Edith Layton (17 page)

She didn’t. She screeched to a halt so fast she almost overbalanced and fell anyway. She stood panting, one hand still on her heart as she looked at the people who’d gotten out of the coach. Not one of them was Ewen. And they were all gaping at her.

There were three gentlemen and three ladies. Three
women
, Bridget realized, as her gaze steadied. No one would mistake them for ladies. They were beautifully dressed, but too beautifully for daytime. There was too much to see altogether, face and form. Their gowns were too sheer, their hair was too bright, their blushes were painted on, and unless they’d all just had berry tarts, they were all wearing bright lip rouge, too. No, whatever they were, they were certainly not ladies.

The gentlemen were just that, though. Bridget would swear to it. Gentlemen born, if not gentlemen bred. They held their heads high and had
bedamned to you—who are you
looks on their clean-shaven faces, and their clothes were as correct as their companions’ were not. Bridget had seen their sort in London, the sons of rich noblemen with nothing to work for but their own pleasure, and they didn’t like to work too hard for that.

The tallest gentleman was the first to speak—and not to Bridget, but about her, so she was sure she was right about them.

“What a lovely greeting that almost was,” he drawled. “She’s poetry in motion, is she not?” He finally spoke to Bridget. “But I confess, I’m wounded. Why did you stop at the last minute?”

“I—I thought you were Ewen, I mean, Viscount Sinclair,” Bridget murmured, embarrassed.

“Would that I were,” the tall man sighed. “Ewen’s taste is excellent, as ever,” he told the group behind him. “No
wonder we haven’t heard squeak nor whisper from him in so long. Lucky fellow. She’s unique.” He raised one long thin finger to Bridget’s chin to tilt it up to see her better. She slapped his hand away. His eyes narrowed.

“I beg your pardon,” she said icily, getting control of herself again. “We have not met. I am Ewen’s wife, Viscountess Sinclair, and you, sir?”

“And I, dear lady,” he said, bowing, as his companions began to fall about in their mirth, “am enchanted. Utterly enchanted. What theater did Ewen pluck you from, the lucky dog? For I swear you’re the best little actress I’ve ever seen—forgive me, dear Charlotte,” he said over his shoulder to one of the women, “but what an impersonation. My own dear aunt might have been fooled. And she the terror of the court itself.”

The women were hooting with laughter; the men, far more cool, were treating her to contemptuous smiles or leers. Bridget grew red, then white with fury.

“Yes, you may sneer yourself silly, and a flock of silly geese you are, then,” she told them angrily, “and how delighted Ewen shall be, to be sure. When he returns from London, I’ll be sure to tell him. It would be braver of you to tell me your proper name,” she told the tall gentleman, “but of course, only a gentleman would do that.”

He paused. He was a lean man, perhaps Ewen’s age, with straight black hair and a hard, almost homely face, saved by a pair of strangely beautiful azure eyes. Those eyes searched her face keenly. “I am Drummond, my dear,” he finally said, his phrasing an eerie echo of Ewen at his loftiest, “Ewen is not here?”

“He is, as I said, in London,” Bridget said with dignity. “He didn’t tell me he expected company. Indeed, it would be strange if he did. He was called to London
suddenly or else he wouldn’t have left himself. It’s our honeymoon, you see.”

The other two men began to guffaw, and the ladies snickered. They were silenced by a wave of the thin gentleman’s hand. His eyes continued to study Bridget’s face, and it was all she could do to keep her head up as he gazed at her scar in the cruel afternoon light.

“We were wed a fortnight ago, in London,” she said, hating the little tremor that cracked her voice.

“Aye, I was there,” Betsy spoke up. Bridget had forgotten her. But she crowded close to Bridget’s side and took her hand as she gazed at the tall man, who was looking at her with bemusement. “I was flower girl, I was. You know what that is? I din’t. I used to sell flowers in the park, but his lordship, he give me a golden boy—a whole guinea, he did—to carry flowers at their wedding. It was grand, there was lobster and chickens and beef and fish, and oysters, and jellies, too, served after, and all the cake I could eat!”

There was a moment’s silence. “I see,” the man who’d called himself Drummond said. “It must have been lovely indeed. I’m sorry to have missed it. How many guests were there, do you think?”

“There was that man with red hair,” Betsy said at once, “and the soldier, two other blokes, and a couple fine as they could stare. Henry the butler was there, and Vickers, he’s a valet. That means he takes care of the Viscount’s clothes, y’know,” she confided. “And me, o’course. Did I forget anybody?” she asked Bridget.

“No,” Bridget said softly, wondering why this elegant fellow hadn’t been there, or if he’d been invited.

“I see. An intimate party. And you, my dear,” he asked Bridget. “May I ask where my cousin met you?”

Bridget swallowed hard. His
cousin
? Then he’d know all—if not now, then soon. It was easier, as always, to tell the whole truth. “At a ball in London, sir.”

“I’ve not seen you there,” he mused.

“I am cousin to Miss Cecily Brixton and was her companion,” Bridget said, and to make matters sound a bit better added, “It was an intimate wedding—my cousin and aunt were unavailable, my other cousins live too far away, and my mother lives in Ireland.”

“Ah, of course,” he said, and stood lost in thought for a moment. He came to some decision. He turned his oddly penetrating gaze on her again. “Forgive me, then, my dear, for intruding. I didn’t know the way of it. That Ewen! You’d think he’d remember to tell the family.”

“We married in haste, because of his father, you see,” Bridget said, trying to be conciliatory, because his attitude had suddenly and clearly changed. He looked at her with sympathy now, his azure eyes mild and kind, and he waited for her to continue.

“Because his father was so ill, Ewen wanted to marry to put his mind at ease,” she explained. “But then we got word his father was getting better, so Ewen decided to stay here for a while—until he was called away.” She hesitated to say why; surely the work he did for the government was secret. “He said he’d be back as soon as he could manage,” she added nervously. That was shaky ground for her, and she hoped he wouldn’t ask when. He didn’t.

He was obviously thinking deeply, his long face troubled. Then he bowed to Bridget again. “Well, then, that changes our plans! Back you go, my friends,” he said to the gentlemen and women standing behind him.

“What?” one of the gentlemen bellowed. “Truck all
the way from London on a promise of a week in the country, only to turn around because a pretty bit of tail tells us pretty lies? I should say not.”

“Then would you rather say when you’d care to meet me,” Drummond asked him mildly, “and whether it will be with pistols or swords? Ah, I thought not. Then kindly close your mouth and pick up your feet. We’re going now. And no groans, if you please. We passed a charming inn coming up here, and it will still be there when we go back.

“I regret the intrusion, my dear,” he told Bridget. “Please tell Ewen I’m sorry to have missed him, and be sure to tell him I wouldn’t have bothered him for all the world had I known what he was about.”

He waited until the others, with much grumbling, made their way back into the black coach. Bridget hardly noticed, she was too busy wondering and worrying about whether she ought to have invited him to stay. He was Ewen’s cousin, after all, but it was still their honeymoon. And she didn’t even know if he was really Ewen’s cousin. Ewen hadn’t mentioned him, or any close relatives, except for his mad cousin, Martin. The man had called himself Drummond, as though she should know his title—but he could have none and be nobody.

She was called from her thoughts by the tall man’s deep voice.

“And please do remember me,” he told Bridget, as he paused, a foot on the step of the coach, his sky blue eyes searching her face. “Someday it might be well to remember my name. I shall not forget you. Forgive me, my dear.” He hesitated; asking for forgiveness was clearly not a thing he was used to doing. “And please
also remember that we all do what we must, even if we sometimes wish to do as we will. One has obligations, my dear, and sometimes it’s difficult to know where they lie. For example, now I’ve angered some of my friends, haven’t I? Remember, please, when you think of me, that it was for your sake.”

He gave her a thin smile, sketched a bow, and stepped into the carriage.

“He weren’t so bad for such a gentry cove as he were,” Betsy said as they watched the carriage roll away down the drive.

“No, he wasn’t so bad,” Bridget agreed, almost wishing he had been, because he left her even more deeply troubled than he’d looked at the last. Which was a very great deal.

His head hurt, but his throat ached more, he’d done so much talking today.
Damn them
! Ewen thought wearily. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and stared down at the papers on the desk in front of him. Being a spy wasn’t a game. A man had to be fearless, not feckless. The idiot they’d sent in his stead was bold enough, but a fool to his toes. Ewen was tempted to leave the lot of them to their own nonsense, until he remembered it was his country and one of his best friends that the fools could endanger.

For two pins he’d go again himself, and damn the dangers. Then he remembered Bridget and realized there weren’t enough arguments in the world or money in the treasury to send him abroad now. He couldn’t stop thinking of her, even in the midst of these aggravating days. It wasn’t even as though he wanted to, though he knew he had to keep his mind on his work.
But a vagrant scent of warm flowers or even a trace of teasingly familiar perfume could make his heart race; then her face would be before him, and he would yearn for her again.

Just yesterday he had glanced out a coach window and seen the back of a woman’s head, the sun finding burnished chestnut in her glowing brown hair. He was about to stop the coach, throw open the door, and run to her, both shocked and delighted that she’d disobeyed and come to find him. But then the woman turned and his heart sank, because it was not her face he saw.

He only saw that in his every dream before he finally slept during these long restless nights since he’d left her. Sleep was always a long time coming, because it seemed to him that his very skin longed for her touch as much as he longed to touch her.

It amazed him. He was too old to be so smitten. He’d known her too long to still be so enraptured by her. But she defied all his rules and was the exception to his every experience. The more he had her, the more he wanted her—now more than ever.

She haunted his nights, and his every spare thought flew to her during the day. And they were the sort of thoughts that did a man no good when he was so far away.

But he was obliged to stay in London that night, and who knew how many more after that? So he had another note to write. He snatched up a clean sheet of paper and paused. There was so much he had to tell her, he needed a book. So much, and such startling stuff it didn’t let him sleep sometimes, no matter how tired he was. There were all the things he needed to hear her say, too.

And the one thing he never thought he would tell her—but now knew that he must.

He ran a hand through his hair and groaned. The piece of paper on the desk before him was infuriatingly blank.
Impossible
. There was too much and too little to put in a letter. Too difficult, too chancy, too dangerous. It would be hard enough to bring himself to speak the words he had to. He was no coward. But neither was he a fool. He had to see her; her face would be his guide to how and what to say. So until that day…

M
y dearest
B
ridget
, he wrote….

D
earest
E
wen…

Bridget’s pen paused. Suddenly it seemed presumptuous for her to address the aloof, distinguished Viscount Sinclair as “dearest.” It seemed almost too intimate, although she’d known him more intimately than she’d known any other human being.

But she grew less confident with every passing day. He’d been gone two weeks. Of course she remembered his face, his body, the thrill of his loving; she wouldn’t forget it if she lived forever. Their jests, their conversations; the touch of his warm lips; the feel of his hair, clean and silken, curling over her fingers as she ran her hands through it; his purring laughter low in his throat—of course she remembered that.

But now, too, she remembered the disparity of their
stations. And the incredible sophistication—and worse—the incredible reputation of the man. Their brief time together was like a fading dream. And dreamlike, it wasn’t the feelings she remembered that she questioned, it was the reality of her situation she was doubting. Still, he was her husband and he loved her.

Her head shot up. L
oved
? He’d never said it. She thought and thought but couldn’t remember ever hearing that from him.

Y
es, that’s good
. G
od, you drive me mad
. S
o soft, so sweet
. O
h, yes, Bridget, yes, that way
. That was the sort of thing he said when they made love. He called her “my dear,” and she hoped she was. But he never said more. He said she was lovely, he said she was sweet, but that he loved her? Never.

She swallowed hard and dipped her pen again. He’d married her, hadn’t he? There had to be some kind of love there—or was it pity? It didn’t matter. Whatever his reasons, what she wrote was no lie. As his wife, she had the right to write it. Besides, it was true. He was her dearest love.

She read what she’d written, and groaned. This was the third try and she still hadn’t gotten it right! She couldn’t just fall in on his father, alone and out of the blue. It would be awkward, embarrassing. There ought to be a line asking him to write to his father announcing her arrival. She took out another sheet of paper.

It would be a day before she’d get his answer—two, if he was out late tonight. She hated thinking about that. There were too many dangers in London at night for him and for her peace of mind. It wasn’t footpads or pickpockets she was afraid of him running into—it was all the lovely ladies he might encounter at all the balls and parties he might attend. Them—and the other kinds of women he might meet at the theater or in the teeming night streets. London was stocked with tempting females. And he was a man who was famous for being tempted. He’d said it himself.

The only thing she could do here at night was listen to the frogs and crickets. Even that magic was gone without him. They could call her by name until the snow fell, but it was his voice she wanted to hear.

D
earest
E
wen
, she started to write again.

The ballroom was aglow. The guests were, too—with perspiration, exertion, and lack of fresh air. It was a mild summer night, but they were sweltering. They were ruddy and sweating to a man—and woman. The hundreds of candles burning in every huge chandelier hanging over the great room made the thick air shimmer in a bright haze. The guests beneath were packed into the ballroom so tightly there was hardly room to bend an elbow—although they did, dancing and drinking and fanning themselves, complaining about the heat and the crowd. But few wanted it any other way.

“A crush, an utter crush,” one matron told another with satisfaction, and they smiled at each other. It might be hot enough to make the plumes in their steaming hair droop, so hot the dancers on the floor could be smelled as well as seen as they traipsed by, cavorting in their intricate sets. The air might be damp enough to waste the hours the ladies had spent in curl papers the night before, too, but not a young or old one minded. They were seeing and being seen, and however they looked, it would have been worse not to be seen here at all.

This was a grand ball. The townhouse was one of the best addresses in London, the company was top of the trees. And even if it was hard to breathe, the air was rarefied by the number of wealthy and noble persons present. This was where a woman could find a husband for herself or her daughter, or an adventure she wouldn’t want her husband or daughter to know about. Of course, there was prime gossip to be mined here, too, and good gossip was almost better than gold coin in their circles.

The gentlemen suffered more than the ladies did;
their clothing was tighter and they wore more of it, and none of it was gossamer or gauze. They were literally bound and wound into their clothing. Shirts were fastened high at the necks with starched neckcloths wound around them, waistcoats were thickly embroidered, and tight jackets were worn over them. Their breeches were of heavy silk or satin, knit too fine to let air in. The men paid for such elegance in every way tonight. Their neckcloths wilted until they looked like linen fresh from the wringer, not their valets’ talented hands. Their own hands were covered by gloves as they danced, and they were glad of it, because their palms were so sweaty their partners would have literally slipped away from them otherwise.

It was a good thing the gentlemen wore dark clothing. That way the damp patches growing under their arms and on their backs couldn’t be seen. But everything else could be, which was the whole point. Tonight’s ball was where to be if one wanted to be in fashion, or find a fashionable wife, or arrange for a fashionable dalliance or affair.

“Ewen,” the lady standing on the sidelines of the dance purred to the gentleman next to her, “why not dance with me?”

“Might as well ask why not swim with you, my dear,” Ewen answered, his eyes roving over the crowd.

She made a face. “Of course it’s warm, but dancing might move the air,” she said, fluttering her fan harder. She gave him a sideways look and added, “Someone might think you don’t want to be seen with me.”

“We’re hardly invisible, Claire,” he said absently, his gaze still raking over the room.

A muscle tightened in his jaw. He gave no other sign
that he saw the newest Incomparable of the season, the blond beauty Cecily Brixton, and her imposing mother. He’d greeted them earlier, coolly and politely, and then braced himself, waiting for them to ask about Bridget. They’d curtsied and said nothing more than “Good evening, my lord.” From the avid look in their eyes when they saw he was alone, he guessed they might have wanted to say more. But he doubted any of it would be about Bridget’s welfare, so he bowed and walked away. Now they were staring.

They were standing together, looking like guests at an amateur charade, one portraying shock and the other scorn. They were openly gaping at him—and at the lady with him. Lady Claire Kensington was well known to the
ton
, as was her husband. She was also well known for not allowing the fact of her marriage to interfere with her pleasures. And her husband was not at the ball tonight.

“But to stand here on the fringes of the dancing like a pair of chaperones or wallflowers,” the lady beside him said impatiently. “Come, Ewen, it will not do!” She tapped his arm with her fan.

“On a night like this you’d be better off using that thing for the purpose it was meant for instead of beating me with it,” he commented, finally looking down at her.

The lady caught her breath when she found herself suddenly the focus of his erratic attention. The play of the dancing candlelight accentuated the hard planes of his handsome face. Tall, impeccable, he, alone of all the men in the sweltering room, wasn’t sweating. He was cool, composed, faintly amused, and slightly distant, as always. She wanted him badly because of it. She wanted
to see him impassioned, she wanted to see him grown hot, excited, that hard face harder, taut, and concentrated on her.

She licked her lips and saw his eyes following the motion. She raised her head, knowing her lips were now glistening in the shimmering light. Her gown was low enough for him to see that her breasts were still high and shapely, too. She wore her sable hair high, letting one long dark ringlet fall to her alabaster neck for contrast. Her sapphires matched her eyes, but nothing could complement her fair skin better than her inky hair—she knew because so many lovers had told her so. She was of English stock and nobly born, and intolerant of anyone from a lower class, but she reveled when her infatuated lovers called her “gypsy.” Her husband called her his little witch. She wanted Ewen Sinclair to call her name out in ecstasy.

She’d wanted that for a very long time. She’d known him long ago. But the same spring she’d made her first appearance on the social scene, Viscount Sinclair had married his lovely Elise instead of her. Then he’d gone to the Continent. Now he was back, alone, and this was finally her chance.

He was known as a rake, but it wasn’t just his reputation that attracted her. Damn the man for being so elegant, aloof, and fascinating. His smiles were infrequent but dazzling because of his even, white teeth. When she won one from him, she felt she’d won much more. Like his smiles, she felt his love would be rare but thrilling.

She enjoyed a challenge almost as much as she loved eventually despising the men she took to her bed for making such fools of themselves once she’d got them there. No man looked refined or remotely worthy
of her when he was in the throes of his passion. But maybe such a cool fellow as Ewen Sinclair…

She’d been standing beside him for ten minutes now and he hardly seemed aware of her, though she could swear anyone could hear the pulse pounding in her body as she thought of him and her plans for him. He wouldn’t dance with her. He appeared content to just stand, listening to her idle comments. He didn’t leave, though. Nor did he take it further. It was up to her, then. Damn him, she’d make him pay for this…after.

“It’s ridiculously hot in here,” she said, snapping her fan shut. “I’d like to stroll in the garden.”

He inclined his head politely. “Perhaps I’ll see you later, then.”

“My dear sir!” She forced a laugh, refusing to get angry. Her anger and ridicule of him could come later, as always. “I meant perhaps you’d like to accompany me, of course.”

He lifted one eyebrow. “You mean accompany you for a stroll in the garden now, and then in the conversation of all the scandalmongers later? My dear lady, I like your company. The question is whether I like it enough to face the gossips—and your husband on the dueling field tomorrow.”

She laughed. “My husband does not,
would
not care if you strolled with me, I assure you! Or did anything else we might care to do,” she added in a softer voice. “We have an understanding.”

“Really? I’m surprised. I’ve met him, you see. A hasty man, I’d thought. A possessive man, I’d wager.”

“Then you’d lose your bet,” she said.

“Indeed,” he said. He didn’t seem remotely interested. Her eyes hardened and she took a step away from
him, but his voice stopped her. “The garden will be as crowded as the ballroom,” he added.

“I expect you’re right,” she said, plying her fan frantically as she thought fast. “Anyplace here would be, wouldn’t it? Now, my house fronts on the square, near the park. If it grows warm, we have only to open the windows in the evening to get the most refreshing breezes. It should be delightfully cool there by now.”

“How fortunate for you and your husband, the good baron,” Ewen said.

“Well, it would be if he were home. But he’s not.”

“Ah? I wondered where he was. I thought he was in the gaming room.”

“He’s not even in London, in fact,” she said, smiling up into his suddenly interested eyes. “He left two days ago. We don’t expect him back for weeks.”

“Now, I love the theater, but I’ve always hated farces,” Ewen commented conversationally, though his eyes traveled from her lips to her breasts and back up to her avid eyes. “Lovers hiding in closets or climbing out windows when outraged husbands unexpectedly appear on the scene is not my idea of high humor.”

“He can hardly do that,” she snapped, and then added more gently, because he seemed actually willing to discuss it now, “He’s gone abroad.”