Theory of Magic

by Patricia Rice

  Christie repeated the message. Emilia looked at her cousin with excitement. “Aster? Have the heathens left anything living in the conservatory? Christie’s voice is telling us that fatigue is part of Ashford’s problem, as well as possibly something to do with his blood vessels. Snakeroot needs tropical conditions. It won’t be in the garden.”

  “There are a few things still rooted, but I don’t know if anything tropical survived,” Aster said, following her cousin.

  “Moira and I will stay here and prepare the salon for tomorrow,” Lady McDowell said, dismissing them with a gesture. “The rest of you go grub in the garden.”

  “I should have some dried snakeroot at home. If we could just find the ginseng . . .” Emilia was saying eagerly as she called for her pelisse. “We could prepare a potion that might help Ashford’s headaches, at the very least.”

  Before their outerwear could be produced, more visitors were announced. Christie sighed in exasperation at the cards presented. “Lord Palmer has brought his wife and a guest. I know he’s important to the vote. I fear I must entertain them.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady McDowell declared. “Lady Palmer is a nosy gossip come to spy on you for her friends, to see whether they should attend the soiree. You go on outside to the garden. I’ll have the butler send them out to you. We’ll close up the salon so they can’t see what we’re doing. It’s ill-bred of them to show up prior to the event.”

  “I think I love you,” Christie declared happily, kissing the stout lady’s powdery cheek. “And if this is Lady Ninian speaking in my head, she says you remind her very much of her Aunt Stella, and she sends her love.”

  Lady McDowell covered her cheek with her hand and blushed. “Nonsense, go on with you then.”

  Excited—and terrified—that there might be some possibility of saving Duncan’s eyesight with Emilia’s herbs, Christie led her excitedly chattering cousins to the rear door.

  Hearing Christie’s voice carrying along with the babbling of Aster and her cousin toward the back of the house, Ash frowned. Hadn’t he just heard the conniving bitch Pamela and her twins head to the garden? Were they having a circus out there on this chilly day? He had to assume it was gray. It was November in London.

  Had Pamela already met with Christie? And they hadn’t killed each other? He wished he’d been a spider on that wall. He rubbed his pounding head and heard the butler at the door announcing Lord Palmer.

  Ash groaned a few minutes later at the sound of Lady Palmer’s carrying voice—accompanied by Margaret? Oddly, they seemed to be strolling down the corridor instead of waiting in the salon.

  The twins’ mother and Jane Palmer despised each other—probably for good reason since Ash had taken up with Jane while Pamela was carrying the twins. He’d been young. Jane had been newly widowed. Lord Palmer hadn’t been on the scene then and probably knew nothing of the liaison now.

  Two mistresses, an ex-fiancée, a wife, and her family in that tiny garden . . .

  Ash’s sins had come back to haunt him with a vengeance. His gut clenched as he imagined the battle ensuing. Could he play invalid if war erupted in his own yard?

  Had he possessed eyesight, he would have excused himself, rushed to the garden, and extricated innocent Christie from the mudslinging. She was so much better than the shallow women he’d chosen in the past. Last night, she’d been splendid in her yellow gown, swinging the skirt so he could see the motion, testing him by lowering the bodice. She’d worn it to bed so he could wake up and find her.

  The last thing in the world he wanted to do was hurt kind-hearted Christie. In an attempt to extricate her, he called for a footman as Lord Palmer entered.

  “Find my wife and tell her I need the letters she was working on,” he told the servant, hoping he was providing an excuse for Christie to escape.

  While Palmer rattled on, Ash clenched his fists and waited for screams.

  Christie didn’t appear. The footman merely returned to murmur a message to Erran, who excused himself to seek the documents—leaving Ash terrified that his exes would have his wife packing and gone before he could escape this interminable conference.

  26

  “Why on earth are you taking calls in this dismal, cold excuse for a garden?” Miss Caldwell asked as she and a lady Christie assumed must be Lady Palmer lingered on the back stairs, unwilling to descend to the muddy gravel.

  Recognizing Ashford’s former fiancée behind the furred cloak and muff of a grand ice princess, Christie grimaced. The lady beside her was older, as rouged as the twins’ actress mother, and radiated bitterness and grim satisfaction as she studied Christie and the muddy scene beneath her.

  Both ladies emanated spite and jealousy and—

  A footman ran out with a message from Ashford about documents, and enlightenment gradually dawned. Here was her husband’s rakehell past. She appreciated his offer of escape, but she didn’t think retreat from a battlefield was the best solution. She told the servant to ask Lord Erran, then tried to find a polite way of greeting the uninvited guests.

  “Ah, the whore of Babylon has arrived,” Mrs. Weldon cried before Christie could find her tongue. “Come to see who won the Great Ass where you could not?”

  Oh dear. That was definitely a battle cry. Christie exchanged glances with Aster and a startled Emilia, who had just exclaimed in delight at some discovery among the overgrown weeds. They shrugged and left the situation to her.

  The twins looked up in surprise at their mother’s operatic challenge. That could not be good.

  Did no one care that they were worrying children and distressing her? Apparently not—or they were too wrapped up in themselves to notice others. Christie stoppered her own anger to assess the situation.

  “You are the company you keep,” the older woman on the step purred maliciously. “And I see Ashford has descended to the very dregs of society.”

  At this insult, the twins’ mother reached past the dog to the mud he’d been wallowing in. The boys lit up like Christmas candles and followed suit, forming their own mud balls.

  Jealousy and repressed frustration emanated from the newcomers. Rage at the insults came from the twins and their mother—

  And a battle like this was how Ives earned their reputations, through little fault of their own except carelessness.

  If Ashford was to emerge as the powerful politician he deserved to be, it would be up to Christie to set limits that Ives men seldom recognized. And as much as she might be inclined to push Margaret and the obnoxious newcomer into the mud as they deserved, she had to provide an example for her new family.

  Realizing in wicked relief that she outranked every woman in this scene, she stooped to scratch Chuckles behind the ear and lay a restraining hand on Hartley’s shoulder. The twins’ paused in their mud ball formation.

  “I wasn’t aware that I invited callers at all,” Christie said. “Miss Caldwell, Lady Palmer, as you can see, I’m much too busy for visitors. If you would like to entertain the twins or help Miss McDowell with her herbs, I’d be delighted to accept your aid. Otherwise, I fear I’ll have to forego your charming company. I have a party to plan.”

  She hugged Hartley, forcing him to drop his mud. Heart pounding in exultation and temerity, she bent her head regally at Ash’s ex-mistress, ex-fiancée, and Lady Palmer. Wielding her greater size, Christie sailed past the bevy of beauties, forcing the uninvited to step out of her way, into the garden mud.

  Ash’s previous women were strikingly lovely, but he’d married her. That would have to keep her going strong, not only in the face of adversity, but Ives insanity.

  Preparing for bed that evening, Ash grimaced as he drank the concoction Christie had insisted that he try. “What the devil is this? And can I add brandy?”

  She didn’t dare explain that his great-grandmother had demanded that Emilia dose him with snakeroot or whatever was in the drink. “I think Emilia added ale with the herbs and milk. I cannot really say. But if there’s some chance this might
heal your vision, how can we not try?”

  “Depends on whether you mean to poison me first.” He threw back the last of it and shuddered while Christie unfastened his waistcoat.

  “Am I a terrible person if I fear that Emilia’s posset will actually work and return your eyesight?” she asked with a shade of weariness.

  The day had been exhausting or she would never have asked such an awful question, but having all Ash’s women converge on her at once—worse, understanding that hadn’t even been all of them! She didn’t think she could tolerate knowing the rest. She wanted to hide under the bed.

  Ash’s meeting hadn’t been over until all her female visitors had left. He had been tense and anxious ever since. Now that they were alone, he caught her hands and pulled them behind her back so he could tug her closer. “Why would you wish that?” he asked with the formidable intellectual curiosity that hid behind his tantrums.

  “All your former lovers are beautiful,” she said wistfully. “If I thought you could see plain me, I’d have to flee in despair.”

  He hugged her harder, and she could feel relief pouring off of him.

  “You entertained those bitches and did not run screaming in horror?” Amusement laced his voice. “I am more relieved than I can say. The party only needed Olivia’s mother to form a witchy coven more treacherous than anything Malcolms can conjure.”

  “Don’t say that,” she said, aggrieved. “Your former mistresses looked at me as if I were the witch. It took all my influence to keep them from slinging mud, and not just the verbal sort. The twins ended up taking their mother to the park. Why on earth was Margaret with Lady Palmer?”

  “Spite,” he said with assurance. “They wanted to mock me through you. That you did not come to blows proves your superior intelligence. I was terrified that you would use that intelligence to run screaming into the night.”

  She leaned against him, happy to have a man who could support her like this. “As long as you don’t mind that I can never be an elegant sophisticate, I’ll not run anywhere.”

  “I will admit that I was once shallow enough to prefer women for how they looked on my arm, but even then, I preferred women who could stand on their own. Margaret was an aberration. I hope I am wise enough to want more than just looks now. They lack your compassion and intellect and selflessness. I never understood the need for tender heartedness until you came along.”

  Not quite pacified after her eye-opening encounter with three beautiful, self-possessed, theatrical females, but relieved at his response, Christie returned to unfastening his buttons. “I do not mean to sound feeble, my lord, but I have nowhere near their experience. I fear all London will look upon you with pity and sneer at me. I’ve quite decided that if your eyes magically begin to work, I shall disappear rather than embarrass you further.”

  “Then I’ll not drink anymore of your cousin’s foul posset,” he declared. “Or, if miracles happen, I will spend the rest of my life chasing after you. Would you rather I wasted my life that way?”

  She giggled. “I think we’re both very tired to believe in fairy tales. I will be glad to finally see Iveston when this is over.”

  “So will I,” he said fervently. “Pray the weather holds, and we’ll leave as soon as the Commons votes on the administration.”

  “Your sons will enjoy that.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and let him carry her to bed. “Tonight, I mean to enjoy you.”

  He chuckled and fell down on top of her. When he discovered she wore a yellow corset, he laughed out loud and proceeded to tug on the strings.

  “My only regret is that I cannot see these beautiful melons,” he said, lifting her breasts free. He nipped at a nipple, rendering it exquisitely sensitive to the kisses he lavished next.

  “Melons?” she asked archly. “I had never thought of myself quite that way. Am I hard and firm or ripe and smelly?”

  “Firm and aromatic and all mine,” he said in satisfaction. “No more talk of running away. You are made to be my marchioness.”

  And he proved it with a vigor that had her biting the pillowcase to keep her cries of pleasure from waking the neighbors.

  As long as she didn’t have to remind him of the voices in her head, she might hope to build a life on just the basis of their lovemaking. All she had to do was refrain from murdering his mistresses, because this new Christie seemed to be a devilishly malicious wench.

  “Tell your valet to hurry,” his brilliant bride told Ash on Sunday morning as they walked down the stairs. “I have something I wish you to see before your first visitors arrive.”

  He pressed a kiss to her frown, inhaled her soft scent as she deposited him in his own chamber, then smoothed her worry wrinkles with a finger. “I slept better last night than I can remember doing in months. I don’t know what was in that posset, but I’ll drink it for that reason alone.”

  She took his hand, squeezed it, and kissed his stubbly cheek. “I’m glad! Emilia almost expired of joy when she discovered the ginseng growing in that jungle you call a garden. You will need to take more with your meals. Meet me in the salon?”

  “What is your hurry? Surely we can have a bite to eat before I tell you the salon smells beautiful or whatever it is you think I need to know.” He knew he was hungry enough to clean off the buffet.

  “I can’t tell you. I need your honest reaction. I’ve never attended a soiree, and I’m terrified. I know I cannot cling to you in such a function, but—”

  Mildly alarmed, Ash held up his hand to stop the flow of words. “You have never attended a soiree? You are planning a function that you know nothing about?”

  “Aster’s family is helping me,” she explained, “but they cannot help me deal with strangers. Sometimes, it is very difficult to block unexpected emotions. I have learned to manage disdain, to some extent, but sometimes people are so angry that they emit . . .”

  “Wait, wait!” Ash didn’t think he wanted to hear more about managing disdain, but unlike his wife, he preferred to face his fears. He set her down on the bed and stood over her, wishing he could see her expression. But he sensed she was being entirely truthful. “Start with disdain. What disdain?”

  “When people meet me,” his amazing bride said earnestly. “It is the reason I hide behind potted plants and columns. I know it is weak of me, but I cannot bear so much negativity aimed in my direction. It is as if they decide I’m a worthless lump of nothing based on my looks alone. I know I’m not, but I lose any interest in knowing someone that shallow. And I retreat from the pain. Once I know what they’re like, I can learn how to block them, and . . .”

  Alarmed, Ash waved her to a halt again. “How do you know they feel disdain? The voices in your head?”

  “No, of course not,” she said in puzzlement. “Disdain is a rather blatant feeling, is it not? Not like contentment, which is more like being enveloped in a warm fuzzy blanket. Or anger, which is sharp and painful but might be directed at anyone, and not me. I suppose if I had more confidence, I could do as others do and block everyone, but I don’t have enough experience with groups of people and never learned how to behave without understanding how they felt.”

  Ash rubbed his head. “I think the posset must be muddling my brain. It sounds as if you are telling me you feel someone else’s disdain. That’s not possible, so I must be misunderstanding. I would gladly pinch any old biddy who looks on you with disdain, but I cannot see expressions. You will have to tell me.”

  She sat silent for a moment. Ash thought that might be ominous.

  “I think perhaps I should not distract you right now,” she said, forming her words with care. “Dress, and we will visit the salon together.”

  She swept past him in a rustle of petticoats, leaving him wondering if he was as crazed as a woman who heard voices in her head and thought she felt disdain.

  He supposed no woman could be perfect, but he had hoped this one was at least rational. Surely, he’d just misheard.

  He’d be laughed ou
t of town, and rightly so, if his wife announced that disdain and anger were physically painful. He was definitely misunderstanding.

  Uneasily, Christie paced the gleaming salon, straightening the yellow shawl pinned to a chair near the sofa, removing a broken flower in the enormous bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums and blue asters. She’d ordered a few red roses interspersed—just in case contrast made a difference.

  But it wasn’t concern about Ash seeing yellow that had her fidgeting. If he didn’t feel how people felt—how did he survive at all? To her, that would be even worse than being blind. She could certainly understand his frustration at being deprived of two valuable senses!

  Or—as she’d often wondered—did he and other people block these feelings so often that they no longer noticed them? Perhaps she was just more inept than most, or too inexperienced, to manage her response as others did. It might be like controlling temper—something she didn’t possess much of and had learned to divert so often that she seldom became angry.

  Perhaps Ash had suppressed all empathy until he no longer felt emotion!

  If so—she shuddered a little—then it was very possible that he no longer understood feelings. He would never be able to love! Not even his own children.

  The possibility that her husband could never be more than an automaton roiled her already churning emotions. That might explain how he could fling his fear and confusion all around as if no one knew it was there. He didn’t know the pain it caused!

  She needed the Malcolm ladies here. They were the most compassionate people she had ever met. They’d know what she was talking about.

  But they would be in church this morning. They weren’t scheduled to arrive until this evening, just before the soiree began. She was just overly nervous at being introduced to all London society at once.

  Deep breath. So, maybe some people were better at blocking feelings than she was. She would work at this one step at a time. Not right now.