by Mary Balogh
It was on the excessive sleep that he blamed his deep depression. Delighted as he was to be at home with his family, he could not shake off his gloom. Nor could he stop himself from sleeping nine, ten, even eleven hours a night. He found himself dreaming of Eve by night and thinking of her by day, though in fact what had happened seemed like a dream. He even found himself wondering on occasion if it really had happened or if he had not imagined that whole bizarre week. He found himself too thinking of Miss Knapp, of the pleasant hope he had had of combining his career with marriage to a woman who could share his way of life, who could provide him with companionship and comfort and . . . yes, and with sex. Though he had occasionally kept mistresses, he had never particularly enjoyed casual and unequal relationships.
He spent little time with his elder brother. They had not been close since their early boyhood, when they had been inseparable companions. But at the age of twelve Wulfric had changed totally when their father had decreed that it was time he was prepared for the responsibilities of his future—a future that had arrived early with their father's death when Wulf was just seventeen. He had been educated during the intervening years by a pair of tutors, while Aidan and his younger brothers had been sent to Eton. Aidan had often wondered if Bewcastle was a lonely person or if he had simply grown into a cold, emotionless man who enjoyed solitude.
It seemed that what remained of Aidan's leave was to be restful and peaceful at least. But that hope was shattered one morning a little over a week after his return home. He had been out for an exhilarating gallop across country with Alleyne. The two were breakfasting heartily afterward when the butler informed Aidan that his grace wished to see him in the library.
Aidan took a cup of coffee with him. He bade Bewcastle a good morning and settled himself in a deep leather chair on the opposite side of the hearth from him. He wondered what was up but would not ask the question. Wulf would get to it in his own time.
“The warm spell that persisted for a week or so after I landed seems to have deserted us for good,” he said. “That wind makes it downright chilly this morning. Invigorating, though.”
Wulf had never been one for small talk. “It would appear,” he said, “that the Prince of Wales is determined to make a grand spectacle out of the allied victories. Half the sovereigns and princes and generals of Europe are expected to come and preen themselves as his guests, including the Czar of Russia, the King of Prussia, and Marshal von Blücher.”
“I had heard rumors to that effect,” Aidan said. “It seems that all England, London especially, is deliriously in love with anything on two legs and in uniform. One cannot expect Prinny not to want to bask in the glory of it all.”
“Quite,” his brother agreed. “This is not the first I have heard of it either. I must be returning soon to London and the House. The morning's post has brought a specific invitation to a state dinner for the foreign guests at Carlton House, though it is not until several weeks hence. There will be numerous other special celebratory events, though. Everyone will wish to outshine everyone else in hospitality.”
Aidan grimaced. “I would rather you than me.”
“Ah, but this particular invitation includes you by name.” Wulf lifted a heavy embossed card off the top of a pile of letters in his lap and glanced at it. “‘The pleasure etcetera, etcetera.' Ah, here. Colonel Lord Aidan Bedwyn. Someone with Prinny's ear must know you are home on leave.”
“I'll make some excuse,” Aidan said hastily.
Bewcastle was looking down at the card again. He held his quizzing glass in his hand to enlarge the writing—a pure affectation, Aidan was sure. He doubted there was anything wrong with his brother's always keen eyesight.
“Someone else is named here too,” he said before looking up to meet Aidan's eyes. “Lady Aidan Bedwyn.”
General Naughton! During that chance meeting in the lobby at the Pulteney, Aidan had introduced his bride to the general. It could be no one else. By happy chance he had seen no other acquaintance that day until, right at the end of it, he had run into General Naughton.
“Peculiar!” he said with studied nonchalance.
“I was amused when I first read it, I must confess,” Bewcastle said. He was silent for a few moments while the word first hung in the air between them and Aidan pursed his lips. “Is there a Lady Aidan Bedwyn?” The question was softly asked.
“Yes.”
“Ah.” Bewcastle set the card down on the pile and regarded his brother steadily from his silver, wolfish eyes. “Might I inquire when I was to be informed?”
“You were not to be.”
Bewcastle knew as well as Aidan did the unsettling effect of long silences. But Aidan did not squirm under his scrutiny during the one that followed. Bedamned to him. It was none of his business.
“Now that your secret is out,” Wulf said at last, “perhaps you will satisfy my curiosity, Aidan?”
“I made a promise to one of my dying captains,” Aidan explained, “to bring the news of his death in person to his sister and to give her my protection. The only way of doing the latter, as it turned out, was to marry her.”
“Your marriage is of recent date, then?”
“Two weeks,” Aidan said.
“By special license.”
“Yes.”
“Who?” Bewcastle asked.
“She was Miss Eve Morris,” Aidan said, “owner of Ringwood Manor in Oxfordshire. She is the daughter of a wealthy coal miner.”
“A coal miner.”
“Yes, from South Wales. He married the owner's daughter and made his fortune that way.”
“Deceased?”
“Yes.”
They stared at each other for several silent moments.
“And you have now abandoned her?” Bewcastle asked. “Forever?”
“Forever, yes,” Aidan admitted. “But it is not abandonment. She has a life at Ringwood she wished to preserve and dependents she wished to protect. Only by marrying in haste could she do either. Ours was a mutually agreed upon marriage of convenience. I make no apology for it, Wulf, or for keeping it from you. It was something none of my family needed to know about.”
His brother gazed at him for long moments while Aidan realized that the coffee in his cup had turned cold.
“It will not do,” Bewcastle said at last. “Appalling as it may be, this Welsh coal miner's daughter is now a Bedwyn. My sister-in-law. And her existence is known of in the Prince of Wales's intimate circle. It must be publicly acknowledged by her husband's family.”
“No.” Aidan spoke firmly. “It will not be, Wulf.”
The ducal eyebrows rose. “Lady Aidan Bedwyn must be presented,” he said. “It is safe to assume, I suppose, that she never has been? She must make a formal appearance at a queen's drawing room. Our Aunt Rochester will sponsor her. There must be a ball in her honor at Bedwyn House. The marriage has had a havey-cavey start, for which you will doubtless come up with an explanation to satisfy the gossiping tongues of the ton. But now all must proceed correctly. Your bride must be brought up to town and up to snuff, Aidan, difficult as the latter may prove to be.”
“It is not going to happen,” Aidan said. “Do you think I care the snap of my fingers what gossiping tongues wag about in London drawing rooms? They have to talk about something. Let them talk, then, about how I married beneath me and shamed my family and then cruelly abandoned my bourgeois wife—or perhaps even lower than bourgeois. Some new sensation will soon supersede this sorry one. Some heiress will run off with a handsome footman or some young chit will utter a naughty word in the hearing of a dowager, and drawing rooms will buzz with the new scandal.”
“There will be no unsavory gossip about a Bedwyn,” Bewcastle said. “Even one by marriage. This coal miner's daughter is now married to the heir to a dukedom. There must be no perception that she has been abandoned or hidden away, perhaps because we are ashamed of her vulgar origins. Bedwyns on average marry later in life than most people, but we do not abandon our sp
ouses once we do marry, Aidan, or expose them to possible ridicule or pity.”
“You will not budge me on this, Wulf,” Aidan told him. “For one thing, my wife has exactly what she wanted of the marriage—independence and the freedom to live her life her way. For another, she has absolutely no connection with the world of the ton and therefore cannot be hurt by its gossip—she will not even know of it, if there is any, which I seriously doubt. Thirdly, my marriage is my business and I choose to leave my wife in peaceful obscurity in the country, where she belongs and where she wishes to be. I will come to London with you if I must and attend this infernal dinner and any of the other celebrations at which my presence is de rigueur. If anyone is impertinent enough to inquire about my marriage, I will answer in any way that seems appropriate to the occasion and the audience.”
“You would dishonor both your bride and your family, then?” the duke asked softly. “You are ashamed of her, Aidan?”
Aidan swore viciously, causing his brother's eyebrows to arch upward in disdain.
“Lady Aidan has been invited to Carlton House,” Bewcastle said. “It would be an unpardonable discourtesy, Aidan, to appear there without her—or not to appear at all. Your rank in the cavalry is such that you cannot fail to appear since it is known you are home on leave. Your wife must appear at your side. It will be something of a rush and a challenge for our aunt to bring her up to scratch, I do not doubt, but all things are possible to those who are determined to make them happen.”
Aidan set his cup and saucer down and got to his feet. Even when they were both standing he was taller than his brother. He was also broader and heavier. It was to his credit, perhaps, that Bewcastle remained seated and put himself at a further physical disadvantage.
“My wife,” Aidan said in his chilliest tones, “will not be appearing at any queen's drawing room or at any presentation ball or at any Carlton House dinner. She will not even be going to London. It is my wish and, if necessary, my command. Even you, Wulf, cannot step between a man and his wife. This is the end of our conversation.”
Most men would at least have looked apprehensive at the cold menace in Aidan's face and voice. Bewcastle, of course, was not most men. He raised his quizzing glass to his eye and regarded Aidan thoughtfully through it.
“Quite so,” he said in his soft, pleasant voice. “Close the door behind you when you leave.”
And that was the end of that, Aidan thought as he made his way upstairs—he had promised to accompany Morgan on an outdoor sketching lesson, the condition under which Miss Cowper had agreed not to go herself.
“She hovers,” Morgan had complained to her brother. “She breathes on me. And she comments on every brushstroke, explaining what she would do if she were the one painting the picture. And then she apologizes for disturbing my concentration. But will she allow me to go out alone and paint in peace? No, she will not. She is afraid, no doubt, that I will bolt away from my easel and swim naked in the lake in full view of the gardeners or some other such shocking thing and Wulf will see me and have her chained to a damp, slimy wall in the dungeon as punishment. I would swear, Aidan, that she has never even noticed that there are no dungeons at Lindsey Hall.”
Aidan was considerably shaken. The cat was out of the proverbial bag. He wondered how soon it would be before his other brothers and sisters found out. He wondered if he should take the offensive and tell them himself. He was not, as he had just assured Wulf, ashamed of what he had done—or of his wife. The very idea! But he did not want her bothered. He had promised her a marriage of convenience. He had taken himself out of her life and intended to keep out.
The news had severely rattled Bewcastle, though, he concluded when he returned to the house with Morgan early in the afternoon, having swum in the lake himself while she painted. The traveling carriage with its ducal crests emblazoned on both doors stood outside the carriage house looking as clean and shining as the day it had been purchased. There were no horses attached to it, but there were liveried footmen bustling about, looking as if they were making ready for a journey.
“Wulf must be going somewhere,” Morgan said. “But he does not use that carriage for local visits.”
“He has plans to return to London,” Aidan told her. But so abruptly? He took a firmer grip on Morgan's awkwardly sized easel and lengthened his stride.
“Where is Bewcastle going, Fleming?” he asked the butler as they stepped into the hall.
“I am not in his grace's confidence, my lord,” the butler said with a deferential inclination of the head.
“Then who the devil is?” Aidan asked. But Bewcastle himself wandered into the hall at that moment, dressed for travel. “Where are you off to, Wulf?”
His brother regarded him haughtily. “To London,” he said. “I have already neglected my duties there by staying home for so long. You will follow tomorrow, Aidan, with Alleyne and Freyja. It is all arranged.”
Yes, it would be. And he would go too, Aidan supposed. Being the son of a duke brought along with it inescapable duties once one was in England. And so ended his dream of a peaceful month and more of relaxation at Lindsey Hall.
“Do my eyes deceive me, Fleming?” Bewcastle asked pleasantly. “Or is my carriage really not awaiting me before the doors?”
CHAPTER X
PERHAPS YOU WILL GET INVITED THIS YEAR,” Aunt Mari was saying hopefully, “now that you are out of mourning for your dada, my love, and now that you are Lady Aidan Bedwyn instead of just plain Miss Morris.”
“I have no wish to go,” Eve said. “Though I would if you were included in the invitation.”
“You know,” her aunt said reproachfully, “that it is not for myself that I want the invitation. I am already living in heaven. But it is time you were recognized for what you are—a perfect lady even if your dada and your old aunt did once earn an honest living down a coal mine. I thought maybe the prospect of a garden party might lift you out of the mopes.”
They were riding home in the gig, having just paid an afternoon call upon Serena Robson. There had been other visitors there too, and conversation had turned upon the annual garden party at Didcote Park. Though the Earl and Countess of Luff regularly invited most people with any pretense to gentility in order to make up sufficient numbers, they had always pointedly excluded the Morrises. Serena had expressed the same hope as Aunt Mari, to the extent of declaring that she would not go herself this year if Eve was not invited.
“I am not in the mopes,” Eve said, smiling determinedly. “Would you have me laughing all day long, Aunt Mari, merely to prove to you that I do not feel abandoned or slighted?”
She felt neither. She had made a bargain with Colonel Bedwyn, from which they had both benefited. She had kept Ringwood and—far more important—her children, while he had fulfilled his solemn promise to Percy. They were both now free to pursue their lives as they saw fit. What was so depressing about that?
But of course she was deeply depressed. Despite all that she had gained, despite all the rich blessings of home and family, she was filled with an emptiness so vast that it frightened her. There had been no word of or from John. And of course, there had been no word of the colonel either. Strangely, that latter fact contributed as much to her mood as the former. The realization that she would never hear anything more of the man who was her husband—except, perhaps, one day the news of his death—clutched at her with an inexplicable panic.
She was distracted from such gloomy thoughts by the sight of Thelma and the children topping the rise from the dell as the carriage drew level with the lily pond. With them, Benjamin astride his shoulders, Becky holding one of his hands, was the Reverend Thomas Puddle. Eve raised a hand to wave to them.
“Ah,” Aunt Mari said knowingly, having noticed too.
The vicar had danced twice with Thelma at the wedding assembly. He had come a number of times during the past week and a half to call upon Eve and inquire after Mrs. Pritchard's health. Each time he had asked if it would be convenient
for him to watch some of the children's lessons. It did not take an oversized brain to detect a budding romance between him and Thelma. It delighted Eve that he seemed not to hold her undeserved reputation as a fallen woman against her. A gentle soul himself, he attracted children without having to make any special effort to win their confidence.
“There perhaps is one happily ever after in the making,” she said.
She was surprised a moment later that the first distraction to draw her attention on her approach home had not been the carriage standing before the doors of the house. It was not one she recognized. Indeed, it was far grander than any carriage she had seen before, including the Earl of Luff's. There was a coat of arms emblazoned on the door. She did not recognize it, but then she did not know a great deal about heraldry.
“We have a visitor,” she said, nodding in the direction of the house. “I wonder who it can possibly be.” She wondered, with a churning of her stomach, if it was John.
Agnes was awaiting them in the hall. She was beyond her usual sour self. She was fairly bristling with indignation.
“Who is it, Agnes?” Eve asked, her voice lowered since she could see that the parlor door stood open.
“I would of put him in there,” Agnes said, jerking her thumb in the direction of the parlor, “but it wasn't good enough for his high and mightiness, was it? ‘I will wait in the drawing room,' he said, all la-di-da, and made off for the stairs even before I could go and show the way. I don't know what the world is coming to, I don't, when people can invite themselves into other people's houses and act like they own them.”
“Who?” Eve asked, frowning.
“Some duke,” Agnes said.
For a moment Eve was afraid her knees were about to buckle under her. Some duke?
“Oh, Eve, my love,” Aunt Mari said. “Can it be the colonel's brother, do you suppose? Is the colonel with him, Agnes?”
Eve turned without waiting for Agnes's reply and hurried up the stairs. What other duke could possibly be coming to visit her? But why? She flung open the drawing room doors and stepped inside.
