Slightly Married (28 page)

Was it any wonder that, lonely and inexperienced as she had been, she had fallen in love with him? How much substance, though, had there been to her love? There could not have been much, surely, if she could so easily have fallen out of love with him and into love with Aidan. But perhaps that was unfair to herself. Love needed to be fed and nurtured if it was to flourish and grow. John had not been here for longer than a year to feed her love.

Neither would Aidan be here after tomorrow. Would she fall out of love with him too, then?

Mrs. Rutledge had joined them and was talking to Serena about some matter related to the church. John stood up.

“Lady Aidan,” he said, “would you care for a stroll?”

Aidan, she saw at a glance, was in his shirtsleeves, wielding one of the racquets.

“Thank you,” she said, getting to her feet. But she ignored his offered arm, and clasped her hands behind her back.

“Eve,” he said as they set off across the lawn. “Eve, my dear, how is it that you look even more beautiful than ever?”

How did one answer such a question? She did not even try.

“I did not expect to see you here today,” she said. “I thought you were busy with the victory celebrations.”

He shrugged. “They grow stale,” he said. “I wanted to see you. I thought Bedwyn might be gone by now. But he is leaving tomorrow? I overheard you say so to Mrs. Robson.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Poor Eve,” he said softly, steering the way toward a long tree-lined avenue, at the end of which was an octagonal summer house. “Forced to make a marriage of convenience with a Bedwyn. They are a dour, humorless, emotionless lot, are they not? But no matter. He will be gone soon. I will be here for the rest of the summer to comfort you.”

“There is no comfort you can offer me, John,” she said.

“Ah, Eve,” he said, looking down at her, “we were always friends, were we not?”

“Yes, we were,” she agreed. She had always found him easy to talk to, easy to listen to. She had liked him long before she had loved him.

“We will be friends again, then,” he said. “We will meet again as we have always met when I have been at home. We will be companions and friends through the summer.”

“I think not, John,” she said. “Even if we had not become more than friends I would think it impossible for us to continue such a friendship, clandestine as it was and clandestine as it would have to remain. But we
did
become more than friends.”

They both smiled and nodded at a couple who passed them on their way back from the summer house to the main lawn. John exchanged a few pleasantries with them.

“You are a little upset now,” he said when they resumed their walk, “because you were forced into your marriage and believe that therefore all is at an end between us. Nothing could be farther from the truth. We will be friends again—indeed, we have never stopped being friends, have we? And we will be lovers again, Eve.”

She looked sharply at him. He was smiling warmly back at her.

“Tell me,” she said. “I have wondered, though I believe I know the answer. Did you ever have any intention of marrying me?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “In my dreams I did, Eve. I love you dearly. Please believe that. Please never doubt it. My thoughts turn to you more often than is good for me. I believe I will always love you—always, even after I am married myself and have produced heirs satisfactory to my father. But no, in the realm of reality there could have been no marriage between us. You knew that as well as I did, even though you are the love of my life.”

Had
she known? Had her love for him made her suppress the truth, even from herself? No, No, she had not. How incredibly trusting and naive she had been. But the thing was, she realized, that John had not meant to deceive her. Not really. He had been playing a game of dreams and had assumed she knew the rules and played along with him. He was no villain. He was just not the man she had thought him, the man she had thought she loved. But then, she was not the woman he had thought her either.

It had been an illusion, all of it.

“A shallow love,” she said. “You had been two months back in England before I knew of it, and then I discovered it quite by accident. You did not know who Aidan's bride was when you came to the ball at Bedwyn House.”

“I paced the streets of London all that night after I
did
know,” he told her. “I thought I would lose my mind, Eve.”

But why?” she asked him. “You had no intention of marrying me anyway.”

“I hate the thought of someone else touching you,” he said. “
Has
he touched you, Eve? He is your husband, but it
is
a marriage of convenience. Please tell me—”

“John.” Eve had stopped walking though they had not yet come up to the summer house. “My marriage is none of your concern. None whatsoever. Neither is my life. We were friends. We were lovers. Past tense. Even the friendship is past tense. There can be nothing between us ever again. Not ever.”

“He is going away, Eve,” he said, standing and gazing at her, a frown marring his perfect features. “He will forget you within a few days. You will probably never see him again. You will change your mind. You—”

“I will not change my mind,” she told him. “I am married to him, John. For better, for worse, until death parts us. I choose to be loyal and faithful in every way.”

“You will change your mind after a while,” he said. “Eve, my dear, remember what has been between us for years now. Remember the last time we were together before I went to Russia. It was very, very good.”

It had not been. Not physically. But that had nothing to do with anything at this moment.

“I am going back to the terrace for a drink,” she said. “I would rather go alone. Good-bye, John. I wish you happy.”

“I will be,” he assured her, smiling again. “With you, Eve. I'll give you a week or two.”

Fortunately he did not accompany her back up the long avenue. She did not go to the terrace for a drink after all. Aidan had finished his game, she could see, and was pulling his coat back on. She went to join him.

“Did you win?” she asked.

“I always win,” he said, looking keenly at her. “We will get something to eat and sit down somewhere.”

They sat side by side on a wrought iron bench beside a little fish pond rather than join a group.

“I went walking with Viscount Denson,” she told him.

“I know.”

She took a bite out of a lobster patty and then did not know quite how she was to turn it over in her mouth. He said no more.

“Do you not want to know,” she asked him, “what we talked about?”

“It would seem,” he said, “that you wish to tell me. But shall I make it easier for you? He wishes to continue the acquaintance. He wishes to resume your affair. He wants you to be his mistress. He has always loved you and always will.”

It was all so uncannily accurate that she merely stared at him.

“I said no,” she told him. “No to everything.”

“That too I could have predicted,” he said. “You are an honorable woman, Eve. You will not see me after tomorrow, but you will live a celibate life rather than be unfaithful to me, will you not?”

She wondered suddenly if there were any truth in that old romantic notion that a heart could break. “Would you care,” she asked him, “if I did not?”

He turned his head to look at her. His eyes were almost black and totally unfathomable.

“I will not be here to care either way, Eve,” he said. “You must live your life as you see fit. I will not be your conscience for you.”

She set down her plate on the bench between them, knowing that she could eat no more. Her hands, she noticed, were not quite steady. She raised her eyes to his and realized when she could not see him clearly that she was very close to weeping. She had not demanded his love. All she had wanted was some small indication that he
cared
about her fidelity.

“Excuse me,” she said, rising hastily and heading in the direction of one of the large pots of flowers, which she stood apparently examining until she was sure her eyes were clear enough to allow her to mingle with her neighbors.

You will not see me after tomorrow . . .

I will not be here to care either way . . .

Yes, surely hearts could break. After tomorrow surely hers would.

CHAPTER XXII

I
ALWAYS WIN.

It was what he had said to her after the game, but he had not been referring to the game. He was not even sure it was true.
Did
he always win? He had always won the battle with his honor, he supposed. When he had realized his mistake at Lindsey Hall back when he was eighteen and had thought he could run the estate for Bewcastle, he had been ashamed of himself and the way he must have upset Wulf, who was new to his position and undoubtedly knew less at that time about estate management than Aidan did. He could have resisted Wulf's decision to purchase a commission for him. His brother could not have forced him into the military, especially as he was independently wealthy and did not rely for support upon his elder brother. But he had done the honorable thing and stepped into a career the very thought of which had horrified him.

Ever since then honor had been his guiding light—culminating in his marriage to Eve this very summer.

Yes, he had always won any conflict with honor.

But did that make him a winner? A winner of happiness?

Was there such a thing as happiness?

They stayed to the end of the garden party, mingling with the guests, never together after that encounter on the bench by the fish pond. Eve was smiling and animated and suddenly became as much the focus of admiring attention as she had been for that brief week in London. Perhaps she was simply enjoying herself, Aidan thought. Perhaps her spirits were buoyed by the fact that tomorrow he would be leaving, never to return.

But there had been those tear-filled eyes she had raised to him before rushing away to examine the flowers in the closest flower pot.

There were those tears.

Tomorrow he would win another battle by doing the honorable thing and leaving her.

But what would he win thereby?

Honor, of course.

But happiness?

What about
her
happiness? Was he so intent upon honor that he was ignoring what might just be staring him in the face? But what if he was mistaken? What had those tears meant?

They traveled home in silence, watching the passing scenery from opposite windows. Tomorrow he was to leave. Did she have nothing more to say to him? Did he have nothing more to say to her?

What was the meaning of your tears?

He thought for a moment that he had spoken the words aloud. But his lips were still closed and she made no response.

It was an enormous relief to Aidan when the carriage finally passed between the gateposts of Ringwood and made its way up the driveway to the house. Tomorrow would be a relief too, when he finally rode away and everything was finally over.

Did he dare risk his honor? he wondered. Did he dare grasp at happiness?

When Eve went up to the nursery after dinner, Aidan went with her. He sat with Becky on his lap, listening to the nightly stories, and then he told the children he would be leaving in the morning. He would write to them, he promised, and send them gifts from every new place he went. They must take care of Aunt Eve and learn their lessons well and grow up to be a fine lady and gentleman. He kissed them both. Becky clung to his neck and even shed a few tears. Davy was more his old quiet, contained self, but he allowed Aidan to tuck him into his bed and smooth a hand over his hair.

“I will not forget you, lad, just because I will not be here,” he said. “I will always . . . love you.”

“Nobody ever stays,” the boy said softly, his voice devoid of expression.

“Aunt Eve is staying,” Aidan said, “and Aunt Mari and Becky and Nanny. And you will be staying for them. I'll write, Davy. I promise.”

The boy turned onto his side and covered his head with the blankets. Aidan left his room and the nursery—Eve was still busy in Becky's room. He went down to the drawing room, still wondering if he would grasp for the moon. The housekeeper was hovering outside the room, looking her usual sour self.

“I am to tell you,” she said, “from Mrs. Pritchard that she has gone to her bed because she is tired and you are not to stay inside on her account.”

Aidan folded his hands at his back and gazed broodingly at the housekeeper. “Agnes,” he said, making a sudden decision, “fetch me some towels, will you? And a blanket?”

“Why?” She eyed him suspiciously.

There was not another servant of Aidan's acquaintance who would answer a direct order with the single word
why
.

“Not your business, Agnes,” he said, keeping his voice stern, though his spirits were beginning to lift with a certain excitement now that it appeared he had taken the first step. “Fetch them. Preferably within the next few minutes.”

She crossed her large arms over her chest.

“Don't you go breaking my lamb's heart any more than it is already broke,” she said. “I am not afraid to take you on, I'm not, though I know I couldn't beat you even if I had a pistol in each hand and a dagger between my teeth.”

Aidan smiled at her. “Agnes,” he said, “I could hug you, but I doubt it would be a delightful experience for either of us. Her heart is broken, is it? By me? Fetch those towels and that blanket, woman, and let us have no more insubordination. I might have to have you court-martialed.”

Her eyes squinted even more and her lips pursed. Then she nodded curtly, turned on her heel, and disappeared. She reappeared in the drawing room a mere couple of minutes later with the requested towels and two blankets.

“Even these nights can get coolish,” she said, “once it gets past midnight. And I assume it
is
going to get past midnight?”

“I hope so, Agnes,” he said as she set the pile down on the end of a sofa.

“You're not so bad looking when you smile,” she astounded him by observing just as she was leaving the room. “But don't you waste no more of them on me. You give them to my lamb.”

He grinned at the closed door and then sobered instantly. Why was he feeling so lighthearted? What if he was about to sacrifice his honor?

The door opened and Eve came inside, smiling, as pale as a ghost, looking about for her aunt.

“She has gone to bed,” he said. “We are going out, you and I. We are going swimming.”

“Swimming?” She looked blankly at him.

“In the river,” he said. “And you will not have the excuse of no towel this time. There are a few.” He nodded at the pile on the sofa.

“All those?” She frowned.

“Two of them are blankets,” he said.

“Blankets?”

“One to lie on on the bank,” he said. “Agnes assures me we may need the other for warmth if we are out after midnight. She may be right. We are going to swim, and then we are going to make love unless you can assure me that it is something you definitely do not want. And then . . .” But he had lost his nerve. “And then we will see.”

“Aidan.” For a moment color had tinged her cheekbones, but now she was pale again. She drew breath to speak, but merely shook her head and was quiet.

He strode over to the sofa, scooped up the blankets and towels, tucked them under one arm, and held out his free hand for hers.

“Come,” he said.

For several moments he thought she was going to say no. She stood staring at his hand and then, at last, slowly raised her own to set in his.

“One last night?” she said.

“One last dream.”

H
E HAD REMEMBERED THE STRETCH OF THE RIVER SHE
had pointed out to him as the secluded place where she and Percy had sometimes swum in the summers. He led the way there unerringly in the darkness. Not that it was very dark. The moon was almost full, and it beamed down on them with a million bright stars. They did not talk on the way. She clung to his hand, memorizing the feel of it, the warmth and strength of it.

What had he meant—
one more dream
?

Her heart had been so constricted with the pain of unshed tears when she left the nursery that she had hardly known how to put on a cheerful face as she entered the drawing room.

“Here,” he said when they were among the trees down by the river, in rather heavy darkness now, though the river gleamed in a wide silver band to their left. “This is the spot.” He dropped her hand and his bundle, and then shook out one of the blankets and spread it on the ground.

They were going to swim—and then
they were going to make love.
Would she be insane enough not to protest?

“Come here,” he said, reaching for her hand again and drawing her close.

He reached around her for the buttons at the back of her dress and undid them one by one. He drew her dress over her shoulders and down her arms, and let it fall in a pool at her feet—it was another of her new gowns, chosen carefully for this final evening, but not for abandonment on the riverbank. He was drawing her shift up her body.

“Lift your arms,” he said.

“Aidan—” she protested in some shock.

“You told me yourself,” he said, “that no one can see you here even in daytime. Swimming is not nearly as enjoyable an activity if it is not done naked.”

What was it about his voice? It was unmistakably his even though there was not quite enough light beneath the trees to verify his identity with her eyes. But there was something about it. Something—boyish. Something one just did not associate with Colonel Lord Aidan Bedwyn.

Well, why not? she thought, lifting her arms.
Why not?
A few moments later she was naked and he was peeling off his own clothes and tossing them down beside the blanket in a manner to give his batman heart palpitations if he could see.

And then he caught her by the hand again and drew her in the direction of the river. He had no intention of stopping at the edge of the bank, she realized at the last moment. She drew and held a deep breath, closed her eyes, and jumped.

The shock of the cold water took her breath away so that even after she surfaced Eve had to fight for breath as she trod water. The river was deeper here than it was farther up, where they had bathed with the children.

“I would rather have done that gradually,” she said, spreading her arms along the water.

“Nonsense!” He laughed. “Agony by slow inches is far worse than agony by a swift yard. Look, Eve. Look at the water all awash with moonlight. And look at the stars. Feel the cool water—it is not at all cold once one is used to it, is it? And the warm air. Smell the trees and the wildflowers. Is it not good to be alive?”

“Yes.” She looked around and breathed in deeply.

“And to have someone with whom to share one's exuberance?” he said.

“Yes.”

She stopped questioning his mood. She accepted it. She began to swim a slow and leisurely crawl along the center of the river, and he kept pace beside her as the sounds of their breathing and lapping water and night birds calling or cooing among the trees soothed her spirits. After they had swum some distance he turned onto his back to return the way they had come, and she did likewise. They did not use their arms but merely kicked their feet to propel themselves slowly along.

“How many do you think there are?” he asked her.

“Stars?” she said. “Thousands? Millions? Where does it all end? I wonder. It must end somewhere, must it not? All things end.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “the universe does not. It is an idea the human mind cannot grasp. All things must end, as you have just said. But what if some things do not, Eve? What if the universe does not? What if . . . what if other things do not? We would have proved the existence of the divine, would we not?”

How absurd, she thought suddenly. Here they were, two respectable adults, out swimming naked after dark, speculating about infinity and divinity. Trying to stretch their human minds so that they could conceive of something that had no end. Love, perhaps? Was that what he had been about to say? One could not imagine Aidan saying such things about love, but he was in a strange mood tonight.

They swam for more than an hour, sometimes with energy and speed, sometimes so lazily that they did little more than float. Once he dived unexpectedly beneath her and pulled her under so that she came up sputtering and had to get instant revenge by pounding her hands flat on the water and making it impossible for him to clear his eyes. They laughed with glee, just like carefree children. And then he caught her to him, imprisoning her arms to her sides, shook the water from his eyes, and kissed her.

“It is time to dry ourselves off before the wrinkles in our skin become permanent,” he said. “And then it is time to make love. Unless you do not want it.”

The moment of truth. But of course, there had never been any doubt in her mind from the start, only the conviction that there
ought
to be doubt, that she was going to increase tomorrow's pain beyond the point at which it could be borne. But she was already beyond that point, anyway.

“I want it,” she said.

“Ah.” He sighed and kissed her again—and then lifted her bodily out of the water and deposited her shivering on the bank.

“Brrr,” she said and ran for the towels.

He came after her.