A Marriage of Notoriety

by Diane Gaston

  Phillipa took the opportunity to write letters of her own, to her brothers, to Felicia, and even to her father, who was not likely to care much. They had not finished their task when a footman brought Lady Piermont her mother’s response.

  Phillipa was confident that her mother would refuse the invitation. She never went anywhere on short notice. She kept writing as her mother-in-law opened the note.

  ‘Oh, excellent!’ the lady cried. ‘Your mother accepted.’

  ‘She accepted?’ She did not wish to face her mother.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Lady Piermont went on. ‘She is going to bring a friend. General Henson. I do remember him from Brighton several years ago.’

  Of course her mother would bring General Henson.

  ‘Isn’t that lovely?’ Lady Piermont exclaimed.

  Phillipa stifled a groan. ‘She will expect me to dress. I should get a note to my maid to send over a dinner dress.’

  Lady Piermont rose to her feet. ‘Nonsense. You are similar in size to me. I will wager I have a dress that will fit you.’

  She led Phillipa up the stairs to her bedchamber. Phillipa longed to ask the woman if she and her husband shared a bed, if their marriage had been a love match, or had they made it one after the ceremony?

  Lord Piermont was a handsome, silver-haired man with kind blue eyes as brilliant as his son’s, but it was clear that most of Xavier’s looks came from his mother. In her early sixties at least, her dark brown hair was only threaded with grey. Her lips were full like Xavier’s and her face was oval, like his. Like her son’s, her nose was straight and perfectly formed. She moved with grace, as did he, although in a masculine way.

  She was tall, like Phillipa, and slender. Though her waist was thicker—she’d had eight children, after all—Phillipa thought a dress of hers might, indeed, fit her.

  Lady Piermont summoned her maid and instructed her what gowns to bring. One was a lilac silk with embroidered flowers in matching thread on the bodice and puffed sleeves so unusually made they reminded Phillipa of lace, but it was just the fabric.

  Lady Piermont smiled. ‘I see by your eyes you like this one. Let us have you try it on.’

  The maid helped her into the dress and both she and Lady Piermont pulled and tucked the fabric.

  ‘It needs only a leetle bit of sewing.’ The maid spoke in a French accent.

  Phillipa gazed in a full-length mirror and thought it looked lovely—if you looked at the dress, that is, not at her. ‘I do like it.’

  ‘I have a leetle something to make you look très belle, madame.’ The maid touched her scar. ‘We paint this and it disappears. Voila!’

  Phillipa covered the scar with her hand. Her mother had always suggested she paint her face to make her scar less visible, but she always resisted. If people wished to meet her, then they would have to take her precisely as she was.

  But no one at this dinner had seen her any other way than scarred.

  Or masked.

  * * *

  Late in the afternoon Xavier came to collect Phillipa so they could walk back to the gaming house and dress for dinner, only to find Phillipa had made other arrangements. Or his mother had done.

  ‘We shall surprise you,’ his mother said, sending him off.

  He returned and found the surprise. Phillipa’s mother...and General Henson. Surely this would not please Phillipa.

  ‘Lady Westleigh.’ Xavier bowed. ‘General.’

  They were alone in the drawing room, which was fortunate. He did not mind speaking frankly.

  Lady Westleigh greeted him warmly. ‘Xavier, my boy! I am in raptures that you succeeded in convincing Phillipa to do the right thing. It was wrong of her to decline in the first place.’

  Xavier glared at her. ‘No. You were in the wrong to deprive her of her pianoforte. Wrong and cruel.’

  ‘See here, Campion!’ the general piped up.

  Lady Westleigh motioned for him to keep quiet. ‘It is all right, Alistair. Xavier and I may speak with frankness.’ She turned back to Xavier. ‘If you are blessed with children, you may then choose to criticise me. You will learn that sometimes a parent must be cruel for a child’s own good.’

  ‘She is a grown woman who knows her own mind,’ he countered. ‘You made it impossible for her to do as she wished.’

  ‘I made her see what was best for her. To see what her life would be like if she remained a spinster, subject to the whims of her relations.’ She spoke with conviction. ‘She made the right choice. Although she made a terrible mistake to keep the wedding secret. It ought to have taken place amongst family and special guests. She ought to have had a wedding breakfast.’

  ‘I am grateful she could choose for herself how to be married,’ he countered. ‘She did not want to pretend a celebration she did not feel.’

  Lady Westleigh rolled her eyes in exasperation. ‘She has been running from attention since—since you-know-when. How could she expect to get married if she hid herself away?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I did what needed to be done and now all is as it should be.’

  Except that Phillipa had not wished to marry him and he would need to work hard to convince her not to regret it.

  His father entered the room. Xavier presented the general to him.

  ‘We’ve met.’ His father shook the general’s hand. ‘In Brighton. Years ago, I am certain of it.’

  ‘That is so, my lord,’ the general responded. ‘I’d not expected you to recall it. So long ago.’

  The two men talked of mutual acquaintances until Xavier’s mother came and more greetings took place. They were all talking at once when Phillipa walked in.

  Xavier was first to notice her.

  She wore a flowing gown in a light purple colour that make her skin look luminous. It seemed to flow around her, like a dress a fairy might dance in. Her hair, too, looked fanciful, curls floating around her face, moving when she moved.

  Her gaze went directly to him. He crossed the room to her, leaned down to her ear and whispered, ‘You look lovely, Phillipa.’

  Her hand flew to her cheek and she lowered her eyes.

  ‘There she is,’ his father boomed. ‘Our new daughter! And does she not look a treat!’

  His mother came up to Xavier’s side and took his arm. ‘I told you we had a surprise for you.’

  He blew out a breath. ‘I thought the surprise was her mother.’

  She laughed. ‘I suppose that was a surprise as well, wasn’t it?’

  A footman poured glasses of claret and handed one to each of them. ‘A toast to our new member of the family.’ His father lifted his glass. ‘May she and our son be happy and fruitful!’

  Xavier tapped his glass against Phillipa’s. ‘Happy and fruitful,’ he repeated in a low voice.

  After the toast, Phillipa’s mother walked up to her. ‘Phillipa, dear.’ She touched Phillipa’s cheek. ‘You have applied cosmetics. Well done.’

  ‘Very well done,’ added the general. ‘You can hardly see the scar.’

  Phillipa’s face turned red.

  Xavier stared at her again. He’d not noticed what was immediately obvious to her mother.

  * * *

  The dinner went well enough. Lady Westleigh enquired about all the details of the wedding, which Xavier was obliged to tell.

  Except he said nothing about the music played during their nuptials, nor did he tell them about her new pianoforte.

  Lady Westleigh asked to see Phillipa’s ring and Phillipa, her expression frozen on her face, extended her hand.

  ‘Oh my!’ her mother exclaimed. ‘That is quite a ring.’

  Xavier felt a quiet triumph.

  When Phillipa put her hand back at her side, Xavier clasped it. She squeezed his fingers in return, a small gesture, but enough to cheer h
im.

  * * *

  After dinner they were forced to accept a ride in Lady Westleigh’s carriage.

  ‘I do think you should not be living atop a gaming house, Phillipa,’ her mother said. ‘It will cause talk.’

  ‘No one will know unless you tell them,’ Phillipa countered.

  Xavier admired her. For the whole evening, Phillipa had more than held her own with her mother. The only time Xavier had seen her mother rattle her had been with the comment about her scar.

  The ride was a short one, thank God. And they were soon back at the Masquerade Club. Phillipa covered her face with the netting on her hat when they entered.

  The place was already abuzz with activity. There was not much to do in London at this time of year, so those remaining there used the Masquerade Club as their entertainment.

  Xavier and Phillipa hurried inside and climbed the stairs to the private rooms. Once inside the bedchamber, Xavier helped Phillipa off with her coat.

  ‘Tomorrow I must send for my maid,’ she said.

  He grinned at her. ‘I take it my services are unsatisfactory?’

  She coloured. ‘I hate to trouble you.’

  Could he not even jest with her? ‘It is my pleasure to help you. I can help you out of your dress before I go downstairs, if you wish it.’

  She frowned. ‘I thought I would go to the supper room and play.’ She faltered. ‘With your permission, that is.’

  He put his hands on her shoulders and made her look at him. ‘You do not need my permission. Play, if that is what you want to do. We have missed you in the supper room.’

  She lifted her chin. ‘But I do not want anyone to know who I am. Who I am to you. I want to wear a mask, the same as before.’

  ‘I’ll let Cummings, MacEvoy, Belinda and anyone they might have told to keep mum about who you are.’ He stroked her neck with his thumbs. ‘Who you are to me.’

  Suddenly he wished for nothing else but to share her bed and try again to please her with lovemaking.

  * * *

  When a masked Phillipa entered the supper room carrying her music, she expected nothing more than to sit at the pianoforte and play.

  The room was unchanged from when she’d last been there, even though her life had gone topsy-turvy. Some of her regulars sat at their regular tables, Mr Anson and Mr Everard among them.

  Anson rose when she entered the room. ‘Miss Songstress! You are back!’

  Others also rose and soon she was encircled by a throng of gentlemen, all asking questions of where she’d been. Had she been ill? Had she been in Brighton? On the Continent? Was she back to stay?

  She laughed, more gratified by her reception than she wanted to admit. ‘I am well. I was not ill. I was away, but I am back.’

  She asked them about their lives in the past weeks. She was a bit sad to see Mr Everard here still. It meant that Lady Faville was also still here and that Everard was still pining for a woman who did not see he existed.

  Phillipa knew all too well what it was like to be invisible.

  As the wife of Xavier Campion, she would no more be overlooked. She would merely be talked about.

  ‘What would you like me to play?’ she asked her admirers.

  They all wanted her to sing, which she did not mind, but it was her skill on the pianoforte that was the more important to her.

  She sat and played and, as before, knew the instant Xavier appeared in the doorway. With him was the ever-present Lady Faville. They still made the perfect couple. How much more suited to each other were they than Phillipa was to Xavier. Xavier, though, walked away from Lady Faville and stood alone to watch Phillipa play. He did not stay long, but he had never stayed long when his duties lay primarily in the gaming room.

  * * *

  During her break Lady Faville approached her. ‘Miss Songstress! I have missed you so! It has not been at all the same here without you.’ She laughed charmingly. ‘You can see I am still here, still making a cake of myself over dear Xavier. He is more comfortable with me now, I think, so I am progressing, I suppose.’ She took a breath. ‘But you must tell me all about where you have been. I do hope it has been for a romance!’

  The beauty did not give Phillipa much of a chance to respond. ‘I have been away, that is all. Now I am back.’

  Lady Faville laughed again. ‘Oh, so secretive. Yes. It must have been for romance. I hope soon to have a romance of my own to keep secret!’

  What would Lady Faville think if she knew the object of her desires had married? She would find out, perhaps that very morning if she read the Morning Post. Phillipa could almost feel sorry for her.

  ‘Well, I suppose I ought to return to the gaming room. Xavier will be wondering where I am, no doubt.’ Lady Faville gave Phillipa her most beaming smile. ‘Please do say I will see you again tomorrow?’

  ‘I think so,’ Phillipa managed before the lady turned and swept out of the room, all masculine eyes following her every move.

  * * *

  By the time the last card players finished their game, dawn’s light was appearing in the sky. Daphne and three gentlemen who were obviously vying for her favour finally stacked the cards and scooped up their counters. The croupiers running the tables had already left and the only other person in the room was a very weary Mr Everard seated at a table near the door.

  And Xavier.

  She laughed her musical laugh and glanced his way. He stood, arms crossed over his chest, impatient to go upstairs.

  And join his wife in bed.

  Maybe this would be the last he’d see of Daphne. He could hope anyway. He’d done nothing to encourage her, but still she attended the Masquerade Club several nights a week with the poor, faithful Mr Everard in tow. Xavier had made it clear her interest in him would never be returned, but still she persisted. Flirting with other men in hopes that he would become jealous. Always at his side at some point in the night lest he forget her.

  The other men left the room while she handed her counters to Everard. ‘Will you turn these in for me? And have Cummings fetch my cloak?’

  Of course Everard would.

  And, of course, Daphne would linger, giving herself an opportunity to speak to him.

  She came too close. ‘I won tonight, is that not marvellous?’

  She more often lost. ‘Very good, Daphne. You are the last to leave. Please do not dally. I am eager to go to bed.’

  Her voice turned low and breathy. ‘Why, Xavier, is that an invitation?’

  His face grew hot. ‘You know it is not. You waste your time here, Daphne. I have made that clear from the beginning. You’ve compromised your reputation for nothing, coming to this gaming house.’

  ‘What we once had together cannot be changed.’ She touched the lapel of his coat.

  He pushed her hand away. ‘It was nothing then and it is nothing now. It never will be.’

  He walked out of the room, but waited on the other side of the doorway to close the door after she finally walked out.

  She approached him again, putting her arms around his neck. ‘Change your mind, Xavier. Come home with me.’

  Mr Everard was waiting with her cloak. His features twisted in agony.

  Xavier seized Daphne’s wrists and peeled her off, not gently. ‘Stop this, Daphne!’

  She looked for a moment as if she would cry, but she collected herself and, instead, smiled brightly. ‘Eventually you will stop being angry at me. I will be waiting right here.’

  With any luck, in a few hours she would read the Morning Post. Seeing the marriage announcement would convince her.

  Daphne allowed Everard to place her cloak on her shoulders and escort her to the door. Cummings opened it and they left.

  ‘Are they the last to go?’ he asked Cummings.

 
The man nodded.

  ‘Thank God.’ He crossed the hall to the stairs. ‘Do you and MacEvoy need me any further?’

  ‘No.’ Cummings gestured to the stairs. ‘Go to your wife.’

  Xavier grinned and clapped him on the back. ‘With pleasure!’

  He climbed the stairs with renewed energy and quietly opened the door to the bedchamber.

  She would be in bed. Asleep, of course, and he would try not to disturb her, but he greatly wanted the comfort of her lovely body sleeping next to him. Once inside the room, his senses heightened as he caught sight of her, exactly where he expected, curled up on her side, her hair in a loose plait that he longed to take apart and wind through his fingers.

  He washed his face and hands and brushed his teeth, trying to be as quiet as possible. It was a novel experience to be thinking of another’s sleep instead of his own. He quite liked it. He quickly shed his clothing and laid it on a chair. Eager for her warmth, he climbed into bed, moving close to her. To his delight, she nestled against him and even though her nightdress prevented him from the glorious contact with her skin, he was content. He put his arm around her and, too tired for words, fell instantly to sleep.

  * * *

  A voice roused him from slumber. ‘No, Mama. Wait for me, Mama. Wait for me.’

  Phillipa was talking in her sleep. She sounded exactly as he remembered her sounding on that fateful day in Brighton.

  She thrashed about. ‘Mama! Mama!’

  Should he wake her?

  She cried out again, ‘No!’ and sat straight up in bed, blinking.

  The dream had jolted her awake.

  He sat up, too. ‘You were having a dream.’

  She peered at him as if puzzled to see him there. ‘You slept with me?’

  ‘Yes.’ He wanted to touch her, but hesitated. ‘We are married, remember.’

  She could not meet his gaze. ‘I just thought—’ She waved a hand. ‘Never mind what I thought.’

  He could not resist. He reached over and swept some loose curls from her face. ‘What was the dream?’

  She lifted her hands to her head. ‘It was as though I was there again.’ She stared into his eyes. ‘Xavier.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘I—I remembered something.’