The Elopement

The Shadows

Inamorata

Bone River

City of Ash

Prima Donna

The Spiritualist

An Inconvenient Wife

Susannah Morrow

A Season in Eden

The Elopement

About the Author

S
he stared out the window in numb fascination. The falling leaves twirled and dashed against the carriage in a multicolored shower, a tempest churned by the racing horses and spinning wheels.

“I used to love the fall,” she murmured. The forest road was narrow—only room for one vehicle—and potholed, and the ride was bumpy and jarring. She shivered, drawing her cloak closer. “But I’ve decided I don’t like the cold.”

He drew her toward him just as the wheels jerked again, and she fell hard into his chest. His arms tightened to keep her there. “You’ll be warm soon enough. I’ll make certain of it.” He kissed the fine curling hair at her temple, trailed kisses down her jaw, below her ear, kisses that made her shiver. “How glad I am to have you alone at last. I could not have borne another moment of watching you across the room without being able to touch you.”

“How long do you think before they discover we’re gone?”

“Does it matter? We’re not going back. Not until it’s done.”

“How disappointed they’ll be.”

“Does that trouble you?” His voice was a whisper, his breath warm against the exposed skin just below her ear. “I confess I find it amusing. Think of Mrs. Stephenson suffering apoplexy over it.”

“They’ll think she was our accomplice. Papa will blame her.”

“Who cares?” He laughed gently. His hand was at her shoulder, pushing away the cloak she’d drawn close, the tips of his fingers brushing her bare collarbone.

She caught her breath at his touch. What he had always been able to do to her, the things he made her feel . . . “I’m sorry for her, that’s all.”

“Be honest,” he said. “You’ve never liked Mrs. Stephenson at all.”

“That’s not true. I . . . Well, there’s nothing to dislike in her really.”

“No? Not her pious pronouncements? Not her too-avid curiosity? Come, my love, you know you relish the thought of those frog eyes of hers popping just a little.”

She found herself laughing reluctantly at the image he painted. “Yes, well, all right. A little.”

“And her husband too. I can hear him posturing already: ‘Why, did anyone see them go? We didn’t even see them go!’ ” He imitated Robert Stephenson’s voice so perfectly—that bumbling, perpetual surprise, as if the world were a constantly popping jack-in-the-box.

She laughed again. “How cruel you can be!”

“Ah, but you like my cruelty,” he said, leaning close again, running his lips against her cheekbone. “It was what drew you to me in the beginning—do you remember? The supper at the Martins’?”

She did not need his reminder. She would never forget the first time she saw him, standing so negligently at the railing of the balcony outside the Martins’ ballroom. His dark hair had been disheveled. She knew now that even on the best days it was too unruly for macassar to tame it, but that night she’d thought only that it looked as if someone had been running their fingers through it. He’d worn a vest of deep blue brocade and a beautifully tailored coat.

She had come out for some air; the room had been so stifling, heavy with the scents from the gasolier and a hundred different perfumes and colognes, sweat and the lingering aromas of the roasted boar and pungent fish soup at supper. The balcony had been dark, the light from inside not quite reaching the railing where he stood. She had not known he was there until she’d stepped out and he’d said, “I fear this balcony is already spoken for.”

He’d moved into the light, and she had stopped short.

She’d not only been startled at his sudden appearance, but also disconcerted by how handsome he was. How had she never seen him before? “Pardon me, I’ll—”

“But there’s room for another, I think, if you don’t mind company. I confess I’ve no wish to go back inside, even to accede to the wishes of a fair lady.”

“I don’t wish to intrude.”

“You’re not. I’ve grown weary of my own thoughts. I should like to hear someone else’s for a change. Please.” He gestured to the rail, and she went to him, though to do such a thing was odd for her—she was not usually so bold. Together they turned to look out on the yard below, where a few pieces of statuary cast shadows in the faint glow from the ballroom windows. The music from inside seemed quiet all of a sudden, though only moments before it had been too loud and jarringly unpleasant. It was late summer, the night balmy. She felt his warmth, though they were not touching. She also felt nervous—her father would not like her alone with a stranger, particularly such a handsome one, but it wasn’t just that. It was, she admitted, that this man seemed to affect her so strangely. She found herself
wanting
to touch him. She felt separate from herself suddenly, not quite in control, her desires at odds with her good breeding as they had never been before.

“Such a young and pretty woman as yourself cannot possibly be here alone,” he said.

“No. My father is inside, casting about for a proper marriage.” That she’d said it surprised her, as did the bitterness she heard in her voice.

“Ah,” he said. “You don’t sound as if you wish for such a thing yourself.”

“It’s not that I don’t wish it,” she said. “It’s just that . . .”

He looked at her. “It’s just that what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Nothing really. Only silly yearnings, I suppose. How pretty is the sky tonight—just that sliver of moon. One can really see the stars.”

“Yes, a pretty night,” he agreed. “And a relief after the ballroom.”

Such an admission caught her interest. “You don’t like to dance?”

“I don’t like the quartet. The cellist has hit more wrong notes than right ones. And I think the violinist cannot read music.”

She laughed at the criticism; it was true. “I see. So you came out to escape the musicians.”

“No,” he said. “I came out to make love to a fair maiden.”

She was taken aback; for a moment she thought he meant her, and she stepped away in alarm.

He caught her movement and made a little grimace, putting up his hand as if he meant to reassure her. “A previous assignation. She’s gone already.”

She understood then that his hair looked as if fingers had mussed it because some had. She felt suddenly breathless, and discomfited too, that he’d admitted such things, and to her, a perfect stranger. And then she found herself wondering who the woman might be that he’d come out here to meet, and what they’d done, and whether he wished she were still here. The image such questions conjured caught her for a moment: a woman in rustling silks against the railing, his lips on hers, her fingers tangling in his dark curls, breathless little moans and whimpers while the stars stared down . . . Or at least, that was how she imagined it, because she’d never experienced anything like that for herself. And how ridiculous that such a vision should raise a longing in her, a quiet little wanting.

“Oh,” she breathed. “I’m sorry.”

His mouth quirked. She saw a glint of amusement in his eyes and knew he took her for a simpleton. “Sorry for what?”

“Why, that she’s no longer here. You sounded as if you regretted it.”

“Did I?” He looked out toward the yard. He was silent for a moment and then he said, “Did you come out here to escape the musicians, or your father? Or perhaps you wished to escape Michael Bayley.”

It startled her that he’d guessed so clearly. For a moment she wondered if he’d read her mind.

“It’s not so hard to guess as you imagine,” he said drily, reading it again. “You said your father was looking for a proper marriage. Michael Bayley is looking for an heiress. It’s common knowledge.”

“Oh.” She had no idea what else to say.

“He’s a proper gentleman too,” he went on. “Perfect for a proper marriage. He would not ask a stranger to stand on the balcony at night with him, no matter how pretty she was. Not without a chaperone. He would not be looking at you and thinking how much he would like to kiss you. Or . . . more likely, he would be thinking it, but he would never say such a thing.”

His words took her aback. Her breath seemed suddenly too fast.

“He’s a good man, albeit a dull one,” he continued. “Just another of humanity’s many dogs—faultlessly kind, slatheringly earnest. He would never trouble you, if you chose him.”

His description of Michael Bayley was a bit too astute. She liked Mr. Bayley—she had no reason not to, and her father
was
considering him, and yet, while she had no objection, really, it occurred to her that her companion tonight had got the right of it, and it was the reason she could not quite warm to Mr. Bayley completely.

She said, “There is no passion in him.”

“Or perhaps there is,” he said. “But it’s deeply buried. Perhaps you might spark it.”

The possibility startled her. She wondered if she had the capacity for such a thing. “He’s very kind, though.”

“Yes indeed.
Kind.
” He said it as if it were a curse. “Is that what you’re looking for? Kind?”

“It seems to me there are worse things to be.”

“Yes. Impetuous for one. Always saying what one thinks. Always doing what one feels. Those are flaws, don’t you think?”

“I suppose it depends on how much trouble they get one into.”

“A great deal of trouble.” He raised his hand as if he meant to touch her, and her pulse suddenly raced in anticipation. But his hand only hovered as if he thought better of it, and then lowered again, gripping the railing. His voice became soft, dark, and tempting; it held in it the music of desire as he said, “Is that what you’re looking for? Trouble?”

Her mouth went dry. She heard herself say—was that her voice? Could she really be speaking this?—“I don’t know. Perhaps.”

She felt him look at her and raised her eyes to meet his. The slivered moon shone just above, almost crowning him, and it was as if the whole of the night had led her to this moment. She could not remember ever feeling suffocated at a dance before. She had never fled for a balcony and air. She was not the kind of woman who would stand and talk alone with a stranger. This all felt curiously fated.

But before he could move or she could say anything, there was a sound at the doorway, a rustle of fine silk, a woman’s voice, sharp and querulous. “What are you doing? Who is
that
?”

He turned, and she turned with him to see a woman, her breasts heaving with indignation above the very low-cut bodice of her gown.

“You’ve come back,” he said.

She frowned. Her gaze burned. “Yes, I’ve come back. I’ve decided to forgive you. Or at least, I
had
. Who is this? What is she doing with you?”

He smiled. “I’m not certain. But I hope she wishes to be your replacement.”

The woman gasped. “You can’t mean that.”

“Oh, but I think I do,” he said. “Go find your Henri. I imagine he will be happy to give you a ride home this evening. He’s been sniffing about you all night.”

The woman went white. “What did you say? I cannot believe you would say that.”

“Oh come now, Constance. You know as well as I that you’ve used the poor man to make me jealous a hundred times. Why should you be so surprised when I release you to run after him?”

He turned away from Constance. He looked at her where she stood on the balcony beside him, and when he smiled, she could not help but smile back at him, though it seemed somehow wrong to do so. This all was so awkward. She was not certain why she was smiling, except that his seemed to beg it. She was just being polite, really.

But she was also aware of a terrible breach of etiquette. She could not fathom why she didn’t move, why she didn’t leave them to themselves on the balcony, why she witnessed what was such a private moment, and even—yes, even—did not protest when he’d said he hoped she would be Constance’s replacement. How disrespectful, how wrong he was to think of her that way, that she might be the kind of woman for whom that was an option. She’d only just met him. She had nothing to do with them. She had only wandered innocently onto the balcony. She should walk away.

And yet . . . and yet, she did not.

He looked back at the woman standing at the door. “Go home, Constance,” he said, this time gently. “It’s time that we both moved on.”

It all seemed like some very bad play, but she stood there beside him and watched it act itself out, and when the woman left, tears shining in trails on her cheeks, she felt an anticipation that startled her. She should excuse herself and hurry away. Her father would be looking for her. Michael Bayley would be looking for her. She should not be feeling a spark of vivid excitement at this stranger’s cruelty to his former lover.

He said, “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“I should go back inside. My father will be missing me.” How demure she sounded. She was pleased at how well she’d managed to control her voice—he would never know her reaction to him from it.

“Will you walk with me a bit first?” he asked. “Onto the lawn? Let’s see what statuary Mrs. Martin has put in place to reassure us all how stunningly well-bred she is. I’m guessing there will be tasteful fig leaves. No doubt a copy of Lévêque’s
Nymphe
. The pretentious are mad for it lately.”

She couldn’t help laughing. The things he said. “Yes, all right. But only a short while.”

He flashed teeth that were very white in the darkness. He leaned close. “We can’t go together, you know. Not without setting the whole room talking. We’ll go out separately, and if we’re caught we’ll pretend it was an accident that we ran into each other. You go first. Meet me outside near the urns at the edge of the lawn. You do know the ones I mean?”

“I can find them,” she assured him. She felt ravishingly daring. She was not this woman, but she liked knowing that he thought she could be. The feeling was so heady that she wanted to surrender to it.

He whispered, “I shall be very disappointed if you don’t appear.”

She said, “I won’t disappoint you.”

But she did, of course. She did not go to meet him near the urns at the edge of the lawn. She went into the ballroom, and Michael Bayley found her almost before she’d gone ten steps and asked her shyly for a dance, and the kindness in his eyes was suddenly something she did not want to disappoint. There was nothing in them that made her feel such restless desire as had the stranger’s eyes, but he was sweet and likable. It was not that she consciously decided not to meet the stranger; rather, she’d thought,
I will dance this dance and then go to meet him.