A June Bride (12 page)

“Don’t be flippant with me, my boy. I’m man enough to knock you down still, if I choose to.”

Geoffrey said nothing, his jaw clenching. But he stayed where he stood. He had not come here to learn news of his own past, but to understand his parents’, and he would stay as long as that goal continued to be met.

“And as to this divorce idea,” Lord Chenmarth said, waving off any explanation Geoffrey had been about to offer. “My God, divorce! Warring told me.” He stopped playing with the cue stick to look Geoffrey in the eyes. “You might be surprised to know that I can’t tell you if I think it’s crackbrained or damned clever. This marriage to a Hamilton could be a good alliance. Not as good as the one with the Bremcotts would have been.” He paused, then admitted, “Then again, I think the Bremcott filly might still have you, even after a divorce—”

Geoffrey did something he had never done before when he ground out between suddenly gritted teeth, “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about the Bremcott estates, and I never have.”

His father stared. “Then d’you mean to tell me marrying Jacqueline Bremcott really would have been a love match?”

“I’m telling you I’m tired of being naught but a pawn in other people’s schemes.”

“I didn’t make you marry the Hamilton chit.”

Geoffrey blew out an exasperated breath, threw his cue stick down on the table, and strode across the room to seize up his coat and tall beaver from the bookcase near the door. He bowed curtly to his father, and said stiffly, ''No wonder Mother can’t live with you. You are impossible to talk to. Good day to you, sir.”

Lord Chenmarth watched him go. “What did I say that wasn’t true?” he said aloud to himself, scratching at his ear. Despite Geoffrey’s temper, Lord Chenmarth wasn’t so much angry as he was puzzled.

“Please pass der butter,” the Baron von Brauer said to Alessandra. He was a long time business acquaintance of her papa’s, who had in time become a friend. This dinner party for twenty was Mama’s first run at a gathering following the wedding, with the greater ball to come in five days.

Alessandra reached for the little silver tray, and as she lifted it, the silver butter knife, liberally smeared with the substance for which it had been designed, slid off and fell squarely in her lap. With a small cry she delivered the tray to the baron, picked up the knife, wiped it on her napkin, and handed it on to him with a tremulous little smile of apology. She then attempted to brush the instant greasy stain away with her napkin, only, of course, succeeding in making a larger stain exactly in the middle of her skirt.

“My lady, is there any way I can help?” the baron asked. With his accent it came out “is dere any vay I can help?”

“Thank you, no,” she said, managing to maintain the listless little smile. It had been a very long meal, one that was almost over. She looked down the table to her husband and mother, wondering if she could catch the eye of either, and not knowing exactly what she would do if she did. That end of the table (in fact every part of the table but her own) seemed engaged in stimulating and congenial conversation.

“I did just der same thing, in Vienna one time,” the baron said, keeping his voice low for her ears alone. “I was tempted to wear a napkin all evening, but of course I could not.” He laughed softly.

“What did you do?” Alessandra asked.

“I went to my rooms, changed, and came back, of course. But since I knew der change would be noted, I made sure it was a complete change, from formal black to bright blue with der striped waistcoat and stockings, making a great deal of der butter incident. My choice was very daring for der evening, I must say, but der Princess thought it was charming, and I believe I almost started a trend that evening.”

Alessandra’s second smile was more sincere, to let him know she appreciated his kindness. The vicar on her right had scarcely had a word to say to her all evening, his eyes and his attention on his supper. But that was to be excused, for he was young, young enough that it had crossed Alessandra’s mind to ask if he would care to join Oliver at his meal upstairs in the nursery.

She looked glumly down the table again, aware of her spoiled gown and her neglected dinner, and aware that Geoffrey was engaged in some kind of lively conversation between his mother and Jacqueline Bremcott, his dinner companions. Jacqueline was regaling them with some tale that had Lady Chenmarth asking questions even as she laughed, and Geoffrey was leaning forward as though not to miss a word.

“Excuse me,” she said to the baron as she started to rise, “I am going to steal from your idea.”

“Panache, my dear. It is der secret to life in London,” he said with an indulgent smile.

“I must beg your pardon,” Alessandra said aloud, as several heads at the table turned to see why she had risen. “I have quite spoiled my gown. I must change, and will join you all in the ballroom upon my return.” There were several murmurs of  “of course, of course,” one or two puzzled looks that said she’d managed to be gauche, and her mother’s gay little call of, “What a marvelous time for the ladies to refresh themselves.” So saying she rose also, and added, “Ladies, please feel free to either follow Alessandra and myself upstairs, or Lord Warring and the gentlemen to the ballroom. The gentlemen will kindly inform the musicians that the dancing will begin soon.”

“No port?” someone muttered, overheard by Alessandra as she moved toward the stairs. Her mother was right behind her.

“Oh, Mama. I hope I didn’t upset your plans,” she said when she was sure they were out of earshot. Several ladies were trailing up the stairs after them, but far enough behind to allow them a few quick words in privacy.

“Quite all right. I rather prefer the gentlemen to be put to dancing at once anyway, before they have a chance to drink more and become even more drowsy on us. And only look at that stain! I hope it will come out. But of course you must change, you could scarcely walk about so. I daresay there was no way other than the way you chose. Very bright of you, my dear,” she commended in a low voice.

“Actually, it was that kind Baron von Brauer’s idea.”

“He is such a gentleman, isn’t he? Of course he’s quite a bit older than you, but we must not dismiss him out of hand.”

Alessandra stumbled while she stared at Mama, who seemed to realize she’d implied a future where Alessandra might be in need of a new husband. Mama caught Alessandra’s look, turned a mottled red, and shook her head. “But of course I don’t mean anything by that.”

Except, she had. Mama, the one person most opposed to a broken marriage, thought it just might come to be.

Lady Warring, color still high, turned and trilled at several ladies who’d joined them on the landing. “This way, my dears. Would anyone care to have lemonade sent up, or tea, perhaps?”

The other ladies turned left, but Alessandra hung back, turning to the right, moving in a heart-heavy manner to the Sapphire Room. There she washed her face in water from the ewer and basin near the bed, and patted herself dry with fresh linen. She sat down on the bed with a sigh, her head hanging, when she heard a sound. She looked up quickly, and saw Winters had just come from the dressing room.

“My lady,” he said, his face flushed and in a little less than its normally correct setting.

Another person came from the dressing room: Maggie. She had a flushed look as well. “Mr. Winters and I were working out the dressing schedule, my lady,” she said at once to Alessandra.

Alessandra blinked, not fooled for a moment. It was not the first time she had seen servants engaged in flirtation, but it seemed especially infused with quirky humor in this particularly loveless room. A caustic laugh bubbled behind her lips, but she managed to say merely, “Indeed?”

“It seems the master wishes to be the first to rise, and Roger…er...Mr. Winters ’ere claims that ’e cannot work wif a lot of people in the room, so I thought as I’d come fer yer every morning at ten? Is that all right, m’lady?”

“That would be fine,” Alessandra said, instantly distracted from the budding romance before her. She would have to talk to Geoffrey about this scheduling business. Though it was true she had been quite a slug-a-bed lately, she could not wish to go on that way. Perhaps she could arrange to be the first to rise. No, that would not work, for how would she bathe? In fact, how did Geoffrey bathe? Surely not in the little dressing chamber, in the hip bath alongside the necessary?

Maggie made a hasty and discreet exit from the room, her cheeks still pink as her hand came up to correct the lopsided lay of her cap on her hair.

“May I be of some assistance, my lady?” Winters cleared his throat to ask, his posture and features once again all that he would have them be.

“Where does Lord Huntingsley bathe?” she asked aloud. It was becoming ridiculous keeping certain facts from the valet, so she stopped trying. It was the only way to avoid having themselves placed, however innocently on Winters’s part, in any number of difficult situations. It had proved so far a simple thing to have Maggie, who served as Alessandra’s maid only when needed, wait for a summons and to dismiss her when her job was done. But Winters actually took care of his master’s clothes and boots and belongings, not to mention his person, and must of needs spend a great deal more time in the Sapphire Room than a chambermaid ever did.

“Bathe, my lady?” Winters echoed her now.

It had been two weeks since the wedding, and Alessandra could have sworn at times she smelled fresh soap on Geoffrey as they lay, yet separated by a pillow, in bed. Trying not to sound as wearied by the day’s events as she felt, she elaborated, “I am wondering if I am inconveniencing Lord Huntingsley, so I have asked you where he bathes?”

“At Gentleman Jim’s, my lady. He goes a few rounds in the afternoon, and makes use of their facilities there,” Winters said, his voice and expression even.

“That’s silly,” she sighed heavily. He bathed at a pugilist’s establishment. She could not like anything that made her even more of a burden to Geoffrey. “I’ll talk to him. We’ll work something out so that he is not so inconvenienced.”

“As you will, my lady.”

Winters bowed and left the suite, and Alessandra moved to the wardrobe to choose another gown. For the dinner, she had been wearing a pale yellow muslin scattered with tiny white bows, really a come-out dress, not one for a married woman. In fact, all her dresses were intended for her first season, nearly half of them white, the rest in pastels. Except the rose silk. She had fallen in love with the patterned fabric the moment the milliner had held it up, and had subsequently been delighted by the way it favored her coloring. She had defied her mama’s disapproving glance, and had insisted it be made up as an evening gown, although she’d let the patterned fabric speak for itself, leaving off the modiste’s suggested fribelows. It did not have an especially low neckline, not like the lovely cream brocade with black bows and buttons that Miss Bremcott wore tonight, the one that had made her own pastel yellow seem insipid in comparison. The rose gown did have a charming underskirt of palest pink, and tiny puffed sleeves that drew the eye to Alessandra’s well-formed shoulders and collarbones. The dress had been made to fit closely from just below the breasts and up, but below it was allowed to fall in easy, sweeping lines, lines that Alessandra knew flowed gracefully with her when she moved. Where it had seemed daring to her eye before, Alessandra now saw it suited a married woman’s status well. Its one problem was that it tended to cling to her petticoats. She pulled it from the wardrobe with a bit of a defiant flourish.

Struggling a bit, she untied the white bow at her waist, and undid the five pearl buttons at her back, and shrugged out of the yellow cambric. She laid it over a chair, instead of back in the wardrobe or in the basket Maggie kept under the bed for used articles of clothing, so she would remember in the morning to mention the stain. Her rounded breasts brimmed over her corset, which had been pulled rather tight tonight for the very purpose of setting these particular charms to advantage. Her dark hair had been piled high, plaited into an intricate knot by Emmeline, as both Maggie and Angie had not quite the knack for plaiting that her sister had.

She crossed to the stand, and wetted her hands in the basin. She then began to pat the fabric of her petticoats, to negate the rose dress’s inclination to cling, trying to be careful to not disturb her hairstyle too much as she bent to the task of negating the static.

The door opened and Geoffrey walked in. He came to an abrupt halt, his eyes widening.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said as he retreated behind the door, back into the hallway. He left the door open an inch or two. “I must think to knock first. Please accept my apologies,” his voice came from the open crack just before he closed the door.

She heard his steps as he went on down the hallway toward the stairs, and, belatedly, her heart began to beat erratically. Here was another thing they must work out. Some sort of knock, or signal, that they might not walk in on each other in these more private moments.

Oh, it is too absurd, she thought crossly, stomping to the bed to gather up the rose silk, angrily stepping into the gown and pulling the garment up around her waist. We ought to just let the servants know we prefer separate rooms! Let them talk. Let Papa snap and growl. But let me have some peace of mind, she thought in frustration...even as she knew she could do nothing to change the way things were, because she had no real say-so, not with Papa. And not with Geoffrey, for he had given his word.

***

Geoffrey stopped at the top of the stairs, taking a moment to regain his composure. The sight of a half-dressed Alessandra had startled him, even though in truth he had not seen much of anything, so swift had been his retreat. Only a bit of muslin, a nearly bare shoulder, the curve of a breast, her dark hair piled above a creamy neck.

Hadn’t he seen much the same kind of scene any number of times in his wilder days? It was a moment’s thought to recall an illicit occasion or two he had enjoyed, ones where he had stayed to appreciate the view, and where he had not come away feeling distinctly rattled for a moment.

He shook himself mentally, rebuking himself. Only married two weeks, and yet he was increasingly thinking of carnal activity, his mind recalling members of the demimonde he had once known, and married ladies who had cared for dalliance, escapades he had once enjoyed. He experienced, for the fourth time in as many days, the sudden urge to seek out some of the more seedy parts of London, to partake of entertainments there that could be negotiated for by flattering words, or purchased outright. Why shouldn’t he?

Yet even as he decided, once again, that there was merit to this scheme, he reminded himself he was married, and that—their understanding aside—such action would not be very honorable. He was torn, never having agreed to be monk-like, and yet resenting his own yearnings. He felt a fool for wanting relief, and he felt a fool for not seeking it out.

His jaw was tight, but his expression forced into composure, as he returned to the ballroom.

***

When Alessandra had finished dressing, she turned to look at herself in the mirror. She saw a pair of glittering eyes looking out at her. Her color was high, and her dress was flattering. What matter that the rose silk did not have all the latest fripperies all about it? It was becoming, and she knew it.