Unforgiven (The Horsemen Trilogy) (19 page)

“Yes,” he said with an answering firmness, “you will. You are my wife. I must present you to them.”

“But I will not be your wife in a few weeks’ time,” she said. “Not in anything but name. And they both made their sentiments toward me quite clear at Christmastime. I have no wish to have any dealings with them.”

“At Christmastime,” he said, “you were not my wife or even my betrothed. We will make the call, Moira. There are certain civilities that must be observed. This is one.”

“It is a command, then,” she said, tight-lipped. “I am being given no choice in the matter.”

His eyes were cold. He was the old Kenneth again. “It is a command,” he said. “One that would not need to be given if you knew what was what.”

It was an accusation that rankled. “So this is what the diamond bracelet and the bonnet and fan were all about this morning,” she said. “And the gloves.”

“You are being childish,” he said.

“We always return to that, do we not?” she said. “We have a disagreement, and I am childish. And you, my lord, are a boorish tyrant. I was foolish to come, and foolish to agree to try to make things different between us. Nothing will ever change.”

“Not unless we decide that it will,” he said.

“There is no
we
in any of this,” she said. “Only you and I: you giving orders, me obeying them.”

He was drumming his fingertips against the tabletop. “You refuse to observe the proper civilities by calling on my mother this afternoon, then?” he asked.

She got to her feet, forcing him to his, though there was still food on his plate. No, he would not do this to her. He would not accuse her of the failure of their experiment before even a single day had passed.

“I shall be ready,” she said, “when it pleases you to send for me, my lord.”

He stood where he was as she left the room.

She let anger sustain her through the next hour and through the silent carriage ride that followed it. How dared he force her to call upon his mother, who had all but driven her from Dunbarton on the night of the Christmas ball, and on his sister, who had treated her with such disdain and dislike on the evening of the assembly in Tawmouth. But then, he would dare anything. There had never been any real human compassion in Kenneth.

She turned to him as the carriage slowed outside Viscount Ainsleigh’s town house. “Do they
know
?” she asked him. “Do they know why we married?” His answer would make all the difference to how she would behave.

“I offered them no explanation,” he said. “None was necessary. But if you would care to change that look on your face, ma’am, we may make it easier on ourselves by having it appear that it was a love match.”

“We were so deeply in love,” she retorted, “that we separated after one week and lived apart for two whole months? They will not believe it for a moment.”

“I thought you did not care for my family,” he said. “Do you care what they believe?”

“No,” she said.

“Well, then,” he said, “it does not matter if we fail to deceive them, does it? But if you will smile at me, ma’am, I will smile at you.” He did so, giving her the full force of his not inconsiderable charm.

“But of course,” she said, “you care for them, do you not? And you care what they believe.”

“If I admit to that, Moira,” he said, “then I will merely be ensuring that you scowl at me throughout the coming hour.”

“You deserve to be scowled at,” she said.

“Quite so,” he said so agreeably that she was left wondering if they had been bickering or joking. Perhaps this was all a joke to him, but it was very serious to her. She would rather be doing anything on earth other than what she was actually doing. She was being handed down the steps of the carriage.

The Dowager Countess of Haverford and Viscountess Ainsleigh had clearly not been warned of this visit, though both were at home to visitors. Two ladies and one gentleman sat with them and Viscount Ainsleigh in the drawing room. Perhaps it was as well, Moira thought. Although the faces of both her mother-in-law and her sister-in-law were studies in frozen surprise when she and Kenneth followed the butler’s announcement into the room, good breeding demanded that they treat her with the strictest courtesy. Lady Haverford even seated Moira beside her on a sofa and poured her tea.

“I trust you left Lady Hayes in good health,” she said.

“Yes, thank you,” Moira said. “She was quite well.”

“And I trust you had a comfortable journey to town.”

“Yes, thank you,” Moira said. “My hus—Kenneth had his
steward send several servants with me for safety and had them reserve the best rooms in the best inns. It was a very pleasant and interesting journey. Everything was new to me, of course.”

“You have not been to town before?” Helen asked. “You must find it all very strange and different from country living.”

Moira chose not to read disdain and condescension in the words. “I arrived only last evening,” she said. “But I certainly found the shops very exciting. Kenneth took me along Oxford Street and Bond Street this morning.”

“And are you to attend Lady Algerton’s ball this evening, Lady Haverford?” one of the lady guests asked.

Yes,” Moira said, “and I look forward to it with some eagerness.” She must appear quite rustic to these people, but she would not try to pretend to a sophistication and an ennui that would merely make her look ridiculous. She smiled.

“Kenneth will be dancing the opening set with you, doubtless,” Viscount Ainsleigh said. “Will you reserve the second for me—Moira? May I call you that since we are brother and sister?”

“I should like that.” She smiled more warmly. She had liked the viscount from her first meeting with him at the Dunbarton ball, when he had tried to cover up for his wife’s rudeness to her and Sir Edwin Baillie. “But I am afraid the second set is promised to Viscount Rawleigh, sir.”

“Michael,” he said. “Then we will make it the third—if that is not reserved too?”

“Thank you, Michael,” she said.

Kenneth was standing beside the sofa, slightly behind her. He rested one hand lightly on her shoulder and without pausing
to think, she lifted her hand to touch her fingers to his. It was a gesture that she knew was not lost on her in-laws or on their guests—a not-strictly-proper gesture that was nevertheless perhaps excusable in newlyweds who were much in love with each other. That was not the case at all, of course. He had thought, perhaps, to offer her some moral support. She had felt the need to accept it. But it did not matter. Perhaps, as he had suggested in the carriage, it would be easier to have it thought that theirs was a love match. She turned her head to look up at him and, when he smiled at her, she smiled back.

“You will, of course, bring your wife to my side when you arrive this evening, Kenneth,” the dowager countess said when they were leaving a short while later. She accepted his arm to descend the stairs with them. “I shall see that she is presented to all the people with whom the Countess of Haverford ought to have an acquaintance.”

“As you wish, Mama,” he said, inclining his head.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Moira said.

Her mother-in-law looked at her with unsmiling eyes. “It is as well,” she said, “that you miscarried. A new countess who lacks both town bronze and a recognizable name does not need the added gossip that would arise from a confinement a mere six months after the nuptials.”

He had
lied
to her. He
had
told them. All the while, when she had been sitting with them in the drawing room, they had
known.
Moira’s chin went up.

“I suppose you have been in correspondence with Mrs. Whiteman at Dunbarton,” Kenneth said. “I must have a word with her
about misplaced loyalties. It has taken Moira all this time to recover her health and spirits, Mama. But we can find no real consolation for the loss of the child that would have been ours. I would be grateful if you would not mention this to anyone else.”

“I would be hardly likely to,” she said. “So you have won yourself wealth and position and security, Moira. I can do nothing to change that. I can only hope that you will live up to what is expected of you—and offer to help you move smoothly into the life that must be yours.”

It was a grudging offer. There was no warmth behind it, no offer of affection. But it was an offer, nonetheless. An offer of some sort of acceptance. If she was to stay with Kenneth, Moira thought—
if
—then she would be foolish to reject it.

“Thank you, ma’am,” she said.

“You had better call me Mother,” the dowager countess said. “I have guests in the drawing room. I must return to them.”

Kenneth bowed to her. Moira curtsied.

And then they were back in the carriage, sitting stiffly side by side.

“I am sorry,” he said when they were in motion. “I did not realize that she knew. Mrs. Whiteman will, of course, be dismissed from her post at Dunbarton. I will not tolerate a housekeeper whose loyalty to my mother is stronger than her loyalty to you. What my mother said must have hurt you.”

“Yes,” she said. But what
he
had said had unexpectedly touched her. He had spoken as if the loss had been his as well as hers—
we can find no real consolation for the loss of the child. . . .
And he was prepared to dismiss the housekeeper for going over her head and
reporting to her former mistress.
Oh, Kenneth
, she thought,
don’t confuse me.

“Was the visit quite as bad as you expected?” he asked.

“No.” She fixed her eyes on her hands in her lap. “If we had not called this afternoon, we would have met them this evening, would we not? It would have been intolerably awkward.”

“Yes,” he said.

“And you thought of that.” She foolishly had not. “Yes, it was better than I expected. At least no one showed me the door when I went in.”

“They would not dare,” he said. “You are my wife.”

She smiled at her hands.

“Am I forgiven, then,” he asked, “for issuing the command?”

“It is your right to command me,” she said.

“That is a dangerously meek reply,” he said, looking at her sidelong.

She shrugged her shoulders and changed the subject. “I like Viscount Ainsleigh—Michael,” she said. “He is a true gentleman.” She was surprised that she liked him. Sean had loved Helen and should have married her. And would have if . . .

“Helen was fortunate,” he said. But when she turned her head sharply to glare at him, he forestalled her. “Leave it, Moira. Let us have these two weeks or so. We have done moderately well this morning and this afternoon, have we not?”

“
Moderately
well,” she agreed.

“But then, we did not expect to fall instantly in love with each other and find that everything about the other was perfection itself, did we?” he asked her.

“Heaven forbid,” she said fervently.

“I would expire from boredom in a week,” he said.

“I believe I would do it,” she said, “in six days.”

Neither of them laughed. They did not even look at each other. But somehow they were back to the near amity they had shared this morning up until the moment he had bought her the fan.

“W
ELL,
Ken.” Lady Rawleigh had taken Moira to the drawing room for tea following dinner, leaving the two men to enjoy a glass of port together. The viscount had just filled their glasses. “You and I have come to a sorry end very soon after regaining our freedom.”

“Sorry?” Kenneth said. “Is that what it is?”

His friend smiled and sat back in his chair. “We are both in marriages not of our own choosing,” he said. “I was seen slinking out of Catherine’s cottage at the dead of night—after she had roundly repulsed my less-than-honorable advances, I might add—and set a villageful of tongues to wagging and my twin to threatening death or worse if I refused to do the honorable thing. I did the honorable thing—poor Catherine. I understand your situation was not vastly different?”

Kenneth was not about to describe a certain snowstorm—even to one of his closest friends. “And yet,” he said, “you both seem reasonably contented, Rex.”

“Then we are remarkably good actors, Catherine and I,” Viscount Rawleigh said. “We are far more than
reasonably
contented.”

“Why do you tell me this?” Kenneth asked. “Merely as a boast?”

His friend laughed. “That too,” he admitted. “One feels exceedingly clever to have discovered love in one’s own life—in one’s own marriage. And one feels constrained to share one’s wisdom with others. Lady Haverford is a very charming lady, Ken. And extremely handsome too, if I may be permitted to say so. She and Catherine appear to have taken well to each other.”

Kenneth sipped from his glass and then pursed his lips. “Correct me if I am wrong, Rex,” he said, “but do I detect a
scold
coming? Or is it merely a lecture?”

“It seems to be an inescapable fact that you abandoned the lady for three months following a certain, ah, event,” Lord Rawleigh said, “and then hurried home, married her, and rushed back to town. Now, two months later, you have brought her here for a couple of weeks of entertainment. Will you pack her off home again afterward while you go to Brighton? Eden is going there, I gather. Or to one of the other spas? Or to Paris?”

“I would be obliged to you,” Kenneth said, “if you would mind your own damned business, Rawleigh.”

“But I am your friend,” the viscount said, sounding quite uncontrite. “And I know you rather well. I know your conscience.
It used to puzzle and even annoy the rest of us at times. You have not had a woman since your marriage, have you?” He held up a hand. “No answer needed or expected. Nat and Eden have been merrily sowing their oats with a wide array of willing beauties—though Ede has a cozy nest now with his little dancer, of course—while you have been abstaining. But you need a woman. You were always quite as red-blooded as the rest of us.”

“I am a married man,” Kenneth said, almost in a growl.

“Precisely.” Rex raised his eyebrows. “Even I have realized that marriage vows lay a great obligation on the conscience, and I was never much of a one for conscience where women were concerned, was I? You are doomed to a celibate life, Ken, if you do not remain with Lady Haverford.”

“Rubbish,” Kenneth said.

“I would wager a fortune on it,” his friend said. “And an unhappy life too. And it seems a distinct possibility, Ken. You have sat here tonight being amiable to me and charming to Catherine. Lady Haverford has smiled and been charming to both Catherine and me. And you have both behaved as if the other was not even in the room.”

“The devil!” Kenneth said.

“Perhaps I have misread all the signs,” Lord Rawleigh said, lifting one hand in a gesture of helplessness. “Perhaps—”

“Perhaps,” Kenneth said through his teeth, “unlike Lady Rawleigh, Moira refused to allow me to do the honorable thing after the
certain event
, as you so euphemistically describe it. Perhaps she refused several times, even to the point of lying about her
condition. Perhaps after she was eventually forced to marry me, she sent me packing, declaring she never wanted to see me again. Perhaps I have invited her to town in the hope that we can piece together something of a marriage after all. Perhaps I do not need my
friends
poking their noses where they do not belong. And perhaps we should have joined the ladies ten minutes ago.”

“And perhaps”—Viscount Rawleigh was smiling—“you have married the very woman for you, Ken. Has she really treated you so shabbily? Not the other way around? I have seen women by the score use every wile imaginable to lure you into matrimony or even simply into bed. I have never—no, I really have not—met one who gave you your marching orders. Until today, that is. Yes, do let us join the ladies, Ken. I want to take an even closer look at the lady who clearly has you rattled. This is far more interesting than I ever realized.” He got to his feet and gestured toward the door.

His mother was going to take Moira under her wing, Kenneth thought irritably as he pushed back his chair. Lady Rawleigh was going to befriend her. Rex was going to take a closer look at her. Nat and Eden, after dismissing her as a pale cadaver and a consumptive at Tawmouth, were now going to fall under her spell. Ainsleigh and Rex and doubtless half the male population of London were going to dance with her this evening. Was ever an attempted reconciliation conducted so much in the public eye? He had been a fool. He should have taken himself off to Dunbarton instead of bringing her here.

He wanted to dance with her himself this evening. Every set.
Instead of which, he would be fortunate to have the two dances with her that proper decorum allowed.

“If you scowl like that, Ken,” Viscount Rawleigh said, slapping a hand on his shoulder, “you will be frightening Catherine and inviting your wife to abandon you for another two months or so.”

“The devil!” Kenneth muttered while his friend chuckled.

*   *   *

“OH,
we will certainly stay until the end of the Season,” Lady Rawleigh said in answer to a question Moira had asked. “I must confess that I am enjoying it. I shall enjoy it even more now that you have come. We must go walking together and shopping and visiting together. You know very few people here, I suppose.”

“None except Kenneth,” Moira said, “and his mother and sister.”

“They will all help you feel more at home, of course,” Catherine said. “But it is important to have friends—of one’s own gender. Rex does not enjoy looking in the shops. I do.” She laughed. “I am so glad you have come to town at last. We have been very curious.”

She smiled and Moira smiled back. There was an awkward little silence.

“We will spend the summer at Stratton,” Catherine said. “In Kent, you know. We will probably stay there for the autumn and winter too. I am increasing, you see, and Rex is afraid to allow me to travel more than necessary, though I have never felt so well in my life.”

“You must be very happy,” Moira said with a stabbing of envy—and fear.

“Yes,” Catherine said softly. “I had long expected that I would never marry. I had accepted my spinsterhood quite cheerfully and had learned to lavish most of my affections on Toby.” She glanced affectionately at the little terrier who had frightened Moira earlier with his barking but who was now stretched out fast asleep before the hearth. “And then Rex came along. How I hated him for upsetting the quiet contentment of my days.” She laughed. “And upset it he certainly did. But it is wonderful to be married when one expected never to be, Lady Haverford, and to have a deep affection for one’s husband when one expected to dislike him intensely—and to be increasing when one had expected to be childless.”

But her smile faded suddenly as she looked into Moira’s face. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she said. “You
lost
a child, did you not? It is the worst feeling in all the world.”

“Yes,” Moira said.

“We did not even know of it until very recently,” Catherine said. “Your husband kept it all bottled up inside, poor man, and hid the truth even from his closest friends. Mr. Gascoigne told Rex that Lord Haverford actually cried when he finally mentioned it. Which only proves how fond of you he is. We were puzzled by his leaving you in Cornwall so soon after your marriage, but all was explained then. The pain was too intense for him, and he must have felt quite helpless to ease yours.”

“Miscarriage is very common,” Moira said. “It is foolish, perhaps, to feel it as such a grievous loss.”

“I once lost a child,” Catherine said, “a few hours after his birth. It was a number of years ago. Perhaps your husband mentioned to you the duel Rex fought just a few months ago against the father, my seducer? I should have been glad to lose that child when there had been so much ugliness and so much ruin surrounding his conception. I was not glad, Lady Haverford. I hope never again to have to face the nightmare of grief I lived through for a long time after he was gone, my son.”

“But you are happily risking it all again?” Moira asked, frowning.

Catherine smiled. “The desire to bear life is far stronger than fear,” she said. “Especially when the man is very dear to one. And one cannot allow fear to rule one’s life, can one? Not unless one wishes to be endlessly unhappy—and lonely. Do you not feel the need to try again too? Or is it a little soon yet? Am I embarrassing you? But you will, I am sure, Lady Hav—oh,
may
I call you Moira? I am Catherine.”

“I felt wretched the whole time,” Moira said. “But perhaps that was because . . .” She bit her lip.

“Yes, I am sure it was,” Catherine said. “I was very ill that other time too. And miserable. And unwilling and unable to eat or to rest. This time I am fit to bursting with good health. But this time I am happy.”

Moira smiled.

There was no chance to continue the conversation. The drawing room door opened to admit the two men, and in the half hour before they left for the ball, Moira’s attention was taken by Lord Rawleigh, who sat beside her, instructed her to tell him all about
Cornwall, and focused the whole of his attention on her answers. Kenneth accompanied Catherine to the pianoforte at the other end of the room and stood beside the instrument, watching her play.

One cannot allow fear to rule one’s life. . . . Not unless one wishes to be endlessly unhappy—and lonely.

The words repeated themselves at the back of Moira’s mind all the time she spoke and smiled. But she was not afraid, was she? Of conceiving again, perhaps. But not of anything else. Not of—loving. Not of loving Kenneth. One could not be afraid of something one was in no danger of doing.

. . . 
endlessly unhappy—and lonely.

*   *   *

KENNETH
experienced both the success and frustration of his hopes in the course of the Algerton ball. It was a large squeeze of an affair, as most entertainments were at this stage of the Season. It was a fitting setting for what was, in effect, Moira’s debut into society. And she certainly looked lovely enough for the occasion, dressed as she was with her usual elegant simplicity in pale gold. The only glittering detail of her appearance, in fact, was her diamond bracelet, which she wore over her long glove.

He enjoyed the interest and curiosity with which the
ton
looked at his wife when she first entered the ballroom on his arm. News traveled faster than lightning in London, of course. He would wager that everyone present knew her identity after the first five minutes. And he would wager, too, that for the past two months
there had been a great deal of avid curiosity about the mysteriously absent Countess of Haverford.

He danced the first set of country dances with her and watched her dance with skill and grace—and with open enjoyment. He would waltz with her too, he decided. But later, perhaps after supper. He would not dance with her again too soon and know that he could not dance with her any more for the whole evening. That would be too dreary.

But once the first set was over, it seemed that control of the evening was taken from his hands. His mother, true to her word, took her daughter-in-law under her wing and moved about the ballroom with her, presenting her to all the female dragons whose every word was law in London society. Moira, he could see, was acquitting herself well. She was behaving with quiet poise, though she was not mute. He resisted the temptation to follow her about. This was women’s business, and she did not need him. He did not know if she enjoyed being with his mother, but she appeared to have accepted her sponsorship with quiet good sense. He was very pleased with the development.

And of course she danced—every set. Rex danced the second with her and Ainsleigh the third. Nat and Eden both danced with her, of course, as did Lord Algerton and Viscount Perry, Lady Rawleigh’s young brother. She danced the supper waltz with Claude Adams, Rex’s twin brother, who was in town with his wife, and of course went off to supper on his arm afterward.

After supper, her evening did not lose momentum at all. She danced with gentlemen to whom his mother had presented her,
most of them the highly ranked, highly respected husbands of the dragons. It might be said, Kenneth thought, watching her with mingled pride and jealousy, that the
ton
had taken the Countess of Haverford to its bosom at her first appearance in its midst.