“He’s bedded you, hasn’t he?” Aunt Tamara remarked with her characteristic bluntness. “Well, then, time he knew what he got himself into. I’m thinking he ought to do right by you. And he’s more likely to do it if he knows you’re of his kind.”
Tossing down the weed, Marianne rose to stride away from Aunt Tamara.
Her aunt simply jumped up and followed her. “He has bedded you, hasn’t he? I can’t believe the two of you spent all that time in the inn just chattering.”
Marianne stopped to glare at her aunt. For once in her life she wished the woman weren’t so forthright. But she should have known Aunt Tamara would ask about it the first time they were alone together. Until now, either William or Garett had been with them whenever they’d met.
Affecting an air of nonchalance, Marianne stared her down. “I haven’t asked what you and William did that night. How dare you ask what passed between Garett and me?”
“Don’t get impudent with me, girl. For all my faults, I’m still the only guardian you have.”
The rebuke stung. The thought of what her aunt had sacrificed to come with her to Lydgate made Marianne frown.
Aunt Tamara’s expression softened. “Besides, you can’t just go on this way forever.”
Her gentle tone broke Marianne’s reserve. A hot tear slipped down her cheek, and she brushed it away, heedless of the smudge of dirt she left on her face.
Aunt Tamara licked the tip of her thumb, then rubbed at the smudge. “Come now, don’t cry. ’Tis unlike you to cry.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Marianne admitted.
“Tell him the truth.”
“And if I do? He knows I’ve lied to him in the past. What’s to make him believe me this time? He might cast me aside in disgust or”—a lump formed in her throat so thick she could hardly speak through it—“or relinquish me to the king’s men in anger. He’s capable of going to great lengths to revenge himself when he feels slighted. I’ve seen that with his uncle.”
Aunt Tamara snorted. “As if you could compare yourself to Tearle. What have you done to the earl to make him wish revenge on you? Told him a few lies? ’Tis hardly the same.”
Marianne stared off at Falkham House, her heart wrenching as she thought of Garett’s tenderness in the past week. At night, he took her with such sweetness that it made her ache to tell him everything. If she weren’t so afraid of how he’d react…
That first morning she’d awakened in his bed he’d made her no promises. And she couldn’t blame him, either. He’d been right—how could he promise her anything when she told him nothing? Yet it would kill her if he abandoned her now, when she’d finally come to realize a most painful truth.
“You love him, don’t you?” Aunt Tamara asked.
Marianne wanted to deny it, but she couldn’t. “Does love make you a coward? Does it make you cautious, afraid to gamble all on the chance that your lover cares for you when he’s not even whispered one word of love?”
Aunt Tamara enfolded Marianne in a warm embrace. “Love makes you vulnerable, poppet. If anyone knows that, ’tis I.”
Something in her aunt’s words made Marianne draw back to stare at her.
“Will has asked me to marry him,” Aunt Tamara said quietly.
Pleasure for her aunt warred with bitterness over the contrast to her own situation. “That’s wonderful,” she managed. But she did mean it. If ever someone deserved happiness, it was Aunt Tamara.
“I told him I’d consider it. But I’ve half a mind to refuse him.”
“Why? He loves you—any fool can see that.”
“Perhaps. But how could I marry him? A gypsy wife would keep him from doing what he really wants.” At Marianne’s raised eyebrow, she said ruefully, “The rogue wants to own an inn. Damn fool. He’s even got some money set away for it. He thinks I’d be a fine innkeeper’s wife. Me—who’s more like to be tossed in the gaol than asked for a pint of ale.”
“You could pretend to be Spanish, as Mother did.”
“I like what I am,” Aunt Tamara said, a stubborn set to her chin. “I don’t want to pretend to be another.” Her face softened, making her look so very young. “Still, it tempts me.”
“Then tell him yes.”
When her aunt looked at her with concern, Marianne suddenly realized the real reason Aunt Tamara hesitated to grab this chance for happiness. “If you’re worried for me, don’t be. Just give me a few more days. I’ll find the pluck to tell his lordship the truth. I promise.”
Aunt Tamara relaxed, then squeezed Marianne’s arm. “ ’Tis best. You’ll see.” Then she looked beyond where they stood, and her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Speak of the devil…”
Marianne glanced over to where Garett crossed the well-groomed lawn toward them, and her heart flipped over in her chest.
“ ’Tis time I return to the wagon anyway,” Aunt Tamara murmured, giving Marianne’s arm another reassuring squeeze before she swept off across the garden.
With a tightness in her belly, Marianne watched Garett approach. He looked every inch the lord of the manor, for he’d just come from town and had yet to discard his plumed hat and imposing cape. It made her blood leap.
Cursing herself for ten kinds of a fool, she studied his face, trying to read his expression.
“You must return to the house,” he ordered as soon as he was near enough to be heard. “We’ve scarcely enough time as it is for all the preparations.”
“Preparations?” she asked, acutely conscious of how grimy and mussed she must look.
A hint of amusement crossed his face as he took in her dreadful state. “My guess is it’ll take you a bit longer than I’d expected to make yourself presentable.”
With a sniff, she walked past him toward the house. “What is it I’m making myself presentable for?”
As Garett strode alongside her, he thrust a letter into her hand. “See for yourself.” Then, without giving her time to read it, he muttered, “Damn Hampden and his games. One day I swear I’ll pay him back for all his tricks.”
Between the letter and Garett’s grumblings, Marianne pieced together that Hampden was bringing a group of six ladies and five gentlemen with him from court that evening. He wrote that Garett had been too long without company and needed to be reminded of his obligations to society.
Hampden further stated that he expected a good dinner and entertainment. “And,” the letter had said, “make certain your pigeon is there when I arrive. I wish to give her a proper greeting this time.”
“What does he mean by ‘a proper greeting’?” Marianne asked.
Garett grimaced. “Never mind. But suffice it to say he’s most certainly already on his way. He sent me enough notice to prepare for him, but not enough to send him a refusal. Wretched varlet. I ought to abandon the house tonight and see how well he likes arriving here to no dinner and no entertainment.”
“But you won’t, will you?” Marianne said with a twinkle in her eye.
Garett snorted. “No. I’ll play the host as he bids. And you, my dear, will play hostess.”
Marianne gaped at him. “But… but I can’t!”
“Why not? I assure you none of them will care. I’ll tell them you’re my widowed second cousin come to visit or some such nonsense, and everything will be respectable. You’ve told me many times that you were raised as a lady. I’m certain you can comport yourself as such for one evening.”
She searched his face, wondering if this was a deliberate trap of some sort. He returned her scrutiny without apparent guile until she lowered her eyes.
What was she to do? She couldn’t be seen at dinner by a group of nobility from court. It would be madness! One of the guests might have known her or her father. It was far too risky.
“I can’t be your hostess, Garett,” she persisted. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable.” That was certainly an understatement.
His gaze turned suspicious. “Is there something you fear?”
“Aye,” she sai
d, forcing a smile. “That I’ll make a fool of myself.”
“You, who stood before an entire town council and challenged me? I doubt that. So what frightens you?”
What could she answer? If she protested too strongly, he might guess the truth.
“You see? You’ve nothing to fear.” The determined set of his mouth warned her nothing would change his mind.
Then she had a flash of inspiration. “I don’t have an appropriate gown.”
Garett’s smile surprised her. “I’ve already had Lydgate’s dressmaker preparing a number of gowns for you. As soon as I received Hampden’s letter, I sent a messenger to town to make certain one would be ready for tonight.”
A quick surge of pleasure flooded her. He’d gone to such trouble for her?
Then she sobered. Now she was trapped, as surely as a bear at a bearbaiting. She’d simply have to hope she didn’t know Hampden’s friends. During her days in London, she hadn’t moved in society circles very much.
Still, there was always a chance… “Have you any idea whom Hampden is bringing?”
“I imagine it’s the usual group of exiles whom we both knew in France.”
She relaxed. She’d known none of those people personally.
At any rate, she had no choice, so she might as well make the best of it.
* * *
As the glittering crowd swirled about the great hall making small talk, Marianne sat near the fire with a false smile on her lips and a glass of wine in her hand. Her family hadn’t used this room much, deeming it far too grand for their tastes, but it suited Garett and Hampden and their friends. All were dressed in rich attire, the gentlemen as beribboned as the ladies. They lounged on the aging oak chairs with an ease she could never feel among their company.
She didn’t belong here. Not anymore, if she ever had.
At least she hadn’t recognized any of Hampden’s friends. And though she’d stood anxiously as Hampden had introduced her, none had apparently recognized her, either.
“Falkham tells me that your husband died recently. I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Pidgen,” said a masculine voice with a hint of mockery.
Marianne twisted to find Hampden leaning on the back of her chair.
“Hush,” she whispered, though she was very glad to see a familiar face. “He thought that the role of widowed cousin might preserve my tattered reputation, so be a good boy and play along.”
“Yes, but Mrs. Pidgen? Good God.”
“It’s your fault.” She gazed up at him with a teasing smile. “You did tell him to make sure that his pigeon was here. He was just trying to oblige you.”
He snorted. “Was the name your idea or his?”
“His, believe it or not.” Occasionally, the lighthearted Garett she imagined in her youth surfaced. It just wasn’t often enough. “He couldn’t very well call me Mina, or people might guess—” She broke off with a blush.
His eyes darkened a fraction. “That you’re his mistress?”
She glared at him. “That’s ungentlemanly of you, Hampden.”
“But true, I imagine.” When she stiffened, he added in a gentler tone, “Don’t be angry. I couldn’t help but notice that the two of you are different together this time. More, shall we say, comfortable. But ’tis nothing to be ashamed of.”
He patted her shoulder and moved away, leaving her tense and annoyed. She glanced down at the sparkling red satin of her new gown. Hampden was wrong. It was something to be ashamed of. She was Garett’s kept woman. No matter how she tried to deny it to herself and to him, that’s what it was. He dressed her, he fed her, and he provided for her in every way.
She turned her gaze to where Garett stood, casually bracing a hand against the wall as he spoke with a stunning woman who wore the most outrageously low-cut gown Marianne had ever seen. Her name was Lady Swansdowne, and her widowhood was real, not that she behaved any differently for it from how Marianne did. Apparently Lady Swansdowne had inherited an immense fortune she enjoyed flaunting. One of the men had said she was considered the most eligible woman in London. Clearly she was also the most beautiful.
As Marianne watched the woman flirt expertly with Garett, tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back. Garett was paying the woman no more attention than any of his other guests, but Marianne still felt desolate. She couldn’t be to him what that woman was—a potential wife. Not as long as she remained in her guise as gypsy.
Yet if she dropped her guise, she might lose him altogether. Her fingers closed on the arm of the chair. She couldn’t go on this way. She’d go mad. No, she had to tell him everything soon and take her chances. It was the only way to determine if he truly cared for her. Even life in prison would be preferable to the torment she’d experienced lately, to the feelings of doubt assailing her.
A servant approached Garett and whispered in his ear. Garett nodded, then, with a few words and a bow to Lady Swansdowne, approached Marianne. She forced herself to smile, to ignore her pangs of jealousy.
“You’re the loveliest one here.” Taking her hand, he turned it over to press his lips to her wrist. When her pulse quickened, a wolfish grin curved up his mouth. “Later, sweetling, I’ll show you just how lovely I think you are. But for now, we must go in to dinner.”
She allowed him to help her to her feet, but her knees felt weak.
Later. And much later she’d tell him the truth. But after she did, would he still want to “show her” how he felt about her?
Dinner proved singularly painful. Garett sat at the head of the table and Marianne at the foot. Never had she felt such a gulf between them. Although he often smiled at her, she could do little more than acknowledge it with a tight smile of her own. When should she tell him the truth? And how? Was there any way to do it without making him hate her?
Hampden sat beside her, but not even his witticisms could keep her mind from playing over and over that dreaded future discussion.
Then the present conversation trickled through her reverie.
“Oh, surely, Hampden, they must have learned something by now,” a young man named Lord Wycliff was saying. “Someone obviously killed the man. Winchilsea didn’t stab himself. They have to have some suspects. After all, whoever did it might be His Majesty’s enemy and must be routed.”
The other conversations stopped as all eyes went to Hampden. Even Garett seemed interested.
She fought to keep her face expressionless. Mechanically she ate some venison pasty without tasting it.
“All I know is it was a conspiracy,” Hampden responded coolly.
Lord Wycliff snorted. “Everyone knows that. What’s happened to your famous penchant for gossip? Don’t you have anything more interesting than that?”
Hampden sighed. “His Majesty is closemouthed on the subject. I’ve tried to weasel information out of Clarendon, but he’s wary of everybody.”
“And rightly so,” another man said and began to tell a humorous story about Clarendon. Marianne offered a silent prayer that the conversation had shifted.
Then a soft voice came from Hampden’s other side. “I know some news about Winchilsea.”
The venison pasty stuck in Marianne’s throat.
“What could you possibly know?” Lord Wycliff asked with a sneer.
The girl’s voice rose higher. “I found out from Elizabeth Mountbatten that Sir Henry’s dead wife was a gypsy.”
Panic gripped Marianne. She fought the impulse to glance at Garett. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. Perhaps he wouldn’t make the connection if he had.
Spurred on by a chorus of excited questions, the girl who’d imparted her bit of gossip with hesitation went on. “He actually married her. Can you believe it? A baronet married to a gypsy.”
Lady Swansdowne leaned over the table with a wicked glint in her eye. “That might explain why their daughter was so unusual.”
“Unusual?”
Marianne stiffened. Garett had asked the question. She couldn’t help it—she looked at him. Her heart s
ank. His eyes were trained on her, glimmers of suspicion already evident. She didn’t look away. She couldn’t. His gaze seemed to hold her there.
“Why, Miss Winchilsea was a perfect pedant,” Lady Swansdowne continued. “She studied constantly. ’Tis said she even prepared her father’s medicines. I suppose she learned all that from her mother.” Her voice fell to a conspiratorial whisper. “She probably prepared the poison meant for His Majesty.”
“It’s hard to believe any noblewoman would do such a thing,” Hampden said, “but I suppose it’s possible. Perhaps he was even innocent, and his daughter committed the crime. If so, ’tis no wonder she killed herself.”
Lady Swansdowne added spitefully, “I wouldn’t be surprised at all if she had done it. You know how gypsies are with their potions and poultices. I’m sure they know all manner of poisons.”
Only when Hampden clasped her hand under the table did Marianne realize how badly she’d been shaking. Had Hampden guessed the truth, or was he merely being kind to a gypsy who was bound to be offended by the woman’s talk? Marianne didn’t care. She squeezed his hand, grateful for the gesture.
Meanwhile, Garett seemed oblivious to anyone but her. She tried to ignore the chant storming through her mind: He knows, he knows, he knows. She couldn’t bear it if he found out from a chance bit of false gossip.
Someone spoke to him. He answered without taking his eyes from Marianne.
She tore hers away from his now piercing gaze. Picking up her fork, she had to order her body to do the simplest things—lower the fork, spear a piece of roast pheasant, lift the fork again.
“What did this Miss Winchilsea look like?” Garett asked, his tone deceptively casual. “Perhaps she was a pedant because she couldn’t be anything else.”
The chant in Marianne’s brain grew louder.
“I’m sure she was as plain and dark as a crow,” Lady Swansdowne remarked, appearing to tire of the whole conversation.
Lord Wycliff laughed. “You never even saw the woman, Clarisse. How on earth could you know what she looked like?”
By Love Unveiled Page 21