Letters to a Lover, page 8
“What if I watch from the window instead?” Dragan said quickly. “I am good and quick at sketching likenesses. And if nothing else, I will be able to see that you are safe.”
“Are you invited to Lady Braithwaite’s soiree?” Azalea asked doubtfully.
“No, but perhaps you could let me in as you go out.”
Azalea thought about that. She would feel undeniably safer with Dragan watching close by, but… “What if he sees what we are about? He might already have seen you watching at the theatre. No, it has to be me, doing exactly as he demands. We are already agreed he is not going to hurt his milch cow. Besides, the more I think about it, the more I think I must know this person. He knows too much about me. I believe I will recognize him, and so there will be no need of your artistic skills.”
“A man who climbs from one theatre box to another, at risk of life and limb, is not easily going to allow himself to be recognized. Besides, will you not be watching from the wrong side of Grosvenor Square to see much?”
“He has to approach from somewhere. And surely he will be watching the house for my exit, to be sure I am playing by his rules. Please, Dragan, it has to be this way, just while you and Griz find him and the letters. I could not bear—” She broke off, turning away from him. “It’s not just Eric’s hurt and humiliation I’m trying to avoid. Our last chance of rediscovering happiness hangs on this.”
For a moment, Dragan was silent. There wasn’t much he could say. She just wanted him—and Griz through him—to be aware of the stakes.
“I did not realize you felt things to be at such a pass,” he said at last. “I cannot begin to guess the workings of your marriage. But whatever happens now is not your last chance. There is always another.”
She swung on him, almost in anger. “How can you know that?”
His lips quirked. “I am not unobservant. You will let us know what happens?”
“Of course,” she said to his retreating back.
Chapter Eight
Lord Trench stayed away from his wife that day. Having dined early at his club, he returned home to discover his wife on the stairs, dressed to go out.
Something very like panic flickered in her eyes before she smiled and said, “Lady Braithwaite’s soiree. What entertainment do you have planned?”
He almost groaned. “Why, the same.”
It would be a simple matter to send her ahead and go alone when he was ready. Pride urged him to do just that, for he was damned if he would play the jealous husband at this stage in the game. But it was pride that had led to their growing estrangement, and more than anything, he wanted to end that. Whatever the pain, he still had to try.
“If you can wait five minutes, I will escort you,” he offered.
Her eyes were unreadable, although she smiled and agreed to wait for him.
He cursed silently as he changed into evening clothes. He hated being churned up like this. He preferred to be in control, to follow a plan that did not always swerve and change.
In truth, he had grown tired of waiting for his wife to come back to him and resolved to pursue her before she drifted so far off that reunion would be impossible. His initial volley had bestowed both hope and excitement to a life that had grown meaningless without her warmth.
But since that evening alone together, something had changed. There had been no repeat of the cozy dinner, the flirtation, the passionate kisses… Well, apart from when he had kissed her before last night’s ball and despite her involuntary response, her delicious melting against him, she had still left him without any noticeable regret. In fact, it had seemed she was trying to be rid of him. That had not only taken him by surprise, it had hurt.
Trench did not consider himself to be a suspicious man, and even though they had grown increasingly apart, he had never doubted Azalea’s fidelity. He had ignored his mother’s and Augusta Monkton’s warnings about his wife’s behavior and any rumors which had, in any case, quickly died. He had believed in Azalea because he knew her and because he loved her through the good times and the bad.
But now… Gunning, he dismissed as an opportunist well-sent about his business. But something in Azalea had changed. She was hiding something. He prayed it was not illness. But she seemed torn, he feared, between her old affection for him and some other emotion. Some other love…
Used to keeping his feelings in check, Trench was unprepared for the jealousy, the anger, the sheer pain tearing him apart, ever since this possibility had entered his head last night. Hence his deliberate avoidance of his wife. But here he was, like the proverbial moth to the flame.
For once, as he straightened and glanced in the mirror, he had to compose his turbulent expression into the lazy, slightly sardonic one that was most familiar, but it took him so long that his valet began to shift nervously from foot to foot.
“Is everything satisfactory, my lord.”
“Infinitely, Ford,” Trench said, turning away with a faint smile and walking to the door. “Infinitely.”
Azalea awaited him in the entrance hall, seated on one of the ornamental chairs. By the soft lamplight, her wide skirts spread out, she looked like a fairy-tale princess. Her creamy shoulders rose delicately from the low bodice, enticing, arousing. His whole body hummed with the desire to touch, to kiss.
But she gazed into the distance, lost in thought that clearly didn’t make her happy. Her mouth drooped slightly at the corner, lending her breathtaking beauty an air of tragedy.
The pain in Trench’s heart sharpened to a vicious point, though he continued to descend the stairs without pause.
Her head jerked toward him. The sad abstraction vanished into a spontaneous smile of pleasure, and she sprang to her feet. “There you are! And they say women linger over their toilette.”
“I had to make the effort to live up to my wife’s beauty,” he spoke lightly, covering the delight, the fresh hope her smile had given him. He picked up her shawl from the chair beside her and draped it over her shoulders, careful not to let his fingers brush the smooth, taut skin.
She took his arm to descend the front steps, and he handed her into the waiting carriage before climbing after her and dropping onto the seat beside her. The step was folded up, the door closed, and the horses set in motion.
It was not far to Grosvenor Square. There would be no time for serious discussion. But he wanted to keep that sadness he had witnessed at bay, to make her laugh, to flirt with her. But before he could begin, she broke into a speech of her own.
“I saw Dragan on his way out this morning. He said he was investigating something for you.”
“Well, it’s useful to be able to keep such things in the family.”
She glanced at him with a shade of unease. “What things?”
“Just business. Building to be precise. A couple of my associates seem inclined toward dubious practices. I want to be sure they have neither broken the law in the past nor intend to flout our agreements in current projects.”
Was it his imagination that her expression seemed to lighten?
“Well, I’m sure Dragan will ferret out the truth. Though you do know, he will involve Griz, as likely as not.”
“You mean Griz will involve herself.”
Azalea laughed. “I’m still not sure whether they are good or bad for each other.”
“It is certainly too late to part them.”
“I tried once,” Azalea said unexpectedly. “When I first met him, I thought a man with such dazzling looks would never look at her as I saw her look at him. And if he did, I did not think he would be faithful.”
“And now?”
She shrugged. “I underestimated both of them. Who are your shady partners? Why did you get involved with them in the first place?”
For the rest of the short journey, he told her about Verry and Fenner and their efforts to thwart the original vision of the buildings. She listened, even interrupted with the odd question, and he realized, almost with shock, that he had never discussed his many business ventures with her. He had grown into the habit of thinking such matters could be of no interest to her. But Azalea had never been an empty-headed socialite. If her beauty had first attracted him into her orbit, her humor, character, and unexpected knowledge had kept him there. She was cultured, educated, accomplished, and capable of both deep feeling and deep thought.
Had he really forgotten all that? The distance between them was not just Azalea’s doing. He had taken her for granted, the beautiful wife who would, in time, remember that she adored him. He had been supportive in her melancholy after Lizzie’s birth and patient since. But that was not enough. Perhaps his reticence had grown out of care, but there was no longer any need of such kid gloves. He had stopped sharing his life, so how could he expect her to share hers?
The revelation gave him pause, making him silent as he handed her down at the Braithwaites’ elegant townhouse and escorted her inside.
They had missed the first crush of guests, which meant everyone saw them arrive together in Lady Braithwaite’s salon. Every man must envy him, his lovely wife. Could he blame men like Gunning for trying to take her from his careless hold? His neglectful hold?
Yes! he answered himself savagely. And I do. But their opportunities were over. And he would find a way to extinguish that sadness in her, to win her back from whatever or whoever was distracting her from him.
After they were greeted by their host and hostess, he strolled beside Azalea, greeting acquaintances, pausing to talk to friends. Inevitably, they became separated over time, but he refused to watch and glower, suspicious of every man who approached her.
Which did not mean he could not look occasionally. Or that he was not secretly thrilled when, as he leaned against a salon doorway, listening to a rather fine pianist within, she stood beside him and leaned closer to whisper, “He’s one of Grizelda’s musicians.”
He bent down to murmur back, “He’s very good.” He smelled her skin, the perfume of her hair. But they were in public. He had to straighten, stand aside to let others into the room, and when he saw her next, she was sitting in a chair close to the pianoforte, beside Sir Jeremy Naseby, whose attention was clearly divided between the music and Azalea.
Azalea was listening intently, but the set of her shoulders told him she was aware of observation. Sir Jeremy’s? Was she waiting for Trench to leave so that she could speak to him?
Appalled by his baseless jealousy, he gazed at the pianist instead, and when the piece was finished, he quietly left in the enthusiastic applause.
Several minutes later, she entered the same room. The center of a group of admirers as usual, she absorbed their admiration and flattery with her usual careless humor, never allowing it to be serious. Oddly, one of the first things he had learned about her all those years ago was that she didn’t actually believe in men’s admiration or the depths of her beauty. She put her popularity down to her wealth, her father, fashion, and, occasionally, old friendship.
From the corner of his eye, while conversing with other people, he saw her gracefully extract herself from this group and move on to others. He glimpsed Sir Jeremy Naseby, presenting her with a glass of wine and had to squash the silly surge of jealousy when she smiled at him in thanks.
Sir Jeremy only bowed and strolled away. Which relieved Trench, but only for a moment, for Naseby walked out of the door into the passage beyond, and an instant later, Azalea, without her wine, followed him.
Had the glass of wine been a signal? Prearranged for them to meet somewhere more secluded?
The green-eyed monster resurged with fresh fury. Somehow, he managed to keep his usual cool smile as he excused himself and left by the same door. To his left, at the end of the passage, Naseby was disappearing into the room being used as a temporary gentlemen’s cloakroom. There was no sign of Azalea.
Or was there? To his right, a shadow flitted down the staircase.
Frowning, he followed the shadow, rounding the curve of the staircase in time to see his wife’s distinctive golden skirts vanish through the front door.
Since it was too late for arrivals and too early yet for departures, there were no servants in the entrance hall. They were all busy upstairs, keeping guests supplied with wine and tasty morsels of food to soak it up.
Had Azalea planned it this way? There was no time to be relieved that she had not gone to meet Naseby. Quite aside from his raging jealousy, it was not safe for her to be out alone in the dark. And if she wasn’t alone…
Blood was rushing through his head, singing a warning in his ears. Without conscious volition, he found himself outside the front door. He left it, as Azalea had, not quite closed. So, she meant to come back as discreetly as she had left.
She was flitting across the road and entering through the gate to the garden in the middle of the square.
She only wants some air, some peace. Why am I behaving like a suspicious husband, deranged by jealousy? Is there a quicker way to ruin our relationship?
No. But neither could he leave her out here alone, at the mercy of any passing villain. He walked quickly around the square and entered by a different gate, keeping his eye on the almost ghostly figure of his wife gliding across the garden.
Her head turned every so often, glancing all around her. If she glimpsed him in the light of the streetlamps, she gave no sign of it, just kept moving rapidly until she veered toward a wooden bench.
Trench paused by the nearest tree. He did not mean to disturb her moment of peace, merely ensure her safety until she returned to the party. And next week, they would go home to the country and talk.
Arriving at the bench, she glanced around her once more, perhaps to be sure it was safe. Then she took something from under her shawl and dropped it on the bench.
An alfresco supper? Trench wondered, amused in spite of himself. She did enjoy her food. But she did not sit down and eat, merely turned on her heel and bolted back across the square, even faster than before.
Startled, Trench did not at once move. What the devil…?
But someone else was entering the square from the south side. A man in a dark coat and silk hat. Trench tensed, but the man did not pursue Azalea. Instead, he walked straight toward the bench.
Not a snack. A fat letter. Containing, perhaps, some token of love.
Something snapped in Trench’s brain. Fire ignited behind his eyes. An agony of fury and loss exploded. You shall have nothing of her! She is mine!
He erupted from his tree like a cannonball, covering the distance to the bench before the unknown man had even picked up the packet so clearly left for him.
The man’s head jerked around. He seemed frozen by surprise, which gave Trench all the time he needed to swing back his fist and strike. His knuckles connected with soft wool over hard bone, which gave him a fierce satisfaction. His opponent staggered backward, and Trench lunged forward to finish the job.
Despite the pleasant summer evening, the man wore a thick scarf over his nose and mouth, leaving little visible between that and the silk hat, which had fallen forward over his brow.
“Eric, no!” cried the familiar voice of his wife.
He spun around to see her running back toward him, which distracted him just enough. His opponent snatched up his packet from the bench and fled. Trench started after him, but Azalea, even impeded as she was by the heaviness of her skirts, threw herself at him, catching his arm.
“Leave him!” she almost sobbed. “Oh, please, Eric, leave him! You’ll spoil everything!”
Stricken, he stopped and faced her while his world crumbled and fell around him. “Do you love him so much?” he whispered.
She stared up at him, her eyes wide and turbulent. His one and only love.
And then she stamped her foot. “You imbecile, Eric!”
*
She had never seen Eric like this before. She had never even imagined the violence of what he had just done, of the desperation in his eyes.
The only time she ever saw her urbane husband lose his cool exterior was in the throes of passion. Odd that she should remember that now when another, strangely exciting layer of his personality was revealed. A surge of heat hit her stomach, wild and entirely inappropriate.
“Imbecile?” he repeated.
“Imbecile! If you believe that vile creature to be my lover.”
At the last word, his arm jerked under her grip as though to strike again, and she hung on tighter. He tore it free but only to throw it around her waist, hauling her hard against him. His face swooped, and his mouth seized hers, fierce and passionate.
Astonishment held her still. By the time her mind realized he was kissing her as she’d longed to be kissed, her whole body was on fire, her insides melting into sweet, heavy desire.
And then it was over. He seemed to tear himself free of her instinctively grasping hands before tugging her fingers through his arm and striding off across the square.
“We’re going home,” he said grimly. “And you are going to tell me everything.”
Azalea stumbled as she tried to keep up. She said pleadingly, “Eric, it isn’t…”
“Not now,” he interrupted.
Despite the sudden outburst of passion, he was rigid with anger as she had never seen him. At least, such fury had never been directed at her. She realized she was shaking and didn’t know if it was the cold reaction to what had just happened or fear of her husband. Of the final estrangement she had been trying to avoid and which seemed likely to be her lot now anyway.
Griz and Dragan had been right. She should have told him everything from the beginning.
With a start, she realized they were reentering the Braithwaites’ house through the front door that she had not fully closed. A scurrying footman in the hall halted in surprise to see them, though fortunately, he appeared to recognize them.
“Her ladyship needed a breath of fresh air,” Eric said, once more the urbane man-about-town. “She is feeling faint. Wait here, my dear,” he added, handing her into the nearest chair. “While I make our apologies to our hostess.” He set off toward the stairs, requiring the footman to send a maid to Azalea.
