Heartless (15 page)

And yet, strangely, even on the nights when they did not make love, he found himself going to her bed to sleep almost as if it were his own. They never touched except when they were making love, but he found her soft breathing and her body heat and the womanly smell of her soothing. He slept better than he had ever done alone. It was one surprising—and not at all unpleasant—discovery about his marriage.

She gave him pleasure and he knew that he gave it to her, too. Pleasure in their sexual life and pleasure in their social life. They attended almost all the many social functions of the spring season and did some entertaining themselves, having close acquaintances to dine more than once, and hosting a card and informal dancing party one evening. Always Anna sparkled with warm gaiety as she had during that first ball. She was widely admired. Other men envied him, Luke knew. He found that he watched her in public far more than other men watched their wives. It pleased him to watch her—and to note that she watched him almost as much. He wondered if she drew as much pleasure from his appearance as he did from hers.

Pleasure, he decided, made for a far firmer and more lasting basis to a relationship than love. He was glad—very glad—that there was no love between himself and his wife. He was glad that his discovery on his wedding night and her refusal to answer his questions the morning after had killed the foolish infatuation he had felt for her. He was glad there were no real depths to their relationship. Only pleasure.

His first month in England had brought with it a new way of life, with which he was not entirely dissatisfied. If only it could continue thus, he thought sometimes, he could be almost as well content as he had been in Paris.

But then came the evening of the masquerade at Ranelagh Gardens. By the following morning he knew that his return to Bowden Abbey could be postponed no longer and that his life was about to change again.

It was not a happy prospect.

•   •   •

Ranelagh
Gardens in Chelsea had been opened only a few years before and was still all the rage among people of fashion. There was the large rotunda, inside which one could stroll or take tea or coffee while listening to music. More popular, there were the gardens to walk in and the artificial lake and canal with boats and a picturesque Chinese pagoda. The treelined walks on either side of the canal were favorites with lovers, particularly during the evenings, when the gardens were lit by hundreds of golden lamps.

Anna had never been there before. Nor had she ever attended a masquerade. She was enormously excited and despised her excitement when she was a twenty-five-year-old married lady. Sometimes she felt as if all the youthfulness she had been deprived of at the appropriate time in her life was finding its way out of her now. And yet Luke never seemed to mind. It excited her that he watched her at balls and other assemblies just as he had before they were married, his fan usually waving absently before his face.

She flirted with him still when they were in public, even though they had been married and lovers for a month.

She dressed as a Turkish princess for the masquerade—or rather as a member of a Turkish harem, Luke told her when he saw her. He also told her that she could be a member of his harem any time she chose. She laughed and batted her eyelashes at him over the top of the heavy gold veil with which she had covered her face from the eyes down, in place of a mask. And unseen by him she blushed at the naked desire she saw in his eyes for a moment.

She felt deliciously comfortable and feminine—and slightly wicked—in her loose scarlet damask drawers with gold embroidered flowers and in her fine white silk gauze smock edged with gold damask. She felt almost undressed despite the red, gold-belted caftan she wore over all. It felt strange to be without the armor of her hoops—though she was still tightly laced, of course. On her unpowdered hair she wore a small red velvet cap, decorated with pearls.

Luke had refused to be a sultan to please her. If he were one, he had explained, he would certainly not be escorting her to a masquerade for all to see and admire. He would have her behind locked doors, guarded by six-foot eunuchs with large muscles. He wore a domino and half mask. But since the domino was scarlet, lined with gold, and his waistcoat and mask were also gold, he looked quite gorgeous enough to Anna to be her sultan.

Agnes was also at the masquerade, dressed as a shepherdess, with Lady Sterne and Lord Quinn. And Doris was there as Diana the huntress with her mother. Anna loved all of them and spent time talking with them between dances in the rotunda. It was amusing but not at all difficult to guess the identities of most of the masked revelers. Some gentlemen, most of them in dark dominos and masks, kept in the shadows or out of doors. Men who were not well received in society, perhaps, Anna thought, but who had nevertheless been willing to pay the entrance fee.

But not all the evening was spent inside. She walked beside the canal with Luke for a whole hour first and wished they could stroll there for an hour longer before going inside and being forced apart by the demands of sociability. It was lovely to walk alone with him in such magical surroundings, to feel all the romance of it, to know that they belonged together, that they were lovers, and that . . . But she hugged entirely to herself the secret and exciting hope that had been growing in her for several days.

They did not talk a great deal as they walked, and it pleased her, as she watched the shimmering reflections of the lamps in the water, to imagine that he felt the romance of it too, that perhaps there was coming to be a little more than just duty and pleasure to bind them. With his free hand he covered her own as it rested on his arm. She felt it as a touchingly intimate gesture.

She sat with Doris after they had entered the rotunda. The musicians were not playing. She had remained friendly with the girl even though there had been a certain rift with Luke—if “rift” was the right word. Luke was not close to his family at all. Apparently he had handled the business of Doris's romance rather badly. He had called on Doris's Daniel and forbidden him to see or communicate with her again. He had told her that much himself. But when the man had protested his love for Doris, Luke had threatened him. And then Luke had offered him money—twenty thousand pounds—to stay away from Doris. When Daniel had refused, Luke had knocked him down. Those last details had been supplied by Doris.

Anna always tried not to think of Luke's part in what had happened. For there it was again—that total lack of respect and feeling for a woman's point of view, that overpowering male urge to control. What he had done had perhaps not been wrong in itself, but there had surely been a kinder way of discouraging Doris from making what would surely have been an unwise marriage. Men never took the kind way, though. Men seemed to know nothing about kindness, only about power.

But the very story Doris had told Anna seemed to prove that her young man had not heeded the warning. There had obviously been at least one more communication between the lovers. It bothered Anna to know that the inflexibility of the commands Luke had given might drive them to desperation. She would have liked to confide in him. But she did not do so. How would he punish his sister for receiving a forbidden letter? Perhaps it had been a harmless letter of good-bye.

Doris seemed full of suppressed excitement tonight.

“'Tis a wonderful occasion, is it not?” Anna said, taking a seat beside her. “So many costumes, such an imposing building, such beautiful gardens. They must be lovely by day. They are enchanted by night.”

Doris's eyes were searching the shadows of the interior of the rotunda and the outdoors as seen through the open doorway. “I care not for any of it,” she said. She leaned forward as someone in a dark domino passed outside, and then sat back again. “I care nothing for this life of wealth and endless and meaningless pleasures. They mean nothing to me. I mean to renounce them. I mean to be happy.”

Perhaps she did not intend to make her meaning quite so plain. But it was instantly obvious to Anna that a tryst had been arranged. What better place for it than Ranelagh Gardens at night during a masquerade? But what did she mean to do? Just meet Daniel for a few minutes? Her words had suggested more.

“Doris.” She set a hand on the girl's arm. “What have you planned?”

Doris looked at her. “The least said the better,” she said. “I like you, Anna, and I pity you being married to Luke because he has become a monster without a heart—I wish you had known him a long time ago when he was my favorite person in the whole world. I like you, but you are his wife, and perhaps you would feel constrained to tell him any confidence I placed in you. 'Tis better if you know nothing.”

Oh, the foolish girl. Her meaning was as plain as if she had put it into words.

“Doris,” Anna said, “do not do anything you will regret.”

“La, I do not intend to,” the girl said, leaning a little closer and speaking intensely. “I will never regret what I will do tonight.” She laughed suddenly. “Dance with all the most handsome gentlemen, that is.”

Lord Quinn bowed over Anna's hand at that moment to ask her for the honor of leading her into the next set of country dances. She smiled at him and rose to her feet.

“Egad,” he said, “but I can never resist treading a measure with a gel newly escaped from the harem. My nephy is a lucky fellow, I warrant you.”

Anna laughed and sought out her husband with her eyes, as she was in the habit of doing. He was standing talking with a few other gentlemen, his eyes looking at her through the slits of the golden mask, his ivory fan, closed, tapping against his chin. He would not be able to see her smile behind the veil. She widened her eyes at him.

What was Doris planning to do? Spend so much time with her Daniel that Luke would be forced to consent to her marrying him? Elope with him? Anna very much needed to talk to her husband, and yet she hesitated. What if it were merely an innocent meeting that was planned? Was there any great harm in that when the girl was young and fancied herself in love? And yet Anna knew that more than that was planned. But what if the young man did not come? She would get Doris into trouble for naught. But if he did not come tonight, would they make plans for another night?

The worst of it was, Anna thought, that in a month of marriage that had brought her and Luke close physically and that had established a light flirtatious relationship between them, there had been no closeness of minds. She felt a reluctance, almost an embarrassment, about talking to him on any serious matter.

Anna danced and talked and made her eyes sparkle and . . . worried. What should she do? The only thing she could do, she decided at last, was keep a careful eye on Doris herself and make sure that she did nothing irreparably foolish.

It was during the next set, a minuet, that Doris, who had refused two would-be partners and stood near the door, was approached by a tall man all in gray. They did not dance. They disappeared through the door so quickly that even Anna, who was watching for such a move, hardly saw them go.

Anna was dancing with Mr. Hatwell, an acquaintance. She looked around quickly for her mother-in-law. The dowager was talking with a couple, her back to the door. Anna turned her glance back to where her husband had been standing a few minutes ago. He was still there and still looking at her. He seemed to realize that something was amiss—she had stopped dancing and turned completely away from her partner, she was suddenly aware. He came striding toward her.

“My wife is feeling unwell, Hatwell,” he said with a polite bow to her partner. “You will excuse her?”

Mr. Hatwell bowed in return and murmured his concern for her health.

“Something is wrong, my dear?” Luke asked after he had taken her arm and skillfully steered her past dancers to the door.

“'Tis Doris, Luke,” she said. “I feared from something she said earlier that she had planned a meeting with her young man tonight. She just left hurriedly with a tall man in a dark gray domino and mask. I do not know if it was he. But she should not be alone with anyone anyway.”

They were outside in the cool, lamplit darkness. He took her by the shoulders and squeezed hard. “Stay here,” he said, his voice steely enough to make her shiver. “I will be back.” He turned to stride away in the direction of the outer gates. He was not going to waste time, then, searching the paths along which his sister might be strolling with a beau.

Anna hesitated and then hurried after him. “Luke,” she said, “do not be too harsh with her. She is young and fancies herself in love. She believes this is the only chance for happiness she will ever have.”

He did not answer her. Neither did he order her to go back. His eyes were looking keenly in all directions. Anna shivered again. Had she done right to appeal to him? He looked coldly murderous.

The lovers had not had enough of a start to escape completely. They were approaching the gates when Luke hailed them. They swung around, hand in hand, and Doris let out a little cry. Her eyes, round with terror and dismay through her mask, moved from Luke to Anna and turned reproachful. Despite herself, Anna felt her eyes drop.

“You are going somewhere?” Luke asked, his tone ominously pleasant.

“Yes.” Doris was the one who spoke, her voice defiant. “We are going away from here. We are going to be married.”

“In a few minutes' time, my dear,” Luke said, “you will be going home with our mother.” He turned his attention to the tall and silent young man. “You are a glutton for punishment, Frawley?”

“This is what your sister wants,” the young man said, his voice intense with anger. “And 'tis what I want.”

“Yes, I have no doubt of it,” Luke said. “I informed you, after all, that her dowry is worth more than the five thousand pounds you asked for in return for breaking off communication with her.”

“Oh, 'tis a lie!” Doris cried. “'Tis you who offered money, Luke—twenty thousand pounds—and Daniel who refused.”