by Mary Balogh
They were going to go to Gunter’s for ices after they had gazed at the carriage with suitable awe and for a sufficient length of time. It was a sunny afternoon, and they were in a merry mood. But as they came out of the front doors and turned onto the street, Kenneth noticed a couple in very heavy mourning coming in the opposite direction. He bent his head closer to Moira’s.
“Do you see who is approaching?” he asked her.
“Oh,” she said after she had looked. “Oh, dear. Is there any way of escaping?”
“Too late,” he murmured and prepared to be cut cold by Sir Edwin Baillie.
But that gentleman, upon spying them, stopped in his tracks, made them a deep and deferential bow, and begged for the honor of presenting his companion to the Earl and Countess of Haverford. Lord and Lady Rawleigh walked tactfully onward.
Sir Edwin’s companion was his eldest sister, a plain and sensible-looking young lady who nevertheless looked quite awed by the honor that was being accorded her. Her brother tried to reassure her by reminding her that her ladyship, the Countess of Haverford and mistress of Dunbarton, the finest estate in Cornwall, was also her cousin and that therefore his lordship, the Earl of Haverford, hero of the wars that had stamped out tyranny from all of Europe and saved their fair England from the threat of invasion, was in a sense her cousin too—if his lordship would pardon the familiarity of such a claim.
His lordship pronounced himself pleased to make Miss Baillie’s acquaintance.
“And if you will pardon the further familiarity, my lord,” Sir Edwin continued, “as coming from a neighbor and a cousin and—I might make so bold as to say—a friend, might I commend you on the extreme kindness you have shown my dear cousin, Lady Haverford, in taking her as your wife?”
Kenneth pursed his lips and inclined his head. Moira stood very still beside him.
“You knew of my dreadful predicament on the demise of my dear and much lamented mother, my lord,” Sir Edwin said. “I had my grief to contend with and my sisters to settle and my affairs to set in order. I was unable to give the attention to my betrothed that any young woman of delicate birth delights in. I take it as the mark of a true friend—yes, I must insist upon the honor of so calling you, my lord—that you stepped in and released me from my predicament by marrying Miss Hayes—Lady Haverford, that is—yourself.”
“It was my pleasure, sir,” Kenneth murmured. It was a long time, he thought, since he had been so marvelously diverted.
Sir Edwin became suddenly aware of the vulgarity of engaging in a lengthy conversation in the middle of a public thoroughfare. He would not keep his lordship and her ladyship a moment longer. He bowed himself past them after explaining that business had necessitated his coming to town, but that despite the somberness of the occasion and the depth of his grief, he had thought it not quite disrespectful to the dearly departed to take his sister to view the relics of that monster in the defeat of whom his lordship had played such a distinguished part. He hoped his lordship would not accuse them of behaving in a spirit of too much levity so soon after their mama’s demise.
His lordship did not accuse them of anything at all.
“Well, Moira,” Kenneth said as they walked on to catch up with their friends.
“Oh, dear,” she said, “what do you expect me to say?”
“I am in fear and trembling,” he said, “lest you tell me you were making comparisons as we stood side by side and decided that you had made the wrong choice.”
“I do not believe this is a subject for a joke,” she said primly. “Besides, if you will remember, I had no choice.”
“Because you walked out into that infernal storm,” he said. But he could feel a quarrel coming on and Rex and his lady were not far ahead. Besides, he was feeling in too good a humor to enjoy a quarrel. “Was he not generosity itself, Moira? Commending me on marrying you? Considering it as a compliment to himself?”
“What did you expect him to say?” she asked. “I daresay he has as much pride as any other man.”
“What did I expect?” he said. “I am not sure. The man is unique in my experience. But I will tell you what I would have done if the situation had been reversed. I would have popped him a good one. I would have seen to it that his nose was protruding from the wrong side of his head before I bowed myself out of his sight.”
She stopped walking and pressed a closed fist to her nose and mouth. She closed her eyes tightly. But she was unable to contain what she tried so valiantly to contain. She exploded with laughter and shook with it, totally helpless, until tears were streaming down her cheeks.
“Dear me,” Kenneth said and then joined her.
“Oh, my side,” she wailed at last, clutching a hand to it. “Oh, Kenneth, is he not priceless?”
“For myself,” he said, “I would not disown him as a cousin for all the tea in China, or whatever more convincing cliché you can think of to substitute. And as for Sir Edwin himself, when he finally decides to honor some other young lady with his addresses, he will overpower her with awe by claiming kinship with the Earl of Haverford, master of Dunbarton, et cetera, et cetera.”
“And one must not forget,” Moira said, “that the late Mrs. Baillie was a Grafton of Hugglesbury.” She doubled over in another paroxysm of glee.
“Oh, dear me, no,” he said. “And how mortifying, Moira, if he should make boast of that fact before mentioning me.” He threw back his head and roared with laughter.
There was a delicate cough from nearby. “Do you intend to stand there for the rest of the afternoon, guffawing and making a spectacle of yourself, Ken?” Viscount Rawleigh asked.
“You should have stayed to be introduced,” Kenneth told him. “Sir Edwin Baillie would have been speechless with wonder and that would have been something to behold. Sir Edwin is Moira’s cousin with a couple of seconds or thirds and a few removes to make the relationship more palatable to her. And I tell you, Rex, he is positively my favorite cousin-in-law. Is he not, Moira?”
She was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief and looking embarrassed and self-conscious. But he grinned at her as he offered his arm. It was the first time in years that they had laughed together and been silly together. It felt wonderful to laugh and be silly with Moira.
* * *
THE Season had all but ended. Many people had already left town for their country estates or one of the spas. Most of those of the beau monde who remained would follow them within the next week or so. Nothing had been said between Moira and Kenneth about leaving—for obvious reasons. She would return to Dunbarton, of course. The only detail to be decided upon was the day of her departure. But would she go alone? It was a question of such significance that both of them avoided it and the setting of any date. But it would be soon.
It was a question they would face and answer after the night at Vauxhall. That night had been arranged well in advance, and it had been assumed among the members of the group that were to go that it would be the final celebration of the Season. Lord and Lady Rawleigh were to leave for Stratton Park the morning after, and Mr. and Mrs. Adams were to return to Derbyshire. Lord Pelham was going to Brighton the day after that. Moira suspected that he was taking a mistress with him, since there had been a loud silence when she had asked if Mr. Gascoigne was to accompany him. Mr. Gascoigne, it seemed, was to go home, as his father was ailing and there was still a sizable family to be managed.
Within three or four days of the Vauxhall evening, all their closest friends were going to be gone, Moira thought. Helen and Michael and her mother-in-law had already left. She would have to leave too. But first they must make a decision. She did not welcome the thought. She did not know what she wanted to do. But it was a problem she would put aside until after Vauxhall. Nothing must spoil that evening.
She had looked forward to all the entertainments of the Season and to seeing all the famous sights of London. But the best had be
en kept until last. Vauxhall, she had heard, was a magical place, especially at night when the pavilion was lit with numerous lamps and candles, and colored lamps swayed from the tree branches along the paths that the patrons strolled. There were boxes at the pavilion where one could sit and eat while listening to the musical entertainment. There was dancing there. And often there was a fireworks display.
Only the weather could spoil the evening. Moira watched it anxiously all through a heavily clouded morning and a partly cloudy afternoon. But the sky cleared with the coming of evening and the air seemed to grow warmer just at the time when one might have expected it to cool off.
“You look very lovely,” her husband said when she joined him in the hall.
“Thank you.” She smiled at him. She was wearing the only gown she had bought in London, an extravagance in lace and pale green satin that Catherine and Daphne between them had persuaded her into purchasing—not that she had needed much persuasion, it was true.
“The gown is new?” he asked, taking her warm shawl from her arm and wrapping it about her shoulders. “Have I received the bill for it yet?”
“I paid for it myself,” she said.
“You will present me with the bill tomorrow, then,” he said, handing her into the carriage and climbing in beside her. “Your allowance is for personal expenses, Moira. I will clothe you.”
She did not reply. It would be senseless to argue. And foolish. She should be delighted—the gown had been very costly. But she hated to be dependent upon a man. I will clothe you. There was something mortifying in the thought. She had been dependent upon a man all her life, of course—on her father, and more lately, on Sir Edwin Baillie. But this seemed different.
“It will always be so, ma’am,” he said, reading her thoughts, his voice rather cold, as it so frequently was. “There is no point in looking mulish. Even if you never see me again after this week, you will always be my wife.”
“My possession,” she said quietly. “You might as well say it aloud.”
“You will always be my possession,” he said curtly.
They were quarreling over his generosity. Was she mad? Even if you never see me again after this week. Panic threatened.
“There will be dancing tonight,” he said abruptly, changing the subject after a short, resentful silence. “Everyone will wish to dance with you—Rex and his brother, Baird, Nat, Eden. But I would waltz with you, Moira. The first after supper. You will reserve it for me.”
“That is a command, my lord?” she asked.
“Yes, by God, is it a command,” he said, sounding thoroughly irritated, but he looked at her sidelong as she was looking at him. It was something that had been happening between them occasionally—flashes of irritation deflected by a shared sense of humor.
“Then I need not agree to save it,” she said. “I have no choice anyway.”
“You are learning,” he said.
“Yes, my lord,” she replied meekly.
He continued to look at her sidelong without turning his head toward her.
Vauxhall, which they approached by water in company with the other members of their party, was everything Moira had expected and more. The lights from colored lamps shimmered across the surface of the Thames and when they entered the pleasure gardens there was the feeling of entering a fairy tale, of leaving the real world behind.
“Oh, Kenneth,” she said, gazing about her, looking upward into the tree branches, “have you ever seen anything lovelier?”
“Yes.” He covered her hand on his arm with his free hand. “Moonlight shining in a band across the sea at Tawmouth.”
Very daringly she had met him in the hollow above the cliffs after dark one evening and they had watched just the scene he had described, sitting side by side, his arm about her shoulders. He had kissed her, yet she had felt in no danger at all from him. Ah, the sweet innocence of youth.
He might never see Tawmouth again. She might live there alone—with her memories.
* * *
IT was a warm, only slightly breezy evening. Vauxhall Gardens was crowded with revelers, perhaps because the end of the Season had arrived and everyone was making much of the last few entertainments available to them. They had done all that people did at Vauxhall: They had strolled along the shady paths in couples before supper, though none of them had walked with their own spouses; they had listened to the orchestra play Handel; they had eaten the thin slices of ham and the strawberries and drunk the champagne for which the Gardens were famous; they had conversed and laughed; they had danced.
There was a feeling almost of desperation about the evening—at least there was for Kenneth. It was not a particularly pleasant prospect that all these friends of theirs would disperse to various parts of the country within the next two days. There was no knowing when they would meet again. But that sadness was nothing in comparison to the greatest uncertainty of all. Would he and Moira also be going their separate ways? He would know soon. They could not postpone the decision much longer. Tomorrow—they must make it tomorrow.
They both knew it. They were both determinedly merry tonight. They had not sat beside each other in the box Sir Clayton Baird had reserved. They had not walked together or danced together. They had not once looked into each other’s eyes. But the orchestra was about to play a waltz—at last. And it was after supper. He stood and fixed his eyes upon her for the first time. She was laughing over something Eden was saying to her, but she sobered immediately and looked up at him.
“This is my waltz, I believe, Moira,” he said, holding out a hand for hers.
“Yes.” She looked at his hand for a few moments before setting her own in it. She was not smiling when she stood up, as she had smiled all evening. The very air seemed to sizzle with tension. Surely they must all feel it, Kenneth thought. Indeed, it seemed that everyone in the box fell silent and watched the two of them leave together to waltz.
* * *
“WELL,” Mr. Gascoigne said, “what is the verdict on those two?”
“My guess is,” Lord Pelham said, “that the lady does not allow herself to be easily dominated. Our Ken would not like that.”
“I would have to agree with you, Eden,” Viscount Rawleigh said. “He would not like it at all. But I do believe he might be caught by it. Irrevocably caught.”
“I would say that she certainly does not like being dominated,” Lady Baird said, “and that Lord Haverford, if he is wise, would relax that cold, rather domineering manner of his.”
“But he does it so very handsomely, Daphne, you must confess,” Lady Rawleigh said with a laugh. “And I believe Moira is quite competent to deal with it. Besides, they love each other. That is as plain as the nose on my face.”
“Ah, a woman’s answer,” Mr. Adams said. “They love each other and all has been said.” He smiled affectionately at his sister-in-law.
“It will not be a tranquil marriage,” Mr. Gascoigne said.
“Quite frankly, Nat,” Lord Rawleigh said, “I do not believe Ken could endure a tranquil marriage.”
“They certainly know how to laugh together, anyway,” Lady Rawleigh said, exchanging an amused smile with her husband.
“They are sure to live happily ever after, then,” Sir Clayton said, getting to his feet. “Come and waltz, Daph?”
22
“YOU are enjoying yourself?” Kenneth asked Moira after he had led her onto the dancing floor before the pavilion.
“Immensely,” she said. “I knew this would be a lovely place and a wonderful evening. I have not been disappointed. And dancing in the outdoors is the most delicious thing to do. I wish I could dance all night. May we dance until dawn, my lord?” She lifted one hand to set lightly on his shoulder and set the other in his.
“I hope not,” he said. “I have other plans for what remains of the night after we arrive home.”
The mus
ic began and she moved smoothly with him into the rhythm of the waltz. They had danced with each other so few times since her arrival in town. This was their first waltz together since the Dunbarton ball. All the doubts ever expressed about the propriety of the waltz were thoroughly well-founded, he thought.
“Ah, yes,” she said in response to what he had said a few moments before. “And that will be more enjoyable by far than dancing.”
He twirled her about. He could not take his eyes from her. She was again that vivid girl who had scorned convention and had said boldly whatever was in her thoughts. But he could not quite believe the evidence of his own ears on this occasion. She was flirting with him, he realized. Flirting not as other ladies of his acquaintance flirted—with fluttering eyelashes and soulful eyes and parted lips—but as the boldest courtesan might flirt. But then, what else would he have expected of Moira?
“In many ways,” he said, “it bears a remarkable resemblance to dancing. In this waltz, you see, you have fit yourself comfortably to my rhythm.”
“It is not difficult,” she said, “to follow the lead of a man who moves with such confident skill.”
“There is nothing,” he said, bending his head a little closer to hers, “better designed to bring mutual pleasure to two people than a dance in which they move as one.”
“Except,” she said, her voice almost a whisper, “that which bears a remarkable resemblance to dancing.”
The minx! She was not going to relinquish mastery to him, then. She was not to be disconcerted by risqué conversation. She made outrageous love to him with her eyes and with her words. He had almost forgotten their surroundings. He remembered them now and put a little more distance between them. Their bodies had been almost touching.
