The Harem Bride (29 page)

With much fluttering, and far too many words
from both the squire and his wife, the musical evening finally
began, with the absence of Mrs. Daphne Coleraine an unexplained
mystery. Just prior to the squire’s lengthy speech of welcome,
Penny had seen Lord Brawley and Mr. Dinsmore with their heads
together, whispering, and had no doubt about the subject of their
conversation. Penny, smiling just a bit smugly, settled into her
chair, prepared to enjoy the music far more than she had
anticipated. Beside her, she could feel Jason begin to relax as
well. It would seem, praise be, that they had been spared.

Miss Mary Houghton, though looking as if she
wished the floor would open and swallow her up, was a credit to her
teacher. Miss Seagrave not only played pieces by Haydn and
Scarlatti but accompanied Mr. Jeremy Tate, tutor to the squire’s
younger children, while he performed a lively variety of country
songs. Helen Seagrave then offered a thundering piece by Mr.
Beethoven, which was met with enthusiastic applause, after which
she surprised everyone by coaxing a suddenly shy Adrian Stanmore to
the makeshift stage to join her in a decorous Italian duet.

Jason, Penny noted with some satisfaction,
seemed singularly indifferent to the absence of Daphne Coleraine.
While she burned with questions about the lady’s failure to appear,
the earl circulated during the interval, carrying Penny with him by
virtue of keeping a hand tightly clamped around her arm. Together,
they smiled themselves silly, positively oozing marital
congeniality, until the countess thought she might be quite
nauseous. Jason was overdoing it, she knew he was. Possibly because
he, too, was relieved at his mistress’s absence.

Or did he know all about it? Had he strangled
her then? Buried her body in the Fenwick Manor gardens? Dropped her
down a well?

The idea was so absurd Penny had to choke
back a near hysterical giggle.

The second half of the program featured Helen
Seagrave with her harp, and a virtuoso performance it was. Even
Penny forgot her anxieties in the nimble grace and power of Helen’s
skill. It was almost a misfortune Miss Seagrave had been born a
gentlewoman, Penny realized, for her talent would earn her far more
money upon the stage than she would ever earn as a sometime teacher
in the Shropshire village of Cranmere.

A glance at Lord Brawley and Mr. Dinsmore
gave Penny a shock. Gant Deveny, the London beau with the
untouchable heart, seemed locked in wonder, his gaze so fixed on
Helen that Penny’s friend might have been the most dazzling diamond
of the London Season. Would wonders never cease?

Basking in glowing thoughts of matchmaking,
Penny was unprepared for the other shoe to drop. For the sudden
solution to Mrs. Coleraine’s absence, taking Penny’s burgeoning,
yet vulnerable, hopes with it.

~ * ~

After gracefully accepting the long and
genuinely enthusiastic applause that erupted after her final
rippling chord, Miss Seagrave removed herself to the pianoforte
where she sat on the tapestry-covered tabouret, bowed her head,
folded her hands, and retreated into her more usual role as
nameless, faceless accompanist.

Eulalia Houghton bustled forward, her gown
and turban of purple taffeta doing little for either her hearty
coloring or her sturdy figure. Beaming, she announced, “We have a
splendid surprise this evening. The newest addition to our society,
Mrs. Daphne Coleraine, has kindly agreed to render a few
selections. After her performance, I know you will wish to greet
her at the supper that is laid out in the Red Salon.” With a
gesture worthy of Mrs. Siddons in her prime, the squire’s wife
swung a plump arm toward the side door through which each performer
had entered. “Mrs. Coleraine!” she boomed.

Penny heard, quite distinctly, Jason’s breath
whistle between his teeth. She most sincerely hoped he was as
surprised as she. If not . . .

No, that was a thought she did not wish to
have.

She sat perfectly still, hoping her
face was as bland as her mind was in turmoil. She had
known
the blasted woman was to be
here. She should not have allowed herself to hope . . .

There was, of course, one good thing to
come from this, Penny realized. One look, and she no longer felt
the slightest sympathy for Daphne Coleraine. One look, and, as she
had feared, the Countess of Rocksley was reduced to the
sixteen-year-old Penny Blayne. Young, naive, and utterly unable to
compete with the siren before her. For Mrs. Coleraine was garbed in
black spider gauze opening over an undergown of silver, the gauze
caught up in scallops, each fastened with a silver rose, sparkling
with brilliants. Twisted into the lady’s mahogany hair was a scarf
of the spider gauze, also sparkling with brilliants. And her
face—
oh, dear God
, Penny
groaned—the brief view she had had of Mrs. Coleraine in Hyde Park
had not revealed the whole.

The elegant widow—not more than a year
or two older than herself—was a strikingly beautiful woman, well
able to provide Jason with an heir and several spares. A woman who
was, Penny speculated, endowed at birth with more sophistication
and ability to entice than the younger Countess of Rocksley would
ever know. And the spectacular diamonds around her neck, around her
arm, and in her ears—the heavy parure that would have overwhelmed
Penny’s delicate English beauty—looked perfectly splendid on Daphne
Coleraine’s more voluptuous stature. Were they a gift from Jason?
A
parting
gift?
Goodness knows the tart had earned
them
, the Penny thought rather nastily.

If she had been up to continuing that
thought, Penny might have expected Mrs. Coleraine to break into the
Queen of the Night’s aria from
The Magic
Flute,
for the role of villainess suited her well. But
the miserable female suddenly transformed herself into the
coquettish Zerlina, launching, in a sultry and altogether too fine
mezzo-soprano, into “
Batti, batti, o bel
Masetto
.”

Seething, Penny sat, cursing Mozart for
writing the blasted piece, while Daphne Coleraine directed every
last note of this tempting siren song at the modern-day Jason
sitting at his wife’s side. Never had Penny, who truly loved music,
been so happy to have a song come to an end. After the applause had
faded, Mrs. Coleraine, looking very smug, launched into an Italian
song. “
Vittoria, mio core
!”
she sang, this time directing her attention to Penny, as well as to
the earl.

Victorious, my
heart
. A challenge, an out-and-out challenge. The
witch! But worse was to come. After bowing, and flashing her fine
white teeth at every male in the room (or so Penny would have
sworn), Mrs. Coleraine announced that she would need help for her
next song. Surely there was a gentleman willing to join her . . .
perhaps Lord Rocksley, who had performed this particular piece with
her so many times before . . .

To give Jason credit, Penny thought, he had
stiffened into a block of ice the moment Daphne Coleraine had swept
onto the stage, and even now he did not move. It was almost as if
he had not heard Mrs. Coleraine’s oh-so-charming plea. Penny moved
her lips to his ear. “You will have to do it, you know,” she
hissed. “There will be too much talk if you refuse.”

And a very great deal if he did not. But no
time to think of that now, as the earl added a surprisingly rich
baritone to a rendition of an old English patter song. As the song
progressed, Penny took due note of her husband’s transformation
from stiff-necked nobleman to outrageous flirt, grinning, teasing,
leering, and sending the audience into whoops. The Countess of
Rocksley smiled. And smiled, while a full ten years of hurt swelled
in her heart, swelled so far it shattered, the myriad pieces blown
away on the storm winds of her soul.

Yet, somehow, the earl and his countess
survived the evening, as the Jason and Penelope of Greek legend had
survived their own peculiar trials. Penny even managed to be
gracious, if cool, during her inevitable introduction to Mrs.
Coleraine. Although how to greet one’s husband’s mistress had not
been included in Aunt Cass’s training, she thought she managed it
rather well.

With five squeezed into the carriage on the
way home, there was no opportunity for the earl to say what was
foremost in his mind. No opportunity to assure his wife he had
indeed made a formal, final break with Daphne Coleraine. Was not
that spectacular parure evidence enough as his lavish parting gift?
Surely Penny must have realized . . . No, it was quite possible she
did not. Yet it was she who had urged him to sing with Daphne, was
it not? And had she not smiled quite brilliantly during the
applause that greeted their duet?

Jason peered at his wife in the dim
light of the carriage lantern. She was responding lightly to his
mama and to Brawley and Dinsmore as they made polite conversation
about the performers and the Houghton’s lavish hospitality. And yet
. . . he was nearly certain she was furious . . . or hurt. Could
she not see that he, like all the other performers, had been
required to play the game? To act a part—to smile and flirt and
appear to be enjoying himself? It was not as if he
wanted
to stand up before every last
family of importance in the neighborhood and sing a duet with his
mistress?

Ex-mistress.

He would have to speak to Penny, of course.
Explain that he truly had not enjoyed himself. Yes, that was it. As
soon as he had her alone, he would make her understand . . .

But shortly after their return to Rockbourne
Crest, Noreen O’Donnell delivered a message to Kirby, the earl’s
valet. Her ladyship was not feeling well. She trusted the earl
would understand his lady’s desire to be alone.

What choice did a gentleman have? Though
Jason burned to speak to his wife, he was not prepared to break
down the door. Perhaps Penny was right. A night to cool their heads
might benefit them both. Or . . . possibly there was nothing more
to the message than the arrival of her monthly, and he was making a
mountain out of molehill. But, surely, no matter the circumstances,
she would wish to speak to him tonight. Should he not go to her
anyway?

And thus play the sultan, giving her no
choice?

With a sigh that was close to a groan, the
Earl of Rocksley climbed into his bed, where, after a quarter hour
of rationalizing and justifying his behavior, he fell into a deep
and dreamless sleep.

But on the morrow he did not find his wife at
breakfast. Nor in the morning room conferring with Mrs. Wilton. Her
ladyship was not feeling well, Hutton told him, and had asked not
to be disturbed. Nobly, Jason refrained from tapping on his wife’s
door, although he engaged in a sharp colloquy with the butler about
whether or not the doctor should be called. Hutton swore quite
solemnly that Mrs. Wilton had assured him, going by the word of the
O’Donnell herself, that no doctor was needed. His mama, though
looking more grave than was customary, counseled him to patience.
So it was tea time before the earl, now thoroughly frustrated as
well as concerned for his wife’s health, tapped on her door,
urgently requesting entry.

Silence.

“
Penny? O’Donnell?” Jason turned the
handle and stepped inside.

The room was empty. Nothing but a folded
parchment perched on the mantel to greet him. He did not need to
open it to know what had happened. His entire household had
conspired to dupe him. Every last one of the traitorous devils.
Even his mama.

He supposed he deserved it. If only he
had not been such a gentleman last night . . . If only he had
barged in and
handled
the
situation . . .

What was that ancient expression about fools
rush in where angels fear to tread? Yes, honesty forced him to
admit he might have made things worse . . . though what was worse
than a runaway wife he could not, at the moment, imagine. He picked
up the letter and broke the seal.

My dearest Jason. Yes, I may address you so
in this darkness of the night and in the certainty of knowing I
will be gone when you read this. I have, you see, decided I must be
the one to cut the Gordian knot we have made of our marriage, for
it has become plain that renewing our vows was not enough to make
us one. I assure you I am not making a dramatic run to the ends of
the earth where you can never find me. I am merely going into
isolation so I may think about our marriage, and you may have time
to do the same.

I confess, here and now, that I have loved
you almost from the very moment of our first meeting at Lord
Elgin’s embassy. But I know now my emotions were childish. I
fantasized a great love, as young girls are wont to do. I endowed
you with every virtue, every heroic quality of legend. I even
fancied you loved me as I loved you. Perhaps I may be excused a bit
since my situation was so dire, and a hero so greatly needed.

Even after your disinterest became apparent,
I clung to my convictions of our mutual love,. (You were, I told
myself, merely waiting to express your love until I was older.) And
even after disillusionment set in, I never stopped loving you. I
recognized that I—a soiled dove, if you will—was quite inadequate
to attract your love, yet I could not cease to love you.

And then when you finally said you wanted me
. . . I thought being truly married to you, being mother of your
children would be enough. I had already proved I had courage.
Therefore, I knew I could manage.