The Wagered Wife (9 page)

They danced-silently for a moment; then he said, “Have you been deliberately avoiding me?”

So. He was not going to bother with small talk. And she took immediate umbrage at his putting her on the defensive. She looked up into those blue-gray eyes, not bothering to hide her annoyance at the challenge in his question. “Yes.”

He waited, apparently expecting her to explain. She did not do so.

“Why?” he asked.

“Why should I not do so?” she countered.

“Because,” he said, his patience sounding extremely forced, “we are, it seems, still tied by the bonds of holy matrimony, my dear.”

“Oh.” Her voice held a false note of surprise, and she smiled at him with ultra sweetness. “Is this a matter that has only recently come to your attention?”

His hand tightened on hers and his voice was cold. “No. It is a matter of which I have long been painfully aware.”

“You poor dear.” Her voice dripped sarcasm, but inwardly she winced.
A hit. A palpable hit,
she thought, foolishly echoing a line from
Hamlet.

“Look. This is neither the time nor place for this discussion. Do you think you might possibly manage to be at home if I call tomorrow to continue our conversation?”

“Of course. Your wish is my command, husband dear.”

He compressed his lips, and his eyes snapped with anger at this sally, but he merely swung her smoothly through the remaining steps of the waltz.

Caitlyn chewed the inner part of her bottom lip. She did not know why she had responded as she had. Perhaps because he seemed so in control and she wanted to break through that protective facade. Perhaps because she had been harboring her resentment for nearly five years.

He returned her to Aunt Gertrude and bade them both good night. Then he was gone—having left as abruptly as he had arrived. Soon afterwards, Caitlyn and Aunt Gertrude made their excuses and left also.

 

 

“How did it go? Or should I ask?” Theo's tone was light as he and Trevor once again sat in the Ruskin library at the end of an evening.

“Not well, I fear.”

“She is a beautiful woman,” Theo opined in a neutral tone.

“And a very angry one.” Trevor flinched inwardly as he recalled her sarcasm.

“
She
is angry? Why? Because you did not die in the Peninsula?”

“No, it is not that, I am sure.”

“I may have a distorted view—you being my friend and all—but it does appear to me that
you
have been the aggrieved party in this. I mean, most women wait a few years before saddling their husbands with another man's brat.”

“You are right. But—still—I did not handle the matter very well. Maybe tomorrow . . .”

“Good luck, my friend.”

Later that night, Trevor found it hard to sleep. Theo was right. She was a beautiful woman and she felt so
right
in his arms—as though she simply belonged there. He had wanted to dance her out onto the terrace and kiss her senseless. Had she felt any of the excitement that having her so close had raised for him? Probably not.

This was certainly not the pudgy, shy, self-effacing girl Fiske had foisted on the naive young Trevor. But perhaps that girl had never truly existed at all. This woman knew who she was and would be stubborn in asserting what she wanted from life.

So why had she not accepted what he was sure would have been a generous offer from his family? Why had she not just gone on with her life? And why was Aunt Gertrude so protective of her?

He had barely greeted his aunt—
his
relative, not Caitlyn's—when Aunt Gertrude had said, “If you intend to hurt Caitlyn, you will answer to me, young man.”

“I have no intention of hurting anyone,” he had replied. “But she and I must set things aright.”

“Well, I hope you will accept a bit of advice from an old woman who loves you both.”

“Not such an ‘old' woman, at all.” He grinned at her. “And I know better than to try to avoid listening to you.”

She tapped his arm lightly with her fan. “Take it slowly, son. And learn all the facts before you take any steps you might later regret.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“It means that others have tended to act from ignorance—if we are being charitable—or malevolence if we are not.”

“I am not sure I understand you.”

“You will. But it is not my place to set you straight. Just do take care, dear boy.”

And then what had he done? Immediately challenged Caitlyn and set her back up.

The next day, Caitlyn dressed with as much care as she had the night before. All the time she was doing so, she berated herself for being so concerned about such an inconsequential matter as her appearance. She was further annoyed with herself for caring even the least bit about how Trevor might see her. After all, had he not deserted her when she needed him most?

Nevertheless, she donned her favorite day dress, aquamarine muslin trimmed with just a touch of white lace here and there. Polly arranged her hair in a popular style with carefully casual curls. Looking in the glass, Caitlyn turned her head this way and that.

“Hmm. Yes. I like it,” she told the maid.

Polly beamed. “You want I should add a touch of rouge to your cheeks, ma'am? You seems a mite pale.”

“I think not,” Caitlyn said, pinching those offending bits of her physiognomy.

“You look right pretty, ma'am, if I do say so.” Polly bent to straighten the hem of the dress.

“Thank you, Polly. I need to
feel
pretty today.”

A few minutes later, when she entered the drawing room, she was surprised to find Aunt Gertrude already entertaining guests, several of whom had attended the Bathmoreson ball the previous evening. Vultures sensing a kill, Caitlyn thought, but she smiled brightly and greeted each with some semblance of warmth.

Seeing Bertie among the guests, Caitlyn breathed a sigh of resignation. But the sight of two other male guests raised her spirits considerably, for their conversation was sure to prove diverting. Sir Willard Ratcliff, who would one day inherit the prestigious Ratcliff Farms, had made a name for himself among horse breeders and trainers. His animals were known for both speed and stamina. She also welcomed the presence of David Graham, whom she had met at a salon she attended with Aunt Gertrude. Mr. Graham was an intimate of William Wilberforce and had supported the older man's efforts to outlaw England's participation in the slave trade several years earlier. Both Ratcliff and Graham were rich landowners and, though neither had ever behaved in any but the most proper manner, both had engaged in mild flirtations with Caitlyn.

Bertie immediately, and with little regard for subtlety, established a position near Caitlyn as she stood talking with Graham and another couple. When these three moved off to visit with others, Bertie took Caitlyn's elbow and steered her to a window alcove.

“I promise not to desert you, my dear,” he said softly.

She gently but firmly disengaged herself from his grip. “Bertie, you go too far. I never gave you leave . . .” She wanted to scream at him, but she kept her voice low and even managed to smile for the benefit of anyone who might be observing. Looking around, she caught Ratcliff's eye, and he strolled toward them.

“I say there, Latham. Never think you can steal Mrs. Jeffries away from the rest of us. You must share, you know.”

“Thought nothing of the kind,” Bertie muttered.

“Oh, Bertie,” Caitlyn said. “I would dearly love a glass of lemonade.”

Bertie was not best pleased at this request, but he had little choice but to fetch her the drink.

When he had gone, Ratcliff asked, “Was I correct, then, in thinking you were a damsel in need of rescue?”

“Actually—yes.” Caitlyn smiled.

When Bertie returned with the lemonade, Ratcliff was deep into his favorite topic—his stable of race horses. Two other gentlemen had joined the discussion, and Bertie was no longer able to monopolize Caitlyn's attention. Which was just as well, for her attention kept wandering, though it focused on the drawing room door with each new arrival.

“—do they not, Mrs. Jeffries?” A man named Harrison, along with his wife, had joined the conversation.

“I . . . I beg your pardon?” Caitlyn felt slightly embarrassed. “I am afraid I was not attending.”

“We were discussing the racing meet at Brighton later in the summer,” Mrs. Harrison explained patiently.

“Oh—”

“Do the Jeffries Farms not have some three-year-olds that might be entered?” From Harrison's tone, she knew he had asked the question previously.

“Yes. Perhaps.”

“Yes? Perhaps? Either they are or they are not ready. Will you be entering the race?”

“I . . . uh . . . That decision has not been made yet.” Caitlyn hated sounding so vague. The Brighton Race Meet had long been a dream for her—but now that Trevor had returned, would he scotch their participation?

“What about the earlier meet at Newmarket?” Harrison persisted. “Surely you will show your stock there.”

“Oh, yes, I am sure we will have teams to show at Newmarket. After all, we have done so for three years.”

“And shown to good advantage every time,” Ratcliff observed.

“Thank you, Sir Willard. How kind of you to say so.”

Harrison cleared his throat noticeably. “You may find the competition a bit stiffer this year. I've a pair of chestnuts that are prime goers.”

Caitlyn made an appropriately polite response, then excused herself to circulate among other guests. She was deep into discussing support for a local parish school when she felt rather than heard the room go silent. Even before she turned toward the door, she knew. Trevor had arrived. At least half the room had been awaiting his entrance.

“Oh, there you are, Trevor.” Aunt Gertrude called to him discreetly just as though his appearance were the most natural thing in the world. His aunt took his arm and maneuvered him into her conversational group. “Margaret—Lady Thurston, that is—and I were just discussing the ball the Prince plans for the newest duke in the realm.”

Bless Aunt Gertrude,
Caitlyn thought, though she was aware of several sets of eyes shifting their gaze from her to her husband and back. Good manners reasserted themselves and the buzz of conversation resumed. Soon, guests began to drift away, though Caitlyn thought some did so reluctantly.
Well, they have new grist for the gossip mill,
she told herself.

 

 

Trevor had not expected to find his wife and his aunt entertaining such a number of callers. He was also surprised at the makeup of the group. True, there were several members of what he thought of as “Aunt Gertrude's reformers,” but there were also members of the sporting crowd. Nor was Latham the only guest with pretensions to stylistic grandeur.

Carefully keeping up his end of conversations in the next half hour, he was nevertheless intensely aware of where Caitlyn was in the room and with whom she talked. More than once her throaty laugh caught his ear, producing twinges of annoyance at his being on the outside of her merriment. He was not pleased at seeing that she commanded so much male attention.

Well, what did you expect?
he asked himself contemptuously. A beautiful woman draws men as flowers draw bees. He wondered how many bees had tasted the nectar of this flower. A blast of sheer rage assailed him at this thought.

But why? Was that not what he had assumed during his absence? Had he not long ago resigned himself to the fact of Caitlyn's betrayal? All that remained was to extricate himself from this farce of a marriage. That
was
why he was here, was it not?

He tried not to be too obvious in observing which men commanded Caitlyn's attention. Viscount Latham hovered near her at all times. Trevor smiled grimly to himself at the glares young Latham sent his way. He was not surprised that Caitlyn seemed to welcome Latham's protectiveness. After all, Latham had been her first choice as a husband. Now that his father was dead, Latham might cast his lures into whatever waters appealed to him. However, Trevor
was
taken aback by the ease his wife enjoyed among the Ratcliff lot. Trevor knew Ratcliff well, the two of them having been drawn together in an earlier day by their mutual interest in horses. Ratcliff sought him out now.

He offered Trevor his hand. “Jeffries. Glad to see you back safe and sound.”

“Thank you, Willard. I . . . uh, may I say how sorry I was to hear about your wife?” Trevor had attended the Ratcliff wedding some years before.

“Thank you. It has been over two years now, though. Childbirth is a hazardous bit of business for women. We thought the second time would be easier.” He brightened as he added, “But Mary gave me a fine son earlier.”

“Oh.” Trevor's tone was polite approval, but he could not quell the unbidden thought that Caitlyn had faced that hazard alone.

“Quite a boy, my Robbie,” Ratcliff went on. “He is not yet five, but sits a saddle better than many an adult.”

“Is that so?” Trevor feigned interest. Was it their children that Caitlyn and Ratcliff had in common?

Ratcliff shifted the topic. “Don't suppose you saw much in the way of prime racing stock in the Peninsula?”

“Not much. There were occasional races. Impromptu affairs meant to relieve the boredom between battles.”

“Ah, yes. Well, now that you have returned to home soil, I expect you will be giving me some real competition.”

“Not on the racecourse.” Trevor deliberately employed a note of finality.

“You must be joking.”

Ratcliff's tone annoyed Trevor. “No, I am not.”

Ratcliff gave him a penetrating look but said nothing more on the topic. Shortly he excused himself, took his leave of the hostesses, and departed. Others began to follow suit. Among the last to leave was Viscount Latham, who rather rudely engaged in a whispered colloquy with Caitlyn at the door.

Trevor heard her say, “I appreciate your concern, Bertie,” as she ushered him out.

While other guests took their leave, Trevor wandered to a window. The house Caitlyn had rented was a modest one, rather narrow with four floors besides a basement and an attic. This much he had seen from the street on his previous attempts to visit. Now he saw that the drawing room covered the entire back of the first floor and looked down into a charming garden.

Seeing movement off to the side, he caught sight of a child playing. A child in this house had to be Caitlyn's—living proof of his wife's deception. A woman he presumed to be the nurse sat on a bench nearby. He smiled absently as the little girl carefully laid a doll in a miniature pram and tucked in the covers around it. Then she looked up at the window and waved.

Trevor drew in his breath. This was the child of the park. Until now, he had been able to think of the situation between him and Caitlyn in abstractions and legalities. Here, he beheld the face of another victim—indeed, the real victim—of that damned wager. Had Caitlyn never given a thought to what the child might suffer when she brazenly tried to pass off another man's by-blow as Trevor's?

He suddenly became aware of Aunt Gertrude standing next to him returning the little girl's wave. The silence stretched out until Trevor finally spoke, keeping his voice carefully neutral and his eyes on the scene below. “Caitlyn's daughter, I presume.”

When Aunt Gertrude did not immediately respond, Trevor turned to look at her. Her voice was gentle as she said, “And yours.”

“She bears my name. I suppose that makes her mine in some eyes.”

“Oh, Trevor.
Look
at her.” Aunt Gertrude tapped the window, and the little girl looked up again with a happy smile.

“Oh, my God!” The words were wrenched from him.

“Yes. She is the very image of Melanie at that age. You cannot see it from here, but she even has that very slight overlap of one front tooth over the other that Melanie has. You recall that family portrait that hangs in Timberly's great hall?”

“Yes.” His voice sounded bleak even to his own ears. An image of that portrait flashed across his mind. The child below might have posed for it. What Aunt Gertrude was suggesting, though, could not be true. He tried to recall what had been said about Caitlyn's child in the infrequent letters from his family. Nothing. After that terse postscript from his mother, the subject had never come up. There had to be some reasonable explanation.

“Yes,” he repeated. “But surely you do not believe this child is mine. It is not unknown for entire strangers to look alike. Why, we had a fellow in our regiment looked exactly like Wellington. Caused no end of confusion.”

“Trevor,” his aunt said, and again her voice was very gentle, “I was there when the babe was born on a cold day in February.”

“February?” He mentally ticked off the months. “Are you sure it was not January—or even December?”

“It was the seventeenth of February.”

“I cannot believe—”

“Oh, Trevor. Think.” Aunt Gertrude sounded impatient now. “Had things been as you were told, Caitlyn would have to have been gone with child six weeks and more when you married. The babe would have come much earlier. Surely young men of today know
that
much of the procreation process.”

Before he could respond, Caitlyn returned, having seen the last of the guests on their way.

“And what do you two find so interesting in the garden?” she asked with what seemed to be forced gaiety. She came to look, and Trevor heard her sharp intake of breath. “Ashley.” The color drained from her face and she turned fear-filled eyes to Trevor. Time—the world—seemed to stand still.

“I . . . uh . . . I believe I shall leave you two to sort this out between you,” Aunt Gertrude said, gliding out the door and closing it softly behind her.

“Why?” he fairly croaked the word. “Why in bloody hell did you not tell me about this child—which Aunt Gertrude assures me is mine?”

She took a step backward from the fury he knew himself powerless to quell. “I—I—”