by Mary Balogh
“Aidan?”
“And then Father died suddenly and the terrible quarrels with Wulf started,” Freyja said. “Not that they generally sounded like quarrels. Wulf will never argue with anyone when someone else is in the same room. He takes the quarreler apart into his library, and then one can hear a shouting voice alternating with silences. The silences are Wulf replying. He never raises his voice. He never has to.” Freyja sighed. “He is that powerful.”
“I do not like him,” Eve said, and then could have bitten her tongue out for saying such a thing to his sister.
But Freyja merely laughed. “He was not always like that,” she said. “They both changed. But Aidan remained good to the rest of us. I was at an age when I was not allowed to set my nose outdoors without a chaperone. Aidan was always willing to oblige, even when he was in the middle of doing something else. He would always go fishing or shooting with Alleyne or Ralf. He would always spend some time in the nursery with Morgan.”
The tears Eve had been unable to shed the night before seemed to be lodged somewhere between her throat and her chest. They were very painful. It had been far more comfortable to know her husband only as a cold, morose man.
“Why did they quarrel all the time?” she asked.
“Who knows?” Freyja said. “Ah, Rotten Row at last. And not too crowded, thank heaven. Why do you not ask Aidan? You are married to him. Do you never talk with him?”
It was a rhetorical question, Eve was relieved to discover. She spurred her horse into a canter, and Eve did likewise. The Row was wide and long and straight and exclusively for the use of horses and their riders. Pedestrians strolled beyond the rails on either side.
“I'll race you to the far end,” Freyja said, and with a whoop she was gone, bent low over the neck of her horse.
Eve chased after her. They were both laughing by the time they reached the Hyde Park Corner end of Rotten Row, almost neck and neck.
“I won,” Freyja declared.
“Only by a hair,” Eve protested, “and because you had a start of a whole length on me.”
“Well, well, well,” a male voice drawled. “Suddenly we have two hoydens in the family—three when Morgan joins us next year.”
It was Alleyne, who must have just entered the park. With him was Aidan. It was a painful moment for Eve. She had not set eyes on him since he had disappeared inside his dressing room last night. She did not know if they had quarreled or not, if they were speaking this morning or not. He was regarding her with raised eyebrows.
“I did not know you rode,” he said.
“You never asked me.” She lifted her chin, her laughter all forgotten.
“Uh, oh,” Alleyne said. “I sense a marital discussion about to proceed. Race me to the other end again, Free? Or are you exhausted after that narrow victory?”
Freyja's response was a derisive snort. She turned her horse and was off again, Alleyne in hot pursuit.
Aidan was wearing his old uniform. He looked perfectly at home in it and in the saddle of the same powerful mount he had ridden to London for their wedding. He was also looking grimmer even than usual.
“You might have asked to come,” he said, “any morning when I got up from your bed and announced my intention of riding here with my brother and sister.”
“I did not have a riding habit for the first few days,” she told him.
“That situation could have been rectified,” he said. “One word to Miss Benning and she would have had it finished and delivered within hours.”
“Does your word carry as much weight as the duke's or your aunt's, then?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said, sounding mildly surprised. “Let's ride.”
They walked their horses side by side along Rotten Row, saying nothing for a while. They each nodded at other riders and a few pedestrians, several of whom Eve recognized from the night before.
“Freyja has been telling me about what happened three years ago and last summer,” she said.
“About Kit?” He acknowledged another rider. “She was badly hurt, according to Rannulf, but she would not admit as much even if you were to stretch her on the rack.”
“She loved him, then?” she asked.
“One thing about the Bedwyns,” he said, “is that they do not love easily but once they do they are in deep indeed. You would not guess it to know us, would you? Of course, none of us in this generation except Freyja have experienced it, so we do not know for sure. It will take her a long time to recover, I suspect. Perhaps she never will.”
None of us . . . except Freyja have experienced it. The words were strangely hurtful. And they certainly gave the lie to what Freyja believed. Yet Freyja had said almost exactly the same thing about love and her family. How sad that she had lost the man she loved and that Aidan had been forced by honor into a loveless match. Last evening's exuberance seemed to belong to the dim distant past.
“You will ride with us each morning, starting tomorrow,” he said curtly. “I will have your maid wake you in time.”
He would not simply wake her himself? He was not going to return to her bed, then?
“Thank you,” she said.
“And if there is anything else you wish to do,” he said, “or any place you wish to visit, you will inform me and I will arrange to escort you.”
It was a formal, chilly offer. The dutiful husband.
“Thank you,” she said, “but I believe I will be able to entertain myself quite well without your assistance, Colonel. Your aunt has already accepted several invitations on my behalf and will accompany me. I need not trouble you.”
“Damn you, Eve,” he said softly and fiercely after a few tense, hostile moments of silence. “Damn you.”
She was jolted with surprise. For what was she being censured? And why in such shockingly strong language? She turned her head away from him and then rode her horse over to the rail to exchange pleasantries with a young lady and her mother who had been ahead of her and Lady Rochester in the line at St. James's Palace yesterday.
CHAPTER XVII
DURING THE FOLLOWING WEEK, AIDAN SPENT some time in his wife's company, most notably during the early morning rides in the park, which she always attended, and at two balls, one private concert, and one visit to the theater, where they sat in Bewcastle's box. But even on those occasions they usually contrived to avoid being alone together. Most of the time Aidan was with Alleyne or with military acquaintances, many of whom were in London for the celebrations. He spent mornings at White's or Tattersall's, afternoons at Jackson's Boxing Salon or the races, his spare evenings at one or other of the clubs after dinner at Bedwyn House. He spent the nights alone in his own bed.
As far as he knew, she had had no further meeting with Denson. Whenever she was not with him, she was almost invariably either at home or out somewhere with Aunt Rochester or Freyja or both. Not that she needed watchdogs. She had told him she would remain faithful to their marriage and he believed her. But he hated the thought of how she must long for just one more brief encounter with her lover. And he hated himself more for the jealousy he could not seem to quell.
He was counting the days until all the European heads of state were expected to arrive in England and until the state dinner at Carlton House. After that, there would be other celebrations, but she would essentially be free to return home. He did not doubt that she would go on the earliest possible date. He fervently hoped so. He wanted her to be gone—gone from Bedwyn House, gone from his life. At the same time there was a certain feeling of panic in the thought.
How he hated all this emotional claptrap.
The day of the expected arrivals finally came. They were at the breakfast table, all of them—even Wulf, who was not at the House of Lords today.
“Have you ever seen the streets of London so crowded?” Freyja asked of no one in particular. “We could scarcely get through to the park, and coming back was even worse. Have you been out yet, Wulf?”
“Not yet,” he said.
“And quite possibly not at all. I would rather not be mauled by the populace of London. But it would seem that this time it is no mere rumor that the Allied visitors really have set foot on English soil. The Duke of Clarence brought some of them over on the Impregnable. They are expected in London today.”
“So everyone in London seems to believe,” Alleyne said. “And everyone and his dog is determined to see them come. I suppose the madness will begin in earnest after that. It is enough to make one head out for Lindsey Hall at a full gallop.”
“But it is for the celebrations we came,” Freyja reminded him with a sigh. “On Wulf's orders, of course. It is, I suppose, a great occasion, a historic moment—the celebration of the final defeat of Napoléon Bonaparte.”
“Do you know,” Eve asked, leaning forward slightly, “who exactly is coming today, your grace?”
“The Czar of Russia,” Wulf said, “the King of Prussia, Prince Metternich of Austria, Field Marshal von Blücher, among others.”
“Not the Duke of Wellington?” she asked.
“No, not Wellington.”
“Ah, that is a disappointment,” she said. “But how exciting it would be to see the others arrive. I do not blame everyone for crowding the streets.”
Her cheeks were flushed with color, Aidan noticed, and her eyes were sparkling. She was looking remarkably pretty, but then it was some time since he had been able to see her any other way.
“You will see everyone tomorrow evening, ma'am,” Bewcastle reminded her, “in the far more civilized atmosphere of Carlton House. You will see the Prince of Wales too—and the queen again.”
“That will be wonderful,” Eve admitted. “But today's excitement is a different kind of thing. It is something everyone can share, high and low alike. Happiness is bringing people of all types together, and people of all nations too. Did you not feel it this morning, Freyja? Did you not, Alleyne?”
Alleyne chuckled. “I suppose,” he said, “you want to go back out there, Eve, and get bumped and jostled and have your eardrums pierced by the noise and your nose assaulted with the smells of the great unwashed.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, “I really do. Does no one else?”
“I daresay,” Bewcastle said, leaning back in his chair and fingering his quizzing glass, “there are people of our class who cannot resist the novelty of a public spectacle, Lady Aidan, but there is a suggestion of vulgarity about participating in such a mass display of hysteria.”
“Hysteria?” Eve said, frowning. “No, surely not that, your grace. I would call it euphoria.”
Aidan set his napkin down on the table. “If you wish to go out there, Eve,” he said, “I will escort you.”
“Oh, will you?” She scarcely looked directly at him these days, and when she did, it was with a guarded look in her eyes. But now she was gazing at him with all the warmth and sparkle of an eager child about to be granted a begged-for treat. “Will you mind dreadfully, Aidan?”
He would. Becoming part of a jubilant mob in the streets of London was mildly repugnant to him. But Eve wanted to go, and she had made no demands on him in the week since her presentation ball.
“We will get down close to London Bridge,” he said, “and watch all of them come up from Dover.”
“If you can get there,” Alleyne said.
“We will get there,” Aidan told him and Alleyne laughed.
“Oh, thank you,” Eve said, getting to her feet. “I will go and get ready if you will all excuse me. Freyja, won't you come with us? And Alleyne?”
Aidan expected a contemptuous retort from his sister. Instead she shrugged and simply looked amused.
“You are a constant delight, Eve,” she said. “You have confounded both Wulf and Aunt Rochester by becoming all the rage, yet you have steadily resisted all their attempts to mold you into a dignified duchess-in-waiting, expiring with ennui.”
“I have learned a great many things from your aunt,” Eve said gravely. “For all of which I am grateful.”
Bewcastle raised his eyebrows. “Well, children,” he said, “you had better all run along or you will miss the show.”
There was, as it turned out, no show to miss except that of a capital city gone mad. Somehow their open carriage managed to maneuver close to London Bridge—perhaps because Aidan had chosen to wear his uniform and there were people enough in the crowd willing to cheer him, slap him on the shoulder, shake his hand if they could, and clear a path for his carriage. The route from the bridge to St. James's Palace was lined with carriages and pedestrians, all in a loudly festive mood. Every window of every building was crowded with heads. Hawkers of food and other wares were doing a brisk trade. So too, Aidan suspected, were the pickpockets. A score of times or more there was a stir of heightened excitement when a horse or vehicle was seen to approach from the south. But always it was a false alarm.
“I believe,” Aidan said late in the morning, “we have been fed so many rumors that the truth is impossible to know. Perhaps all the dignitaries we are expecting at any moment are all taking their ease in their respective palaces in their respective countries.”
But if they were, they had even royalty duped. The Prince Regent's distinctive gold and scarlet postilions were waiting at the bridge to escort the carriages when they arrived. The crowd was raucously teasing them since the crowd, it appeared, was planning to unhorse the carriages and pull them in triumph to the palace.
“May we wait just a little longer?” Eve set a hand on his sleeve and looked pleadingly at him.
How, God help him, was he to resist such a look and such a plea? He found himself wishing at every moment that something could be set right between them before they parted forever. He did not want her to remember him with hostility. He did not want to remember her with regret.
“Just a little longer,” he said, setting a hand on top of hers as she smiled at him, and meeting Freyja's eyes across the carriage. There was a look there he did not often see from his sister—something assessing, wistful, almost sad.
Freyja had legions of admirers, some very eligible bachelors among them. She treated them all with a careless camaraderie that put an effective stop to any hope any of them might have had of courting her. He wondered how much she was hurting inside, how bright a torch she still carried for Kit Butler. There was no way of knowing. Freyja was like an impregnable fortress when it came to talking about herself.
Less than five minutes later a new rumor swept the street, from the opposite direction this time. The Czar had already arrived, people shouted urgently to one another. He was at the Pulteney Hotel with his sister, the Grand Duchess Catherine. He had come by a different route.
“Probably to avoid the rabble, wise man,” Alleyne said as large numbers of the crowd began to hurry off in the direction of the hotel.
“If the rumor is true,” Freyja said. “I am bored silly. Let us go somewhere else, somewhere quiet and civilized. How about the Royal Academy? Do you like looking at paintings, Eve?”
Aidan looked across at her. “What is your wish?” he asked.
“I suppose,” she said, “we might sit here all day and later discover that all the guests have come by a different route.”
“That is altogether possible, I am afraid,” he said. “Are you dreadfully disappointed?”
“Not really.” She smiled at him. “I have been a part of history anyway. I have experienced this. Today will surely be remembered. Perhaps even all this confusion.”
“And you will see everyone tomorrow evening,” he said.
“Yes.” She set her hand on his arm again. “Thank you for bringing me, Aidan. I know this has been dreadfully tedious for you.” She turned her head to look at Freyja. “The Academy would be lovely to visit. Is it far away?”
“Somerset House,” Freyja said. “Not far.”
Aidan did not resent the tedium of the morning. It had somehow restored some harmony with Eve.
They spent an hour at Somerset House inspecting the paintings displa
yed there. Eve was openly enchanted, and Freyja, who was usually restless when forced to remain too long in one place, especially over matters cultural, was content to stay at her side, gazing at each painting with her. Alleyne, who was something of a connoisseur of art, was at Eve's other side, pointing out noteworthy details.
After one turn about the room Aidan stood a little apart watching them. Eve had won their regard, he thought, in the only possible way—by not seeking it. Although she had paid attention to Aunt Rochester's instructions on matters she needed to know, she had made no attempt to ingratiate herself with anyone. Here I am, her presence seemed to say. Take me or leave me. She was, he thought, a lady, despite her origins. It was going to be very hard never to see her again after—
But his thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a familiar face before him and the sound of a familiar voice—a round, florid, lined face topped with gray hair turning white, a gruff, hearty voice.
“Bedwyn,” he said. “You are here, are you? Still on leave, are you? And caught up in all of today's madness? We have escaped it to come here, though admiring rows of pictures is not normally my cup of tea.” He laughed heartily.
He was about the last person Aidan either expected or wanted to see at that particular moment.
“General Knapp,” he said.
“But Lady Knapp and Louisa wanted to come,” the general said with another of his hearty laughs, “and what was I to do? I was outnumbered. What is your excuse?”
Before Aidan could speak, those two ladies appeared one on either side of the general, both beaming at him.
“Colonel Bedwyn,” Lady Knapp said, “this is a happy surprise.”
“Ma'am.” Aidan made his bow to both ladies. “Miss Knapp.”
She was a dark-haired, large-boned young lady, strong and capable and sensible, not unpleasing to the eye though not exactly pretty. She was the ideal mate for an officer, having grown up to the life from infancy and not possessing a delicate bone in her body.
“I was so hoping we would see you here, Colonel Bedwyn,” she said, curtsying.
