Sir Everett shook his head sadly. “I won’t. You would kill me. I’m afraid I have no choice, Lord Craige, but to shoot you dead.”
John stopped. The man was bloody mad. “Then shoot and be damned,” he said softly.
Beads of sweat broke out on Sir Everett’s forehead. John focused on the bore of the dueling pistol. He resumed walking toward Sir Everett.
“I will shoot,” the man said, his voice shrill. John didn’t stop.
Sir Everett moved back, his knees practically knocking together in fright, and John thought the game was won, until the pistol went off.
The heat of the bullet whizzed past his cheek, searing his skin. It smashed safely into the clock standing against the wall behind John.
For one long heartbeat, the two men started at each other in surprise. The incredible control John exercised over himself warred with his very real anger at almost having had his head blown off.
Sir Everett dropped the smoking pistol. It hit the wood floor with a dull thud. “You don’t understand,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “If you had a wife, you’d understand.”
The corners of John’s mouth turned down cynically. “Oh, but you’re wrong, sir. I do have a wife, and I would never sacrifice my reputation for her.”
The color drained from Sir Everett’s face and the man fell to his knees.
John pitied him. London was full of women who cared for nothing more than a man’s bank balance or his status in society. Men like Lord Ramsgate and Sir Everett were little more than puppets in the hands of such women. “Set your wife aside, sir,” he said, in a voice so low no one but Sir Everett could bear him. “She’ll break your heart.”
“She already has,” Sir Everett answered. He lowered his head and began weeping without shame.
John turned to Titus and ordered him to see Sir Everett home. The butler signaled for a footman. John was now more impatient than ever to leave the party. The smell of burnt powder mixed with that of perfumed bodies and candle wax was beginning to give him a headache. He turned on his heel, ready to suggest to Peterson that they leave—but his words died in his throat.
He’d forgotten he had an audience. Peterson, Sarah, and all the guests at the party, including Prinny, were starting at him in wide-eyed amazement. Not a man or woman moved.
It was plump, good-natured Applegate who found his voice first. “You’re married, Craige?”
John pulled back, suddenly realizing what he’d admitted in a flash of anger. He looked from Applegate to Peterson, who had a dumbfounded expression on his handsome face.
“Is that so remarkable?” John asked, noncommittally.
It was Prinny who answered. “Remarkable? Astounding!”
Applegate blinked. “I’ve known you since the moment you came to town—”
“I fought by your side,” Peterson interrupted. “We’ve shared rations, ammunition, women….” His voice trailed off self-consciously as he realized what he’d said.
Applegate shot Peterson a cross look before finishing his own thoughts. “I believed myself your closest friend here in London. Of anyone, I should have known you were married.”
John frowned. This was not a conversation he wanted to have. He started walking up the hallway. He needed a drink. Something, anything to turn attention away from himself. Prinny and Applegate emerged from the drawing room and followed.
“Who is she?” Prinny asked, keeping pace with John’s long strides. “Do we know her? Know her family?”
“She lives in the country,” John tossed over his shoulder.
“Does she ever come to town?” Applegate asked.
“Is it any of your business?” John countered.
“No, but we’re full of curiosity,” Applegate returned, with his usual good humor. “After all, John, since you inherited the title, you’re considered one of London’s most eligible bachelors. You can’t blame us for our interest.”
John stopped, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “I never said I was a bachelor, eligible or otherwise.”
“You’ve never said anything—that’s why we are so surprised,” Prinny said, pointing out the obvious. “Although I must admit in your defense, you have avoided matchmaking mamas. But I never dreamed you did so because you were married.”
“It’s no wonder then that Craige doesn’t honor another man’s wife,” Sir Everett said in an overloud voice. “He doesn’t even honor his own.”
John turned and faced his recent opponent. Sir Everett had gotten to his feet and now, apparently, desired to recover some of his lost pride. “Do you wish to repeat yourself, sir?” John asked coldly.
Sir Everett’s features flushed red, but he stood his ground. “You may have inherited a gentleman’s title, Craige, but everyone knows you are a disgrace. You don’t even pay your gambling debts.”
John took a step in his direction. “What is that you say, sir?”
Everett seemed to realize what his intemperate tongue had expressed. His face turned deathly pale and he started to shuffle backward, but John stalked him with easy grace. “I’ve met every debt of honor in my life,” he said tightly.
The crowd of people who had spilled into the hallway after the first confrontation quickly stepped back again. But Peterson moved protectively in front of Everett, who was already being escorted out the door by Titus. “No one would ever say you are without honor, John—no one. Now, come, let us go and find a drink.”
In answer, John looked to Applegate. “What does he mean by that, William?”
Applegate’s ruddy cheeks turned ruddier. “It’s unimportant.”
John knew better. He rarely gambled; it was one vice that didn’t tempt him. But it tempted Applegate, and John had assumed his spendthrift friend’s debts, which he turned over to his uncle, Louis Barron, who also served as his man of business.
Nor was Applegate the only man John supported. He provided the living for a motley assortment of ex-soldiers who’d fought with him on the Peninsula, men who’d made sacrifices in the service of their country and then been abandoned. He also loaned generous amounts to his new tonnish friends, including Prinny and Brummell, both of whom were far too extravagant for their own pockets. Recently, in the past week or so, certain friends had cautioned John to keep a better accounting of his money, but he hadn’t placed much significance in their warnings, attributing them to well-intentioned meddling. Now he wondered….
Peterson clapped a hand on his shoulder and changed the subject. “This wife of yours must be a paragon, to put up with you. You must tell us everything about her. Come.”
John turned away from Applegate, making a mental note to discuss the unpaid gambling debts. Or perhaps it would be better to go directly to Louis, who had handled John’s affairs since the day he’d purchased his commission.
Sarah signaled for the musicians to resume playing. A servant appeared at John’s side with a tray of champagne glasses. John took one before saying, “What is it you wish to know?”
“Well, let’s start with her name,” Peterson said.
“Yes, her name,” Prinny and Applegate echoed in unison.
John took a sip of champagne before replying succinctly, “I don’t recall.”
His response left his friends in open-mouthed surprise, which quickly turned into laughter. John didn’t laugh. He considered himself a very private man, and his marriage was not a subject he wished to discuss with anyone. Not even Peterson.
His wife. Lady Craige, mistress of Craige Castle. Other than the short notes he wrote her twice a year, one at Christmas, the other in the spring, around the time of their anniversary, he rarely thought of her. Louis handled all of the financial details between them. Louis probably remembered his wife’s name.
Mallory.
That was her name. And with the name came memories of an ornately carved bed and a young girl, her eyes wide with fear….
John lightly touched the scar on his thumb.
Sarah interrupted his thoughts by taki
ng hold of his arm. She rubbed her breasts against him. “You were very brave, my love, and a touch insane. Sir Everett seems a mad man.” Her green eyes smoldered with desire.
John stifled a yawn and wished he could go home. Unfortunately, Prinny had cornered Peterson and was giving the officer his opinions concerning Wellington’s handling of the war. John would have to think of a clever way to extricate Peterson from such a conversation…and then he had the uncomfortable feeling that someone was staring at him.
Slowly he turned. There, in the open front door, stood a young woman dressed in serviceable brown cambric and a plain straw bonnet. She held her reticule in front of her with both gloved hands, her tight grip suggesting she feared someone would snatch it from her.
Their eyes met, and John saw a flash of recognition. She stepped forward just as Titus came from the drawing room.
“May I help you, miss?” the butler asked politely.
The woman kept her gaze on John. “I’m here to see Lord Craige.”
Titus looked up questioningly at John, but Sarah, overhearing John’s name, turned to meet this new guest. She smiled, cool and slightly distracted, as she sized the young woman up from head to toe and then dismissed her. “The servant’s entrance is in the back.”
Anger flared in the woman’s intelligent dark eyes. She lifted her chin to a determined tilt and John felt an unexpected flash of desire. This woman standing arrow straight and proud in her modest brown dress wasn’t his usual style, but there was something about her that caught his interest.
“I am not a servant,” the woman said in clear, clipped tones. The authority in her voice attracted attention. Prinny stopped speaking. Both he and Peterson turned to see who this new intruder was. Even Applegate, who had cornered an actress and had been trying to nibble on her ear, looked up.
Sarah’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she said in her soft, musical voice, “Then are you one of the dancers?” Sly snickers met her words.
The young woman frowned at Sarah’s impertinence. “I am here to see Lord Craige.”
“I’m his hostess,” Sarah said, drawing out the last word with unmistakable innuendo. “You can state your business with me.”
“I’ll state it with Lord Craige.”
Sarah laughed. “My dear, what possible business could you have with my John? I assure you, his taste doesn’t run toward the common. With those freckles all over your face, you look like you have been working in the fields.”
The crowd rippled with low murmurs and guffaws at her cruel words. The woman suddenly seemed to become aware of the amount of attention she had drawn. Bright splashes of hot color stained her cheeks—and brought John to her rescue.
“As a matter of fact, I do like freckles, Sarah.” His mistress stiffened and her eyes turned cold.
John ignored her and walked toward the young woman. “I’m Lord Craige,” he said, his voice one of authority. He was probably doing something foolish. For all he knew she could be Sir Everett’s wife or one of the other silly females who had developed an infatuation for him.
The young woman took a step toward him, where the light was better. Now John could see that her hair framed by the bonnet wasn’t completely brown, that there were streaks of gold shot through it like beams of sunlight, and the smattering of freckles across her nose was very attractive. Unfortunately, the expression in her honey brown eyes had turned fierce. Their color stirred a memory inside him. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
His words offended her. He could tell by the way she pulled back, her shoulders straightening. He had no idea why until she spoke and erased all mystery: “I’m Mallory Barron…your wife.”
Chapter 3
Lie there, lie there, you false-hearted man, Lie there instead of me.
“The Outlandish Knight”
Stunned silence met Mallory’s announcement. Ever so slowly, other guests at the party realized something was amiss and stopped speaking. They craned their necks in her direction. Even the musicians paused mid-note and brought their instruments down.
It gave Mallory tremendous satisfaction.
She’d dreamed of this moment, practiced for it.
“I’m your wife—you useless philanderer,” she’d whispered countless times to her mirror, whenever the hurt, anger, and loneliness had got the better of her. “I am mistress of Craige Castle,” she’d reminded herself, when a crisis with a tenant or the crop made her want to break down in tears—or run away as her husband had. “I’m the Viscountess Craige,” she had raged at the unsympathetic bailiff and army of bill collectors last week when they had stormed Craige Castle and taken over her beloved home.
This moment of confrontation was all she’d imagined. Except….
In her mind’s eye, John had remained just as he’d been on their wedding night, a tall, solemn youth with bright blue eyes. She barely recognized this dark-haired Corinthian with the devil’s own looks and glittering, dangerous eyes.
He still combed his unfashionably long hair straight back from his face, but she didn’t recall his features being so hard, so strong—so masculine. Everything about him, from his finely tailored jacket in Spanish blue cloth to the high gloss of his black top boots, spoke of money and privilege, while the thigh-hugging buff leather of his pantaloons proclaimed strength and power.
Rumor had it that when White Hall had ordered the heroic Colonel Barron home to assume the responsibilities of Viscount Craige, the French had cheered and the Spanish señoritas had cried. Mallory decided the rumors must be true. Not even she was immune to his fabled magnetism.
Their eyes met. She was conscious of a strange flutter of excitement rising from somewhere deep inside her. Her knees threatened to go weak. Her pulse beat faster.
But not even her wildest dreams of their meeting after so many years of absence had prepared her for the drunken lord who looked up at her from nuzzling a half-naked woman’s neck and said in wine-slurred speech, “So glad to meet you, my lady. I’m Applegate, a friend of your husband’s. Only a few minutes ago, I’d asked Craige what your name was and he said he’d forgot.”
Applegate turned toward her husband and chastised mildly, “Her name’s Mallory. You really should be more careful, Craige. A man don’t have to remember much in this life, but he should remember his wife’s name.”
Mallory, and everyone else in the room, stared at her husband. She expected him to deny that he’d forgotten her name, or at least appear slightly embarrassed. Instead, he raised his eyes heavenward and muttered something that sounded like, “What else can go wrong this day?”
The stark truth struck her: the man didn’t even remember her name!
No wonder he’d shamefully neglected Craige Castle and his responsibilities to Mallory and her mother over the past seven years. Suddenly, Mallory hated being the center of attention. Her face flushed with hot embarrassment. Stand proud, stand tall, she ordered herself, and wished she didn’t feel as if the earth had disappeared beneath her feet. His wedding ring felt like a lead weight in her skirt pocket.
Then John did something even more outrageous. He laughed.
It started off as a chuckle and then rose into warm, full-bodied masculine laughter. The crowd around Mallory stared at him in open-mouthed surprise…and then, slowly at first, they joined him—until before she knew it, she was sur rounded by the sound of giggles, snickers, and hearty guffaws.
A man’s voice boomed, “Only Craige could get away with this!”
“Craige needs to hire a secretary to ensure his appointments with his wife don’t overlap the ones with his mistress!”
“Or that he remembers his wife’s name!” The laughter grew louder.
Humiliation and anger shot through every fiber of Mallory’s being. Five hundred years of proud Craige blood sang in her veins. She struggled for control. But when Lady Ramsgate tilted her head back in a high feminine trill and put her arms around John’s waist, rubbing her breasts against him right there in front of Mallory—
and he allowed it—something snapped.
In three quick steps, Mallory placed herself directly in front of her husband. She could feel her fury blazing from her eyes. She no longer had control over her emotions. If she’d held one of the huge broadswords that hung over the mantel in Craige Castle, she’d have found the strength to circle it high over her head and cut John Barron in half. She might even have done a jig over his body parts.
Instead, she settled for delivering a stinging slap to his face, hard enough to force him to take a step back.
The crowd’s laughter stopped abruptly on a shocked gasp.
John raised a hand to his jaw while Lady Ramsgate stepped protectively in front of him. In a voice full of dramatic outrage, she announced, “I must ask you to leave immediately.”
This was not how Mallory had imagined her first meeting with John.
But she wasn’t about to cry, “Quarter.” Not now.
Of course, she realized, she might have gone too far. Perhaps her mother had been right. She should have stayed at the inn and waited until John answered the notes she’d sent requesting an audience.
But he was her husband! She shouldn’t have to wait for his summons like an indentured servant. Besides, she didn’t have time for this nonsense. She wanted Craige Castle returned to her! She had fields of wheat to make ready for the harvest. She couldn’t spend precious days cooling her heels in an inn, waiting for her lord.
Her impervious glare, which had put many a saucy milkmaid in her place, sent the lush Lady Ramsgate back a step. “I wish a word with my husband—alone,” Mallory said, proud that her voice didn’t shake.
The angry red imprint of her fingers against his hard jaw deeply embarrassed her. Only through sheer will and determination was she able to meet his eyes. What she saw there caught her by surprise.
The devil was enjoying this!
She was creating a scene that would make them the talk of London for a fortnight, yet in the clear, sharp depths of his eyes she saw humor. For an instant the memory of their wedding night so many years ago rippled through her like wind across water. The hopes, the dreams, the fears….
Falling in Love Again Page 4