Gallant Scoundrel (24 page)

In her new ball gown of shimmering silver satin over a pure white underskirt, delivered only that afternoon, Xena felt confident that she at least
looked
the part of a proper gentleman’s wife…even if she didn’t feel much like one.
 

Indeed, her excitement at attending her very first ball was tempered by more than a thread of trepidation. Dancing was by no means her forte and she’d had precious few chances to practice since being taught the basics as a girl. She rather regretted never attending the local assemblies in Yorkshire when numerous gentlemen approached nearly as soon as she was announced to request the honor of partnering her.

When she looked to Harry for guidance on how to respond, he merely shrugged. “Don’t let my disinclination for dancing keep you from enjoying yourself tonight. Save me the supper dance and I’ll be more than content to spend my time in the card room.”

With that encouragement, Xena was soon bespoken for every dance of the evening. Harry partnered her for the opening minuet after which, true to his word, he retired to the sidelines. That one dance had proved his skill far superior to her own, however, making her rather wish she could do the same. She wished it even more as she found herself apologizing to partner after partner for her frequent missteps.
 

“I can’t tell you how delighted I am that you’ve chosen to extend your stay in Town,” said the Duke of Wellington as they began a waltz midway through the evening. “Rather had a feeling you might.”

She looked up at her former commander in surprise and some misgiving. After their last encounter she’d been reluctant to agree to so intimate a dance as the waltz with him, but refusing the man England currently deemed second in importance only to the Prince Regent was out of the question. At least the waltz was less complicated than most of the country dances.

“You did? Why is that?”
 

He smiled down at her with the same warmth that had previously made her uncomfortable. “You implied a lack of funds compelled your return to Yorkshire, but I had already taken certain steps to help alleviate that concern.”
 

“You took… Do you mean to say that
you
are the person who has offered to purchase my father’s Grecian collection, your grace?” Xena was not sure whether to be grateful or aghast.

The Duke tightened his grip on her waist, his smile broadening. “My secret is out. Initially, I merely thought to help out the daughter of an old friend, but on seeing you at Apsley House last week, it is possible my motive became a trifle less pure.”
 

Though her instinct was to pull away and leave him there on the dance floor, she could scarcely do so without causing a scene and giving rise to speculation. Before she could frame a diplomatic rejection of his implied offer, the Duke twirled her and Xena, considerably less than expert at the waltz, stumbled.

He caught her before she could fall and embarrass herself further. “I fear I have shocked you, my dear,” he said with a chuckle. “Most women would be quite flattered.”

“I am not most women,” Xena retorted stiffly, repeating what she’d told Harry during their first conversation. “I am also married, your grace—as you are well aware.”
 

“Oh, aye.” He dismissed that argument with a shrug. “But as your husband will by no means desist from pursuing his pleasures on that account, you may see your way clear to do likewise.”

Xena was startled—and more upset than she cared to admit—that the Duke could be so certain Harry did not intend to abide by his marriage vows. Still, she had no intention of being persuaded to similar indiscretions. Even were she tempted to do so—which she most definitely was not—she had her son to think of.
 

“I’m sorry, your grace,” she said frostily. “If your purchase of those artifacts is contingent upon my agreement to a dalliance, I fear I must—”

“No, no, of course not,” he interrupted her with another laugh. “I’ll buy the demmed knick-knacks, never fear—least I can do for Old Max’s daughter. Looks as though you’ve already put my down-payment to good use, in any event.” He cast an approving eye over her ensemble. “Nor did I gain my reputation in battle by surrendering after the first setback.” The dance ended then and he released her with a wink.

Her face no doubt pinker than usual despite trying valiantly not to blush, Xena dipped the Duke a hurried curtsey and turned away, wishing fervently she could return every penny to him. Unfortunately, after spending a goodly portion on herself, she had already sent the balance of his money to Yorkshire. Upon hearing her name spoken as she left the floor, that wish intensified.

“Mrs. Thatcher is angling to trade up, it would seem,” Mrs. Mellings whispered loudly.

“I daresay,” agreed Lady Digby, wagging her turban. “Though that may well be a source of relief rather than concern to her husband. Wellington is known to be most generous to his lovers.”

Mrs. Mellings nodded. “Aye, I can’t imagine Mr. Thatcher would turn away a bit extra, no matter the source.” She tittered.

“It will also give him more leisure to resume his own interests, which I overheard Lady Grant saying he has been forced to neglect of late.”
 

Xena determinedly moved out of earshot, pretending not to have heard, though she suspected she’d been meant to. Let the gossips say what they wished. She’d done nothing wrong. Nor had she formed any foolish illusions about Harry or their marriage, despite the apparent—and no doubt temporary—change she’d seen in him these past days.

Even so, she was turning instinctively to scan the crowded room for Harry when her next partner stepped forward. With a bow and a fulsome compliment on her nonexistent “grace” in the dance, Mr. Pottinger led her back out for the cotillion just forming. For an instant she thought she spotted Harry near an archway, but when she looked again he was gone.

Not until the supper dance did she again encounter her husband, by which time her distress over the Duke’s suggestive remarks had faded somewhat. Harry proved as adept at the waltz as General Wellington, though of course he could not take her right hand in his left, instead directing her to place her hand against his chest.
 

When she commented on his skill, he smiled down at her. “I do my best, considering.” He grimaced toward his left shoulder. “’Twas something Wellington expected of all his officers. It stood me in good stead in Vienna, though I can’t claim to enjoy it.”
 

Xena tried not to look conscious at mention of Wellington’s name, but feared she was not entirely successful. “Was the card room to your liking?” she asked quickly, hoping he would not notice.

“Not particularly. Our hosts decreed but penny stakes for the evening, which takes most of the fun from it. Pity, that, or I’d be well up by now.”

She mentally congratulated their hosts on their wisdom while contenting herself with nodding in mock sympathy.

Supper was a noisy affair, allowing for little in the way of real conversation. The knowledge that she was engaged for another dance with the Duke immediately afterward prevented Xena from properly enjoying the assortment of dainties available.
 

When the dancing resumed, she was pleased to discover the first was not another waltz. Her relief was short-lived, however, for the country dance had scarcely begun when the Duke reopened his earlier topic.

“I must apologize for shocking you earlier, my dear,” he said while deftly stepping through the figures. “I confess, I did not believe it possible after the time you spent in army camps. Old Max must have done a better job shielding you from the baser instincts of my soldiers than I expected of him, absentminded as he could often be.”

As Xena had managed to carry on an affair with Harry for nearly three months practically under her father’s nose, that was scarcely true but of course she did not say so. “I was merely…surprised, your grace,” she forced herself to say before the movements of the dance separated them.

When next they came together, he took the opportunity to say, “I don’t suppose I might persuade you—and Thatcher, of course—to come to Paris? I’m bound there this Tuesday and would be happy to show you all the delights that city has to offer.”

Though Xena had long wished to visit Paris after all she’d heard about that city, accepting an invitation such as this was obviously out of the question. “I fear my
husband
and I are fixed in Town for the present, your grace.”
 

He smiled, turning about as the dance required. “I hope once you’ve acquired a bit of Town bronze you’ll reconsider, my dear. As for Thatcher, I’ve no doubt he would enjoy Paris enormously. All his favorite vices are to be found there, multiplied a hundredfold.”
 

Stung by this reminder of how generally known Harry’s indiscretions were among the
ton
, she completed the dance in silence, her enjoyment of the evening effectively quenched.

*
       
*
       
*

Harry watched balefully from the sidelines as Xena exchanged flirtatious banter with Wellington during their second dance of the evening. It had seemed only fair to encourage Xena to dance with other gentlemen tonight as this was her first ball and he disliked the exercise himself. Now, however, he was beginning to regret his generosity.

That Xena proved less skilled a dancer than Harry himself mattered little, for she covered her blunders well, with humor and grace. He supposed he should be grateful his former general had danced with her
only
twice thus far, but the way he looked and spoke to her made it abundantly clear he regarded her as far more than the daughter of an old friend.
 

Xena’s feelings were less easy to decipher, but she would scarcely have accepted him a second time were she attempting to discourage him.

A sudden, hearty slap on his back, made Harry spill half the wine in his nearly-untouched glass.

“What ho, Harry!” exclaimed Lord Fernworth. “Looks like your missus is making quite the conquest, eh?” He waved his own glass toward the dance floor, slopping wine himself, though he appeared not to notice.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Harry turned his back on the dancers. As usual, Ferny was nearly too drunk to stand—though that never kept him from talking, and far too loudly.

Fernworth snorted a guffaw, then hiccuped. “Can’t fool me, Harry, m’boy. Saw you watchin’ ‘em. But buck up! Wellington’s known to do quite handsomely by the husbands of his lady-loves. With luck, you’ll soon have extra blunt for the tables, not to mention more time to pursue your own pleasures, eh?”

Heads were beginning to turn their way so Harry attempted to usher his sometime-friend away from the floor. “Let’s get some coffee into you, what do you say, Ferny?”

He received a pitying look in return. “That the way of it, then, Harry? Leg-shackled only a week and already under the cat’s paw? Turning priggish as Lord Peter, you are, and no doubt just as besotted by your wife. Poor blighter.” Blearily shaking his head, he wandered off to refill his now-empty glass.

Harry frowned after him. Ferny was a drunken nodcock, of course, worse than Harry had ever been, but he was uncomfortably aware that only a month ago he’d uttered similar words to Pete—and before that, to various other friends. Was Ferny right that Harry was beginning to exhibit the very symptoms he’d previously deplored in Jack and Pete? Worse, was he right about Wellington and Xena? It would explain much.

Still beset by those troubling thoughts, Harry was silent on the carriage ride back to Grosvenor Street. Xena, who’d danced every set, was already nodding, so seemed not to notice. On their arrival, she made no protest when he merely bid her good night before shutting himself into the library with the port decanter.

Half a bottle brought him no closer to figuring out what, if anything, he should do, so he finally made his disgruntled way up to bed.

The arrival of two more dresses the following day—and from Madame Fanchot’s, the most exclusive modiste in all London—served to sharpen Harry’s suspicions further. Xena happened to be out returning calls when the boxes were delivered, so on impulse he took them from the footman to carry upstairs himself. Outside her chamber door, he peeked inside to see whether a card might be enclosed, but none was.
 

Wellington was both smart and discreet enough that the omission proved nothing, but without firmer proof he could scarcely confront Xena about an affair. Nor was he certain he would—or should—do so even if he obtained such proof. They had never pledged fidelity to one another, unless one counted those wedding vows they’d been forced to recite, once upon a time.

Upon their return from Lord and Lady Varens’ soiree that night, however, his resolve to keep his own counsel on the matter was shaken when Tig greeted Harry at the back gate with news that Xena, while supposedly making calls that morning, had again visited the boarding house on Rundel Street.
 

Giving the boy a few shillings for his trouble, Harry walked back to the house, wondering how he might discover who she was meeting there. A frowning glance at Xena’s window showed it already dark. Just as well, he realized. For a moment, he’d been tempted to demand the truth from her this very night.
 

Instead, he again retired to the library after calling for a fresh decanter of port.

X
ENA
FELT
as though she’d scarcely closed her eyes when Gretchen opened the curtains late the next morning.
 

“It’s that sorry I am to wake you, mum, but you said as how I wasn’t to let you sleep past eleven o’clock.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Xena yawned cavernously. “’Tis an at-home day, so I must be ready to receive callers soon.”

After nearly a full week in Society, Xena felt as though she’d been sucked into such a whirlpool of morning calls, afternoon teas, and evening musicales, card parties and balls that she scarcely had time to draw breath. She and Harry rarely had a moment alone. Even breakfast was often only a hurried bit of toast and coffee before her first visitors arrived.