A Matter of Class (16 page)

“Tillman?” he said. “Did you like him? We were once members of the same drama group at Oxford. His father ran out of funds, and he took to the stage in earnest. He told me after escaping from your elopement that he called himself
Till
'til he could get back to auditioning for less dangerous roles.”

“You have
seen
him?” she said.

“You would not recognize him,” he assured her. “Nor would anyone else. The blond tresses, his most handsome feature, were a wig. He is more than half bald. And he has the gift of all true actors of somehow making himself look completely different with every role he plays even without the use of masks and cosmetics and other tricks. Most of the time he is the most ordinary looking of mortals. He once explained to me that one has to
think
one's way into a part, to
become
the person one is playing. He became your father's dashing coachman and your secret suitor for a while. I hope he was always respectful?”

“I might have known he was an actor,” she said. “Whenever we had a few minutes alone together, he spouted bombastic love poetry at me—in
Latin
. At least he
said
it was love poetry. It was probably extracts from Caesar's Gallic wars.”

“Probably,” he agreed. “You were marvelously brave, love. But I always did say you had pluck, didn't I?”

“It was the first compliment you paid me,” she said.

“When I was five. I think I fell in love with you at that moment. I am an easy prey to flatterers, you see.”

“And to those who sincerely admire you?” he asked her.

“And to them too.”

She bit her lip.

“Reggie,” she said, “did we do the right thing? It felt perfectly dreadful all the time it was happening—not at all daring and adventurous and exhilarating and
fun
. I had no
idea
I would be so consumed by guilt.”

He crossed the room to her in a few quick strides and caught her up in his arms. And Lord, her nightgown felt virtually nonexistent, and she had been using some wondrously fragrant soap. And she was his bride and this was his wedding night.

She was his
wife
.

The reality of it all swept over him like a tidal wave, as though the rest of the day had been a dream.

“Do the ends ever justify the means?” he said into her hair. “Maybe not. I have felt horribly guilty too, Anna, not least because I consented to let you carry through with a plan in which you had to do the most dangerous parts. But how else
could
we have done it when you were afraid to dive into the river to rescue me from drowning? Short of eloping and alienating our families and society for all time, that is. Our fathers, yours in particular, would never have consented to let us marry if we had simply asked them and used as a reason that we had been friends most of our lives and lovers for one glorious afternoon last autumn.”

She wrapped her arms tightly about him and inhaled audibly.

“Oh, Reggie,” she said. “You smell wonderful. Do you know what Papa said this morning before we left for church? He said that, if I wished, we need not go, but could run off to Oakridge instead and thumb our noses at the
ton
. He
does
love me.”

“I would have looked like a pretty idiot, stranded before the altar at St. George's awaiting a bride who never came,” he said. “It would have been the stuff of legends. Were you tempted?”

She tipped back her head and smiled slowly at him.

“I am
almost
tempted to say yes,” she said, “just to see the look on your face.”

“But you are not going to give in to temptation?” he asked her.

She shook her head.

“I have wanted you since I was twelve years old, Reggie Mason,” she said. “Ten long years. Perhaps even longer. I was certainly not going to let you out of my grasp when I had you there.”

He rubbed his nose across hers and kissed her softly on the lips.

“Did you say anything to your mother?” he asked her.

“I almost blurted it all out this morning,” she said. “And indeed, I think she may guess part of it. She certainly knows that my elopement with Thomas Till was fake. But you and I agreed that we would not confess the whole of it and risk humiliating any of our parents with the knowledge of how we deceived them. I told her only that I was falling in love with you and that I was almost sure you were falling in love with me.”

“I think,” he said, “our deceit may have results more positive than just our marriage. I think our mothers will
now be able to be friends. I think they have always secretly wanted to be.”

She smiled.

“Will we always feel a little bit guilty?” she asked him.

He shook his head.

“Think of the alternative, love,” he said.

Her eyes brightened with unshed tears, and she tightened her arms about him.

“They were ten wretched years in many ways,” she said. “I despaired of
ever
stopping loving you, even though I tried.”

“And now,” he said, “you don't have to. And I don't have to pretend to myself that all I feel for you is lust, as I did for three years.”

She looked arrested.

“You felt
lust
for me?” she asked him.

“Not at all,” he said, grinning and waggling his eyebrows at her. “When I look at you, Anna, I have the same feelings I would have if I were looking at a door.”

She laughed, her lovely silvery, amused laughter.

“Are you feeling lust now?” she asked him.

His brow creased in thought.

“I think I might be,” he said, and he set one hand
behind her and drew her closer until they were pressed to each other in all the strategic places.

“Oh, Reggie,” she sighed and melted against him. “I think you are. Oh, I
do
love you.”

“Anna.” He found her mouth with his and kissed her deeply. “My love. I hope you had plenty of sleep last night. You will not get much tonight. I am going to make love to you over and over until you get as much pleasure from it as I do—and as you did not quite get last autumn. And then, when you
do
share the pleasure, I am going to keep on making love just to prove that it was no freakish accident.”

“Words, words, words,” she said against his mouth. “When are you going to show me
action
, boaster?”

She laughed softly and then half shrieked as he growled and swung her up into his arms. He strode to the bed with her and tossed her onto it.

“Right, if it is action you want, it is action you will get,” he said, divesting himself of the cumbersome dressing gown and nightshirt before joining her there. “My love,” he added.

M
ary Balogh,
New York Times
bestselling author of numerous Regency-era novels, grew up in Wales and moved to Canada to teach. She stayed to marry and raise a family—and fulfill her lifelong dream of being a writer. See her web site at
www.marybalogh.com
.

Copyright © 2010 by Mary Balogh

Published by Vanguard Press
A Member of the Perseus Books Group

 

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Balogh, Mary.

A matter of class / Mary Balogh.

p. cm.

eISBN : 978-0-786-75221-8

I. Title.

PR6052.A465M38 2009

823'.914—dc22

2009032580

 

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