by Mary Balogh
“Never tell me,” Lord Rawleigh said, grimacing, “that you exercised your sharp wit at Lady Haverford’s expense, Eden. This was before you knew of her connection to Ken? You were extremely fortunate not to have been called out, old chap.”
“She was increasing at the time, had not admitted the truth to me, and was still betrothed to someone else,” Kenneth said. “That time has passed. Forget it, Eden.”
“Betrothed to someone else?” Lord Rawleigh said. “Ouch! But whatever she might have looked like then, she is in remarkably good looks now. Catherine and Daphne are bringing her into the park later this morning. It would be strange indeed if they did not then proceed to go shopping. You will be a lucky man, Ken, not to have your fortune eaten up during the coming weeks and to see your wife often enough to bid her a good morning and a good night.”
“Are you complaining, Rex?” Mr. Gascoigne was laughing.
“I am complaining,” the viscount said. “Not that I have an extravagant wife. She has been too accustomed to frugality. But the conventions of society and the entertainments of the Season conspire together to keep a man and his wife apart too often. I shall be quite happy to retire to Stratton for the summer—and for the autumn and winter too, I daresay.”
“Nelson!” Kenneth roared as his dog spotted a couple of children out walking with their nurse and began to gallop in their direction, barking joyfully. He reduced speed to a reluctant lope and then stopped altogether. But the smaller child, a girl, had to leave her nurse’s side and come to pat Nelson’s head, which was on a level with her own, and pronounce him a nice doggie. She giggled and scrunched up her face as Nelson licked it.
“The killer hound,” Mr. Gascoigne said in mock disgust. “By Jove, it is difficult now to realize that he really is.”
“As are we all, Nat,” Lord Pelham said. “Not hounds, perhaps, but certainly killers. I cannot say I am sorry that chapter of our lives is closed.”
But Kenneth was thinking about Viscount Rawleigh’s last words. It was true that London during the Season was not quite the place to spend time with one’s wife. He had not realized it when he had invited her here. He, too, would be happy to retire to his home for the summer—but it was not part of their agreement. It was a new point that would have to be negotiated with her. And it was a new idea to him too—Dunbarton during the summer. With Moira.
It was a seductive thought.
He had always enjoyed a morning with his friends. He enjoyed this morning. And he enjoyed the afternoon at the races with Mr. Gascoigne and a few other acquaintances. Lord Rawleigh had been invited with his wife to a picnic and Lord Pelham had arranged to spend the afternoon with his new mistress. But all day he was plagued by the thought that he had only two weeks during which to persuade Moira to remain with him as his wife, and one day was slipping away without his having set eyes on her. And this was not likely to be an untypical day.
He was riding home from the races late in the afternoon when he finally realized the trend of his thoughts: to persuade Moira to remain with him. Was this not a mutual experiment they were engaged upon? Were they not both taking these two weeks to decide if they could tolerate each other, if they could make something of their marriage? When had he begun to think in terms of having to persuade her? Was he convinced then of what he wanted?
He thought inevitably of the night before. She had taken him quite by surprise. He had not expected that she would consent to being bedded, especially as the day had had its moments of friction and had not by any means been an unqualified success. But it was something that had given him enormous pleasure—that was a vast understatement. She had enjoyed it too. She had not actively participated, and she had reached no climax, though he had tried to give her as much time as she needed. But she had positioned herself so that she was fully open to him, and she had been relaxed and receptive. He would have known if she had found it unpleasant. She had not.
Was that when he had decided that he wanted her with him for the rest of his life? Was it no more than a sexual thing? But even with the most satisfactory of the mistresses he had ever employed, he had never thought in terms of permanency. A man needed variety in his sexual life, a change of partners now and then. No, he must not be unfair to himself by imagining that his only interest in Moira was sexual. Besides, she was easily the least skilled lover he had ever had.
No, he thought with some reluctance. There was only one reason why a man would wish permanence in a relationship with a woman and would find himself relinquishing his preference for variety and a change of partners. Not lust. Only its opposite. He hated to put it into words. But he had no choice. He might prevent his voice from saying the word, but he could not prevent his mind from thinking it.
It was because he loved her. She could be obnoxious and stubborn and sharp-tongued—and many worse things if he sent his mind back almost nine years. And he loved her.
He found himself striding eagerly into his house a short while later, having handed his horse over to a groom’s care. Was she home yet? He had not seen her since he had left her bed a short while before dawn—with the greatest reluctance. But he had not wanted to take advantage of her generosity by remaining to sleep with her. Surely she must be home by now. It was really quite late.
Her ladyship was in the drawing room, his butler told him with a bow. He took the stairs two at a time and then felt foolish when he realized that his servants would be observing him and exchanging knowing smirks.
She was sitting very straight-backed, very elegant beside the fireplace. She set aside her embroidery when he opened the door. He felt foolishly shy. He advanced partway across the room and made her his bow.
“I trust you have had a good day?” he said.
“You are rather late, my lord,” she said. “Perhaps you have forgotten that we have a dinner engagement?”
He raised his eyebrows and looked at the clock. “Late, ma’am?” he said. “I think not. Is that the only greeting I may expect? A cold-eyed, tight-lipped scold?” His mood had changed to one of instant irritation. What sort of a child’s fairy tale had he been weaving for the past hour or so? This was the real Moira. These were his real feelings for her.
“I believe it would be discourteous to Mr. and Mrs. Adams,” she said, “to be late. And you are dusty, my lord. You will need to bathe.”
“You may rest assured, ma’am,” he said, “that my servants noticed the same thing and that even now hot water is being carried up to my dressing room. My apologies for offending your sensibilities by appearing thus before you.”
She made no response. She reached for her embroidery, changed her mind, and returned her hands to her lap.
“What has happened?” he asked. “This has nothing to do with my imagined lateness or my very real dustiness, does it?”
She looked at him consideringly, her eyes hostile. “Did you put her up to it?” she asked. “Was she speaking on your instructions? I deeply resent your deceit in bringing me here under false pretenses.”
He went to stand in front of her and clasped his hands at his back. “And I deeply resent your attitude, ma’am,” he said. “If I have something to say to you, I will say it. What has my mother said to so upset you?”
“It was insinuations and suggestions all afternoon long,” she said, “usually when we were in company with other ladies and she knew very well that I could not retaliate. It seems that I am to work very hard to overcome my roots as a member of the lesser gentry. That will mean keeping my company more exclusive when I return to Dunbarton by not issuing indiscriminate invitations or accepting every one that is sent to me. I must no longer consider Harriet Lincoln to be my friend. I must invite houseguests to Dunbarton for the summer so that I might be seen mingling with people more suited to my position as the Countess of Haverford. I must discourage my mother from being forever in and out of Dunbarton. I must be sure to present you with a son at the earli
est possible moment. Shall I continue?”
He was very angry—against his mother, against Moira.
“And you assumed this came from me?” he asked her.
“Why did you summon me to London?” she asked.
“I invited you here for the very reasons I gave you the evening before last,” he said. “My mother speaks for herself. If you find what she says objectionable, ma’am—and if you do not, I most certainly do—then I shall have a word with her. Better yet, you must have a word with her. I would remind you that you are the Countess of Haverford and mistress of Dunbarton, not she. You may be as familiar as you wish with our neighbors, Moira, and count as many of them friends as you choose. Lady Hayes is welcome to take up residence at Dunbarton if it is your wish. And as for a son, he—or she, a daughter—will doubtless come without our having to will it if we continue having marital relations. You may deny me your bed anytime you choose. You may rest assured that I will never use force to claim my rights.” As he felt at the moment, he had no wish even to continue with their experiment. He would be just as happy if she announced her wish to return to Cornwall. How could she believe that his mother had been speaking for him this afternoon?
“It seems I have done you an injustice,” she said stiffly. “I beg your pardon.”
But his mood had been ruined. And perhaps it was just as well. There was little point in falling in love with her.
“I trust that your morning at least was enjoyable?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you,” she said. “The company was very pleasant. We went shopping after walking in the park.”
He half smiled. Rex had been quite right.
“I bought something,” she said, turning to fumble on the side table behind her embroidery. “I paid for it with my allowance. You will not be receiving a bill.”
“You may have bills sent to me at any time,” he said.
“But this is a gift.” She held out a small package to him. “A sort of wedding gift, I suppose. You gave me one yesterday.”
He took it from her hand and unwrapped a small and exquisitely lacquered snuffbox.
“I have never seen you take snuff,” she said. “But it was pretty.”
Life would never be tranquil if he remained with Moira, he thought. His mood had swung dizzyingly between two extremes just within the past ten minutes. He wanted to cry. It was not a particularly expensive gift. He had seen snuffboxes of far greater value. And it was true that he did not take snuff and that therefore the box would be useless to him. But it was a wedding gift—his from his wife.
“Perhaps I will have to start taking snuff,” he said, “and sneezing all over you.”
There was merriment in her eyes for a moment, and he smiled.
“Thank you,” he said. “It is pretty.”
“We are late, my lord,” she said, standing up.
“And I am dusty,” he said. “Dare I offer my arm to escort you to your dressing room?”
She lifted her arm to take his.
21
THE two weeks crawled by and sped by. Sometimes it seemed to Moira that every day was so crammed full with activities that there would never again be time to rest or to relax. Sometimes she longed for the quiet and for the leisurely pace of life in Cornwall. At other times she remembered that these weeks were perhaps the only ones she would ever have in London during the Season and that really there was a great deal of enjoyment to be had there. Sometimes she longed to be away from Kenneth so that she could think straight. Never a day went by that they did not antagonize each other, especially on those days when they spent some time together. At other times she felt the beginnings of panic at the thought that perhaps she would be spending the rest of her life away from him. How would she live without him? Sometimes she was frustrated by the demands of her lady friends and acquaintances and by the demands of his male friends that kept them apart for hours of the day at a time—occasionally for the whole day. At other times she thought that they might be better friends if they saw even less of each other.
There was only a part of each day when they never quarreled or disagreed or were in anything but perfect amity with each other. But a relationship could not rely on that alone, wonderful as it was. She wondered how she would be able to do without it if she returned to Dunbarton alone. The same way as she had always lived without it, she supposed. But it would be difficult now that she knew what she would be missing. Not that she knew all or even most, she suspected. Each night it was different—and each night it was glorious.
When they were not about their separate pursuits in the daytime, they went walking or driving together in the park, visiting galleries, on picnics, and to one Venetian breakfast and one wedding at St. George’s. They spent their evenings at the theater, at soirées, concerts, balls, a literary evening. They had frequent invitations to dinner and entertained at their own home one evening. There was never a lack of company or of things to do.
There was one memorable encounter during the two weeks. Moira’s sister-in-law came face-to-face with her in the park one morning when she was with Lord Ainsleigh’s cousin and Moira was with Lady Rawleigh and Lady Baird. They all stopped to exchange civilities, and Moira was surprised to find that when they walked on, the other two ladies took the same direction as theirs and Helen maneuvered matters so that she walked with Moira, a little apart from the others.
“Mama is in high dudgeon,” she said after they had exhausted the topic of the weather. “That must have been quite a setdown you gave her.”
“I am sorry to have given that impression,” Moira said stiffly. “I merely wished her to understand that I am answerable for my behavior only to my husband.”
“Oh, Mama will recover,” Helen said. “She cannot bear to be out of favor with Kenneth, and he has given her an even mightier setdown, as you must know.”
Moira did not. She was curiously pleased.
“The point is,” Helen said, “that Michael has no sisters, only brothers. You are my only sister. And of course, I am yours. It would seem sad if we were to go through life as permanent enemies.”
“I did not realize until last Christmas that we were supposed to be enemies,” Moira said. “You once loved Sean, and so did I.”
“Until last Christmas,” Helen said, “until I went back to Dunbarton, and until I saw you, I did not realize how deeply wounded I had been by all that business with Sean. I married Michael within a year of it and I have grown truly fond of him. But perhaps it is only natural that one’s first love is lodged forever in one’s heart. I did love him, Moira. And you betrayed us. You told Kenneth that we were going to elope, and of course, being Kenneth, with his very powerful sense of responsibility, he felt obliged to tell Papa. And that was the end of it all.”
“I did not tell him you were going to elope,” Moira said, frowning. “I did not even know it myself. I told him only that you loved each other and were determined to wed. I thought he would be pleased. We also loved each other, you see, and I thought—mistakenly, as it turned out—that he meant to marry me too. I thought that together, the four of us would have a better chance persuading your father and mine.”
Helen laughed. “Who can know the truth of it now?” she said. “But you were a fool if you thought that, Moira. Our father would never have consented to any match between one of his children and a Hayes. Even apart from the feud, your father was a mere baronet and not a wealthy one at that. And Kenneth would not have lowered himself so.”
“Thank you,” Moira said curtly.
“I do not know what happened this year,” Helen said. “I do not know why Kenneth suddenly rushed home, married you, and returned to London without you. I suspect—but no matter. The point is that we are sisters, Moira, for better or for worse. If you will forgive my rudeness at Christmas, I will forgive you for betraying me. Perhaps I never would have been happy with Sean. I am very comfortable in
the society in which I move, you see. Anyway—what do you think?”
“I will forgive your rudeness,” Moira said.
“Oh, good.” Helen took her arm and squeezed it. “I do wish I could have heard what you said to Mama. No one ever stands up to her, you know, except Kenneth, who has always done it in that quiet, frosty way he has so perfected. I would not dare try. I still feel like an infant in leading strings when Mama speaks.”
“Doing it almost gave me heart palpitations,” Moira admitted. “But Kenneth had instructed me to remember who I am, and I had to do it. I cannot imagine a worse ignominy than having him believe me a coward.”
They both laughed with a shared delight.
“He may think it of me whenever he wishes,” Helen said. “He has always frankly terrified me. I believe he might have met his match in you, though. I do hope so. Men like Kenneth should not be allowed to go through life having their own way and reducing everyone in their path to jelly. Do you love him?”
“Yes,” Moira said after a short pause. She laughed. “But please do not tell him.”
Helen squeezed her arm again. “It will be our secret,” she said. “I do hope we can be friends in time, Moira. I have always wanted a sister. And I once expected her to be you.”
“I will hope so too, then,” Moira said. But it would not be easy, she knew. There would be an awkwardness between them for a while. And if she went home to Dunbarton without Kenneth, then all chance of amity between her and her in-laws would be at an end.
But it felt good to have sorted out her relationship with his family to a certain extent. Now, if only she could sort out her relationship with Kenneth himself.
* * *
KENNETH took his wife to the Egyptian Hall on Piccadilly one afternoon with the sole purpose of showing her the display of Napoleonic relics there, including Bonaparte’s bulletproof carriage, which had been captured after Waterloo. The Rawleighs were with them. He and Rex were not particularly eager for reminders of the war, Kenneth thought, but the ladies were. They had both expressed their curiosity at a dinner the evening before. They both wanted to know about their husbands’ lives for the past number of years.
