Slightly Married (19 page)

She danced on, smiling, laughing, conversing with Aidan and sometimes with their closest neighbors in the lines, enjoying herself perhaps more than she had ever enjoyed herself before. Somewhere beyond that thought, she knew, there was reason and common sense. But tonight she did not want to face them. Tonight she was going to enjoy her Cinderella night at the ball.

W
HILE
E
VE DANCED THE NEXT TWO SETS, FIRST WITH
Alleyne and then with Viscount Kimble, Aidan made himself agreeable to some of the chaperones, mothers and grandmothers who were doing duty by keeping watch over their young female charges even though many of them, he was sure, would be far happier in the card room. He moved from group to group, always standing in such a position that he could watch his wife.

It was altogether possible that Aunt Rochester would consider much of her week's efforts a failure. Wulf might think so too. Eve was certainly very different from any other lady present. She was openly enjoying herself—smiling, laughing, dancing with enthusiasm as well as grace. And she glowed. But no one seemed to be looking on her with disfavor. Quite the contrary.

“A pretty gel,” the Dowager Lady Harvingdean said to him. “And sparkling as any happy bride ought. You must be doing something very right, Colonel.”

He was undeniably enchanted with his wife. She was like a promise of springtime bursting through the arid winter soil of his life. No, not a promise, perhaps. There was to be no future for them. But that was not a thought he cared to dwell upon tonight. Tonight he would simply enjoy watching her and look forward to waltzing with her later—and to having her all to himself when the ball was over. He was very much afraid that he was going to miss her dreadfully once she returned to Ringwood—but yet again he pushed aside any thought that might diminish his enjoyment of the evening.

The next set was a waltz, and at last he could lead Eve onto the floor again.

“Aidan,” she asked him as the music began and he moved her into the lilting rhythm, “do you know any dance more divine?”

“None,” he said firmly. “I believe the waltz is the dance the angels perform—on the clouds.”

She laughed. “I like it when you do that,” she said. “You look absolutely serious and then you say something absurd. Are you happy?”

“How could I not be?” he asked her. “I am at a
ton
ball, which will surely be pronounced the grandest squeeze of the Season, entirely at the whim of Bewcastle, the focus of all eyes, except those exclusively besotted with you. And I am here with a wife who keeps insisting that she is not married to me. Who in my situation would
not
be twirling with glee at every corner?” He took her into an exaggerated twirl about the corner that was approaching.

She laughed again, and then they fell silent. He had always found the waltz rather tedious and even embarrassing. His partners had invariably been ladies with whom he had danced out of courtesy. Being face to face with a woman for half an hour when one did not find her sexually appealing—or, worse, when she was someone else's wife—was not his idea of a grand time.

This waltz was magical. Eve was tall and slender—her head reached to his chin. She was light on her feet and graceful. Her spine arched beneath his hand and she anticipated his every move so that they waltzed in perfect unison. The colors of gowns and plumes and coats blurred into a glorious kaleidoscope of shades as they twirled. Jewels sparkled in the candlelight. Aidan found himself wishing that the dance would go on and on. But of course it drew to an inevitable end.

“Ah, that was
wonderful
!” Eve said, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glowing, her voice breathless. “You are a superb dancer, Aidan. I
do
wish we were permitted to dance again.”

Duty was calling, he could see. He nodded in the direction of Bewcastle, who was standing in the doorway, looking inquiringly at him.

“More arrivals,” he said, offering Eve his arm. “They are very late indeed. We had better go and pay our respects.”

“If many more people come,” she said, “some of us will have to dance on the balcony. Have you ever seen so many people gathered in one place? I certainly—”

She broke off midsentence, and when Aidan looked down at her, it was to find that her smile was frozen on her face and her gaze was riveted on the people they were approaching in the doorway. For a moment her steps faltered.

“Ma'am,” Bewcastle said, addressing her, “may I present Sir Charles Overly, who is with Britain's embassy in Russia, and Lady Overly? And Viscount Denson, also with the embassy? Lady Aidan Bedwyn and Colonel Bedwyn, my brother.”

Eve curtsied as did Lady Overly. The gentlemen exchanged bows and greetings.

“You have returned to England for the victory celebrations?” Aidan asked Sir Charles.

“We have,” the man replied. “Actually we returned two months ago as soon as the victory of the allied forces became imminent. But we are certainly looking forward to the Czar's arrival soon.”

“May I congratulate you upon your marriage, Lady Aidan?” Lady Overly tittered and looked arch. “It is quite a coup. The Bedwyn men have been remarkably elusive in the marriage mart.”

Eve smiled, but when Aidan looked down at her, it was to the discovery that her face had paled and her lips were bloodless. It was perfectly clear to him that she already knew one of the three arrivals—the blond, smiling, extremely good-looking Denson, at a guess. He was bowing to her.

“I see that sets are forming for the next dance,” he said. “Will you honor me, Lady Aidan? With Colonel Bedwyn's permission, of course.”

Aidan inclined his head and Eve, without a word or a glance, turned back into the ballroom.

They danced for a while, Denson with charming smiles for everyone around them, Eve with her eyes lowered, her movements mechanical, all her sparkle gone. When the orchestra paused between tunes of the set, Denson lowered his head to say something to her, set a hand beneath her elbow, and stepped out onto the balcony with her.

Aidan watched them go, his fingers curling into his palms against his back.

I
S THERE SOMEWHERE MORE PRIVATE WE CAN GO?
”
he asked.

There were two couples out on the balcony as well as a larger, noisier group at the far end.

“No,” she said.

But he had seen the steps down into the garden and grasped her elbow again to lead her down. There were graveled walks down there and seats and an ornamental pond with a fountain. Lamps had been strung in the trees, and several guests were strolling there. It was a warm evening.

He had returned to England
two months
ago. A month before her marriage. Perhaps even before Percy's death. He had been in England all that time.

“Eve,” he said when they had reached the bottom of the steps, “I had no idea it was you who had married Bewcastle's brother. Until I arrived here this evening, until you were almost upon us, I had no idea.”

“You have been back in England for two months,” she said.

“I have been busy,” he told her. “There has been scarcely a moment to spare. I have been meaning every day to run down to Oxfordshire to see you. I cannot tell you how much I have missed you.”

“Two months,” she said. Two months for someone who had sworn he would rush home to her as soon as he set foot upon English soil again?

“How could you do it, Eve?” he asked her. “We had an agreement. We—”

“Percy died,” she said. “He was killed at the Battle of Toulouse.”

He led her toward one of the seats, which was set back slightly from the path and was shaded by the overhanging branches of a willow tree. She sank onto it and looked up at him. The light from a lamp in another tree illumined his perfect features. He looked more handsome than ever.

“I am sorry to hear that,” he said. “But why did you do it, Eve, and so soon after? Why did you marry Bedwyn?”

“Papa died after you left,” she said. “Perhaps you did not hear the terms of his will. Everything was to be mine only on condition that I married within a year of his death.”

“You should have written to tell me so, then,” he said. “I would have—”

“What?” she asked him. “Hurried home to me? But how could I have written even if it had not been improper to do so? I would not have known where to send the letter. I certainly would not have known your
London
address.”

“Eve,” he said, “you must understand. It is important for a man in my position to be seen during the Season, to entertain and be entertained. I would have come home in the summer. We would have married then.”

“Would we?” She felt as if scales were falling from her eyes. Fifteen months ago, going to Russia had been more important than marrying her. This year entertaining and being entertained had been more important. “Percy would have turned over everything to me after the year was at an end or at least shared it with me if I had insisted. But he died too soon. Cecil would have inherited.”

“You should have let me know.” He leaned over her. “Damn it, Eve, you should have let me know.”

“I had one week in which to comply with the terms of Papa's will,” she said. “I had no idea you were back in England. You might have found a way of letting
me
know.”

She knew suddenly beyond any doubt that he had had no intention of marrying her—ever. He had been fond enough of her, perhaps even in love with her, but he would not have married her. Had she not been so naive and so much in love herself, she would surely have realized that before now. This summer, if circumstances had remained the same, he would have found another excuse to delay speaking with the earl.

“Why Bedwyn?” he asked. “I would have thought him plump enough in the pocket not to need to snaffle up an heiress in such unseemly haste.”

“He brought me the news of Percy's death,” she said. “When he understood my predicament, he offered me marriage.”

“And you forgot me so easily?” he asked, seating himself beside her.

“How could I forget you? After all there had been between us?”

They had met when she was barely twenty. Her father had already been making overtures to the Earl of Luff in the hope of promoting a match between them. They had met in a country lane while they were both out riding. They had greeted each other and conversed politely for a minute or two, and then he had turned his horse to ride beside her. After that they had met often, by design, always in secret because the earl had firmly refused Papa's suggestion. John had been at university and then in London, beginning his career in the diplomatic service. But whenever he was at home, they had met. Their friendship had deepened inevitably into a romantic attachment. They would marry, John had promised, when he finished university and was of age. They would marry, he had promised later, when his career was established. And then had come the posting to Russia.

He had expected to be gone for a year. They would marry immediately upon his return, he had told her. She had desperately wanted them to marry before he left, or at least to announce their betrothal so that they could exchange letters while he was gone. She had wept in his arms, and he had held her tightly to him and shed a few tears of his own. And then . . . and then somehow they had moved beyond the brink of merely holding each other, kissing each other, and declaring eternal love for each other.

She had never been sorry—until now. She had thought it was love. Perhaps in a way it had been—on both their parts. But it had been commitment only on hers. And even she had broken the commitment.

“How could I forget you?” she said again. “But, John, there was too much to lose. There were too many people dependent upon me, including children. You do not even know about the children. Colonel Bedwyn offered me a chance to save them. He has been very kind.”

“Kind?”
he said, possessing himself of her right hand and holding it to his heart. “Kindness is good enough for you, Eve, when you have known so much more?”

She was drawing back her hand when she looked up. Aidan was standing on the path a few feet away. She jumped to her feet.

“Supper follows this set,” he said. “You would not want to be late for it, Eve. You will excuse my wife, Denson?”

Eve did not look back at John. He stayed where he was and said nothing in reply. She set her hand on Aidan's sleeve. All his muscles beneath it were rock hard.

“Perhaps,” he said, “by the time we return to the ballroom you will have seen fit to recover your smiles.”

“Aidan—” she began.

“Not now,” he said softly. “This is neither the time nor the place, ma'am.”

C
HAPTER XVI

S
HE SET DOWN HER FAN ON THE BACK OF THE SOFA
in their private sitting room and drew off her gloves. Then she removed her plumes, dislodging some of the curls piled on top of her head as she did so. The animated smile she had worn all evening and half the night had been discarded outside the door. She looked worn and pale. She did not once look at him—or try to scurry away to the privacy of her dressing room.

“You were very nearly indiscreet,” he said.

“Very nearly, perhaps,” she agreed, her hand straying to the diamond at her bosom. “But not quite. It is unexceptionable to walk with a guest in a lamplit garden.”

“And sit in a shady spot away from the path with him?” he asked. “And give him your hand to hold to his heart?”

How could I forget you? . . . He has been very kind.
The words had rattled about in his brain since he had heard them three or four hours ago. He had not yet had a chance to explore exactly why he had been so shocked and so angered and so . . . hurt.

“I did not give him my hand,” she said. “He took it and I was withdrawing it.”

“Ah, pardon me.” He stood before the hearth, his hands clasped behind him, regarding her bowed head. “All was coercion, I suppose—the dancing, the slipping out onto the balcony and down to the garden, the choosing of a secluded seat in the dark—as well as the hand-holding.”

“Aidan—” She looked up but then appeared to have nothing else to say. Her eyes were dark with misery.

“Who is he?” he asked. “I confess myself unfamiliar with either the man or the name.”

“Viscount Denson is the son of the Earl of Luff,” she said. “They live at Didcote Park, five miles from Ringwood.”

“Ah,” he said, realizing that he was behaving like the conventional jealous husband, yet unable to stop himself. He had been enchanted with her during the first hour of the ball. He had been . . . Yes, indeed, he had been falling a little in love with her. Perhaps it was as well that something had happened to jolt him back to reality. But he still felt angry and hurt.

She struggled to say more but then just shook her head and fingered one of the plumes lying on top of her gloves.

“You lied to me,” he said. “You told me there was no one else. You told me you had no wish to marry anyone else.”

“No,” she said. “I allowed you to make that assumption without contradicting you.”

“It was a lie of omission, then,” he said, “rather than commission. But a lie nonetheless. You should have told me. I was cast firmly and unfairly in the role of villain in that affecting scene in the garden.”

“Then you did not hear everything, or
anything,
I said.” She took her hand away from the plume and clasped it about the diamond pendant. “I told him how you saved me and everyone who depends upon me. I told him how very kind you have been to me.”

“Kind!”
he said with very much the same tone and emphasis as Denson had used earlier. “I do not deal in kindness, ma'am. I have never been accused of being a kind man. I married you in order to repay a debt to a dying man.”

“Then why,” she asked, “are you so angry?”

It was an uncomfortable question, for which he had no answer.

“That private encounter will not be repeated,” she said. “Is that what you are afraid of? That I will shame you and disgrace your family? It will not happen. I made a deliberate choice not to wait for Viscount Denson but to marry you instead. There was no deception involved, Aidan. Ours was never meant to be more than a marriage of convenience. We did not expect to spend more than two or three days together, did we? I accepted the consequences of what I was doing. I accept them now.”

He knew that he should leave it at that. She was being reasonable and honest.

“I suppose,” he said, “it is he who was your lover.”

She shook her head slowly, though not in denial, he guessed. “Leave it, Aidan,” she said. “That is all in the past. It is over. It is gone.” There was a slight tremor in her voice, though what the emotion was that caused it he could only guess.

“Is it?” he asked. He hated the fact that he could now put a name and a face to her lover. “He is the son of your neighbor. I will be gone forever after I have returned you to Ringwood.”

“Aidan.” Her knuckles were white about the diamond. “Don't do this.”

He gazed broodingly at her. He had not cared at all that she had not come to him a virgin—though he
had
been surprised. But he did care that she still loved the man, that the necessity of marrying
him
had destroyed all her hopes for future happiness. He felt like the villain of the piece even though he knew he was not and that Eve did not regard him that way. Damn him for a fool! Had he really let down his guard sufficiently to fall in love with her? Only to find that her heart was given elsewhere? And knowing full well that he was honor bound to leave her forever within a couple of weeks? Had he not learned years and years ago that tender feelings were best kept tightly leashed somewhere so deep in his heart that he could convince himself there were no such things? He had not come by his reputation for granite control without effort.

“You are right,” he said. “Perfectly right. We will say no more on the matter. You will discourage Denson if he attempts another tête-à-tête with you, ma'am.”

Her jaw tightened and her eyes hardened. “That was unnecessary, Aidan,” she said. “I will not have you play autocratic husband with me. I had the choice of thinking only of my own happiness and waiting for love or of thinking of the happiness of other people and marrying you. I chose you. If I could go back and was faced with similar circumstances, I would do it again. I made my choice and will live faithfully with it. Not for the sake of the Bedwyns, but for my own self-respect.”

He made her a curt bow. “We will say no more on this matter, then,” he said. “I will bid you a good night.”

She was still staring at him, pale-faced and stubborn-jawed, when he turned and strode in the direction of his dressing room. Nothing had really changed. Nothing and everything. It was one thing to have married her when it had seemed that the marriage would make no difference to her except to allow her to keep her home and her fortune and her precious lame ducks. It was another to know that he had destroyed a dream of love that must have been all-consuming. Eve was not the sort of woman who would have given her virginity if she had not loved passionately and committed herself fully to a future marriage with her lover. He had been sleeping with her for a week, deeply satisfied with the sex, deeply satisfied with
her,
though the emotional component of their encounters had crept up unawares on him. He had not even realized until now, tonight, that it had not been just sex—not for him, anyway. She had been enjoying their nights too—he could not doubt that. But for her it had been all physical, as he had thought it was for him too. All the time her heart must have been yearning toward the lover who had not come back to her in time.

It was a disturbingly distasteful realization. It was humiliating. It was . . . It was damned painful.

He shut the door behind him and realized he was not alone.

“I thought I told you not to wait up,” he said, his brows snapping together in an irritable frown. “I am perfectly capable of getting myself out of my garments and into my bed unassisted, Andrews.”

“I know,” his batman agreed. “But you will toss your clothes aside like so many discarded rags, sir, and then it will take me the devil of a time getting all the wrinkles shaken and steamed and ironed out of them. I would rather sacrifice three-quarters of a night of sleep.”

“You have a damned impertinent tongue,” Aidan said. “I don't know why I keep you. Don't just stand there looking like a long-suffering martyr, then. Help me out of this coat. Whoever designs military uniforms should be made to wear them and stand in the front lines in them during a battle.
That
would teach them a lesson if they lived long enough to learn it.”

He would sleep in his own bed tonight, he decided—tonight and every night for the rest of his life. He would not go to her again. He could not. He could not bear to touch her again.

His spirits touched the depths of darkness.

E
VE WAS IN THE MORNING ROOM WRITING HER DAILY
letter home. There was so much to describe that she scarcely knew where to start. But instead of the buoyant mood in which she had expected to be writing this morning, she felt heavyhearted and on the verge of tears, though she had been unable to shed the latter all through what had remained of the night after she had gone to bed—alone.

John had been back in England for two months. Two months! Yet in all that time he had not found even a day to come into Oxfordshire to see her. He had been too busy with his social schedule. For over a year—and for years before that—she had loved and yearned for a man who had never had any intention of marrying her. She knew now that that was the truth. She did not know what effect the knowledge would have on her feelings. It was too soon to tell.

But recurring thoughts about John mingled with thoughts of Aidan. Why had he been so angry? Why had he behaved like a jealous, autocratic husband whom she had deceived? And why could she not feel simply angry with him? Why had it hurt to hear herself called
ma'am
again? Why had the bed felt so very empty without him? And why, if she loved John so unwaveringly, had she felt during the early part of the ball that she might be falling in love with Aidan? Was it possible to love two men?

Eve laughed as she mended her pen after writing one sentence of her letter, though she did not feel at all amused. She loved two men, one of whom had never intended marrying her, the other of whom had married her and intended leaving her forever—according to their agreement and her express wishes.

When she was one paragraph into her letter, making heavy work of describing her appearance at St. James's Palace yesterday, the door opened abruptly.

“Ah, here you are,” Freyja said. “I thought you were probably still in bed. I cannot
believe
I overslept and missed the usual morning ride with Aidan and Alleyne. I do not suppose you ride?”

“How could I not?” Eve asked her. “I grew up in the country.”

“But you have never come with us,” Freyja said.

“I have never been asked,” Eve told her.

“Oh, pooh,” Freyja said walking closer. “If you wait to be asked when you are a Bedwyn, Eve, you will be left to fade into obscurity like a wilting violet. Which, by the way, I thought you probably were until yesterday morning. I have not been so diverted in a long while as when I saw you descend the staircase in your black court dress, your nose stuck in the air as if you were a duchess at the very least. And I admired your spirit last evening when I am quite sure Aunt Rochester instructed you not to grin like a bumpkin, but only to favor the occasional guest with a distant and gracious smile.”

“Oh, dear,” Eve said, “did I
grin
?”

“Aidan was clearly enchanted,” Freyja said. “I daresay you will be the
on-dit
in every fashionable drawing room today, the two of you. A married couple who have the effrontery to gaze on each other in public as if they could devour each other. I am proud of you. We all knew, of course, that when Aidan fell, he would fall hard. I suppose the same holds true of all of us.”

“Oh, but—” Eve began.

But her sister-in-law waved an impatient hand. “Go and change into your riding habit and we will take a turn in the park,” she said. “I suppose you do have a riding habit?”

“Yes, a new one,” Eve said. “But no horse.”

“Wulf keeps a stable,” Freyja said. “All prime goers. I'll have one brought around with mine. You are not going to need one that is lame in all four legs, I hope?”

“No.” Eve laughed and cleaned her pen. She could finish her letter later. Perhaps some fresh air would blow away a few cobwebs.

“Good,” Freyja said. “I despise women who shriek with terror every time a horse tries to move faster than a slow crawl and look about them frantically in search of a man who will gallop to their rescue.”

Less than half an hour later they were in the saddle and trotting side by side through the streets of London in the direction of Hyde Park. It felt very good indeed to be on horseback again, Eve decided, especially when she had been supplied with such a splendid mount. It felt strange, though, and a little alarming to be maneuvering past carriages and wagons and pedestrians and crossing sweepers.

They turned heads as they proceeded. It was Freyja who caused that, of course. Clad in a forest green riding habit, a jaunty, feathered hat on hair that billowed loose and golden almost to her waist, she looked startlingly handsome even though no one could ever describe her as pretty. Eve felt very prim in contrast, dressed in her new sky blue riding habit and hat, her hair coiled neatly beneath it.

“Are you coming to Lindsey Hall for the summer?” Freyja asked. “I know Aidan has only a month of his leave remaining, but you could stay longer and meet Ralf—short for Rannulf, as you probably know—and Morgan. Or are you going to follow the drum?”