Lady Anne's Deception (9 page)

She was about to cross the room to the chest of drawers to look for the rest of her underwear when a familiar, lazy, amused voice from the doorway said, “Very fetching.”

The marquess, wearing, as far as her shocked eyes could see, nothing more than his dressing gown, was studying her with appreciative interest.

Annie let out a scream and rushed wildly about looking for her wrapper, miserably conscious that she was wearing only the corset, her stockings, and a pair of high-heeled evening shoes.

He took two quick steps across the room and caught her in his arms.

“What are you doing?” Annie flamed.

“Competing with Marigold.”

“You’re mad.”

“Not in the slightest. I am in a baby-making mood. I said to myself, I said, why should Marigold’s offspring get all that lovely money?”

“Let me go—”

His mouth had covered hers and he was forcing her back toward the bed. She fought and struggled and scratched, but he clipped her hands behind her back and knocked her back across the bed with the simple tactic of falling on top of her.

“Now,” he said, “I am going to carry on exactly from where I left off on our wedding night.”

The fight went out of Annie as her treacherous body burned and throbbed under an onslaught of kisses and caresses. Probing, clever, sensitive hands moved here and there, causing her sudden, sharp pain and making her cry out, and then somehow causing her to wind her arms tightly about him.

At one point he put a hand behind him, took off her shoes, and threw them across the room. “Your heels are making holes in my back,” he complained before moving again, inside her, over her, always holding back until she called his name in the high, sharp tone of complete abandon.

“Now,” said the Marquess of Torrance, thoughtfully, “I shall remove this very fetching corset, and since I began at the end, so to speak, I will go back to the beginning.”

* * *

“You are snoring. Wake up!”

Annie awoke with a jerk. She almost expected to find herself in her husband’s arms, but she was in Mr.

Shaw-Bufford’s box at the ballet and she could see his pale eyes glaring at her in the dim light.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, trying to focus her eyes on the stage. “I’m tired.”

Annie had never felt more exhausted in her life. Her husband had finally given her a light kiss on the nose and had left her to straggle into yet another bath. The wreck of the pretty black corset lay in ruins in the corner where it had been thrown.

It had been like a slap in the face to go downstairs eventually, dressed and ready, to find that her husband had already left.

And he had not said one word of love to her.

She could tell at a glance when Mr. Shaw-Bufford arrived to collect her that he was not pleased with her appearance.

She had put on very heavy white makeup, not only on her face but on her chest and arms. There was an enormous love bite on her neck that she had tried to disguise.

And now she had disgraced her escort by falling asleep and snoring.

The lights on the stage and the darkness of the theater made her yawn and yawn, and she was relieved when the interval came.

Relieved until she saw her husband in a box opposite with a very handsome, dark-haired woman. Not once did the marquess look around the theater to see if Annie was there. Annie felt a lump rising in her throat, and Mr. Shaw-Bufford looked at her with increasing irritation.

He had heard of the fight in the park—who had not? He was an ambitious man and he did not want to have his name coupled with that of a woman who behaved so disgracefully. But he needed Lady Torrance for just one thing . . .

Annie did not look at the stage once for the rest of the performance. She studied her husband and his companion through her opera glasses, searching for some sign of intimacy. There was no doubt that his companion was a lady and that made her doubly dangerous in Annie’s eyes.

Mr. Shaw-Bufford was anxious to be alone with Annie to ask one all-important question. He had told the driver to take them back to St. James’s Square the long way around.

Annie was too tired to notice that they were heading down Northumberland Avenue instead of going through Trafalgar Square and along Pall Mall. She did not notice anything until they were passing the Houses of Parliament. The square in front seemed to be full of women, silent women, hundreds and hundreds of them, just sitting or standing.

“What on earth are they doing?” she asked.

“They’re keeping a silent vigil,” said Mr. Shaw-Bufford indifferently. “They’re the nonmilitant women who want the vote.”

Annie looked out at them in wonder as the carriage passed through Parliament Square. She found the spectacle very moving; all those women, standing out in the cold, so quietly, so silently.

“Lady Torrance,” began Mr. Shaw-Bufford, edging closer to her on the carriage seat. “There’s something I wish . . .”

“Poor things,” said Annie, still looking out and not hearing him. “Poor things. And yet how I admire them.”

Mr. Shaw-Bufford rapped on the roof of the brougham with his cane. “Why are we going in the wrong direction, man?” he called to the driver. “St. James’s Square immediately.”

Then he leaned back, a smile beginning to curve his thin lips. For all at once he knew how to get Annie to give him what he wanted.

Annie said good night to her companion and climbed the stairs, desperate for sleep. But although she slept deeply and heavily, she awoke suddenly in the middle of the night and began to burn with jealousy—although she did not recognize the emotion for what it was.

She imagined her husband lying in bed with the dark-haired woman in his arms, doing all those delicious things to her that he had done to Annie.

The nightmare seemed to become reality, and all at once she was sure he had taken the dark-haired woman to his room. He was holding her, and they were both laughing about the stupidity of the silly little marchioness.

She lit the bed candle and, seizing it, walked out into the corridor. The door to her husband’s suite was at the other side of the stairs. She walked silently along and gently turned the handle of the door. It would not budge. Locked! And there could only be one reason for her husband locking the door.

Rage burned in her. Fury. Hate. If he thought he was going to lie in there enjoying his extramarital lust, then he had another think coming!

She walked into an adjoining bathroom, picked up a hand towel, and carefully stuffed it along the bottom of his door. Then she bent down and lit it with the candle. It burned badly but created a lot of nasty smoke, which was just what Annie wanted.

She retreated to the top of the stairs and started to scream at the top of her lungs, “Fire! Fire! Help!

Help!”

There was the thud of feet as the first of the servants pounded down from the attic. Soon the whole house was alive with running, terrified people.

Perkins ran down the street in his nightshirt, howling for the fire brigade, before he remembered he could have used the telephone.

Annie had put on her dressing gown. She had wanted to keep watch on the marquess’s door to see the guilty pair emerge, but Perkins, already seeing the morning headlines, “Butler Saves Noble Family,” had forced her to go out into the street while he ran back to rouse the master.

But the fire brigade arrived on the scene, horses steaming, bell clanging, and would not allow Perkins his moment of glory. Without waiting to see if there was any smoke or flames, they began to run the hose into the house. The towel under the marquess’s door smoldered on and only a small trickle of smoke was escaping. It was enough for the fire chief. “Here, men!” he called. They ran the hose up the stairs. At last the marquess, amused by the commotion, opened his bedroom door (it was inclined to stick and had not been locked at all) and received a cascade of water full in the chest.

Well, it seemed as if everyone was trying to shout explanations to his lordship. But his lordship did not seem to be listening to anyone because he had picked up a piece of charred towel from the doorway and was looking at it thoughtfully. Then he saw the bed candle on its flat stand lying on the floor a little distance away.

“Whose candle is that, Bessie?” he asked one of the housemaids.

“It’s her ladyship’s,” said Bessie. “See, it’s got a rose design, my lord, to match my lady’s room.”

“It seems as if we have brought you out all because of a false alarm,” said the marquess, with unimpaired amiability, to the fire chief. “Bessie, fetch Perkins and see that the gentlemen of the fire department are given a tankard of beer apiece and something for their trouble. Where is her ladyship?”

“My lady is out on the street with the servants, my lord,” said Bessie. “I would be out there with them if I had got up in time, but I’m such a heavy sleeper.”

“Fetch her ladyship and bring us something warm to drink in the study. Tell the servants to clean this room and light a fire to dry the place out.”

The marquess retreated into his rooms, changed into a black polo jumper and an old pair of flannel bags, and made his way to the study.

Annie was warming her toes at a newly lit tire. She was leaning forward so that the curtain of her red hair hid her face from him.

He sat down opposite, and she gave him a scared, guilty look and dropped her eyes again.

“Don’t say a word until I have had a good stiff drink,” he said. “Ah, Perkins! There you are. Well, as you see, there was no fire, but it shows that you can do splendidly in an emergency. How much would you like me to give you?”

“Since there was no fire, my lord, I would say that ten pounds would be very generous.”

“So would I, Perkins. So would I. But I can only assume that there is something you wish to buy that you have your heart set on. You will find the money in the desk over there. Help yourself. And then bring me something to make some punch.”

“Thank you, my lord. Very good, my lord.”

When the butler had left, Annie said, “Do you
always
ask your servants how much money they want as a tip?”

“Oh, always,” he said. “They never ask for too much. People like to be trusted.”

“I like to trust people,” said Annie, in a low voice.

Perkins arrived with a tray bearing a bottle of whiskey, lemons, brown sugar, a jug of hot water, and a punch bowl, which he set on a small table and then placed it in front of his master. Then he bowed and withdrew.

Annie watched her husband nervously as he mixed the punch. Then she found she could keep silent no longer.

“Well, it was only a false alarm,” she said brightly. “I wonder what caused that smoke? I’m afraid I panicked. I was sure you would be burned to death.”

“Really?” he said, seeming to concentrate his whole attention on the punch. “Annie, why did you set a towel alight and push it under my door?”

“I didn’t,” lied Annie, feeling a telltale blush creeping up her neck and face.

“You did, you know. I’m sorry if my lovemaking upset you so much that you felt compelled to set fire to me.”

Annie looked at him miserably. He gave her a charming smile and handed her a steaming glass.

“Do I have to tell you?” asked Annie.

“No,” he said gently. “I am sure you have some perfectly reasonable explanation. Perhaps it’s a well-known Scotch custom, like setting the heather on fire.”

“Oh, I’ll tell you,” said Annie, cradling her glass in her hands. “I tried your door and I thought it was locked, and therefore I thought you had the infernal cheek to bring that dark-haired woman home to bed with you.”

“What? Polly? My first cousin? Never. Come to think of it, I’ve never brought any of my lady friends here.”

“Your cousin?”

“Yes. Mrs. Jimmy Waite-Hansen—Polly. You met her at our wedding reception.”

“I didn’t remember . . .”

“Anyway, why the fire?”

“I was trying to smoke you out.”

He laughed and laughed. Finally he mopped his streaming eyes. “Jealousy is a wonderful thing,” he said.

“I? Jealous?” said Annie, feeling hurt and humiliated. “You have to be in love with someone to be jealous. I was merely incensed at the thought that you had brought one of your many mistresses back here.”

“Of course,” he agreed amiably. “I had forgotten. Yes, do you know that for one little space of time, I had forgotten that you did not marry me for love.”

She looked at him, searching for the courage to tell him that she had not meant that remark about marrying him merely to get revenge on Marigold. But it had been true.
Was
true. Or was it? Oh, she didn’t know
what
she felt, she thought wretchedly, and somehow the moment to say anything had passed and he was saying mildly, “You look exhausted. You had better go to bed.”

Again she hesitated, wanting to say something. But he had never said that he loved her. And probably Marigold was right and he had married her for her money. Hadn’t he only made love to her just to beget a child before Marigold?

With a mumbled “Good night,” she trailed from the room, hesitating at each step, hoping that he would call her back.

But he sat very still beside the fire, his glass in his hand, looking into the flames.

* * *

She did not see him at all the next day. By evening, a servant handed her a ribboned box and a long envelope. The box contained a bottle of perfume called Night in Paris. The envelope contained a letter from her husband, saying that he had been called down to the country to settle a boundary dispute and would be back within a few days.

She stared mutinously at the perfume. She would not open it, would not wear it. He was her husband.

He should have taken her with him. He did not love her. She had turned down two social engagements for the evening because—because she had a headache, she told herself fiercely. She would not even admit it to herself, her pride would not allow it, that she had stayed home simply to see him again.

Like the heavy feet of the prisoners on the treadmill at Newgate, her thoughts churned laboriously around and around in her head until she decided sadly that he had not gone to the country, that he was probably lying in the experienced arms of some mistress, and that he was not thinking of her at all.