“No, she never mentioned it.”
“Well, she is. She’s marrying a cavalry officer, a major in the Fifth Dragoon Guards.”
Oliver polished the lenses of his eyeglasses. “Oh, I already knew that.”
“I thought you said she didn’t mention—ah. Sir Thomas told you, I take it?”
Oliver shook his head. “No, sir.” Replacing his spectacles, he smiled a strangely enigmatic smile. “It was the vicar who told me all about her, the day I arrived.”
* * *
Usually, the parish church was inviting in the summer. Its pale stone walls, centuries-old monuments and high arcaded nave created an impression of spaciousness and peace, while the cool scent of damp earth wafted up from the undercroft. On this dog day in July, however, the sun had been baking down from a cloudless sky all afternoon, and the empty church was hot and stifling.
“I didn’t mean to neglect you, darling.” George sprawled in the front pew, watching Roxana arrange the flowers she’d brought for the service the next morning. “You know how mad I am about you. I just didn’t think you’d enjoy yourself.”
She paused in her attempts to balance her flower arrangement. “But I missed you.”
“And I missed you. Even so, mixing with my friends would have been deuced boring for you. Admit it, sweetheart, you have no interest in listening to me trade stories about the war.”
“I like your war stories.”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “Not the way we officers tell them when we’re together. It’s all blood and gore and privation, and you don’t want to hear such things, do you?”
There was little she could say to that, so she simply concentrated on the hollyhocks.
“There, you see? I know you better than you think I do.” He winked. “Now when can I see that pretty smile again?”
All day, George had been as attentive as she could wish. He’d been courteous to her mother and affable to Harry. When Roxana had mentioned it was her turn to furnish flowers for the Sunday service, he’d insisted on driving her in his phaeton. Now he was sitting in the stuffy church, sweat beading on his forehead, waiting as she fussed over her floral arrangement.
Still, it bothered her that he ran so hot and cold, ignoring her for days at a time only to show up when it suited him and charm his way back into her good graces. And if George overlooked her now, when they had just been reunited after more than five years apart, what could she expect in the months and years to come? Was this casual approach to courtship something time would cure, or only a taste of what married life had in store?
She sighed. If only he had written her over the past week, instead of remembering her only when she’d dared to speak up—or if he’d called as soon as the rain cleared, instead of coming tardily after Ayersley, Mr. Spotterswood and her mother’s sewing circle. The earl had even managed the ride with a puppy in his saddlebag.
Just that morning, Roxana had had a frighteningly disloyal thought—that she and George should have spent more time getting reacquainted before they announced their engagement. The notion had alarmed her so much she’d immediately banished it from her head. She had not waited five years only to question her betrothal now. No gentleman was perfect, and only the most fickle sort of girl would give up at the first little bump in the road.
George rose and came to wrap his arms around her from behind. He nuzzled the back of her neck. “Something tells me you’re still cross with me.”
“George, not now.” She shook him off with a shrug of one shoulder. “I’m trying to finish this.”
“It looks magnificent.”
“It looks frightful. You’re just saying it doesn’t so I’ll kiss you.”
He gave a grunt of frustration. “Most girls like to be kissed.”
Of course he would know what most girls liked. But her resentment quickly gave way to uncertainty. Was that why he was spending so little time with her—because she’d never really enjoyed his kisses as she should have?
She turned to face him. “I heard you went into Chesterfield with your friends last week, and you didn’t come home until late the next day.” It wasn’t an accusation, or a question either, but a simple statement of fact.
He frowned, and his eyes shifted sideways before returning quickly to meet hers. “Where did you hear that?”
She’d heard the news from her abigail, who’d heard it from a footman at Yew House. “So it’s true?”
“Since when have you become so jealous?”
“I’m not jealous! I simply wonder why you never mentioned it.”
“Good lord, you sound like my father, demanding I give an accounting of myself.”
Roxana wavered. George had never seen eye to eye with his father, who was elderly and exacting. Yew House wasn’t entailed and Mr. Wyatt had been known to threaten George with disinheritance whenever his son displeased him. George had joined the army largely to get away from his father, talking his maternal grandfather into buying his commission. “I just want to know if it’s true.”
George gave an exasperated sigh and went to sit in the pew again, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Well, hang it, if you must know—yes, I went into Chesterfield. We went to see a boxing match. We did a little drinking afterward and wound up so foxed, we spent the night at an inn because none of us was in a fit state to ride home in the dark. Satisfied?”
Roxana felt foolish. She didn’t know what she’d been imagining—that he’d spent the night with lightskirts? That he would lie about having gone at all? She was making mountains out of molehills.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her spirits sinking lower. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m not usually so prickly.” And she wasn’t. She’d just been so out of sorts with him lately. Perhaps it was the strain of waiting for the wedding.
He came to wrap her in his arms again. “Never mind, sweetheart. I know you don’t mean to be a spoilsport. But if you wanted so much to see me last week, why not make the most of things now?”
A spoilsport. She was being one, wasn’t she? She looked up into his coaxing green eyes and gave him a weak smile.
He broke into a grin that flashed an abundance of white teeth. “That’s more like it.” His arms tightening around her, he covered her mouth with his.
Immediately she reacted as she always did when he kissed her. She froze inside.
But with a conscious effort, she ignored the feeling. She wanted him to pay more attention to her, didn’t she? She wanted them to be closer. And they were going to be married in three months. Besides, she doubted he would try anything really improper in church.
She was giving him too much credit, for as George held her, his hand traveled down the length of her back—over her neck, between her shoulder blades, down her spine. Before she could react, his hand dropped down to squeeze her bottom through the thin muslin of her dress.
In the same instant, the Earl of Ayersley said, “Miss Langley, I just heard—”
“Oh!” She leaped away from George as if he were a nest of hornets.
The earl was gaping at them from the doorway of the church. Roxana couldn’t be sure what he had seen, but simply being caught in George’s arms was improper enough.
“I beg your pardon,” Ayersley said in a shocked tone, taking a step backward.
George turned to him and broke into an oddly unruffled smile. “Didn’t know you were lurking about, Ayersley, old fellow.”
Oh, no. If only she could somehow turn back the clock on the past thirty seconds. So many times when George had kissed her, she’d protested someone might see them. She’d been thinking of her mother, or George’s parents, or perhaps a servant. If one of those people had caught them together, Roxana would have been embarrassed, but at least she could have consoled herself that family forgave even the shabbiest behavior. But Ayersley, of all people…
And it had not been just any kiss. George had practically had his tongue down her throat. He’d even squeezed her backside. In chur
ch. What if Ayersley had seen that, too? The ignominy of it made her cringe.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t—Mr. Spotterswood mentioned you were here.” The earl stared at her, clearly aghast. “I didn’t realize you were with Major Wyatt.”
She was unable to speak, her voice paralyzed by her utter mortification. She wanted to sink into the ground. More than that, she wanted to beg Ayersley not to think ill of her for letting George grope her at the altar rail. But there was no help for it. He’d caught them red-handed.
Strangely, George didn’t seem at all embarrassed. “You know how it is,” he said in his bluff way, putting a possessive arm about her shoulders. He winked at the earl. “Just don’t tell her mother what we were up to, eh?”
“I—I would never—” Ayersley looked as horrified as she felt. After several seconds of ineffectually fumbling for words, he said, “I only came to acquaint my secretary with the work to be done on the roof. Excuse me.”
He turned and strode away with a stiff-legged gait, his head down.
Roxana stared after him. Oh, no. Why did it have to be Ayersley? He already had a low opinion of her, and now she’d given him the perfect reason to despise her utterly. If only she could develop a wasting illness and take to her bed, so she would never have to face him again.
Her cheeks burned, but beside her George was chuckling. He seemed to find it a rare joke that the highly proper earl, of all people, had surprised them in an embrace.
Chapter Five
I cannot, nor I will not hold me still;
My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.
—William Shakespeare
“Thank you for coming,” Alex said over and over again, doing his duty beside his mother in the receiving line. Possessing no great skill for small talk, he stuck to the tried and true “It’s good to see you” and “I’m pleased you could join us tonight.”
A steady stream of guests proceeded past. He greeted young ladies in pastel muslin, matrons in jewel-toned satin, gentlemen in dark coats. Having resolved to be a dutiful and attentive host, Alex resisted glancing over their heads for the arrival of Miss Langley—until he spotted her, that is, and couldn’t tear his eyes away. She wore white, a silver fillet threaded through her curls, and she was smiling and clinging to Major Wyatt’s arm as if her life depended on it.
There seemed no way to get out of shaking Wyatt’s hand this time, so Alex readied a strained smile for the pair of them, trying not to think about the kiss he’d seen them share inside the church. They no sooner joined the receiving line, however, than Wyatt whispered something to Miss Langley and slipped off, leaving her standing alone. She cast a worried look after the major, but he only went to stand on the other side of a marble column, screened from Miss Langley’s view, where he pulled a silver flask from his pocket and took a quick swig. Apparently Wyatt did not want to shake Alex’s hand any more than Alex wanted to shake his.
He concentrated on greeting the guests who filed past, and, sooner than he’d expected, he came face-to-face with Miss Langley.
For once, he found his voice first. “Good evening, Miss Langley. It’s good to see you again.”
“Thank you for inviting me.”
“I’m pleased you could come. Is your mother with you?”
“No, she’s arriving in our carriage. I came with Major Wyatt.”
“Ah. I should have realized…” Of course she’d come with Wyatt. Hadn’t he seen them enter together? Hadn’t he seen enough of them together to last him a lifetime? He’d known she was in love with the man, of course, but stumbling on their embrace had driven it home like never before. He was just grateful his mother had recovered enough for him to return to London once this ball was out of the way. There was nothing for him here but heartache and regret.
As if reading his thoughts, his mother stepped into the breach, sparing him from uttering another string of commonplaces. “How good to see you, my dear,” she said, taking one of Miss Langley’s hands in both of hers. “You’ll be dancing tonight, I hope?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve been looking forward to it.”
“Well then, you must save a set for Alex here.”
His jaw dropped. “But she doesn’t—I’m sure she’s already promised—”
Miss Langley said in the same moment, “I quite understand if he doesn’t wish to—”
When they both stumbled to a halt, his mother said, “Well, just keep a dance open, my dear.”
Miss Langley glanced over her shoulder, evidently realizing she was holding up the receiving line. “My first set is reserved for Major Wyatt, but the others are free.”
All too aware she’d been maneuvered into accepting, Alex said, “The second set, then?”
“The second set,” she agreed with downcast eyes, and quickly moved on.
* * *
Thank heavens. She’d made it through that awkward first encounter with Ayersley. After the mortifying way he’d discovered George kissing her in the church, she’d dreaded it for days. Now she could breathe a little easier.
Glancing back at the receiving line as she walked, she literally bumped into one of her neighbors. “Miss Hill!” Roxana caught hold of her with an apologetic smile. “How clumsy of me—and how good to see you here.”
Miss Hill beamed at her, her round face flushed with excitement. “Isn’t this wonderful? I can’t remember the last time anyone gave a ball at Broadslieve. It must have been back when the old earl was still alive.”
“Ayersley needs to entertain more.” Pausing to chat with Miss Hill, Roxana spied the Masseys and the Downings as they entered, and waved over the crowd at them. They came to join her, trading smiles and good wishes.
She mingled that way for a few minutes, moving through the room, greeting neighbors, sharing news, comparing notes with them on the faces that looked unfamiliar—and, inevitably, marveling with her fellow guests at the house around them. With its fine art, gleaming marble floors and ornate ceilings and doorways, Broadslieve could dazzle any visitor into silence. Tonight the ballroom glowed with the light of innumerable candles, and the heady scent of woodbine drifted in from the gardens. It was like stepping into another, more rarefied world. Even the sound of the orchestra tuning up in the gallery floated down like otherworldly music.
It wasn’t long before the musicians struck up the first dance. Though Roxana’s eyes searched the ballroom, she couldn’t see George anywhere. He was acting so strangely and had been since the moment he’d come to collect her in his carriage. He’d barely looked at her as he’d helped her up onto the seat of his phaeton. And though parties usually put him in a jovial mood, he’d been virtually silent during the drive to Broadslieve.
For that matter, he’d been distant all week. On Monday he’d sent a note offering to take her shopping in the village. She’d promptly sent her acceptance—only to receive a second note from him the same day, canceling the outing. He’d canceled his usual Wednesday dinner at Riddlefield too. Now the earl’s ball had finally arrived, and not only had George abandoned her in the receiving line, but they were missing the first set.
After a quick look about the ballroom she spotted him leaning against a marble pillar, his arms crossed. His glum look puzzled her. It wasn’t like George to be so standoffish.
Crossing the room to his side, she pasted on a determined smile. “This is your set, I believe, George.”
He sighed. “We need to talk.”
“Well, of course, if you’d like. We always talk while we dance, don’t we?”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, wearing a look of unease entirely at odds with his usual careless swagger. “I don’t think this is a dancing sort of conversation.”
“But it’s the opening set.”
Just then the vicar’s wife bore down on them, a gangly red-haired youth at her elbow. “Miss Langley, this gentleman would like to meet you. May I present Mr. Lidgate? He’s a friend of Tim’s from university.”
Mr. Lidgate
sketched a perfunctory bow in George’s direction before smiling at Roxana. “I was wondering, Miss Langley, if I might have the honor of a dance this evening.”
At least one gentleman was willing to dance with her without having his arm twisted. “It would be my pleasure. My third set is free. Would that do?”
Tim Spotterswood, the vicar’s eldest son, came loping over as they spoke. “Stealing a march on me, Lidgate? Miss Langley, I know I am the most cow-handed dancer, but if Lidgate is prevailing on you, might I have a set as well?”
“Yes, of course. My fourth…?”
With both young gentlemen cutting in, George scowled. “We’ll talk later,” he said over their heads, and strode away.
Roxana watched with a bewildered frown as he melted into the crowd.
By the time the first set ended, however, her vexation with him had faded, for she’d secured partners for three more dances. Before every ball, she worried she would end up a wallflower, yet somehow the evening always seemed to turn out well in the end. Now if she could just get through her dance with—
Out of nowhere, a tall shadow materialized beside her. “I believe this one is mine, Miss Langley,” Ayersley said in a low voice.
Her heart skittered—self-consciousness after her recent faux pas, no doubt. “Yes, of course.”
He led her out onto the marble dance floor, while other couples took their places all around them—and, oh dear, it was going to be a waltz. She’d be laboring to keep a conversation afloat for the entire set.
He slipped his arm about her waist as the orchestra struck up the tune. Being Ayersley, of course, he held her at the most respectful distance possible. Even so, her heart did a strange flip-flop as the warmth of his gloved hand met her back. “I know it’s all the crack,” she said as they began moving to the music, “but I still become a trifle flustered, waltzing.”
“Then that makes two of us.”
But he’d already swept them effortlessly into the rhythm, and they were turning smoothly about the dance floor as if it were second nature to him. He’d clearly had the benefit of London experience, not just their poor country imitations.
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