by Mary Balogh
“It must have been a priceless moment,” Lord Sandersford said. “Would you care to join us, Maurice?”
He turned to Peregrine and introduced the two men. But his former army friend was in a rush. He excused himself after making plans to meet Sandersford the next day.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lampman,” he said. “And I look forward to hearing what you have been up to for the last six years, Gareth. No good, at a guess. Unless you have reformed. Female hearts and female virtue still strewn around in tatters at your feet, I suppose?” He left them, laughing.
Lord Sandersford resumed his seat. “That is what the Guards can do for you, Lampman,” he said. “Some of us find afterward that we never can talk in anything lower than a quiet bellow. One wonders if he is capable of lowering his voice in his wife’s boudoir, does one not?”
Peregrine excused himself a few minutes later.
THE SPACIOUS HOUSES and mansions of London’s fashionable Mayfair filled up with the coming of April, and soon their wealthy and prominent residents were being offered a dizzying array of entertainments with which to amuse themselves for every moment of their days until summer should draw them home again or to one of the spas.
Ethel and Martin Howard decided that a ball given by Ethel’s second cousin in honor of his own daughter’s come-out would be a suitable occasion for Priscilla’s first official appearance in society. Grace and Peregrine were invited, but then so was almost everyone who was someone in the social world. It was early in the Season. Many a hostess wished to establish the reputation of having attracted the biggest squeeze to her particular assembly.
Grace was looking forward to the occasion, her first grand ball at the age of thirty-six! She had not planned to dance until Peregrine laughed at her and asked if the rheumatics pained her enough that he should stop taking her walking during the daytime. And she had not planned to dress in just such a way. But Perry had gone with her to the modiste he himself had recommended and firmly forbidden all her early choices of both designs and fabrics for her evening gowns.
Was she afraid that a fashionable gown falling in elegant folds from a high waist might occasionally reveal the outline of her legs? he asked. Shocking! And—with a roguish grin for the dressmaker, who was spreading out a new set of plates for them to consider—was she afraid to reveal a little more of her bosom than a high neckline would allow? And, no, he would absolutely not hear of a turban to hide her lovely hair. Not until she was seventy years old at the very least. And if they were fortunate, perhaps those particular horrors would have gone out of fashion by then. Plumes, yes, if she really wanted, but a turban, no.
And he laughed at her again when she tried to pick out sober colors for her gowns. “Has all the black you have been wearing made you color-blind, Grace?” he asked. “Choose a different color from that gray. I insist. You cannot really want that, can you? What would you really like to wear if you did not have to consider at all what you think you ought to wear?”
She looked around at all the bolts of cloth spread around them. “That red,” she said daringly and half-jokingly, expecting another storm of protest.
“Then we are finally agreed,” Peregrine said. “The red it will be for your first ball gown, Grace. And for the design, this, I think. Do you like it?”
She looked at the plate to which he pointed. “Oh, Perry,” she said, “it is gorgeous. But I do not know if I dare.”
“This one,” he said, looking up to the dressmaker, his eyes twinkling. “And now for all the others. And you have my strict orders, madam wife, to think and see as a woman for the next hour or so, not as the sober dowager you are pretending to be.”
So, almost two weeks later, she was wearing the red gown and staring at her image in the pier glass in her dressing room, wondering if she had stepped back in time. She had not expected to see herself so ever again, looking vivid and alive and, yes, feminine. Surely when Perry saw her, he would be startled at just how much bosom was showing and at just how much the fine silk did reveal of the outline of her body and legs. Only the heavy flounces at the hem kept it from clinging, she was sure.
And Effie had done wonders with her hair and the silver and red plumes that nodded above it. There was color in her cheeks, though none of it was artificial, and there was a brightness in her eyes that was unfamiliar to her gaze. She felt almost like Grace Howard again, the young Grace, the Grace before Jeremy.
She turned as the door opened behind her and Peregrine stepped into the room. She was suddenly self-conscious, convinced that she was making a foolish spectacle of herself, masquerading as a girl.
He closed the door behind his back and stood against it. And his eyes traveled down her body from the plumes to the toes of her silver dancing slippers and back up to her face again. “I am going to have to keep you at home, you know, Grace,” he said. “This ball is supposed to be in honor of some poor young girl, and yet, if I take you there, no one will have eyes for anyone else but you.”
“Perry,” she said, pleased. “What a silly joke. But do I look all right? The color is not too vivid?”
“Blinding,” he said.
“Is the bodice not cut too low?”
“Decidedly,” he said. “I am not at all sure that it will please me to have other men see what a magnificent bosom you have, Grace. In fact, I am sorry now that I did not encourage the gray silk and the high neckline and the turban. I might have hidden you in a dark corner, then, and not have had above three-quarters of the men present realize that you were heavily disguised.”
“How silly you are tonight,” she said. “Oh, and Perkins has perfected another waterfall with your neckcloth, Perry. You do look splendid.”
“Well,” he said, “I cannot be quite outclassed by my wife, now, can I?”
Grace felt more lighthearted than she had felt in a long while as they drove the distance to Fitzroy Square, where the ball was to take place, and joined a line of carriages waiting to deposit their passengers before the double doors of the house. She was looking and feeling her best, she was on her way to the first grand ball she had ever attended, her niece was about to make her first appearance in society, and she had Perry at her side. She was going to enjoy herself and forget anything that might cloud her joy.
She was going to forget that Gareth was in town and had called on them two days before and stayed for almost a whole hour, making himself charming to Perry, looking at her frequently with those eyes that established ownership and that she knew from long experience meant mischief.
And she was going to forget that Perry was already going away from her. Oh, he still spent most of each day in her company and all of every evening and night. And she was not so unrealistic as to expect him to be with her for every moment. She had expected him to want to spend some time at his clubs and with former acquaintances.
She had no complaint whatsoever against him. But he was going away from her for all that. He had been unnaturally quiet for the last week, unnaturally serious. Not unkind, not in a bad mood, not silent, not even humorless. It was hard to explain in words. Perhaps she would not have even known that he was going from her if she had not lived long enough with him to know him very well indeed. But she did know him well, and so she did know that she was losing him.
It was inevitable, of course. It must have started at the opera, when that very lovely Lady Leila Walsh had reminded him that there were young people whose company and activities were waiting to be enjoyed. Yet he was married to a lady quite indisputably beyond the age of thirty. And it would have continued when Priscilla left them and took the sparkle and frenzied restlessness of her youth with her. And all their walks and rides together, all his outings alone, would have brought to his notice the young and the beautiful and the exuberant who seemed to have a monopoly on the springtime and the Season.
And Perry, because he was good and kind and honorable, was still spending most of his time with her and still treating her with deference, still entertaining he
r and buying her gifts by day and loving her by night. Perhaps he did not even know himself yet that their marriage was dying. Or perhaps he did know and was fighting the inevitable. Poor Perry!
But she did know and accepted the reality, though with a dull and hopeless pain inside. She had always known it would come to this and had protected herself from unbearable agony by refusing to allow herself to come fully alive under Perry’s affection. But it had not happened yet. It was happening, but it was not finished. There was some time left yet. There was this evening and this ball. And she had Perry beside her, in the sort of teasing mood that she had not seen in the past week. She was going to enjoy herself.
LADY MADELINE RAINE had just rapped Peregrine on the knuckles with her fan and told him not to be impertinent. Her green eyes were dancing with merriment.
“If you are suggesting by talking so pointedly about this being my fourth Season that I have been unable to find a husband in all that time,” she said, “then I shall direct Dominic to call you out. He is considerably taller than you, sir. The very idea! Have you considered that perhaps I have not wanted to find a husband?”
Peregrine grinned. “If you will recall my exact words, Madeline,” he said, “you will be forced to admit that I neither said nor hinted at anything so unmannerly. I would have to say that you protest rather too much. I suspect that you have been touched on the raw.”
“Ah, sir,” she said, “you are unkind. Now that you are respectably married, you think you may look in scorn at everyone over the age of twenty who is not. I shall best you yet, you know, by marrying a duke.”
They were dancing, and the flow of their conversation was considerably hampered by the steps of the dance, which frequently separated them. Grace, Peregrine saw, was still standing at the side of the ballroom, talking to Lady Amberley. But he did not worry about her. It was the first of four sets that she had not danced.
He still could not keep his eyes away from her for more than a couple of minutes at a time. He knew her to be beautiful, of course. And that gown could reveal nothing of her body that he did not know already. He knew her with far more than his eyes only: he knew her with his own body and with a long and intimate familiarity. But he still could not stop himself from looking at her in wonder. There was a beauty in her tonight that he had not seen before, a certain glow from within that had forced itself past the calm of her eyes and gave her vibrancy. He was not sure that he had been entirely teasing when he had said that he did not want other men to see her in all her beauty.
And yet he was proud of her and delighted at every male head that turned for a second look at her. The room was filled, of course, with young girls in their delicate whites and pastels, and it was undoubtedly on them that most of the male attention and admiration was focused. But there was a mature beauty and attractiveness about Grace that drew the eye almost like a magnet. Even Lady Sally Jersey, surrounded by her usual court, did not outshine her.
“Even Edmund is here tonight,” Lady Madeline was saying. “I would dare swear that he will not attend half a dozen more balls in the whole Season. He would prefer to attend a salon and spend an evening in conversation on literary or political topics. Can you imagine?”
“It is very poor-spirited of him to be so dull,” Peregrine said. “A whole earldom going to waste! It is enough to make the most sanguine of young ladies cross beyond bearing.”
“Oh,” she said, “I might have known I would have no sense out of you, Perry. I forget that you are rather like Edmund when you are not tormenting the ladies.”
“Tormenting the ladies?” he said. “When I have been rehearsing my charms for the whole of the past week?”
Peregrine had caught Grace’s eye across the room. Lord Sandersford had joined her and Lady Amberley.
Gareth.
And all the joy went out of Peregrine’s evening as it had been doing out of his life for the past week, whenever he could not keep that name at bay.
He had not wanted to believe it at first. And he still did not know for sure. He had not asked anyone. But the coincidence would have been just too great. It could not but be true. Sandersford must be of an age with Grace. He had been a soldier. He had grown up with Grace, knew a great deal about her, lived at no great distance from her father. And his name was Gareth.
He had been Grace’s lover. And fathered her child. And abandoned her. She had loved him. And perhaps still did. And now, having seen her again, he had followed her to London.
And Grace’s unhappiness over the last weeks, that something that was troubling her, was finally explained. She had met again the man she had loved. The man she still loved? And he wanted her again. Yet she was trapped in a marriage she had made for comfort and convenience. Marriage with a younger man, who could not hope to compete with the very handsome and charismatic figure of Gareth, Viscount Sandersford.
He did not know what to do, had not known what to do for a week. His first instinct had been to go home and confront Grace. She had lied to him before their marriage, when he had admired her for being so open with him and frank about her past. And she had deceived him during their visit to her home. He had felt a hurt anger against her, an anger that had bewildered him because it was an unaccustomed emotion for him, especially directed against his wife. Their relationship had been a remarkably tranquil one over more than a year of marriage.
But he had not confronted her. He knew, without having to think very deeply on the matter, that Grace had never lied to him or withheld any truth maliciously. And he knew that she must be troubled as much by the deception she had perpetrated against him as by the renewal of her acquaintance with Sandersford. Would he solve anything by telling her that he knew? Or would he make matters many times worse?
He did not know, and he did not know what to do. He did not know if he should try to prevent meetings between his wife and her former lover—should he take her home to Reardon Park, perhaps?—or whether he should allow her to work out the problem in her own way. And he did not know if he should confront the viscount with his knowledge or stand back and let Grace make her own decisions.
He knew what he would do if he were a man, according to all the codes of manhood with which the people of his generation had been indoctrinated. He would probably challenge Sandersford to a duel and beat his wife and take her into the country. Or else he would turn her out, having discovered that her lover was still alive and still a part of her life, and send her back into the arms of the man who had taken her honor.
But he had always considered such codes silly and immature. Why should he think only of his own image, his own reputation, when there was another human being to be considered? He would prefer to think of what was best for Grace—and himself too—rather than of some inanimate code of behavior. He trusted her, when all was said and done, to do what was right. And if he must lose her, if that was what she would decide was right, then so be it. To hell with what the world might say.
Only one thing he did not consider, because he knew it was not in Grace’s nature to put him in such a dilemma. He did not ask himself what he would do if she should decide to take Sandersford as her lover again while continuing with her marriage. That question he did not ask himself. He knew that he would never have to provide himself with an answer.
He smiled at Lady Madeline as the music ended and led her back to her mother.
“Sandersford?” he said pleasantly. “Ah, Edmund, where have you been hiding? Your sister tells me that you have been in town for four days already.”
“And occupied by business ever since,” his friend said, extending a hand to him. “But intent on enjoying myself tonight. Now let me see. The Courtneys and the Carringtons and the Cartwrights—the three C’s, in fact—and the Misses Stanhope all send their regards to you and Lady Lampman, as do the Mortons and the rector and his wife. Have I forgotten anyone, Mama?”
“I think it would be safer just to say ‘everyone,’ dear,” his mother said.
Lord Amberley smiled
. “Now, why did I not think of that?”
“My dance, I believe,” Lord Sandersford said, extending a hand for Grace’s. “With your permission, Lampman.”
Peregrine bowed.
“They make a handsome picture,” Lord Amberley said, looking after them. “Lady Lampman is in good looks, Perry. You must be treating her well.” He grinned.
“I must be on my way to claim Lady Leila Walsh’s hand for the next dance,” Peregrine said, “before someone else steps in and takes my place. She does not lose any popularity over the years, does she?”
His eyes were twinkling as he approached the lady in question and stood politely to one side while she explained to a disappointed youth that she had no space left on her card where she might write his name. He must enjoy the evening, Peregrine told himself, or appear to do so anyway. He must not appear to mope over Grace.
“Perry, there you are,” Lady Leila said, turning her slanting hazel eyes on him. “I do not know why I did not grant that dance to poor Mr. Daniels, you know. I am still quite out of sorts with you for marrying without giving me a sporting chance of taking you away from her. And I will never forgive you for the trick you played at the theater. Can you imagine my mortification at letting my eyes stray past your wife and dismissing her as far too old for you, and greeting effusively a girl who was not even out at that time? Really, Perry, your jokes get worse and worse.”
“If you are going to scold,” he said, “I will find the card room, Leila, and see if I cannot separate a few duchesses from their fortunes. You have that hair to live up to, I know, but you need not turn into a shrew.”
He grinned at her indignant rejoinder.
Strange, he was thinking. Since his marriage, he really had grown unaware of the difference in age between himself and Grace. She was just Grace to him, a person who had become very dear to him. He could not look at her even now and see a woman of thirty-six in comparison with his twenty-six. He could see only Grace, his friend and his lover. Did she look older than he? He supposed she must. Common sense said that she must. And London society appeared to be saying that she did.
