Brenda Hiatt (10 page)

The opportunity she waited for occurred two nights later. For the first time since her return to London, Hunt and the duke remained at home for the evening. By sheer coincidence, the duchess had chosen that same day to be stricken by a headache that necessitated cancelling that night’s activities.

During dinner, Hunt and his father discussed the progress of the war, with an occasional comment by Holly and, less frequently, by Reginald. After dinner, the duke went upstairs to sit with Camilla, and Reginald announced his intention of visiting a private art exhibition with a few friends, leaving Holly and Hunt alone in the parlour.

“No doubt you are glad of an evening to relax, my lord,” said Holly before the silence in the room could become awkward. “Such a busy schedule as you have been keeping must be fatiguing. You have not been to bed before one o’clock since I returned.” She had lain awake most of those nights, listening as he prepared for bed in his own chamber, longing for him to come to hers.

Hunt poured himself a modest measure of brandy and seated himself beside her. “Pray believe me when I say it has not been through my own choice. The Foreign Office has been in rather an uproar of late.”

She put a hand on his sleeve. “It is that investigation still, is it not? The one you spoke of last spring?”

He nodded. “Things are far more serious now, I fear. Murder has been done.”

Holly did not have to feign the shudder that ran through her. His words reminded her forcibly of what was at stake. “Murder! Does this mean that you are at risk, as well?”

“Perhaps some slight risk,” he conceded. “However, I am being more cautious than poor Meecham. Every clue I find, though there have been damned few so far, is put into writing at once, so that the traitor would gain little by my demise. Meecham hoped for a political coup and therefore kept his findings to himself. ’Tis one thing that makes my job so difficult now.”

Holly bit her lip. Surely if Teasdale knew that everything was down in writing, Hunt’s life must be safe? But she dared not risk that. “Please, Hunt,” she said with sudden urgency, “leave this investigation to others! I…could not bear to see you hurt.”

He frowned down at her. “What is this? Last spring you begged me to allow you to help in this investigation, and now you warn me away from it? I thank you for your concern, of course, but is it not a bit out of character?”

She knew that he referred not only to what she had said last spring, but also to her coldness to him over the summer. “I—I did not realize then what risks were involved.” That was true enough! “I would not wish to help now, of course.”

“That is as well, for I would not allow it. But this is something that I must do, Holly, for reasons both political and personal. Meecham was a friend.”

For a moment she said nothing, acutely conscious that she would do the very same in his place. Her respect for her husband, and her love for him, had never been greater. More than ever she longed to tell him the whole, about Teasdale, Noel and her own stupidity last spring. But fear for his safety and for his career, which meant so much to him, prevented her—and spurred her to try again.

“I understand, Hunt, but still I wish you would not.” When there was no softening in his expression, she asked
impulsively, “Can you at least tell me how the investigation is going? Have you a list of likely suspects?” Perhaps if she could convince Teasdale that he was in no immediate danger of exposure—

“I’m sorry, Holly.” Hunt’s voice was cool, a hint of the suspicion she had feared in his eyes. “If you recall, it was your preference that we not exchange confidences. Nor would it be appropriate in this circumstance.”

She stared at him helplessly, realizing that he was right. She could scarcely expect him to be forthcoming with sensitive information after her own secretiveness. And now he had withdrawn from her again.

“Promise me you will take care, Hunt,” she said finally, reaching out tentatively in hopes of bridging the gulf she had created.

“Of course.” He rose before she could touch him. “If you will excuse me, madam, I have some paperwork to attend to.”

Again, he did not come to her that night. Staring sleeplessly up at the canopy above her, Holly wished she had never brought up the subject of the wretched investigation. She had accomplished nothing, and lost an opportunity to sleep in Hunt’s arms once more.

“W
HY IS IT
all the truly breathtaking ladies are married?” asked Sir Gregory Thurston with a dramatic sigh, as he led Holly from the floor of Lord and Lady Bellerby’s imposing ballroom a few evenings later. “My heart is like to break at your unapproachable loveliness.”

Holly chuckled and rapped his knuckles with her fan, as she had seen other ladies do. She had set herself to learn the art of light flirtation, thinking it might be useful both with her husband and in her dealings with Teasdale. She felt her repartee at the ridotto had been woefully inadequate. “Unapproachable? Did I not just grant you a dance, sir?”

“Ah, what is a dance, but a tantalizing moment in your company? It only reminds me of what I am missing when you are not by my side.” He gazed soulfully at her and Holly laughed again.

She had seen him put on this same performance with at least three other ladies, all married, and knew it was but a game.

“La, sir, but you will turn my head with such talk,” she said playfully. If nothing else, such harmless flirting served to distract her from her problems—and her loneliness.

From across the room, Hunt watched as his wife laughed up into the face of a man well known for his pursuit of married ladies. He had been kept late at an extended meeting with two of the undercover agents carrying out his investigation. Perhaps he should have made an effort to get here earlier.

Not since the early days of their marriage had he seen Holly looking so carefree, so…happy. It would seem that spending so much time apart had the opposite effect on her that it had on him. He began to make his way around the edge of the ballroom towards her.

When the crowd shifted a moment later, he found himself face to face with a still-laughing Holly. “Good evening, my lady,” he said with a stiff bow.

“Hunt! You managed to come.” She snatched her hand from Sir Gregory’s sleeve and turned quickly towards him.

Reading dismay into her expression of surprise, Hunt clenched his jaw and flicked a glance at Sir Gregory, who bowed respectfully before melting into the surrounding throng. “I can see you did not expect me, though I told you I would try to attend.”

“You said the same about the Herveys’ card party last night,” she reminded him. “Should I have waited at home on the chance that you would return to escort me?”

“’Twould have been a better choice than simpering after a fellow like Thurston,” he snapped, jealousy and anger
suddenly overcoming his judgement. “It appears that you require closer supervision than Camilla can provide.” He had tried so hard, all these months, to convince himself that there was no one else, but now—

Now Holly was angry, as well, her eyes glittering ominously. “I do not require anyone’s
supervision,
my lord,” she almost spat at him.

People were beginning to glance their way, Hunt realized belatedly. He gripped her arm. “Come, madam, I believe this dance is mine.” Without another word, he swung her out onto the floor for the country dance just forming.

Holly seethed all through that silent dance. She had done nothing wrong. Not this time. In fact, everything she
had
done, all the fear, the pain she had endured, was for Hunt’s sake. And this was how he repaid her—with petty jealousy over a nobody like Sir Gregory, whom she had scarcely met before tonight. It was so unfair.

She was not in a mood to be reasonable or to see things from Hunt’s perspective. Instead, she felt that he should somehow understand what she was going through and offer to take the burden from her shoulders.

The rest of the evening passed in chilly silence. Hunt danced with her only once more, but never left her side, effectively discouraging anyone else from partnering her.

Holly would not have minded so much—might, in fact, have felt flattered at his jealousy—had he been the least bit attentive. Instead, he ignored her.

In fact, Hunt was not as unaware of Holly as she imagined. Even when he was not looking at her, she tantalized him—her voice, her body, even her scent called out to him. He wanted her desperately, but all he had managed to do was act like a jealous fool, making wild accusations that had no basis in fact.

The pressure he had been under lately must surely be to blame. That very afternoon, young Teasdale had had the effrontery to hint openly that Hunt himself might be the
leak, citing his French wife as evidence. Hunt had brought him down hard for the suggestion, but it rankled. And now, in spite of himself, every insinuation Camilla had ever made about Holly’s nationality came flooding back to haunt him. None of it was true, of course, but—

“Make your curtsies to our hosts, madam,” he said abruptly. “It is time we took our leave.” He needed to get out of the crowd, to think.

H
OLLY THOUGHTFULLY CHEWED
the end of her pen before writing the final coded sentence of her letter to Noel. She had little hope that it would reach him, but she had to try just once more. After all, Teasdale could not have her watched every minute. And if she and Noel worked together, they might be able to bring him to justice in time to save her marriage.

In the carriage last night, Holly had finally swallowed her pride and told Hunt she was sorry she had spoken so sharply. He had looked at her strangely—looked at her for quite a long time, in fact—before telling her not to mention it. She had thought that things would be better after that, but upon reaching Wickburn House he had let her off and directed the coachman to drive on rather than accompanying her up to bed, as she had hoped he might.

She had slept little, her mind twisting this way and that, seeking a way out of the trap she was in. Only one thing was clear—she could no longer handle it alone. But she had already alienated her husband, perhaps beyond repair. Her only other hope was Noel.

Holly folded and sealed the letter with wax, though not her seal, then glanced at the window. It was still early. Not even the servants would be awake as yet. She pulled on a simple gown that buttoned up the front and then a dark cloak. Silently opening her chamber door, she peered up and down the hallway to be certain it was empty. It was.

Her thin slippers made no sound on the carpet as she hurried to the servants’ staircase. Below, all was quiet, as well, and she made her way to the kitchen door and out into the alleyway at the rear of the house. Turning to the left, she hurried along to the mews that served this and two other streets. A few stable-boys were stirring, but she doubted that any would recognize her. Still, to be on the safe side, she pulled the hood of her cloak close about her face, completely concealing her ebony hair.

It was only a matter of half a mile to the Grey Goose Inn, and she covered it in under ten minutes. Hurrying round to the stables, she was relieved to find Peter already there.

He glanced up in surprise when she said his name, his quick smile fading to a troubled frown. “Ye shouldn’t ought to be here, m’ lady,” he whispered, looking around nervously.

She spoke hurriedly, without preamble. “I know that Teasdale paid you, and probably threatened you, so that you would not deliver my last letter. I do not blame you, for he has frightened me, as well. But it is of vital importance that this letter
does
reach France.” She pulled out the letter, and a guinea. “I don’t like to ask you to take such a risk, but might this be ample compensation?”

His eyes widened at the sight of the golden coin. “Aye, m’ lady,” he breathed almost reverently. “I’d near swim the channel meself for that much.”

“Oh, thank you, Peter, thank you! Now, not a word to anyone that I was here!”

“Mum’s the word, m’ lady,” he murmured, pocketing both the letter and the money.

For an instant, Holly felt a pang of conscience. Peter was young to be working for his living, much less taking the kind of risk she requested. He was thin, too. She sighed. There was really no other way—and there were dozens, even hundreds, of boys in far worse straits about the city. If all went
well, perhaps she could come back and hire him for a post at Wickburn House.

Holly’s heart was lighter during the walk back. Her letter was on its way, or so she had reason to hope. Once Hunt received that appointment, as he surely would, she would be able to tell him the truth and finally be out from under the terrible burden she’d borne for so long. Secure in that lofty position, no doubt he could have Teasdale arrested at once and their lives could resume the course they had begun last Christmas.

Occupied in such happy thoughts, she soon reached the back door of Wickburn House. One of the maids was drawing water in the kitchen when she peeped in, but no one else seemed to be about. She waited until the girl went into the scullery, then slipped through the kitchens and up the back stairs.

She paused in the shadows at the end of the hall to be certain that no one on the second floor was yet awake, then as silently as before, she crept to her chamber door. Her hand was on the handle when the door flew open with a crash. She gasped and shrank back, her heart in her throat.

Hunt stood there, his eyes glittering with suppressed emotion as he demanded through clenched teeth, “And just where have you been all night, madam wife?”

H
OLLY HAD ALREADY
begun glibly repeating the excuse she had prepared about taking the air when the full impact of her husband’s accusation hit her. “All night?” she interrupted herself incredulously.

Hunt’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Don’t try to play the innocent with me—not now. Nearly half an hour since I went into your bedroom to find you gone. You did
not
‘step out for a breath of air.’ It appears my original suspicions were well founded. Perhaps Camilla had the right of it with her hints about Frenchwomen’s morals!”

Stung by the injustice of his accusation, Holly did not pause to wonder why he had come to her room in the first place. Nor did she hear the pain beneath the anger in his voice. “So, I am to be tried and convicted solely on the basis of my blood?” She put every scrap of scorn she could summon into her tone. “In that case, I see no point in attempting to deny it!”

“It would do you no good if you did.” Hunt’s voice struck her like a lash but she refused to cringe. “I had assumed you held a proper appreciation for the dignity due the name you now bear. It seems I was wrong. But you will not cuckold me again if I have to keep you under lock and key to prevent it.”

Another door opened farther down the hall and Hunt grasped her painfully by the arm, pulling her into her sitting-room and slamming the door behind him. “This will remain our secret, madam. I would not have word get back
to my grandmother of your perfidy, nor be made a laughingstock about Town.”

Holly was angrier than she had ever been in her life. How
dared
he? And after all she had endured for his sake! “You’d best lock me up in truth then, my lord, for surely you cannot trust me to do anything that is right or honourable.” Her words dripped with sarcasm, but he seemed to take them at face value.

“I’ll go you one better than that. Your mother wrote you last week suggesting that you visit her, did she not? You will do so. I will arrange for your departure within the week.”

“You intend to send me back to my mother like an erring child? I won’t go.” Though she almost feared to stay here with Hunt in this mood, Holly had not the least desire to be sent home in disgrace. How Blanche would gloat!

“You have little choice. When you made your vows to me you gave me complete control over your person. I intend to exert it.” A smile devoid of humour twisted his face.

Holly felt chilled and humiliated, realizing that he was absolutely correct. There was nothing she could do to prevent him from sending her away. Gathering the tattered shreds of her pride about her, she raised her chin. “I go to my mother’s, then. But I will go in the crested carriage and bring my personal servants with me.” That would help to cow Blanche, at least.

“Of course,” he said coldly. “We would not wish the world to suspect the reason for your departure. You will merely visit your mother for a while.” He swept her a bow which was a masterpiece of mockery and left her.

The moment the door closed behind him, Holly sank down onto the nearest chair, afraid that her legs would not support her any longer. Though she was still stubbornly determined not to deny such an outrageous accusation, based on nothing more than a half-hour’s absence from her chamber, her husband’s lack of trust hurt her deeply.

“Oh, Noel,” she whispered aloud to the silent room, “I should have waited for your return, after all. I fear this marriage was the greatest mistake of my life!”

T
HE COOLNESS
that had existed between the marquess and his wife last summer was as nothing to the estrangement between them now. It appeared to Holly that her husband could scarcely bear to look at her. Nor did she feel much more kindly disposed towards him.

Still, as she watched his profile from across a crowded room during Lady Stilton’s musicale, her heart contracted. He had meant so much to her—he had been almost her whole world. Mere words, however harsh, could not change that.

The duchess seemed delighted at Holly’s sudden “decision” to visit her mother. “If she said she was ailing in her last letter, of course you must go to her,” she said. “Daughters can be a great comfort at such times, or so I have been told. And you may well find that her illness is more serious than she has led you to believe. Mothers do tend to spare their children worry, you know.”

Maman’s ailment was purely fictitious, invented by Hunt to account for Holly’s visit, but of course she could not say so. Not for the world would she have the duchess guess the true state of things, though how anyone could miss the strain between Hunt and herself she didn’t know.

“Yes, it is undoubtedly best that I go to see her. It seems unfair for my sister to bear all the burden of her care.” The thought of Blanche bearing any burdens was slightly ludicrous, but she found no difficulty in keeping her expression sober.

During the remaining days before her departure, Holly noticed that Hunt managed to attend every evening function that she did, even if he never spoke to her. Even during the day, he saw to it that she was never left on her own; if the function she attended was not solely for ladies, Reginald
contrived to accompany her. The duchess alone was no longer considered a suitable chaperon, it appeared.

On the afternoon before she was to leave, Holly asked Reginald to take her to the Royal Academy in Somerset House. Normally, he spent the majority of his time there, and she felt badly that he had neglected his artistic pursuits this week because of her quarrel with Hunt. It was not his fault, after all.

He seemed delighted at the chance to show her the rooms he habitually haunted, introducing her to a few of his fellow artists who happened to be there.

“Nothing of mine is displayed here as yet, but it is only a matter of time,” he informed her confidently as they traversed the enormous, echoing exhibition hall.

Apart from the students and instructors, the Academy rooms were largely deserted. When Holly remarked on it, more to divert her thoughts than because she was actually curious, he explained that only a select few were allowed in when a regular exhibition was not going on.

“You are very lucky to be seeing it at all, I can tell you, sister. Rank alone will not gain one admittance. Only merit.”

Holly murmured something polite, her mind elsewhere.

Reginald paused in his stately walk to look seriously down at her. “I can see your heart is not in this today. You are not leaving Town because of your mother’s health, are you? Would you like to tell me about it? It will go no further, I assure you.”

Looking up, Holly saw that his blue eyes, so like Hunt’s and their father’s, were kind. Though she smiled her thanks at his concern and shook her head, her face warmed with embarrassment. She could scarcely tell him that Hunt was sending her home like a child in disgrace. “I fear I cannot. It…it is a private matter.”

Reginald looked as though he meant to pursue the matter, but then, glancing past her, his expression changed.
“Ah, Teasdale! Come to improve your skill with the oils, have you?”

Holly nearly whirled around, barely catching herself in time to turn in a more dignified manner. She had not spoken with Teasdale since receiving Noel’s letter. She had almost begun to hope he had left Town. He regarded her mockingly, she thought, though his words were directed at Reginald.

“Nay, I merely came to find a quiet place to think,” he replied. “Indeed, I do so little here that I am surprised one of the masters has not revoked your standing invitation to me. But why are you not attending a class?” His glance strayed back to Holly.

“Just showing m’ sister-in-law about my second home.” Reginald waved his arm expansively. “She goes into the country to visit her mother tomorrow, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know.” Teasdale’s eyes seemed to bore into her. “London will be bereft at your absence, my lady.”

“Come, Mr. Teasdale,” she said impulsively, “surely you, too, must have some favourites among the works displayed here. Will you not point them out to me?” Perhaps if she could be private with Teasdale for a moment, she could discover whether he had intercepted her letter to Noel—and what he meant to do in her absence. Angry as she was with Hunt, she did not want to see him harmed.

He picked up on her cue at once. “I do, but I fear that Reg will make disparaging comments upon my taste if I reveal them in his presence. If I could show them to you alone, without risking his judgement…?”

“Certainly, certainly,” agreed Reginald affably. “I need to speak with old Hoarwell for a moment, anyway.” He sauntered through one of the tall doorways.

“You had something you wished to tell me?” Teasdale asked sharply, throwing Holly somewhat off her guard. But suddenly she felt a surge of relief. If he knew she had written
to her brother again, he would have something to say about it, some threat to make.

“Yes,” she improvised quickly so as not to arouse his suspicions. “As Reginald said, I leave Town tomorrow, and I wanted your assurance that my husband will be safe. Derbyshire is but a day’s drive from London, should I find it necessary to return.”

The very amiability of his smile made her stiffen, but he only said, “Not to worry, my lady. I have decided that Lord Vandover’s demise, however accidental it might appear, would increase the risks to myself. No, his
life
is in no danger, despite his continued involvement in the investigation. There, have I set your mind at rest?”

Holly regarded him doubtfully, trying to decipher his words and tone. Plainly he meant more than he was saying. But already Reginald was returning. “Perfectly, sir, I thank you. And it may surprise you to hear that your tastes are not so very different from my brother-in-law’s,” she concluded more loudly.

Teasdale bowed and then left them, and Lord Reginald turned back to the paintings, pointing out the more notable specimens. Holly pretended to listen, grateful that he did not seek to reintroduce the topic of her troubles with Hunt.

That evening Holly pleaded the headache to avoid accompanying the others to Lady Castlereagh’s card party. Her absence would be remarked, she knew, but she felt unequal to the task of smiling for hours, pretending that all was well. She retired to her room directly after dinner, intending to dissect Teasdale’s words and her situation one more time, even though such a course would likely make her fictitious headache a reality.

Mabel had already completed the packing for tomorrow’s journey, for they were to leave at first light. Holly allowed her abigail to prepare her for bed, sitting passively at the dressing-table while her hair was brushed out.

Even after Mabel had left her, Holly continued to stare into the glass, remembering. Hunt had cared for her once, she was certain. He had never said that he loved her in so many words, but he had shown his affection clearly both before and after their marriage. And she had fallen quite hopelessly in love with him.

But now, with her silence and secrets, she feared that she had finally killed whatever affection he had held for her. And if that were so, what sort of life awaited her? One of utter loneliness. If he chose, he could leave her at her mother’s house indefinitely while he pursued his own life—and his own pleasures—in Town.

He could even take a mistress.

A surge of jealousy, the first she could ever remember feeling, swept through her at the thought of another woman enjoying those intimacies with her husband that had been so special to her. And hard on the heels of that jealousy came an intense longing. Only once in the past half year had Hunt come to her bed. Though pride might make her deny her love, her body most assuredly missed him.

Almost as though she had summoned him with her thoughts, the door to her dressing-room opened and Hunt stepped into the chamber, clad in the midnight blue silk dressing-gown she remembered so well.

“I thought it best to take my leave of you tonight,” he said with cold formality. “Thus we can avoid what the others might expect to be a touching scene in the morning.” His eyes were as dark as the silk he wore.

Though his tone chilled her, Holly scarcely heeded his words. She was striving to subdue the clamour her body set up at the sight of him. She must
not
let him see how he still affected her. It would be too humiliating.

Hunt wasn’t sure what had prompted him to come. He had intended to remain completely aloof from his wife until her departure, for fear that his anger—perfectly righteous anger—might not hold up against her nearness. At
Lady Stilton’s two nights ago he had nearly given in. Holly had looked so lovely, with her hair in ebony ringlets, the deep peach silk of her gown making her skin and eyes glow, that he had been ready to forgive her almost anything to have her in his arms again. He had resisted only by refusing to look in her direction for the greater part of the evening.

But how was he to resist her now? She had risen at his entrance and stood before him, a breathtaking vision, her hair flowing unbound past her shoulders, her body calling to him through the almost transparent white peignoir she wore. He should not have come.

“Yes, they might well look for tenderness, even tears, as we will be parting for…months.” There was a soft question in her voice. “A private goodbye will circumvent such expectations. Very foresighted of you, my lord.”

Hunt felt that he had never been less foresighted in his life not to realize what an effect she would have on him. “Perhaps it need not be so long,” he said tentatively, vainly trying to reassemble the anger he knew he should feel at her betrayal. How many months had passed since he had bedded her? Far too many. God, he wanted her!

“Perhaps not,” agreed Holly, swaying slightly forward, though she did not actually take a step.

For the barest instant, Hunt hesitated. He knew once he touched her he would be lost. But his body spoke louder than his reason, and without conscious intent his feet moved forward until she was only inches away. He could smell the faint perfume of her hair, feel the radiant warmth of her skin against his throat.

“My lord?” It was almost a sigh, and it undid him completely.

His hands came up from his sides of their own volition and tangled themselves in her hair. He tipped her face up and hungrily sought her lips with his. She responded with equal hunger, drawing his tongue deeply into her mouth, entwining it with her own. Hunt heard a deep groan and realized
it had come from his throat. He wrapped his arms around her, never breaking the kiss, pulling her tighter and tighter against him, his body a raging torrent.