by Brenda Hiatt
Harry regarded her thoughtfully. “You implied you would be happy enough to go on as we’ve done, living separate lives. Even should the truth out, we’d by no means be the only married couple to take that course. Wellington himself is a prime example, as it’s well known he and his wife have lived apart for years. We could simply agree to do the same.”
“Yes. That does seem the most reasonable solution.” Her obvious relief was less than flattering, though Harry knew he should feel the same. “After all,” she continued, “we were little more than children when we first met—I but nineteen and you not much older. Young and rash enough to play with fire, with the expected consequence. Surely we have both paid a severe enough penalty already for that youthful mistake?”
He’d never considered his time with Xena a mistake, though her father’s learning of it certainly had been. Still, the course she suggested made sense, involving the least disruption to both their lives.
“Very well, we’re agreed, then.” Oddly, Harry did not feel nearly the satisfaction he ought to. “Shall we shake on it?” He held out his hand as he would to another man.
She hesitated only an instant before taking it. Though her grip was firm for a woman’s, her hand felt distractingly small and soft in his. After a quick shake, she rather hastily let go and took half a step toward the door.
Harry felt strangely unwilling to let her go just yet, however. “If we are not to speak again after tonight, might I take this opportunity to appease my curiosity? What sort of life do you lead now, Xena? I was nearly as surprised to hear you’ve been fixed in Yorkshire all this time as I was to discover you still alive after so many years. I don’t recall you ever speaking of your home with any particular fondness. Rather the reverse.”
She bit her lip, as though debating how much to tell him. “I was…rather unwell when I first returned home, which kept me confined for a time. Once recovered, I discovered various tasks demanding my attention. My father’s steward had died the year before and his replacement, hired by letter, proved rather incompetent. Between one thing and another, I never felt able to leave.”
“Not even when your father returned? Surely at that point he could have taken over whatever duties you felt compelled to perform, freeing you to go a-roving as you always claimed to enjoy.”
“He remained only a month, then was off on his travels again. He, ah, felt it best I not accompany him.”
Harry had a distinct sense she was concealing something. “Surely he was not still angry three years later? Do you mean to say he was not happy to discover you were alive after all?”
Her smile did not quite reach her eyes. “I believe he was, but…not happy enough to remain at home. His was ever a wandering spirit.”
Just as Xena’s had been. It would be rather a shame if that were no longer the case, for the visible changes since he’d last seen her were all to the good. He ran an appreciative eye over the flattering—and expensive—lines of the midnight blue gown she wore, increasingly determined to learn more about the woman she was now.
* * *
Xena wondered if agreeing to a private conversation with Harry had been a mistake. Here, in close quarters together for the first time in seven years, she was finding herself far more affected—and attracted—than she cared to admit. Now, under his assessing gaze, her heart accelerated further.
“I still find it hard to believe you remained in Yorkshire all this time simply to manage your father’s estate.” His voice flowed over her with warm familiarity. “How prospers it now? Well enough for you to spend the winter in Town, it would seem.”
His words reminded her that she mustn’t let down her guard—not yet. If Harry was truly the womanizer those officers claimed, he likely recognized her gown was in the latest fashion and therefore costly. They’d also mentioned gambling…
“In truth, the estate does not prosper nearly so well as I should like,” she replied firmly, “nor am I in Town for the winter. I simply came here in hopes of selling off a few of my father’s antiquities in order to fund some much-needed repairs back home. I am certainly not in the habit of buying such fripperies for myself.” She gestured toward her silk skirts. “But the Duke insisted I attend tonight, so it was necessary to dress presentably.”
That drew a frown from him, no doubt because her apparent worth had decreased in his eyes—as she’d intended. “Then you mean to return home soon?”
The question was asked almost too casually, implying the answer might be important to him. But did he hope or fear she might stay? She could not tell. “Fairly soon, yes,” she answered after a slight pause. “As I said, there are matters in Yorkshire that require my attention.”
“Have you still not found a capable steward, then?” he asked with a trace of skepticism. “Most people would rather winter in Town than so far north.”
Tilting her head up to him, she produced a smile. “I am not ‘most people,’ Mr. Thatcher.”
“True enough. You never were.” His grin reminded her forcibly of the man he’d been seven years since. “Still, I can’t imagine what a remote corner of Yorkshire might boast that would appeal to an adventurous spirit such as yours.”
That came dangerously near the very topic she was determined to avoid. “London is expensive. I could not afford to stay all the winter even if I wished to.” Not quite true, now she’d found buyers for some of her items, but she preferred he not know that. “What of you? As grandson to an earl, surely you have obligations as well?”
“None to speak of.” He seemed suddenly wary. “M’father seems happier the longer we’re apart, as we never did get on well. It’s why I went into the army—and why he agreed to purchase my commission.”
Xena recalled him once telling her that. It had been clear at the time that the estrangement pained him. “In the four years you’ve been back in England, you’ve never managed to mend matters with your family?”
“Can’t say I’ve tried, particularly.” His shrug dismissed the topic so she broached another she’d been curious about all evening.
“Your…injury.” She nodded toward his empty left sleeve. “Did you sustain it at Salamanca?”
“Aye.” His brusqueness told her it was another subject he was uncomfortable discussing. “The enemy left me for dead but a Spanish villager found me. Carried me back to his house, where he and his wife doctored me. If they’d had your skill at nursing, they might have saved my arm along with my life.”
She tried to imagine how that must have affected so vigorous a man, remembering the despondency of other soldiers at facing such losses. “And afterward? When did you return to England and what have you been doing since?”
He hesitated for a moment before answering. “I was sent back three months after Salamanca, once I was more or less recovered. Invalided out on half pay. Between that and an occasional allowance from m’father I’ve managed well enough. So, you mean to return to Yorkshire quite soon, you say? I don’t suppose—”
At that moment, the anteroom door opened.
“Ah, here you are!” exclaimed Captain Maitland. “Bad form, Thatcher, trying to keep Miss Maxwell to yourself. She must not know your reputation, or she’d never have consented to spend time in your company without a chaperone.” His laugh was echoed by the group of other officers crowding behind him to peer into the room. “We can’t have you sullying the name of the heroine of the hour, now, can we?”
“You’d never think it, given his handicap, but Thatcher here is quite the proficient with the ladies,” another man put in.
“Not to mention the gaming tables,” added a third.
Xena had begun to hope that the tales she’d heard about Harry earlier were, if not false, at least greatly exaggerated but that hope was dashed when he made no effort to deny them now—though he did look rather put out. As though he’d have preferred she not discover the truth about his current lifestyle. Having her fears confirmed now made her course all the clearer.
Striving to ignore t
he ominous prickling behind her eyelids, she nodded stiffly to Harry and the others before hurrying out of the anteroom.
On regaining the ballroom, she spotted the Duke in conversation with a small knot of officers near the buffet tables. With a deep, steadying breath, Xena moved his way. She would take leave of her host and have her hired carriage brought round. Tomorrow she would need to rise early to begin her sadly necessary preparations to leave London within the next day or two.
“Excuse me, your grace,” she began upon reaching the Duke’s side. “It grows rather late, and I—”
“Ah, Miss Maxwell, here you are! I’ve been wishing to have a word with you for the past hour and more. Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.”
With a curt nod to the other men, he guided Xena to an alcove at one side of the enormous room where he turned to face her, his expression contrite.
“Pray allow me to apologize for springing Harry Thatcher upon you without warning earlier. It was terribly unsporting of me to subject a lady to such a shock—even so stalwart a lady as yourself. While I rather hoped to catch Thatcher unawares, I failed to take your feelings into consideration, which was unpardonable in me. I, er, hope my little joke did not cause you pain, nor Thatcher either. It’s true he’s become a bit of a wastrel of late, with an eye for the ladies, but he has always proved himself honorable where it counted.”
Which did not include said dealings with “ladies,” Xena presumed, remembering what Harry had said of the Duke and his wife.
“I would have preferred that you had informed me in advance that my husband still lived and would be in attendance, your grace, but I accept your apology,” she said stiffly. “As Mr. Thatcher and I have agreed to continue as we were before tonight, no lasting harm was done.” She hoped.
“Very glad to hear it. After so many years apart, it is only logical you should wish to go on living independently—and Thatcher as well. It’s an enlightened arrangement, and one I favor myself. But then, you always were a forward thinker.” His expression grew warmer then, and in a way Xena did not entirely care for. “Would you care for another glass of something? Perhaps away from this crowd?”
Withdrawing slightly, she shook her head—though with a smile. “Thank you, no, your grace. I have a full day planned for the morrow so must take my leave. It is what I came to tell you.”
“Ah. I will be in Town through the end of the month, so perhaps I’ll have more luck the next time I see you.” He seemed not at all offended, to her relief.
“I fear that is unlikely, sir, as I return to Yorkshire within a day or two.”
“So soon? I assumed you were fixed in London for the winter. Have you not had success in selling off your father’s trinkets?”
She managed a regretful smile. “Not so much as I’d hoped.”
“You must give it more time,” he advised, again with that too-warm smile. “London can be quite gay at Yuletide, though I’m bound to spend mine in Paris, alas. But I am keeping you. I’ll have a footman call for your carriage and bring your wrap. Give you goodnight, Mistress Maxwell. I very much hope our paths will cross again sooner than you anticipate.”
“I hope so, too, your grace,” Xena lied, her previously high opinion of General Wellington slipping another notch. It appeared he was no better than the rest of his sex after all…no better than Harry had turned out to be.
Refusing to dwell on either disappointment, she headed toward the imposing front door of Apsley House to await her carriage, determinedly focusing her thoughts on the tasks now awaiting her—such as breaking the news to Theo that they would not be remaining in London for the winter after all.
CHAPTER 8
“GIVE OVER, you lot.” Harry glared irritably at the fellow officers who’d been disobliging enough to air his indiscretions in Xena’s hearing. “If you’re all envious that I can do with one arm what most of you can’t manage with two, simply say so.”
They laughed and, after another ribald jest or two, drifted back to the party. Harry remained behind, trying to convince himself he was happy his interview with Xena had gone so well. What did it matter if she’d learned less than savory things about him, since they were to go their separate ways? His secret about the Saint of Seven Dials was safe, at any rate.
Emerging from the anteroom, he morosely observed the still-lively gathering, wondering what the devil was wrong with him. Then his gaze sharpened.
The Duke of Wellington was escorting Xena to an out-of-the-way alcove where they proceeded to carry on a conversation out of earshot of the other guests. Was Xena taking it upon herself to ask Wellington to keep word of their marriage private? He certainly wouldn’t put it past her.
As he watched, the Duke nodded, spoke again, then smiled down at Xena—a smile Harry had seen his general employ on numerous occasions in Vienna when attempting to beguile a particularly comely wench or, more often, a highly-placed lady, into his bed. Was Wellington offering his wife a slip on the shoulder?
With a strangled oath Harry started forward before it occurred to him just how absurd his instinctive reaction was—and how unwise it would be to confront the Iron Duke in his own home, surrounded by dozens of officers who idolized him.
He checked himself, still frowning, just as Xena stepped back from the Duke. A moment later she headed toward the entrance, near where Harry himself still stood. Preferring not to encounter her while his emotions were in their current unsettled state, he slipped along the wall until he could become one of the milling crowd.
Some twenty minutes later, though he hadn’t consciously intended it, Harry found himself face to face with Wellington.
“Thatcher,” the Duke greeted him with a grin. “I imagine this has been quite an evening for you, no? Allow me to congratulate you.”
“Sir?” What had Xena said to him? “You succeeded in handing me the biggest stunner of my life tonight, so surely I should be the one congratulating you.”
“I did, didn’t I? Must say, you carried it off better than I expected. Rather a disappointment, I confess—I was hoping for some real fireworks. But no matter. Your wife pointed out to me the error of treating a lady so, though it was you I particularly hoped to discomfit. But my congratulations were in regard to the situation in which you now find yourself, one most men would envy.”
“How so?” Harry asked, more confused than ever.
The Duke’s eyebrows rose. “Why, in having a wife who is as understanding as she is comely, which in her case is saying quite a bit. She has assured me she means to make no demands of you, nor interfere in your life in any way. As you’ve no succession to worry about, you are freer than ever to pursue your pleasures, with no risk of being inveigled into matrimony thereby. Well done.”
“Ah. Yes. Er, thank you, your grace.” Harry abruptly decided against asking Wellington to keep the marriage a secret. “We both agreed this course made the most sense.”
“Miss Maxwell always was exceedingly practical for a female,” Wellington agreed. “I knew her from a child, you know. She showed promise even then.”
Harry did know—but the reminder made his onetime commander’s leering at Xena even more unsavory. For an instant a correction as to Xena’s proper name hovered on the tip of Harry’s tongue before he bit it back. “A practical woman indeed,” he managed lightly instead.
Others had now moved within earshot, clearly wishing a word with the Duke, so with a sketchy bow, Harry moved off in search of Peter. He’d had about all the polite mingling he could stomach for one evening.
A short time later, Harry, Peter and Sarah arrived back in Curzon Street, along with Jack, who had come along for a last chat with his old chums, as he meant to return to the country—and Nessa—on the morrow.
When they reached the first landing Sarah yawned. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I will take myself off to bed. No need, therefore, to censor your conversation to avoid offending a lady’s delicate ears.” This last was said with an impish grin at her husband, who returned it
before kissing her soundly and whispering something into her ear.
She swatted his knuckles with her fan, laughed, then continued up the stairs. Peter watched her with what Harry considered an unnecessarily besotted look on his face before turning back to the others.
“Let’s have our port in the library, shall we? There should be a good fire and it has far the most comfortable chairs in the house.”
Jack and Harry followed him into a room that somehow managed to be both elegant and cozy at once.
“Must say I’m impressed by what you’ve done with the place in just a few short weeks,” Jack commented, looking appreciatively about before settling into one of the plushly upholstered chairs near the crackling fireplace. “Glad to see your taste in clothing doesn’t extend to your furnishings.” He shot an amused glance at Peter’s colorful ensemble of peacock blue, scarlet and gold.
Peter grinned, well used to his friends’ teasing about his attire. “I gave Sarah carte blanche to decorate the house as she wished, as her sense of style is nearly equal to my own. But for the breakfast room and one bedroom, it is nearly finished. But enough about such trivialities.” He turned to Harry with a slight frown. “What on earth were you about tonight, closeting yourself into a room alone with the celebrated Miss Maxwell? Thought the point of the evening was to elevate your respectability, not to tarnish that of our host’s guest of honor.”
Jack let out a guffaw. “Never say you’re still trying to turn Harry respectable, Pete? What’s that saying about a sow’s ear and a silk purse?”
As Jack was not privy to Harry’s new occupation as Saint of Seven Dials, Peter responded, “Can’t help m’self, I suppose. Always prefer to see my friends happy and I’m persuaded Harry is by no means as content to spend his life drunk and in debt as he’d have us believe. Even he should know better than to put a woman the Iron Duke clearly holds in esteem in a compromising position.”
