Chapter Ten
Over the days that followed Iain became distant, a cold, forbidding man who looked at his wife with such disinterest that it made her shudder. She felt that old desolation, that emptiness, that hopeless longing for the man who dominated her life, his smile, his comforting arms, and the warmth of his love he now denied her.
News of their marriage caused a stir among the courtiers at St James’s Palace, which hummed like a beehive. Gossip was malicious and speculative, for they were uninformed, the details known only to the King, Lady Barton, trusted family and friends, and the couple themselves. Selfish in their preoccupation, courtiers gathered in groups to bandy spiked compliments and insults tempered with a smile. They discussed the relationships of others and ruined reputations just as they discussed the latest outbreak of the plague, politics and the weather.
Lorne could almost hear the sibilant whisperings and at first all her outraged virtue seethed within her, but she refused to be intimidated and after a short time paid no attention to it. There was a sense of sordidness and disillusionment about it all, and secretly she would be relieved when her pregnancy was more advanced and it would be indelicate to parade herself in public.
Every night she dressed in her finest gowns to accompany Iain to the theatre or a Court function, where they were surrounded by all the pomp and circumstance of royalty. The gentlemen of the Court were eager to make themselves known to her, whereas she came under critical scrutiny from the ladies—the same ladies who sought the attention and admiration of her husband.
At times like this she would smile and pretend she was unmoved by his easy manner towards them and the women’s fawning, but in reality she was profoundly upset and couldn’t help experiencing an ungovernable jealousy at all the attention he attracted. She was never alone with her husband and she longed for some intimate communication between them. Iain was always polite. He was concerned for her health, complimented her on the way she looked and smiled when his eyes alighted on her. But he treated her like a stranger. And, God help her, she wanted him every night, and fell asleep dreaming of his naked body possessing her own. Where he slept, she really had no idea.
Vibrantly aware of the strained atmosphere between the newly-weds, Hugh silently and critically surveyed the situation and tried desperately to alleviate the tension, but all his attempts to draw them together yielded nothing but courteous, brief responses from his friend.
Almost four months into her pregnancy, mercifully Lorne’s early morning discomfort left her. Suddenly she felt so well and with a lifting of her spirits she felt lighter—although there were times when her emotions seemed to veer all over the place. She was determined to increase her efforts to jolt Iain out of his cool reserve. She didn’t care how she went about it, what lengths she had to go to to make it happen—even if it made him furious and made him lose control and confront her, anything would be preferable to his polite indifference.
The English court maintained many activities at St James’s Palace. Tonight they were to attend a ball being held in honour of some foreign dignitary, and Lorne was determined to look her best. It would also be even more enjoyable because Aunt Pauline—who had decided to stay on in London until Lorne left for Norwood—would be there and she had consented to let Agnes attend, which explained Hugh’s high spirits. Having had her fill of town, her grandmother had returned to Yorkshire shortly after the wedding.
Hugh came upon Lorne in the hall. His eyes filled with unconcealed admiration as he gave her a sweeping glance. Her glorious hair cascaded in an abundance of golden curls, framing her exquisite face, and her emerald-green gown with its voluminous skirt matched the colour of her eyes. The waistline was fashionably set slightly above her natural waist, thus concealing any hint of her pregnancy. The front panel of the cream silk underskirt, heavily decorated with gold braid, was clearly meant to be seen and admired, and full sleeves, decorated with the same gold braid as the underskirt, ended at her elbows in a froth of lace.
However, with its scooped neckline and narrow, sloping shoulders, it was the most revealing gown Hugh had ever seen her wear, and he could imagine Iain’s reaction when he saw the tantalising swell of creamy flesh almost spilling out of the boned bodice. He sensed what she was up to, and if she wanted to shock his friend into noticing her, she was going the right way about it.
‘How do I look?’ she asked, her face aglow as she pirouetted on her toes in front of him, the full skirt of her gown billowing out around her slender ankles to reveal the fine lace petticoats beneath.
Hugh raised his eyebrows in silent acclaim and favoured her with a roguish grin. ‘You look positively divine—and I congratulate you. I admire your strategy. I hope it works.’
Lorne sighed, clutching her painted fan in front of her. ‘So do I, Hugh. Out of all the people I have met since knowing Iain, you are the only one who knows the complexities of our relationship. I think it’s time to do something about it and to set things to rights. We can’t go on like this. It is not in my nature to be meek and humble, and I am feeling so much better now and more able to take what life—or my husband—has to throw at me. Desperate needs call for desperate measures, don’t you think?’
‘I couldn’t agree more. But take care. Iain is extremely difficult to manage when he’s been provoked beyond what he deems reasonable, and my friend is beyond that unfortunate state. If you are to succeed, then I very much fear that the burden of doing so will fall on you.’
‘I know,’ she said, with a gleam of mischief dancing in her eyes, ‘which is why tonight I’ve spent more time than ever over my appearance, and why I chose to wear this dress—the most daring and provocative in my wardrobe. I am prepared to give him whatever invitation is necessary to make him notice me. What do you think his reaction will be?’
‘Explosive,’ Hugh answered, laughing. ‘He will definitely not approve. There is every chance that when he’s unleashed some of his rage on you, he’ll drag you upstairs and select something eminently more suitable for you to wear.’
‘I’ll risk it,’ she replied with a smile.
‘Then courage, little lady,’ Hugh murmured, his eyes drawn to the tall figure that had appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Here comes your husband now.’
Lorne assumed a mild air as she watched Iain descend the stairs, but inside her heart was pounding. Tenderness and regret surged through her every time they were together, and the love she carried for him in her heart reinforced her courage to face him and do whatever was necessary to resolve matters between them.
He looked so splendid tonight that every female eye at the ball would be drawn to him like a magnet. His coat was fashioned of rust velvet, the tailoring flawless. He wore cream-coloured breeches, and white silk stockings moulded his muscular calves. His waistcoat was of gold satin embroidered with gold and silver thread, and his cravat was pristine white, secured with a sapphire-and-diamond stickpin. His black hair gleamed and was neatly tied in the nape by a thin band of black ribbon. With such a fine head of hair she was glad he declined the wearing of a wig, which was so much the fashion among both ladies and gentlemen in fashionable society.
When he reached the hall Iain cast his friend a casual glance before settling his gaze on the enchanting vision in a shimmering gown of emerald green. He froze, and then very slowly, very deliberately, he moved towards her. ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed when his eyes rested in a furious, censorious stare on the creamy expanse of two gorgeous, glowing orbs exposed above the bodice, and the glittering diamond pendant winking and nestling cheekily in the shady valley between. ‘Change it,’ he said, in a low, ominous voice. ‘Go and take that dress off and find one more suitable.’
At close range, Lorne saw the burning rage that fairly sizzled in his grey eyes but, undeterred, she smiled brightly, managing to look sublimely innocent in the most seductively alluring gown Iain had ever seen her wear. ‘Why, don’t you like it?’ she said brightly.
‘You have others I like better. Go an
d change.’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I see no reason to.’
‘Lorne, I asked you to change it,’ Iain persisted implacably.
‘You did not. You ordered me to change it—and I don’t intend to,’ Lorne replied with a defiant lift of her chin. ‘I think this gown is perfectly suitable for the ball. Hugh, be so good as to pass me my cloak.’
‘Anything to oblige,’ Hugh chuckled, rushing to do her bidding while at the same time ignoring his friend’s eyes boring into him, accusing him of complicity and treachery.
Iain levelled his gaze on his wife, his jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle began to throb in his cheek. ‘Do not provoke me, Lorne.’
‘Do you mean more than I have already?’ she rejoined pertly, with a toss of her head and a vivacious smile, aware of the warning note in his voice, but refusing to let him intimidate her now she had come this far. ‘I would think that is virtually impossible.’
‘I trust you will remember your condition and behave accordingly.’
She gave him a pointed look. ‘I am reminded of that every minute of every day, Iain. Unlike you, it is hardly something I am likely to forget, and when it becomes apparent I shall not embarrass you by flaunting myself in public. Thank you, Hugh,’ she said sweetly, when he draped her velvet cloak on her shoulders. ‘Now, shall we go? We don’t want to arrive at the palace late, and I am so looking forward to enjoying the evening.’
‘Then do so to its fullest, madam, since it will be your last,’ her husband informed her coldly.
The gathering at St James’s Palace was a study of lavish elegance, the room into which they entered a burst of brilliant, vibrant colour. The moment the Earl of Norwood and his wife arrived, Lorne commanded total attention, and a group of painted and bejewelled courtiers soon surrounded her, much to her husband’s chagrin. She was no stranger to the company assembled and had become a popular figure, but tonight she looked different. Like a superbly crafted gem, she shone with a radiance that put every other woman present in the shade. There was an aura about her, an inner light that gave her more lustre than diamonds.
With his shoulder propped against a pillar, Iain sipped his wine, his dark brows drawn together in thoughtful concentration as he watched Lorne dancing the intricate, lively steps of a minuet with an exuberant young fop. Her movements were dainty and graceful, and she was looking at her partner with the most innocent expression on her face. Iain wasn’t paying much attention to what was going on around him, and was unable to concentrate for any length of time on his companions’ conversation.
It was a merry affair, and as the evening wore on, everyone became more lively and boisterous as more wine was consumed and most of the guests were no longer sober. For the first time in his life, as Iain watched Lorne take her place in a progressive country dance, where one’s partners constantly changed, observing how her face positively glowed with whispered compliments, he experienced an acute feeling of jealousy, which caught him completely off guard. It was a feeling he found decidedly unpleasant, and the sooner they left London the easier he would feel.
Ever since their wedding night his tortured imaginings had caused him to exist in a state of righteous fury, and he didn’t know how much longer he could stand living under the same roof as her and deny himself the pleasure of her body. The memory of what they had shared became more alive with each passing day. It touched him and lived inside him, was visual and tactile, had odour, texture and warmth. It had been perfect, and because he was powerless to banish the memory from his mind, he longed to savour its potency once more. Never had he seen Lorne look so provocatively lovely, so regal, glamorous and bewitching—and she belonged to him.
He argued with himself, asking himself why he was behaving like a churl towards her, why he was deliberately hurting her and keeping her at arm’s length. Was it because she had damaged his male pride by leaving him so abruptly at Norwood? Was it because she had involved herself in that nefarious scheme to get her father out of the Tollbooth at Inveraray, and in so doing deprived John Ferguson and everyone else at Norwood of the satisfaction of seeing him hang? How could he condemn her for involving herself in her father’s escape? Wouldn’t he have done the same for his own father? Was he hurting her because she had become closely acquainted with Kilpatrick? Or was it the oldest reason of all—that she was a McBryde and he was still haunted by David’s ghost and the part she had played in his death?
Whatever the reason, he was convinced of two things—she had not lain with Kilpatrick, and the child she was carrying was his. No one who was guilty could have feigned such outrage on being accused of carrying another man’s child as she had done.
In Scotland, at the height of their lovemaking, she had cried out that she loved him. Did she still love him, or had he broken her spirit and driven a stake into her heart? But then he smiled, remembering how she had stood up to him as no other would dare to do, both tonight and in the past, and how she had openly defied him by refusing to change into something more suitable for the ball—a gown that exposed far more than was decent, and was for his eyes alone. No—her spirit was still intact, and God help him if he should ever destroy that.
Placing his empty glass on the salver of a passing footman, he pushed himself away from the pillar and drew himself up to his full height, telling himself that something must be done to heal the breach between them before it destroyed them both. Seeing Hugh on the periphery of the throng, he was about to go to him when a tall, dark-haired woman who had just entered the ballroom caught his attention. Their eyes locked, and with a faint smile he made his way towards her to present himself.
Breathless, her feet aching, her head spinning, Lorne declined the next aristocrat that tried to claim her. Excusing herself to Lady Billington and her Aunt Pauline, with whom her last partner had deposited her, she went to talk to Hugh, who was standing to one side with Agnes. She was also secretly hoping that her husband would ask her to partner him. All evening she had been aware of his tall figure watching her. He was not dancing, and was surrounded by several companions. There was a tension in his stance, and his expression was dark and brooding. He had made no attempt to ask her to dance, and when he was approached by gentlemen seeking his permission to partner her, he gave it easily enough and did not seem unduly concerned when she was whisked away.
‘You look as though you’re enjoying yourself,’ Agnes commented, noticing Lorne’s high colour and shining eyes.
‘Very much, although I confess to feeling a little exhausted.’ She looked around, searching the crowded room for the face she knew best, but she saw nothing of him just then. Perhaps he had gone into one of the gaming rooms, which were crowded with men and women obsessed with the turning cards and rolling dice. The King was across the ballroom surrounded by a ring of courtiers, but her husband was not one of them. ‘Where’s Iain?’
Hugh and Agnes exchanged significant glances. Following the direction of their gazes, Lorne was provided with the answer. The woman her husband was dancing with was quite tall, slender and graceful. Her features were delicate, her expression serene. The neckline of her gown was square cut and so modest in comparison to Lorne’s own, that she suddenly felt like the commonest drab.
Unable to tear her eyes away from them, her heart wrenched. The dance was a stately procession so they were able to converse with ease. She saw them laugh simultaneously at something the lady said, and Lorne would never know what Iain was feeling at that moment. ‘Who is she?’ she asked, knowing the woman’s identity before Hugh spoke her name.
‘Her name is Maria Fraser,’ Hugh divulged.
Lorne’s throat constricted painfully. All the colour drained out of her face and neck as she continued to look at them, feeling a profound sorrow and despair. ‘The woman Iain would have married if the King hadn’t interfered,’ she whispered.
‘Nothing had been decided,’ Hugh said quietly, wanting to spare her feelings.
Lorne swallowed, close to tears. Averting her eyes,
all her hopes and dreams of the future suddenly dissolved around her. Why did she suddenly feel as though every eye in the room was upon her, glittering, watching, waiting, eyes set above mouths that were secretly smiling, covertly sneering? In all her anguish and self-consciousness, she wished passionately that she were anywhere else but here.
‘It’s all right, Hugh,’ she said flatly. ‘You can talk about her. Why haven’t I seen her?’
‘She’s been in France with her family, and only returned to London yesterday.’
‘She—she’s very lovely.’
‘So she is, but you put her—and every lady present—in the shade.’
Lorne smiled slightly, grateful for the compliment. ‘Thank you, Hugh, but I can see why Iain is so taken with her—and that gown she is wearing is so exquisite it must have been made in Paris.’
Seeing the suffering Lorne was unable to hide, Agnes stood close to her and gripped her hand. ‘It’s all right, Lorne. Don’t pay her any mind,’ she advised. ‘It means nothing.’
‘No, of course it doesn’t. I’m not concerned,’ she whispered untruthfully, blinking back her tears and forcing a tremulous smile to her lips when she looked at Agnes, glad of the warm, comforting pressure of her hand. ‘I never was very good at hiding my feelings from you, was I?’
‘I know you too well. Besides, your face betrays you. It is the most expressive face I know.’
‘Oh, Agnes! Look at him. How could he do this to me? Does he have to stand so close?’ she said in a low, indignant voice that did not conceal the hurt she was feeling. ‘Does he have to look at her in that way and hold her so? And am I imagining it or does she have a proprietorial manner towards him—one he doesn’t seem to resent.’
Traitor Or Temptress Page 22
