Читать книгу Innocent in the Regency Ballroom - Christine Merrill - Страница 17

In the two years they had been together, Adam’s mistress, Felicity, had been a most accommodating and entertaining companion. But now, as he looked at her, he could not seem to remember why. She was beautiful, of course. There was little reason to have her otherwise. While she might not be the most enchanting conversationalist, he employed her to listen, not to talk. And so it mattered little.

She greeted him as she always had, with a passionate kiss. Her perfect hands reached out to stroke him and to smooth his brow.

And to search his pockets, as well. ‘What did you being me, Adam?’ Her smile was as satisfied as a cat’s.

He smiled back. ‘And why must I have brought you anything?’ Although, of course, he had.

‘Because you always do, my darling. I have come to expect it. And there is the little matter of your recent marriage.’ She experimented with a pout, but her heart was not in it. ‘You could at least have told me your plans. Even though it does not change what we share, it is not pleasant to be surprised when reading The Times.’

He nodded. ‘I am sorry. I never intended for my situation to change so suddenly, or I would have forewarned you.’

She nodded. ‘It was love at first sight, then.’ Clearly, she did not believe it any more than he did, but it was sweet of her to give him the benefit of the doubt.

‘Rather. Yes.’

‘Then, let us celebrate.’ She kissed him again with an ardour guaranteed to arouse.

But the irony of the situation washed over him, and it was as though he were watching the kiss from a distance, rather than being an active participant in it. To be celebrating one’s wedding in the arms of a Cyprian was probably sin enough for God to strike him dead on the spot. When their lips parted, he laid his against her ear and murmured, ‘Then you no longer wish to see your gift?’

‘I wish to see it, if you wish to show it to me,’ she said, the most co-operative woman in his life.

He guided her fingers to the breast pocket of his jacket, to the package he had purchased on the way to her flat.

She was immediately distracted and withdrew the bracelet from the jewel box in his pocket. ‘Adam, it is magnificent. The size of the diamonds. And the clarity.’ She examined it with the eye of a professional. ‘Th-thank you. It is quite the nicest thing you have ever brought me.’

He must have chosen well, if he had made a whore stammer. ‘I am glad you appreciate it.’

For it cost me more than all your other gifts put together. Now that I can borrow from my wife’s purse, money does not matter. And she will not care that I am here, for I have bought her a book. The truth sickened him, even as he thought it. And again, it was as though he was viewing the scene from a distance.

His mind might be shamed by what he had done, but his body cared not, and awaited the reward forthcoming after a gift.

And his mouth agreed with neither of them. As though he had no control over it, it announced, ‘Yes. Of course. I thought, under the circumstances, an extra expenditure was called for. For you see …’

And his mouth proceeded, unbidden, to explain that now that he was married, their relationship had indeed changed. Since it was unlikely that he would be able to spend much time in her presence, it was hardly fair to keep her. The lavish gift was meant as a parting token. The apartment would be available for her use until such time …

His body howled in disappointment, and called him all kinds of fool, but still the words would not stop. And with each one, his conscience felt lighter.

His mistress was taking the whole thing annoyingly well.

She shrugged. ‘I suspected as much. When a man gets it into his head to marry, his priorities change. And we have been together for quite some time, have we not?’

He started. She sounded bored with his attentions. The fact that she bored him as well was small consolation.

‘And you have always been most considerate of me, and very generous of spirit. Should you need similar companionship in the future, I would not hesitate to recommend you as a protector.’

It sounded almost as if she was giving him references. ‘And I, you.’ He stuttered. ‘Recommend, I mean. Should you need …’

He returned to his townhouse, numb with shock. The day was not turning out as planned. His old friends annoyed him. He’d just denied himself an afternoon of pleasure for no logical reason. And he still had no idea how to deal with his new wife. He returned home, because he could think of nowhere else to go. There was no joy in lunching alone, but his clubs would be too full of people, asking questions he did not desire to answer. At least in his own house he could have the consolation of solitude.

He was over the threshold before he remembered that he no longer lived alone. He had handed his hat and stick to the servant, and was halfway down the hall when he heard the rattle of tea things from the sitting room. Her door was open.

Too late, then, to take back his hat and back out of the door. Perhaps she would not notice if he quietly went to his rooms.

And then his wife peered into the hall. ‘I was just sitting down to tea. Would you care to join me?’

‘Thank you.’ Once again, his mouth had said something that came as a surprise to him.

‘I will have the butler bring another cup. You look in need of refreshment. Come. Sit down.’ And she graciously welcomed him to sit in his own home.

Her home as well, he reminded himself. She had every right to be taking tea in the room he had promised was solely for her use. And she was performing her duty as wife to see that he was provided with his. What right did he have to complain?

He sat down on the sofa next to her and waited in silence, while she pulled a tiny table closer to him and prepared his cup as she’d seen him take it. ‘Biscuit?’

He stared at the unfamiliar thing in front of him.

She responded without his asking, ‘I am accustomed to take sweets in the afternoon. These are a favourite of mine. I find the lemon zest in them most refreshing, so I have given the recipe to Cook. But if you would prefer something more substantial …’

‘No. This is fine. Thank you.’

She was staring at him now. And he raised his eyes from his cup, to stare back at her.

‘I am sorry for suggesting it,’ she remarked, ‘but is something the matter? You seem rather out of sorts.’

‘What business is it of yours?’ he snapped. And immediately regretted his outburst.

She was unfazed. ‘Only that, earlier in the day, you said you wished to be friends.’

‘I said I wished to appear to be friends. That is an entirely different matter.’

Again, she was unfazed, but answered thoughtfully, ‘As you wish. Although it is sometimes easier to keep up the appearance, if an actual friendship exists.’ There was no tartness in her voice. Merely a statement of fact.

He rubbed his brow with his hand. ‘I apologise. Of course, you are right. I had no call to snap at you.’

‘As you wish. I was not offended by it. It is I who should apologise to you for intruding on your peace. I merely wished to thank you for sending Jem to get my book. It was nice that you remembered.’ She fell silent and allowed him to enjoy his tea.

But the silence was almost more discomforting than the noise, for it allowed him to feel the guilt again, although he could not imagine what it was that pained him.

‘You are not disturbing my peace, Penny. But I fear I disturbed yours. I think—it may be possible that I am not comfortable when at peace. I must always be doing something to keep back the quiet. Thus, I released my ill-behaved friends on you this morning.’

She chuckled. ‘We are an unsuitable pair, are we not?’

‘Opposites attract.’ But he could not manage to sound as sure as he wished.

‘But at least our political views agree. It would be most difficult to respect you if—’

‘Our politics?’ It was his turn to laugh. ‘To what purpose does a woman have political views?’

‘To no purpose, other than that I live in this country, and am concerned with how it progresses. While I am not allowed to vote, there is nothing to prevent me from reading the speeches and governmental proceedings in The Times. That I cannot do anything to forward my views is no fault of mine.’ She cast her eyes downwards, and then favoured him with a sidelong glance through her lashes. ‘As a weak woman, I must pray that the country is in good hands.’

He felt the small thrill along his spine that he always got when a woman was trying to capture his attention. Could it be? He looked at her again. There was a faint smile on her face, and an even fainter flush on her pale skin.

His wife was flirting with him. Over the proceedings of the House of Lords.

It was an unusual approach, and unlikely to be successful. It would be easy enough to prove that she knew nothing of the subject with a few simple questions. And then, if she truly wished to flatter him, she could return to safer subjects favoured by other women of his female acquaintance: the colour of his eyes, or the cut of his coat and how well it favoured his shoulders. ‘So you agree with my politics, do you?’

‘Most definitely. Your grasp of economy is most erudite.’

‘And you feel that the country is competently governed? For having seen the political process up close, I sometimes have my doubts.’

‘Well, as far as I can tell, Lord Beaverton is a fool,’ she said. ‘He has little understanding of domestic trade, and even less of international issues. And he seems to disagree most vehemently with you on the subject of cotton imports.’

‘Because he has interests in India,’ Adam supplied. ‘He is feathering his own nest.’

‘Well, your interchange with him sounded most spirited. Although, if you could clarify a certain point …’

He had wondered when she would allow him to speak, for she seemed to have no understanding of the conversational gambit that encouraged a woman to listen more than she spoke. Her first question was followed by another, and then another. And some were of a level of complexity that he was required to refer to a gazetteer in his study, and other references as well.

And soon it seemed easier just to move the tea things and conversation to his desk. He ceded her the chair, for he sometimes found it easier to think while on his feet, and she peppered him with questions while he paced the room.

There was a discreet knock at the door, and the butler entered. ‘Your Grace? You have guests.’

A head appeared around the back of the servant. Tim was there, and he could see other friends crowding behind him in the hall. ‘Have you forgotten, Adam? Dinner at the club?’

He glanced at the clock on the mantel. How had it got to be so late? ‘It will be the work of a moment, and I will be ready to go.’ He glanced down at Penny. ‘Of course, if you wish, I will cancel.’

She shook her head. ‘That is all right. I prefer to remain at home.’ He thought he detected a trace of wistfulness in her answer.

‘If you are sure?’

She nodded again, gathering her tea things from his desk. ‘I should be going back to my room, after all. I meant to accomplish more today.’

‘I am sorry if I distracted you. Until tomorrow, then.’ And before he knew what he was doing, he’d bent and kissed her on the cheek.

She turned as pink as the walls of her sitting room, but she did not flinch from him. In fact, the smile he received in reward was quite charming, before she remembered that there were others present, and hurried across the hall and into her study, closing the door.

In retrospect, he’d have been better to have remained at home, for that seemed to be where his mind resided. The strange day only served to accent the commonness of the evening. The boring conversation and stale jokes of his friends were punctuated with exclamations of ‘Adam, why must you be so glum?’

The constant reminder that he was not himself only served to make his mood darker.

When they were at cards, and Minton had presented some outlandish political position, Adam had snapped, ‘Really, John, if I wished to talk politics, I’d have stayed home with my wife. She, at least, has some idea of what she is talking about.’

There was an amused murmur in the crowd around him, as though he had confirmed to the men around him that his sudden marriage had addled his mind. Only Tim looked at him and nodded with approval.

Soon after, a servant arrived, bearing a note on a salver for Tim. His friend unfolded the paper, grew pale, and asked a servant for his hat and gloves. ‘I must make my apologies. I am called home. There is an emergency.’

‘Nothing serious, I hope,’ Adam said.

‘I suspect it is little Sophie. She has been sick again. And I am a little worried.’ Judging by Tim’s agitation, minor worry did not describe his true state of mind.

Adam stood up. ‘I will go with you. We will take my carriage to save time, and I will return home once your mind is at rest.’

But on arrival at the Colton home, they discovered the true nature of the emergency. All the lights were blazing, and from the salon came the sound of voices, laughter, and a soprano warbling along with the pianoforte.

Tim swore softly and with vehemence threw his hat into a corner and stalked into the room with Adam following in his wake.

His wife seized him by the arm, forcing a drink into his hand and announced to the gathering, ‘Here they are! As I told you, they were detained.’

Adam was close enough to hear Tim murmur to his wife, ‘You knew my intentions, and yet you brought me home to play host to a gathering that is none of my making.’

She responded through clenched teeth. ‘And you knew my intentions. I wished for you and your friend to dine at home this evening. Do not cross me again, or you shall live to regret it.’

‘More so than I do our marriage?’ Tim laughed loud enough for the guests to hear, although they could not make out his words. ‘That would be an impressive feat, madam.’

‘You know how creative I can be.’ She turned away from Tim, and reached for Adam, linking her arm in his and pulling him forwards. ‘Come along, Adam. Do not think you can escape so easily. Have a drink with us before you go.’ She was pressing against him in a way that must be obvious to her husband, and smiling up at him too brightly.

He eased free of her grasp, stomach churning, unable to look his friend in the eye. ‘A glass of wine, then. Only one. And then I must be going home.’

Clarissa said, loud enough for all to hear, ‘Ah yes. Hurrying home to your bride, Adam. Just when will she be making an appearance in society? People are beginning to think that the woman is a product of your overheated imagination.’

‘You know full well, Clare, that she wished to remain at home, for you spoke to her this morning.’

‘But, Adam, everyone is dying to meet her. I have told them so much about her. They are aflame with curiosity. Penelope is the daughter of a cit,’ she informed the group gathered around them. ‘And from what I’ve been told, she is very rich. But she will not mix with us, I’m afraid. She is far too busy to be bothered. Adam’s wife is a bluestocking.’ The last was said with enough pity to make the other revelations pale in comparison.

He was expected to say something at this point, but was at a loss as to what. Most of what Clarissa had said was perfectly true, although it sounded far worse coming from her mouth. And she had probably used his absence to embroider what facts she had with as many scurrilous fictions as she could invent. So he seized upon the one thing he could safely refute. ‘Really, Clarissa. You make her sound so exclusionist that she should be a patroness at Almack’s. She is at home tonight, reading The Odyssey in the original Greek. I bought her the book this afternoon as a wedding gift. But she’ll mix with society soon enough.’

And then, he could not help himself—he added a fabrication of his own. ‘We are planning a ball, and I suspect most of you will be invited to it. Then you can meet her and see for yourself.’

The crowd nodded, mollified, and there was an undercurrent of curiosity in the gossip that stole the thunder from Clarissa’s tales. Bellston rarely entertained. The new duchess might be an eccentric, but no one would dare comment on the fact if it meant losing the duke’s favour and missing a chance to attend an event that would be eagerly anticipated by everyone of importance in London.

Everyone except the Duchess of Bellston.

Penny sat at the vanity in her bedroom, which she had transformed, with the help of a strong lamp, into a makeshift writing desk. The work had seemed to fly this evening, with words flowing out of her mind and on to paper as easily as if the text were already in English and she was only copying down what she saw. Perhaps it had been the gift of the book that had inspired her. Adam could be so effortlessly kind that she scolded herself for thinking ill of him earlier in the day.

Or perhaps the intellectual stimulation of strong tea and good conversation had freed her thoughts.

That was all it had been, of course. Any stimulation she might have felt, beyond her intellect, was girlish fancy. She had always admired the Duke of Bellston. To see the actual man in front of her, moved by his subject matter until he’d all but forgotten her existence, was more invigorating than she’d imagined. He’d invited her into his study, allowing her past a barrier of intimacy that she had not expected to cross, and for a time she’d felt she was very much in his confidence.

And then he had kissed her. Thank the Lord that their conversation had been at an end, for she doubted that she would have been able to string two thoughts together after that buss on the cheek.

She had gone back to her sitting room and curled up on the sofa and opened the book, ready to enjoy his gift, only to have her eyes drawn, again and again, to the kissing couple on the bookshelf. She must have looked as dazed and eager as that when he’d left her.

And it had not stopped him from going out, she reminded herself, returning to cool logic. Not that there was anything wrong with being apart in the evenings. How would she get any work done if he forced her to accompany him everywhere, like a dog on a leash? She enjoyed her work.

And she had been quite satisfied with her progress once she left the sitting room, which seemed to attract foolish fantasy like a normal library attracted cobwebs. She could work without fear of interruption in her bedroom.

Certainly without fear of interruption by her husband. If he preferred to be elsewhere, in the company of others than herself? That had been their plan, had it not? She could hardly blame him for it. An evening of cards at an all-male club was hardly cause for jealousy on her part.

And if she was not mistaken, he was arriving home; through the open window she heard the sound of a carriage stopping in front of the house, and the faint sound of her husband’s voice as the footman greeted him at the front door. She glanced at the clock. Barely eleven.

She had not expected him so soon. It had been later than this when they’d returned to the house on the previous evening, and he’d proclaimed it early. Was tonight’s behaviour unusual?

Not that she should care. She hardly knew the man, and his schedule was his own affair.

But he had come home. Not to her, precisely. But he was home, all the same. Perhaps it would not be too forward to go downstairs in search of a cup of tea, and pass by the door to his study to see if he remained up. She got out of her chair, reached to tighten the belt of her dressing gown, and, without thinking, straightened her hair. Then she laughed at herself for the vanity of it.

With her hand on the doorknob, she stopped and listened. But, no. There was no need to seek him. He was climbing the stairs, for she could hear him on the landing, and then he was coming down the hall carpet toward his room. She waited for the sound of his bedroom door, opening and closing.

It did not come. He had walked past his room, for she had been unconsciously counting the steps and imagining him as he walked.

And then he stopped, just on the other side of her door.

She waited for the knock, but none came. Perhaps he would call out to her, to see if she was asleep, though he must know she was not, for the light of her lamp would be visible under the door.

If she were a brave woman, she would simply open the door and go after the cup of tea she had been imagining. Then she could pretend to be surprised to see him, and inquire what it was that he wanted. She might even step into the hall, and collide with his body, allowing him to reach out a hand to steady her. Perhaps he would laugh, and she would neglect to step away, and she would know if he merely wished to continue their discussion, or if there was some other purpose for his visit.

But she was not a brave woman, and she was foolish to think such things, since they made no sense at all. There was a perfectly logical explanation for his being there, which he would no doubt tell her in the morning at breakfast. If she waited, she could save herself the embarrassment of making too big a thing out of something so small.

But all the same, she kissed the palm of her hand, and then silently pressed it to the panel of the door, holding it very near where the cheek of a tall man might be.

Then she heard his body shift, and his steps retreating down the hall, and the opening and closing of the bedroom door beside her own.