“You did not seem disturbed by the invitation when it arrived.”
“No, for it will give me a chance to scout out those who call themselves Montcrief’s friends.”
Clenching her fists in her lap, she looked past the horse’s nose. “You still believe Bradley is the traitor.”
“I don’t think he is bobbish enough to devise such a plot himself, nor do I believe he has the contacts to obtain the information the traitor has stolen.”
“He knows many influential people in the government through his friends who are members of Brooks’s.”
“Are you defending him or trying to clothe him in a turncoat’s garb?”
“Neither, for I am stating a fact. Grandfather is a member as well as the colonel and Mr. Boumphrey. Will you accuse all of them of treason?”
Drawing back on the reins, he stopped the gig in the lengthening shadows. “Romayne, you defend Montcrief with such vigor, but you have told me you no longer love him.”
“I told you I was unsure.”
“So tonight you hope to discover the truth?”
“I hope to.” She gaze up at his face which was resculpted by the fading light. “Are you having second thoughts about going?”
He gently brushed her bonnet back from her face. “Don’t you know that I have been having second and third and hundredth thoughts about you? You never are far from my mind.”
Closing her eyes, she whispered, “You mustn’t say things like that.”
“Why? Can you push this from your mind?” The slight emphasis was her only warning before he crushed her lips beneath his.
She could fight the tides of longing no more than she could halt her hands from slipping beneath his coat to draw him to her. Awash in the exhilaration of his touch, she trembled as his fingers swept along her, brazen and tender at the same time. Only when he leaned her back against the cushions did she shake her head in dismay.
“James, I thought … You said …” She flushed and pulled her bonnet over her hair.
“That we must be only partners in this scheme to save England from Boney’s clutches?” His laugh was as cold as a Scottish night.
“Yes.”
“But we are unique partners, dearie, for we are married.”
“Only pretending to be married.”
James looked down and tapped the ring hidden beneath her kid gloves. “Yes, only pretending. Now you see the danger.”
“Danger?”
“Of letting ourselves become enmeshed in a passion that we must not feel.”
“You ask me to negate emotions that …” Fear pulsed through her as she was compelled to own that the yearning was escalating beyond her ability to govern it. “I shall try, James.”
His smile was both warm and sorrowful. “I know you shall, dearie. You must never allow yourself to forget, as I shan’t, the true reason we spoke our vows before the pastor. The cost of forgetting will be far more than your reputation. It could mean the loss of freedom for every Englishman and his family.”
Chapter Fourteen
“You will watch over her every minute?”
Romayne looked up, surprised. Although Dora had been thrilled to have her daughter join in the excitement of the Marriage Mart, her voice was whetted with worry.
Grange hurried to answer, “You have my assurance I will watch over Ellen as closely as I watched over Lady Romayne.”
“And you, Romayne? Will you keep your eye on Ellen, too?”
“Of course,” she said softly, wondering how Dora could fail to see how her question insulted Grange. Then, with a sigh, she knew Ellen’s mother had every right to ask it. Grange had let Romayne slip away to elope.
Ellen burst into the room before Romayne had a chance to soothe her abigail’s ruffled feathers. She twirled, and the flared hem of her dress belled around her. She giggled as the silk came to a stop with a whispered hush. The ribbons of her slippers flashed a silvery sparkle as she pretended to be curtsying to a dance partner.
Clapping her hands with glee, she cried, “Romayne, you look wondrous! Your dress could be one of the gowns in Ackerman’s Repository!”
With a laugh, Romayne adjusted the ruffles along the scooped neckline of her blue crepe gown. The white sarcenet slip announced every motion she made with a rustle. Her chamois slippers peeked from beneath the rows of French work at the hem.
“Come and let us find you something to accent that dress,” she said as she opened the cherrywood box in front of her. Lifting out the top tray, she set the jewelry to one side. She fingered the gold and silver pieces that were stored under it, looking for exactly what she wanted.
Ellen gasped as Romayne held a sapphire and silver filigree necklace up to her throat. “For me to wear?” she whispered.
“And these.” She put the necklace and a pair of matching eardrops in Ellen’s hand, which trembled with excitement. “They will be perfect with that dress.”
Running to stand in front of the cheval glass, Ellen latched the necklace in place and hooked the earrings on. She pressed her hands to her lips as if she could not contain her joy. It blossomed from her eyes as she whirled to ask, “You really don’t mind that I borrow these lovely ornaments?”
Romayne smiled. “As I said, they look perfect with that gown. After all, what good do they do sitting in the jewel box?” She drew on her elbow-length white gloves and reached for her bonnet with its ruched silk lining. Glancing at the velvet-lined box that Grange had brought from the small vault in the dressing room, she hesitated. She had chosen no jewelry for herself.
Her fingers lingered over a gold chain that was decorated by a single pearl. With a shudder, she picked up the tray, put it back in the box, and closed the lid. The sight of the pearl brought back the moment when she had been forced to watch the highwayman rip her betrothal ring off her finger. Maybe sometime in the distant future, when the memory of that night had faded, she would be able to wear pearls again, but not this evening when she was about to reenter Society as a different woman than the one who had left it months before.
“Oh, Romayne, how shall I remember all that I am supposed to do and say?”
Forcing a smile on her stiff lips, she said, “You’ll do fine, Ellen. Remember that you are not officially out until the party here next week, so you would be wise to keep your conversations light.”
“Do you mean that I shouldn’t flirt shamelessly?” She laughed when her mother choked back her horror. Kissing Dora on the cheek, she pulled her borrowed shawl of blue silk over her shoulders. “Dear Romayne and Mama and Grange, I have no interest in dalliances. I promise not to act so forward. To own the truth, I can think only of not making a complete goosecap of myself.” Twisting the shawl so the long gold fringe wove a pattern across her skirt, she asked with sudden sobriety, “Do you think I can do that?”
Romayne put her arm around her. “I have no doubts of your grand success. You need only to smile, and I swear that a battalion of swains will throw themselves at your feet.”
“What a horrid thought! Who would wish a clutter of admirers underfoot?” Ellen teased.
Laughing, Romayne walked with Ellen along the upper corridor. “You shall astound them with your plain-spoken ways.”
“I shall try to be couthie—pleasant,” she corrected herself with the return of her smile.
Ellen continued to chatter as they, with Grange following closely, descended the staircase to where James would be waiting impatiently. Romayne paid little attention to Ellen’s nothing-sayings. Although the pinks, who enjoyed the flirtations of the Season almost as much as their chance to parade their garish clothes, were sure to turn their eyes upon Ellen, she wondered what the men on the Marriage Mart would think of her. Ellen was pretty, but she had neither title nor wealth to make her an appealing prize.
If Bradley had invited most of his tie-mates, Romayne was certain she would have no trouble convincing someone to escort Ellen into dinner. Several of his friends clung to their bachelor fare, determined not
to be leg-shackled until they were bored with the whirl of the Season, but they would be delighted to enjoy Ellen’s wit at this intimate gathering.
“Jamie,” Ellen cried, as she ran down the stairs, “look at us! Aren’t we bonnie tonight?”
Romayne started to laugh, but her breath caught in her throat when she looked down into the foyer, which was a miniature of Westhampton Hall. She had witnessed the transformation in Ellen and had thought herself prepared to see James in the smart costume of a London dandy. What she had not considered was how his raw virility could not be tamed by the ruffled front of his shirt or the sedate cut of his green coat. She gasped a second time when she realized that the clothes he wore were the very ones she had described the day before they left Struthcoille. He even wore the gold buttons and nankeen trousers to bring her fantasy to life.
When he held out his hand, she watched her fingers rise to settle on his unblemished white gloves. He led her toward him, his smile broadening as she continued to stare at him in amazement.
“I cannot appear that different!”
“No, you don’t,” she whispered, unable to speak the truth when others were listening to her. How odd they would consider it that a bride of more than a month was staring at her husband like a young maiden feeling the first flushes of love!
Love! Romayne silenced the echo of that word. Falling in love with James would be cockle-brained, for he had made it so obvious that although he would not be averse to sharing her bed, he would sacrifice nearly anything to stop the traitor. She could not fault him, for he had given her warning of that this very afternoon.
Stroking her fingers, James murmured, “You may say that I appear much the same, but I see amazement in your pretty eyes.”
“If you wish me to be honest, then I must tell you that I never would have guessed you could tie such an intricate cravat,” she shot back to hide her uneasy emotions.
When he smiled and offered his arm, she placed her hand on it. “Shall we go, Mrs. MacKinnon? I believe we are already fashionably late.”
“More than that,” grumbled Grange. “I was beginning to wonder if you had decided to hide in your rooms as lief attend Mr. Montcrief’s rout on Mr. MacKinnon’s arm.”
Romayne’s smile faltered at her abigail’s sharp retort. By concentrating on Ellen’s concerns, she had been able to disregard her own. Now she must face her friends, who would be curious about her sudden, strange marriage to a man they never had met.
When James’s fingers covered hers, she looked up at his taut face. She was uncertain if he was infuriated by Grange’s words or the fact that the abigail would not be the only one thinking them tonight.
As they walked out the door and toward the carriage by the curb, Romayne said, “Grange, you shall recall that Bradley is our host this evening, and he would not appreciate your words which reflect poorly upon him as well as on James and me.”
“I wish only to prepare you—”
“I am aware of what awaits us.”
Thatcher, dressed in the elegant scarlet Westhampton livery, came around the carriage to open the door. When Grange flounced into it with her wounded dignity wrapped around her like a cloak, Ellen motioned for Romayne to go next. Romayne guessed Ellen did not want to be alone with the abigail in the carriage, even for a moment.
“You have changed,” James whispered in her ear as he handed her into the carriage.
Romayne paused with one foot on the step. Looking awkwardly at him, she asked, “How?”
He chuckled softly, then glanced toward where Grange was a dark lump in the shadowed vehicle. “You talk back to everyone now. Can we expect you to have an argie-bargie with Montcrief tonight as well?”
“Don’t, James,” she murmured before bending her head to sit across from Grange.
When James climbed in after her, she was startled. He caught her chin in his hand and tilted her face toward him, so she could not avoid his eyes in the dim light from the lantern by the house’s door. In a whisper, he demanded, “Is he the only one you still will obey without question? What hold does that useless clod-pate have on you?”
“You cannot expect me to forget Bradley’s love so swiftly.”
“The love that you had for him, or the love you have for him even now?”
Aware of Grange straining to hear every word, Romayne said quietly, “I am your wife, James.”
“So you are, but we both know that the ring upon your finger has nothing to do with your heart.” Louder he ordered, “Ellen, hurry in before we leave you behind.”
The young woman climbed into the carriage with Thatcher’s help. She offered him a brilliant smile before glowering at her brother.
Romayne was pleased that the ride to Bradley’s town house was a short one. No one spoke, for each of them had a reason to be irritated with another. Even when James assisted her to the walkway in front of Bradley’s door, Romayne remained silent. He turned to help Grange, and Romayne glanced toward the door where she had been a welcome caller so often.
An icy shiver of foreboding trickled along her back as she wondered what awaited Mrs. James MacKinnon beyond the brightly lit door. To hide from her fearful thoughts, she looked at Ellen. In the younger woman’s enthusiasm, she might find a cure for her despair.
“It shall be the grandest night of my life,” Ellen said, awe filling her voice as she stared up at the house.
Romayne took her cousin-in-law by the arm and drew her toward where James and Grange stood by the steps. As soon as they were ushered into the elegant house, Grange excused herself to go and sit with the other servants, but Romayne paid no attention.
She had no time. Even as their cloaks and bonnets were being taken by the bevy of silent servants that scurried about the parquet floor in the circular foyer, Romayne found herself surrounded by acquaintances, each one more eager than the next to wring her dry of every detail of her journey to Scotland. Trying to be polite, she made her excuses that she had to greet their host.
“The ravens are hoping for a bit of meat from the corpse of your relationship with Montcrief,” James murmured as he offered his arm.
Putting her hand on it gratefully, she let him steer them through the curious throng. She looked back to be sure Ellen was following, then whispered, “Such a sudden change of plans always generates gossip. They want the truth.”
“Or some semblance of it to pass onto someone else.”
Romayne did not answer as she stared at the woman standing beside Bradley in the arched doorway to the room where the party would be held. The tall brunette wore a magnificent white gown. She could not mistake Lady Philomena Boumphrey for another, because the woman had a rare beauty that had gained the attention of Mr. Boumphrey from the moment he had first seen her. Their lovematch had been swiftly ended by a heart attack that had left her a widow only two months after their wedding.
Colonel Newman’s voice echoed tauntingly through Romayne’s head. She had not wanted to believe that Bradley would turn to Philomena with such dispatch, but the brunette had her arm through his as he welcomed his guests. Wishing she could disappear into the crowd, Romayne had no choice but to step forward. She sensed the multitude of eyes watching this meeting. With a vow that she would do nothing to shame herself or her family, she held her hand out to Bradley.
Her poise faltered when he took her fingers in his and raised them to his lips. The fervent pressure of his lips further confused her. His gaze locked with hers, and she saw a flurry of strong emotions in his eyes. What they might signal, she did not pause to discover as she pulled her hand away. His pale brows arched in an unspoken question.
“Good evening, Bradley,” she said. “You remember my husband, James MacKinnon.”
“Your marriage to him is something I’m unlikely ever to forget.”
Fearing that this conversation would pick up exactly where their last, uncomfortable one had ended, she turned to Philomena, who was smiling coolly. “Philomena, good evening to you also. I do not think you have me
t my husband, James MacKinnon. James, Lady Philomena Boumphrey. You met her brother-in-law this afternoon.”
“Lady Philomena, it is a pleasure. Montcrief,” he added with a coolness that warned her that he had noticed Bradley’s expression.
“And James’s cousin, Ellen Dunbar,” Romayne said before the two men could voice the fury glowing in their eyes.
Bradley bowed over Ellen’s hand before saying, “You are among the last to arrive. Why don’t we go in together?”
“Yes, do come with us,” urged Philomena in her lush, husky voice. “I have been waiting breathlessly for you to tell us all the romantic details of your trip to Scotland.”
“I would have thought Bradley would have told you that there was nothing romantic about it.”
“Come, come, we are bosom bows.” Philomena hooked her arm through Romayne’s and drew her away from the men. “You need not keep secrets from me. You might have run off to Scotland with Bradley, but you returned with this magnificent specimen of masculinity. I suspect you persuaded Bradley to go with you so you could run off with Mr. MacKinnon.”
James put his hand on Romayne’s waist, saving her from having to answer the unanswerable. “Lady Philomena, if you will excuse us …” He offered no reason for his impolite words, and she guessed he had none other than to end the conversation.
For that, she was grateful, but even this light touch sent longing rippling through her. So easily, she could turn and slip her arms around his neck as she steered his mouth to hers.
“Nonsense,” said Bradley with a chuckle. “Let us allow the ladies their bibble-babble, MacKinnon. Come, and let me get you a glass of something to take the dust of the streets from your throat.” Bowing his head toward them, he locked eyes with Romayne, but again she could not guess what message he wished to divulge to her.
Evading Philomena’s continuing questions, Romayne sensed Ellen’s uneasiness. She offered Ellen a smile that she hoped the young woman would understand meant to have patience. Quietly she asked, “Philomena, is Lord Kimmel here tonight? I am astonished that he would be even the length of the room from you. He has been such a devoted suitor.”
The Smithfield Bargain Page 19
