“They know that already, I am certain,” Mary shot back.
***
His arrogant confidence in his staff was borne out, Mary had to admit; in just a few days, the house had been transformed for the event, and all she had to do was decide which of her gorgeous new gowns to wear for the evening.
Her lady’s maid, Mabel, assumed Mary would wear the brown and blue gown that had so struck her fancy, but Mary wanted to save that to wear just for Alasdair, not for a group of people who would be judging her, and likely finding her wanting.
Instead, she chose a deep-emerald gown that reminded her of Alasdair’s eyes. It was lower cut than anything she had ever worn before, and she gasped as she caught sight of herself in the glass.
She almost looked like the lady she was trying to be. Maybe she could do this after all.
There was a knock at the door, and Alasdair entered without waiting for her to call out. He was holding a slim, blue velvet box in his hands, which he popped open as he came to stand in front of her.
Mary felt her eyes widen as she looked down. It was the most magnificent jewelry she’d ever seen, a diamond necklace, a pair of earrings, and a bracelet, all matching.
The necklace was an entire collar made of square diamonds, but not so large as to be vulgar. He drew it from the box and held it dangling from his fingers. “Do you like it?”
It touched her that he seemed nervous. “Yes, absolutely, but this isn’t for me, is it?”
He laughed as he placed the necklace around her neck, putting the box down on her dressing table. “Well, it’s not for me, if that’s what you’re asking. Who else would it be for?”
He fastened the necklace and placed his lips just below it on the back of her neck. Shivers flowed down her spine, and her breath hitched. Again.
Any more of this behavior and she might stop breathing entirely.
“You look lovely, Mary. As I knew you would,” he said in a soft voice. He placed his fingers on the necklace, on the skin surrounding it, his eyes meeting hers in the glass. “Lovely,” he repeated, keeping his gaze locked with hers as he lowered his head. His tongue slid to the side of her neck and he gave her a quick, sensuous lick.
It was settled. She would never breathe again.
His eyes crinkled as his mouth settled into a satisfied smile. “You are such a find, Mary,” he said. “I am very lucky to have been in that inn that day. To think of what might have happened.” His expression hardened, and he tightened his fingers on her neck. It appeared he wasn’t aware of his reaction.
“But you were there,” she replied, placing her fingers on top of his hand. And you saved me, and I have returned the favor, and now we are even.
It hurt so much to think of leaving him, but ironically, his … care had convinced her she deserved more than he could offer.
“Shall we?” He straightened, and held his arm out for her. “Our audience awaits.”
The reminder that this evening was so much more than just her first ball as a married member of the aristocracy—terrifying in and of itself—set her body to shaking. Tonight she would be meeting her mother. He glanced at her, offering what was likely supposed to be a reassuring smile.
He didn’t do reassuring very well. Instead, she saw the fierce possession in his gaze, the cavalier assumption that things would be fine, even though Mary knew she was a fraud, knew his world would see her for what she was: an illegitimate woman from a small village who had tricked an addled marquess into marriage.
But since this was the bargain she’d made, she’d do her best to keep up her end.
***
Her first thought as she entered the ballroom was, oddly enough, how bright the room was. Of course society—his society—would demand that candles blaze everywhere it was possible to put them, so that there was no need to acknowledge the limitations of the night.
She waited with Alasdair at the entrance to the enormous room, the glitter of the numerous chandeliers catching the candle light and sending sparks and shards of it throughout the room, as though it were a tremendous lightning storm.
She swallowed as the double doors opened. The real storm was about to begin.
He gripped her arm as he moved her forward to greet their first guests.
After that, the evening was a whirl of unfamiliar, curious faces, the constant crush and hum of people almost overwhelming her. And the repeated questions: “When were you married? Where? How?”
Perhaps the last question was never uttered out loud, but the looks and low comments told her precisely what they all thought.
Not that she blamed them. She remembered one time, in her own village, the local magistrate had gone on an extended voyage and returned with a woman he’d introduced as his new wife. An unexceptional, pleasant woman, but undeniably a stranger. And the whole village had speculated, and gossiped, and stared at her until finally—after at least three months—some other item of interest had arrived.
How long would it take for them to accept her? Likely longer than she planned on staying. Would they think Alasdair mad when she left?
She would have to ensure they did not. So she smiled, and answered politely, if a bit stiltedly, and kept her eyes on him, meeting his gaze far more often than was good for her comfort.
After at least an hour, the arriving crowd had ebbed enough for her to relax for a moment.
And stiffened again as she heard Alasdair whisper in her ear. “Your mother,” he said, nodding toward a woman who was just arriving. Mary didn’t spare a glance for the man—her stepfather, she assumed—standing next to her, just gave in to her hungry desire to see her mother for the first time.
“Lord and Lady Stainton,” Dawkins intoned. The two nodded and surveyed the room, as every other guest had done this evening.
Her mother looked just like her. She had her average height, dark-brown hair, and pale skin, and as she walked toward Alasdair and Mary, her hand looped through her husband’s arm, she tilted her head in a way Mary recognized from her own looking glass.
“You and she are very like,” Alasdair said in a soft voice. He strode forward, ahead of Mary, who felt as though her feet had turned to stone. “Lord and Lady Stainton,” he said, spreading his arms wide in a welcoming gesture. “Thank you for joining us this evening, and on such short notice.”
Lord Stainton was a tall man, taller than her father, and leaner, with a full head of silver-white hair. “We were glad of the invitation, weren’t we, Mary?”
Mary gasped. Of course she had known she was named after her mother—her mother!—but hearing it was quite different. It made it more real, somehow.
“Come meet Lord and Lady Stainton, my dear,” Alasdair said.
What if her mother was a terrible person? What if her stepfather was a terrible person, and did something terrible when he discovered her mother’s past? What if …?
Her thoughts rolled and tumbled together as she took a few faltering steps. Alasdair seemed to recognize her plight and reached out to take her hand and draw her to his side.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Datchworth,” her mother said.
“Yes, of course, that is, the pleasure is all mine, Lady Stainton,” she managed to stammer out. Her mother tilted her head again in that way, and Mary felt faint. Alasdair gripped her hand tighter.
“Your marriage was quite unexpected, wasn’t it?” her mother asked, but not in a salacious tone, just as though she were actually interested.
“Yes, I could not resist Mary when I met her,” Alasdair said.
Mary choked back her growl of surprise as he said her name. Her mother’s eyes widened, but she made no other response.
“Our best wishes on your marriage,” her mother’s husband said. The two moved off without Mary fainting, or revealing herself to her mother, or saying anything that would make her look ridiculous.
She could almost relax.
Which was, of course, when Hugh arrived.
“Mr. Thornham,” Dawkins
announced, though it would have been more fitting to announce, “The Relative Who Wishes for the Title and All the Power, and Is Willing to Do Anything to Get It.”
Hugh’s eyes narrowed as he took in the sight of Alasdair, no doubt disappointed he wasn’t a drooling idiot subsumed by his addiction, and further narrowed as he turned his gaze to Mary, her face, her gown, and finally, her diamonds.
“Cousin,” Alasdair drawled, moving forward and taking Mary with him. He had his hand clamped onto her arm so tightly she knew there would be marks later.
“Cousin,” Hugh echoed, a tightly polite smile plastered to his face.
“You recall my wife,” Alasdair said.
Hugh’s mouth flattened into a thin line. The crowd had hushed, no doubt sensing the antipathy between them. Or perhaps they just knew because Hugh had spent enough time talking about how deranged his cousin was.
Hugh cleared his throat, then spoke. Louder this time, loud enough for the people near them to turn. “I am aware of your wife’s … circumstances.” The pause between the words drew an uncomfortable picture.
Prickles of fear skittered down Mary’s spine. This was it. He was really going to try something here, at Alasdair’s own home, in front of all these people, probably the whole of Society, or so it seemed to Mary’s eyes.
This was the moment.
“Your wife’s circumstances are, I am sad to say, not quite as fitting to a Thornham as they should be.” Now everyone had stilled, the rustling of silk and satin the only sound Mary heard.
Besides her own beating heart.
“What circumstances are you referring to?” Alasdair replied in his most arrogant tone.
Hugh withdrew a packet of paper from his inside breast pocket. “These, dear cousin.” Unctuousness dripped from his voice. “Your lady wife might be your wife, but she is no …” He paused, allowing the crowd to fill in the rest of his words.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd. It seemed as though they were all as clever as Hugh gave them credit for, then.
Mary recognized the packet, of course; they were her mother’s letters.
How cruel and unfair it was that her brother could still alter her life, irrevocably, from beyond the grave.
Alasdair gave a disdainful glance toward the hand that held the letters. “I presume you believe there is something in there that would discredit my wife? You have chosen a rather inconvenient time and place to make such a declaration.”
Could Hugh’s expression be any more smug? He made a great show of unfolding one of the letters, snapping the paper in the air and holding it out as though to read.
“Just a moment, cousin,” Alasdair said. “If we might take a moment to speak privately?” He gestured to all the guests who were now openly eavesdropping. “I would not want my guests to get the wrong idea about our family.”
Hugh darted a glance at Mary, so full of malice she started involuntarily. “Of course.”
Mary moved to join them, but Alasdair placed his hand on her arm. “Please let me speak with Hugh alone.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. Mary stood where he’d left her, staring after them as they strode to one of the side doors. What would he do? Would he hurt Hugh? Would he attempt to pay him off?
Dear God, what would happen if Hugh’s accusations and innuendo bore fruit?
Perhaps Hugh wouldn’t shut him away, and she and Alasdair could leave society and wander together through the forest. Which, as she thought about it, might not be that bad.
Although that meant she’d still be the one holding him together, keeping him off of opium.
She wondered just how long it would take before she knew for sure he would be all right. It was agony, being with him, and knowing she wouldn’t always.
Hell.
Chapter 27
He wouldn’t tell her what he and Hugh had spoken about, just that they’d spoken.
Which would be frustrating if she weren’t so busy all day. As soon as the time for paying morning calls had come, the staff had been kept busy answering the door, and receiving flowers, and Mary had seen so many people she doubted she could remember her own name.
Apparently the evening had been a success. Whether that was due to her own personality, or all the champagne Alasdair’s staff had served, she couldn’t say, but she was pleased that so far they seemed to be accepted.
In fact, they’d received as many invitations to ton events as they had visitors, so unless they gave up sleep and ate all the time, they were bound to disappoint someone.
She’d hoped her mother would pay a call as well, but was equally relieved that she hadn’t; when she saw her next, she wanted it to be just them, so she could really speak to her.
Alasdair joined her during the last hour of calls. Just seeing him walk into the room, so impossibly handsome, his green eyes gleaming with a wicked delight in something, made her heart jump.
And when he spent over ten minutes talking to a shy, plain girl tucked into the corner of the room, she knew her heart was entirely lost. To him.
As the last of the guests left, murmuring promises of yet more invitations, she sighed. He gathered her into his arms and she allowed herself to relax against him, his warm, strong body making all sorts of delightful shivers run through her.
“We’ve done it, love,” he murmured into her hair.
“Done what?” she spoke into his chest, but thankfully he seemed to understand her.
He held her tighter. “We’ve been able to convince society that I am, in fact, sane, and that we are an entirely respectable pair.”
“Not entirely,” she said, sliding her hands down to his waist.
He laughed, which turned into a groan as she moved closer to him. “This is our last night alone together,” he whispered into her ear.
Why? Was he leaving? Was she leaving? Her stomach fluttered at the thought.
“Because we have engagements for the foreseeable future,” he added, softly.
Oh. Of course. And that reminded her to ask, “What happened with your cousin?”
He uttered what would have been a snort in a less aristocratic gentleman. “He was happy to take an annual allowance and a remote holding in exchange for leaving me alone. And for the letters, of course.” He began to idly caress her, so it was hard to concentrate. “He knows it would take more money and power than he currently commands to contest my sanity, given our presence here. He’s not a fool, at least.”
“Excellent.” Mary swallowed, realizing part of her task was now complete. Even if Hugh did not deserve to be treated at all well, given what he’d tried to do.
He drew back and looked down into her eyes. “I have sent a note to your mother asking if we can pay her a visit tomorrow. I assumed you would want to see her as soon as we could, privately.” It touched her, how thoughtful he was. “So this evening, if it pleases you, we will dine together?” She couldn’t miss the hesitancy in his tone. After her response to him, after what they’d been through, he still doubted she enjoyed his company? Stupid man.
“That would be lovely,” she said, lifting her head up for a kiss.
Their lips touched, just barely, and the sweetness of the kiss came as close to breaking Mary’s heart as anything that had happened in the time they’d been together. This was what normal couples in love did—kissed softly, and gently, as they spoke about their day.
“I will see you in the dining room in an hour, then,” he replied, kissing her once more before leaving.
And she knew what she wanted for dinner. It was not anything that could be found in the kitchen.
Chapter 28
“God, Mary.” Alasdair stood at the head of the table, his green eyes blazing with what Mary knew was appreciation.
And why shouldn’t it be? Mabel had swept her hair up and off her neck, had dressed it so her neck looked as elegant as a swan’s. The blue and brown silk gown fit perfectly, and it was cut lower than anything she’d worn before.
Her breasts were mo
re than halfway revealed, and Mary saw Alasdair’s eyes linger there before taking in the rest of her.
Good, she thought. He wants me. I will have him again.
She moved forward to the other place at the table.
Alasdair shook his head as if to clear it, and gestured the footman aside so he could hold her chair out for her. His hand dropped to her bare shoulder and caressed her skin for the briefest of moments.
“Leave us,” he said to the footmen. He dropped into his own chair and regarded her with keen eyes.
She was starving, but she couldn’t eat. At least, not food. She took a too-large sip of wine, and choked as the rich red liquid poured down her throat.
“I received a response from your mother. She is free tomorrow. No doubt she is wondering just what we have to say.”
Tomorrow. Which meant tonight was for doing whatever she wanted, just to get her mind off things. At least that’s what she told herself.
She rose, placing her napkin carefully on her chair. She still hadn’t eaten anything, but she’d managed—somehow—to drink half a glass of wine. It lent her a courage she wasn’t sure she’d normally have. Alasdair, so far, hadn’t drunk anything. Good. She didn’t want him impaired.
She walked toward him, consciously pushing her shoulders back and allowing her feelings for him to influence her seductive walk.
Alasdair’s eyes dropped down her body, an appreciative grin on his face. “Are we having dessert already?” he asked, sliding his chair back away from the table.
Mary nodded. It was a good thing he could read her so well; she had started to doubt her actions, at least until she gazed into his eyes.
Lust. Lust, want, and … admiration?
She took a deep breath and stood before him.
His hands were draped on the arms of the chair, his legs spread wide. He picked up his foot and nudged her closer to him, leaning forward and putting an arm behind her back. This might be easier than she’d thought. As easy as she’d hoped.
Megan Frampton Page 22
