by Mary Balogh
She had closed her eyes and drawn a slow breath. “Chloe did this?” she had asked. “It is a good marriage after all, then, is it?”
“It is very good,” he had assured her. “I called upon Viscount Harding and his wife. Chloe came with me. And I wrote to Sir Marvin Courtney and to Lord and Lady Janes.”
“You were not responsible for what happened to their sons, Ralph,” she had said. “Your father and I told you that again and again.”
“It seems their parents agree with you,” he had told her. “I am so sorry, Mama. I must have given you years of heartache—and Papa too. I wish I could make it up to him. I wish—”
But she had surged to her feet.
“Ralph,” she had said with the severity he could remember from his childhood when he had been up to some mischief. “You must not do this. Yes, your father was unhappy because you were unhappy and there was nothing he could do or say to comfort you. But you had nothing whatsoever to do with his brief illness and passing. He loved you always, and he always understood, even when he felt at his most helpless. I will not have you feel guilty over your father or over me. You will have children of your own one day, soon, I hope, and then you will understand how parents ache to see their children happy and would never, ever want to see their children unhappy over them.”
Her words, and the passion with which she had spoken them, had startled Ralph. How little he had known his parents, he had realized a little sadly. It was sad in his father’s case because he could do nothing now to cultivate a closer relationship with him. It was not too late with his mother, though. And it was time he looked at her, not through the selfish eyes of a boy, but through the more mature eyes of a man so that he could see her as a person with all her imperfections—and his own.
He had hugged her warmly before she left. He had not been able to remember the last time he had done so.
He looked across the ballroom now and smiled when he saw the partially opened French windows leading out onto the balcony. They would have to be closed soon, pleasant as the cool outside air felt. For the king might come. Chloe had reacted with near hysteria when he had told her, but she had soon recovered and squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.
“Well, then,” she had said, a martial gleam in her eye.
That was all. She had not needed to say more. Chloe, he believed, would always confront her fears and march straight through the middle of them. Whether he had had something to do with making her that way, he did not know, but certainly she had not been like it last year when she had fled London at the first whisper of gossip. Perhaps he had had a positive influence on her, as she had had on him. He doubted he would ever have approached Harding if it had not been for his wife.
His wife!
It was time he went up to see if she was ready for the ball. The first of their guests would be arriving in the next half hour or so. And there would be many of them. Of all the invitations they had sent out, they had received only four refusals, and each of those had come with a personal note of regret. They could expect almost everyone, then, as well as a few people who would inevitably slip in without having been invited. This ball was going to be one of the grandest squeezes of the Season, a prospect that would have horrified him just a couple of months ago.
His mother had been quite right, he thought as he made his way upstairs. He was back. He felt as though he had shed a great burden and was physically lighter. He felt years younger. He felt his age, in fact—he was only twenty-six.
The strange thing was, of course, that his grief—for his friends, for all the men of his regiment who had died while he was in the Peninsula, for his father, for his grandfather—had sharpened to a painful degree during the past few weeks even as his sense of guilt had ebbed away. But then all his feelings had sharpened.
He was in love with Chloe.
Yes, he was—madly, passionately in love, though he had tried hard not to make an idiot of himself by showing it. But his feelings went deeper than the merely romantic or sexual—though neither of those two felt like a mere anything.
He loved her.
There was no language for that particular state, however. It merely was. He loved her. He supposed he had shown it or at least a glimmering of it during the past weeks. He certainly had not tried to hide it. But one day soon he was going to have to say something, even if only the inadequate cliché I love you. Words, he understood, especially words that expressed emotion, were important to women. He wished it were not so, but it was.
One day soon he would tell her.
* * *
Despite all the stress of hosting a ball for the ton during the London Season and even the expectation that the king might make one of his rare appearances there, and despite the fact that some of the guests and combination of guests made her feel a little as though her head were spinning on her shoulders, and despite the fact that the evening was less than half over and disaster might still strike before it ended—despite it all, Chloe was feeling happy.
Quite consciously happy.
She had confronted her worst fear a few weeks ago, and really it had not been so dreadful after all. Her papa had looked apprehensive and had even shed a tear when she told him about her visit to the Marquess of Hitching. But when she had hugged him tightly and told him that he would always, always be her beloved papa, he had shed a few more tears and hugged her back and told her she was a good girl and had done the right thing. And he was here at the ball tonight with Graham and Lucy and Mr. Nelson even though she had warned him that the marquess had been invited and had accepted.
The marquess had arrived fairly early with his family. He had squeezed Chloe’s hand as they passed along the receiving line and smiled at her. The marchioness had inclined her head, setting her hair plumes to nodding, and murmured something cool and gracious. Lady Angela had looked slightly disdainful but had bidden Chloe a polite good evening. Viscount Gilly had taken her hand in his, raised it to his lips, and called her sister, a mocking though not noticeably malicious gleam in his eye.
A few minutes later Chloe had seen her papa actually shake the marquess by the hand and introduce Graham.
Ralph’s grandmother, wearing heavy mourning, had come with Great-Aunt Mary, who looked resplendent in purple with an enormous turban on her head and a jewel-encrusted lorgnette. The two of them were sitting in the small salon close to the ballroom, holding court to a number of the more elderly guests.
The Duke of Stanbrook had come, as had Lord and Lady Trentham. And several of Gwen’s family and lady friends, to whom Chloe had been introduced at an afternoon tea, were there with their husbands—the Earl and Countess of Kilbourne, the Marquess and Marchioness of Attingsborough, Viscount and Viscountess Ravensberg, Lord and Lady Aidan Bedwyn, the Duke and Duchess of Bewcastle. The ladies felt like personal friends, Chloe thought, even though she had met a few of them only on that one occasion.
She belonged.
She was wearing the emerald green evening gown she had had made especially to please the dowager duchess. She had had her hair trimmed again, and Mavis had done wonders with the curling tongs. And she wore the emerald pendant necklace and earrings with which Ralph had gifted her earlier today. She believed she looked her best and no longer felt the need to fade into the background and hide the vividness of her coloring. Whether the ton believed the Marquess of Hitching really was her father she neither knew nor cared.
She was happy. She had thought she would be contented just to be married, and indeed she would have been if the bargain she had agreed to with Ralph had been kept strictly according to its original terms. But there was so much more. Oh, she must never expect more than she already had, but it was enough to make her happy.
Ralph was a changed man. His eyes were no longer blank or shuttered. He had been forgiven—or at least he had been assured that no forgiveness was necessary because no offense had been committed. More im
portant—of infinitely greater importance, in fact—he had forgiven himself. He had recognized too, perhaps, that he had never been as much to blame for his friends’ presence in the Peninsula and in the line of fire as he had always insisted upon believing.
He was at peace with himself. That did not mean that he had stopped mourning those three men or ever would. Nor did it mean that he would not continue suffering the aftereffects of having been at war, of having killed and been gravely wounded, of having witnessed unspeakable atrocities, all at the age of eighteen. But at least he was fully in the land of the living again.
He was fond of her, she believed. They still carried on with their nearly separate lives during the daytime, as was the way of the ton during the months of spring, and attended social functions together in the evenings. They still made love each night. Ah, but the nature of that lovemaking had changed. Some of their encounters were brief, some more prolonged. Some were quiet, others more tumultuous. Sometimes they spoke, sometimes not. Sometimes—most times, in fact—he stripped her nightgown up and off her body before he started or soon after he started. Almost always he slept with one arm beneath her neck or an arm flung across her waist, or one leg hooked over hers. He seemed to need to touch her. The lovemaking no longer seemed to be just about getting her with child.
It was not love. She must not and would not make the mistake of thinking it was. She would only invite heartbreak if she did. But it was . . . something. There was some affection there. She was sure of it. There was, after all, some emotional bond between them. And it was enough. She would make it enough.
She was happy.
Chloe and Ralph had led off the dancing together with a quadrille. Then she had danced a stately country dance with her papa. She had been standing with Graham and the Duke of Stanbrook before the third set, having just greeted a couple of late arrivals, and had expected that one of them would solicit her hand. But before either could speak up, the Marquess of Hitching was bowing to her and asking if he might claim the set.
“I suppose,” she said when the figures of the dance brought them together and allowed them a few moments for private speech, “we are the object of much curiosity.”
“Does that upset you?” he asked her.
“No.” She shook her head. “Not at all. I am glad you came.”
The figures took them apart again.
“I am glad you came back to London after last year,” he said the next time they had a chance to speak, “and that you are well married. Happily married, if I am not mistaken. Your mother must have been very proud of you, Chloe. She would be especially proud tonight.”
She smiled but did not tell him that her mother had been embarrassed by her more than she had been proud.
She danced with Lord Aidan Bedwyn and was dancing with Lord Keilly, her brother-in-law, when a bit of a commotion near the door heralded the appearance in the hall below of the large entourage that preceded the arrival of the king. Chloe hurried toward the ballroom door while the music stopped abruptly and everyone moved back to the sidelines, buzzing with eager anticipation.
The poor king had been generally unpopular when he was merely the Prince Regent, irreverently known as Prinny, prior to his father’s death. He was no more popular now. Nevertheless, he was the King of England, and it was a huge coup to have one’s entertainment graced with his company.
Despite herself, Chloe’s knees felt decidedly unsteady as she made her way downstairs on Ralph’s arm.
The king was a huge man, blown up by excessive eating and drinking and self-importance and vanity. He was also, Chloe thought after she had sunk into a deep curtsy and he had taken one of her hands in both of his and patted it and commended her on her looks and her home and her husband, capable of a boyish charm that made him irresistibly likable.
He escorted her upstairs, wheezing every slow step of the way, stood inside the ballroom with her hand on his, acknowledging the homage of his subjects as he inclined his head in all directions and gentlemen bowed and ladies sank into curtsies, commented that the ballroom looked like a particularly lovely garden, declined the glass of wine Ralph offered him, gestured to the orchestra to resume its playing, and took his leave, his whole entourage turning with him.
It was all over in ten minutes. By the time Chloe and Ralph arrived back in the ballroom, having bowed and curtsied the royal procession on its way, the dancing was in progress again and someone had thrown all the French windows open.
“Well, that,” Ralph said, laughing down into her eyes, “is an event with which we may inspire awe and admiration in our grandchildren when we describe it in minute detail every time they come to visit us.”
She laughed back up at him, and something wordless and warm and wonderful passed between them. And this, surely, she thought just a moment before she looked beyond his shoulder, was beyond all doubt the happiest night of her life.
What she saw beyond his shoulder was a group of very late arrivals, all gentlemen, all but one of them invited guests.
The exception was Lord Cornell.
* * *
Ralph noticed Cornell a few minutes later after Chloe had gone off to introduce a thin, pimply young man to a plump, mousy young lady whose mother was too busy gossiping with a group of older ladies. The banns for those two would probably be being called within a month, he thought in some amusement as he watched the young man blush and the young lady make herself look quite pretty by smiling in obvious relief. And Chloe could claim all the credit.
Then he spotted Cornell and raised his quizzing glass. The man looked inebriated, though he was not making a spectacle of himself. He was merely laughing rather too loudly with his all-male group. He ought to be asked to leave, since Ralph had personally vetoed his name from the prospective guest list Lloyd had drawn up. However, one hated to make a scene in such a public setting. It might do more harm than good. He would keep an eye on Cornell, though, and make sure he did not get close enough to Chloe to upset her. Damn his impudence!
The one person Ralph did not think of keeping an eye upon, however, was Lucy Nelson.
During the supper hour everyone had feasted sumptuously and lingered for a few speeches and toasts since the ball was in the nature of being a wedding reception too. Most people were moving back to the ballroom, and the members of the orchestra were tuning their instruments, when Ralph became aware of a muffled scream coming from the direction of the French windows.
By the time he reached the balcony, a few other people had gathered there and Hugo and the Duke of Bewcastle were on their way down the steps to the garden below. Someone down there—someone female—sounded very cross. It was Lucy, Ralph soon realized as he followed the other two men down.
“The lady,” a male voice was saying, “appears to be afraid of the dark.”
The garden was not in total darkness. A few lamps had been lit for the convenience of anyone who wished to escape the heat of the ballroom for a few minutes.
“I came down here when the speeches began,” Lucy said, addressing herself rather tearfully to the new arrivals. “It has been the most wonderful, most exciting night of my life, and I needed a few minutes just to catch my breath. But then he came down after me and tried to make me to do some very improper things.”
“The lady misunderstood.” It was Cornell’s voice, sounding amused. “I was strolling here too. She must not have seen me in the dark and was startled when I bade her a good evening.”
“And he said horrid things in the park one day when Chloe was with me,” Lucy said, looking at Ralph now. “He called her the delectable duchess and me the scandalous sister. And he accused Chloe of getting you to marry her by doing what M-Mama did with the M-Marquess of Hitching. He is . . . He is not nice.”
“The lady takes a little teasing humor too literally,” Cornell said.
Hugo rumbled. It was the only word to describe the sound he made in hi
s throat.
“Hugo,” Ralph said, his eyes on Cornell, whom he could see quite clearly despite the dimness of the light down here, “escort my sister-in-law back to the ballroom, if you will be so good.”
But Bewcastle was already speaking to her, his voice sounding almost bored, though it was slightly raised to carry quite clearly to those ball guests who had gathered on the balcony above.
“It was a particularly large spider, I suppose, Mrs., ah, Nelson?” he said. “No, you need not feel foolish. I would not have enjoyed an encounter with it myself. Perhaps you will allow me to escort you back indoors and will do me the honor of dancing the next set with me.”
“Oh.” Her voice sounded breathless. “You are the Duke of Bewcastle. Oh. Yes. Thank you. I am a bit afraid of spiders, especially the really big ones with long legs.”
Bewcastle led her away.
“You have outstayed your welcome, Cornell,” Ralph said, “in my home and in my life. And most certainly in the lives of my wife and my sister-in-law.”
“It was all a misunderstanding, Worthingham,” Cornell said.
“Yes, so you have suggested more than once,” Ralph said. “I was not responsible for my wife’s honor six years ago, Cornell, or even last year. I was prepared to allow your mistreatment of her then to go unavenged provided you kept your distance this year and every year in the future. It seems you have not kept your distance, either from my wife or from Mrs. Nelson.”
Cornell laughed. “You want satisfaction, Worthingham?” he asked. “You wish to name your seconds?”
“You can count on me, Ralph,” Hugo said from behind him.
“But I fight only with gentlemen, Hugo,” Ralph said. “On the other hand, I punish vermin.”
“No, you don’t,” another voice said, and Ralph very briefly closed his eyes. Graham Muirhead! He had come to throw himself between the combatants and urge them to kiss and make up, no doubt.
“Stay out of this, Graham,” Ralph said.