make herself walk away.
“He certainly was a favorite with the señoritas,” the cornet said. “D’you remember the one who made that ugly scene outside Badajoz?”
“Remember her? I dreamed about her every night for a month. That beauty was nothing to the one at the colonel’s ball in Madrid, though.”
“Oh, that one was as hot-blooded as they come. She must have been a real wildcat, to judge from the way Wyatt used to sneak in just before muster every morning, looking like something the cat dragged in.”
Such a powerful mixture of burning humiliation and cold shock gripped Roxana, she feared for a moment she might actually faint. She wanted to faint, so when she came to she could tell herself this had all been nothing but a bad dream.
Somehow, she found the nerve to make herself retreat. Turning and starting away, she nearly collided with Lord Ayersley. He had to put out his hands to keep her from crashing into him.
“Miss Langley—!” he said in surprise.
She mumbled an excuse and fled.
She retreated upstairs to her bedroom, huddling on her bed with her arms wrapped around herself as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. The shock quickly receded, replaced by a sick sensation in the pit of her stomach. Now she knew exactly what was meant by barracks-room gossip. She wished she’d never heard a word of it.
The officers’ stories had to be true. Why should they invent lies when they hadn’t even known anyone was listening? While she’d been waiting faithfully for George, he’d been carrying on with loose women in Spain.
She wasn’t entirely ignorant. She’d heard and sometimes repeated enough gossip about love affairs to know even married men were unfaithful, and most wives simply accepted it. But she’d thought what she and George had was special. He wasn’t some spoiled society fribble, but a war hero. She’d believed he would never stray, the same way she would never betray him.
Why did she have to learn the humiliating truth tonight of all nights, when they had just announced their engagement? She wished she could be sick and keep retching until she’d purged herself of this horrid feeling of stupidity and hurt. Or, at the very least, have a good cry. For some reason, the tears burning behind her eyelids wouldn’t come.
Five years—closer to six, now, if she counted the three months before he left for Spain and the four since he’d been wounded. She’d waited for George all that time, dreaming of their wedding, longing for his return so she could begin living in earnest, reminding herself every day how wonderful he was—and all the while he’d been giving other women his smiles and his compliments and his kisses.
But what was she to do, now that she knew the truth? She could hardly go back to the party, to smile and dance her way through the rest of the evening as if nothing had happened. Yet she couldn’t hide in her room all night, either, not at her own engagement ball.
That left only one choice. She had to confront George.
Minutes later, she’d mastered her emotions enough to creep back down to the ballroom. A set had just broken up. Fanny was leaving the dance floor with one of the officers. Roxana knew the instant her friend caught sight of her. Fanny’s happy look changed to one of alarm.
She rushed to Roxana’s side. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing,” Roxana said, with what she hoped would pass for unconcern. “Are you having a good time?”
“I’m having a lovely time, but I can see you’re not. What is it?”
Despite her own worries, Roxana had no wish to ruin Fanny’s evening. “Nothing that signifies—though I would like to speak with George out on the terrace. Have you seen him?”
“I’ll fetch him for you.” Fanny darted off, throwing an anxious look over her shoulder.
Roxana slipped out onto the terrace, anger and hurt still battling it out inside her, to compose herself while she waited. The July moon bathed the flagstones in a wash of pale light. Soon George came striding out, dashing as ever but with his brow creased in a befuddled expression.
“Sweetheart—what’s wrong?” Taking her hand, he led her to a stone bench nestled against the balustrade.
He looked as if he’d stepped out of a painting—Cavalry Hero or Shining Example of British Manhood. Now that they were together, was it really wise to confront the problem head-on? This was no small matter. Wouldn’t it be better simply to pretend nothing had changed?
No. That was cowardice. If she was going to marry George, they had to settle this now.
She took a deep breath. “I’m not sure how to say this, except to simply come out and say it. A short time ago, I overheard a conversation between two officers. They were discussing your—your love affairs.”
George gave a hollow laugh. “My what?”
She looked down at their clasped hands. “They were talking about females, lightskirts I suppose, you’d been with in Spain.”
He could have shot to his feet, vowing to challenge the lying blackguards to a duel. He could have fallen to his knees and begged her forgiveness. He did neither. Instead his lips thinned in a faint, annoyed frown. “What did they say?”
“They mentioned a woman in Badajoz and another in Madrid. I had the impression there were others.”
“Hmm.” He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.
She waited for an explanation, but George merely sat holding her hand, one foot swaying in time to the music coming from indoors. If she’d expected heartfelt confessions and abject apologies, clearly she was not to have them.
“So is it true?” she asked when he said nothing.
He turned a melting smile her way. “Darling, do you really want me to answer that? Can’t you just believe me when I say I never meant to hurt you, and leave it at that?”
It was all the confirmation she needed. She yanked her hand away. “I thought you loved me!”
“Loved you? There’s nothing past tense about it. I love you. Would I have asked you to marry me if I didn’t? But you have to understand, we men aren’t made as pure and fine as you ladies.”
At that moment, Roxana did not feel very pure or fine. She felt like calling him the worst word she knew, and then inventing a few offensive new words for good measure. She fixed him with an accusing glare.
“These things go on all the time,” he said. “But they mean nothing, and a gentleman does his best to shield a lady from such unpleasantness. I’m sorry you had to hear about it—deuced sorry. Especially tonight.”
“You don’t sound sorr
y you were with those women, only that I found out about it.”
His green eyes turned coaxing. “Darling, I know I’ve hurt you, and I wish to God that weren’t so, but let’s be fair. A man has certain needs he has to attend to.”
“Has to? You’re saying you have no choice in the matter?”
“Well, it wasn’t as if I had a wife to turn to. We were a continent apart. And I was away for five years—five long, perilous years. You didn’t really expect me to be a saint all that time, did you?”
Roxana wanted to say yes, that was precisely what she’d expected. Until just moments before, she’d still been hanging on to the hope he would deny everything, however implausible such a denial might have been.
But she’d waited those five years, too, and she would never forget how they’d stretched out—the lonely nights, the passing seasons, the birthdays that came and went. And what George said was true. It was different for a man. Society expected a man to have some experience before marriage.
As if he could read her thoughts, George said, “It’s the way of the world, and it’s not as if we were married. You wouldn’t want people thinking you narrow-minded, now, would you?”
Narrow-minded. Perhaps her expectations had been unrealistic. A handsome bachelor, alone for five years, living far from home…
“But how could you do it if you love me?” The words emerged unbidden, making Roxana want to cringe at how plaintive she sounded. “Am I not pretty or interesting enough for you?”
“Darling!” He took her hands in his again. “I’m mad about you, you know that. I’d fall on my sword right now if it would make you happy. Besides, I thought of you the whole time.”
She winced to hear she had been in his thoughts even as he took his pleasure with lightskirts.
“Remember, I had no way of knowing how long we’d be apart,” George said quickly. “And the women you’re talking about—they were mere conveniences. It’s not as if I had feelings for any of them.”
The cavalier way he dismissed the women as nothing, creatures hardly worthy of consideration, struck her as heartless—yet at the same time, she shrank from the notion they might have meant more to him. And what did she really know of how gentlemen conducted themselves with lightskirts, or what the lightskirts had a right to expect? Gossip usually specified who and when, but never why or how it felt.
She stole a glance at George, a golden Adonis lounging beside her in his regimentals. Human beings could withstand only so much temptation, and she had no doubt George met with more temptation than most. Besides, what else could she do but forgive him? They had just told a ballroom full of their closest friends and neighbors they were going to be married. She could hardly take it back now.
Roxana looked down at her lap, determined not to picture sloe-eyed señoritas panting in his arms. “I understand why you turned to those women. But—” she met his gaze, her eyes pleading, “—I need to know that’s over and done with, now that we’re together. All of it.”
He reached up and toyed with one of her curls, tucking it behind her ear. “Of course, sweetheart. I’d already forgotten those other females. They were bachelor’s fare, that’s all.”
“Promise me, George.”
“Of course. All that is water under the bridge, I swear. You’re the only girl for me.”
He kissed her temple, and with an effort she stifled her hurt. If they were going to build a life together, the past would have to stay in the past. Better to concentrate on the future. And she’d longed for a more exciting and sophisticated life, hadn’t she? Perhaps this was heaven’s way of telling her to be careful what she wished for.
She slipped her hand into George’s. “I want us to be happy. I want to be a good wife to you.”
“Of course you do, darling. And I know you will be.” He turned her toward him and kissed her softly. For once, it was a sweet, undemanding kiss.
They sat together, listening to the music floating out over the terrace. Roxana sighed. She was missing a set she’d promised to someone.
“I take it I’m forgiven?” George asked.
Though she still ached with disillusionment, the hurt was not nearly as sharp or as close to the surface as before. She nodded. “Yes. At least, I’ll do my best to put it behind us.”
“What a prize you are. I don’t deserve you.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “Even those loose fish you heard tonight will tell you I talked about little else but you during the war. I fell asleep every night praying I’d see you in my dreams.”
She rested her head against his shoulder.
“Shall we go back inside?” he asked.
Roxana doubted she would ever be able to recall his years in Spain with the same untarnished pride as before, but she could resolve not to think about them. He knew he’d hurt her, and he’d said all the right things. “Yes, let’s get back to the party.”
They were together now, and they were going to be married. As they rejoined the gaiety of their engagement ball, arm in arm, surely that was the only thing that mattered.
Chapter Three
Many have fallen by the edge of the sword; but not so many as have fallen by the tongue.
—Ecclesiasticus 28:17
“You said Major Wyatt was going to drive us,” Harry said for the fifth time, trudging beside her to the village.
“I told you, something came up.”
The sun was scorching, the air around them shimmering with midsummer heat. Though they were walking at only a modest pace, Harry’s face was flushed, and perspiration trickled down the valley between her breasts. They were expected at the vicarage, and their mother had taken the carriage. Not that Roxana blamed their mother. When Lady Langley had left to call on the Downings, she’d been expecting George to drive them.
Harry slowed to kick a pebble into the grass alongside the road. “I knew he would find some reason not to let me ride in his phaeton. At church he yelled at Jack and me just for looking at it.”
Roxana stopped and waited for him to catch up. “You weren’t just looking. He said you were leaving fingerprints on the side panels. Besides, he would have driven us if he could have. He had to say his goodbyes to his friend Captain Morton. You wouldn’t want him to abandon his guest, would you, after the captain came so far to see him?”
“He abandoned us.”
“That’s not fair.” But despite her words, she had to fight off her own share of resentment. Of course George owed his friend a proper farewell, but he’d given them his word, and the day was sweltering. She wished he could have found time to keep his promise.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t had a minute to spare since the night of their engagement ball. Three of his brother officers had stayed on at Yew House, and he’d spent the week entertaining them. Roxana hadn’t seen him once.
It was not what she’d expected. When she’d heard his friends would be staying on, she’d assumed George would invite her to dinner at the very least. They would all get to know one another, his brother officers and his future bride. But it appeared ladies were considered de trop.
It had taken her an embarrassingly long time to realize no invitation would be forthcoming. For six nights running she’d stayed home, awaiting George’s summons. She’d declined invitations from Fanny and the Downing family and even the dowager Countess of Ayersley. Each night she’d ended up alone, embroidering in silence. Finally, she had swallowed her pride and sent George a note.
You know how it is, my darling, he had written back. My friends and I have some catching up to do, and their conversation is hardly fit for your lovely ears. I’ll be counting the minutes until we can be together again.
Beside her, Harry tugged at his shirt. “My collar itches.”
“It’s the hottest day of the year,” Roxana said in her best big-sister voice. “Your collar is supposed to itch.”
He made a mulish face and slowed his pace even more. Another bead of perspiration inched its way down her cleavage. She was beginning to think
they would never reach the vicarage.
“Harry, please stop dragging your feet.”
She should have known better than to say such a thing to a disgruntled five-year-old. Harry began scraping the toes of his shoes on the road.
She was just about to lose her last ounce of patience when the sound of hoofbeats made them both stop and turn to look behind them. The hoofbeats grew louder, and a sleek curricle emerged around the bend.
It was a deep sporting green, a color that managed to look cool, fast and inviting all at once. Two high-stepping chestnuts pulled the light equipage, their gleaming harness flashing in the summer sun. The Earl of Ayersley was driving—and there was just enough room on the seat beside him for a lady and one small boy.
It was the most welcome sight Roxana had seen in ages. She was so happy to see the carriage she did not even care that the gentleman driving it was Ayersley.
A fleeting stir of dismay even ran through her that her own appearance should be so wilted and bedraggled.
* * *
Alex drew the chestnuts to a halt, his heart breaking into that half pleasurable, half painful gallop it always assumed whenever he caught sight of Miss Langley. He lifted his hat. “Good afternoon, Miss Langley. Hullo, Harry. I see you’re headed toward the village. May I offer you a ride?”
“Yes!” Harry said at once. He was a much younger version of Tom, tow-headed and expressive, the doted-upon baby of his family.
“Thank you,” Miss Langley said. “That would be very good of you, Ayersley.”
Alex jumped down from the curricle and handed her in. Then he boosted Harry onto the seat beside her and vaulted up after them to gather up the ribbons. “Well, Miss Langley?” He looked to her as he set the pair in motion. “Where shall I take you?”
“To the vicarage, please.”
He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “The vicarage? I’m headed there myself.”
She tilted her head back, closing her eyes, clearly relishing the breeze as the chestnuts picked up the pace. “Rumor has it you’re to sponsor a new roof for the church.”
Ruined by Rumor Page 4