James straightened up again. Without looking at Cian, he moved out of the box once more, tugging on his gloves.
The woman was studying her fan, spreading the lace veins out for her inspection.
Cian’s heart thudded. Why would she not look at him again?
Ben threw himself into the chair beside Cian. He was scowling, his dark Welsh features thundery. Something had happened, but Cian didn’t care about that, not right now.
“Who is the woman in Gainsford’s box?” Cian asked. “Do you know? The one with the yellow dress?”
“What do I care?” Ben growled.
“I care,” Cian said, his voice low. “Look…without looking. Do you know her?”
Ben considered Cian for a minute. He tugged at his bottom lip, his mood lightening. “On the left, you say?”
“Gainsford’s box. Three down from my mother’s.”
“Aye, I know the one.” Ben looked at the orchestra pit for a moment, where the orchestra members were returning. Then he let his gaze slide around to his right, taking in the boxes there. Then, looking just as casual, he scanned the left.
He looked at Cian and whistled silently. “Oh, my Lord, Cian, if that’s who I think it is, she is far, far out of your reach.”
Cian’s heart jolted. “Why do you say that? Who is she?” Coldness gripped him.
“Lady Eleanore Neville. Second child and oldest daughter of the Duke of Gainford.”
“The daughter of a Duke…” Cian breathed. “She looks nearly our age. Why has she not been out for seasons already and snatched up by someone?”
Ben gave a wry smile. “She lives in Europe. She’s one of mother’s—Annalies’, I mean—one of her cousins. Gainsford is fabulously and filthy rich, so the family doesn’t have to marry for money.”
The woman—Lady Eleanore—would not look at him. Cian’s heart hurt as he willed her to lift her chin. He wanted to see her face properly once more.
“Why is she out of my reach?” he demanded hotly.
“If I am right, then she’s the one who has been promised to a European prince since she was three. Betrothed.”
“People still do that?” Cian asked, his jaw tight.
“Gainsford did.” Ben shrugged. “It ties his family to royalty.” He grinned. “Now you know how it feels.”
Cian tore his gaze away from her and made himself look at Ben. “How what feels?”
“Being told no, because your rank isn’t good enough.”
Cian ground his teeth together. “I have to speak to her.” He let himself look at her again.
She had been watching him. Her eyes were shining. The impact thudded against Cian’s chest, making his heart shudder. Was she crying?
Her fingers squeezed her closed fan. Then she looked away. She moved slowly as if she was deeply reluctant to pull her gaze from him.
Cian let out another breath. This one shook. “I must speak with her,” he breathed.
Ben gripped his arm. “Not now,” he said sharply. “Intermission has ended and she’s surrounded by family. You’ll raise too much of a fuss and draw attention if you try to speak to her now.”
Cian settled back in his seat. “Next intermission then, I will speak to her.”
He watched her from the corner of his eye throughout the act, oblivious to the singers on stage.
She didn’t once look at him, although a small voice in his mind told him she was aware of him, all the same.
Intermission could not arrive fast enough to suit him.
Only, when intermission did arrive and it was polite to look around once more, Cian saw only an empty chair in the corner of the Gainsford box.
She had gone.
Chapter Eight
Ben was at Lady Louise’s soiree, too. When Sharla saw him, her heart hurt, even as her temper flared. Instead of politely nodding, she crossed the room to speak to him—which some older women considered vulgar and forward.
Ben bowed when she approached. He didn’t smile. “Your grace.”
“Are you following me, Ben?” she demanded.
“Lady Louise invited me, just as she invited your husband,” he replied.
“You haven’t attended a Season in years.”
“Neither have you. We’re both changing our ways, aren’t we?” Despite the teasing, he still hadn’t smiled.
“Ben…” She bit her lip. “I can’t ask you to avoid me. London is too small a place at this time of year. Only, you cannot watch me, the way you do.”
“Why not?” he asked, with a reasonable tone.
“Because…” She twisted her fan in her hands. “Because I am a married woman.”
“Aye, and your husband is a cad.”
She shook her head. “You cannot speak of my husband in that way. You do not understand, you’re not privy to…to my life, anymore, Ben.”
“I’m privy to enough,” he growled, scowling. “Know this, Sharla—I will attend every event, every soiree, every opera and ball and outing, every dance and picnic and lecture to which I am invited. I will follow you, plague your days and drive you to anger, for it is the only way I can watch over you.”
Her heart slammed against her chest. “There is no need to watch over me.” She struggled to speak, for her throat was tight.
“No?” His gaze dropped to her wrist.
Ben…oh, Ben! The truth pushed at her lips. The need to confess it all, to share her load, beat in her temples. Instead, she made herself say the proper thing. “That would be inappropriate, Mr. Hedley.”
Then she made the mistake of meeting his gaze again and her heart shuddered to a halt. Her breath caught.
There was such need in his eyes!
She knew, without words, that he wanted to kiss her. She could feel the tension in him, that the wanting in his eyes reflected. His brow was stormy, his expression torn.
For a tiny moment, she thought he swayed closer to her, as if he was about to slide his arm around her and press her against him.
She trembled, fighting to hide how much she would welcome his attention. “Do not pursue me,” she made herself whisper. “It would be wrong.”
“You forget,” he said, his voice as quiet as hers, “I am a commoner. I have no reputation to maintain.”
“You would ruin mine instead?”
He relented. The scowl lifted. “No,” he said. “Never.”
“Then leave me be.”
His gaze fell to her wrist once more. “I cannot.”
Sharla turned away. She went back to where she had been standing, by the big potted palm and the tray of champagne glasses on the table next to it. She wished she had never crossed the floor in the first place.
There was a welcome face there. Vivian Munro stood talking to Wakefield. Her hair was properly pinned, her jewelry subdued and her dress modest, as Sharla had suggested. No one glanced at her…well, no more than anyone at these things stared at strangers.
“Vivian, how lovely!” Sharla exclaimed with a deep relief. With Vivian beside her, no one looked at Sharla or whispered about her. Besides, Vivian had fast become a good friend.
Vivian smiled. “I was just teasing Dane. I believe he coaxed Lady Louise into inviting me. I cannot imagine how else I might have come to her attention.” Her eyes sparkled.
Wakefield reached behind Vivian, snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing footman and handed them a glass each.
“Oh, thank you!” Vivian said. She glanced at Sharla, then tipped her champagne glass up and drained it in several big swallows. She looked at Sharla once more. “Come along. Relax and enjoy yourself, Sharla!”
Wakefield just smiled.
Sharla drained her glass. It took more mouthfuls than Vivian had managed and the cold champagne burned her throat, making her eyes sting. “Oh, my!” she breathed, pressing her fingers to her chest where it lodged.
“Another,” Vivian declared, holding her glass out to Wakefield. “Dane, be a darling…?”
Wakefield took the glasses
from them, put them back on the tray and procured two more, which he gave to them. He picked up a third for himself. His smile was relaxed and far more natural than Sharla had ever seen. “It has been a long time since I did this,” he admitted, his voice low.
“Don’t fall behind!” Vivian warned him and drank.
Sharla shrugged and drank, too. Who could gainsay her behavior when her husband stood right there next to her?
* * * * *
Ben peered along the dining table, to where Sharla sat with her husband on one side and the Dowager Duchess on the other.
The last time Ben had been seated at the Duke of Salcombe’s summer dinner table had been three years ago—the night Sharla had rejected him without mercy.
Nothing had changed, except Ben thought he was sitting farther away from the Duke this year and Sharla was much closer.
It was of no comfort to him that Jack and Will were seated as he was. All three had been assigned chairs at the Duchess’s end of the table, with feminine dinner partners between the three of them. Ben had not been formerly acquainted with the blonde lady on his right. She had been introduced to him as Lady Diana, had looked down her nose at his common status and had not spoken to him directly for the entire meal. Ben couldn’t help comparing her thin mousy locks to Sharla’s vibrant, thick red curls.
At the end of the dinner when the ladies retired, he let out a deep breath of relief. He did not pursue Sharla as he had that first year. She would be safe in the parlor with the women, for Wakefield remained at the dinner table, a port glass in front of him, working to trim a cigar for himself as the butler was busy with other guests.
Ben didn’t know much about Wakefield. For all that he was the fifth Balfour to inherit the dukedom, no one was familiar with his family beyond the facts in Burke’s. They kept to themselves. This was their first season in London for many years. Ben didn’t remember seeing Wakefield in the past.
He was an elegant man. His high brow and wavy hair were refined and his speech precise. He was as tall as Ben, yet his shoulders were not as wide. He did not seem to have trouble wearing the restrictive fashions required of men in society, as Ben did. His hair was never untidy as Ben’s constantly threatened to be.
He didn’t have a beard or moustache as most of the men at the table did.
Ben stroked his own thick, trimmed beard. In that regard, he outmatched Wakefield. However, if that was the only comparison in which he was superior, then Ben was a poor match indeed.
Jack thumped Ben’s arm, leaning across the empty chair between them. “Do you know why Cian didn’t come?” he asked, filling Ben’s glass with the decanter that had been deposited upon the table.
Ben suspected Cian was pouting over the woman, Lady Eleanore, that had caught his attention at the opera season opening. As Ben wouldn’t like Jack and Will dissecting his own focus upon Sharla, he said nothing about Cian’s obsession. “He has an estate and titles to control. He’s busier than any of us.” Ben took the glass and a cigar from the box the footman offered him.
“How’s the man supposed to find a wife if he’s bent over books?” Will asked complacently, his nose in his snifter.
“Who said he’s looking?” Ben replied.
“His mother must surely be pressing him on it, by now.” Will shrugged.
“As Lady Elisa is pressuring you?” Ben asked.
Jack grinned. “Every day.”
Will scowled.
“There’s time yet for Cian. He’s still young.”
“He’s only a year younger than me and Jack,” Will said. He sipped the brandy and sighed, then puffed on the cigar and blew the smoke upwards in a thin stream. “Speaking of which, I thought you had given up on Sharla, years ago.”
Ben drew still. “Sharla is married,” he pointed out with as polite and controlled a voice as he could manage.
“Only you still watch her,” Jack replied. “Will’s right. Whatever occasion she attends, so do you.”
“So do all of us. Bloody society is a crucible. We’re stuck in it. We see the same faces over and over again,” Ben shot back.
“Only, whatever room Sharla is in, you’re there too,” Jack said with a smile, ignoring Ben’s protest. “On the far diagonal opposite to her, as far away as you can be and still have her in sight.”
Will leaned forward to see around Jack, who sat between him and Ben. “Is there something happening we should be aware of?” he asked.
“You?”
“She’s my sister.”
“Honorary sister,” Ben said.
“She actually is my sister,” Jack said. “Is something up? Something you should share with us?”
You don’t understand. Sharla’s alarmed tone whispered in Ben’s mind. It was that tiny seed of doubt her protest had planted that made Ben shake his head. “There’s nothing I can say. Not now.”
“Then there might be something?” Jack asked, a frown marring the flesh between his thick black brows.
Will tapped his cigar on the cut crystal ashtray in front of him. “Are you in love with her?”
Ben closed his fist against his knee, beneath the table, riding out his surprise to give nothing away. “I don’t like Wakefield,” he said, keeping his voice down. “That’s all.”
Will glanced down the table, to where Wakefield was smoking silently. The Duke was alone, despite men sitting on either side of him. His neighbors spoke to each other, leaving him to himself.
“It’s not up to you to like or dislike him,” Jack said.
“Do you know anything about him?” Ben challenged.
“I’m quite sure my mother vetted the Duke thoroughly before agreeing to the match,” Jack said.
“His family tree, yes. I mean him. The man. What do you know about him?”
“What does it matter, Ben?” Will said, not unkindly. “She’s married. It’s done.”
“You don’t care that she’s unhappy?” Ben asked.
“Is she unhappy?” Jack asked, startled.
Ben hesitated. He had no proof regarding anything he had said. He was running on gut instinct and the sight of bruises that might have been caused by a tangled rein.
Don’t forget that expression in her eyes, the chiding voice said in his mind.
He recalled the way she had looked at him, a few days ago at the soiree, before she returned to Wakefield and the actress friend of theirs.
He had not imagined that moment. It had been sharp with tension and mutual desire. His body throbbed just recalling it.
Ben swallowed. “I don’t know if she’s unhappy for sure,” he said. “I only know something is wrong.”
“Why?” Jack asked sharply, his concern showing.
“No children,” Will breathed, correctly guessing Ben’s direction. “Not in two years.”
“There’s four years between us and Peter,” Jack pointed out, looking unhappy.
“After several children, yes,” Will said. “The first child is always fast to arrive…unless there is an issue.”
Both of them studied Wakefield, their expressions somber.
Jack puffed on his cigar, then frowned and reached for the matches. “If there is a problem, then we’ll take care of it,” he told Ben. “You can’t get involved.”
“Too late,” Ben said. “I am involved, now.”
Will ruffled his hair. “You don’t even know her, Ben. How can you be involved? You fancied yourself in love with her, years and years ago, yet you never really knew her, even then. Now she’s married and has a life none of us get to see…you cannot guess how that has changed her. Marriage does change women. We’ve all seen it happen too many times to doubt it. The Sharla you think you love doesn’t exist.”
Ben thought of his watch sitting under the brandy glass. His toes still remembered the wire of the rat trap.
He had been able to doctor the mallet and ruin her croquet challenge because he knew Sharla so well. He had known for certain that if he could prime Mairin into thinking her superiority
on the court was in jeopardy, she would challenge Sharla into a match. Sharla would be unable to resist. It had taken only five minutes more to prompt Neil to tease Sharla the fraction she needed for her temper to rise, ensuring that when she did play, she would swing wildly.
Every move Sharla had made, Ben had anticipated, because he knew her.
The woman who had stared up at him with such longing in her eyes…that was the real Sharla.
The real Sharla, the true Sharla, slept alone.
Jack and Will were her brothers. Ben would not directly dispute them. “Perhaps the little sister you think you know is the one who does not exist,” he said mildly.
Jack exchanged glanced with Will, then shrugged and sat back in his chair. “You, at least, haven’t changed. You’re still as stubborn as ever.”
* * * * *
The first time Sharla had drunk too much champagne, she had discovered how unpleasant the after-effects were. She had quickly learned how much she could drink and avoid the headache and illness that came from over-indulging. Her tolerance had grown, for Vivian was always willing to drink just one more glass.
Sharla could feel the room tilting as she sipped the cup of tea she did not want.
“I think we should have brandy as the men do,” Vivian whispered. “Madeira is a dreadful drink.”
“Or more champagne,” Sharla whispered back.
Vivian wore one of Sharla’s dresses, an emerald blue flounced evening gown that went well with her hair…which she had recolored to appear mildly more natural. Society did not take a second startled glance at her now, although she was still a striking woman that drew the eye.
Sharla put her teacup aside and pressed her fingers to her temples. A headache was forming, despite her caution. She reached for her reticule.
“Another headache?” Vivian murmured.
Sharla nodded. “I still have some salicylic powder…” She pawed through the contents of her reticule, looking for the small white packet.
A cockroach landed on the back of her hand.
Sharla shrieked and flung the bag from her. She leapt to her feet, trying to get away from the thing, her heart hammering, an overworked engine. Her skin crawled.
Marriage of Lies Page 8
