Slightly Married (11 page)

There was hearty applause and one self-conscious attempt to raise a cheer. The fingers spread on the tablecloth curled into her palm.

“I must leave tomorrow,” Aidan said. “I have business to attend to before returning to my battalion. I leave my bride with reluctance, but I leave her in the care of the aunt and the friends and neighbors who love her. Until my return.”

There was more applause—a few of the ladies, including Mrs. Pritchard, were mopping at their eyes. Aidan reached down, took his wife's clenched hand in his own, slipping his fingers beneath hers, and raised it to his lips. She looked up at him, and their eyes met and held for a long moment. And the devil of it was, he thought, it did not
all
feel like a pack of lies. He had had no idea just four days ago that he was getting himself into something so deep.

“Join me, if you will,” he invited the gathering, “in drinking a toast to Lady Aidan Bedwyn, my wife.”

A number of the guests, including almost all the young people, crowded back into the other room soon after, and the music began again. The dull thudding of a few dozen feet on the wooden floor indicated that the dancing had resumed. Most people on their way out came to shake Aidan's hand and say a few words to Eve, but after a few minutes they sat with enough space all around them to permit some relaxation and private conversation.

“Thank you,” she said. “You have done a great deal for my sake. I will never forget that. But how you must be looking forward to riding away from here tomorrow morning and finally going home to see your family. You will finally be free again.”

He had a strong premonition that it was not going to be that easy, but he said nothing. It would have been ill-mannered to agree with her, anyway.

“If you did not wear the willow for your cousin longer than one month,” he said, changing the subject, “what kept you from marrying anyone else until two days ago? I know that for the past year you felt honor-bound to wait out the term specified in your father's will. But what about the years previous to that? You are now—what? Four, five and twenty?

“Five,” she said. “Papa tried hard for a number of years. He was very determined to marry me well. I cringed from the parade of genteel eligibles he brought to Ringwood for my inspection.”

“You seem so fond of children,” he said. “You never wanted children of your own?”

“I have children of my own,” she said. “You do not understand, Colonel, do you? To you Becky and Davy are simply orphans I have taken in. To me they are—well, they are as precious as if they had come from my own womb.” She blushed at her own words.

No, it
was
hard to understand. She was a woman who had so much love and tenderness to give away. Why not to a man? Why not to children she really had borne herself?

“It has struck me,” he said, “that perhaps I made an error in assuming that you had no wish to marry in the future, to begin your own family.”

“No!” she said so firmly that an elderly lady seated at the next table—Miss Drabble?—looked across at them for a moment. “No, I'll not have you do that to yourself. I
had
chosen the single state. I believe I always knew, especially after Joshua, that I would never marry unless I truly loved. I was fortunate enough to have the luxury of choice in the matter as so many women do not. At least, I
thought
I had that choice.”

“But you never met the man you could truly love?” he asked.

“No!” Her answer was even firmer than before, though quieter. “Never. Perhaps that means there is no such thing as love, Colonel. Perhaps I have been chasing after the moon. What do you think?”

“About true love?” he said. “It depends upon your definition of the term. I do not believe in romantic love. It is a mere euphemism for sexual appetite with men and the desire for home and security with women. I do believe in loyalty and familial affection, though.”

“So do I,” she said. “And I have those things in abundance. I have my aunt and my friends and my beloved children. Why would I yearn for more? I have everything I could ever need. I am happy as I am. I have read somewhere that we often spend a lifetime searching for what we already have. I am one of the lucky ones—I know my good fortune. I know it because I almost lost it today. I will be eternally grateful to you for making my happiness possible.”

He was reassured. Or perhaps he just chose to be reassured so that he would not have to worry about having destroyed all her hopes for future happiness in marriage. He suspected that she might have been too vehement in her denials. But what choice had he had? What choice had she had? None whatsoever. And so there was no point now in wishing that he might have done things differently to help her. There had been no other way.

“Should we dance again?” his wife asked.

He got to his feet and held out a hand for hers. “Yes, we should,” he agreed. “One more time.”

Her aunt, seated a short distance away with a couple of other elderly ladies, nodded happily at them.

One more time
—there seemed such finality in the words.

I
T WAS DRIZZLING AGAIN IN THE MORNING.
E
VE GOT UP
early despite a late night and went out to the stables to see Colonel Bedwyn on his way even though he had told her she would get wet and had suggested that she remain in the house. She was huddled inside a cloak, the wide hood pulled up over her head.

He was wearing his uniform, but not his formal dress uniform. This one looked worn, somewhat faded, slightly shabby. It molded itself to his frame and looked comfortable—and undeniably attractive. This, she realized, was how he must dress most of the time. He looked large and very masculine.

Sam Patchett led his great horse out into the stable yard. Charlie was hovering beside the batman's horse, eager to make himself useful.

Colonel Bedwyn turned to her. He was already wet, and she could feel dampness seeping through the shoulders of her cloak. They stared at each other, neither apparently knowing how to speak the simple words of farewell.

“This is the end then,” he said stiffly. “I am honored to have been of some service to you, ma'am.”

She forced a smile to her lips. “The honor has been all mine,” she said.

They could hardly have been more formal with each other if they had tried.

He clicked his heels, bowed, and turned to take the reins from Sam's hand. But he turned back abruptly and held out his right hand. Eve set her own in it and they clasped hands tightly, almost painfully, for several wordless moments.

“Be happy,” he said.

“You too.” Her throat ached all the way down into her chest.

And then his hand was gone from hers and he mounted his horse in one fluid motion, looked to make sure that his batman was ready, and rode out of the stable yard, his horse's hooves clopping on the wet cobbles.

Eve raised a hand in farewell, but he did not look back. Soon the wall of the yard blocked her view of him and she hurried to the gateway to watch him ride down the driveway at a canter until he was lost to sight among the trees. Not once did he turn his head.

Some of the rain on her face felt hot. She swiped at the moisture and drew her hood lower. She could, if she allowed herself such an indulgence, cry and cry until she was weak and empty. For the loss of an honorable man she would never see again though he would forever remain her husband. For the loss of love and the man who had not come home in time. For her brother, whose death she had had no chance to mourn properly. For a future that appeared frighteningly bleak.

She counted backward on her fingers. Yesterday they had confronted Cecil and danced in the assembly rooms; the day before they had returned from London; the day before they had married; the day before they had gone to London; the day before there had been the memorial service for Percy; the day before he had offered to give the eulogy; the day before he had brought her the news from France. Seven days. Exactly one week. A week ago to the hour she had not even known Percy was dead. A week ago today she had never met Colonel Lord Aidan Bedwyn.

Now they were both gone. Forever.

She could no longer remember quite why it had to be forever with the colonel. But that had been their agreement from the start.

She could not bear to go back to the house just yet. Despite the rain and the wetness of the grass, she set off across the lawn toward the lily pond—the same direction she had taken with the colonel six days ago. Before she had gone very far, Muffin caught up to her, looking very much like an oversized half-drowned rat.

“Well, Muffin,” she said, “perhaps
you
can explain. Why does one feel the need to weep when one does not even know for which of three men one mourns? Is it Percy? Or John? Or Colonel Bedwyn?”

Muffin, loping along on three legs and snuffling at the grass, had no answer to offer. In fact, he paid her no attention whatsoever, for which fact she was enormously grateful because she could no longer pretend that it was hot salt rain that was running down her cheeks.

C
HAPTER IX

I
NCLEMENT WEATHER AND MUDDY ROADS FORCED
Aidan to spend one night at an inn. It was the afternoon of the following day before he finally rode up the long, straight, wide avenue, lined with elm trees standing at attention like soldiers on parade, that led to Lindsey Hall. Home at last!

He spurred his horse to a faster pace. He was not sure any of the family would be in residence. For all he knew they might all be in London for the Season, though they were not a family much given to the frivolity of
ton
entertainments. Certainly Bewcastle would be there, fulfilling his duties in the House of Lords. He hoped that one at least of his brothers and sisters was at home. He needed some distraction for his gloomy mood.

The house came into sight, and he felt the familiar rush of almost painful love for it. The massive stone mansion that was Lindsey Hall always succeeded in looking breathtakingly magnificent even though it displayed a mishmash of architectural styles. It had been in the family since it was built as a much smaller manor in the Middle Ages. Successive barons and then earls and then dukes had made additions to it without effecting any subtractions, and no effort had ever been made to blend the fashions of different ages.

The long avenue branched in two some distance from the house to circle a gloriously colorful flower garden with a marble fountain at its center—both courtesy of a Georgian great-grandfather. Water shot thirty feet into the air and sprayed downward in all directions, like rainbow-colored spokes of a giant parasol.

Aidan had barely moved onto the left-hand branch of the avenue before three riders came into view around the side of the stable block some distance away—two men and one woman. All of them drew rein at sight of him, and then Freyja shrieked and came galloping with reckless speed around the flower garden toward him.

“Aidan!” she cried when she was within earshot. “You fiend! You did not even let us know you were coming!”

He stopped as she rode up beside him and stretched out her right arm like a man. She was riding sidesaddle, which she had not always done. She wore her fair hair loose beneath a jaunty feathered riding hat. It reached almost to her waist in an unruly mass of curls. The same old Freyja!

“But this is what surprises are all about,” he said, clasping her hand. “How are you, Free?”

She looked sun-bronzed and bright-eyed and healthy—and as unladylike as she had ever been during the years when a succession of governesses had despaired of her.

“All the better for seeing you,” she said. “Does Wulf know you are in England? It would be just like him to neglect to inform the rest of us.”

“I have not written to Bewcastle,” he said.

And then two of his brothers rode up at a rather more sedate pace. Rannulf, the fair-haired giant, grinned and reached out a large hand.

“It is dashed good to see you, Aidan,” he said. “How long do you have?”

Alleyne, younger, slimmer, darker, smiled cheerfully. “The warrior returns triumphant,” he said. “The cavalry will not allow you pen or paper, Aidan?”

“Ralf? Alleyne?” Aidan shook hands with each of them in turn. “Two months, one week of which has already gone. I had some business to take care of.”
Like getting married.
“And why use pen and ink when I could come in person? Is Morgan at home?”

“And Wulf too,” Ralf told him as they all turned in the direction of the stables. “He came home a week ago for the Dowager Countess of Redfield's funeral and has not yet returned. He was going over some accounts when we left and Morgan was chafing in the schoolroom. Seventeen is a nasty, rebellious age, especially for a Bedwyn.”

“Seventeen!” Aidan winced. “She must be quite the young lady by now.”

“And a little spitfire,” Alleyne said with a laugh. “She is going to be the worst—or the best—of the lot of us. One almost pities all the young bucks who are going to come courting next year after Wulf has dragged her off to London to make her curtsy to the queen.”

“You have not arrived unobserved from the house, I see.” Rannulf nodded in the direction of the front doors. “Here comes the master himself.”

Aidan swung down from his horse and turned over the reins to Andrews. Bewcastle was coming toward him at a leisurely pace. It was characteristic of him that he never hurried and never raised his voice. Yet every servant was instantly obedient to his slightest command, and he had done an admirable job of curbing the wildest excesses of his siblings, most of whom were slightly afraid of him, though they would all have been broken on the rack rather than admit it. He was Wulfric, a name that suited him. There was something distinctly wolflike about him, including his silver eyes.

“Wulf?” Aidan walked toward him a little warily. They had not been on the best of terms for years. The last time they had been together—three years before—they had almost come to blows and Aidan had cut short his leave.

“Aidan?” Bewcastle stopped well beyond hugging range or even hand-shaking range and spoke in his usual light, deceptively pleasant tones. “Dear me, I will have to have a word with the postal service. Your letter announcing your return to England has been delayed.”

“Why write,” Aidan said, “when I could get here as fast as a letter? How are you?”

“The better for seeing you in one piece and apparently healthy,” Bewcastle said, raising his quizzing glass to his eye and looking his brother over from head to foot. “You cannot afford a new uniform, Aidan?”

Aidan shrugged. “One becomes curiously attached to comfort,” he said, “when there is so little of it. I want to see Morgan. Has she fulfilled the promise of beauty she showed when I was home last? I hear she is the most headstrong of all of us.”

“Is she?” The ducal eyebrows rose, adding an expression of arrogance to his lean, prominent-nosed, thin-lipped face. “It has escaped my notice. But I will concede that I am probably the last person on whom she would try the effects of a tantrum. Come up to the drawing room and we will all take tea.” He glanced beyond Aidan to their brothers and sister, including them in the invitation, which was really, of course, a command. “I'll have Miss Cowper bring Morgan down.”

It was definitely good to be home, Aidan thought as he walked beside his brother toward the house, despite the fact that Wulf was there and that his welcome had been cool indeed in comparison to those of the others. Three years ago Wulf had refused to allow Freyja to marry the man of her choice, their neighbor and childhood friend, Kit Butler, because he was merely the second son of the Earl of Redfield. Bewcastle had forced her to accept the offer of the eldest son and there had been a dreadful scene when Kit had stormed over and fought Ralf out on the lawn until both of them were bloody. An officer on leave himself at the time, Kit had been sent back to the Peninsula in a hurry.

Aidan had arrived home a few days later and had taken Bewcastle to task over his tyranny. The trouble was, though, that one could never have a satisfactory row with Wulf. He had become frostier and quieter the more Aidan had fumed and had merely used his quizzing glass and his eyebrows when Aidan had suggested they have it out with fisticuffs. Aidan had left the day after that, a full week before he had intended to go.

The ironic thing was that Freyja's betrothed had died before the wedding, and Kit had become Redfield's heir after all. Last year, when he had sold out and come back to England, Redfield and Bewcastle had agreed upon a match between Kit and Freyja, and all had been set in motion for the betrothal celebrations when Kit came home for the summer. When he did arrive, though, he brought a fiancée with him. They were married now, apparently. Ralf had written Aidan about it. According to him, Freyja had had her heart broken all over again, though she had smashed her fist into Ralf's face when he had suggested as much to her. Good old Freyja.

They stepped into the meticulously preserved medieval hall with its oak-beamed ceiling, its intricately carved screen with a minstrel gallery above, its whitewashed walls decorated with arms and banners and weapons, and its massive oak dining table. As they did so, a tall, slender young girl came hurrying through the stairway arch, both arms held out in front of her. She was a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty, the only one of them, it seemed, to have entirely escaped the family nose.

“Aidan!” she cried. “Aidan!”

She surprised him by rushing right into his arms, her own closing tightly around his neck. He wrapped his arms about her narrow waist, lifted her off her feet, and swung her about in a full circle.

“You have grown devilish pretty in my absence, Morgan,” he said when he set her back down and loosened his hold on her so that he could have a good look at her.

“I have no memory,” Bewcastle said softly, “of summoning you from your lessons, Morgan.”

Miss Cowper, her long-suffering governess, fluttered apologetically in the background. For as long as Aidan had known her, she had always looked to him as if she expected Bewcastle at any moment to order the footmen to drag her away to the dungeons and chop off her head.

Aidan winked at his younger sister, his back to Bewcastle. He had not realized until that moment how desperately he had craved someone to hug.

I
T WAS ONLY AFTER RETURNING HOME THAT
A
IDAN
realized how tired he was. After months and years of heavy campaigning, he was suddenly and utterly bone-weary. He went riding and walking and fishing with his brothers and sisters. He went with them to call on some of their neighbors. He even rode over to Alvesley, home of the Earl of Redfield, one afternoon with Ralf to express his sympathies at the passing of the dowager, and met Kit's new wife, who was as different from Freyja as it was possible to be. But what he seemed to do more than anything else was sleep.

It was on the excessive sleep that he blamed his deep depression. Delighted as he was to be at home with his family, he could not shake off his gloom. Nor could he stop himself from sleeping nine, ten, even eleven hours a night. He found himself dreaming of Eve by night and thinking of her by day, though in fact what had happened seemed like a dream. He even found himself wondering on occasion if it really
had
happened or if he had not imagined that whole bizarre week. He found himself too thinking of Miss Knapp, of the pleasant hope he had had of combining his career with marriage to a woman who could share his way of life, who could provide him with companionship and comfort and . . . yes, and with sex. Though he had occasionally kept mistresses, he had never particularly enjoyed casual and unequal relationships.

He spent little time with his elder brother. They had not been close since their early boyhood, when they had been inseparable companions. But at the age of twelve Wulfric had changed totally when their father had decreed that it was time he was prepared for the responsibilities of his future—a future that had arrived early with their father's death when Wulf was just seventeen. He had been educated during the intervening years by a pair of tutors, while Aidan and his younger brothers had been sent to Eton. Aidan had often wondered if Bewcastle was a lonely person or if he had simply grown into a cold, emotionless man who enjoyed solitude.

It seemed that what remained of Aidan's leave was to be restful and peaceful at least. But that hope was shattered one morning a little over a week after his return home. He had been out for an exhilarating gallop across country with Alleyne. The two were breakfasting heartily afterward when the butler informed Aidan that his grace wished to see him in the library.

Aidan took a cup of coffee with him. He bade Bewcastle a good morning and settled himself in a deep leather chair on the opposite side of the hearth from him. He wondered what was up but would not ask the question. Wulf would get to it in his own time.

“The warm spell that persisted for a week or so after I landed seems to have deserted us for good,” he said. “That wind makes it downright chilly this morning. Invigorating, though.”

Wulf had never been one for small talk. “It would appear,” he said, “that the Prince of Wales is determined to make a grand spectacle out of the allied victories. Half the sovereigns and princes and generals of Europe are expected to come and preen themselves as his guests, including the Czar of Russia, the King of Prussia, and Marshal von Blücher.”

“I had heard rumors to that effect,” Aidan said. “It seems that all England, London especially, is deliriously in love with anything on two legs and in uniform. One cannot expect Prinny not to want to bask in the glory of it all.”

“Quite,” his brother agreed. “This is not the first I have heard of it either. I must be returning soon to London and the House. The morning's post has brought a specific invitation to a state dinner for the foreign guests at Carlton House, though it is not until several weeks hence. There will be numerous other special celebratory events, though. Everyone will wish to outshine everyone else in hospitality.”

Aidan grimaced. “I would rather you than me.”