The Bride Insists (18 page)

“With her money.”

“Umm.”

“And your young friend wants a bit more out of life than crops and acres? As what gel wouldn't?”

This was the conclusion Selina had been aiming for, a story anyone in the
ton
would easily accept. No undercurrents, no complications. She nodded again, added a conspiratorial smile. When Martha matched it, Selina felt she'd slotted Clare into a safe social haven. There shouldn't be many uncomfortable questions after Martha had spread these facts about.

“Well, I'm just the person to show her that there
is
more—a vast deal more.” Martha practically rubbed her hands together. “I don't suppose she's pretty?”

“Quite pretty.”

“Oh, splendid. This will be great fun!”

Belatedly, Selina recalled Martha's weakness for… social manipulation, she supposed you would call it. Mainly it was matchmaking, which couldn't apply here. But her little… schemes extended into other areas as well. They'd always been so amusing to hear about—when Selina hadn't been acquainted with anyone she mentioned. “There must be no nefarious plots,” she said, adopting a teasing tone.

“La, what a word. I have no idea what you mean.”

“Clare hasn't gone about much in society. She will need guidance, not… a push. She doesn't mean to make a big splash. I thought just an evening party or two…” Enough to divert her young friend's mind from her troubles, cheer her up.

“My dear! You know you can trust me.”

She could trust Martha to enjoy herself, to be generous with her hospitality, and to know the intricacies of London society down to the least detail. But could she trust her to give Clare good advice? Selina knew she couldn't draw back now without causing serious offense. She would simply have to supply the advice herself, she thought uneasily.

Returning to their hotel, Selina was assailed by regrets. She'd spent most of her life working to make certain other people were comfortable and content. Now, just when she'd begun to slough off that responsibility, here she was, thrown back into the role of caretaker. No one else knew how much she'd left behind in Cornwall. Clare would be mortified if she found out, and insist she return. But Selina didn't see how she could go back to Trehearth House as things stood. Besides, only a heartless creature would leave Clare alone among strangers in her despondent state. With a sigh, Selina concluded that she had one last term of duty before she broke free.

***

Clare, meeting her new hostess the following day, was surprised to find herself being carefully surveyed through a jeweled lorgnette. “Oh my goodness,” Martha Howland said. “You'll be all the rage. A young married lady as lovely as you.”

“You're very kind, Mrs. Howland.”

“Call me Martha, dear. And I shall call you Clare, for I know we are going to be such great friends.”

“Thank you… Martha.” It felt awkward addressing a new acquaintance in this familiar way, particularly a much older woman. But how could she object?

Her hostess's eyes sparkled with plans. “We'll take my barouche to the park this very afternoon. Whet the
ton
's curiosity, you see. Get them talking.”

Clare felt as if she'd stepped into a rushing stream and was about to be carried off by the current. “I haven't brought many clothes,” she said. In fact, her meager luggage contained only one other gown, packed in case of mishaps on her day trip to Penzance. And both dresses had endured a long coach drive. “I'm sure I have no proper things to wear.”

Martha brushed this aside. “Easily remedied. My dear Selina, how can I repay you for bringing me this diversion? I declare, I haven't looked forward to a season this much in ten years.”

Martha Howland was like a force of nature, Clare thought over the next few days, as she was pulled into a whirl of shopping and morning calls and outings. The older woman never seemed to have the least hesitation about what should be done or how. She appeared determined to offer Clare up to society like a newly wrapped gift, and Clare was at once anxious and relieved to put herself into someone else's hands and think about matters other than the state of her marriage.

***

At Trehearth, the April days passed. The staff continued to put good meals on the table and keep the house neat and clean. The new furniture and hangings were just as colorful and comfortable. But Jamie felt that a vital spark had gone out of the place. Despite all the changes for the better, it seemed hollow and empty. Perhaps it was Clare's abandoned bedchamber, he thought, as he stood there one night and looked around. Her most personal items were gone—the hairbrush that always roused such vivid memories in him, the small litter of bottles, and her reticule. But she'd left clothes in the wardrobe. Her scent lingered there and in the linens, like a promise. She would be back soon; he had to believe that.

Her absence was a continual irritant that ran beneath everything he did. He wasn't sleeping well. His body ached for her. The twins missed her; the servants were furtively puzzled by her absence. Things were going wrong, and it was all her fault.

When ten days had passed with no word, the twins marched into the estate office after dinner and confronted Jamie where he sat with the brandy bottle at his elbow. Their appearance startled him. His sisters had never before approached him at this time and place. And he wasn't used to seeing them in their dresses, even yet. He'd been surprised when they continued to wear them and to abide by all the other conditions Clare had set.

“Clare has not come back,” Tamsyn stated when they stood before him.

“Obviously.” Like last night, and the one before, and the one before that, he'd had a bit too much brandy. His mind was mildly befuddled.

“She hasn't sent any letters,” Tegan said. It was half a question.

“No.” Immediately he realized that he should have lied and said he'd heard from her. If he'd had his wits about him, he could have made up some story to satisfy the whole household. Perhaps he still could. “That is to say…” He tried to come up with a plausible tale of a letter delivered in the village, and found his thoughts too fuzzy. “She's busy. She had some things to take care of in town.”

“What things?” wondered Tamsyn.

“Matters that… came up unexpectedly.” Jamie's tongue tripped a bit on the final word.

“Matters?” echoed Tegan, as if the word were foreign.

“Nothing that need worry you.”

“What if she doesn't ever come back?” said Tamsyn.

A tremor went through Jamie, as if the hollowness of the house had somehow gotten inside him and scooped out his heart. It felt perilous, like walking too close to the cliff edge beyond the terrace. “She will, of course, come back. There's no question about that.”

“But what if she…?”

“You should go and get her,” said Tegan.

“You should tell her you're sorry,” added Tamsyn.

“Sorry for…?” What the devil could his little sisters know of their quarrel?

“For whatever you did to make her go away,” said Tegan.

“I didn't do any—”

“You shouted at each other,” Tamsyn pointed out.

“You told her to go to Penzance,” Tegan went on.

Their alternating voices were like buzzing flies around his head.

“And she did.”

“And she didn't come back.”

He tried to break in. “I know th—”

“So you should go and talk to her and bring her back.”

Jamie started to tell them that it wasn't so simple. But then he realized that this was what he really wanted to do. By God, he would fetch Clare home, where she belonged. “Dashed if I won't.”

“You'll say you're sorry?” urged Tamsyn.

“You'll make her come?” asked Tegan at the same time. Her voice was eager and doubtful at once.

Jamie thumped his empty glass on the desktop. “I will!”

“But what if she doesn't want to live here anymore?” asked Tamsyn sadly.

“Don't be ridiculous!” He shoved the thought savagely aside. Clare was his wife; she would live where he dictated.

He hadn't meant to shout. As he watched Tamsyn tug her twin away toward the door, he tried to think how to remove the anxious expressions from their identical faces. But before he could imagine a way, they were gone.

“It is her, isn't it?” asked Harry Simpson, looking across the crowded reception room at a stunning blond. The big, bluff guardsman was the target of numerous glances himself. He looked as handsome in evening dress as in his uniform, his close-cropped red hair shining in the candlelight.

Small, wiry Andrew Tate nodded, his eyes on the same lovely young woman.

“You are sure? She looks rather different.”

“That's Jamie's wife. Lady Trehearth. I have it on unimpeachable authority.”

Harry nodded. Andrew always knew all the latest
on
dits
. He'd never known him to be wrong. Still, he could scarcely believe this was the subdued girl who had stood beside his friend at the wedding a few months ago. “Jamie's still down in Cornwall though?”

“As far as I am aware. Have you heard from him?”

“Not a peep.” Harry continued to survey his good friend's wife, still comparing the vision before him to the figure he'd briefly met at the ceremony. She had the same pale golden hair and delicate features, but now they topped an entrancing frame draped in sea green silk. He didn't see how he could have forgotten those curves. Well, he couldn't have. Her head turned at some remark from the older woman beside her. She also had a ravishing smile. That hadn't been much in evidence in January. “Shall we go and speak to her?” Harry's deceptively innocent blue eyes met Andrew's ironic gray ones.

“Oh, I think so,” was the response. “I think so indeed. If Jamie don't keep us up to date, we'll just have to find out for ourselves. But first…” Andrew swept his gaze across the crowded room and carefully calibrated the crowd. “There she is.” Martha Howland stood amid a formidable congregation of dowagers, but it took more than a flock of old biddies to intimidate Andrew Tate. His source had named Mrs. Howland as young Lady Trehearth's entree to this party, and Andrew wanted to discover how that connection had been made. It bothered him a bit. Martha Howland adored intrigue. She wasn't malicious—not a dangerous gossip like others Andrew could see in the room—but she definitely… savored romantic complications. He'd heard her say as much, if not in exactly those words. And she wasn't above giving them a little push, if chance sent the opportunity her way. Just to see what might happen. “Come on,” he said to Harry.

Andrew's bow to Mrs. Howland was impeccable, and his face showed none of his apprehensions. Harry offered a similar salutation and his patented smile, guaranteed to flutter any feminine heart, of whatever age.

“Aha,” said Mrs. Howland. “I think I can predict what you two are after.”

“Have you taken up prognosticating?” Andrew responded lightly.

She laughed. “Hardly. I've taken up squiring a lovely young lady about town. You wouldn't credit how many fellows have suddenly developed an urge to speak to me, as they haven't done in twenty years. And all to wangle an introduction. Well, she don't want to meet a lot of people just yet, so you'll have to wait…”

“We're already acquainted with Lady Trehearth,” Andrew inserted smoothly. “We're old friends of her husband.”

“Really?” Mrs. Howland's gaze sharpened. “You know the family then?”

“Very well. Quite a respected old line. Jamie is the seventh Baron Trehearth.” There was no harm in pumping his friend up a bit. No need to mention the decline in fortune. “And you? Are you a friend of Lady Trehearth's family?”

“No. We have a mutual acquaintance. You familiar with her side as well?” Mrs. Howland's curiosity was obvious and boundless.

“We only met her at the wedding,” responded Harry, earning a monitory glance from his friend. He took the hint and kept quiet.

“Ah yes. Was that a grand affair? Before the season started, I gather.”

For the next ten minutes, Andrew and Mrs. Howland engaged in an oral sparring match, each trying to get information without giving any. Harry admired the cut and thrust and judged that the contest ended in a draw, with neither much the wiser.

Andrew finally gave up, acknowledging Mrs. Howland's social prowess with another enviable bow, and led Harry over toward their friend's wife.

Clare smoothed a hand over the sumptuous fabric of her new evening gown. It was quite the most beautiful dress she'd ever had. Martha Howland had taken them to her own modiste, and even Selina admitted that the woman was a genius. Her skills had tempted Selina into a new gown as well, and the deep red brocade gave her friend a fetching glow. They both looked very fine, Clare thought. She was aware of curious glances from the crowd.

Perhaps she'd made a mistake in asking Martha not to make too many introductions on her first night among the
ton
. Now that she was accustomed to the room and the chattering crowd, she was finding it hard to stand here with Selina and watch the party go on without her. It was also making her something of a mystery, she realized, and attracting more attention than she would have garnered otherwise. When the two young men came up and spoke to her, she was relieved as well as startled.

“Lady Trehearth,” they said with courteous bows.

One was tall and redheaded, the other wiry and blond, each handsome in his own way. There was something familiar about them, as if she should recognize them. But she couldn't quite recall why.

“We met at the wedding,” Selina said, saving her.

“Indeed, ma'am. Andrew Tate, at your service.”

“Harry Simpson,” said the taller one.

“Of course. You're Jamie's friends.” Clare decided to reciprocate on the reminders. “You remember Mrs. Newton.”

This elicited another elegant bow. “Nice to see you again, ma'am.”

“You're up to town for a visit?” Harry inquired.

“Yes.” Clare was realizing that their connection with Jamie was an unanticipated complication.

“We haven't heard much from Jamie lately,” said Andrew, confirming her fears.

“Not that he was ever a great correspondent,” added Harry, earning another admonitory glance.

“He's very busy on the estate,” Clare replied. “There's so much to do.”

“Indeed.” Andrew surveyed her, noting uneasiness. “So, he decided not to come up to town with you?”

“Yes.” What else could she say? She could hardly tell them that he hadn't been given the opportunity to decide.

Andrew could see that his question made her even more anxious. Jamie's few short letters since January had sounded buoyant, as if he was smugly pleased with his decision to wed. But his wife's manner told a somewhat different story.

“Enjoying yourself in the metropolis?” Harry asked.

“We've only been here a few days.”

“Be happy to show you around,” the large guardsman added. Clare had roused his ready sympathies.

“Oh… thank you.”

“Jamie would want us to make you feel at home,” put in Andrew smoothly. “May we call?”

“Well… I'm not sure…” She was behaving like a newly hatched deb, Clare thought. But Andrew Tate's gaze was unnervingly shrewd. She didn't want to answer any more inquiries about Jamie.

“We're guests of a friend,” Selina interjected, seeing Clare's unease. “We can't speak for her.”

“Oh, I'm well acquainted with Mrs. Howland.” Andrew was stretching the truth a bit, since he seldom called on elderly matrons. But it wasn't a lie. “We were just talking. I'm sure she'll be glad to receive us.”

“Ah, you…”
How
had
he
known
the
name
of
their
hostess?
Clare wondered. Suddenly the curious glances around them seemed intrusive.

“We're happy to meet any friend of Martha's.” Selina was politely dismissive, and the two young men took the hint and moved on.

“What was all that about?” Harry asked when they were well away.

“We have to keep an eye on her,” Andrew replied. “Before other fellows get ideas.”

Harry stood still, the implications washing over him. “Pretty young wife on the town without her husband might be looking for some… alternative company?”

“Exactly. Sometimes you surprise me, Harry.” His bluff friend could be quicker than expected.

“I like being underestimated. It gives me a tactical advantage.”

Andrew nodded.

“Are you going to write Jamie?”

Andrew frowned. “I suppose so. Yes. But perhaps not immediately.”

Harry raised his ruddy brows.

“I want to be sure about what to say first. I'd like some idea about what's going on.”

“Doesn't seem much mystery to it.”

“Indeed? What would you say to him, Harry?” Andrew wondered.

“Your wife's on the loose amidst a bunch of jackals. Come and get her.”

Andrew's bark of laughter attracted a few glances. “That would certainly get a reaction.”

“So it should. Look, there's Fitzhugh eyeing her like a sweetmeat. Did you see?”

“No, I seem to have missed that.” Andrew looked up at his friend with rapidly increasing respect. “I'm surprised that you did not.”

The tall guardsman glowered around the room. “Thing is, you don't have a sister. Lily being out gives me a whole new perspective on the season. It's like setting a kitten down amongst a rabble of tom cats.”

Andrew laughed again. “Surely not quite so bad as that, Harry.”

“I've got it.” Harry brightened. “I'll take Lily to see Jamie's wife, have her make friends.”

“That's kind of you.”

“Not being kind,” Harry sniffed. “If they go about together, I can watch them both at once.”

“My dear fellow, I had no idea you could be devious.”

“As I said, you haven't got a sister.”

***

Lily was only too glad to oblige her adored older brother, and so the next morning the two Simpsons joined Andrew in a call at Martha Howland's. They found all the ladies at home. What might have been a rather awkward occasion was lightened by red-haired, seventeen-year-old Lily, who was delighted to be out of the schoolroom and ready to savor everything she encountered. Her enthusiasm won Clare over in the first few minutes, and soon had Selina and Martha smiling benevolently.

“Would you credit it? I attended a balloon ascension only three days ago,” Lily informed them. “It was the most astonishing thing. The gas bag was quite huge.” She opened her blue eyes wide to emphasize the point. “It knocked off three chimney pots as they went shooting up in the air.”

The girl made Clare feel far more than six years her senior, and yet at the same time some of her excitement about the thrills of society rubbed off.

“Mama has gotten us vouchers for Almack's,” Lily went on, “though Harry claims it's a dead bore.”

“Not for you,” her tall brother replied.

“No dicing or rum punch,” Lily said archly. “I've heard you complaining about it.”

He ignored the teasing. “You'll like the dancing.”

“I love to dance,” she agreed, a smile lighting her pretty face. “Shall you be at the Condons' ball, Lady Trehearth? It is my very first one!”

Clare did not reveal that it would be hers as well. She merely nodded and let the girl's chatter flow on. There seemed to be several parties every night of the London season, and Martha Howland had invitations to them all. No hostess appeared to mind including a safely married young lady and her older companion. They were no competition in the marriage stakes. And so Clare had attended more social gatherings in the last week than in all of her life before.

“I have had dancing lessons, of course,” Lily was saying. “But I have only danced with Harry and Cousin Daniel.” She gave the group in the drawing room a flashing glance. “What if no one asks me to stand up with them?”

“They will,” Harry assured her, with an expression that suggested he found this a mixed blessing.

“Will you make them, Harry?” Lily laughed. “Will you wear your uniform and fetch me dancing partners at sword point?”

“More likely beat them off with the flat of the blade,” her brother muttered.

Clare envied Lily's peal of laughter at this mock threat. The girl looked so carefree, no thought in her head but of the fun she would have in her first season. Lily had a mother to consult and manage her debut, and a brother obviously watching out for her welfare. From Clare's perspective, her life looked gloriously uncomplicated. Perhaps she shouldn't have allowed Martha Howland to talk her into ordering a ball gown, Clare thought. It had been years since her own dancing lessons, and as for partners—she seemed to have forgotten how to flirt, if she ever knew. The years as a governess had changed her. Entering crowded rooms under a battery of eyes, talking to the people Martha introduced, Clare was plagued by sudden qualms, urges to step out of the limelight and protect herself.

“So you will be at the ball?” asked a baritone voice at her elbow.

Clare suppressed a start. She hadn't noticed Andrew Tate slipping into the chair beside her. The man moved about a drawing room like a slinking cat, and his shrewd gaze posed questions she didn't wish to answer. “Martha insists I go.” When evading inquiries, blame others, Clare thought, mocking herself.

“I hope you will honor me with a dance,” Andrew said.

It wasn't what she'd expected him to say. When he and Harry arrived this morning, she'd seen them as Jamie's emissaries, here to spy, to interrogate, and maybe even reproach her. But Mr. Tate's expression was bland and courteous. Today, they'd made no mention of Jamie at all, which was odd. Not sure whether she was relieved or disappointed, Clare nodded.

When the callers had gone and Clare went up to her bedchamber, Selina remained in the drawing room with Martha. She was worried. She'd thought this trip to London would be brief, no more than an interlude while Clare cleared her mind. But there'd been no mention of returning, and Martha was planning more and more outings, stretching well into the season. Selina wanted their hostess to stop encouraging Clare to stay, for a number of reasons, some admittedly selfish. But she wasn't sure how to broach the matter. Living in someone's home, seeing them for hours every day, revealed unsuspected facets of personality. If Selina had understood the extent of Martha's mischievous streak, she thought, she never would have asked for her hospitality. At times, Selina felt that the other woman viewed Clare as a kind of experiment. She tried this or that event, one or another set of people, and sat back waiting to see what interesting results might transpire. Yet “interesting” could apparently include actions that Selina saw as disastrous. Finally, nothing better having occurred to her, Selina spoke directly. “I think it's time Clare went back to Cornwall.”