Annulment. He allowed the thought to sink into his mind. He had promised her an annulment and his stratagem had worked, up to a point. She had consented to their marriage. It wasn’t the kind of marriage he wanted, but it was a marriage of sorts. With her coming of age, all constraints, all promises, would be removed. The thought made him smile. Very soon, the battle would be joined and Lady Emily Devereux would find herself outflanked, outmaneuvered, and outmatched. He didn’t feel sorry for her. In victory, he knew how to be generous.
It was three years since he had last seen her. A lot could have happened in three years. According to Sara, Emily had a serious suitor. It seemed that his little wife was beginning to thaw. No doubt William Addison had been permitted more liberties than her own husband.
He expelled a long breath. It was now or never. He knew one thing. If their positions were reversed, if he were the suitor and Addison were the absent husband, he would have made his move long before now. She was his wife. Suitor or no suitor, she belonged to him. And soon, she would know it.
Chapter Three
The Season was winding to a close. One of the last events scheduled to take place was a masquerade at Fonthill House, Sir Geoffrey Coombe’s place on the Thames. Emily and Sara had never been allowed to attend a masked ball before. To Uncle Rolfe’s way of thinking, such affairs were not quite genteel. Anything might happen, and usually did, as he well remembered from his salad days. He never said this without emitting a little chuckle, and his wards rightly supposed that what was sauce for the goose was most definitely not to be considered sauce for the gander.
When, therefore, he gave his womenfolk permission to accept Lady Coombe’s gilt-edged invitation, speculation in the house in St. James was rife. Emily and Sara knew they had done nothing to merit this show of confidence—quite the reverse. They debated, rather anxiously, whether or not they had gone too far, if perhaps Uncle Rolfe had not taken it into his head to wash his hands of his incorrigible nieces. Aunt Zoë laid their fears to rest. The Coombes were “good ton.” The ball promised to be a very select affair. Fonthill House was far enough distant from town to preclude, one hoped, interlopers of unsavory reputation.
Aunt Zoë wasn’t to know it, but her words had robbed Emily and Sara of some of their anticipation for the event. It seemed that the Coombes do was to be just another boring affair. Further confirmation came when they learned that Sara’s beau, Peter Benson, had not received an invitation, and William Addison found it necessary to refuse owing to government business that would take him out of town.
Sara was laying forth her consternation to Emily on this intolerable turn of events as they were conveyed in the carriage to Madame Germaine’s in Bond Street. Madame Germaine was a new experience for the girls. She was a modiste who had made a name for herself by appealing to those ladies of fashion who aimed to turn heads. In short, her creations were always a little daring, and sometimes downright scandalous.
Their guardian knew nothing of Madame Germaine or her dubious reputation. If he had, he would have put his foot down. Emily and Sara were too wise to reveal the names, some of them truly notorious, of Madame’s clientele, and Uncle Rolfe was too bored by the subject of ladies’ fashions to pursue the matter.
It was all so tedious. From various sources, the girls had gathered that their uncle, in his younger days, was a very gay blade. With old age creeping up on him, he had turned positively puritan. To their great regret, it forced them to be less than scrupulously honest in their dealings with him.
They might be able to pull the wool over Uncle Rolfe’s eyes, but Aunt Zoë was wise to her nieces’ ways. It was she who oversaw their wardrobes. In matters of taste, everything must be referred to Aunt Zoë.
When they had broached the subject of new gowns for the Coombes’s masquerade and mentioned Madame Germaine’s name in as offhand a manner as possible, Aunt Zoë had pursed her lips and given them a penetrating look from under her dark eyebrows.
“Madame Germaine?” she said simply. There was a muted twinkle in her eye.
Once, when they were infants, the girls were under the misapprehension that their aunt was something of a witch. She could read their minds as easily as they could read a book. Although they had long since grown out of this childish fancy, there were occasions, such as the present moment, when they almost felt like children again.
Much to their surprise, Aunt Zoë had given way. “But only this once, mind you,” she warned them.
In Madame Germaine’s fitting rooms they were to discover that Aunt Zoë was not as simpleminded as they had hoped. The gowns Madame had created for them were gratifyingly shocking, but the whole effect was ruined, in Sara’s opinion, by the white taffeta domino that covered the whole of both creations.
Emily left Sara in the fitting room arguing it out with the modiste. It seemed that their aunt had been there before them. The white taffeta dominoes were de rigueur. Emily was not sorry. Her reflection in the mirror had both fascinated her and repelled her. There was purity there, but at the same time, there was knowledge as old as Eve. Fanciful notion!
In the anteroom, she accepted the chair indicated by Madame’s assistant and composed herself to wait for Sara. She was thinking that their quarrel might never have taken place. To all appearances, things went on as before.
But appearances could be deceptive. Oh, not with Sara, Emily allowed. Sara was transparent. She had said that she was sorry and that meant that the whole thing would be forgotten. To Sara’s way of thinking, a good quarrel cleared the air.
Emily wished she could be more like her sister. She was well aware her composed facade was a sham. Inwardly, she was still churning with hurt feelings. Sara had spoken in anger. Nevertheless, she had meant what she had said. You were jealous of me. You always have been. Emily didn’t want to think about it.
Quickly rising to her feet, she indicated to Madame’s assistant that she was going outside for a breath of fresh air. As she stepped onto the pavement, who should step down from her carriage but Lady Riddley. Emily’s composed features betrayed nothing of her frustration. Lady Riddley’s expression was easier to read. She seemed to be steeling herself to perform an unpleasant though necessary duty.
“Lady Emily,” she said, “this is more than I dared hope for. Please!” She laid a restraining hand on Emily’s sleeve as the girl half turned away. “This will only take a moment.”
Nodding her encouragement, she led Emily to her waiting carriage. Once inside, they sat on opposite banquettes.
Lady Riddley moistened her lips and her eyes dropped away. “You hate me, and I don’t blame you,” she began.
Emily wasn’t ready for this. She would never be ready for this. Starting to her feet, she said, “I have no wish to hear about your love affair with my husband.”
“It wasn’t love,” Lady Riddley interjected quickly. She breathed deeply and went on. “Leon never loved me. Even then, he loved you. He has always loved you. But you must know this.”
Emily sank back on the cushions. It was as though her heart had stopped beating.
Lady Riddley’s face betrayed her embarrassment. It was livid with color. “You were too young. You were an innocent. Leon wanted to protect you. You were never meant to know. We were…careless.” Her eyes dropped to her clasped hands. “You are still very young, but perhaps old enough to understand that men and women sometimes have needs…That is, we were hurting no one that night. My husband’s twice my age. The earl could not…we were not on intimate terms.” Her eyes anxiously searched Emily’s face. “Afterward, I was never with Leon again. And everything worked out for the best.”
Though Emily had been following everything that her companion had said, she had not heard what she most wanted to hear. “How do you know that Leon loves me?”
“It was no secret,” said Lady Riddley, smiling for the first time since they had entered the carriage. “Leon told me that he was waiting for Rivard’s niece to grow up before he claimed her.”
E
mily had heard enough. Leon was waiting for Rivard’s niece to grow up before he claimed her. The marquess had two nieces. It was Sara whom Leon had always loved, Sara whom he had hoped to claim. He had paid dearly for his affaire with Lady Riddley.
Her eyes lifted to the older woman. At the Spencers’ ball, Lady Riddley’s beauty had seemed as vibrant as ever. Candlelight was kinder than daylight, thought Emily, for she saw now what she had missed then. The woman was on the wrong side of forty and showing it. This aging belle bore no resemblance to the voluptuous seductress she had created in her imagination.
“You do understand how it was?”
“I understand,” said Emily. The response was mechanical. She didn’t understand, not really. She supposed that she was naive. She must be, for what she wanted seemed to be unattainable. She wanted people to be good and kind and honorable. She wanted people to be trustworthy. They shouldn’t do things they were ashamed of. They shouldn’t do things in stealth. They shouldn’t lie and cheat and deceive each other. They should be the best they could be. Leon had loved Sara. Lady Riddley had a husband. Their illicit affair seemed tawdry. To say that they had hurt no one wasn’t true.
She wasn’t a complete simpleton. She knew that no one could be perfect. But that wasn’t what she meant. She was groping for something and could not seem to grasp it entirely.
Conscious of Lady Riddley’s half-hopeful, half-anxious look, she said, “Why have you told me all this?”
“At the Spencers’ ball, you gave me a look of such loathing! You see, it had never crossed my mind that you knew I was the woman with Leon that night. I want to assure you that I deeply regret any pain I may have caused you. I mean that sincerely. I am not an ogre. I never meant to steal Leon away from you. As I said, you were never meant to know.”
Emily relaxed against the cushions. The woman was sincere. She wasn’t without scruples. In all likelihood, she was a better person than she herself was. It would be mean-spirited to refuse the olive branch she was offering.
“I promise you,” said Emily, “you shall never surprise that look on my face again.”
The letter to Leon remained hidden away in her escritoire. Emily reasoned that there was not much point in sending it when Sara had got there before her. Leon knew everything there was to know. That her own letter would add weight to Sara’s persuasions seemed reasonable but by no means certain. She was prevaricating again and reluctant to examine her motives.
Then something happened that hastened her decision. It was a freak accident that could have happened to anyone. She was out riding. Sara, who normally would have accompanied her, was indisposed. Hyde Park was deserted; both girls were accomplished riders and preferred to exercise their horses in the early hours of the morning before other riders were about, when it was possible to put their mounts through their paces. At Sara’s request, Emily was exercising Sara’s bay, Hoyden, as spirited an animal as her name suggested. Suddenly, without warning and at the worst possible moment, when Emily was riding hell-bent-for-leather across the turf, the saddle slipped. Emily went flying through the air. The last thing she heard was her groom’s cry of alarm before she hit the ground with a sickening thud.
William Addison, who frequently made it a point to meet Emily “by accident” during these early-morning rides, saw the whole thing. Horror-struck, he came thundering up on his huge roan and practically threw himself down beside the stunned girl.
“W-William?” Emily looked up at him in a daze.
Relief shivered through him. He’d thought for one awful moment that she had broken her neck. That first rush of relief was quickly superseded by a different emotion. He wanted to shake her in anger.
“God, Emily, how many times must I warn you not to ride like a hoyden? Are you all right? No broken bones?”
She managed a shaky laugh. “Only my dignity is wounded. William, please help me up?”
He gathered her to him and held her comfortingly. She liked the feel of his strong arms about her and rested her head on his broad chest.
He gave her a moment to come to herself, then set her at arm’s length. “If I were your guardian, I would forbid you to ride for the next several months.”
His anger touched her, for she saw in it an expression of his devotion. She stood there meekly, accepting his vituperation, knowing that it was merited. He went on at some length. One might have thought that they were already married.
In some things, she recognized that William was a little stodgy. She doubted that he had ever done anything reckless in his life, with the exception of falling in love with a woman who already had a husband. It was a disloyal thought and she quickly suppressed it. Decorum was important to William’s family. He had laughingly told her that their unspoken motto was noblesse oblige. He was too aware of their failings to accept their unspoken codes as his own.
She spent the remainder of the day quietly in her room, nursing her aches and bruises. There was plenty of time for soul-searching and reflection. Life was too short, too transitory, to waste it. She did not want second best. She did not want to become a pathetic figure like Lady Riddley, or to regret “what might have been” like Sara and Leon. She wanted to embrace life, to experience the best it had to offer, not in empty riches and pleasures, but in the more meaningful ways that made every day worthwhile. She did not know if those things were to be found with William Addison; she only knew that they were not to be found with her husband.
That evening, she gave the letter she had written to Leon to her aunt.
Leon Devereux scanned the letter in his hand with careless interest before flinging it aside. “She is demanding an annulment,” he told his companion.
Rolfe choked on a mouthful of brandy and quickly set his glass down. It was he who had put Emily’s letter into Leon’s hand only a few moments before. “God, Zoë was right! She must be sweet on William Addison. I should have seen it coming. I should have taken steps to put a stop to it before now. Damnation! I thought it was merely a harmless flirtation.”
The two gentlemen were in an upstairs parlor in the distinguished Clarendon Hotel, where Leon Devereux had taken up lodgings since his arrival in London a few days before.
“It is only a harmless flirtation,” said the younger man. He stretched out his long, booted legs to rest them against the fireplace fender, and slowly brought his glass to his lips.
“Beg pardon?”
“Emily is my wife.”
“Quite. I see what you mean.”
The silence which ensued was a comfortable one, springing from long-standing friendship and a tacit understanding of the problem which Lady Emily Devereux presented to the two most significant men in her life.
The problem was not a new one. Leon Devereux happened to be married to a girl who did not want him. Rolfe thought his niece was daft. Leon was everything he would choose for a husband for one of his wards. He was of sound character. He was a hard worker. By and large, he had made his own way in the world. True, at one time, the boy had tended to wildness. But his marriage had knocked that trait out of him. There had been not a whisper of scandal attaching to his name in the last five years. If there had been, Rolfe would have got wind of it. It went without saying that there would have been women. Evidently, Leon had learned the value of discretion. He would do nothing to jeopardize his chances with Emily. In point of fact, he had done as much as any man to win the confidence of the woman of his choice. Much good it had done him.
Emily was still very much a child, in her uncle’s opinion. Other women were not slow to throw out lures to the handsome man, as Rolfe had witnessed earlier that evening in the hotel’s lobby. And why shouldn’t they? Leon was a fine-looking specimen.
Rolfe’s eyes made a slow appraisal of the man sitting opposite him. The handsomely chiseled profile did not even register. What he admired was Leon’s physique—his broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist; his iron-tight stomach, not to mention his muscular thighs and legs beneath the skin-hugging, black pantaloo
ns. The man was in the peak of physical condition, and a welcome relief from the hordes of painted fops with their effeminate gestures who thronged the salons of Mayfair.
Suddenly conscious of Leon’s questioning stare, Rolfe said, “I was admiring your tailoring. English, I presume?”
“Is there any other kind?”
Rolfe snorted. “For a Frenchman, that’s saying something.”
“I’m not French. I’m an American. You forget that I have spent almost half my life outside the borders of France.”
“If you really worked at it,” said Rolfe, tongue in cheek, “you might eventually be able to pass yourself off as an Englishman.” Rolfe was thinking that to hear Leon now, one would never have known that he was not English born and bred. He never lapsed into French as Zoë did when she was agitated. Rolfe suddenly remembered something else: Emily, as a child, mimicking Leon’s French accent, much to the boy’s chagrin. He supposed that there were others who had sunk to his niece’s level, taunting the youth because he was different, perhaps boys he had met at university. Knowing Leon, he would want to make them eat their words.
Leon laughed, showing a flash of white teeth against the tanned skin. “Thank you, no. America suits me very well.”
They went on in a similar vein until a chance remark brought them back to the reason for Leon’s presence in England.
Rolfe studied Leon’s lean face, gauging his reaction to his next words. He made a steeple with his fingers. “If you were agreeable,” he said cautiously, “an annulment could be arranged quite easily.”
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