The Secret Mistress (26 page)

“For which I am very thankful indeed.”

“For which I will always be eternally grateful.”

They spoke simultaneously.

“At least we are agreed upon something,” he said.

“We are,” she said as they crossed a main road and he tossed a coin to the young crossing sweeper who had cleared a steaming pile of manure out of their path.

“I am delighted,” he said, “that you had such a very happy evening. It was obvious at the time, of course, without Eunice’s having to tell me so.”

“What is
that
supposed to mean?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “I was merely being civil.”

“You sounded spiteful,” she said. “I had a
wonderful
time. I had wonderful partners.”

“Including Windrow, I suppose,” he said. “You looked as if you were enjoying his company.”

“I was,” she said. “
Enormously
. He is charming and amusing.”

“If I remember correctly,” he said, “you told me just two nights ago at Vauxhall that it was the most wonderful evening of your life. Must every evening exceed the one before it in the pleasure it brings you? Will you not soon run out of superlatives? Or will
wonderful
suffice for all?”

“I was merely being civil at Vauxhall,” she said. “I thought you might be offended, even hurt, if I did not say I had enjoyed what happened there.”

Good God, he thought, they were scrapping like a couple of petulant children.

Why?

He had offered her marriage yesterday because he considered that he had compromised her at Vauxhall and because everyone seemed agreed that she was the most eligible candidate to be his countess. She had refused. Everything was in order. The story was at an end.

Much to his relief.

She was not at all the sort of woman of whom he could ever approve. She had
no idea
how to behave.

What the devil had she been doing calling upon Eunice? Poor Eunice!

“Do you like my bonnet?” she asked.

It was striped, the two colors being red and orange. Actually, garish as it was, it was also rather attractive. Its small, stiff brim framed her face becomingly, and its tall crown gave it a slightly military air. Certainly she was not trying to downplay her height.

“Must you always maneuver people into being either rude or untruthful?” he asked, his irritation returning—if it had ever left.

When he turned his head, it was to discover that she was smiling.

“You told the truth once,” she said, “and I laughed and you smiled. It was a good moment.”

“Then it is overbright and those colors should never be seen together upon the same person, not to mention the same
garment
,” he said. “And it actually suits you perfectly. It suits your character.”

Her smile deepened though she kept her gaze on the pavement ahead.

“I shall lie awake tonight,” she said, “trying to decide if that was a compliment or an insult, Lord Heyward.”

“It was a bit of both,” he said curtly. And
he
would lie awake tonight wondering why his manners seemed to desert him when he was with Lady Angeline Dudley. But she would try the patience of a saint.

She laughed. One could not help but like her laugh. It was not a ladylike titter or an
un
ladylike bellow. It always sounded purely merry. And it was infectious, though he did
not
laugh with her.

They were nearing Dudley House, he was happy to see. They walked the remaining distance in silence and he came to a stop at the bottom of the steps in order to watch her safely inside. She stopped too and turned to look up at him.

“I am
not
going to thank you,” she said. “I am not grateful.”

“I do not expect you to be,” he told her. “I did not insist upon escorting you in order to incur your gratitude. I did it because it was the right thing to do.”

Good Lord, he thought, he had kissed those lips just two evenings ago and held that body close to his own. He had burned with desire for her.

Had he been
insane
?

And then she smiled again, and there was a flutter of something dashed uncomfortable somewhere in his chest area.

“That is precisely what I so liked about you the first time I met you,” she said. “Now you are becoming a little tiresome.”

“If you would learn to behave with greater discretion,” he said stiffly, “you would be given no opportunity to find me tiresome or otherwise, Lady Angeline, and I am sure we would both be happier for it.”

The smile remained on her face as she tipped her head a little to one side, though it looked almost wistful now.

“Yes,” she said. “We would. Good day, Lord Heyward.”

And she whisked about and half ran up the steps and through the door, which a footman was already holding open. The door closed behind her.

And now the morning had been ruined.

It was ruined even further when he returned to Lady Sanford’s and was shown again into the small parlor where Eunice sat alone.

“Ah,” she said, “I wondered if you would come back. You look like thunder. Poor Edward, were you
very
annoyed with her?”

“She has no
idea
how to go on,” he said. “I offered her marriage yesterday, you know. I did not mention it to you last evening, but I did. She refused. I have never been more relieved in my life. Did she come here to tell you? To gloat?”

“Why would she do that?” she asked him, indicating the same chair Lady Angeline had been sitting on when he entered the parlor earlier. “It would suggest a meanness of spirit of which I think her quite incapable.”

Yes, he agreed with that at least. It was his own comment that had been mean. Lady Angeline Dudley did
not
bring out the best in him.

“She came,” Eunice said, “to ask me to be her friend and to assure
me that she would not mind in the least if I married you, since it is obvious to her that you and I love each other dearly.”

“She
what
?” he asked, frowning.

“There is something just a little … sad about her,” she said, “though I am not at all sure that is the right word.
Wistful
would perhaps be better. And of course she is wrong about us. Not wrong in believing that we love each other dearly. I believe we do. But wrong in assuming that it is a
romantic
love that we share.”

He was still frowning.

“I wish you would change your mind about marrying me, Eunice,” he said. “Life would suddenly become so tranquil.”

“And dull,” she said softly.

He looked keenly at her.

“Am I too dull a dog even for you, then?” he asked.

“Oh, no.” She sighed. “You are not a dull dog at all, Edward, though you often behave like one and actually seem to believe you
are
one. You are not. You just have not … oh, learned who you are yet.”

His brows snapped together again.

“At the age of twenty-four I do not know who I am?” he said. “I would say that I, more than most men, have self-knowledge.”

“Then you are wrong,” she said. “But I will not belabor the point. Edward, she loves you quite passionately, you know.”

“Lady Angeline Dudley?”
he exclaimed. “Nonsense, Eunice. And talk about someone who does not know herself!”

“Oh,” she said, “I agree that there is much confusion in her mind. She has had a sheltered, rather restrictive, and loveless upbringing, and now she has been thrown upon the
ton
to cope with a Season and the flood of admirers who wish to court her and marry her. She is excited by it all and repelled by it and really quite … well, confused. But she has seen someone who is a rock of stability in a sea of just the opposite, and she wants it very badly and very passionately.”

“Me?”
he said. “If you will remember, Eunice, she
refused
me just yesterday.”

“You could not assure her that you love her,” she said.

“She told you that, I suppose?” he asked, wrath replacing amazement. “Was I expected to lie?”

“No, not at all,” she said. “You were probably quite right to say what you did, since it was the truth. And she was quite right to refuse you, though I believe she broke her own heart when she did so.”

“She was having a
rollicking
good time last evening,” he said.

“Oh, Edward,” she said, “
of course
she was.”

In some ways, he thought, Eunice was no different from other women after all. She spoke in riddles.

“I think you would be wise,” she said, “to look upon yesterday, Edward, not as the end of the courtship, but simply as the closing lines of the opening act. The rest of the drama is yet to be written. There is nothing more unsatisfactory than an unfinished drama.”

He would have liked to let loose with a string of profanities. But he could not do so, of course. Not until he was alone, anyway.

“I take it, then,” he said, “that I really must let go of my hopes with regard to you, Eunice?”

“Oh, you really must,” she said gently. “We would not suit, Edward, believe me. One day, I trust that you will know the truth of that as well as I do. We were meant to be friends, not lovers.”

He swallowed and got to his feet.

“I will not keep you any longer, then,” he said.

“Oh, and now you have pokered up,” she said. “We have had disagreements before, you know, and you have always assured me that you have been stimulated by them rather than annoyed. Don’t be annoyed with me now. And write the rest of that drama.”

Drama be damned, he thought as he bowed to her and left the room, the final dregs of his hopes dashed.

A few minutes later he was striding down the street, muttering some of those profanities—a string of them actually—though he did check first to make sure that no one was within earshot.

He did not feel a whole lot better when he was finished.

D
URING THE TWO
weeks following his disastrous proposals to both Eunice and Lady Angeline Dudley, Edward was so mortally depressed that more than once he was on the verge of announcing that he was going to return to Wimsbury Abbey until next spring. Why should he not postpone marrying, after all? He was only twenty-four, he felt perfectly healthy, and he was neither a reckless driver nor a dueler. He did not indulge in any activities, in fact, that might put a sudden period to his existence. Barring some unforeseen accident, it would be quite safe to wait another year or so before settling down. Though all accidents were unforeseen, he supposed, or they would not
be
accidents. And really, what was the point of waiting? The deed must be done eventually, and why not now so that he could put the whole business behind him and start making the best of married life and fatherhood?

At the end of the two weeks there was a distraction. Fenner came to call late one afternoon, but instead of asking for Lorraine as he often did in order to drive her in the park, he asked to speak privately with Edward.

This
was mystifying, Edward thought. He was neither Lorraine’s father nor her brother. He was no blood relation at all, in fact.

“The Countess of Heyward’s father is not in town,” Fenner explained when the two of them were alone in a downstairs salon. “I shall be writing to him, of course. But the countess has requested that I speak with you, Heyward. She feels responsible to the family
of her late husband, especially so soon after his passing. She is exceedingly fond of you all and claims to have received nothing but kindness and affection from you since her marriage. Indeed, she feels as though you
are
her family, and of course you really are her daughter’s family. You share the guardianship with the countess, I believe. The countess is very afraid of offending you, even hurting you.”

It had been perfectly clear, of course, that a serious romance was brewing between Fenner and Lorraine. Edward had not realized it had reached such a critical stage already, but it was not really surprising, was it? They were both mature adults and both were free. It was a perfectly eligible connection. With his head Edward could even be happy for them—Maurice had not been a good husband. But with his heart? Well, Maurice had been his brother. Now it felt as though he were being consigned to the grave all over again. His mother would feel it too. So would Alma and Juliana. But theirs had been a blood connection with Maurice. Lorraine’s had not. And there
was
a difference. And they had all taken Lorraine to their hearts when she married into their family. She felt in many ways more like a sister than a sister-in-law.

“Lorraine’s happiness is important to us,” he said. More important under the circumstances than their grief, which was a private, ongoing thing.

“I wish to marry the countess,” Fenner said. “I loved her five years ago and I have not stopped loving her since. She wishes to marry me. I am confident that she loves me. However, neither of us wants to do anything that will appear distasteful to your family. If it appears to you that we are acting with indecent haste, then we will wait a year. No longer, I hope. But we
will
wait a year if we must. I hope we do not need to.”