Fully aware of their onlookers, Rory took his time and held his anger in tight rein. “I would take offense at your using my wife as a subject for speculation, but you weren’t worth the challenge. But just in case you think I take the matter lightly, I will leave you with one reminder.”
Rory had backed the man against the terrace wall. Ignoring sputtering protests, he caught the peacock’s embroidered lapels in both fists and lifted the dandy into the air. Before anyone could interfere, Rory tipped him over the wall and into the shrubbery below.
Dusting his hands off and straightening his coat, Rory raised a quizzical eyebrow at the elegantly garbed gentlemen staring at him. Over the cries of the furious dandy below, he announced, “As a heathen Scot, I reserve my claymore for the field of battle, but I would be happy to meet any of you gentlemen there, should you abuse my wife’s name again. Now, if you will excuse me . . .”
He stalked past his audience, leaving them to stare in amazement at the scene just inside the windows where Rory’s supposedly daft heiress was in animated conversation with the intellectual Dr. Johnson.
As he joined his wife, Rory heard one of the peacock’s friends crow: “That’s ten quid, Neville. The lady has a penchant for heathen Scots and dirty old men. You’ll not get near her again.”
The curses below multiplied with the sounds of laughter above. Rory merely offered his arm to his wife without looking back.
In silent agreement, they bade farewell to their hostess and ordered the carriage around.
Alyson sent her silent husband a sidelong glance as he waited for the carriage to appear. She wasn’t quite certain what he had said to the obnoxious young man he had taken outside, but she could see no anger in him. She simply enjoyed this opportunity to be with her husband and act as if they were a normal married couple.
Once inside the carriage, it was another matter entirely. Deirdre’s equipment was narrow and confined, and even though Rory sat across from her, their knees were constantly bumping. This proximity was too similar to their first encounter. Alyson sought a topic of conversation to ease their ride through the darkened city streets.
“Have you known Dr. Johnson long?” she tried tentatively.
“Just this evening. I thought perhaps you might be familiar with some of his works.”
“I fear he is a little above my head, but I would like to see his dictionary. Imagine trying to write down all the words in the language and their meanings. It would take a lifetime.”
Rory made no reply to that, and Alyson pursed her lips and stared at the street also. The one carriage lamp did little to define his shadowed features, but she knew his face well. It was infinitely preferable to stare at the street than to confront her emotions when she looked upon her husband.
“I have not seen Cranville since the day we arrived.” Alyson broached a subject she had contemplated uneasily for some time. “Do you think he has returned to Cornwall?”
“If he has any sense at all, yes, he ought to be in Cornwall by now.”
Alyson scanned his face in the darkness. He was watching her, waiting for her to ask the next question. Annoyed that he offered nothing unless she pried it from him first, she contemplated asking nothing, but her curiosity was too strong.
“What did you threaten him with?”
“Debtors’ prison. I bought up all his debts, then offered him a quarterly stipend from your grandfather’s trust if he would go back to Cornwall. He protested, but I believe Mr. Farnley convinced him I am not quite the blackguard he envisioned, at least where you are concerned.”
Alyson tried to sort out this information, but she understood only that her cousin would not bother her again as long as he was well paid. She wrinkled up her nose. “I think I would rather see him in prison.”
“I gathered that.” Rory gave her a wry smile. “But it would in all likelihood entail my joining him if he chose to return the charges, and then he could file suit against the will. I didn’t think you’d object to the first, but the latter would cost you more in legal fees than you are currently paying the villain.”
He had not consulted her in this use of her money, but it was his money now, she understood. He could do whatever he liked with it. She could only be grateful that he didn’t choose to pension her off as he had Cranville.
“I trust you have collected on my voucher and destroyed it by now. I would hate to have you holding that threat over my head again,” she said with anger.
Quietly he replied, “I gave the voucher to Mr. Farnley. You need not worry more about it.”
He made no excuses and no apologies, Alyson noticed. He had just stepped in and taken over her life, and expected her to accept it without question or complaint. And so far, she had. Closing her eyes in an agony of despair, she fought back the tears. All she had wanted was a home and someone to love. How had it come to this?
The carriage wheel hit a large hole, throwing them together with a jolt. Rory braced his feet and caught Alyson by the waist. The intimate placement of his hands sent a nervous chill down her spine. She shivered and tore her gaze away from the dark desire heating her husband’s eyes. Not again. Never again. She shrank back against the seat.
Rory yanked his hands away and shoved them in his pockets. The sooner he left her, the better it would be for both of them.
25
The seamstress frowned as she tried to lace Alyson’s gown so the final fitting could be made. “If madam would hold her breath a little more . . .” she suggested.
Absently staring at the window beyond her mirror, Alyson tried to oblige. The modiste stepped forward, enraged, to box the servant’s ear.
“Fool! Can you do nothing right? The lady is as slim as a willow wand. All my gowns fit her to perfection. Why you cannot perform so simple a task . . .” Muttering, she pulled the rose silk skirt more snugly over Alyson’s hips, adjusted the stomacher to her satisfaction, then began to pull the stiffly boned bodice tight. The modiste stared in disbelief at the resulting gap.
“This cannot be! I took the measurements myself. There must be some mistake. Those fools have sewn the seams too tightly.” Muttering curses in an unknown tongue, she hastily unlaced the bodice.
A small frown formed on Alyson’s brow. Bored with the collection of lovely gowns she had accumulated in these last weeks, she had little concern that this latest would not be ready for the ball tonight. There were certain to be a dozen others she could wear. But she feared the modiste would vent her rage further on the poor cowering seamstress. She didn’t think she would ever accustom herself to the violence in which most of the population of this city lived.
“Perhaps the measurements could be taken again and the seams let out accordingly,” she suggested. “It is not necessary that I wear this tonight.”
Still frowning, but not daring to refuse the request of her best paying customer, the modiste whipped out her measuring tape and waited impatiently as the seamstress removed the gown and petticoats. “I know full well I used those measurements last month to create milady’s silver gown, and it fitted without a flaw. The problem is the worthless help one has to hire nowadays.”
With a grudging “harrumph,” she pulled the tape around Alyson’s bosom. “My lady is always a joy to dress. No padding or extra boning is ever needed. The silk should lie in gentle folds like a lover’s caress . . .” The modiste stared in horror at the measurement her tape recorded and sniffed in disapproval.
“My lady should have informed me she was enceinte. The seams could have been made wider to adjust. I will somehow contrive to arrange it, but the gown may not be ready until late.”
Alyson’s cheeks warmed at the woman’s tone, but she was not certain she understood her meaning. Not wishing to show her ignorance, she kept silent, and it was with relief that she saw the pair out the door.
When they were gone, she glanced down uncertainly at her figure, outlined in the brief silk chemise. There did seem to be a slight rounding where there never had been one bef
ore, but she had been terribly idle and eating a great deal too much of late. She would grow fat if she were not careful. Even her breasts felt tight and uncomfortable beneath the scanty covering of the loose chemise. She hoped her other gowns would still fit.
In a sudden panic, she flew to the wardrobe to draw out the silver gown created last month. Hastily she pulled the lovely skirts over her head, not daring to call her maid for assistance. This was something she would have to discover for herself. She pulled the bodice down until it cupped her breasts, and reached behind her to try to tighten the laces. It was an impossible job even if the bodice fitted, which it didn’t. Alyson gave up in dismay as she watched her bosom practically spilling from the décolletage.
Trying not to panic, Alyson nervously discarded the gown and put on a new day frock created only last week. It fitted to perfection. Examining herself in the mirror, she could see none of the telltale signs revealed by the thin chemise. Fewer sweets and a little more exercise, she vowed. But for the sake of reassurance, she went in search of Deirdre.
She found Rory’s aunt in the small sitting room. Deirdre smiled and continued weaving her needle through the cloth. “Is the gown all ready, then? The color should look magnificent on you. I can’t wait to see it.”
Alyson shrugged and picked up the book she had left there before the modiste arrived. “There is some complication that may not be corrected in time. I’m rather tired today. Perhaps I should stay home. Captain Rogers will be coming for you, won’t he?”
Deirdre shot her a quick look. “You seem pale today. And you’ve never backed out of an invitation. Is something wrong? Perhaps just a quick visit from a physician . . .”
Alyson waved away this suggestion. “I have never needed the services of a physician. I am fine. I don’t believe Rory plans to attend this function, so I just thought I could beg off.” She tried to hide her frustration at not being able to ask the question she had come to ask.
Deirdre nodded knowingly. “The two of you seldom have much time together. You are quite right. I will give your excuses to our hostess. I would certainly like to know what that young scamp did to bring all your admirers into line, but they have been rather cautious lately, haven’t they?”
That was an understatement, but not one Alyson would argue with. All the eager young men who had crowded around her in those first weeks had depleted to a few bold ones who would squire her on the dance floor but leave her in Deirdre’s company afterward. If she’d ever had any idea of learning if men were capable of love, her chances had become visibly dimmer since that last ball Rory had attended. She didn’t mind, though. She had seen no man who could interest her in the way that Rory did.
Restlessly Alyson started for the door, book in hand. Almost as an afterthought, she turned to ask, “What does enceinte mean?” She pronounced the French carefully, hoping to convey the sound correctly.
Deirdre’s eyes widened as she looked up from her needlework. “Enceinte? Who is enceinte?”
“I would tell you if I knew what it meant,” Alyson answered with patience. “My governess tried to teach me French, but I never saw the purpose in learning.”
“Ah, that will not do. You will never know what people are whispering behind your back if you do not speak French. We will hire a tutor to teach you the phrases you should have. Enceinte means someone is with child. Who? You aren’t by any chance enceinte, are you? I’m rather looking forward to a baby in the house someday.”
Alyson drifted toward the door again. “Lady Douglas is enceinte. Perhaps I could learn just a few phrases.” She left the room without answering Deirdre’s other question. She didn’t want to lie, she just didn’t know.
With child. Pregnant. That was the word she remembered being whispered in her grandfather’s kitchen when the servants thought she didn’t hear. The way they had whispered it had made it sound like something awful until Cook had scoffed and said that having a baby wasn’t nothing no woman hadn’t suffered before. She had tried to listen closer, but their talk of the apparent sinner not having monthly napkins to wash had left her bewildered at the time. The conversation made more sense now.
Alyson shut her bedroom door and stared at the dresser with the neatly folded linen cloths she had not needed since Charleston. She had learned how to fashion makeshift ones from rags on that first voyage, and had worried about doing so again on the second, but her worries had been for naught. Her monthly courses had never come. She had assumed it had something to do with what Rory had done to her, and she had been right. But not in the way she had imagined.
Sinking into the nearest chair, she held her hands to her burning face. She had suspected what they had done together could make a baby, and Rory had as much as confirmed it. Did it happen so easily, then? Just those nights on the ship . . . ? Her cheeks grew hotter as she remembered how many times they had turned to each other in those nights. Their need had seemed insatiable. And all that time Rory had known he could be planting his child inside her.
She wanted to feel rage. She wanted to summon indignation. She wanted to remember Rory’s betrayal and not the feel of his arms around her, his kisses upon her face as he made her body quake with his passion. He had tricked her, seduced her for money, and now neglected her when he had what he wanted. The child would merely be a guarantee against annulment.
But all those cynical thoughts could not change the awe she felt. She was going to have a baby. Rory’s baby. Her hand covered the small rounding of her abdomen as if to test this change inside her body. She could be wrong. It could be that something else was wrong with her, but she knew it was not. A child was already growing and taking shape inside her, a child to whom Rory had given his name.
Giving a sigh of relief that she did not have to bear her mother’s shame, Alyson sat back in the chair and closed her eyes. She didn’t know what she would do now, but she had never known before, either. Each new day brought a different surprise. She would have to think about this one for a while.
***
Rory tilted his chair back, took a sip of port, and eyed his table companion with disfavor. “English politics are not for the likes of me. I’m a simple man with simple wants. Sword fighting, I know. Playing the courtier, I don’t.”
Samuel Johnson pushed his cane against the empty chair between them. “You damned Scots always want to bash heads instead of use them. Think, man! That weak-minded grandson of the king will someday inherit the throne, and Prince Georgie Porgie does nothing without Bute’s approval. Bute is a Scot and a lot more likely to support your cause than your English cousin’s. It certainly can’t hurt to court his favor.”
Rory scowled. “Bute is an ass, even if he is a fellow countryman. I don’t want to be anywhere around if he comes into power. If I can’t buy back my estate, I’ll sail for the colonies, where George’s long hand can’t reach so quickly.”
Johnson whacked his stick against the chair. “If your whole damned country is stocked with fools such as you, I’ll make certain not to visit it. What of the charges in the Admiralty, then? What of your wife, sir? How will she fare while you starve in the colonies? And if you think Parliament will not drain every ounce from the colonies that it can, you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
Rory sighed and lifted his drink again. Farnley had said much the same thing, but it went against the grain. Once, he had been a student of medicine with the glorious intention of saving the world from disease. He had become a soldier by force, but he had learned to survive. Now the fates would make a courtier of him, when all he wished to do was return home and make a living for himself and his family.
But even the return to his home was fraught with politics. And if there were any way of removing his cousin Drummond from his estate without physically dragging him, it would be best to consider it. Johnson was right. He did have a wife to consider now, for a while longer than he had expected, it seemed.
He wondered how long it would take before Alyson quit being noble and sought the annulm
ent she had threatened him with once before.
26
Rory spent the next days managing the intricacies of Alyson’s extensive inheritance and the nights pursuing his own goals. He had never been a stranger to hard work, but for some reason, his work seemed increasingly shallow.
Rory pushed himself harder, until even Deirdre looked at him with reproach. If he had his way, he’d not be around for his aunt to frown at. He needed to personally investigate the complaints of the tenants in Bath and to oversee the loading of the ships in Plymouth, but the ever-present threat of the Admiralty case kept him tied to London.
Alyson was a pale ghost who occasionally slipped by him in the hallway. It tore his heart in two to watch her turn away at his approach, but he felt closer to his goal than he had in years. Alyson could have no place in those plans, even had she wanted one, which she obviously did not. She had a life of her own now. He often saw her out on the street, laughing at some dandy, shopping with her new friends, slipping into a bookseller’s for the latest publications. She couldn’t have all that where he was going.
On the twenty-fifth of October, the bells of every church in London tolled and agitated crowds streamed into the streets. Alyson was at home when the messenger arrived at the door and the servants added their wails to the cacophony.
She looked up in astonishment. Before she could so much as mutter, “What on earth?” the drawing-room door burst open and the butler intoned formally, “The king is dead, my lady. Shall I hang out the bunting?”
When Rory came home later that day, he found both Deidre and Alyson waiting for him. He regaled them with the tale circulating the coffeehouses—that the king had strained so hard over the pot that his heart had burst, but he hid his elation. King George II had destroyed the Maclean home and family. Rory did not regret the fat old man’s passing. He didn’t rejoice in the prospect of the foolish young king either, but he had followed up on Johnson’s stratagem of playing up to the new prince. He now had promises from the prince’s court that meant freedom. Soon he could return to Scotland.
Moon Dreams Page 26
