There was no pleasure in knowing she was responsible for his melancholy, no pleasure to be taken in his suffering. "How long will you be in London?"
He shrugged. "I know not. Several weeks, most likely."
"Then we may be attending some of the same assemblies. My husband has three unmarried sisters I chaperon."
"How painful it will be for me. I had hoped. . . that is, I had reason to believe that you were strongly attached to me. I came here today to seek your hand in marriage." He stood and addressed her in a dismissive voice. "How foolish I've been to have thought you could be happy with a lowly army captain when you could become a duchess." He started for the door.
She stiffened, her fingers coiled. "If you believe that, Captain, you are mistaken."
He stopped, turned, and regarded her with flaring eyes.
"The year before last and last year," she continued, "I would have turned down the King of the World to have become Mrs. Smythe. As it was, you left England without ever giving me the slightest hope that I had a chance of winning your affections."
"My God, but I've made a mess of things." He stormed from the chamber.
She sat there in a daze. Why had she not just allowed him to leave? Why had she felt the necessity of declaring to him those affections which had once nearly crippled her, affections she thought the Captain had not returned?
Even before she had given herself—body and soul—to her husband, the intensity of her love for the Captain had been extinguished by his disregard for her.
And now he was declaring that he had loved her then and wanted to marry her now. If he spoke the truth, how could he have been incapable of expressing those feelings last year? How could he have not written a single letter to her?
She no longer had any regrets. More than anything, she felt as if she could go down on her knees and praise him for his former coldness, the coldness that had preserved her unmarried state for her ultimate lover.
More sounds were heard in the corridor, then Lydia came strolling into the saloon. "Dear lord, wasn't that Captain Smythe I saw leaving?"
Elizabeth gave a little harrumph. "Indeed it was. The arrogant man expected to find the former Lady Cynthia sitting around her brother's house pining away for him."
Lydia regarded her with pensive eyes. "From your tone I gather all that passion he once elicited in you has vanished."
"Long before I wed."
Lydia lowered herself onto the silken sofa next to her sister. "Good riddance! I never liked the Captain."
"You say that only because you know how devastated I was when he left me without offering marriage."
Lydia nodded. "I suppose now he's come to regret it."
"Apparently so."
"And you really don't fancy yourself in love with him any longer?"
"It's my belief a woman can only be in love with one man at a time."
"I can certainly not disagree with that." She regarded Elizabeth with one of those all-knowing stares she'd developed at a young age. "Does that mean you've fallen madly in love with Aldridge?"
Elizabeth's eyes moistened, and she nodded, then burst into tears.
Lydia came and drew Elizabeth into her arms. "Whatever's the matter? It's a very good thing to be in love with one's husband. It's what I prayed for when you wed Aldridge for I knew you didn't love him on the day of your wedding."
It was always Lydia to whom all the Upton sisters confided. Their mother had been—and still was—cold and reserved. Lydia was as warm as she was wise. "I'm the cause of a rift between Philip and me."
Lydia hugged her, then drew back and eyed her younger sister. "That's a very easy matter to remedy. You beg his forgiveness, beg to start anew."
The solution was so completely simple, Elizabeth chastised herself for having so stubbornly clung to her silly anger. All because her pride was bruised.
Lydia withdrew a handkerchief from her reticule and handed it to Elizabeth.
Her hurt at being betrayed by Philip had overruled her common sense. Now she clearly understood that a disagreement should never come between them. "I've been so wretchedly miserable. I will throw myself upon him and beg forgiveness."
"I thought that night we all ate together here that you showed the symptoms of having been pierced by Cupid's arrow."
Elizabeth dabbed away the tears that streaked her face. "I would prefer it if you saw those same signs in my husband."
"He will come around—if he hasn't already. Men are not quick to realize such things." Lydia's face brightened. "I'm so happy you're here today. It will save me from having to go to Aldridge House to see you."
"I'm happy to see you too. Happy and surprised. I thought you rarely left your little darling."
Lydia's face softened. "I will own, it's difficult to be away from him. I feel as if I'm missing an appendage."
Elizabeth envied her sister. How dearly she would like to have a little Philip of her very own. "So how have you managed getting away?"
"I just fed him, and he's fast asleep." Lydia's voice lowered. "I've been worried about Anna. I wanted to see her when the baby's not present. I think she's still very low about their loss."
"Indeed she is. I found her sobbing a short time ago."
Lydia's face clouded. "The poor darling. She's torturing herself. I feel it in my bones she
will
conceive again."
"I am very glad to hear that for everyone knows you're always right. Now, pray, tell me why you were coming to Aldridge House?"
"Haverstock told me you and the duke are having a political dinner next Friday."
"We had discussed that, yes. But I've seen so little of Philip that I hadn't realized he'd gone ahead and sent the invitations. I suppose his secretary took care of that." She silently grieved that Philip had not further consulted her. "Why do you mention that?"
"I should like you to invite Morgie and me."
Elizabeth raised a brow. "You know it's just dull members of the House of Lords?"
"I do, and I assure you I will be bored, but I promised my dear mother-in-law that I will encourage Morgie to enter politics. It was what his papa wanted. Morgie has finally agreed to stand for Parliament, and I thought the dinner might perk his interest. God knows he needs a diversion."
"A diversion from what?"
"Need you ask?"
"His smothering presence?"
Lydia's shoulders sagged. "The dear man was beside himself with worry when we learned I was breeding. You recall several years ago his eldest sister died in childbed?"
Elizabeth nodded somberly. "It was very sad."
"Morgie worried like the devil about me. He seemed to feel that as long as he was at my side, no harm could come to me."
How Elizabeth wished Philip loved her like that. "I think that's incredibly romantic."
"There's not another man in the kingdom I'd prefer over my dear Morgie. You did, however, perfectly describe my husband when you referred to his smothering presence. The man needs another interest."
"Then I am delighted he will stand for Parliament, and I am delighted that you and he will come to our house for the dinner."
Elizabeth supposed she needed to hurry home and work with cook on the menu and begin drawing up seating arrangements. How much more enjoyable it would have been had she and Philip discussed this together. This rift tore her apart.
Lydia was right to encourage her to swallow her pride and apologize for their chasm. Her only hope of happiness was to restore their marriage's previous harmony. She stood. "Run along to Anna. Tell her what you told me. That you're certain she will breed again. Everyone knows you're always right."
Her sister stood and took both of Elizabeth's hands. "Then believe this: Aldridge will reveal his love for you."
* * *
He wondered where his wife was, then realized she was likely gallivanting about Hyde Park with that damned cousin of hers. Philip poured himself a tall glass of Madeira and settled back in his library's desk chair. He'd not seen the room by the light of day in a very long time. He'd spent so little time here, so little time with his wife. He would have felt the guilt of a negligent husband if it weren't for the fact that love had never been a part of their relationship. Elizabeth was probably happy to spend her time with Rothcomb-Smedley instead of with the dull stick who was her own husband. This dull stick should be in the House of Lords at present, but the estrangement from his wife was eating at him like a corrosive acid. He needed to see her, needed to bridge this rupture between them.
When he was mellow from the second glass of Madeira, he heard her in the corridor. He stiffened as the door to the library came open, and his wife stood in the doorway. How lovely she looked in the aquamarine coloured frock. A pity there was hostility in her countenance. "Barrow said you wanted to see me?"
He stood. "I do. Won't you come sit on the sofa with me?"
She was taken aback by his presence. Why was he not at the House of Lords? And why did he have so grave a look upon his face? For the second time in the same afternoon she found herself frightened that something terrible was going to be revealed. "Is something the matter?"
He moved to her. His face softened, his hand touched her arm. "Yes, you've made your husband a most wretched creature."
His simple act of touching her, the seriously uttered words that had tumbled from his lips almost had the power to send her into a molten heap. She peered up into his dark eyes, saw the sincerity of his words, and was incredibly moved. Her heartbeat was pounding so unnaturally, it was all she could do to look placid as she lowered herself to the sofa.
As soon as he was beside her, they both started to speak at once. They each stopped. Smiled. "You first," he said.
"I've been wretched too."
A gentle smile broke across his noble face. "Forgive me for saying I am most happy to learn you've been unhappy."
They laughed again.
He brought her hand to his lips for one of those nibbly kisses that always affected her so provocatively. "I have greatly missed our daily chats." His intense gaze bore into hers. "They were the second best part of every day."
Her lashes dropped seductively. "And what was the best part, if I might ask?"
His husky voice lowered. "When you're in my arms, in my bed, you wench."
Being called a wench in this context was an aphrodisiac. "I've missed those things too."
"I have felt like a traitorous husband, but my resolve to focus on only one new law is inflexible. Can we not agree to disagree?"
"Yes, my dearest. I was going to propose the same pact."
"You know how much I agree with you about their needs, but I must channel all my energies into accomplishing what I can for the greater good."
She was so happy that she'd read Jeremy Bentham's works, that she understood the political philosophy of the
greater good
. How proud she was of her husband for adhering to such a philosophy. Not many men like him, men in possession of vast wealth, would have embraced such thinking. "I do understand, my dearest. I truly mean to be your helpmate, not to be some didactic harpy." Without even being aware of what she was doing, she settled her hand on his muscled thigh and spoke softly. "I am sorry for causing this rift. I know that once you've accomplished the tax increase, then you will help the widows."
"Indeed I will."
"If you must know, the reason I was so angry was because I felt you'd reneged on your promise to me, that you had betrayed me."
He drew her into his arms. "I hope to God neither of us ever betrays the other."
She wanted to tell him she could never betray him, but the words stuck in her throat. She refused to be the first to make a cake of herself by declaring her love for him. The first declaration—if indeed it ever came—had to come from him.
There was a tap upon the library door, and they separated.
Barrow, holding what appeared to be a letter on a small silver tray, came shuffling into the chamber, the poor old fellow's shoulders slumped with age, his voice shaky. "The page delivering this asked that it be brought to his grace. He awaits a response."
Philip took it, tore it open, and began to read. Once Barrow had closed the door behind him, he chuckled. "I believe poor old Barrow was requested to give this to
her
grace. Here, it's from your favorite sister."
"The dear man
is
decidedly deaf." She took the note and skimmed over its contents. "You lied! This is most certainly
not
from my favorite sister." How could he have known that which she had never voiced? Kate was her
least
favorite sister.
"Of course I knew that. It's obvious to this man who has come to know you so well that you can only barely tolerate Kate."
She had never told anyone of the awkward relationship her otherwise loving family had with Kate. "How did you know?"
"Because I'm coming to know everything about this wife of mine."
Except how much she loves you
. "Then I pray you never betray me."
"I will never betray you."
But like other men of their class, she fully expected him to take a mistress. Did he not realize that nothing could betray her more?
She perused the letter, then peered up at him. "Do you object to Kate and Mr. Reeves using your box at the theatre tonight?"
"Of course not. And it's not my box. It's
ours
."
Would she ever become accustomed to being the Duchess of Aldridge? This house still felt like his home. It lacked the familiarity she'd felt that afternoon at Haverstock House. She got up and went to his desk to compose her response to Kate, then rang for a servant to take it to the waiting page.
As she got up to return to the sofa, her husband stood, regarding her with a smoldering gaze. Her pulse accelerated as she went to him, as she melted into his comforting embrace.
"I need you," he said, his voice low and full of emotion.
She nodded simply. "Let us go to your bedchamber, my dearest."