The Harem Bride (21 page)

Yet the mystery deepened, along with the
head-to-toe finery now piled into two new trunks in the widow’s
suite of rooms. Who was the heavily veiled lady garbed all in
black? Where had she come from? And why must her obvious intention
of putting off her mourning be a mystery? Other widows did not
require such secrecy when going back into colors.

Miss Wiley, the milliner, not only
boasted of selling an astonishing number of bonnets to the widow,
but declared every one of them in the height of good taste, as well
as fashion. No vulgar poppies or surfeit of feathers for the Widow
Galworthy. A lady she was, through and through. The merchants shook
their heads. In the end—though some did not wish to think it of so
fine and generous a lady as Mrs. Galworthy—it was decided she was
either on the catch for a titled gentleman or was setting herself
up as queen of the muslin company. There was something about her,
was there not? A certain gleam in the eye as she appraised herself
in the glass. A determined set to her chin. A look of . . .
calculation—yes, that was the word. The Widow Galworthy had
plans
.

But the buzz in the backrooms of Bond Street
was as soft as it was avid, for coins jingled in the pockets of
those who served the veiled widow, and proffered bills were
promptly paid. Everyone smiled and bowed and put the Widow
Galworthy’s orders before all others. Walking dresses, carriage
dresses, afternoon gowns, ballgowns, riding habits, spencers,
pelisses, shawls, bonnets, gloves, half-boots, and slippers of
every matching color.

And lingerie. The so-called Mrs. Edmund
Galworthy’s sky blue eyes shone with delight when she examined the
pile of chemises, petticoats, and, most particularly, the nightwear
Noreen had laid out for her inspection before the delicate garments
were packed away. The finest muslins and linens, all embroidered to
perfection and trimmed with inserts or hems of lace, some almost as
transparent as the
shalwar
and tunic she had once worn before her husband in the Topkapi
Palace.

Penny’s soft smile faded. The Countess
of Rocksley, in her guise as the Widow Galworthy, had had time for
serious thought while she accumulated a wardrobe fit for a
princess.
I rather thought she was
enchanting
. Jason’s brief comment haunted her night
and day. And had he found Penny Blayne attractive as well? She had
seen it that first night at Lord Elgin’s party. So, surely, if she
tried very hard to remember what young Penny was like . . . her
wit, her charm, her enthusiasm for life.

If she dressed even more magnificently than
the sixteen-year-old Penny . . .

If she could convince herself that the
lessons learned in the seraglio were not a horror to be buried
forever in the depths of her memory . . .

Yet the new clothes were nothing more than a
symbol, she knew that. They were a reminder, a crutch, if you will.
They could do little for a woman who did not believe herself
beautiful, within as well as without.

That evening, as Penny was undressing
for bed, she waved Noreen away, turning to study herself in the
room’s full-length mirror, as she had once surveyed her dull self
in Shropshire. She proffered a tentative smile to the woman who
stared back, flickeringly illuminated by candles on each side of
the mirror. This was not the lifeless, defeated woman she had seen
in the cheval glass at Rockbourne Crest. This woman’s skin and hair
glowed with health; the depths of her blue eyes reflected hope.
Though she was clad only in the simplest of her new white chemises,
this evening’s reflection was remarkably lovely. Indeed, she bore
no resemblance to the poor sad creature who had stumbled,
ice-coated, into Jason Lisbourne’s entrance hall on a nasty night
near the end of February. The girl in the glass was . . .
beautiful
. After trying so hard to
hide it all these years, Penny found it difficult to admit, but
even at the advanced age of five and twenty she was strikingly
attractive.

Would Jason find her enchanting? Or was an
English rose no substitute for Gulbeyaz, the kohl-eyed, scented
White Rose of the seraglio?

The Countess of Rocksley reaffixed her
smile. The girl in the glass smiled back. Softly, secretively.
Hopefully.
Oh, yes, surely he
must
.

On the following morning, the staff of
the Ashley Arms stared in awe as a fine lady, dressed in the
dernier cri
of fashion, swept down
the front staircase. If it had not been for the stalwart Irish maid
following close on her heels, none of them could have guessed the
lady’s identity. Over her carriage dress of azure blue she wore a
cloak of textured wool, deep teal in color and trimmed in sable.
Her high-poke bonnet, which matched her gown, was lined in finely
pleated white silk and decorated with a single understated white
silk rose, shining against the rich blue of the bonnet’s brim.
Behold, the reborn Penelope Lisbourne—on her way to dazzle her lord
and master, the Earl of Rocksley.

The hotel manager was so astonished at the
transformation—at the hotel’s dark chrysalis burst open to reveal a
brilliant beauty—that he failed to reprimand his staff, who drifted
along behind what had once been the Widow Galworthy and heard,
quite distinctly, her order to have all her baggage sent to
Rocksley House on Cavendish Square. They then trailed her to the
front of the hotel and watched with avid interest as the lady and
her maid climb into a hackney. Afterwards, all agreed the women had
ordered the jarvey to take them to Rocksley House as well.

Speculation was rampant. Had the Ashley Arms
been hosting the notorious Lady Rocksley? Or did that rakehell
Rocksley have yet another string to his bow? In the end, the
manager was forced to line up his entire staff and remind them,
forcefully, that discretion was the prime rule of hotel management.
Whoever the Widow Galworthy was, or had been, was none of their
business. This tale was not to be repeated.

With many sighs and disgruntled groans, the
staff of the Ashley Arms returned to work. But in their memories
the lady’s transformation would glow for years to come.

“
M’lord, m’lord.” Kirby, Lord
Rocksley’s valet hovered over his lordship, who was clinging to
sleep as if he were indeed the Rock his close friends dared call
him. “M’lord,” Kirby hissed a bit louder, “Lady Rocksley has
arrived. Stackpole has shown her into the drawing room. M’lord!”
Kirby came close to losing his customary suavity. “M’lord, you must
wake up, truly you must.”

“
Wha-at?” Jason peered at his pesky
valet from under half-opened lids.

“
Lady Rocksley, m’lord. Here.
Now.”

“
The devil you say,” Jason muttered.
“Come up from Bath, has she?” He started to sit up, groaned, and
fell back on his pillow, one arm over his eyes. “I suppose she’s
heard the rumors, though what mama is doing here at this hour I
cannot imagine.”

“
Perhaps she spent the night with one
of her friends here in town, m’lord,” Kirby suggested, as unaware
as the earl that the butler, in his surprise, had failed to
indicate their visitor was the younger Lady Rocksley. “If you will
allow me to prop up these pillows a bit, m’lord, I believe we can
have you sitting sufficiently upright to swallow my restorative. As
always, you will soon feel much more the thing, ready to greet Lady
Rocksley in no time at all.”

But it was nearly forty-five minutes
before the Earl of Rocksley was presentable enough to be seen by
his mama, Eulalia Lisbourne, the Dowager Countess of Rocksley. And
even then his lordship trod the stairs quite gingerly, unsure if
his vision was perfectly sound. Nor was his mind sharp enough to
deal with what would undoubtedly be questions far more penetrating
than he could wish.
Damn and blast!
He was truly fond of his mama, but he wished most fervently
she had stayed in Bath.

“
Lord Rocksley, my lady,” declared
Stackpole, the butler, in stentorian tones, as a footman hastened
to throw open the door to the drawing room.

Jason affixed what he hoped was a welcoming
smile to facial muscles that were so stiff they positively creaked.
“Mama!” he cried. “To what do we owe the pleasure of—” His voice
broke off. He gaped at the vision of loveliness rising to greet
him. “Oh, my God,” he moaned.

Penelope?
Was
this gorgeous creature his Penelope? His drab, disillusioned,
all-too-snappish wife miraculously metamorphosed into the stunning
beauty once seen in sixteen-year-old Penelope Blayne?

Gulbayez. The White
Rose
.

His wife.

But, unfortunately, a muddled head combined
with the shock kept the earl’s admiration bottled up inside. Jason
stalked across the room, for all the world as if he had not been
struck dumb by his first glimpse of his wife’s transformation. “Are
you mad?” he roared. “The town is rife with rumors. To show your
face here now is to be torn limb from limb. Tell your coachman he
may turn around and return to Rockbourne Crest this moment!”

Penny had set out from the Ashley Arms
suffused with confidence, determination, eagerness, even optimism,
but during each of the forty-five minutes she had waited in the
earl’s drawing room, these emotions had eroded until, as her
husband strode through the door, only a faint and wavering hope was
left. Now, even that was gone. Shocked beyond tears, she could only
stare at him. Never, in her worst nightmare, had she dreamed he
would cast but one quick glance over her transformed self and
instantly send her back to Shropshire.

“
Perhaps you would care to hear the
latest rumor?” Jason snapped, without so much as asking his wife to
be seated. “It seems I have married a half-French
trollop—undoubtedly someone has heard a garbled version of the tale
of Aimée de Rivery. This half-French, half-Turkish harem girl was
cast off by the sultan for having a roving eye and was foisted on
the young Viscount Lyndon when, to hear the tabbies, he was scarce
out of leading strings. A shocking misalliance his family succeeded
in concealing for many years until the scheming creature arrived on
his doorstep demanding all the rights due a noblewoman in
England.”

Penny, whose stomach now felt as queasy as
the earl’s, took a step back and sat down abruptly on a sofa
upholstered in cinnamon brocade.

“
The bastards!” declared Noreen
O’Donnell roundly. “Begging your pardon, my lord.” The countess’s
long-time companion slapped her hand over her mouth and kept it
there.

~ * ~

“
Stackpole,” Lord Rocksley called,
“bring tea and brandy at once.” Then, becoming aware how thoroughly
he had once again mishandled the situation with his wife, Jason sat
down beside her and spent a few thoughtful moments staring at the
white rose on the bonnet that completely obscured her
face.

“
Penelope . . . Penny,” he said at
last, “you are looking very fine. Wherever did you find such
elegant garments in Shropshire?”

His wife did not turn her head, but she did
deign to answer him. “I have been in London more than two weeks, my
lord, acquiring a fine new set of clothes. I—I had wished to
surprise you.” She paused, still with her face turned from him. “It
would seem that I did,” she added softly.

“
You have been in London and did not
tell me,” Jason returned ominously. “And where did you stay, may I
ask?”

“
At the Ashley Arms, a most respectable
place, I assure you. I registered as the Widow Galworthy and wore a
black veil at all times. No one saw me. Until this morning, that
is.” Penny, recalling that everyone in the lobby and on the street
outside had heard her order the jarvey to take her to Rocksley
House in Cavendish Square, tightened the clasp of her hands in her
lap until her grip was painful. That was all the explanation the
Earl of Rocksley was entitled to hear. She would not chronicle her
hopes and dreams, nor lay bare her puny efforts to impress him. All
her efforts . . . and she had failed. Once again.

The earl opened his mouth for a scold, then
snapped it closed. Good God, however had he developed a reputation
as a rake, a ladies’ man of no little skill, when he could not
manage aught but a hostile relationship with his wife?

Stackpole delivered a tray with a silver tea
service, placing it on a table directly in front of the countess.
As a footman followed with a tray holding a decanter of brandy and
sparkling glasses, the earl said to his butler, “I presume Lady
Rocksley’s rooms are being prepared, Stackpole?”

“
Yes, my lord, the maids have been hard
at work ever since her ladyship’s arrival.” The butler glanced at
Noreen O’Donnell. “And if my lady’s maid will come with me, a dray
has arrived with a number of trunks. There is a good deal of
unpacking to be done.”

“
Leave the trunks as they are,”
countermanded the earl.

Stackpole, the footman, and Noreen O’Donnell
all stared. The Countess of Rocksley’s bonnet came to attention. A
small gasp escaped from beneath it.

During the previous colloquy, Penny, who was
quite familiar with having her finely laid plans overset, had begun
to recover from what was merely one more shock among many. “You
cannot still insist on my returning to Shropshire, my lord. It is
perfectly obvious only my presence at your side can put an end to
the gossip.”