“But I did not have you.”

  Her eyes widened. The brandy slopped up the side of her glass, and she hastily took a sip as if she had meant to make the movement all along.

  He expected a sharp response. The remedy was always in your own hands, perhaps. Or just, You did not ask.

  Would she have come with him? In reality, he could not have taken her on such a dangerous journey, but still, he could not help wondering. She had been adventurous, eager to travel the well-worn, if war-damaged roads of Europe. And instead, he had trapped her alone in a tiny world of gossip and humiliation. And more and more, it seemed, for no reason. Shame did not really cover that…

  She did not answer at all, but she was still pacing.

  “Mr. Campbell also said it was you who finally won the last of the special concessions, the one you truly went there for.”

  “They were all important. And Campbell was being over generous.”

  She looked at him, actually looked, in a searching, perceptive kind of way. Then she set down the glass and began walking again. “If you preferred to go to China, you should have said.”

  “I didn’t.”

  She shook her head as if none of it made sense, but she kept walking. She was escaping him again. He moved from instinct to block her exit but at least recovered enough to pretend he always meant to open the door for her. But he let his hand linger on the doorknob without turning it as he gazed down at her.

  Her expression was serene. Only the pulse beating rapidly at the base of her throat gave away her agitation. That, and the fact that she seemed to prefer to look at the door handle than at him, until, carefully, she raised her eyes to his face.

  With equal care, he held out his hand, palm upward. Her gaze flickered, her chin lifted as though she would blister him with verbal contempt. She didn’t. But somehow, he knew it took more courage for her to lift her own hand and place it in his. He felt his heart break over what he had done to her, and his fingers curled quickly around hers, just firmly enough to discourage instant withdrawal.

  “Grace,” he said softly.

  The pulse beat still in her throat. And at her wrist as he brushed his thumb across it. Yet, she managed to keep her voice calm and light. “My lord, good night.”

  She smelled of orange blossom and vanilla and, when he raised her unresisting hand to his lips, of something else uniquely Grace that blasted him with sensual memory. Grace’s kisses, Grace’s luscious, passionate body. She let him brush his mouth across her fingers.

  The pulse in her wrist was galloping now, her breathing quickened, though, God knew, no more than his. In the candlelight, she looked attractively flushed, as though his own rampaging heat had spread to her.

  But still, she held herself stiffly, desperate to escape him for whatever reason. He wanted to press his lips to that deliciously agitated pulse at her throat, to taste her skin more intimately. But that would be to scare her off, truly frighten her, for behind the deliberate calm in her eyes, he glimpsed a flash of desperation that was very close to fear. His wife was afraid of him.

  Dear God, have I done that to her, too?

  “One day,” he said gently, “when you are ready, we will talk.” Deliberately, he did not release her hand, for he wanted to show her nothing bad would come of it. He even curved his lips into a crooked smile. “My lady, good night.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, he opened the door. She swallowed. As if she had barely noticed his hold, she casually drew her hand free and walked away.

  It was, he told himself, a start. At least she had entered a room with him voluntarily. And stayed to exchange a short conversation that had felt, at times, more like an exchange of rifle fire.

  She was aloof. She was stiff, hostile beneath her indifference. And that hint of fear disturbed him more than anything. But at least he was aware now of something else, and that alone gave him hope.

  She was not indifferent.

  *

  Grace’s legs trembled so much they barely carried her upstairs and along the passage to her apartments.

  Dear God, what is the matter with me? Glad to find Henley was not waiting for her, she sank onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  Only yesterday, she had let Rudolf kiss her because the desire had been too powerful to resist. Was she so depraved that she could desire any handsome man with such power? For Oliver’s lips on her skin, his very nearness had aroused her without warning or mercy. It had to be memory, because he was, in fact, the only lover she had ever known. Perhaps it was merely that Rudolf had reminded her of bodily desires, given them focus.

  But God knew, she could not focus them on Oliver. In many ways, that was worse than Rudolf. And yet…he confused her still. The hero of the China embassy, the young husband who had once made love to her so sweetly, who now kissed her hand, without threat or command, and told her they would talk when she was ready.

  I have been ready for two years! And yet now, mere talking would not do. She would not let him get around her again. She would never, could never, leave herself so vulnerable. The revenge plan had to stand. It had to.

  *

  Of course, he barely saw her the following day. He shook hands with the eccentric Lord Tamar, marquess and painter, on his early visit, then departed to enjoy a ride in the park.

  However, he had left it too late to enjoy peace. A fashionable crowd on horseback had already come together, his cousin Phineas among them, and so he allowed himself to be beckoned across to join them. As he grew closer, he recognized several other acquaintances, including Prince di Ripoli and Mrs. Fitzwalter from last night’s guests, Grace’s friend Bridget Arpington, and her admirers—lovers, according to some—Sir Nash Boothe and Anthony Curtis.

  “Well met, Cousin!” Phineas greeted him. “The ladies are trying to get up a party to see the fireworks at Maida Gardens tomorrow night. What do you think?”

  “I think I’m surprised anyone still goes to Maida Gardens,” Wenning replied with lazy amusement.

  “Yes, but fireworks, my lord!” Mrs. Fitzwalter said gaily. “I am convinced it will be quite the spectacle. And it is to be part of a masked ball.”

  “The masked balls at Maida,” pronounced a disapproving lady Wenning did not know, “are ramshackle affairs, like those at the other pleasure gardens.”

  “Yes, but that is to do with the clientele,” Sir Nash Boothe argued. “If we make it a large enough party, then the majority of the clientele is us, and we can make the event into what we wish. With enough gentlemen to protect the ladies from any annoyance.”

  “I would come,” said Lady Arpington. “If we had enough respectable people to prevent my husband objecting! You and Lady Wenning would come, too, my lord, would you not?”

  Wenning regarded her thoughtfully. Bridget Arpington was Grace’s oldest friend and, he suspected, confidante, to some degree at least, for although she smiled, her eyes were not friendly. He could hardly blame her for that.

  “Oh, do, Wenning,” Mrs. Fitzwalter urged with a dazzling smile, although he could not recall being on such terms with her that she should be comfortable dropping his title.

  Nor were they on cheek-kissing terms, and yet in the park on Saturday, she had leaned into him and made anything else impossible. Interesting.

  “It will be such fun to have you there,” she urged now, “and I know Grace will adore it, too. Remember how you enjoyed the fireworks in Paris?”

  He had endured the fireworks in Paris in order to deliver the message he had been tasked with. His main focus had been on getting home as fast as humanly possible.

  “It sounds delightful,” he said politely, “but I cannot speak for my wife’s plans. If you will excuse me…”

  “Going for a gallop, Ollie?” Phineas guessed. “I’ll come with you.”

  Tipping their hats, they extricated themselves from the group and cantered away from the main public paths.

  “I hope you don’t mind Grace’s name being associated with this Maida expedition,” Phineas said as they slowed. “I only joined the plan because she was already being mentioned by the time I came along. Somehow, she seems to be known as familiar with the Maida masquerades.”

  “How come? Boothe?”

  Phineas shrugged. “He was there the night Grace attended with Rollo Darblay and his friends. It could have come from any of them and spread. And there is no doubting that Grace is an asset to any party. Will you be there, Ollie?”

  “It depends on Grace,” Wenning said thoughtfully. “But if I am there, I may not come in your party. Tell me, Phin, have you any credible evidence that either Curtis or Boothe or any other of my wife’s myriad admirers have ever been in my house unchaperoned?”

  “Of course not,” Phineas said at once. “Because they never have. Beyond the at-home afternoons and parties, where she was always careful to have her father or uncle present as host. Although…” He tailed off with a shrug. “And that is it.”

  “And that is not what you were going to say.”

  He sighed. “It is perfectly innocent. I just remembered calling early one morning to take Grace riding in the park—I often indulge in an early ride, as today—and found that fellow Boothe there already. And wasn’t best pleased to see me either.”

  Wenning kept his expression neutral. “And which of you did Grace choose?”

  “Me, of course.

  “And that is the only evidence of her supposed adultery?”

  “It is no evidence at all,” Phineas said seriously. “It was perfectly innocent. She likes the admiration—who would not?—but if she has more than flirted, I shall eat all my hats.”

  “Heaven forfend such a waste of hattery.”

  “As you say. I’ll tell you what, though, Ollie. If you want to set your mind at rest, you should come incognito to the ball and the firework display and see for yourself. There is ample opportunity for dalliance at Maida, no matter how many respectable people are present, but I guarantee Grace will not take advantage, even though several of her swains are present.”

  “You want me to spy on my wife?”

  “If her supposed infidelity bothers you, then yes,” Phineas said frankly. “If you trust her, as I’ve told you constantly you should, then don’t bother.”

  “Such sound advice as always,” Wenning remarked. “I’m for a gallop…”

  *

  Having returned from his ride to discover Grace had already left the house, Wenning changed into morning dress and walked round to visit his sister Honoria, whom he found partaking of a solitary breakfast.

  He accepted a cup of coffee, bade her dismiss the hovering footman, and sat down beside her.

  “The truth, Honoria. How much have you actually seen of my wife’s supposed misbehavior?”

  Honoria shuddered. “All over town, my dear. One runs across her everywhere.”

  He raised one mocking eyebrow. “In flagrante delicto?”

  “Hardly,” Honoria said, reddening. “But all the same, she flaunts her lovers everywhere.”

  “And how do you know they are her lovers?”

  “I saw young Curtis enter your house after dark. And another day, that fellow Boothe was there, quite at home at a ridiculously early hour when I called on her. Some story about escorting her for a ride in the park.”

  “And he was…where? In Grace’s private sitting room?”

  Honoria frowned. “I don’t remember, to be honest.”

  “You don’t remember, I suspect,” Wenning said with careful lightness, “because you were not there. You heard the story from Phineas, who was there and who did, in the end, take Grace riding.”

  Honoria waved her hand impatiently to the imminent danger of her teacup. “What difference does it make? The point is, Sir Nash Boothe was there when he shouldn’t have been.”

  “And who was it who saw Curtis enter Wenning House after dark?”

  “I did,” she said with certainty.

  “And where were you going at such an hour? Home?”

  “No, I was on my way to a party at Lady Sefton’s—”

  “I see. And was Wenning House in darkness?”

  Honoria frowned. “No. All the first-floor windows were ablaze with light.”

  “The first floor,” Wenning said gently. “The public rooms. Is it not possible that Grace was merely hosting a party to which you were not invited?”

  Honoria’s chin shot up in an old, childhood gesture of defiance. “If you choose to believe that your wife is innocent, I will say not a word against her.”

  “Good,” Wenning replied. He drank half his coffee and set down the cup. “Because the truth is, that even if she were guilty, the fault would be mine for leaving her in such an insulting way, and then failing to be there as her companion and guide. Who could blame her if she did seek a little solace elsewhere?”

  He sat back in his chair, gazing in the direction of the window and the light streaming through it. “The thing is, Honoria, I don’t think she ever did.”

  Chapter Ten

  Grace spent one afternoon a week at home and was surprised by what happened. First of all, Bridget arrived early and proposed yet another visit to Maida Gardens.

  “The ball will include a fireworks display in the gardens,” she said enthusiastically, “and everyone will be going.”

  “Everyone?” Grace repeated skeptically. “Have you and I made the gardens fashionable after all? Even though we took such pains to go incognito?”

  “Who knows? To be honest, I have no idea who first came up with this idea, but I rode into a large huddle in the park this morning, and it was already being discussed. Sir Nash Boothe was among them, and Phineas Harlaw, Maria Fitzwalter…oh and that deliciously handsome Italian prince—di Ripoli?”

  The last name made her prick up her ears. “Was he, indeed? I met him last night, and it crossed my mind he might be Rudolf, the man who found my bracelet.”

  Bridget’s eyes widened. “Really? Do you still think so?”

  Grace shrugged. “He gave me no sign of it, and I could not be sure. His height and build and coloring match, but his voice was different, and I could not quite envision him in a mask.”

  “Well, you will have the opportunity to see him in one if you come tomorrow night.”

  “Is Arpington going?”

  Bridget looked demure. “I haven’t told him yet. He didn’t exactly enjoy it the first time, did he? Though he might relax with more congenial people.”

  “Or he might breathe a huge sigh of relief not to have to bother,” Grace said wryly.

  “Wenning appeared while we were discussing it,” Bridget recalled. “He committed himself to nothing but certainly did not sound as though he would forbid you.”

  “I wouldn’t pay attention if he did,” Grace retorted. “As I’m sure he knows. Bridget…Bridget, did you ever think Wenning was a bad person?”

  “No. Not until he abandoned you on your wedding night. For two years. Why?”

  Grace shook her head. “Something does not make sense. He was always clever, quick witted, charming. Certainly, he was ambitious, but ambition seemed tempered by duty and affection. I always thought I split that duty, drove him to behave as he did. He should never have pretended… But everything I ever liked in him is still there. How can that be when he…?”

  She broke off as more callers were announced and forced the smile back to her lips to receive the second surprise of the afternoon. Mrs. Fitzwalter, in company with Sir Nash Boothe. Grace wished them well of each other, although she suspected the lady had come merely in the hope of catching a few words with the earl.

  She was, it seemed, doomed to disappointment. Grace’s at-home afternoons were always well-attended, and today’s was particularly so. No doubt everyone wanted to see the long-parted Wennings in domestic surroundings, eager for a glimpse of strife or harmony. Either, she supposed, would feed the gossips. Especially with Maria Fitzwalter in the same room.

  Prince di Ripoli was another welcome guest, as was Mr. Curtis. And inevitably, the scheme to attend Maida Gardens for the masquerade ball and firework display came up, and she was once more pressed to join the expedition. Surreptitiously, she watched Prince di Ripoli and found him smiling directly at her. She wondered if his first name was Rudolfo.

  Of course, the staider of her guests were against it, and her sister-in-law Lady Barnton positively flared her nostrils with disgust.

  “I doubt my brother would sanction such a ramshackle scheme,” she opined.

  “Why, here he is,” Mrs. Fitzwalter exclaimed with some delight. “Let us ask him.”

  Grace’s gaze flew to the door, and there indeed was her husband strolling into the drawing room, every inch, she thought resentfully, master of the house he had not even visited for two years.

  Something seemed to mesh inside her brain, something to do with his arrival, familiarity, and the discussion of Maida, but it eluded her before she could grasp it. She had to concentrate on calmly pouring another cup of tea for Wenning and passing it to him with civility.

  “An unexpected pleasure, my lord. I believe you are acquainted with everyone?”

  “Indeed I am. And with your Maida Garden scheme, which I heard all about this morning.” He walked over to the extra chair the footman had placed and sat down, “What is your view of the notion, Grace?”

  “Why, that it seems to be considered so bold and daring that I had better take part or reconcile my reputation to becoming tame and dull.”

  “Never,” Boothe said fervently.

  Wenning did not even glance at him.

  “May we rely on your escort, my lord?” Mrs. Fitzwalter asked brightly.

  “Alas, no,” Wenning replied, apparently regretful. He kept his gaze on Grace. “But if you need an escort, I believe Phineas will oblige.”

  Although she refused to do so in company, Grace wanted to stare at him, search his face for the elusive connection that had troubled her as soon as he had come into the room, some association of her husband and Maida Gardens.

  Surely there was not one? She had never been to the gardens with Oliver, and the only association was the fact that she had lost the bracelet, his gift, there. Could he have found out?

 

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