Gallant Scoundrel (11 page)

Xena murmured something noncommittal, then turned to greet yet another group of officers clamoring for her attention, glad to escape Lady Peter’s insistence. Yes, the sooner she could leave London the better. Though if Harry should decide to follow her…

Would he? Did she want him to? No, of course she did not. Not if what those men said about him was true. Safer, surely, to convince him she had no fortune worth pursuing beyond a mouldering manor house in a remote corner of Yorkshire—nothing, in short, to tempt him away from his comfortably dissipated life in London.
 

To do that, however, she needed to contrive a moment or two alone with him. Not until she discovered his intentions could she effectively plan a counter-offensive, should one prove necessary.

More than an hour passed before such an opportunity presented itself. Though Xena tried to appear cheerful and animated while responding to continued expostulations about her miraculous survival and all the good she had done during the war, her attention was in fact centered on Harry’s every movement—and the disconcerting memories sparked by seeing him again.

Unfortunately, every time she spotted him he was in the company of others, most often Lord Peter Northrup and Lord Foxhaven, and always, she noted, with a drink in his hand. Nor did the Duke’s guests leave her alone for a moment. In desperation she finally excused herself to the ladies’ retiring room, then found a quiet corner just behind the curve of the nearest elaborate spiral staircase.
 

Almost at once, she saw Harry approaching—also alone. “Give you good evening again,
Miss
Maxwell,” he drawled, a sardonic edge to his voice. “Wonder if I might have a word?”

“Certainly, Mr. Thatcher.” She fought desperately to keep her color from rising, reminded again of all they’d once been to each other. Seven years had certainly not made him any less handsome. Rather the reverse. “Here, or somewhere a bit more private?”

His mouth twisted into something that was almost—but not quite—a smile. “For what we need to discuss, an audience might be better avoided. Do you not agree?”

“I do indeed. There is an anteroom just back here—it is where the Duke had me wait until he could spring me upon his guests with a flourish.”
 

“Pity I missed that. Back here, you say?”
 

Her heart unaccountably hammering in her chest—for surely she had nothing to fear?—she led him to the small, ivy-papered room she’d quitted some three hours earlier.

H
ARRY
FOLLOWED
Xena into the room, trying not to be distracted by the curve of her bottom as it moved under the thin silk of her midnight-blue gown. Now they were finally away from the prying eyes of all those damned officers and their gossiping wives, he needed to keep his mind clear if he was to get the answers he craved.
 

The instant the door was closed, Xena whirled to face him. “Now we are alone, perhaps you will tell me what you mean to do?”

“Do?” He blinked. “What do you mean? What the devil am I
supposed
to do when suddenly confronted by a wife who for seven years allowed me to believe she was dead?”
 

His words sounded harsh even to his own ears and Xena immediately bristled.

“
Allowed
you to believe? You are aware, are you not, that you were reported dead as well? I had no reason to disbelieve what I saw printed in the papers. Was I to write to a corpse?”

“The papers also printed a notice after I was found alive,” he pointed out.

 
Xena averted her eyes—those same expressive gray eyes he remembered all too well. “I…canceled regular deliveries of the
Times
shortly after reading you were killed. Money was tight and it seemed an extravagance having it posted all the way to Yorkshire.”

Thrusting away an image of her poring over the lists of dead and wounded frequently enough to have spotted his name, he returned to the main point. “Salamanca occurred a full three years after I left the 45th,” he reminded her. “Three years during which you could have written to me after learning we all thought you dead. Why didn’t you?”

She compressed her lips—lips that were fuller than Harry remembered. “I…wrote to my father. I assumed he would notify you.”

“Ah, yes, that all-important letter that he supposedly never received.”

“Do you accuse me of lying, sir?” she flared. “I assure you I did write to him, and before the end of ’09. I had no idea he’d not received my letter until he returned home—barely a month before news reached England about the battle at Salamanca.”
 

She darted a glance at Harry’s left sleeve, then looked away—but not before he saw the flash of pain in her eyes…or was it revulsion?
 

“Why did you not write again when you received no reply?” Harry persisted. “Surely such momentous news was worth of at least one more attempt?”

Xena lifted a creamy shoulder, again averting her gaze. “He was still quite angry with me when I left Spain. I assumed that was why he did not reply. Writing again might have been seen as groveling for his forgiveness, which I could not bring myself to do. Not after he’d violated my trust by forcing us to wed.”
 

“Do you mean that you did not expect him to insist upon our marriage when you informed him of our…activities?” Harry could hardly believe she’d been so naive, but it would explain much.

“Inform—? You cannot think
I
told him? Not after all my pains to keep our… activities, as you term them, secret? Even believing him as forward-thinking as myself, it was scarcely worth that risk—as ensuing events proved. You both knew my views on matrimony. I never expected you would resort to such underhanded stratagem to force my hand.”

Harry stared, then slowly shook his head. “I assure you, I was as surprised as you claim to have been when Colonel Maxwell insisted we marry. He implied it was your wish, so I—”

“So you could not in honor refuse. My father told me it was
your
wish—and that he would have you court marshaled if I balked.” Her dark brows drew down in a frown. “It appears we were both misled. He clearly owed his information to a third party. I wonder who?”

So did Harry. Aware that they might be interrupted at any moment, however, he shrugged. “That scarcely matters now, does it? The important question is, what do we do now? Announce the truth to the world and live from this day forward as husband and wife?”

“Don’t be absurd,” she snapped, looking suddenly alarmed. “After all, we barely knew each other seven years ago, and it’s clear now that neither of us wished for that travesty of a wedding my father forced upon us.”

Though true, her words stung more than he cared to admit. Seven years ago she had seemed to enjoy his company—and his love making—well enough. Alone with her, standing so close to her, he was rather too forcefully reminded of how very much
he
had enjoyed those encounters.
 

“What do
you
propose, then? Simply…pretend we were never more than chance acquaintances during the war and go our separate ways?” Harry supposed he should prefer that course, but…
 

The look she gave him was both suspicious and hopeful. “I…would not be averse to such a course. I’ve no particular desire to conform my life to yours at this late date, nor can I imagine you wish to conform yours to mine. I gather you have not married again, at any rate, under the misapprehension I was dead?”

Now
that
was a complication Harry hadn’t even thought of—not that he’d ever been at the least risk of such a thing. “Me? No. And as you still call yourself
Miss
Maxwell, I presume you are no bigamist either.” He let the implied question hang.

The Xena he’d known in Portugal and Spain had never been one to blush, but now her color rose ever so slightly. “I, ah, no. As no one in Yorkshire knew of our marriage—”

“You never saw fit to tell them. Can’t say I blame you, as I never told anyone either. A bit awkward to admit the truth to everyone now, after so many years of silence on the subject by both of us, wouldn’t you say? Though if Wellington suspects…”

Xena grimaced. “He doesn’t suspect, he knows. I told him myself this very evening, just before he announced me. He neglected to mention you were still alive…and expected to attend tonight.” She seemed understandably nettled by that omission.

“Old Nosey always did like his little jokes. Do you think he’s told anyone else?”

After a moment’s thought, she shook her head. “I feel sure someone would have mentioned it to one of us by now if he had.”

True enough. If there were anyone Wellington might be tempted to inform, it would be Peter and Jack, as they’d done so much vital work for him in the past and were known to be Harry’s best friends. Clearly he had not…yet. Harry imagined the glee with which the two would greet such news and cringed. Far better to tell them the truth himself than risk them learning of it at a venue such as this.
 

“I could ask Wellington to keep the story to himself,” he mused aloud, “but even if he agreed to do so, he’d certainly want to know why. I confess, I was rather surprised
you
made no mention of our, ah relationship when Wellington first sprung us upon each other tonight.”

“I realized, as you just pointed out, the awkwardness of such a revelation. Nor did I completely trust my judgment while recovering from such a surprise. As we cannot count on it remaining a secret, however, we must decide how we wish to proceed.”

Harry regarded her thoughtfully. “You implied you would be happy enough to go on as we’ve done, living separate lives. Even should the truth out, we’d by no means be the only married couple to take that course. Wellington himself is a prime example, as it’s well known he and his wife have lived apart for years. We could simply agree to do the same.”

“Yes. That does seem the most reasonable solution.” Her obvious relief was less than flattering, though Harry knew he should feel the same. “After all,” she continued, “we were little more than children when we first met—I but nineteen and you not much older. Young and rash enough to play with fire, with the expected consequence. Surely we have both paid a severe enough penalty already for that youthful mistake?”

He’d never considered his time with Xena a
mistake
, though her father’s learning of it certainly had been. Still, the course she suggested made sense, involving the least disruption to both their lives.

“Very well, we’re agreed, then.” Oddly, Harry did not feel nearly the satisfaction he ought to. “Shall we shake on it?” He held out his hand as he would to another man.

She hesitated only an instant before taking it. Though her grip was firm for a woman’s, her hand felt distractingly small and soft in his. After a quick shake, she rather hastily let go and took half a step toward the door.

Harry felt strangely unwilling to let her go just yet, however. “If we are not to speak again after tonight, might I take this opportunity to appease my curiosity? What sort of life do you lead now, Xena? I was nearly as surprised to hear you’ve been fixed in Yorkshire all this time as I was to discover you still alive after so many years. I don’t recall you ever speaking of your home with any particular fondness. Rather the reverse.”

 
She bit her lip, as though debating how much to tell him. “I was…rather unwell when I first returned home, which kept me confined for a time. Once recovered, I discovered various tasks demanding my attention. My father’s steward had died the year before and his replacement, hired by letter, proved rather incompetent. Between one thing and another, I never felt able to leave.”

“Not even when your father returned? Surely at that point he could have taken over whatever duties you felt compelled to perform, freeing you to go a-roving as you always claimed to enjoy.”

“He remained only a month, then was off on his travels again. He, ah, felt it best I not accompany him.”

Harry had a distinct sense she was concealing something. “Surely he was not still angry three years later? Do you mean to say he was not happy to discover you were alive after all?”

Her smile did not quite reach her eyes. “I believe he was, but…not happy enough to remain at home. His was ever a wandering spirit.”

Just as Xena’s had been. It would be rather a shame if that were no longer the case, for the visible changes since he’d last seen her were all to the good. He ran an appreciative eye over the flattering—and expensive—lines of the midnight blue gown she wore, increasingly determined to learn more about the woman she was now.

*
       
*
       
*

Xena wondered if agreeing to a private conversation with Harry had been a mistake. Here, in close quarters together for the first time in seven years, she was finding herself far more affected—and attracted—than she cared to admit. Now, under his assessing gaze, her heart accelerated further.
 

“I still find it hard to believe you remained in Yorkshire all this time simply to manage your father’s estate.” His voice flowed over her with warm familiarity. “How prospers it now? Well enough for you to spend the winter in Town, it would seem.”
 

His words reminded her that she mustn’t let down her guard—not yet. If Harry was truly the womanizer those officers claimed, he likely recognized her gown was in the latest fashion and therefore costly. They’d also mentioned gambling…
 

“In truth, the estate does not prosper nearly so well as I should like,” she replied firmly, “nor am I in Town for the winter. I simply came here in hopes of selling off a few of my father’s antiquities in order to fund some much-needed repairs back home. I am certainly not in the habit of buying such fripperies for myself.” She gestured toward her silk skirts. “But the Duke insisted I attend tonight, so it was necessary to dress presentably.”
 

That drew a frown from him, no doubt because her apparent worth had decreased in his eyes—as she’d intended. “Then you mean to return home soon?”