Amy Lake (25 page)

“Well, of course I care about her–”

Lady Gastonby stood so suddenly that her chair almost tipped over. The footman rushed forward to rescue it. She thumped her cane on the carpet.

“You most certainly do not!”

“Aunt, I assure you–”

“You do not,” said Lady Gastonby, “merely ‘care’ about your wife. You are clearly besotted with her, and this absurd separation between the two of you must come to an end.”

She thumped her cane again and marched out of the room.

Edward sank back into his chair and put his head in his hands. Finally he raised his gaze to the footman.

“Samuel?”

“My lord?”

“Please tell Mrs. Huppins to send the remaining courses to the countess’ and Lady Gastonby’s rooms.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I’ll be dining at the club tonight. And Sammy–”

“My lord?”

“Stop smirking.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The footman turned and left–still smirking, Edward had no doubt.

In love with his wife!  What nonsense.

 * * * *

Claire pushed shut the door to the countess’ suite and leaned against it, breathing hard. The woman was unbelievable!  Apparently no subject was so delicate that Lady Gastonby was unwilling to tromp right into the middle of it. She was probably, even now, quizzing Edward on the particulars of his bedroom activities–

This particular thought was too much for Claire’s composure. She collapsed on the bed, giggling, remembering her husband’s face as Lady Gastonby had rung him a peal.

Claire’s laughter continued for several minutes and then, abruptly, she began to cry.

Chapter Fifteen

The evening of Lady Kensington’s
musicale
arrived before Claire saw her husband again. She didn’t think Edward had slept in his rooms the night before, although the door connecting the two suites was locked from his side, so she couldn’t be sure.

Would she have gone to him again, in the dark of the night?  Perhaps not. Claire imagined herself creeping into her husband’s chamber, all lace and scanty
négligé
, only to find his bed already . . . occupied.

Who
was
she?  Claire imagined a stunning beauty, her golden hair cropped in the latest style.

But her mind couldn’t go much further than that. Would she see her husband’s mistress at the
musicale
tonight, with everyone else already knowing who she was?  It was probably too much to hope that Edward had simply returned to Lady Pamela. Deciding to make a particular effort with her
toilette
, Claire turned her attention to the mirror.

An elegant lady in green silk, her large silver-grey eyes heavily fringed with black lashes, stared back at her. The face, although a trifle pale, was accented with full, red lips, and the
décolletage
seemed–to Claire’s unjaded eyes–to be fairly spectacular.

As it happened, Sally had informed her that the emerald-green gown was indeed Claire’s own, a creation of Madame Gaultier’s that had been delivered to Tremayne House in her absence. Claire ran a hand along the smooth silk, adjusting the bodice. The deep neckline, combined with the tiny cap sleeves set low on her shoulders, exposed more of her bosom than was her custom, but Claire decided she liked the effect. She took Edward’s wedding gift out of its case and fastened the heavy necklace around her throat. The emeralds were stunning with the green silk of the gown, and she hoped that Edward would not think to wonder why she had brought them on what was to be a mission of rescue. Claire had kept the necklace and its matching earrings on her bedstand each night the earl had been gone from Wrensmoor, the glittering gems a reminder of her husband.

’Twas a poor substitute, she knew.

Sally arrived to arrange her hair, first piling raven curls on atop her head and then threading them through with a fine gold chain.

“Ah, milady, ’tis lovely,” said the maid, and Claire, normally indifferent to her own beauty, was this time inclined to agree. At the least, the
ton
would have no reason to believe that the Earl of Ketrick kept his wife in the country because he couldn’t bear to look at her.

* * * *

Edward stood next to the carriage and watched his wife descend the front steps of Tremayne House. He could not have explained the pain he was feeling at this moment, but pain it certainly was. Iron bands seemed to constrict his heart, leaving him frowning and short-tempered.

“My lady,” he said to Claire, and handed her up into the carriage with a curt nod. She smiled at him–she smiled–

The devil’s knees, the evening was just beginning, and Edward had no idea how he was going to survive through to the end. He could not now remember why he had agreed to escort his wife to this blasted
musicale
–damn Pamela Sinclair, anyway!   What did she care if he took another mistress or twenty of them!  He’d had a plan–a carefully thought out plan. His wife and children at Wrensmoor, himself  free to pursue entertainments in town–

What could he have been thinking, to escort his
wife
to this ridiculous affair?  He understood better than Claire what the presence of the Countess of Ketrick in London would signify once word had spread among the
ton
. Tremayne House would be besieged with invitations–high teas,
soirées dansantes
, balls. It would never end.

Are you happy, Pam?  thought Edward, knocking a clod of dirt from his left boot with a vicious swipe. Happy to see me forced to order Lady Tremayne back to Wrensmoor?   He entered the carriage and sat down opposite Claire, glaring at her. There was a moment of sharp satisfaction as he saw the smile fade from her face, and then the pain returned in treble force.

His wife. What was he going to do?

  * * * *

Claire sat stiffly in the chair and listened to the soaring notes of the
aria
. Apparently Lady Kensington took her music seriously, for Madame Cavalietta was a fine soprano, her voice pure and with a melancholy edge that somehow made Claire want to cry. She blinked rapidly and dragged her attention back to the
aria
. She would not cry. She
could
not cry, not here, in front of what– even to Claire’s naive eye–was obviously the cream of the
ton
.

She’d been a fool to come, a fool to think that Edward would find pleasure in even a single London evening in his wife’s company. He sat next to her, unmoving, his legs stretched out in front of him, and again his body seemed to intrude on her space, his lungs using up all the air in her vicinity. They had not spoken a word to each other since the introductions, and the only thing currently raising Claire’s spirits was the warmth of Edwina Kensington’s reception. Edwina had promised to introduce Lady Tremayne to
everyone.
Claire was pleased, thinking that if her husband wouldn’t talk to her, perhaps someone else would.      

A movement to her right caught Claire’s eye, and she looked to see–good heavens, was that very well favored young man ogling
her
? 

* * * *

Edward’s scowl deepened. To whom was Claire talking now?  His wife had been in the middle of a crowd of admirers almost before the last notes of Madame Cavalietta’s
chanson
had stopped echoing in the air, and now she was chatting with that whelp Radleigh. Radleigh!  Edward’s fists clenched at his sides. Benjamin Radleigh, heir to a dukedom, rich, charming–and one of the handsomest men in the room.

Unmarried, too! came that small, irritating voice. Radleigh could be talking to any female in the room, but he chose your wife!

Edward felt someone’s gaze on his back and looked around to see Amanda Detweiler watching him. She smiled and turned away, but not before Edward experienced a moment of perfect, uncanny communication.

Be careful, Lord Tremayne
, Amanda’s eyes had said, as clearly as if the words had been written before him in pen and ink.
Be careful. One man’s throw-away–
–is another man’s treasure. How well he ought to know it.

* * * *

Claire was experiencing a novel sensation, which was exciting at the same time that it troubled her a bit. Men of every age and station of life had flocked around her at conclusion of Madame Cavalietta’s performance, and now–

Now, she was being
courted
. By the Marquis of Leddsfield, no less, the very handsome and charming Benjamin Radleigh. He had taken up station at her left hand and showed no sign of being willing to give way to any other admirers. It was . . . flattering.

Lord Radleigh was a younger man than the earl–more her own age, in fact–and Claire was quite taken by the quiet sincerity of his manner.  He was dressed fashionably, but not as a dandy, and his warm brown eyes seemed ever full of laughter. Unlike her husband, there seemed to be no underlying dark currents to his spirit, no banked fires ready to flare up at the slightest provocation. The Marquis was, to give the long and short of it, very pleasant company, and Claire wasn’t silly enough to claim that she didn’t enjoy the attention.

“Tell me about Wrensmoor,” said Lord Radleigh. He seemed genuinely interested as she described the castle. Just minutes ago he had taken her gloved hand and kissed it, a gesture so evidently heartfelt that Claire–although she felt no answering tingle, no shiver running to her toes–had given him a wide smile.

“Leddsfield.”

The deep voice of her husband, almost in her ear, made Claire jump.

“Ketrick,” said Lord Radleigh. The young man seemed undaunted by the earl’s glowering presence, and Claire’s estimation of him rose. “I’ve just been asking your lovely countess for the pleasure of her company tomorrow for a ride in the park.”

Claire stared at him. What was Lord Radleigh talking about?”

“My wife does not get out much,” said the earl, and Claire felt his grip tighten on her elbow. As Edward steered her away towards the buffet table, she risked a look back at the Marquis of Leddsfield.

Benjamin Radleigh grinned at her, and winked.

* * * *

“Good heavens.”

Claire opened the door to the sitting room the next morning to find every possible inch of table or mantel space taken up with flowers. Her husband stood in the midst of it all, scowling, and Claire had the odd impression that he had just thrown something into the fire.

“You seem to have made quite an impression on Lord Radleigh,” he told her, his voice tight. “Half of these seem to be from him.”

“Goodness.”

“Indeed,” said the earl. He slit open one of the many envelopes of crisp vellum scattered among the flowers, and Claire heard him snort in disgust.

“What is it?” she asked.

“The Duchess of Lincolnshire writes to remind me that the duke’s ball is only three days hence. ‘We had not thought to see you,’” the earl read aloud, “‘but since your lovely countess is now in town–’”

He snorted again. “A pox on it!  We shall have to go.”

“The Duke of Lincolnshire’s ball . . . Isn’t that the one–?”

“Yes,” said her husband. “The one out-of-season ball that everyone
must
attend. In bejeweled herds, like the well-trained sheep that we are.”

“If you mislike it so much, why bother?  Claire asked, trying to keep her voice cool and light. “I leave first thing tomorrow morning, anyway, so it has nothing to do with me.”

“Unfortunately, it does,” said Edward, a turn of phrase that did nothing to improve Claire’s mood. “As of yesterday, everyone knows you’re in town. If you were to leave now, only days before the Lincolnshire ball, it would be much remarked. It might even be considered a snub.”

“I see. You do not wish to be in the briars with your fellow sheep.”

Edward threw down the invitation and advanced towards her. Claire stood her ground against his obvious anger. “It is not my reputation at stake here. It is yours. Snub the Lincolnshires, and you will be cast out of London society without a further thought.”

“Ah, yes,” said Claire. “London society. It would indeed be a great loss to me if I were unable to go about in
London
society.” 

Edward reached for her arm, but Claire twisted away.

“I will not have your name bandied about, one more item of stupid
ton
gossip, whether you are willing or not!” the earl said, almost snarling. The much-vaunted coolness of the Tremayne temper seems to be missing lately, Claire thought. It didn’t make her feel any better.

“I will not go,” she told him. “I have no gown.”

“Madame Gaultier can be here within the hour.”

“I will not go!” she cried. “It was your choice to banish me from town. Take your mistress to this ball and be done with it!”

She tried to leave the room, but this time Edward caught her. He took her by the shoulders and Claire looked up to see the muscles tensing in his jaw. For a nameless moment she thought he was about to kiss her, then–abruptly–he thrust her away.

“I will hear no more about this,” he said. “We will attend the Lincolnshire ball.” 

He left the room, and Claire, rooted in place, listened as the sound of his angry footsteps fading away down the hall.  After a moment she regained her composure and flopped down on the nearest sofa.

“Blast the man!”

* * * *

 In the few days that remained before the ball, the Earl and Countess of Ketrick received a small blizzard of invitations for various society events. Claire left her husband to deal with them. She spent a great deal of time with Madame Gaultier in the mornings, rode twice in Regent’s Park with Lord Radleigh, and saw very little of Edward at all. He had chosen to remain absent from her bed, and she assumed he was spending nights with his mistress. Whoever she might be.

On the few occasions that she did see Edward in passing , Claire sometimes thought she detected a flicker, a spark of something in his eyes. But his temper was generally so ill that she simply let things be. If he chose to ignore her–well, then, he chose to ignore her.  She would be returning to Wrensmoor soon, and she was going to be happy.

* * * *

Claire awoke sometime in the middle of the night, a prickle of fear running down her spine. What–?  She knew she had been asleep, but still–hadn’t she heard a cry?