by Anne Gracie
* * *
* * *
Afterward she lay relaxed in his arms, a little sleepy, a little dreamy. “So what have you been up to while we’ve been transforming this house?”
“Fittings,” he said in a dark tone that made her giggle. “Endless, dreary fittings. I have been stuck with pins, plagued with patterns, and as for the debate between knee breeches or full-length trousers—”
“Ollie has been cracking the whip, has he?” Belatedly she recalled that it was not the most felicitous of jokes to make. “I mean—”
“The man is obsessed. He is determined I shall not disgrace him at this ball of yours.”
“Don’t you mean disgrace me?”
He looked down his nose at her. “You, my dear deluded young lady, are not my sartorial advisor; you are merely my wife.”
She giggled again. “And what else have you done today?”
“Oh, this and that. Various arrangements.” He trailed his fingers down the line of her spine.
“What sort of arrangements?” She waited for him to explain, but the chatty Thomas of old seemed to have disappeared. It was a little like coaxing an oyster to talk.
“What did you arrange?”
“A fellow in Ollie’s office has been helping me trace my men’s relatives to check that they’re all right.”
“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea. How far have you got?”
“It’s slow progress. Only one so far, Dyson’s wife. We’ve learned that his mother has died, but she was very old and she passed away peacefully in her sleep. His wife has been pretty stretched, I gather, without the earning power of her husband, but she’s managing.”
She raised herself on one elbow. “You didn’t let her know her husband is alive? And that you’re planning to bring him home?”
“No. I don’t want to raise false hopes. She’ll be all right now.”
All right now. She was learning to read between Thomas’s lines. “You sent her some money, didn’t you?”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t take much to keep a family going.”
She lay back down with her arms around him and snuggled her cheek on his chest. “I love you, Thomas Beresford. You’re a good man.”
Thomas stroked her hair and didn’t respond.
* * *
* * *
She liked to talk after they made love. Thomas preferred to lie there in silence, stroking her warm, silken skin. Lord, was there anything softer than a woman’s skin? To say he’d missed her, missed this, was the most ludicrous of understatements.
“Tell me about Mogador.” She stroked his chest, rather like petting a cat.
He stiffened. For a few moments he didn’t say a thing, but he could feel her waiting. “I told you I don’t wish to talk about it.”
“You said you didn’t want to talk about being a galley slave. I was just wondering what Mogador was like. I’ve never been to another country.” Her voice was soft, soothing in the darkness. “The sultan’s palace, for instance. Was it glamorous, like something out of The Arabian Nights? Or was it a disappointment? But if you don’t want to talk about it . . .”
He didn’t want to talk about any of that time, wanted to wipe it from his mind—if only he could. The nightmares continued to haunt him. They’d fade eventually, he was sure. They had to.
Still, it was natural for her to be curious, and his period at the sultan’s palace was one of the better times. And after the bedsport he’d just had, he was feeling relaxed and loose and as close to happy as he’d been in years. If he couldn’t talk about it now, when could he?
“It was the sultan’s palace, but the caliph was the fellow I dealt with. He lived there, part of his job, I suppose, and the sultan lived inland, in another city. It was a magnificent place, especially after we’d spent so long sleeping under the stars or, if we were lucky, under canvas.” Or in a filthy crowded pen, like animals.
He shoved that memory aside.
“I only saw a small part of the palace. My men and I were kept in one section—the simplest and plainest. I was held separately from them, and treated better, not just because I was an officer but because I’d stressed that my uncle was a great English lord who’d be happy to pay our ransom. They’re very class-conscious, it turned out, even though it’s not their system. Or maybe it was just the promise of the money.”
“Whichever it was, it was good strategy on your part to claim kinship to a great English lord,” she murmured.
“Strategy, yes.” He glanced down at her. “Isn’t it time for you to go home?”
“No, everyone else is out at a concert. We have plenty of time. Go on.”
“The palace is set high, a magnificent white building overlooking the island and the sea. I detected some European influences. There were big European-style windows, for instance, and some European furniture, though it was just for show, a sign of affluence—chairs that nobody sat in, for instance. They do everything on the floor: sitting, eating, sleeping.”
“It sounds quite primitive.”
“It’s not, not at all, it’s just a different way of living. The interior is like Aladdin’s cave in its riches and beauty. Marvelously colored tile work and extraordinary mosaics, floors and columns of polished marble and other beautiful stone. Both floors and walls were scattered with gorgeous thick carpets and hangings, all in the richest colors, some made of silk.” He’d forgotten about the beauty of the place. His last years had been so ugly, they’d blotted out the marvels he’d seen. And the kindness he’d experienced. The caliph had been good to Thomas, insofar as his job allowed.
His voice warmed as he remembered. “There were intricately carved screens over the windows, even the interior ones and some doorways—the most remarkably detailed craftsmanship in both wood and stone. And whole rooms for bathing, with deep tiled pools and carved ceilings.” Even he and his men were given access to a small stone room just for bathing. “I wouldn’t mind something like that here.”
“It all sounds very beautiful and exotic.”
“It was—but don’t forget, it was the sultan’s palace. The ordinary people don’t live like that.”
She circled one of his nipples with her fingernail. “And the ladies of the palace. Were they very beautiful and exotic, too?”
The faint meow in her voice surprised a chuckle out of him. He rather liked that she could be jealous of unknown foreign ladies. “I didn’t see any.”
“What, none at all?” She didn’t believe him.
“They keep their women hidden from the sight of infidels and strangers. The women lived in one of the other sections of the palace and I didn’t ever see one—not even the caliph’s wife, or wives. I suppose some might have been watching us from behind those screens, women there presumably being as curious as women here,” he added teasingly. She nipped him lightly on the chest in punishment.
“So you saw no women at all in the whole country?”
Just one woman and he preferred not to think about her. “Women in the streets are heavily veiled. All you can see is a pair of dark eyes, and sometimes not even that.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think I’d like to be hidden away like that.”
“No, you’re too independent. But”—he shrugged—“different lands, different customs.” He’d been to places where the women went bare-breasted and were thought quite modest by local standards.
The room was dark now, the quiet stillness broken only by their voices. It was peculiarly conducive to intimacies, but they were starting to venture into uncomfortable territory. “Isn’t it time to go home now? Aren’t you hungry?”
“No, Emm brought over some delicious food for luncheon and I ate like a pig. What about the food there? You said you were finding it hard to adjust to English food. Was it so very dreadful?”
“Not at all. I ate with the caliph several t
imes and the food was wonderful—very sophisticated and exotic. Most of the time though, my men and I ate very simply—rice, lentils or beans with vegetables, though prepared differently from the way we would have them.”
“Better or worse?”
He thought for a minute. “Better. They use spices, even for the simplest meals.”
“Then why are you having trouble with English food?”
“I’m not. I just find some things a bit rich and fatty, that’s all. Now I really think it’s time we left.”
And he slipped out of bed and groped around for his clothes, cursing under his breath. Either he was going to have to get better at using a blasted tinderbox to light a candle, or he’d need to be tidier with his clothes.
The real solution, he knew, was not to lie in bed so long, talking. Especially about things that . . . stirred up memories. It was just that Rose was so damned irresistible.
* * *
* * *
They walked back to Ashendon House, enjoying the warm evening. “I hope the weather is like this for the ball,” Rose said. “I’m looking forward to it, aren’t you?”
Thomas didn’t answer. She turned to him with a sudden unwelcome thought. “You can dance, can’t you?”
“Hmm? Yes, I can dance.”
But there was enough vagueness in his response to prompt her to ask, “Well enough for a ball?”
“I think so. As long as it’s the hornpipe.” He turned a worried face to her. “They do play that at London balls, don’t they? It’s my best dance.”
She had a moment of sheer horror before realizing he was teasing her. “You brute! It’s no joking matter,” she told him severely. Then a giggle escaped her. “You must ask Aunt Agatha that question, but only when I’m there. I can’t wait to see her face. Or hear her response.” Aunt Agatha was still far from reconciled to Rose’s choice of husband.
“Get behind me, Rose,” he said quietly. He was looking at something up ahead.
“What?”
He thrust her against a wall, stepped in front of her and raised his voice. “Don’t come any closer.”
“What? Who are you talk—?” She broke off as two men stepped out of a shadowy lane, one wielding a cudgel.
“No danger, gov’nor, just hand over the readies and we’ll be off.”
“I’m a poor man,” Thomas said. “I have nothing for you.”
Rose was shocked. Thomas sounded almost frightened.
The second man laughed, a nasty sound. “Poor, eh? Well, your pretty little bird don’t look too poor to me. Hand over your jewels, me sweet, or we’ll take—”
“No.” Thomas moved hesitantly toward them, fumbling in his pockets. “Here, I have a little money. Just don’t hurt—” He kicked the man with the cudgel. His knee popped and he went down with a shout. He’d barely hit the ground when Thomas was onto the second man, slamming fists into him once, twice, three times, sending him sprawling into the gutter. The first man stirred. Thomas snatched up the cudgel.
“Want me to bash your brains in? Or do you have enough sense to clear out while you’re still in one piece?” He stepped forward threateningly and the two villains took off, limping and hopping as fast as they could go.
He watched them go, then tossed the cudgel into the gutter. He straightened his neckcloth and smoothed his coat back into place. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, you were urging me to ask Lady Salter about dancing the hornpipe at your ball.” He offered Rose his arm, quite as if he’d never heard of such a thing as a fight.
“Thomas, that was amazing.” The whole thing had taken a bare few minutes. If she’d blinked she might have missed it.
“I’m sorry you had to witness that. I’d heard that the gas lighting had more or less kept the criminals off the better streets, but I see now that was an exaggeration.”
“Thomas, you drove off two men with your bare hands.”
He looked up at the moon. “A few more days and it will be full.”
“I thought at first you really were frightened, but that was just a ploy, wasn’t it? Lulling them into a false sense of superiority.”
“Am I allowed to know what color your dress is?”
“My dress?” She glanced down at her dress. It was quite obviously the same blue it had been all day. It was blue when he’d taken it off her, and it was still blue when she’d put it back on and he’d helped to fasten it. “I don’t understand.” He’d just beaten off two vicious thugs. Why was he talking about her dress?
“Your dress for the ball.”
“For the ball?” She stared at him. “Thomas Beresford, there is no way I can believe you have any interest in the color of my ball dress.”
“Of course I do.”
“Why?”
He looked perplexed for a moment—grappling for a reason, she was certain—and then he said, “Ollie will want to know.”
“Ollie will want to know?” she repeated.
“I’m sure of it.”
She burst out laughing. “That’s ridiculous.”
“No, I assure you—”
“Thomas, it’s all right. You obviously don’t want to talk about the fight, and I’ll try to respect your wishes. But just let me say this: You were magnificent. And you can babble all you like about ball dresses and the moon, but I know you’re a hero.” She slipped her arm through his. “My hero.”
But thrilled as she was with his swift and valiant defense of her, she could see now how he’d been able to defeat Cal. And there had been a brisk savagery about the way he’d dealt with those thugs that was a little bit unsettling.
It was a reminder that she didn’t know very much about this man, her husband. He was darker and more complex than the Thomas she’d married. One minute lighthearted and teasing, the next dealing out swift and savage retribution, and afterward, seemingly unaffected by the violence and talking nonsense about dresses.
* * *
* * *
Pineapples aside, the house refurbishments were all going well. Her marriage was another matter. Oh, Thomas was doing all the right things, doing everything he was asked to do. And the lovemaking was wonderful.
But Rose couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that there was something missing.
When they were first married it had been so joyous and spontaneous. They’d talked and laughed and made love, and talked again, and everything was spiced with the excitement of the forbidden, of secrecy.
Of course it was different, she told herself. They were no longer as young and carefree as they’d been back then, and after what Thomas had experienced, after what they’d both experienced, of course they’d changed.
But some part of Thomas still seemed somehow locked away from her. Distant. He was playing the dutiful husband role, but was his heart really in it?
It wasn’t just that he didn’t much like to talk about his experiences. There were times when she wondered if she’d forced him back into this marriage, whether he’d wanted her to get that annulment. Whether he’d only married her in the first place because it was the honorable thing to do, in case she was with child.
At the time she’d believed that he loved her as much as she loved him.
Now she found herself wondering. Had he really only stopped the wedding to save her from committing bigamy?
What if all the time it had been protectiveness on his part, not love? Gallantry rather than passion. Duty, leavened with desire, but not love. Was he now putting the best face on it that he could?
In odd unexpected moments, these doubts arose to torment her. She shoved them aside. Marriage took time, everybody said so.
Cal had married Emm for purely practical reasons, she reminded herself, and Rose had watched as they grew from strangers into lovers. Nobody seeing Cal and Emm together now would doubt that they truly loved each other.
And Ned. He
hadn’t even noticed Lily the first few times he met her. Their marriage was forced by scandal, but a blind man could see that Ned doted on her now.
Rose ached for Thomas to look at her the way Cal looked at Emm, the way Ned looked at Lily.
She had been so confident that a marriage of convenience was what she wanted, that she didn’t want love. Because love was too painful.
But that was the duke. And this was Thomas.
And love was still painful.
What happened in the bedroom was bliss, to be sure. In the bedroom, Rose felt sure that Thomas loved her the way she loved him—even if he never said the words.
He was a good husband. He was loyal and honorable and she loved him with all her heart. If he didn’t feel quite the same, if his heart was a mystery to her, it shouldn’t matter. They were married.
In any case, actions spoke louder than words. It was foolish to crave the words. If Thomas did not speak them, he had his reasons. She had love enough for both of them. She would not give up on Thomas.
* * *
* * *
Thomas lay sated and relaxed, Rose curled against him. The lovemaking was getting better and better as they learned each other’s bodies, what they liked and how best to please.
Soon they would officially move into the house together, then the grand ball shortly after that. And then . . . well, then he’d be setting off to bring back his men.
And though he had mixed feelings about returning to Mogador, he was feeling pleased with the progress he’d made. He’d tracked down two more wives and arranged for them to be taken care of. Only young Jemmy Pendell’s wife and baby to be found now.
The last man, Jones, wasn’t married and though he probably had unknown bastards scattered around the world, there was no way of tracing them, and Jones probably wouldn’t thank him if he did. A bachelor gay and determined to stay one, was Jones.
Rose’s question came soft and inevitable, out of the dark. “When you were in Mogador, how many times did you try to escape?”
