Lady Pamela (2 page)

“I never wanted...I never meant for you...” She heard her own voice dimly, from a distance.

Fingers touched her lips. “Hush. I know. I’m sorry.”

It was as if two strangers were talking, far away. The man spoke directly to the woman’s heart, and she to his, but the conversation faded.... Pam reached out, wanting to say more, needing the comfort of words.

Comfort.

“
Oh
,” said Pamela, and sat upright. Her eyelids snapped open, “Oh, how dare you!” She scrambled from the Duke of Grentham’s lap and stood, wobbling slightly. He reached out to steady her, but she slapped his hand away. She looked around. They were on the east garden terrace, sheltered in a nook with various pieces of garden statuary. The night was cold but she felt nothing through the heat of anger.

“Lady Pamela–”

“Who asked your opinion of my life?” She kept her voice low, knowing that the wedding ball continued only steps away. “Who gave you permission to judge me?”

“I’m not judging you.”

“Ha!”

“I mentioned a man’s name, that is all.”

“A man’s name?” Pamela could not believe she was hearing this. “A man’s
name
, you say, and that is all?”

“Perhaps I was mistaken. Do you avow that you did not know him?”

“Of course I knew Lord Tremayne.”

       “Then I cannot see that I’ve committed any fault,” said the duke. “If it offends you to hear the truth of your own behavior spoken aloud–”

“My behavior?”

“You are overset. Let me send for your maid.”

“Overset!”

She reached out to slap him. Lord Torrance caught her hand in his. The touch was dizzying; time hung motionless in the night air. They stared at each other, unspeaking, until the duke took Pam’s other arm and pulled her to him. He was a head taller than she, she looked up into blue eyes and a mouth drawn tight. . . .

Perhaps he was still angry. Lady Pamela could not tell, for he had pressed her against his chest so that she could barely breathe, he buried her lips under his, and they stood swaying together, forgetting for the moment the chill night air and the words so recently spoken. His hands caressed her back, and a soft murmur escaped her. This seemed to rouse him further, and he whispered her name.

“Pamela. Pamela. I know it wasn’t really you. I’ve forgiven you–”

Through the flooding desire, through the tumult of feelings that Lord Torrance awakened in her, Pamela heard those words clearly, and understood.

She put both hands on the duke’s broad chest and pushed him away.

I’ve forgiven you.

       Forgiveness? Oh, no indeed, spare me such a favour. I have not asked for your forgiveness. It is not yours to give.

They were both breathing hard; the duke reached forward again, warm protest in his eyes.

“You are wrong,” said Lady Pamela.

Lord Torrance looked puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”

“It
was
me. Really.”

Now he understood. “But–”

“I do not apologize for who I am,” she added. “I do not apologize to you for anything at all.”

The duke shook his head. “Surely you cannot be proud of your former...association with Lord Tremayne?”

“My
affaire
,” Pam corrected him, “as his mistress. I was the Earl of Ketrick’s
mistress
.”

Lord Torrance flinched at the word, and Lady Pamela was goaded into adding, “and no, I would not describe my feelings as pride. But I do not regret a single day, and you have no right–”

The duke made an angry, dismissive gesture. “I do not wish to hear another word.”

“Your wish,” said Lady Pamela, “is granted.”

She turned on her heel and fled back into the ballroom.

CHAPTER ONE

–Hillsleigh, London townhome of Lady Pamela Sinclair

–September of that same year

Lady Pamela stood at her boudoir window and gazed silently at the distant burr oaks of Green Park, their colors muted in the fading light of a September afternoon. The street immediately in front of Hillsleigh, her London townhome, was deserted at this hour, its inhabitants indoors preparing for the evening’s round of society entertainments.

Entertainments. For a moment, Pamela’s thoughts fastened on that single English word–a common word, really, of no offense–and then strayed, uncomfortably, to one of its French counterparts.

S’entretenir
. To hold each other together. To be maintained or supported...

As in
une femme entretenue
. A kept woman.

Pam bit her lower lip. She was not sure why her thoughts turned so frequently to the same subject of late. She had once been a man’s mistress, true. But she had made her peace with that part of her life, a part which was, in any event, long past.

And she had
never
been a kept woman.

Pah. Pamela turned from the window and saw that Lady Amanda Detweiler was pouring herself a second glass of brandy. She felt sure that Amanda, her closest friend and confidante for many years, was aware of the emotional turmoil that had beset Pam since February. But Lady Detweiler, most uncharacteristically, had chosen to say nothing.

At least, nothing as yet. Pam knew she wouldn’t be able to hide the truth from her friend much longer.

And she had hidden so little before, not even the truth of her life as Edward Tremayne’s mistress. Especially that. Lady Detweiler had known about Edward from the start–had introduced her to the earl, as it happened. Their...association had lasted almost three years, until he had chanced upon young Claire de Lancie in a hat shop and made her his wife and countess. Lady Pam smiled at the memory. She had encouraged the match, and was still fond of Edward. They had both known, almost from the beginning, that their connection would not last forever. Friends they might remain, but nothing more.

A mistress. It wasn’t the worst life in the world, was it? she asked herself, echoing the words of Lord Quentin, a lifetime ago.

No, she had answered him. No, it wasn’t the worst life in the world.

* * * *

The day had been sunny and mild, like most days of late, and Pam had spent much of the morning in her own gardens. In the early afternoon she paid her accustomed visit to Green Park, walking through cheerful fields of autumn crocus and late-blooming aster, with Maggie–her young maid–trailing close behind. Lady Pamela should have rejoiced in the flowers, and in the beauty of the cloudless sky, but her thoughts had seemed determined to escape London.

What is autumn like in Wiltshire? she had wondered, knowing little of that region. Does one find much society? Do the young ladies and gentlemen amuse themselves with country dances and fine balls?

On returning homeward, she and the maid had once again passed by Marchers House, the great London home of the Dukes of Grentham. Maggie grumbled that Marchers was a fair street and a half out of their way, but Lady Pam had found herself drawn to the house, and each time she saw the mansion, she daydreamed of what it must have been like in the days of its glory, with fine lords and ladies gracing every room. A good imagination was necessary, as Marchers House was no longer in any condition for
entertainments
.

And Virginia, as well. What might one do in the colonies...the former colonies, now...for pleasure?
How had the duke occupied himself, all those years? He must have left for the Americas in his late teens, twenty perhaps, and handsome as Lord Torrance was, he could not have lacked for female company. Pamela tried not to think of the amusements that a young, rich duke might find, alone in the new world, isolated from the strictures of the
ton
.

She knew no more about Virginia than Wiltshire, of course. The duke had stayed only a few weeks at Luton and Lady Pamela had little opportunity to learn of his life in Charlottesville. She thought it must be nothing like London.

In London, the
ton
provided its members with countless opportunities for diversion. One might ride instead of walk in the afternoon, in a phaeton, or fine barouche, or one of the newly fashionable cabriolets. One gossiped and was gossiped about, or spent useless hours in milliner’s shops and hatteries. One attended
soirées
and
fêtes
, danced at balls, listened to one or another dreadful soprano at the latest
musicale
–

 One even became bored.

* * * *

“Pamela.”

“Hmm?” Lady Pam’s thoughts returned to the here-and-now. She turned and smiled as Lady Detweiler, mouth pursed in annoyance, closed her chicken-skin fan with a loud snap.

 “I
said
–not that anyone is paying the least attention, mind you–that Sir Jeffrey Kincannon is in town. Until Michaelmas, I hear. Now–”

“Jeffrey who?” interrupted Pamela.

Lady Detweiler rapped the fan sharply on Pam’s candle stand. “Sir Jeffrey Kincannon. Sir Jeffrey of the spectacularly broad shoulders and well-muscled thighs. Whose engagement to Melinda Davenworth has just been broken off by the chit herself. The silly fool.” Amanda continued rapping. “Pamela, I simply cannot believe–”

“You,” said Lady Pam, “are going to ruin that fan. And isn’t that the one Lord Burgess gave you? It must be worth a fortune in ivory.”

“Lud,” said Lady Detweiler, throwing the fan down onto the table. “Do not change the subject. You’ve been moping around for ages. I’m at my wit’s end–”

“I never mope.”

“Ha.”

“I am merely a bit...out of sorts with the weather.”

Amanda sputtered. “The
weather
? The beautifully warm, never-before-was there-such-an-autumn weather?”

“Well...”

“Moping does not become you. Now,” added Lady Detweiler, “Sir Jeffrey is more than well-favoured, he is intelligent and fond of amusements. And you were born to be beautiful and amusing and happy.”

“So you say.”

“Posh. It’s what you do best.”

Lady Pam had begun pacing about the room as they spoke; she now stopped to regard herself in the boudoir mirror. She was of average height, with a neat, nicely rounded figure. White-blonde hair cascaded in heavy waves around her shoulders and clear, cerulean-blue eyes stared back at her from the classic oval of her face. Her skin was smooth, the features finely drawn, but Pamela Sinclair had been praised often enough for her looks that even the most extravagant compliments had been drained of meaning.

It’s what you do best.
But if you were a beautiful and amusing woman, thought Pam, and were loved by no man, what did that signify? What excuse could you offer?

Lady Detweiler would scoff if she heard these thoughts, of course. Gentlemen have ever loved you with ease, Amanda would tell her. And you could have married any one of them. Even the Earl of Ketrick, I dare say. ’Tis your own stubborn nature...

Her own stubborn nature. Would that it was true.

Pam stifled a sigh. She looked at Amanda and ventured a question. “Have you heard...is there anyone new in London of late?” Lady Detweiler’s sources for society
on dits
were beyond compare; Pamela knew that–ironically–her own reputation for being circumspect was partly the result of relying on Amanda for the choicest bits of gossip.

Lady Detweiler regarded her evenly. “Anyone
new
?” she repeated.

Pamela felt herself coloring. “Yes...you know. In from the country.”

“No,” said Amanda, offhand. She again busied herself with the fan, avoiding Pam’s gaze. “And, if you are speaking of the Duke of Grentham, perchance–”

Pam’s color deepened. “Of course I wasn’t speaking of Lord Torrance. I was merely curious.”

Lady Detweiler’s eyebrows shot up. “Dearest,” she told Pam, “don’t spin me Banbury tales. And don’t forget, I saw the two of you waltz at Luton. The man is molded like an Adonis.”

“Amanda!”

Lady Detweiler shrugged. “At any rate, I should be very much disappointed in you–as a woman, you understand–if you had
forgotten
Lord Torrance.”

Silence greeted this remark. Lady Pamela sank into the nearest chaise
lounge and smoothed the cotton skirts of her walking gown. She felt her heart begin to race, the unacknowledged hurt of the past spring and summer threatening to break through. Why had she never told Lady Detweiler about the duke? She had wanted to tell her, had meant to say something long ago. But to speak the words aloud was to give them substance, to give them a reality that Lady Pamela preferred not to acknowledge.

Much as they had sounded in her mind, for seven months now without ceasing, she had never spoken the words aloud.

“Amanda,” she began. “Something...something happened. Lord Torrance... at Luton. I should have mentioned it at the time, but...”

Pam paused and looked away, biting her lip. The seconds stretched out. Finally Lady Detweiler rose to her feet, snapping her fan open and shut with a twofold
crack
.

Pointing the fan at Lady Pamela, Amanda said sternly, “I have never been a patient individual, so kindly tell me everything immediately, or–”

“Ah. Well. ’Twas nothing, really.”

“–or I shall be forced to take drastic steps.”

“Drastic steps!” echoed Lady Pamela in mock horror, seizing the chance to stall. “What drastic steps, if you please?”

”I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Lady Detweiler, “but don’t force me to think of something. Out with it. Now.”

Amanda sat down and took a long swallow of brandy. She watched Lady Pamela continue to pace, knowing, as the steps slowed, that her friend was seeking the courage to reveal what should have been revealed months ago.

Something happened. At Luton Court last February, when the Duke of Grentham had been a guest of Lady Pamela’s brother, the marquess.
Something happened–in the weeks between his arrival in Bedfordshire and his departure only days after the Quentin wedding.

I should have known
, thought Lady Detweiler.
And finally we shall get to the bottom of this absurd unhappiness, whatever its cause.
She had known something was wrong. She had been worried about Lady Pam, in fact, since their last days in Bedfordshire, and Amanda despised worry. A waste of time, she believed. Face your troubles and be done with them.