Her behavior did prick at her conscience, though logically Windermere’s had been worse. “I pay little attention to gossip. I am glad I did not allow rumor to keep me from a friendship that obviously you don’t object to. I am delighted to see you and Julian on such good terms.” Her sunny smile felt like a death grimace. “I have lived quietly in your absence without entrée to the ton. Caro, Denford, and their friends welcomed me. Now that you are home, I look forward to expanding my circle with your other acquaintances.”
“I suppose you are ambitious to be received in more fashionable circles,” he said with a sneer. She’d never heard Windermere speak so rudely, and it caused her fierce satisfaction that she’d rippled his glassy calm. She didn’t know why he was upset, but that was nothing new. Since the moment he’d slipped the ring on her finger, pleasing her husband had proved impossible.
“Only for your sake,” she said with a careless wave, intended to convince him—and herself—that his ill opinion meant nothing to her. “I haven’t forgotten you telling me a wife is important to a diplomat’s career.”
He walked over to her chair and extended one elegant finger to tilt her face upward. Her heart skipped a beat when, for an instant, she thought he was going to kiss her, as a man might be expected to do after a year apart from his wife. But those perfect lips came within a foot of hers and no closer. She made herself meet him eye to eye, wishing she could read his thoughts. They were engaged in an unspoken struggle she didn’t entirely understand.
“What?” she whispered finally.
“You have changed,” he said.
“Just as you requested. I tried to become the wife you wanted.”
“Really? You did this for me?” He made no effort to conceal his skepticism. What had she done to make him distrust her?
She couldn’t tell the truth, that she’d started out to learn how to be the perfect wife so that her husband would love her when he returned. She was different now. She no longer knew what she wanted of him, except that he should be sorry for the past and—perhaps—do better in the future.
Last night she’d gone to Julian’s house intending to assuage her hurt and pay Windermere in kind for his infidelity. But at the last minute she’d found she couldn’t commit adultery. Julian had taken her rejection in his usual stride, helped her up from the brocade divan in his library, straightened the bodice that he’d been attempting to untie, and escorted her through his garden back to her own. “Better luck, next time,” he’d whispered, and kissed her good night on the lips with surprising sweetness. She’d almost changed her mind because in that moment he offered comfort in addition to sensual satisfaction. She badly needed comfort.
Tears that she would not shed pricked her eyes as she stared at her husband’s beautiful, inscrutable face. She turned aside and blinked hard. Muttering something about speaking to the cook, she pushed past him and stumbled from the room. The pathetic truth was that she wanted Damian to kiss her sweetly and held out very little hope that he ever would.
And why should she even want it from a man without a heart?
The previous winter
My Lord,
I write from my bed, having been confined there at the orders of Dr. Croft. It grieves me to inform you that I am no longer with child. The doctor thought I was doing well, and approaching the fourth month when one can be more sanguine of a happy conclusion. Three days ago the pains began. I will spare you the details of the event. Unpleasant as it was, the body is healed far sooner than the spirits. I find myself oppressed with grief that I will never know our child. I am sorry, my lord, that there will be no heir awaiting your return. It is perhaps as well that I did not inform my uncle of my condition for his disappointment would be as great as yours. Of course, the child could have been a daughter.
We do not know each other well, my lord, so perhaps I should spare you my grief. Yet we joined in creating the possibility of a child, and for all I know you may feel the loss as strongly as I do.
Cynthia sealed the letter quickly, before she could regret writing to Windermere with such frankness. She had never done so before, her dutiful—and ever less frequent letters—being concerned strictly with practical matters. But her overwhelming emotions in the present case had to be shared and there was no one else. Was her husband not the most proper recipient of her confidence? She could not speak of it to the servants, or to the young woman who came twice a week to the house to speak French. And certainly not to the shopkeepers of London.
The prospect of motherhood had given meaning to a life that was almost entirely devoid of social interactions. Apart from the physical pain of the miscarriage, the infant’s loss engulfed her spirits. She was moping in the drawing room two weeks later when a caller was announced.
She accepted the visiting card that her butler proffered on a tray. The name meant nothing. “Do you know this Mrs. Robert Townsend, Ellis?”
“There was a Mr. Townsend who attended Oxford with His Lordship.”
That was good enough for Cynthia. One real acquaintance in London was one more than she currently possessed. For the first time in weeks she felt a glimmer of interest in life and a greater curiosity when a short, slender young woman bounced through the door, bringing an air of energy that brightened the dull February day.
“Lady Windermere?” she said, darting forward. Cynthia had risen to curtsey but her visitor forestalled the formality by seizing both her hands and giving them a comforting squeeze. “I am so very sorry to hear of your illness. I would have come earlier but my housekeeper was in the country visiting her sister, and you know how it is. One hears nothing when the servants are away.”
“Indeed,” Cynthia said faintly.
“It’s a while since I saw Damian, but when I heard that his wife was alone and suffering, I had to come. It is too bad of him to have left you alone.”
It took a moment or two for Cynthia to realize that by Damian, the visitor meant her husband. She knew his Christian name, of course. She’d seen it in the settlement documents she’d signed prior to the marriage. It would never have occurred to her to address him by it, and she couldn’t imagine anyone else doing so either. What was the relationship between Windermere and this young woman? This very pretty young woman.
Her bewilderment must have shown. “What a goose I am. We haven’t even been introduced. I am Caroline Townsend but you must call me Caro. My late husband, Robert, was one of Damian’s closest friends.”
That seemed harmless enough. “Thank you for calling,” Cynthia said, responding to Mrs. Townsend’s infectious smile. “Won’t you sit down?”
Mrs. Townsend, whose manners continued to display a spontaneity such as Cynthia had never encountered among the middle-class denizens of Birmingham, accepted the invitation after first removing her bonnet and pelisse, revealing a simple white muslin gown of a vaguely classical design and a cluster of bright red curls, cut short and clinging to her head. She perched on the edge of her seat and regarded her hostess like an eager little bird.
“I’m afraid I don’t remember Lord Windermere mentioning the name of Townsend,” Cynthia said. “But he was called abroad so soon after our marriage that the matter may not have arisen.”
“I’m not at all surprised. Robert and Damian had a falling out years ago. But I used to know Damian quite well, and as far as I know he never had anything against me. I don’t think he would object to our becoming acquainted.”
“I don’t see why he should,” Cynthia said. “And since he is not here to give his permission or otherwise I don’t feel the need to guess at his sentiments. I will follow my own inclination and welcome you. I have been in London for several weeks and I don’t know a soul.”
“Bravo! I am delighted to see that Damian wed a lady of spirit.”
Was that what she was? She’d never felt like it before and rather liked the idea. “It is possible that he forbade the acquaintance when speaking French and I didn’t understand him.”
“Why on earth?�
��
“He wished me to become fluent, as is becoming to a diplomat’s wife.”
“There are certain places,” Mrs. Townsend said with a straight face, “where it is appropriate to converse in French. In France for one—and in the bedchamber. The French are extremely good at a certain kind of communication. Or so I have always been told.”
Cynthia supposed she should be shocked. Mrs. Townsend seemed not to have developed the social restraints that prevented most people from mentioning personal or intimate matters. Or anything else terribly interesting either. While not quite ready to confide that the bedchamber was the one place where Lord Windermere did not address her in French—or English either—she suspected her fascinating guest would be a source of information she had no other way of obtaining.
“Did you say that your own husband had died, Mrs. Townsend? If so, I offer my condolences.”
“Caro. Damian always called me Caro and you must too.”
“I am Cynthia,” she replied to Caro’s unspoken question.
“A year ago, and I miss him.” For a moment the lively little face settled into grief, fast replaced by a pixyish grin. “Hey ho, life goes on, and Robert wouldn’t have wished me to bury myself. Goodness, Cynthia, Damian isn’t even dead and it sounds as though you’ve been living more like a widow than I. You must come to dinner at Conduit Street and meet my friends. Some of them knew Damian too. Julian, of course.”
“I don’t know who Julian is either. I wish you will tell me about my husband when he was younger, Mrs. Townsend—Caro.”
“Robert met Julian, Damian, and Marcus at Oxford but they were expelled quite quickly.”
“Expelled!” Cynthia couldn’t begin to fathom what her excessively correct spouse could have done to merit such punishment. “I would have guessed Windermere to have been a model scholar.”
“I daresay he was,” Caro said. “They were all brilliantly clever young men and no doubt would have done very well if they’d cared to take the trouble, and hadn’t been caught breaking into the naughty art collection housed in the Bodleian Library. So they all went to France instead.”
“That explains Windermere’s fluency.”
“Damian was the best at languages, I believe. I met them after they came back because of the Revolution. Damian helped Robert and me to elope, you know.”
“No I didn’t know. I find it hard to believe.”
“Damian wasn’t always so stuffy.” Caro frowned. “Though he was quiet, more reserved than the others. I think he was shy, rather a gentle soul.”
Cynthia stared. “I don’t think I’ve met a man more socially adroit than Windermere.” Or less like a gentle soul, she tactfully refrained from adding.
“Really? I expect he had to be when he decided to make his way in diplomatic service. But I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him since he abandoned us. We missed him for a long time.”
He’d abandoned Cynthia too. “From your account of him, Caro, Windermere has changed a good deal. I suppose all young men do as they grow up.”
“Robert didn’t. And Julian is just the same as he ever was. I notice you don’t call him Damian. Even his name is different. When I knew him, Windermere was his father. My mother wanted me to marry him, you know.”
“My husband’s father?”
A peal of laughter set Caro’s curls a flutter. “Not even my mother was insane enough to expect me to wed an old man, even an earl. No, I take that back. If the late Lord Windermere had shown any interest in me, my mother would have been delighted. Luckily I never met him. Damian, or Kendal as he was then, was the most eligible of the quartet. I never wanted anyone but Robert, but I counted Damian a good friend. He was always kind to everyone.”
“Why did their friendship end?”
“Neither Robert not Julian would ever tell me exactly what took place the night of Damian’s twenty-first birthday. That was the beginning. Other things happened and Damian stopped speaking to us. Or perhaps it was the other way around. I know they were both angry and ashamed of themselves, especially Julian. Robert didn’t care so much, but he had me. And I am sorry to tell you, Cynthia, that he was quite addicted to cards and dice and lost a great deal of money before he died. I hope you are rich for it is quite uncomfortable to be living under reduced circumstances.”
“Windermere married me for money,” Cynthia said. “My uncle’s money, not mine.”
“In that case,” Caro said, “I think you should spend some of it on clothing.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that. I haven’t an iota of tact.”
“I’m not offended. My aunt, who has no taste, chose my gowns. I have been meaning to buy some new ones but I haven’t felt up to it.” Having been cheered and diverted by her visitor, she felt a wave of despondency crush her spirits again.
“Come to dinner tomorrow night,” Caro said. “Several of my set will be there. Oliver, of course. He will almost certainly fall in love with you but you needn’t be alarmed. And Julian. He used to be Damian’s best friend.”
“Julian who?”
“Fortescue, except he just became a duke so now he’s Denford. Isn’t that absurd?”
Cynthia contemplated the ghastly contents of her wardrobe and the fact that she was to dine at the same table as a duke. “I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Any old rag will do for dinner at Conduit Street. It’s a miracle some of the painters ever remember to put on their breeches. If you buy new dresses you shouldn’t do it on my account, but to please yourself.” Caro gave a throaty chuckle. “An enjoyable party and a new gown may not be worthy replacements for an absent husband, but we must find happiness where we may.”
So little was Cynthia accustomed to pleasing herself that the idea frightened her. Then the notion took hold of her mind with a wicked thrill of anticipation. To perdition with her absent husband, she thought, with a defiance she couldn’t have conceived of three months earlier. He had left her alone while he traveled halfway around the world, and he was going to have to bear the consequences. If she did something he did not like, then he should have been here to tell her his wishes. She wasn’t a mind reader.
“I like the new higher waists,” she said, now subjecting the little redhead’s ensemble to critical scrutiny. “Your white muslin’s simplicity is deceptive. I daresay it was quite costly.”
“My dear Cynthia,” Caro said. “My dressmaker is going to love you.”
Cynthia rose from her sofa with a new determination. “Can we go now?” she asked.
When Windermere returned, he might not find an heir to his earldom, but his wife would be a lady of fashion. With Caro’s help she would replace the ill-fitting, overtrimmed gowns her aunt had chosen for her and get rid of the frizzy curls. She would study how to be a worldly London denizen who referred to bedroom matters without blushing. And when she had transformed herself, perhaps this kind, formerly shy man would appreciate her. Perhaps they would have another chance for happiness, even for love.
“Fetch your bonnet,” Caro said. “Damian won’t recognize you in a few months. What does he have to say about your poor health?”
“Not a word,” Cynthia replied. “He hardly ever writes.”
Postal deliveries (by way of the Foreign Office) to and from Persia being intermittent, she heard nothing more from her husband for over two months. When the letter came it was in response to several of her own, though she found little responsive in them. Mostly he wrote questions and commands to be conveyed to the stewards of his estates. By way of variation, he charged her with several errands, such as ordering certain garments from his tailor, the Persian climate having turned out to be more variable than he had expected. He asked her if Windermere House had been let for the season, and made some suggestions about the gardens at Beaulieu that she found quite irritating. He obviously knew nothing at all about gardening.
But it was the conclusion to the letter that shriveled her soul. “I am sorry to hear of your indisposition. Y
ou must be more careful of your health. Yours etc. Windermere.”
Three times she read it, in disbelief. She had poured out her soul and all she got in return were two sentences and a Yours etc.
Clutching the neatly written pages until they crumpled in her fist, she sat down at her escritoire. First she did her duty, writing to the steward and the tailor. Then, before she could change her mind, she dashed off a note to the Duke of Denford.
After meeting her at Caro’s dinner party, Denford had paid her marked attention. Flattered and alarmed by his admiration, she’d been shocked to the toes of her respectable slippers by his offering his escort to a masked ball. Attending such an event in the company of a man not her husband wasn’t the kind of thing one did in Birmingham.
She wasn’t in Birmingham anymore. And since her husband clearly didn’t care a rap what she did as long as he received his new clothes, she would please herself.
Chapter 5
Returning home from dinner with the foreign secretary, Damian learned that Her Ladyship had already retired. He followed suit, finding that his valet had set up his gear in the earl’s bedchamber. Damian wasn’t much acquainted with the room. It had been his father’s and was without much character, except for a certain austerity of decoration that fitted the personality of its late occupant: plain walls, dark drapery, and nothing personal at all. His father had never been much of a reader so there were no books. As for pictures, Damian would have been surprised if there was a single one. The late Lord Windermere had use only for family portraits, kept at the ancient family home at Amblethorpe in the Lake District. No, Damian was wrong. A small landscape framed in gold hung over the fireplace. Damian carried a candle over to get a closer look: a gloomy oil rendition of Amblethorpe Hall that matched the dour grayness of the original. As always, he thought of his ancestral estate without affection and Beaulieu without any more pleasure. He supposed Windermere House was as much his home as any other, until duty sent him abroad again. The trouble was, he was no longer unencumbered.
Lady Windermere's Lover Page 5
