The English Witch (27 page)

"Well." He dangled the folded letter before her eyes. "Do you know what that is?"

"Whatever it is, it appears to have been rather knocked about. What is it, Basil? A love letter from one of your high flyers?"

"You might say that."

As he slowly unfolded the sheets, she gasped. "That's my writing," she cried. "What is it?"

"'My dearest Aunt Clem,'" he began, "'I am so sorry to trouble you with this absurdity, but matters here have, I think, got out of hand—'" He broke off as his wife tried to snatch the letter from him. "Oh, no," he told her, holding it out of her reach, "I haven't kept it so safely and tenderly all this time that you might tear it to pieces, my darling. Besides, I know it by heart."

"Where did you get that?"

"It was sent me. By my dearest Auntie."

"Aunt Clem sent it to you? When?"

"When I was in Greece."

Though she was a married lady of some hours, Alexandra could still blush. Recalling some of the comments in that letter, she did so now. "In Greece," she echoed faintly.

"Yes. Aunt Clem is monstrous underhanded, you know. Anyhow," he went on, allowing the letter to drop gently to the floor, "I read it and was lost utterly. Your brutally comic description of Randolph and his odious family. As you listed everything that you'd tried and failed with your Papa—well, I felt rather a kinship with you, you know. And then I saw you, dirty and bedraggled in that crowded room. You were so beautiful in spite of it. You knew immediately what I was about and played your part so well. You acted to admiration, my love. I very nearly believed my own lie. Naturally, when I kissed you, I sealed my fate. What could be more romantic?"

His beloved was staring at the bedpost. "You don't mean to say that Aunt Clem deliberately—but no, how could she? How could she possibly guess—”

"Oh, she didn't guess, my love. She knew we were meant for each other. Aunt Clem sees all, knows all. And knowing her, she had Maria in it as well. My precious," he cried as he flung himself back upon the pillows, his hand clutched to his breast, "we're the victims of a conspiracy. You and I—as wicked a set of connivers as ever walked this great island—the innocent victims of an unscrupulous pair of matchmakers.
Matchmakers,
Alexandra. How lowering."

The bride transferred her gaze from the bedpost to her groom. "Lowering? I should say so. I never had the trace of a suspicion. Good grief. And your aunt let me go through all that horrendous business."

"Hasn't a conscience, dear. Runs in the family."

"Is that so?" The green eyes narrowed. "Just how long have you known about this?"

"If you keep on looking at me like that I shall scream. It makes my blood curdle. Really it does." He maneuvred himself into more comfortable proximity to his lovely wife. "I assure you I feel as stupid as you do. It never occurred to me. In all my frenzy of jealousy and scurrying hither and yon and plotting, there was no room in my brain for my aunt. Once again she has triumphed over me. I suppose I shall have to endure it, just as I endured my gloomy exile." In proof of this stoic determination, he dropped several lingering kisses upon his wife's creamy shoulder.

"Poor Basil. It was none of your doing, was it? But all these wicked females taking advantage."

He murmured an unintelligible reply from the nape of her neck.

"It was I who trapped you, was it? Caught you in my wicked toils? Compromised you?"

"Well, I helped," he admitted. "Because I'm so gallant, you know."

"Oh yes, poor dear."

"At any rate, thanks to Aunt Clem, I've had a month to become reconciled to my fate. We could have had a perfectly acceptable ceremony the next day. Edward had only to use his influence for a special licence. But no. A big wedding, says my aunt, is the only recompence for not giving you a proper comeout."

"It has been a very long time," said his wife. "I've nearly forgotten what it was like exactly. Compromising you, I mean."

"What a shocking poor memory you've got, madam. You've even forgotten that you never did accomplish my ruination. I suppose," he breathed, as he pulled her face down to his, "I shall have to spend the rest of my life helping you remember these...matters."

She sighed, and in a very bored and weary sort of way, agreed, "Yes, my love, and how very tiresome for you—"

She was permitted to say no more...and very soon thereafter was so agreeably occupied that she forgot what she'd intended to say.

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After a heroic attempt to be an English major forever, Loretta Chase stoically accepted her degree but kept on reading and writing. As well as working in academe, she had an enlightening if brief life in retail and a Dickensian six-month experience as a meter maid. In the course of moonlighting as a corporate video scriptwriter, she succumbed to the charm of a producer, who lured her into writing novels -- and marrying him. The union has resulted in what seems like an awful lot of books and quite a few awards, including the Romance Writers of America's Rita. Heralded as “…the long awaited successor to Georgette Heyer” by Library Journal, Loretta Chase's historical romance novels have been published all over the world.

 

To learn more, please visit
www.LorettaChase.com
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