Barbary was confused. The only thing she wanted badly was to reconcile with her husband, and she did not think he referred to that. “I don’t understand you,” she said.
Conor did not need to be told that. If she had understood him, she would never have left him. Or he would not have left her. Difficult, at this point in time, to recall precisely who had done what to whom. “I’m not precisely a stranger, Barbary. Though you may not know it, I’m your friend. As your friend, I don’t like to see you made unhappy. Tell me what I may do to help.”
The most help Conor could give her would be to take her into his arms, and Barbary would not tell him that. “You are very charitable today,” she said, made suspicious by that fact. “Why did you call me your poor darling, by the bye?”
“I should think that was obvious.” Conor leaned his broad shoulders back against the wall. “You seem destined to be unlucky in love. First me, then Graf-ton, and now Edouard. Incidentally, what
did
happen to Grafton? Aside from the fact that he had to marry an heiress because his pockets were to let?”
“Was that why he did it?” Barbary could think of his lordship without anger now—without any sentiment at all, except perhaps a teeny regret that she’d flung brandy in his face and pawned his pocket watch, a trite finale for what had seemed a grand passion and had turned out to be nothing of the sort. “Grafton doesn’t signify. We didn’t suit. What did you mean about Edouard?”
Barbary was asking some very strange questions. How well she hid her grief. “I meant, Edouard and your cousin Mab.”
“Why should that make me unhappy?” The landing was dark and Barbary moved closer to Conor so that she might more clearly see his face. “You must perceive that they will deal together excellently well.”
Conor perceived that his wife was acting damned queer. If he didn’t know better, he would say she had turned into a cold fish. But he did know better, and he could not help but recall a recent occasion when she had been a great deal less than cool to him. “You are very calm about losing your own true love.”
She had lost him, Barbary knew it. “It is no more than I deserve. I was very foolish, and now I must sleep in the bed I have made.”
This continued passivity set Conor’s teeth on edge. He grabbed Barbary’s shoulders and gave her a shake. “You’re twice the female that your cousin is. If you only made the effort, you could cast her quite into the shade.”
It was very good of Conor to give her advice. Barbary only wished she knew what he was talking about. “Why should I wish to do that?”
Conor shook her again. “Edouard! Your own true love!”
“Edouard?
You thought that Edouard-That I— Oh! How absurd you are, Conor. I have never truly loved anyone but—” Barbary broke off.
His wife was acting like a little looney. Conor scowled. “You said—”
“I said a great number of foolish things! I didn’t want you to know I was in a muddle, and so I lied. Edouard is a very nice gentleman, but I have no desire to try to cast Mab in the shade. Anyway, I’m done with romance.”
Conor could not help but be amused by this absurdity. “If you are done with romance, what is it that we shared, my sweet? On a certain occasion when you came to my room? If you recall, we—”
“Never mind!” Barbary fixed her gaze on the buttons of Conor’s waistcoat so that she would not have to look up into his face. “That’s different. I was pretending to be Mab. Yes, and you were very quick to flirt with Mab, were you not?”
“I was quick to flirt with you.” Conor put his fingers beneath Barbary’s chin and forced her to look up into his face. “You have never loved anyone but who? I find myself very curious.”
He had told her to fight for what she wanted. Barbary thought that she must take the chance. “Very well!” she said crossly. “If you must know, I referred to you. And it is very unkind of you to make me tell you, because I already know that you think me a flirt and a liar and despise me for telling you untruths.”
“Darling. How could I despise you?” Conor drew Barbary into his arms, all the better to prove to her the truth of his words.
Barbary sighed, contented, when that kiss was at length done. “I also stole money off your table,” she confessed, so prettily that there was nothing for it but that Conor must kiss her again.
Never had Barbary thought she would know such bliss. “What happened to your opera dancer?” she asked.
Conor wound his fingers in her disheveled curls. “Who knows? I grew bored. I always grow bored, except of you. Now I am growing bored with France. Shall we ride off into the sunset, my love? Shall I strew rose petals in your path? Or shall we simply return home?”
Home. Barbary thought wistfully of England. “Conor, I could not bear the talk.”
“What talk?” Conor was distracted now by the feeling of his wife’s curls in his hands. “We were both very foolish, and we were separated, and now we are not separated and we are not going to be foolish anymore. Perhaps you shan’t dance again at Almack’s, but you won’t mind that.”
Barbary didn’t think she would mind anything so long as Conor held her in his arms. “I was such a goosecap. Can you ever forgive me?”
“We will forgive each other.” Conor smiled down into her face. And then their conversation ceased for a good long while, except for occasional murmurs and sighs, which were music to the ears of Tibble, who stood below them on the stairs. Not that so superior a servant as Tibble would ever deliberately eavesdrop; he simply didn’t care to interrupt.
Home! Home to London, where frogs stayed where they belonged in ponds, and didn’t show up unexpectedly on plates; where one wasn’t expected to hobnob with artists and revolutionaries and inspectors of the police. Home to London, to good roast beef and pudding and a proper bed. London, where there was a certain upper housemaid—Tibble smiled and sat down on the steps to wait.
Copyright © 1988 by Maggie MacKeever
Originally published by Fawcett Crest (0449214079)
Electronically published in 2007 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.