Unmasking the Hero, page 11
Only Henley, her maid, knew about that. And Bridget. And Rollo. None of whom would betray her? Except by accident. And, of course, there was Rudolf…
Her gaze flew involuntarily to the Prince di Ripoli. No, he could not be Rudolf. He did not have the imposing, half-familiar, half-intriguing presence. Oliver, on the other hand…
Her breath caught as the buzz of voices around her seemed to recede. All she could hear was the singing of her own ears.
No. No, it is not possible. I would have known… He was not even in the country when I met Rudolf first.
Of course, he was not.
The voices of her visitors drifted back as relief flooded her. What a silly idea to have taken into her head! Just because he was of something the same height and build as Rudolf. Even now, with the opportunity of dallying with Mrs. Fitzwalter, he would not lower himself to attend Maida Gardens, although, like an indulgent parent, he was allowing Grace.
That didn’t make sense either. She was too confused to worry about it.
Wenning stayed only half an hour among her guests before excusing himself and strolling off. By that time, of course, Sir Nash and Curtis had both left, according to the prescribed length of such calls. Had he made his appearance merely to remind them that he was home? To warn them off sniffing around his wife?
Or had he just lost interest because Mrs. Fitzwalter had left?
She wasn’t sure that made much sense either.
Somehow, she got through to the end of the afternoon, although she thought she might have talked too much and laughed too brittlely.
When the servants came to clear away trays and teacups, she left them to it and, on impulse, went to the library where, stupidly, she had once felt closest to the man who had betrayed and abandoned her. Half of her hoped to find him there so that she could look at him and realize once and for all that he was not Rudolf.
No, she had realized that already. A man could not be two places at once. And since Wenning had not yet been in the country when she first met Rudolf, they could not possibly be the same person. But she had been churned up since he had come home, focusing on revenge, on inflicting on him even just a tiny fraction of what she had suffered. She had barely looked at him, and when she had, she had concentrated more on her own necessary strength than on his appearance.
The library was empty, although as she crossed to the shelf she wanted, she caught a hint of his scent. That, too, was a little like Rudolf’s, a little of the woods, a little lemon, a hint of spice, although the balance was different.
Plucking the book of Elizabethan poetry from the shelf, she sank into her favorite armchair and thumbed through the pages until she found the Michael Drayton poem. Not because she imagined Wenning had penned that note, but because it actually meant something to her, reminding her quite inconveniently that…
That she was not ready to let her husband go.
She had longed to feel something of those cheerful, careless lines at the beginning of the poem—let us kiss and part and I am glad, yea glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. And she still had confused hopes that when he suffered just a little, she would be free. But the truth was, that like the poet, she still hoped for a last-moment reprieve, for him to speak the words that would keep them together.
Because she loved him still.
“I don’t,” she whispered, wiping her suddenly wet face with the back of her hand. “I don’t love you.” How could she after what he did? He was never the man she had thought him. And now, after two years, they were both changed again. This was not love, she assured herself, this was regret for lost love. If she truly still loved her husband, she would never have felt the raw physical desire she had for Rudolf when he had kissed her.
And yet, what, if not love for her husband, had prevented her giving in to that desire? Had she not felt the treacherous flame of lust when Oliver had touched her last night?
She jumped to her feet, taking the book with her, and after wiping her eyes on her sleeve in case she met any of the servants, she retreated to her sitting room to win back some peace and some strength.
*
Dinner with friends that evening followed by a card party, kept her out of the house and away from her husband. She had not inquired about the earl’s plans and didn’t know if she was glad or not that she did see him among the other guests.
She did, however, see his friend, Sir Ernest Leyton, who made a point of joining her as she left one of her games to exchange a few words with her.
“What is this mad notion of Phineas Harlaw’s to remove half the ton to Maida Gardens tomorrow evening?” he asked.
Grace laughed. “Oh, I don’t believe the notion was Phineas’s, but certainly he seems to have embraced it. Do you join us, sir?”
“I?” He seemed startled.
“Did Phineas not invite you?”
“Well, yes, but I felt no obligation to accept. I can’t imagine Wenning is in favor of the idea.”
“He has no objection, though he will not come, either.” Too late, she remembered seeing Sir Ernest at Maida the first time she went. He had been dancing, always with the same unknown lady. “But you should come. The more respectable gentlemen who do, the happier, I suspect, will be the outing. And, of course, we will be incognito.”
He searched her face, as though looking for hidden meaning. “Perhaps I will.”
Grace sensed intrigue, but despite her curiosity, she did not pry. Instead, she changed the subject. “Tell me, Sir Ernest, do you find Wenning much changed by his long absence?”
“Not really. He is a little more assured, perhaps. Why do you both ask me questions about each other? Do you not live in the same house?”
“He asks you about me?” she said quickly.
“There, you are doing it again. My best advice? Talk to each other.” He bowed and excused himself.
It was, Grace reflected, sound advice. She almost followed it too when she returned home and saw the light on in the library. She actually paused on the stairs, her hand quite still on the polished banister, while her heart seemed to beat its way into her mouth.
“One day, when you are ready, we will talk.”
But she had come too far to slide down that slope into weakness again. At this moment, she was strong and had to stay that way to survive. And if she could not bring him to his knees—he would have to actually care for that to happen—she could at least cut him down to size. And she would do so in full knowledge of his character, the good, as well as the bad.
With sudden decision, she took hold of the handle and walked in.
She didn’t know if she was relieved or annoyed not to see him at his desk. The lamps were still lit at this end of the room although the back lay in shadowy darkness. A faint smell of brandy lingered in the air. She could not have missed him by much.
A sudden movement from the far corner preceded a clatter that made her jump. A figure stepped from the shadows into semi-gloom, and her stomach lurched.
The earl was not in formal dress. He wore no cravat, coat or waistcoat, and his shirt was rumpled, his face half-concealed in darkness.
He waved a brandy glass in her direction. “My lady. Bring a glass and join me.”
He thought she wouldn’t. He believed she would not face his drunkenness and merely leave without a word.
But a Darblay was far too used to drunks to be deterred by one slightly too expansive gesture. His words did not slur, and his tone betrayed quite clearly his self-mockery.
Wordlessly, she walked to the silver tray, picked up a glass, and approached the dark half of the library. He watched her, a faint, appreciative smile lurking on his sinful lips. Why should elegance and decadence look so wretchedly attractive on a husband she hated?
As she came closer, she saw that he had been on the window seat when she entered. The clatter had been a book landing on the floor, no doubt when he had stood up. He set down his glass on the nearby bookshelf, retrieved the book, and replaced it on the shelf, before picking up the bottle. She halted in front of him and held out her glass. He sloshed some liquid into it—accurately.
His gaze lifted to hers, wary, almost unsure. Unless that was a trick of the poor light.
She turned away, leaving him to the window seat once more, and took the winged armchair by the fire.
He inclined his head, still with that hint of self-mockery, and raised his glass to her before sinking back onto the window seat like a sleek, comfortable cat, leaning against the shutter with foot up on the cushion.
“You said you risked your life on the journey because you didn’t have me,” she said abruptly. “What did you mean?”
“I was brought low, blue-devilled by your absence.”
“You are a glib drunk.”
“In vino veritas.”
She sipped her brandy.
“Why did you never redecorate this room?” he asked.
She shrugged. “You were far from home. No one else sees it.”
“You did.”
Her gaze flew to his once more. The servants must have told him that. Which meant he must have asked. Why?
“You are not drunk at all are you?” she guessed suddenly.
He considered. “No.” He lifted his glass once more. “But I have been drinking. Don’t ask me why.”
“Why?” she asked at once.
A breath of laughter escaped him. “I was hoping it would quell my other desires.”
This conversation was not going at all the way she wanted it to. They were both skirting around the huge question lying between them: why he had left her.
And she could not ask it. Not while he sat there like a large, graceful animal, with his face half concealed in shadows and his sensual lips just parted and curved. As the silence stretched between them, her mouth went dry. All she had to do was rise and walk the few steps between them, sit in his lap and his strong arms would close around her, those seductive lips would take hers and from there…
He set down his glass. “We should talk in daylight.”
“Afraid of too much veritas with your vino?” she retorted, watching him rise.
He laughed and stretched his whole, long, lean body, temptation made flesh. Wicked lust flamed through her, both need and memory. But she did not move, afraid of giving in, of a surrender that would surely ruin such self-respect as she had left.
And yet, as he walked past her to the door, murmuring goodnight, nothing had ever been so difficult as maintaining her position, quietly, calmly, sipping her brandy in the darkness.
She did not watch him leave, but she heard the door click shut behind him.
*
The more Grace thought about the expedition to Maida Gardens, the more she wished she hadn’t given in to impulse. Even if Rudolf were there, and she could begin a few rumors that might wend their way back to Wenning, it would do her confused heart no good to see him again before her own ball. He was temptation. Married temptation. And at the moment, it seemed she could not even deal with desire for her own, perfidious husband.
Oh yes, she was depraved in spirit. But she need give in to neither lust. She was a lady of strength and character, not an animal in heat.
Moreover, the oddest idea came to her as the carriage containing her and Bridget, Phineas and Sir Ernest, rumbled north toward the pleasure gardens: that everything would be more comfortable if Wenning were with her.
Which was clearly nonsense. There may have been a certain perverse enjoyment in sparring with her husband, but it was never exactly comfortable. And she did not really wish to risk confrontation in the gardens, where the rules of polite society were not necessarily observed.
Maybe, I am not cut out for intrigue and revenge, she thought ruefully. But then, she was clearly not cut out to pretend the last two years had not happened either. Under no circumstances could she be the accepting wife, happy to be lied to and treated as of no account. He would understand she was of account to someone. And that he, too, could be a figure of society’s cruel fun.
“Is everything well with you?” Bridget murmured as they stood together for an instant at the pleasure garden gates.
“Of course.”
Bridget leaned closer. “You have not arranged to meet him, have you?”
Grace didn’t pretend to misunderstand. But since the gentlemen were offering their arms to walk up the path, she could only shake her head.
As she trod the now-familiar lantern-strewn path to the pavilion, she glanced up at Phineas, who, cloaked and masked, had acquired a serious, much more enigmatic appearance. “I wonder,” she mused, “if I did not know you were Phineas, would I recognize you?”
He glanced down at her. “Is that not the point of masked balls?”
She considered. “Maybe, the real point is to get to know someone without being misled by that person’s looks or status.”
“Which we of the ton rely on. I believe you have discovered the true reason Society now frowns on public balls of this nature. The masks we wear every day are much more effective than a mere strip of silk and a gaudy cloak.”
“How very cynical of you, Phineas. Or do I mean perceptive? In any case, you look much more serious in a strip of silk and a gaudy cloak.”
“I am a serious fellow. And for what it is worth, I believe I would always recognize you, masked or not.”
She sighed. “So much for my desire to appear mysterious and interesting. What gives me away?”
He considered. “I think it’s the way you move and talk—restless and yet graceful, like quicksilver.”
She laughed. “Which is a polite way of saying I’m a chattering jack-in-the-box!”
“You misquote me,” Phineas protested. “Leyton, support me here! Is her ladyship’s beauty not instantly recognizable, masked or otherwise?”
Sir Ernest, just ahead with Bridget on his arm, turned back and smiled, convincing her all over again that it had been him she had seen here the first night she had come. Unlike Phineas, he did not seem much changed by a mere mask.
“Why, yes, I would have to agree,” he said.
Not for the first time, Grace wondered if he had seen her at the ball that first night. If he had told Wenning. At the time, it had worried her. Now, she wished he had. And if Rudolf was here tonight, then no doubt she could arrange for a hint of intrigue to reach her husband via any number of people.
In truth, she both dreaded and wished for Rudolf’s presence and, for a tangle of conflicting reasons, that churned her up. Not least of those reasons being the suspicion that he knew her, that they had met before the first masked ball. And using him in this way, without knowing his identity, was downright dangerous. It could yet bring about her own fall rather than her husband’s.
The ballroom was more crowded than on her previous visits. All the doors were thrown wide, and the curtains tied back, presumably to allow people to see something of the fireworks without leaving the pavilion.
Clearly some of their party had already arrived, for two tables joined together were surrounded by people with white roses adorning their dominos—the sign they had arranged in advance. As she and Phineas made their way to those tables, she gazed about her, looking in vain for a tall, graceful figure in black and silver, lounging against a pillar.
Which was silly. Whoever he was and whatever he did, he could not spend all his evenings at Maida Gardens.
The growing party of the ton greeted each other with great good humor. In the spirit of the event, they used no names or titles, instead addressing each other by the color of their domino cloaks. In this way, Grace was the only Madam Rose, though it became more complicated with the gentlemen who mostly shared staider colors like black and grey and dark blue. Champagne was already flowing, and more was ordered. To Grace, it felt like a secret outing of children who had given their governesses the slip, and as such, she began to enjoy it.
She had not taken more than a sip of champagne before someone stood and invited her to dance. She knew at once from his voice that it was Prince di Ripoli. He did not sound at all like Rudolf, and he wore a scarlet mask and domino, not black and silver. Yet still, her heartbeat quickened as she took his arm, and they walked onto the floor. Perhaps his voice was softer, huskier in the intimacy of the waltz.
But as soon as they took up their dancing positions, she knew this was not Rudolf. He might have been of similar height and build, but he did not fit. His grip was wrong. He moved differently, he smiled differently. Which at least meant she could relax and enjoy the dance.
And afterward, when, as was the custom at these masked balls, a stranger from another party came over and asked her to dance, she waltzed with him, too. Hopefully, that would get back to her husband, via Sir Ernest, Phineas, Mrs. Fitzwalter, or just general gossip.
The interesting stranger, who by his speech and conversation, was an up-and-coming merchant, behaved with perfect decorum, even reverence, and Grace was genuinely sorry to part from him.
Sir Nash, it seemed, had not given up his ambitions to be her chief escort if not her lover, for after this second dance, he appeared at her shoulder, murmuring, “Shall we walk in the gardens? Discover, perhaps, where the fireworks will be?”
“Excellent idea,” she approved rather more loudly, turning to the group as a whole. “Shall we walk and choose our spot to observe?”
Sir Nash, resplendent in a domino cloak of midnight blue and a plain black mask, was clearly not best pleased, but he kept the smile plastered to his lips as they were joined by Phineas, Sir Ernest, Bridget, and Mrs. Fitzwalter.
They all trooped out together to enjoy the fresher air and the almost magical atmosphere created by the clever use of lanterns and torches. Following the path, they discovered that the fireworks would be lit on top of a small hill on the other side of a picturesque bridge. An odd folly had been constructed on the same hill, a cross between a castle and a Grecian temple. An ornamental waterfall tumbled down this hill and into the boating pond below. The whole scene was peculiarly magical, like a child’s fairy tale come to life.
“How pretty it will look,” Grace exclaimed. “The setting is rather beautiful, is it not? And I suppose everyone will see from this stretch of garden.”
