A Wicked Pursuit (38 page)

“That will give the gossips something to share tomorrow over breakfast, sweetheart,” he said. “Who would have guessed that
Hamlet
would make you so amorous?”

“Oh, yes, what could be more scandalous than a wife kissing her husband?” she teased, even as she knew he was right.

At every intermission, their box had been visited by well-wishers, friends and acquaintances of Harry’s who had come to meet her and welcome him back to town, and even during the play, she’d been acutely aware of how many faces in the audience had been turned their way, all eager for a glimpse of the new Countess of Hargreave. At first she’d felt shy and uncomfortable under so much scrutiny, as if she and Harry were some new display in a shop window.

But as the evening had progressed, she’d grown more relaxed, and had even come to enjoy the attention, laughing and chatting with Harry’s friends as if she were still at the abbey and not in a private box at the Theatre Royal. Harry had made it easy, exactly as he’d promised, prompting her with names, reminding her of a story, simply slipping his arm affectionately around her shoulders for everyone to see. Whenever she thought she could not possibly love him any more, he managed to prove her wrong, simply by being Harry.

“I love you, Harry,” she said, unable to keep from telling him yet again.

“And I love you, too, Gus,” he said fondly, and gave her another quick kiss. Then with a sigh, he reached for his crutch, and slowly stood. “I’d say the worst of the crush has left by now, and it won’t be too great an ordeal to find our carriage. High time we left for home, my lady.”

He looked genuinely tired, and with concern Gus quickly rose at his side. This must have been a long night for him, making his way through the theater’s crowds as well as climbing the stairs to the box.

“I saw a bench in the lobby where we can wait for the carriage,” she said, taking his arm.

“A
bench
,” he said, mustering suitable scorn as he brushed aside her worries. “What manner of husband waits on a bench?”

“A sensible manner of husband, if his leg is bothering him,” she said promptly. “
My
husband, if he has sufficient sense to—”

“Lord Hargreave, good evening.” The doorway to their box was suddenly filled by an imposing older lady, glittering with jewels. Behind her hovered several attendants, one holding the lady’s small dog. “I have come to greet your bride.”

“Lady Tolliver, we are honored,” Harry said, immediately managing the closest thing to a bow that Gus had seen from him in months. “May I present my wife, Lady Hargreave? Augusta, the Dowager Marchioness of Tolliver.”

His expression was so uncharacteristically respectful that Gus realized at once that Lady Tolliver must be one of the “lady grandees,” as he called them, the important noble ladies of London society. Immediately she sank into a curtsey beside him, staying down until Lady Tolliver flicked her fan for her to rise.

“Let me see you, Lady Hargreave,” she said, and obediently Gus looked up into the candlelight. Lady Tolliver scowled with concentration as she studied her, her powdered hair towering over her equally powdered and rouged face. Although Gus felt her cheeks growing warm, she forced herself to meet the older woman’s sharp-eyed gaze. She couldn’t be cowardly; she needed to be confident, poised, the way the Countess of Hargreave should be.

“Have you no voice, Lady Hargreave?” the marchioness said. “Or has Hargreave wed you because you are mute, and will never be able to speak back to him?”

Shocked, Gus could of course think of nothing to say in her defense. Instead her mouth hung open as if she truly were bereft of speech, her curtsey wilting into an awkward crouch of crumpled silk.

The marchioness scowled, her disgust clear. “This is shameful, Hargreave,” she said as if Gus were unable to hear as well as speak. “How can you expect this pitiful creature to act as your countess? Or worse, how can she ever assume the title of Duchess of Breconridge?”

“Because she is my wife, Lady Tolliver,” Harry said firmly. He took Gus’s hand, linking his fingers tightly into hers, and raised her back up to stand, slipping his arm over her shoulders to draw her close. “I married her because I love her, but also because I believe she will be an exceptional peeress. She already is.”

Gus squeezed his hand in gratitude, and love, too. If the marchioness weren’t looming before them, she would have thrown her arms around Harry’s shoulders and kissed him, then and there in the playhouse.

But the marchioness
was
still there, and still looming.

“How, Hargreave?” she demanded, making a disparaging little puff of disapproval. “Explain it to me. How could this girl possibly be of any use to you?”

“Because I am very useful, Lady Tolliver,” Gus said. Harry’s confidence in her and his arm around her shoulder gave her the courage to answer for herself, and once she’d begun, she bravely continued. “I have maintained my father’s household for him since my dear mother’s death six years ago, and I did so with the same thrift and efficiency with which I am now addressing my husband’s establishment.”

“Quite true, Lady Tolliver,” Harry said. “She is doing her best to correct my sorry bachelor housekeeping. I was apparently the most lax master imaginable.”

Lady Tolliver raised a single skeptical brow, still focused on Gus. “Your father’s establishment in Norfolk,” she said. “Is it of a notable size?”

Gus nodded. “We’ve fourteen servants in the house, and a dozen more in the stables,” she said proudly. “I also kept the housekeeping books, and managed the purchases and accountings as well.”

At last Lady Tolliver nodded, her painted cheeks crackling as she slowly smiled.

“Commendable,” she said. “I am glad to see you show a clear and honest face, with pride in your industry, unlike these young trollops who glory in their indolence. You appear to be a sensible lady, Lady Hargreave. Is that true?”

“Yes, Lady Tolliver,” Gus said. Belatedly she remembered how Harry had advised her to be herself, and at least this was one accomplishment she could claim with perfect confidence. “I am very sensible.”

“Sensible
and
useful,” Harry said helpfully.

Lady Tolliver ignored him. “I was also given to understand, Lady Hargreave, that you tended to Hargreave’s broken limb with more success than that pompous fool Peterson.”

“I did what was necessary, Lady Tolliver,” Gus said, hoping the marchioness hadn’t heard anything else about Harry’s stay at their house. “Lord Hargreave suffered most grievously, and I did what I could to ease his recovery.”

“Such becoming modesty, and far better accomplishments to your credit than painting posies on vases,” Lady Tolliver said, finally granting her approval. “A sensible young lady indeed. You’ve chosen well, Lord Hargreave.”

“Thank you, Lady Tolliver,” he said. “I am amazed that Augusta would have me.”

“You should be, you impudent rogue,” she said, cackling. “Your grandmother would scarce believe it.”

She turned back to Gus. “You may call on me, Lady Hargreave,” she said. “I should like to hear more of how you restored Lord Hargreave to such vigorous health.”

“Thank you, Lady Tolliver,” Gus said with a quick curtsey. “Good evening, Lady Tolliver.”

“Good evening to you, too, Lord Hargreave,” the marchioness said as she began to withdraw. “Guard your new wife well, Harry. She is a prize beyond measure.”

He bowed, and as soon as the marchioness left, he turned to Gus, striking his palm to his chest and making a google-eyed face of amazement.

“What a feat!” he exclaimed. “You have made a conquest of the formidable Lady Tolliver, simply the most fearsome dragon of all noble London.”

“Only because you helped me, Harry,” Gus said. “I would have sunk completely to the floor in a silent puddle if you hadn’t.”

“Nonsense,” he said, laughing happily. “
I
am neither useful nor sensible, but only an impudent rogue. You heard her yourself.”

“You were most useful to me,” Gus said, laughing with him more from relief than amusement. “I wouldn’t have been able to speak a single word if you hadn’t been beside me.”

“No, sweetheart,” he insisted. “It was all your own doing. Your success in Society is now assured, you know. You can tell she’d absolutely given me up as a lost cause, for all that she was my grandmother’s dearest friend.”

“Truly, Harry?” she asked, “I was hardly brilliant or witty, and I blushed like a ninny. All I did was speak to her of servants and keeping house.”

“But that was more than enough to win her complete approbation,” Harry said proudly. “It’s exactly as I told you. Be your own shining self, and the world will be at your feet. Now come, let’s take ourselves home to celebrate.”

Slowly they made their way through the passage and down the stairs to the lobby, for while much of the audience had already left, a great many people were still taking their time leaving the theater. Of course, too, after they’d finally reached the bottom of the stairs, Harry steadfastly refused to sit on the lobby bench to rest while their footman found their carriage. By the time the carriage finally appeared before the theater’s door he’d become quiet and drawn with exhaustion, leaning heavily on his crutch. With concern Gus shepherded him into the street, and soon they were standing before the open carriage door when a small group of revelers called Harry’s name.

“Hargreave, is that you?” The man’s voice was slurred with drink, and while from his dress it was clear that both he and the other man with him were gentlemen, it was likewise clear to Gus that the young women with them were most definitely not ladies. “Finally returned to town, have you?”

Harry turned, staring to make out their faces by the wavering street lights. “Is that you, McCray?”

“It is, by all that’s holy,” the man said as one of the women curled lasciviously around him. “But I’d hardly know you, Harry. My God, what a transformation! What’s become of you, Harry? You’re dragging your leg like a Southwark beggar!”

The four laughed raucously, and Gus felt Harry tense beside her.

“Ignore them,” she said softly, her hand tightening on his arm. “Please. They’re drunk, and mean nothing.”

He drew in his breath, and slowly let it out. Finally he nodded and began to turn back to the carriage.

“Pity the old cripple-man, kind sir!” McCray continued, mimicking the wheedling plea of a beggar to the roaring laughter of his friends. “Spare a ha’-penny for the old cripple-man, would you?”

“Ignore them,” Gus said urgently, already in the carriage. “Please, Harry.”

His face rigid, he climbed into the carriage, frustration and exhaustion making him more clumsy than usual. Before the footman closed the door, a handful of coins rained on the carriage, ringing against the painted side. One landed inside the carriage, at Harry’s foot. He snatched it up, and furiously hurled it back out the window.

“Home,” he said curtly to the footman.
“Home.”

“Sir Randolph has
arrived, my lord,” Wilton said.

“I will see him at once,” Harry said. “Show him here directly.”

He was sitting in the library, wearing his banyan over his shirt and breeches. It was only nine, but he had already been there since before the sun rose, exhausted but unable to sleep, and the coffee he’d been drinking since he’d come downstairs hadn’t helped, either. His mood was as black as the coffee, his melancholy unshakable. How could it be otherwise, when last night’s shameful little scene in the street before the theater kept playing itself over and over in his head?

“Have a fresh pot of coffee and another cup brought for Sir Randolph, Wilton,” Gus said. Of course she was here with him. Of course she’d wish to hear Peterson’s judgment. Now that they were married, she deserved to know in exactly what circumstances she’d found herself, saddled with a crippled husband. But there’d been no conversation between them, no cheerful banter, because he hadn’t wanted any. He’d rebuffed her with single-word replies to her questions and a curtness she did not deserve. He hated himself for doing so, which made his humor blacker still.

Peterson was shown in, wearing what appeared to be exactly the same suit he’d worn for every visit to the abbey, and he did exactly the same things he’d been doing for weeks now, too. He flexed Harry’s knee and ankle joints, and ran his hand along his shin, feeling for where the break had been. But this time, when he was done, he did not restore the brace, but put it to one side.

“I wish you to try standing, my lord,” he said, “without the splinted brace to support you. I wish to see you straighten your leg and put your full weight upon it.”

“You are sure, Sir Randolph?” Gus asked anxiously. “The bone is ready to bear such a test?”

“I believe it is, my lady,” Sir Randolph said. “However, it is his lordship’s decision. If he is content with conditions as they are, then he need not do it. But if he does not choose to try the leg now, then the time for doing so may be irrevocably lost.”

“Damnation, I’ll do it,” Harry said. His heart racing, he stood first with the crutch. Slowly he straightened his injured leg, touching his foot flat to the carpet for the first time. He took a deep breath, and gradually shifted his full weight to the now-unprotected leg.