Page 7 of Escape of the Bridegroom (Escape #2)

E ve woke with a start to the click of the bedroom door. Almost immediately, she recalled that she was on the sofa and realized that this must be Lord Wolf returning. On no account must she open her eyes.

She could smell his presence, warm, masculine, vital... But she could not hear him move. Was he just standing there inside the door? Why would he do that?

She risked opening her eyes and found that it was light. And that the window was in the wrong place.

Startled, she sat bolt upright. She was in the bed!

And no one else was in the room. Beside her a large, man-shaped dent in the quilt told its own story. Her whole body flamed as she realized he must have not only carried her from the sofa to the bed but lain beside her, covering himself only with what he could tug from the side of the bed.

No wonder she was too warm. She wore her robe over her nightgown and was still tangled with the spare blanket as well as all the bedclothes.

Warily, she sniffed in the vague direction of her armpit and was glad to inhale nothing too ripe.

How long would he be gone?

She had an appointment to keep with Miss Cole!

She sprang out of bed and ducked behind it to use the chamber pot. Then she ran to the washstand and went about her ablutions without actually removing her robe, so water dripped on it and on her nightgown. Then she dived into clean undergarments and her fresh morning gown.

Only then did she relax enough to wonder why she was bothered by the possibility of his return.

Reaching for her hairbrush, and stroking her way through the tugs, she stared unseeingly into the glass. Had she not dreamed of him holding her in his arms, her cheek against his warm, hard chest? Had she not half-awakened at some point to hear him breathing beside her and known sleepily that it was another foolish dream?

But it had been reality. Instead of quarrelling with her, he had made her comfortable. The intimacy she had shared with him, even unconsciously, shocked her, for though she was his wife, they were on far from intimate terms. He had already made it plain that he would touch her only for purposes of an heir and not for several years. To say nothing of the fact that he had just come from his wretched mistress!

And yet she was pathetically grateful for his kindness. Perhaps he did not hate her after all.

Or perhaps simple gentlemanly conduct, instilled in him since childhood, had won out over anger for a few minutes. And the bed was considerably more comfortable than the sofa as she had cause to know. She had slept well and deeply.

She scraped her hair back in a tight knot as usual, then paused and loosened it a little. It did actually improve her appearance, which made her feel better. At home, she had never competed with Miranda’s beauty, had accepted her own plainness philosophically. Other things were of more value to her. And to Mr. Neville.

Throwing off regrets over things she could not change, she placed her final pin and rose to fetch her pelisse and hat.

Miss Cole awaited her in the hall, surrounded by three lively children. There were a boy and girl she guessed to be about ten, and a much smaller girl of about six who regarded her from unblinking, curious eyes.

“Make your bows to Lady Wolf,” Miss Cole instructed them. “My lady these are my sisters, Rose and Orchid, and my cousin Alexander.”

“Lily’s sick,” little Orchid pronounced, rather like a challenge.

“But she is on the mend,” Miss Cole said firmly. She turned to Eve. “Lily being my other sister, next to me in age. Shall we go?”

“Yes!” The children ran at the front door so fast Eve almost expected them to hurl themselves against it. Instead, Alexander flung it open and they burst out into the fresh air as if they’d been catapulted.

“Do you mind them?” Harriet asked with an unexpected moment of doubt.

“Not in the least. I like children.”

“Some people do mind. But we are all used to being together, and it irks them—and me, if I am strictly honest—that propriety compels us to be so much apart under the same roof. Do you have brothers and sisters of your own?”

“Just one sister who is only two years younger than myself. But I have a few little cousins. And the orphans, of course.”

Miss Cole was commendably interested in the orphans, and while they struck out from the garden over the meadow, and the children ran around them, dashing backwards and forwards, the adult ladies entertained each other with tales of funny childish antics.

As they paused on a stile to rest, it came to Eve that Miss Cole had not once treated her as anything other than an equal. She had even invited her to use her Christian name.

While the children were rushing around picking daisies to make a necklaces with, Harriet grew silent.

“Is something troubling you?” Eve asked, hoping it was not herself.

Harriet cast her a quick, rueful smile. “I am wondering whether or not to tell you something that is none of my business and might offend you.”

“Well, you’ll have to tell me now or I’ll be eaten up with anxiety. I assure you, I am very thick-skinned.”

Harriet’s eyes were shrewd. “I don’t think you are. But I’ll say it anyway because I have this idea it might make you feel better.” She took a breath, as if for courage. “I think you have probably heard the rumours about your husband and Mrs. Archer. I have no idea whether or not they are true, but like you, I saw them enter the drawing room after the gentlemen last night, not quite together. Gossips will draw their own conclusions and there’s nothing you can do about that. But I was talking to Lord Sanderly...” She flushed slightly. “You know we are betrothed? Well, we talk of many things when we are alone, and he told me Lord Wolf left the dining room only when he and all the other gentlemen did, and that Lord Wolf could only have exchanged the briefest word with Mrs. Archer before they entered the drawing room.”

Eve dropped her eyes, realized she had torn up a handful of grass, and tossed it away.

“Thank you for explaining to me,” she said with difficulty. “But please don’t be concerned. It does not matter. Our marriage is one of convenience, not of deeper feelings that can be hurt.”

“Oh, feelings can always be hurt,” Harriet said vaguely. She rose and jumped down from the step, calling for the children.

***

A IDAN, GLAD TO WAKE before his wife and avoid her outrage at his daring to sleep beside her, had dressed silently in riding clothes and crept from his own room like an illicit lover, clutching his boots in his hand.

He sat on the stairs to put them on, then left the house with some relief at encountering no one, and took Atlas, his horse of whom he was inordinately fond, for a long ride and an intimate chat.

Aidan was not given to introspection, but he did not much like the man who emerged from his conversation with Atlas.

He had been quick enough to grab Romilly’s money and yet had not treated his wife with any human consideration, nursing his own outrage at trickery rather than actually thinking . What the devil would he have done if he had read the agreement properly and known the price was marriage?

Walked away? Thrown himself on the non-existent mercy of Wilsborough and the others and pleaded for time? Abandoned Patrick to the opprobrium of his peers for welching on a debt of honour? Watched his struggling estate go under with all his people?

No, he would always have taken the money and paid the price. And now he was behaving like a petulant child.

Atlas did not disagree with him.

“I suppose there are other aspects of my life that could bear some scrutiny,” he said to the horse.

Atlas twitched one ear.

“Am I an unprincipled rake?”

Atlas shook his head and reached for the succulent leaves hanging over the lane. Firmly, Aidan tightened the reins again and faced the horse forward.

“I am just like you grabbing the leaves, thoughtlessly making the most of my opportunities. I was glad to find Helena here, even with her weaselly husband. I’m fond of her and she is a luscious lover. But in truth she might as well be Daisy the opera dancer or Tilda from the Black Horse inn.”

That was not respectful or kind to either Helena or any of the other casual mistresses he had known over the years. It certainly did not consider Archer, who might be an unpleasant human being, but still, when Aidan considered what his own feelings might be if his wife took a lover...

“It’s no use telling myself I haven’t touched Helena since coming to Grand Court,” he told the horse ruefully. “The intent was there. I don’t like Archer. Helena doesn’t like him. Not sure that’s a good enough excuse. After all, Eve doesn’t like me.” He scowled at the horse. “Damn it, Atlas, I’m not even sure I like Helena. Not beyond the physical delights anyway... The really odd thing is, I might like Eve if I could stop quarrelling with her for long enough. Or digging her out of whatever stupid holes she keeps casting herself—or me! —into. Oh the devil, let’s gallop.”

Things definitely clarified in his mind as he turned Atlas’s head back toward Grand Court. And the sight of Helena herself, mounted in the midst of a small group of riders setting out on a hack across the meadow, confirmed not just his duty but his preference.

He could not speak to her in company, and he would not cause gossip by detaching her from the others. So he merely passed them at a distance with a wave and shouted, “Good morning!”

However, Atlas was tired after his gallop, and their slow walk meant that it was easy for Helena to catch up with him.

“Changed your mind?” he asked, surprised.

“The company was too dull for words. I’m sure Grand Court parties used to be much more amusing. Rushing back to the little wife, Aidan? Or have you been avoiding her all morning?”

The latter guess was all too close to the mark and her smile told him she knew it. As they crested the rise in the meadow, Grand Court’s formal, terraced gardens spread out before them.

The garden was largely empty of the usual strollers and flirting couples, since most of Lady Grandison’s guests were no doubt spending a leisurely day in anticipation of the evening’s ball. But at one corner Aidan made out a few running children, chasing each other along paths and up and down steps, dodging around flower beds and fountains, statues and benches in what was clearly an energetic and hilarious game of tag. Their laughter drifted on the wind, a sound of pure, innocent jollity, an echo of half-forgotten childhood fun.

Aidan could not help smiling. “Miss Cole’s family.” He could even see Harriet herself, lounging on a stone seat.

“Look again,” Helena drawled.

She was right. Unless the sick sister had recovered dramatically, there were too many girls scampering around that rose bush. One of them was tall enough to be an adult. A very slender, shapely woman who darted suddenly down the terrace steps with a small boy pelting after her.

It could only be Eve. He almost laughed, only Helena was speaking once more.

“I thought you would like to see for yourself and explain to her. She really has no idea how to go on among civilised people.”

That was why Helena had followed him. She had really thought he would be repelled, angry, and ashamed. From sheer malice she had wanted to watch his reactions.

Deliberately, he turned to face her, leaving the smile on his lips. “You would have cut her last night. Understand I do not tolerate such civilised behaviour. You must excuse me. I am off to play tag.”

And he urged poor Atlas to a canter, leaving Helena with her mouth agape.

***

E VE DID NOT KNOW HOW long the watchers on the hill had been there before she noticed them. But she recognized her husband at once, just from his somehow lazy poise in the saddle. And she certainly knew Mrs. Archer from her dashing scarlet riding habit, for Eve, Harriet and the children had returned from their walk via the path to the stables and met the group of riders just starting out. At the time, she had felt foolishly glad that Lord Wolf was not among them.

Now they were alone together and watching her dash around like a hoyden with someone else’s children.

“Tag!” Alexander yelled in triumph, poking her in the back.

Forcing herself, Eve leapt after him, then suddenly changed paths and went after Orchid, who squealed, and dashed behind the fountain. Eve chased her round it for a bit, then swerved to catch Rose, laughing at the edge of the path.

“Tag!”

The game went on, though Eve’s heart was no longer in it. After a little, she bowed out and went instead to sit beside Harriet.

“Thank you,” Harriet said. “It’s my aim to exhaust them without exhausting myself so that they don’t cause havoc at the ball tonight. But I hope you haven’t used up all the energy you will need for dancing.”

Eve smiled distractedly. “I shan’t be dancing. Oh dear.” The last came as she spotted the familiar figure of Lord Wolf striding around from the direction of the stables. Hastily, she stood up. “I should see what I can do to make my gown more suitable. Excuse me.”

She hurried away in the direction of the house, with an airy wave to the children, pretending she saw neither the approach of her husband nor the frown of incomprehension on Harriet’s brow.

She despised herself for a craven coward, but she was not ready yet to face Lord Wolf. She did not want to resume the quarrel over her approach to Mrs. Archer last night, which had clearly made him feel humiliated and foolish in some way. Besides which, she had given the woman the opportunity to cut her. Eve was loweringly aware that many others would take their lead from the gently born woman they knew rather than the encroaching cit’s daughter who had dared to marry above her station. At the very least, it was fuel for gossip, and Eve did recognize that Wolf’s intervention was timely.

She would not have minded humbly admitting that fact. It might avert another quarrel. Only there was still the Matter of The Bed. He had carried her there. He had lain beside her. It all made her hot and uncomfortable and she had no idea how to meet him now.

And yet they needed to talk before the day wore on too far. She had agreed to stay for the ball because it would cause less talk. But that was before her faux pas of approaching Mrs. Archer. He might well prefer now that she leave before the ball, and if she was to reach Wolverton Hall before the middle of the night, she would have to set off very soon.

Could a post-chaise be ordered from the village inn? Or a vehicle borrowed?

Although her instinct was to avoid it, she decided to return to Wolf’s bedchamber, and so scurried past the breakfast parlour from where a pleasant hum of chatter now emanated. She smiled with vague amiability and inclined her head to two ladies on the stairs. They returned the greeting civilly but did not linger.

Safe in the bedchamber, she did not know what to do with herself. She could not simply pace the floor or sit gazing into space until he came in to change out of his riding clothes. This might not happen for hours, for he was probably with Mrs. Archer...

The thought propelled her to the wardrobe where her gowns were hung alongside her husband’s two coats, two pairs of pantaloons and one pair of black silk knee breeches. Either he travelled light or his clothing budget was modest. She was sure that Patrick Wolf wore newer garments.

But that was not her concern. She took down the evening dress she had not yet worn and spread it on the bed while she examined it dubiously. It was pretty in an unassuming kind of way, suitable for dinner or even the theatre but much too plain for a ball.

She glanced at the gown she had worn last night, and then at her spare day dress. She would not need either of those if they were leaving tomorrow. Then she recalled the extravagant diamond-headed hairpins that her father had given her on her eighteenth birthday. She had never worn them, though Miranda had. Eve had meant to give them to her sister as a long-term loan when they met in London.

The germ of an idea began to grow, and she seized upon it with desperation.

By the time Lord Wolf walked into his chamber, she had made tatters of the other dresses, removing the trims, and had scattered everything over the bed. She sat cross-legged among the carnage, attaching lace to the bodice and hem of her one intact evening gown.

He paused on the threshold and she glanced up guiltily.

“What the devil are you doing?” He closed the door and strode in. “Is this temper, my lady? Don’t you know my purse will not stretch to the replacing of such destruction?”

“Mine will,” she said unwisely. She meant only that he need not feel responsible for dressing her but the angry flush staining his cheekbones told her she’d been tactless.

“Yet another point that need not be laboured. I am aware of your superior wealth, though I cannot imagine your father earned it by such acts of wanton waste.”

“I d-do not have a ballgown,” she said, stammering slightly. “I thought I could make this one more suitable.”

“It doesn’t matter what you look like,” he said impatiently.

That was true, and it shouldn’t have hurt to hear the words. “I will be less visible in a more suitable gown. But you are probably right that I shouldn’t bother. What do you want me to do?”

“Do?” He threw the question over his shoulder as he strode on to the desk.

“I thought you might have changed your mind about my attending the ball.”

He threw himself into the chair and drew writing materials toward himself. “Of course not.”

And that appeared to be that. She dragged her gaze free of him and returned to her sewing. Clearly, he did not wish to be interrupted.

He wrote and she sewed in silence for some five minutes, after which he sanded his letter, folded it and sealed it with the ring on his finger.

“If you have your letter,” he said rising, “I will drop it at the inn with my own.”

“Letter?” she repeated momentarily confused. Dear God, had she forgotten all about the orphans in her own feeble troubles? She dropped everything and scrambled off the bed.

“Give me one moment, if you please,” she managed.

“I am at your disposal,” he said glacially. “Unless you have changed your mind about my spare house?”

“I have not,” she muttered.

My dear Mr. Neville , she wrote in haste. Suddenly she felt quite overcome by the sadness of writing to him while married to another man. She would even have to sign it Eve Wolf , not Romilly , or even simply Eve for that would not be proper for a married lady.

Brushing such inanities aside, she wrote starkly of Lord Wolf’s offer of the use of his house for the orphanage, and informed Mr. Neville that his lordship’s man of business would contact him very soon on the subject.

Then she scribbled his name and direction on the folded letter and passed it to her husband unsealed.

He didn’t take it. “I shan’t read it, you know. You may feel free to write your tender goodbyes.”

She didn’t know if he was warning her or mocking her. Either way, she could think of no reply. After a moment’s silence he merely took the letter from her and sealed it himself.

“Dinner will be early and informal tonight, but I shall be back before then.” And then he was gone again.