Ruined by Rumor

by Alyssa Everett

  “Yes, he’s very easy to talk to.”

  “And so handsome and gentlemanly.”

  Roxana laughed. “If anyone else were to say that, I’d take it as polite approval, but coming from you, it’s practically a love sonnet. I had no idea you were so taken with him, Fanny. Has he given you any indication of his feelings?”

  Her friend’s happy air faded. “That’s just it. At first I was thrilled when he accepted Papa’s invitation to dinner, but he’s so uniformly pleasant to everyone, I can’t tell whether he’s interested or not. It kept me awake most of the night, wondering what he might think of me. Thank heavens you came today.”

  “Thank heavens I came?”

  “Yes. Here I’ve been, reexamining every word he spoke, looking for clues to his real feelings, and it occurs to me you have the supreme good fortune to live under the same roof with him. Has he said anything about me?” Fanny peered at her with a nervous, hopeful expression.

  “Not to me,” Roxana answered gently, “and if he’s said anything to Ayersley, I haven’t heard about it. But I promise I’ll keep my eyes and ears open for you.”

  “Oh, thank you. I knew I could count on you.”

  Roxana smiled at her friend’s enthusiasm. The more she considered the matter, the more Mr. Dean seemed an ideal match for shy, tenderhearted Fanny. Ayersley thought highly of him, and Fanny had never aspired to a large fortune or an imposing name, which tended to require large, imposing personalities. “Well, now that we have that settled, is there any news? It’s so quiet at Broadslieve, I’ve been quite cut off from all the happenings in the neighborhood.”

  “I expect you’ve already heard about Miss Hammond.”

  “I heard she’d disappeared. Has she come back?”

  “Oh, no—quite the opposite.” Fanny leaned forward with an avid expression. “Her family claims they received a letter from her. It said she’s alive and well, and she and the baby’s father are married.”

  “Oh, good for her. Now that he’s married her, perhaps people may begin to forget her disgrace and she can have something like a normal life again.”

  “Well, it’s good for her if it turns out to be true. Who knows if it is? She’s supposedly living in a cottage and her husband visits her there as often as he can, but nobody knows where that may be.”

  Roxana frowned. Why should Miss Hammond’s whereabouts remain so shrouded in mystery?

  “And wait until you hear the most astonishing part,” Fanny said. “She still won’t say who the father is. She wrote that his family would disapprove of the match, so rather than risk being cut off, they intend to keep the marriage secret until he inherits. Can you imagine?”

  Roxana pulled a doubtful face. “It all sounds terribly havy-cavy to me. What if the man has duped her somehow, and he’s only pretending they’re properly married? What if he’s married her under a false name, and he already has a wife and children tucked away somewhere?”

  “I think you’re giving her too much credit. The whole story is so outlandish, I think she made it up out of whole cloth—either that, or her family invented the letter entirely. I think she’s either run off with her lover or her family sent her away to have the baby somewhere she can pass herself off as a married woman.”

  Only a few months before, Roxana would have jumped at the chance to trade theories with Fanny, dissecting every detail of the rumors about Miss Hammond and speculating on their likelihood. Gossip had lent some much-needed excitement to her otherwise humdrum days. But now, such talk left Roxana more dismayed than diverted. Rumor and hearsay had driven Ayersley to propose, and rumor and hearsay had left her little choice but to accept. How could she enjoy such scandal now, knowing the pain and uncertainty that lay behind it?

  Instead, they spoke of the upcoming Harvest Home celebration and Edward Sherbourne’s impending return to the army until Roxana took her leave some half an hour later. Fanny saw her out. As Roxana stepped into the barouche, Fanny asked, “You won’t forget about Mr. Dean, will you?”

  Roxana produced a stout smile. “Of course I won’t forget. I’ll do my best to discover how he feels.”

  She waved as cheerfully as she could and the barouche pulled away. Fanny stood on the front steps gazing after her, a look of radiant expectancy on her face.

  Sighing, Roxana sat back on the squabs for the short drive to the village. She was happy for Fanny and sincerely hoped Mr. Dean returned her interest, but at the same time, she couldn’t help suffering a stab of envy. Fanny looked positively moonstruck. Roxana had had a taste of that starry-eyed excitement with George, but now her life seemed so settled and predictable—and so empty. Would she ever feel such giddiness again? At twenty-three, was she really done with romance forever?

  She stared out the window, lost in thought, until presently the carriage reached the village. The groom drew the horses to a stop on the high street, where Roxana alighted to lose herself in shopping. Unfortunately, even a new novel from the Minerva Press, a bag of almond comfits and a gawk at the latest prints from London did nothing to restore her spirits. However many distractions she might seek out, she was still going to have to return to a quiet, decorous existence and a husband who had no interest in her beyond her potential to give him an heir. No wonder she felt so restless.

  Restless. Yes, that was the word. She wanted what Fanny had—a future that didn’t feel solitary and colorless. Anticipation. Ardor. But she was never going to have those things again.

  “Why so Friday-faced, sweetheart?” asked a silken voice behind her.

  She wheeled about—and came face-to-face with George.

  He was wearing a bright blue coat, brown inexpressibles and a yellow waistcoat, his walking stick resting on one shoulder as he regarded her with a crooked smile. He looked overdue for a haircut, and golden curls peeped out from beneath his brown beaver hat.

  A nervous tingle ran through her. The last time she’d seen him, he’d told her he still loved her. “George. Good afternoon.”

  He tipped his head back slightly and ran his eyes over her. “I don’t know how you do it, but hanged if you don’t grow prettier every time I see you.”

  Roxana’s cheeks warmed traitorously at the compliment.

  “You’re heading back to your carriage, I suppose?” He offered her his arm. “A lady as fetching as you really ought to have an escort.”

  She eyed his proffered arm. She ought to thank him and coolly turn her back. Walking with George would be tantamount to playing with fire. Then again, she could feel the curious glances from the villagers on the street. Wouldn’t a snub generate more gossip than a simple stroll back to her carriage?

  She told herself it would—though deep down she feared she was only clinging to the excuse because, after Ayersley’s detachment and Fanny’s infatuation, she craved a few minutes of undivided masculine attention for herself.

  Not that she was foolish enough to walk arm-in-arm with George, especially after he’d claimed he still had feelings for her. She was married, after all. Besides, he’d jilted her, and she had her pride. Instead she handed him her book and her paper cone of sweets to carry and let him fall into step beside her.

  They passed the greengrocer’s and the apothecary’s shop, where leeches, liniment and laudanum vied for window space.

  “Let me guess why you were looking so blue just now.” George helped himself to one of her almond comfits. “You were missing me?”

  Despite her turbulent emotions—or perhaps because of them—this bit of impudence wrung a laugh from her. “No.”

  “No? Do you realize that if things had worked out between us, we would have been married just three weeks from today?”

  At least his tone sounded more nostalgic than improper. “Would we really? How extraordinary—I’d completely forgotten.” And there was a time when that date had been all she thought about.

  “The anniversary of the day I proposed. Do you remember when we went to your father and told him we wished to marry, how crush
ed we were when he insisted we wait?”

  Of course she remembered it. She’d cried every night for a week. But she hadn’t rebelled, no matter how hard George had pushed her. She hadn’t wanted to add to her parents’ worries, not when her mother had just discovered she was expecting Harry and her father was already showing signs of the lung ailment that would take his life. Her father had always been protective of her, his only daughter, and marriage to a soldier during wartime could be fraught with uncertainty, to say nothing of George’s rocky relationship with his own father. “I suppose, after the way things turned out, we should be grateful he didn’t give his permission.”

  “Or perhaps if he’d given his permission, things would be completely different today.” George’s mouth turned down in a look of regret. “I did a despicable thing, breaking it off between us.”

  Roxana made no reply. He had abandoned his nostalgic air and was speaking in a melting voice—a voice of apology, of contrition. It was hard to be angry with him when he was so clearly repentant, so eager to heal the wounds he’d caused.

  George glanced across at her. “You deserve an explanation, even if the truth does me no credit. I’d had too much to drink that evening, I’m sorry to say, and with the wedding nearing and so many men clearly besotted with you that night, I developed an acute case of cold feet. I thought you couldn’t possibly be content with a humble army officer like me—and, sure enough, if the rumors are true you found your way into Lord Ayersley’s arms that very night.”

  So George had heard about the kiss in the library. It made it hard to claim the moral high ground.

  He smiled sorrowfully. “It was clear enough you’d set your cap for him, and how could I stand in the way of your marrying a title and fortune?” He shook his head. “I should have had more faith in us. But I’m justly punished. I’ll pay for that mistake for the rest of my life.”

  When George had jilted her, suddenly and without warning, it had hurt. She’d felt betrayed and worthless and unwanted. But she hadn’t realized how raw the hurt remained until that minute, when his explanation acted like balm to her wounded pride. “Why didn’t you tell me this the night you broke it off?”

  He stared ahead. “Unfortunately I was in my cups, and too proud to admit I thought myself not good enough for you. Of course, the instant I sobered up, I realized what an idiot I’d been. The night before your wedding, I came to your window to beg you to take me back before it was too late. If only your brother had let me talk to you…” The words rolled of his tongue smoothly, easily. “My poor darling. What a scoundrel I was to treat you so abominably.”

  “I’m not your darling. I’m Ayersley’s wife now.”

  “Even so, I’ll always think of you as my darling.” He gave a low, rueful laugh. “I shocked you that day in the road when I told you I still love you, didn’t I? I should have known better than to blurt it out that way.”

  “You shouldn’t say it at all.”

  “No, I probably shouldn’t. But it’s how I feel.”

  She wished he would stop speaking in that caressing way. It made her feel oddly weak inside. “Don’t do this, George. It isn’t right.”

  “I know. I swore to myself I wouldn’t say another word about my feelings. But then I see you, and I can’t help myself.”

  “But aren’t you ashamed, saying such things to a married woman?” Even as the question left her lips, she hoped he would throw back his head and laugh at her seriousness, making it clear all his admiring glances and coaxing words had been nothing but idle flirtation.

  Instead he shook his head. “Not if that woman is you.” He halted in his tracks, and something compelled her to stop and turn toward him, right there in front of Mr. Rudge’s bakery. “That sounds wicked of me, doesn’t it? Refusing to put honor and duty first, I mean. I imagine that husband of yours would never be half so impetuous. But nothing and no one will ever matter to me as much as you do.”

  Blazing green eyes gazed down ardently into hers. In that moment, Roxana felt as if every ugly, embarrassing moment in her life were burning away in the heat of his admiration. He was right about Ayersley. Ayersley always put duty first. But George—George loved her. She looked away, shocked at the faithless quickening of her heartbeat.

  “If only you weren’t tied down to another man… I hope he appreciates you as you deserve.” George dropped his voice to a whisper. “How I wish I could kiss you now.”

  She could hardly breathe for panic. Oh, God, what was wrong with her? Why was she just standing there, and why couldn’t she think what to say? There was nothing proper at all in what he’d just told her, or in the way he was looking at her now. She felt almost sick with alarm.

  And then—thank heavens—a customer emerged from Rudge’s bakery and breezed past them, the tinkling of the bell on the door breaking the spell.

  Flustered, Roxana turned and broke back into a rapid walk. What had happened to her sense of loyalty and propriety? What if the villagers on the street guessed what George had been saying to her?

  George caught up with her in three steps. “Now dash it, I’ve gone and frightened you off again, haven’t I? I wish my heart would stop ruling my head. But you’re so devilish lovely, how can I help telling you how I feel?”

  Roxana kept walking, cursing her earlier hesitation. “You forget I’m married.”

  He took her by the elbow, pulling her to a stop. “Forget? Can’t you see it’s killing me to look at you now and know you’ve thrown yourself away on that damned killjoy Ayersley?”

  “Don’t talk about him that way!” Roxana wrenched her arm from George’s grasp. “For your information, he’s been nothing but kind to me.”

  “Very well, then, he’s been kind,” George said in a tone that suggested eye rolling. “I just never thought a girl like you would settle for mere kindness for the rest of her life.”

  She opened her mouth to give him a set-down—but as his words sank in, she realized with shock he knew her even better than she knew herself. She wasn’t sure what she wanted for the rest of her life, but it wasn’t lonely coexistence with a husband who felt nothing for her.

  “Roxana…” George said when she didn’t answer. “Don’t be angry with me. I know I can be a bit rash and say things I shouldn’t, but we were in love for more than five years. Can you really have forgotten that so soon?”

  “I’ll never forget the way I waited for you.” With a swish of her skirts, she charged off again toward her carriage.

  Matching her steps, George held out her paper cone of sweets, offering her one. “Then can’t we be friends again? I never dreamed you would shut me out of your life. What’s the harm in seeing each other now and then, talking about old times and sharing a laugh together? There’s no reason Ayersley need know.”

  “I’m not going to meet with you alone, if that’s what you’re angling for.”

  “Not at all! I only thought you could use a friend of your own. Someone to talk to when things grow especially dull. Someone to add a little spark to your life.” He was still holding out the almond comfits.

  She took back the entire paper of sweets. “If you want to see me, you can do it in a public setting—in the churchyard after the Sunday service, or if we should ever find ourselves guests at the same party.”

  They reached the barouche. George leaned in closer, so that for a moment Roxana had the alarming impression he was going to pull her into his arms, right there on the high street. “Then that’s where we’ll start.”

  With a gleam in his eyes, George helped her up into the carriage. As he set her purchases on the seat beside her, she wondered whether she ought to object to what he’d just said. There was nothing particularly sinister about their speaking with each other in public, was there? Yet the look in his eyes promised something quite different.

  After a time she realized both George and her coachman were waiting for her to say something. Pulling herself together, she cleared her throat and spoke as formally as possible. “Th
ank you, Major Wyatt. I appreciate your help with my parcels.”

  George glanced at the liveried coachman sitting on the box, as if measuring how much of her decorum was strictly for appearance’s sake. When his eyes swung back to meet hers again, he smiled a slow, self-satisfied smile. “Thank you, Lady Ayersley. The pleasure was all mine.”

  The carriage started off, and Roxana resisted an inexplicable but powerful urge to cry. It made no sense. What did she have to cry about? It had been weeks since George had jilted her. He hadn’t done her any injury. Why should she feel so miserable simply because he’d walked beside her in the village and said a few impertinent things?

  * * *

  It was nearly dinnertime when she reached home. Hurrying in, she discovered Ayersley at the foot of the stairs, likewise on his way up to dress for dinner.

  “Are you just coming back?” He smiled, his eyes warming. “Yes, you must be. Your cheeks are still pink from the outdoors.”

  “I was shopping in the village.” She took his arm and they started up the stairs together.

  “Any interesting news to share?”

  “Nothing worth mentioning,” she said a touch too quickly.

  He glanced at her with a faintly bemused look. They continued up the stairs, her heart beating strongly and all too guiltily. She could have told him she’d seen George, but she’d kept it to herself. When had she become so dishonest?

  She stole a look at Ayersley’s face, and for a fleeting moment she was tempted to confess everything—the odd mixture of anxiety and gratification George’s flattery had brought, his claims he still loved her, even the alarming excitement she’d felt when he’d seemed about to pull her into his arms. If she confided in Ayersley, she could free herself of both the temptation and the guilt.

  But she knew she’d been wrong to let George speak so improperly to her. She should have turned away as soon as she saw him, or at the very least answered his presumption with a cool reproof or a disapproving stare. Instead, she’d been feeling lonely and sorry for herself, and the attention had felt so good she’d pretended no harm would come of a little flirtation. Now she saw how wrong she had been, and she was too afraid to admit her own folly.