After the Kiss (19 page)

T
he theater was so brightly lit it looked to be on fire.

They had to run the gauntlet of street peddlers from the carriage to the doors. Young girls sold oranges, flowers, and matches, while two or three older women hiked their skirts up on one side to indicate their status as prostitutes. But they weren’t the only ones plying their wares or begging for coins on this night. There were pickpockets, grizzled war veterans, and small boys who offered to dust the street or hold a lady’s pattens.

The entranceway, the stairs, and the corridors of the theater were as crowded as the square. A few people greeted Michael. His only response was a quick smile, a wave, intent on their destination. He deliberately did not stop to introduce Margaret. His sudden dis
comfiting thought was that he did not know a way to do so that would not ultimately shame her. She was not a relative, nor his fiancée. If he simply omitted her status or declared her a friend, the association would be assumed to be one of an illicit nature. By being polite, he would label her his mistress, but by refusing to introduce her, he declared her the same.

As they walked up the stairs, the crowd became less dense. One by one, they parted, as if word was being passed of their arrival in front of them. A few people turned and watched them as they passed.

Once they entered his box, Margaret sat, remaining silent and seemingly unaffected. If she felt it difficult to be watched by so many people, he couldn’t tell. He himself was growing more and more aware of the heads turning in their direction. There were enough interested gazes meeting his that he doubted
Macbeth
would be as much discussed as he and Margaret.

“Have you ever been to Covent Garden before?”

She glanced at him, nodded. “I saw
Don Giovanni
once, a few years ago.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“I think it would have been better if it had been in Italian. It seemed a little silly hearing it in English.”

Her smile should not have made his loins tighten. That’s all he needed, he thought in disgust. To prove himself a debauched fool in front of thousands of interested spectators. He stared at the stage floor and concentrated on a Trithemius cipher, then a polyalphabetic substitution code.

The whispering began. Like the faintest breeze, it seemed to float through the room, careening from one guest to another. It seemed he had underestimated both society’s curiosity about him and possibly the modiste’s volubility.

Margaret sat, her attention on the stage. There was a look on her face, one of resolve coupled with an undeniable dismay. Wasn’t that the definition of courage, the ability to persevere even when one did not wish to do so?

He had never before had anyone to defend. His sisters had fashioned themselves into a triumvirate early on, protected one another. But Margaret had no such armor of rank or relation.

Her words came back to him.
I must be seen in order to attract my next protector
. His mood worsened. He had done nothing but ensure that she was the object of censure and gossip. Why the bloody hell hadn’t he realized it before now?

Because you weren’t exactly thinking with your mind, Michael
. He frowned at that wry thought.

He had always believed that he was aware of his faults, knew them, attempted to lessen them. However, at this moment, he discovered another niche to his character, one that did not please him one whit. He had only seen his wishes and his wants, an insufferable arrogance. Not once had he considered what might happen to Margaret in these circumstances. Arrogance has a price, one that demanded payment. Unfortunately, in this instance, the bill was not presented to him.

His box was to the right of the stage, selected because of its view of the performance, not those attending it. He knew, however, that until the candles were extinguished, that they would be a focal point of countless interested stares.

“Have I ever told you about the Duchess of Wiltshire?”

She turned her head and glanced at him. “No,” she said softly, “you haven’t.”

“She is an old, crotchety woman who insists upon a diet of cabbage and turnips. No one, however, has the courage to tell her that her company is unbearable for more than a few moments. The Earl of Stonebridge is a man of medium years who loves his port with such fervor that he can be counted upon to drool in his soup and get ill in the bushes. The Marquess of Binsnoble has an affection for his pugs. He kisses them on the snout and insists on carrying them about with him at all times.”

There was an expression on her face now, something other than that frozen stillness. It was confusion mixed with the dawning of amusement. “Is there a reason you’re telling me this?”

“They’re only human,” he said, looking out at the theater. “Each one of them has his flaws and can be expected to exhibit them, given enough time.”

He sought out the interested gaze of more than one old biddy. His frown, however, had not one deleterious effect. Another example of how he’d misjudged a situation. On the whole, he was not adept at failure. He discovered that it irritated him to be wrong.

“The Countess of Rutledge is ensconced in another century and insists upon revealing her sagging breasts down to the nipple, but everyone politely averts their eyes when she comes close.”

“Are you going to recite all their failings to me?” she asked, her smile broadening.

“If necessary,” he said, perfectly prepared to do so.

“Why?”

“To help you understand that it does not matter what they say.”

“Even if they whisper that you are here with your mistress?”

“I rarely attend the theater,” he said. “People are
naturally curious about the woman who accompanies me tonight. I simply misjudged the degree of their interest.”

“Are you considered an enigma, Michael?”

“You look fascinated at the thought.”

“I do not perceive you as being mysterious,” she said.

“I have divulged more to you, Margaret, then I have to any other living soul.” A bit of honesty that silenced him. He realized that she knew more about certain aspects of his life than any other woman of his acquaintance. But more than that, she was privy to thoughts he had not shared with anyone else.

“It is all right, Michael. I knew it would happen, you see. A man and his mistress often cause talk. This is what you want for me, and it’s a life I cannot accept.”

He stared at her, incapable of uttering a word in his defense.

The chandeliers were finally lowered, the candles extinguished by waiting footmen. A few moments later, the curtain rose and the play began.
Macbeth
. A play dour enough for his mood.

He watched Margaret’s profile in the near darkness.

She leaned forward, had her elbow propped up on the curving wall of the box.

His attention was only peripherally drawn to the play. He had seen it many times before. His reason for being here tonight was not so much to view it again as it was to give Margaret the experience.

Instead, he had only subjected her to ridicule.

He was a debauched fool after all.

Thunderous applause marked the entr’acte. Margaret sat back in her seat, enchanted. Greed, ambition,
and murder. Perfectly horrible, and utterly delightful.

Michael ordered refreshments for them, another surprise. As the chandelier was lowered, then raised again, its candles lit, she found herself once again the object of attention.

She turned and glanced at the circle of boxes, at the faces that were turned in their direction It was a unique experience, being the subject of so much discussion. She wondered what held such fascination for them. The fact she was here with Montraine? Or that she was not one of them?

Suddenly, she found herself staring at the Duke of Tarrant across the expanse of the theater. He looked as stunned as she felt.

The Duke had not changed. He still reminded her of a gaunt bird of prey, one who looked at her with loathing. She preferred the curious gazes of the other onlookers to his vitriol.

She heard Michael speaking and she glanced up when he appeared at her elbow. A footman left the box as Michael handed her a glass and a linen napkin.

The privileges of rank, she supposed, to be served while attending the theater. She took the glass from him, stared down at the contents. Something pink and frothy. She couldn’t drink it.

“Are you not feeling well, Margaret?”

She shook her head slowly. “Would you be very disappointed if we left?”

“If that is what you wish,” he said. It surprised her that he offered no objection. Perhaps he thought she wished to leave because of the whispers. She looked over at Tarrant again. Not gossip, but hatred. It marred the rest of the evening.

“Yes,” she said, turning to Michael. “I would very much like to leave.”

She didn’t look at Tarrant again, but she felt his gaze on her back as they left the box.

Aphra Hawthorn, Countess of Montraine, was exhausted. Her feet ached abominably; her face felt as if it were cracking. Charlotte would not cease prattling on and on about the many eligible gentlemen who’d asked her to dance. Ada looked as tired as she felt. Only Elizabeth seemed blissfully untouched by the night’s events. Her youngest daughter did not look as if she’d literally danced until dawn and was now saying farewell to the last of the guests.

Youth. It seemed a weapon at times.

The ball had been a decided success in terms of masculine interest in her daughters, but the sun was on the horizon. Aphra knew that if she didn’t reach her bed straightaway she would simply collapse where she stood. As she waited for her carriage to be brought around, she heard the tittering sound of laughter from the group surrounding Helen Kittridge. She drew herself up to her full height, surreptitiously patted the tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck back into place, and girded herself for war.

Ever since she’d come to London all those many years ago, the woman had been a nuisance, an irritant. They had been courted by the same man, each led on to believe he would offer for her. Aphra had long since decided that she had won that particular skirmish and lost a larger battle. If Edward married Helen then perhaps the other woman would have spent the last twenty years being as miserable as Aphra had been.

In thirty years she had rarely spoken to Helen. She had wed a marquis, a delightfully happy union, Aphra was told, and from that had born a litter of
children. Their rivalry was currently being acted out between their daughters. Sally Kittridge, Helen’s only daughter, seemed to be a well-mannered, genteel sort of girl with a shy smile and washed out features. The same might be said of her character. The girl was simply bland.

But then, Aphra acknowledged, she probably didn’t worry Helen as her own daughters did. For all her love for them, Aphra was not blind to her children’s idiosyncrasies. Charlotte whined, Ada droned on about her causes, and Elizabeth said every thought in her head the instant it arrived there.

She glanced at the group surrounding Helen Kittridge. The ball was attended by the very same people she’d seen only last night. There simply was not enough time between social engagements to have done something notable enough to mention. Evidently, however, they had found something interesting to discuss.

Aphra studiously concentrated on her gloves, pretending a disinterest she did not feel. She was not only curious but mildly alarmed. From time to time several people in the group would glance at her and then look away, tittering.

What had Charlotte done now? Had Ada solicited funds for one of her causes? Or had Elizabeth offended someone with her honesty?

Where was her carriage? She frowned at the footman, who bowed in response. His servility did not, however, render the line of carriages shorter.

“You’re looking well, Aphra.” She turned her head to discover Helen Kittridge standing beside her.

“And you,” she said courteously, nodding.

Behind Helen stood three women. Far enough that it was not obvious they were eavesdropping on the
conversation but close enough so that it would not strain their ears to do so.

The fact that Helen Kittridge approached her now was an omen of the worst sort. Aphra waited impatiently for the revelation that she was certain to come. Some news that absolutely delighted the other woman.

She nearly broke her fan when she heard.

M
ichael hesitated in the doorway of the morning room, almost as if he didn’t wish to leave her.

How utterly handsome he was. How perfectly splendid, attired in a deep blue wool coat and trousers, white shirt, and silk cravat. His black leather boots had been polished to a shine. The picture of sartorial elegance. An earl about the business of the Empire.

“I’ll only be an hour or so,” he said, studying her. “Perhaps even less than that.”

He didn’t disclose the reason for his errand, but she suspected that it had something to do with the leather case he held. Even this week of hedonism had not exempted him from a sense of responsibility. Each day he worked in his library for a few hours.

“I shall take advantage of the time to read a bit more,” she said, smiling gently at him.

“Our friend Coleridge?” he asked with a smile. “Or some other volume you chose?”

She smiled. “A tale of a knight,” she said, fingering
Ivanhoe
.

“Nothing along the lines of the
Journals
?” he teased.

She shook her head. The
Journals
offered no further interest. Instead, memories of him would easily suffice.

“Will you be all right here alone?” he asked.

“I shall sit here on the settee and be as quiet as a mouse,” she promised.

“If you wish anything, do not hesitate to ring for Smytheton.”

“I would much rather fetch anything I needed for myself.”

“Has Smytheton been rude to you?” He frowned at her, a glower she’d come to associate with him. Not so much an expression of his mood, she suspected, as his concentration. At the moment, she was the subject of it.

“No. He has been almost punctilious in his regard.”

“You are certain?”

She had the distinct impression that he would not leave her until she reassured him. She had rarely been so cosseted.

“I shall be fine, Michael,” she said.

He crossed the room, leaned down and kissed her. A long, lingering moment later, he stepped back.

“I should leave,” he said huskily.

“Yes,” she conceded, lifting her gaze to him.

How could she bear the moment when they parted?

“I shall be fine, Michael,” she said again and forced a smile to her face.

He nodded once, then left the room.

At the doorway, Michael turned and glanced back at the morning room, torn between his duty and his wishes. A surprising conflict, one he’d rarely felt.

“Take care of her, Smytheton,” he said as his butler handed him his top hat and walking stick. Smytheton only nodded, his face carefully expressionless. Michael never quite knew what the man was thinking when he chose to be inscrutable.

As for himself, he was all too certain of his thoughts.

He entered his carriage, resigning himself to the errand before him.

He had not considered what the role of mistress would cost her, both in pride and dignity. Not once had he envisioned being in public with her, but keeping her to himself.

Like a caged animal, Michael
?

The thought ate at him.

It had been nothing more than selfishness. An arrogance of thought and deed. He’d wanted her with him because his life seemed somehow more exciting with her. But he had never truly understood what it would mean to her. Their conversation on the river, the night at the theater had both been lessons in his overweening pride.

She had been right all along. What had she said to him that first day? Something about not being raised to be a mistress. Being with him would be the worst thing he could ask of her.

He respected her quiet dignity, was curious about the look of reflection in her eyes sometimes. She was his companion in abandon yet she was equally at home in silence while he worked.

The truth was that he didn’t want Margaret hurt, nor did he ever wish a repeat of what had happened
at the theater. As long as he lived he would remember the sight of her sitting there, a queen in restraint and demeanor while people whispered about her. Never again, he vowed.

A terrible realization to make, that his fascination for a woman was capable of harming her.

A moment ago, he’d not wanted to leave her. What would it be like to do so in two days?

Alan Stilton stood at the window gazing out at the parklands of Wickhampton. A wandering stream curved through the garden, led to a walkway bordered by pleached limes. He could turn his head and view the landscape at the rear of the house, a verdant lawn graced with a long reflecting pool.

The lavender fields to the south of the estate scented the air. The drone of bees and the soft, melodic sound of the breeze rustling the leaves were the only accompaniments to his thoughts.

A legacy, Wickhampton. His sons would continue his lineage, and down through time the name of Stilton would be revered. For the grand deeds of his ancestors, perhaps but never for his own.

It didn’t concern him that he had ordered people killed. Soldiers were never deemed murderers, and he’d been involved in nothing less than war. He had tried to save the Empire and in doing so had placed his own heritage in jeopardy.

Tarrant had come to Wickhampton because he needed to be free of London for awhile. Or perhaps he just wanted to be reminded of his family’s five hundred years of service to England. He could not forget that. It was for his heritage that he had acted in the way he had, for the very glory of England.

“Enter,” he said, softening his voice deliberately, so
that it appeared almost avuncular. There were those who believed him to be so. He had long accepted the premise that perception is truth. What people convince themselves they see, they believe. Therefore he was rarely without a smile or a kind word. Easy deceptions that cost him little.

He turned and watched as Peter came closer. A greeting, permission asked and granted.

“You needn’t search for Margaret Esterly any further, Peter. I have seen her myself.” A small smile curved Tarrant’s lips, hiding the fury he felt. “She has a protector, evidently,” he continued. “The Earl of Montraine.”

The Code Master. What an exquisite and horrifying irony. The last man in England who should read the
Journals of Augustin X
.

The moment he had seen Margaret with the Earl of Montraine, he knew that the situation had taken another dimension, become infinitely more dangerous.

“It is he who concerns me, Peter. He’s a man equipped with an intrusive curiosity. If she has the other two books in her possession, it might prove to be an altogether uncomfortable pairing.”

Peter remained respectfully silent.

“She has been a thorn in my side for years. She offends me and I would have her plucked out.” An order couched in a biblical parlance. “But he is the one who concerns me the most.”

“You wish him killed, Your Grace?”

Tarrant frowned at his coachman. “A nasty word, Peter. Let’s not use it again. It is enough that you and I understand each other. It is not necessary to speak of certain things. If both the earl and his newest fancy disappeared, I would be pleased.”

Only then would his world be secure once again.

Margaret felt oddly sad at Michael’s departure, then forced herself to turn back to the book. But the tale of
Ivanhoe
could not interest her for long. Instead, she kept envisioning him as Michael, tall, with black hair, blue eyes and an arresting smile.

She set the book down on the settee beside her, propped her chin in her hands and stared out the window.

There might come a time when she regretted this week. But she could not imagine that moment. She had expected to spend the time with him in passion, but had not suspected that they might find companionship together, also. Twice they had sat on the settee in the library together, each involved in a book. One afternoon it had rained hard while they were reading, the comforting patter on the cobbles adding a coziness to the scene.

Last night, however, had proven that this week was foolish. She played with disaster, all the while pretending that they lived in a world apart. They did not. The life each lived was all too proscribed. The experience at the theater had proven that.

She glanced toward the door, the sound of voices intruding on her thoughts.

“Mama, he will ruin everything. No one will be remembering the ball. They’ll be talking about this scandal. I will be ruined.”

“You are the most frivolous girl, Charlotte. All you can think of is yourself.”

“Elizabeth, you will not speak to your sister in such tones. It does not augur well for your manners. Such stridency will no doubt set your suitors to running.”

“I do not see why women seek out marriage at all. ‘Independence I have long considered as the grand
blessing of life, the basis of every virtue.’”

“Please no, Ada. Must you forever quote Wollstonecraft?”

“She is a perfect martyr to the cause of women’s vindication.”

“Oh, pish, she’s not a martyr at all. You only quote her when you want to stir up an argument. I doubt you feel half of what you say.”

“I, for one, would always want the companionship of an amiable suitor.”

“Where is my son, Smytheton?”

It was bedlam; a bevy of female voices, all talking over each other.

Smytheton’s voice. “I regret, my lady, that the Earl has gone out.”

“It does not signify, Smytheton. We shall wait until he returns. Bring us chocolate in the morning room.”

“I shall not have chocolate, Smytheton. It spots my face.”

“I do think that it has something in it like laudanum. It leads one to feel enormously content and everyone knows that such is not the natural state of mind.”

His mother. Dear God, the Countess of Montraine. And Michael’s sisters.

Margaret stood, brushed her suddenly damp hands down her skirt, composed herself, and waited.

The door opened and she was face-to-face with a woman of middle years, expensively attired in a high waisted bronze colored silk. A matching bonnet, tucked and pleated in the same shade of silk and adorned with ivory silk peonies was perched over startling red hair.

The countess slowly removed her leather gloves,
tanned to match her dress, all the while staring at Margaret with narrowed eyes.

“Who, may I ask, are you?” she asked sharply.

Before Margaret could answer, the countess turned and addressed her question to Smytheton. “Who is this woman?”

The majordomo looked at a loss for words.

“Margaret Esterly,” she said. She swallowed hard, clasped her hands together, determined not to be intimidated by this formidable woman.

There was not one wrinkle on her face. It was so smooth that she barely seemed to frown.

It was a well-known fact that red flannel, dampened in hot water, and then rubbed over the lips could impart a pink hue for hours. A cloth soaked in blackberry tea and laid across the eyes could reduce puffiness. Coal ash carefully applied could darken blond or graying lashes and brows. Egg white, beaten with just the barest touch of honey, could smooth the face and eliminate all traces of age.

Margaret couldn’t help but wonder if the countess used egg white on her face, along with a bit of red flannel and coal ash.

For a long, uncomfortable moment they simply stared at each other. Smytheton slipped from the room like a tendril of smoke.

“Can you explain your presence in my son’s house? Or shall I make the necessary assumption?”

“I’m afraid it is,” Margaret admitted quietly, “exactly as you think.” And this meeting was the very worst thing that could happen.

“You admit it?” the countess asked. Surprise flickered over her face.

A slender young girl with brown hair and Michael’s
sapphire blue eyes peeked around her mother then stepped forward.

“Hello,” she said warmly. “I’m Elizabeth,” the girl said. “I’m Michael’s youngest sister.” she explained. “And that is Charlotte, the middle one,” she said, pointing to a girl of her height with blond hair and brown eyes. “Ada is the oldest and never this silent normally.”

“Elizabeth,” the countess said tightly, “have you no sense at all? You’ve just introduced your sisters to a woman of ill repute.”

“Are you a soiled dove? Has Michael rescued you from a life of poverty and despair?” Ada asked Margaret curiously. Her brown hair was pulled back severely into a bun, as if she wished to make herself plain. Her eyes were a light brown; her gaze was as intent as her brother’s.

“His whore? We’ve just been introduced to Michael’s whore?” Charlotte wailed.

Margaret flinched, then held herself still.

“Where did you learn that crudity, Charlotte?” her mother asked, glaring at her. “That is not a word you should know, let alone speak.” She held up her hand. “Get in the carriage, girls,” the Countess said. “I have no intention of allowing you to be sullied by this creature.”

“But Mama…” Elizabeth’s protest was cut short by her mother’s look.

Once they had left the room, the countess turned and surveyed Margaret slowly from toe to nose, a slow, measured, and thoroughly disdainful look.

Margaret willed herself to appear nonchalant. The countess, however, was as intimidating a personage as the Duke of Tarrant.

“My daughters are innocents. I, however, have had
experience in dealing with women of your ilk most of my life. Can I infer from your presence here that my son has lost his senses? Or has he taken a leaf from his father’s book and become enamored of his mistress?”

“I am not his mistress,” she said. Not exactly.

Smytheton appeared at the door once again, this time carrying a silver tray laden with two silver pots, a covered container, and an assortment of cups. The countess ignored his presence, never turning her gaze from Margaret. The butler carefully lowered the tray to the table and then looked at both women before choosing to leave the room rather than interrupt the awkward silence.

“Where is my son?” the countess finally asked.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Margaret admitted.

“Do you not know how to speak, young woman? You address me as my lady. And you are respectful of your betters.”