Indiscreet (22 page)

And finally the dancing began. The opening set was a quadrille, which Catherine danced with her husband. Daphne and Clayton, Elsie and Lord Withersford were part of the same set. None of the other members of the set withdrew to another when Catherine joined it. No one silenced the orchestra in order to announce that she must leave the floor and the ballroom and the house.

It seemed that they had brought it off, as Rex had put it earlier. She fixed her eyes on his and smiled—and noticed consciously for the first time that the look in his was one of admiration, rather as he had always looked at her at Bodley, and something more than admiration. It looked like love. It was a look he had put there for their audience, of course, just as he often called her “my love” when other people could hear him. But it was a look that warmed her nonetheless.

And perhaps it was not entirely a false look. There had been no audience to last night's lovemaking, after all. And last night's lovemaking had taken on a new dimension. He had loved her not only with the usual expertise and consideration for her own pleasure as well as his own. He had loved her with tenderness. She was sure of it even though he had loved her in silence and she had fallen asleep so soon afterward that there had been no chance for words to be exchanged.

He was not entirely without feeling for her. He had married her reluctantly and had been carried forward, first by duty and
then by guilt. But he had come, she believed, to like her a little more than he had at first. It was something. If only they could carry off this evening's daring and audacious business, perhaps their marriage could survive to be at least a working relationship. The thought was sweet.

He danced well. And she forgot the other members of the set and felt as if she danced only with him. There were memories of the ball at Bodley House, when she had waltzed with him twice, once in the ballroom and once in the music room. Aching memories of sweetness and the beginning of bitterness. He looked so wonderfully handsome tonight, dressed in shades of brown and dull gold to complement her gown of gold satin.

She deliberately relaxed and deliberately gave herself up to an enjoyment of the ball.

•   •   •

HE
gradually felt himself relaxing. For tonight, at least, he believed, there would be no great unpleasantness. The moments at which it might have happened—when they entered the house, when they passed the receiving line, when they entered the ballroom—had passed. No one was going to make a scene now.

He wondered if Catherine had sensed his fear. It had been only partly a fear that she would crumble under the strain. If she had done so, then it would be something from which she might never recover. But he had not really expected it. He could remember her quiet dignity under even more trying circumstances at Bodley. His real fear had been of some very public unpleasantness, something from which he would have been unable to shield her.
He would never have forgiven himself if that had happened. And again, it would have been something insurmountable, something that would have blighted the whole of her future, and his, and their children's.

All was not assured even yet, of course. Good breeding might prevent a public scene tonight, but tomorrow might plunge the two of them into a deep freeze. There might possibly be no further invitations. From tomorrow on they might be invisible or unrecognizable at the theater or in the park or in the fashionable shops of Bond Street or Oxford Street. Only tomorrow would bring the answers.

But her family and his, and his friends, and perhaps Lord and Lady Withersford would continue to rally to the cause, he believed. Perhaps they would succeed in edging Catherine back into Society. He would keep her here for a few weeks, anyway, and see what could be done. Though if he had his way, he would take her back to Stratton tomorrow and proceed to live happily ever after with her there. He was going to try—he was going to try his damnedest—to make her fall in love with him. He thought there was a slim chance it might be done. Her tenderness last night had made him almost delirious with hope.

He felt an eagerness he had not found in himself since his engagement to Horatia to begin the rest of his life—to trust love and to make a lifelong commitment to that love. He wanted to start his children in her. He wanted to be family with her even if there were no children.

And so he danced the quadrille with his wife, seeing only her,
relaxing past the tension that had held him together for a week, allowing himself at last to enjoy the ball.

He really had not looked about him a great deal since their arrival. But when the set was over and he had led his wife off the floor and her brother was preparing to dance the following set of country dances with her, Lord Rawleigh looked about him with some curiosity. He wanted to see if attention was as riveted on his group as it had been at the start. He wanted to assess the nature of what attention was still on them.

It was only then that he became aware of the presence of two people in particular—though one of those two was only then entering the ballroom and could not therefore have been noticed before.

Horatia Eckert was standing with her mother and her elder sister some distance away. She was fanning herself and not looking at him, though he was given the impression that she was very aware of both his presence and his glance. Beautiful, dainty little Horatia with her bright auburn hair and her large dark eyes—he felt a pang of regret for all the ugly unpleasantness that had replaced love with hatred in his heart. He had called her a coldhearted coquette in his reply to her letter breaking off their engagement, and afterward when he was back in England and when she was alone again, her flirtation at an end, he had spurned the tentative overtures she had somehow managed to make. He had felt nothing but rage for her presumption. Of course, there had been a year or so when she had not dared appear in town. The
beau monde
did not look kindly upon those who broke publicly
announced betrothals. She was fortunate to have avoided total ostracism.

He did not look at her for longer than a few seconds. He knew that he was very much on public display tonight, and his connection with Horatia would not have been forgotten by the
ton
. But as his eyes swept in the opposite direction, to the doors, he saw the gentleman who had entered alone and looked about him with a cynical gaze.

Lord Rawleigh had known he was in town, though they had not run into each other during the week. It seemed that Sir Howard Copley moved very much on the fringes of Society these days. His debts were said to be astronomical, and he was not much welcomed at the clubs or even at the gaming halls. Over the years he had used his charm and his looks—now beginning to be marred by clear signs of dissipation—on so many heiresses, without success, that his reputation was too sullied to allow him any further chances. Young ladies of fortune, and even those without, were guarded from Sir Howard Copley as they would be guarded against ravening wolves.

Being a gentleman, however, he was not quite beyond the pale and still found entrée to some of the larger entertainments of the
ton
. And sometimes he put in an appearance as much from the desire to show his contempt for Society's sticklers, it was thought, as from any thought of enjoying himself.

Lord Rawleigh, looking across the ballroom at the man who had destroyed his first betrothal and had debauched and impregnated and ruined his wife, felt a curious elation gather in his stomach like a lump of ice.

Yes. Oh, yes, indeed, he thought.

The music had not yet begun for the second set. There was another of those curious lulls in the general conversation, followed by a renewed rush of sound. The arrival of Sir Howard Copley and all its implications had been noted, then.

The viscount's eyes met Copley's across the ballroom and deliberately held them. Copley looked back for a moment, and his look of cynicism deepened as he raised one eyebrow. He would be remembering Horatia, the viscount thought, and the fact that the rejected fiancé had not called him to account.

And then Copley's glance moved to Catherine, whom he would be able to see in profile. It held there a moment and then moved back to Lord Rawleigh. There was something unreadable now in the cynical eyes—until he half smiled and turned unhurriedly to leave the ballroom he had entered only a few minutes before.

The ball of ice in Lord Rawleigh's stomach expanded to freeze his heart. And still there was the feeling of elation.

Catherine was laughing at something her brother had said and had taken his arm to be led into the next set. They looked bright and innocent, the two of them.

S
HE
felt strangely exhilarated. She knew enough about life and Society, of course, to realize that all was not quite settled yet. It was true that no one had made a scene and that no one had even been subtly rude to her. But then, very few people had been openly welcoming or friendly, either. Elsie and Lord Withersford had and Harry's friend Sir Cuthbert, and Lord Cox had solicited her hand for a set after supper—he had been one of her admirers six years before.

She knew that tomorrow she might find herself quite firmly locked out of Society again. There would be no nastiness, no vulgarity, merely a loud and frozen silence. It was certainly a possibility despite the presence with her tonight of so many titled and influential people of the
ton
, her father included.

But tonight she refused to think of tomorrow. Tonight she was
at a London ball again, wearing a new gown and a new coiffure, newly married to the most handsome gentleman in the ballroom, to the man with whom she had fallen in love. She had danced the opening set with him and was to dance the supper waltz with him. In the meanwhile she had had a partner for each set and was waltzing now with her father of all people. In the year of her come-out her father had never even ventured inside a ballroom.

“I did not know you could dance, Papa,” she said, smiling at him.

He was frowning and merely grunted in reply.

“Where did you learn to waltz?” she asked him.

“A gentleman must do what a gentleman must do,” he said.

“Including this?” she asked him. “Appearing with me here? Is it a terrible embarrassment to you, Papa?” She was not sorry if it was. It was time he was embarrassed for her sake. But though he had not given her the support she had needed six years ago, she could not hate him. He was her father and she loved him.

His eyes met hers as he continued to dance the steps of the waltz correctly but without flair.

“You have been fortunate, Catherine,” he said. “Why he would be willing to marry you under the circumstances I do not know. Of course, you are in good looks and he is a young man with eyes in his head. But however it was, he did the right thing to bring you here, I must admit. Life would be insupportable to him with a disgraced wife, and it would be impossible for his children.”

Nothing about her own feelings or about
her
children. She smiled.

“He knows, I suppose,” he said, “that it was Copley?”

“Yes,” she said, and realized suddenly another reason for the exhilaration she was feeling. She had feared that he might be at the ball. She did not believe she could bear to see him again—and to remember that he had been Bruce's father. She preferred to think of Bruce as her son, a son without a father and without the ugliness that had been his conception.

“Then you were doubly fortunate,” her father said, “or he was doubly the fool, whichever way one cares to look at it.”

She looked into his eyes, but he was looking off to the side somewhere. “Doubly?” she said.

“It was Copley who caused the ending of his betrothal a few years ago,” he said. “Eckert's daughter. Copley did not marry her, but she broke off the betrothal all right. She is the fortunate one too. She disappeared for a while, but she came back and brazened it out. Of course, with her there was no bastard child.”

Pain knifed at her. Bruce a bastard child. But there was other pain too. Rex had been betrothed to someone else? She had broken it off? Because of Sir Howard Copley? What a bizarre twist of fate. How must he have felt when she told him her story at Stratton? Had he loved the other woman? Did he still love her? The questions and the possible answers crowded at her even as she smiled and danced.

She came back
. Catherine heard the echo of her father's words. “Is she here tonight?” she asked.

“Over there.” He nodded his head to the sidelines. “Small. With auburn hair.”

Miss Eckert. Vividly, exquisitely beautiful. She was looking
back at Catherine and their eyes met for a moment until Miss Eckert looked away. But even in that moment and from some distance, the expression in her eyes had been readable. There was sorrow there, perhaps reproach. Not hatred. It was a look that told Catherine quite clearly that the other woman still loved Rex. Or perhaps the turmoil of the moment was making her read into a mere glance what she thought might very probably be there.

What had happened between Miss Eckert and Sir Howard? And why had Rex not defended her? Or forgiven her?

Perhaps Miss Eckert had not wanted forgiveness.

Rex, Catherine saw, was waltzing with Elsie and apparently giving her his full attention. How did he feel about being in the same room with his former fiancée? Had he loved her? Did he love her? The questions were beginning to repeat themselves.

She knew, of course, that he had never loved
her
. He had never made any pretense of any feeling stronger than lust. He had married her because he had compromised her. But it was one thing to know those facts and accept them; it was quite another to know that he had once been betrothed to someone else and that he might possibly still love her.

And then the waltz was over and she was with him again, her hand on his sleeve, while they conversed with the larger group and waited for the quadrille that the Earl of Haverford had reserved with her. The supper waltz came after that.

Her husband disappeared from the ballroom, she noticed, after Lord Haverford had led her into the set. Lord Pelham and Mr. Gascoigne went with Rex. She supposed he thought her safe enough with his friend. The earl was even taller and broader than
Rex. Any man would think twice about tangling with him, she thought—and any woman too. Catherine had the impression that his smiling gray eyes could turn to steel in an instant. It was not difficult to believe that for many years he had been a cavalry officer.

And yet he was gorgeously handsome. She had wondered at Bodley why she had felt no attraction to either Lord Pelham or Mr. Gascoigne though they were as good-looking as Rex and certainly more charming than he. She wondered now if she would have felt attraction to Lord Haverford if he had been there with his friends. But she knew the answer. Six years ago she would have been happy enough to set her cap at the Earl of Haverford if he had given her any encouragement at all. Now she could see his good looks and his charm only dispassionately. No one attracted her but Rex.

“Perhaps,” she said rather ruefully, “you would have preferred to go with your friends, my lord.”

His smile deepened. “What?” he said. “When I can have the bride to myself for half an hour? Not a chance, ma'am.”

She laughed. “It
did
sound as if I had thrown down the hook for a compliment,” she said. “It was unintentional, but thank you anyway. You must have so many stories to tell, the four of you. We must have you all to dinner one evening and hear some of them.”

“A few of them are even suitable for female ears,” he said, laughing with her. “Doubtless, though, Rex would veto even some of those. But certainly there are enough to fill an evening if you would not be bored. I accept the invitation.”

The music began then and there was no further opportunity for conversation. Rex and his friends did not return to the ballroom until the closing measures of the set.

Just in time for the supper waltz.

Oh, yes, Catherine thought again, she was feeling exhilarated. Let tomorrow look after itself.

•   •   •

HE
was in the card room. He had gone there straight from the ballroom and had remained there ever since. Mr. Gascoigne and Lord Pelham and the Earl of Haverford had checked there alternately every ten minutes or so and reported back.

It was likely he would remain there until the end of the ball. But there was no point in taking chances and even less point in delay. There was no great danger of public scandal in the middle of a ball. By some stroke of good fortune cards were being played in two anterooms. All the lady players and a few older gentlemen were in one. There were only men in the other. Men could be relied upon to be closemouthed when necessity and good breeding dictated it.

The earl was the one elected to stay in the ballroom to keep an eye on Catherine. Opportunely he had already reserved the set before the supper waltz with her. Not that much of a guard was needed. There would be no unpleasantness now at this stage of the evening. Anyway, her father and brother were with her as well as Sir Clayton Baird—and even Lady Baird could be formidable in a pinch. But they were all agreed that one of them should stay just in case. Lord Haverford could always be relied upon to
freeze the blossoms off a spring branch with a single glance if the need arose.

The other three went to the card room together. There were not as many gentlemen in there as one might expect to see if it had been a club room on a normal evening. Most of them had doubtless been persuaded by their womenfolk to do their duty in the ballroom.

Sir Howard Copley was seated at one of the tables with three other players. From the pile of notes and papers at his elbow it appeared that luck was with him tonight. They ranged themselves around the table, the three of them, Mr. Gascoigne and Lord Pelham just far enough on either side of his shoulders that they were within his line of vision, Viscount Rawleigh directly opposite him. They stood in silence, staring at him. They took no notice of any of the other players or of the game in progress. They stared at his face, Mr. Gascoigne and Lord Pelham at his opposite profiles, the viscount at his full face.

He became aware of them only gradually. He darted a few sideways glances and a few straight ahead, each a little more uneasy than the one before. He said nothing and continued playing, but it became quickly apparent that he had lost his concentration. He lost the hand. He licked his lips and took a giant swallow from his glass. He lost the next hand too.

It was amazing how quickly a message could travel without a
single word having been spoken, Lord Rawleigh thought without shifting his fixed gaze from Copley's face. Even in this remote anteroom, of course, news would have arrived that Catherine was at the ball and that she was his wife. And memory would serve well enough to remind everyone that Copley had been the one who had ruined her. The significance of this spectacle would not be lost on anyone.

A curious silence descended on the room. Curious because the room had been silent even when the three of them had first entered. A card room was not usually characterized by noise. But this silence was tense and expectant. With his peripheral vision Lord Rawleigh could see that play at the next table had been suspended.

Sir Howard Copley tossed down his cards when he lost the second hand and glared up at the viscount.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

Lord Rawleigh did not answer. He let the silence stretch.

“What the hell are you staring at me for?” Copley's hand reached out for his glass and knocked it over. A brown stain spread and soaked into the tablecloth. No one made a move to mop up.

Copley jerked to his feet, pushing back his chair with the backs of his knees. “Stop it this instant,” he said. “And you two.” He half glanced at Lord Pelham and Mr. Gascoigne. “Get out of here if you know what is good for you.”

Lord Rawleigh stared. His friends stood. Sir Howard Copley dragged a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow with it.

“I suppose,” he said, putting the handkerchief away, pulling
himself together with a visible effort, and sneering, “you discovered that you had a less than pure bride on your wedding night, Rawleigh. And I suppose she forgot to mention the fact in advance. Don't blame me. I was not plump enough in the pockets for her taste. She had her pleasure of me and then poked her nose in the air as if she were a duchess instead of a whore.”

There was a sigh of something in the room. It was not sound as much as a collective expelling of air, an awareness that some crisis point had been reached and that there was only one possible outcome.

Viscount Rawleigh felt again the cold elation he had felt earlier in the ballroom. He strolled slowly around the table. Nat stepped back to let him pass.

“I did not bring gloves with me, Copley,” the viscount said, breaking the silence at last. “My bare hand will have to suffice.” He whipped the back of it across Copley's face, snapping his head to one side. “Name your weapons and the time and place. Your second can call on Lord Pelham tomorrow morning to discuss the details.”

He turned to leave the room, his friends behind him. Everyone else stood aside to let them pass. No one voiced any objection to the breaking of a law that was about to happen. No one would. No one would spread the word except perhaps to other gentlemen. It was doubtful that any woman would hear of it. This was gentlemen's business after all.

“Rawleigh.” Sir Howard's voice stopped the viscount for a mere moment, though he did not turn to look back. “It will be pistols, with which I have a certain skill and have had some
success. It will be as much a pleasure to kill you as it was to deflower your wife—and your betrothed.”