Never Call It Love (26 page)

She
laid the note on the desk. Briefly she considered ringing for one of the inn
servants, so that he could fetch Mrs. Corcoran from her room in the east wing
of the building. But no. She did not need the housekeeper to help her change.
In fact, she would not change. Here at a public inn, the violet bombazine she
wore was quite elaborate enough for tea. Besides, the chances were that Moira
Ashley had been watching from her window when the Stanford carriage had returned
from the modiste's a few minutes ago. If so, she had seen the bombazine dress.
Elizabeth felt that she would be at a disadvantage if Moira could picture her,
in response to that note, hurrying to make herself sufficiently grand to take
tea with a peeress. Elizabeth would tidy her hair, and leave it at that

At
four o'clock she knocked on the door of a room directly above her own sitting
room. She heard light footsteps. Then the door opened. Lady Moira stood there
in a silk gown, the color of champagne, that left her shoulders bare. Her dark
hair, informally loosened, curled about her face. No matter how long it had
taken Moira to achieve it, the effect was one of careless d
éshabillé. And
she had never looked more beautiful.

"How
kind of you to come, Lady Stanford!"

Murmuring
that it was pleasant to have been asked, Elizabeth stepped into the room. The
shades had been drawn at the windows, shutting out the gray light of the
October afternoon. Only candleglow fell on the tea table, with its trays of
scones and buttered bread and small chocolate cakes, its silver tea service so
elaborate that Elizabeth realized her hostess must have brought it with her
from Wetherly. Not even the finest inn in Dublin would provide its guests with
a teapot that valuable.

When
they had settled themselves at the table, Elizabeth
asked,
"How long have you been in Dublin, Lady Moira?"

"Since
last night. And I will leave for Wetherly early tomorrow morning. Milk, Lady
Stanford?"

"A
little. No sugar, thank you."

Moira
handed her guest a teacup, and then said with a laugh, "I am here on what
Patrick calls a fool's errand."

At
the other woman's easy use of Patrick's name, Elizabeth felt her hackles rise.
"What sort of errand?"

"Have
you ever heard of the Brazilian Company? No? Well, it has been formed to
exploit newly discovered diamond mines in South America. Some shares have
earned as much as thirty percent a year! Here in Dublin this morning I arranged
with my banker and my lawyer to mortgage Wetherly and my other properties. The
money raised will be invested in the Brazilian Company." She gave an
excited laugh. "By this time next year, I should be the richest woman in
Ireland!"

"But
isn't there a risk...?"

"There
is always risk when one sets out to make a great deal of money. But as I told
Patrick, it is not in my nature to take the prudent course." She laughed
again. This time the sound was tenderly amused. "He is quite exasperated
with me. He advises me in all financial matters, you know, and usually I take
his advice. Thus he is doubly annoyed when I do not."

Elizabeth
had no doubt that her husband and this highly desirable woman were lovers. But
the knowledge that they frequently shared the same bed conveyed to her less of
a sense of their intimacy than the thought of him advising Moira in business
matters, arguing with her, losing his temper, and telling her she was a fool.
To behave like that, a man had to feel more than just desire tor a woman. Her
welfare had to be important to him.

"Anyway,"
Moira went on, "when I heard you had
gone to Dublin, I decided to make my
visit here at the same time, in the hope we could have a talk."

"Who
told you I had gone to Dublin?"

Moira's
indigo eyes widened. "Why, Patrick, of course."

Had
he? Or had she heard through servants' gossip?

"Now,
as for what I felt we should talk about." She leaned forward and placed
her teacup on the table. The gesture seemed to say that the polite skirmishing
was over, and the real battle was about to be joined. After a moment's
hesitation, Elizabeth also placed her cup on the table.

"Yes?"
she said.

"How
long, Lady Stanford, are you going to prolong a situation that must make you
even more unhappy than it makes Patrick and me?"

Elizabeth
said, sparring for time, "Unhappy?"

"Come,
come, Lady Stanford! You know how little time Patrick spends at his own home.
Where do you think he does spend it?"

Anger
at the other woman's arrogance speeded Elizabeth's heartbeats. "And what
are you proposing I do about it?"

Moira
leaned forward. "You could petition for divorce."

"Divorce!"

"Yes!
It can be managed. Consanguinity—you know, blood relationship—is the best
grounds. A clever lawyer could find some degree of relationship between the
Stan-fords and the Montlows, even if it was many generations back. Almost
anything can serve as a pretext. Why, did you know that a marriage was once
dissolved because the husband, years before his marriage, had stood godfather
to a baby who was a cousin of his future wife's? All it takes is a clever
lawyer and a sufficient amount of money."

"No
doubt," Elizabeth said dryly. After a moment she added, "Did Patrick
know you were going to discuss with me the possibility of divorce?"

"Why,
of course!"

Somehow
the tone was a little emphatic, and the dark blue eyes too wide and candid, to
carry conviction.

"I
see. And after dissolution of the marriage, you would become Patrick's wife. Is
that it?"

"Exactly.
Patrick and I have always been perfectly suited to one another. Now, I don't
know how it is that he married you..."

"You
don't?" So it was apparent, Elizabeth thought grimly, that the
understanding between Patrick and Moira was not as complete as the lady
represented it to be.

As
if aware she had blundered, Moira said quickly, "Oh, I know in a general
way. I know it was because you... became pregnant. But my point is this.
Patrick and I are right for each other by any standard you can mention—rank,
temperament, even nationality."

"Perhaps
so. But why should I oblige you and Patrick by consenting to divorce?"

"Because
then you would be free to marry that Englishman."

"So
you know about Donald Weymouth." Moira nodded, smiling. "Then you
must know also that he is a clergyman of the Church of England. As such, he
could not possibly marry a divorced woman."

"No
law compels him to be a vicar! He could leave the church."

Elizabeth
said quietly, "That is something I would strive at all costs to keep him
from doing."

"Why
must you be such a fool! Why do you want to keep all three of us unhappy? No,
four, counting your Englishman. I should think that your miscarriage—or rather,
the quarrel leading up to it—would make you realize that nothing can turn out
well for you and Patrick."

"What
do you know of that quarrel?"

"Why...
why, I know it was because you and the Englishman had left the hall together,
he on horseback and you in a cart. Patrick came home, heard about it, and flew
into a rage. Not out of any sort of jealousy," she added quickly. "He
just felt that you, a woman at least legally his wife, had made a fool of
yourself, trailing alongside the departing guest in a farmer's cart."

So,
Elizabeth thought, Patrick had not told her of seeing his wife in Donald
Weymouth's arms. More than likely, Patrick had told Moira nothing about that
quarrel. All she knew was what she had learned from servants.

Elizabeth
said, "Lady Moira, if Patrick wants his marriage dissolved, then let him
tell me so. And now, since you have been so free with advice, I should like to
give you some. Why don't you try to get over your obsession with my
husband?"

"Obsession!"
Rage, swift and to Elizabeth inexplicable, expanded Moira's pupils until her
eyes looked black.

"Yes,
obsession. Here you are, beautiful, rich, and still young. Surely you could
have your choice of a number of men. And yet nothing will content you short of
marrying a man now legally tied to another woman."

"But
only legally." Moira was one of those people who smile when most
infuriated, and she was smiling now. "I should think that your pride would
welcome a chance to be free of such a marriage."

"There
are some kinds of pride that one cannot afford. True, my situation now is a
humiliating one. It would be much more so if I returned to England alone,
penniless, and unable to marry the one man I ever wanted to marry."

"There
would be no need for you to return penniless. As you have said, I am
rich."

Elizabeth
smiled. "I am afraid I do have pride, after all—at least, enough that I
could not possibly accept
money from you. Nor can I believe that Patrick suggested that you discuss with
me the possibility of divorce. Cowardice is not one of his faults. But if by
any chance I am mistaken, if he did send you to Dublin to find out whether I
would consider such a step, then tell him I will not, unless he himself asks me
to."

She
rose. "Perhaps I had best go now."

Lady
Moira also stood up. "Perhaps you had," she said evenly.

When
her guest had gone, Moira crossed to the window and with angry force swept the
draperies apart. The last of the daylight came in to mingle with the candles'
glow. Face white with rage, she looked down into the street.

Obsession.
It was that word which had enraged her even more than Elizabeth's apparent
determination to remain Lady Stanford. It was a word she hated, because ever
since her earliest childhood she had heard it applied to both her mother and
her Aunt Sara.

It
was her aunt, the elder of Lord Rawling's daughters, whose behavior had first
scandalized his neighbors there in the misty northern countryside near Belfast.
At the age of twenty-one she had fallen in love with an artist who had been
commissioned to do her portrait. After stealing a large sum from her father's
strongbox, Sara had pursued the unfortunate painter to London. Despite his
repeated rejections of her, she had followed him from one European capital to
another. Finally, in Venice, she had tried to kill him with a knife. When the
attempt failed, she had stabbed herself fatally through the heart.

As
for Moira's mother, her obsession had taken an even more bizarre turn. When
Moira was three, her mother had given birth to a male child who lived less than
a week. Moving into the room that had been set aside for the child, the
bereaved woman had insisted that all the shades be drawn permanently. By the
light of one candle
she had sat there day after day, year after year, all during Moira's childhood
and girlhood, rocking the empty cradle.

She
was dead now, but she had still been alive at the time of Moira's marriage.
Both Moira and her father knew why she, a beautiful and spirited viscount's
daughter, had not been courted by any of the local young men of sufficiently
high birth. All those men were aware that there was an "odd" streak
on the maternal side of Moira's family. In the end, Lord Rawling had felt
fortunate to be able to marry his daughter to a rich visitor from southern
Ireland, even though Sir Kevin Ashley, a widower, was three times her age.

She
thought of the afternoon eight years ago when she, a bride of a few weeks, had
walked out onto a terrace at Wetherly and found her stooped, graying husband in
conversation with a tall young man. Sir Kevin had made the introduction. For a
second or two before he bent to kiss her hand, Patrick Stanford's eyes had
looked straight into hers. She'd had a strange sensation, as if her heart quite
literally had moved within her breast. Oh, she had known it was not love at
first sight. Perhaps there was no such thing. But it was recognition that here
was a man she could love. And certainly it was desire at first sight. Her
husband's ineffectual lovemaking had awakened her sensuality without satisfying
it. She knew instinctively that Patrick could satisfy her.

She
had no doubt that he too had felt the strong pull of attraction between them.
But apparently he was determined not to betray his lifelong friend and
neighbor, Sir Kevin. After that first afternoon, he stayed away from Wetherly
except for large balls and for meetings of the local hunt.

Other
men were not so scrupulous. During the four years that passed before Sir Kevin
was found crumpled up on the floor of his dressing room, dead hand still
clutching
at his chest, Moira had taken several lovers. But they had been only
substitutes for the man she wanted.

After
her husband's death, suitors for her hand had appeared as soon as the official
mourning period was over. But Patrick made no proposal of marriage. He did give
every indication, however, that he wanted to share her bed, now that Sir Kevin
was gone. Angrily, Moira had refused him what she had granted to others.
"You'll have to marry me," she had told him.