A Wicked Pursuit (40 page)

But he didn’t. He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, staring at her, the expression in his blue eyes as unchanged as if she hadn’t spoken at all.

She couldn’t stay, not after that. She turned and ran from the room, her hand pressed over her mouth to keep from sobbing before the servants.

She’d gambled, daring to say aloud what she’d been keeping inside for days. She’d gambled, and now she had lost. She curled on her bed in a tight knot of despair, letting the tears stream down her face.

“Forgive me for intruding, my lady,” said Mary softly, finding her. “But Mr. Wilton said I was to come tell you that Her Grace the Duchess of Breconridge is below asking for you, my lady. He says that Her Grace doesn’t believe you’re not at home, my lady.”

Gus heaved a deep, shuddering sigh, struggling to fight back her tears. She’d no choice but to see Celia; if she didn’t, she’d no doubt that the duchess herself would come upstairs to find her. Besides, if she hid in her rooms, she’d be absolutely no better than Harry.

“Tell Mr. Wilton to show Her Grace to the green parlor, Mary,” she said, pulling out her handkerchief to blot her eyes. “I shall be down directly.”

She paused before one of the looking glasses in the hall to pat her hair, then hurried down the stairs to greet Celia.

“My dear Gus,” the duchess said warmly, embracing Gus. “I knew you’d be home. I came to offer my assistance regarding the drawing room at the palace this afternoon. You should be dressing already if you wish to be on time. Is your maid sufficient? You wish your plumes to be securely in place, you know, so they don’t wander when you curtsey. Should I send my hairdresser here to you, just to be sure?”

“We shall not be attending,” Gus said. “Harry is indisposed.”

“Or more accurately, Harry doesn’t want to go, just as he hasn’t wished to go anywhere these last few days.” Gracefully Celia spread her skirts as she sat on the edge of the settee, patting the seat for Gus to join her. “We’ve all noticed, you know. Have you any notion as to why?”

Gus sat beside her, her hands tightly clasped in her lap and her diamond betrothal ring winking slyly up at her. She did not wish to be disloyal to Harry, but confiding in his stepmother would not be like telling his secrets to a friend her own age.

“When Sir Randolph came to the house this week to examine Harry, he finally let Harry put his full weight on the damaged leg,” she said. “Harry did so well, too, walking clear across the room and back. Oh, Celia, I was proud of him!”

“As well you should be,” the duchess said. “You have seen him through his entire recovery, and that he can walk again is a miracle of your doing as much as his.”

Gus shook her head. “To us it seems a miracle, but not to Harry. He was terribly discouraged because his leg isn’t perfect, and according to Sir Randolph, it never will be again. He’ll always need some sort of support, a cane or stick if not the crutch. He did not wish to hear that, and stormed from the room. It was very—very ill mannered of him.”

“Or childish,” Celia said succinctly. “But pray continue.”

“I believed his black mood came from not wanting people to stare at him, or make comments,” Gus said, her shoulders sagging and her voice forlorn. “He hates the pity that people feel for him, and will fly into a rage over next to nothing, as he did with Sir Randolph. But just now he told me that wasn’t the reason. He is blaming himself for breaking his leg in the first place, Celia, and it has made him so angry and discontented that there is no living with him. When he is like this, I wonder if we would be better off not married at all.”

She was crying again, fat tears of unhappiness sliding down her cheeks. She felt in her pocket for her already-soggy handkerchief, but Celia handed Gus her own instead, fine linen with the Breconridge ducal crest.

“Here, here,” Celia said gently, sliding closer to put her arm around Gus’s quaking shoulders. “We’ll have no more of that talk. I have been married to two excellent gentlemen, and I was widowed for eighteen years in between, and I can assure you that being married to an excellent gentleman—such as your Harry—is far, far more agreeable than being alone.”

Despondent, Gus shook her head. “But when I finally told him what I’d been thinking all along—that some good did come from his fall, for without it, we would never have fallen in love—he did not wish to hear it. He didn’t care at
all
.”

“Oh, he cares, Gus,” Celia assured her. “It’s obvious to everyone that he’s deeply in love with you. He would not behave as he has if he weren’t.”

“It’s a wicked unfortunate way for him to show it!”

“Yes, it is,” the duchess agreed. “But I can assure you that Harry is equally perplexed. All his life he has been cosseted and praised as his father’s heir, and because of it, he has always been conscious of being first. When his two brothers return, and you see how he is with them, then you’ll understand how seriously he takes his place as the eldest son. He always strives to be the best at anything he attempts, and the most perfect in every way. And now, because of his broken leg, he’s not. He’s flawed, and I suspect he feels he’s somehow let all of us down. Most especially you.”

Agitated, Gus slipped free of Celia’s arm and rose, and unconsciously began to walk back and forth across the floral-patterned carpet exactly as Harry had done.

“But Harry hasn’t failed any of us,” she protested. “He’s been brave and determined, and I love him all the more because of it.”

“That’s why he loves you, too, Gus,” Celia said, opening her fan. “He and his father are so much alike. They long to be heroes. They want to protect those they love, and will move Heaven and earth to do so. Consider how Brecon raced across the sea as soon as he learned that Harry was hurt, and how many mountains he willingly shoved aside to make certain you married him.”

Gus stopped pacing before Celia, thinking. What the duchess said was right. Harry did want to protect her. He didn’t exactly slay dragons, but he’d always been there to support her whenever she needed him, or when she faltered.

“You understand,” Celia said, nodding as she smoothed the backs of her gloves. “I can tell by your expression. That will, I think, be the secret of drawing Harry from his doldrums. You must contrive a way to make him believe you need him to rescue you.”

“Rescue me?” Gus asked, mystified. “Forgive me, Celia, but I’m hardly a damsel locked in a tower, any more than Harry’s a knight errant on a white charger.”

“Heavens, no,” Celia said, standing to leave. “We live in modern times, and a good thing, too. But I am certain you can contrive some little way to achieve it, and in time to salvage your first drawing room this afternoon as well.”

“But how, Celia?” Gus begged. “What should I do?”

Celia smiled. “You’re the lady who married him, not I,” she said. “You love him, and he loves you. You’ll find a way. I shall send my hairdresser to you at once to help you prepare, and we shall all be waiting for you at the palace. Good day, Gus, and the very best luck as well. I pray we’ll see you this afternoon.”

Harry stared
out his bedchamber window, something he’d done a great deal of lately, and saw no more of the walled garden with the neatly clipped boxwood hedges and the two cherry trees now than he had all week. Perhaps even less, for his thoughts were in such a shambles it was unlikely he’d see anything set before him.

He had just done the one thing he’d never wanted to do, the one thing he’d never believed possible. He’d hurt Gus, wounded her with callous words as surely and sharply as if he’d used a sword against her. Her beautiful eyes had filled with pain and tears, and she’d been too upset to fight back the way she usually did. Instead she’d fled and left him, exactly as he deserved.

And what excuse had she given him for hurting her like this? She’d simply told the truth.

The truth
. He’d been so damned focused on himself and his own misery that he’d completely overlooked the truth that she’d presented to him, shining bright in its purity.

If he hadn’t fallen from his horse, he would never have fallen in love with Gus.

Was there ever a greater truth than that? Over and over these last weeks he had thought of how much the fall had changed and narrowed his life for the worse, but not once had he paused to consider what would have become of that same life of his if he’d managed to stay on Hercules’s back. He would have proposed to Julia Wetherby, and she would have accepted. He would have married her. They would have become the most fashionable young couple in London. He would, within a matter of months, have become completely, absolutely bored with her.

He never would have fallen in love with Gus because, lunk-headed churl that he’d been, he would never have seen her. She would always have been in the shadows, outshone by her sister the way the moon fades and vanishes before the sun. He would never have discovered the sweetness of her kiss, her kindness, her generosity, or her passion. He never would have learned where all her freckles were, or felt the warmth of her smile when it was meant just for him. He would never have known the joy of loving, and being loved by, Gus.

His wife.

He could hobble through life with his leg the way it was, but he could not begin to imagine it without her by his side. And yet by his words he had just done his best to drive her away forever.

He threw open the door and charged down the hall toward her room, determined to apologize to her and beg for forgiveness and give her anything, anything at all, that she wanted in order to win her back. He didn’t pause to knock at her door or wait for a footman to open it for him.

Two startled maidservants, brooms in hands, stared at him and dropped in immediate curtseys.

“Where is her ladyship?” he demanded. “Why isn’t she here?”

The younger maid looked ready to burst into tears. “Forgive me, my lord, we do not know. She has not been here this last hour.”

He wheeled around, desperate to find her. Damnation, it was his own house. She had to be here somewhere. Unless she’d already left, both the house and him, and he was too late, and—

“Whatever are you doing, Harry?” Gus asked mildly, coming up the stairs. “You’re huffing and racing about like the town bull up there. You’ll terrify the servants behaving like that, you know.”

She smiled up at him. There were no signs of tears, no distress in her face now. The change was so complete that it threw him off balance.

“Where did you go?” he asked.

“Oh, I was downstairs,” she answered vaguely. “Look what arrived with the morning mail: the latest issue of
The London Observer
. Do you remember how I read aloud to you when you were first recovering?”

“I do,” he said, and he did, remembering how her eyes would widen at the outrageous tattle, thinly veiled against libel with initials in place of proper names.

“I thought it might amuse you if we did that again,” she said, her face upturned as she paused on the step below him. “Would you find that diverting?”

He nodded, and she smiled, joining him to walk back to his rooms.

“I’m sure it’s all the most dreadful scandal and foolishness,” she said cheerfully, flipping through the pages. “But you can tell me how wrong everything is, the way you did before.”

How in blazes was he supposed to apologize when she was acting as if nothing had ever happened? How could he beg for forgiveness when there didn’t seem to be anything to apologize for?

She touched her hand to the silver coffeepot. “Still warm,” she said with satisfaction. “Here, let me pour you a fresh cup.”

She filled his cup and added the exact amount of sugar that he liked. “The toast, however, is quite cold. Should I send for more from the kitchen?”

“No, I am fine,” he said, sitting once again in his chair across the small table from her. This was very odd, as if their morning was beginning all over again to wipe away his outburst. He was always saying how he’d wished to turn back time, but now that it seemed as if it were happening, he wasn’t sure he liked it.

“Here we are, ‘Notes of the Town,’” she said, smoothing the page open. “That’s the part with the scandal.”

She cleared her throat momentously, and began to read.

We hear that Lady G—t—n has of late displayed a most particular Fondness for the lemonade sold by a certain Confectionary in Covent Garden. Her Ladyship vows this lemonade has become her Nectar of Youth, and ascribes her Glowing Beauty to its miraculous properties. It is whispered, however, that her Vitality and Fresh Complexion may be more the result of the Amorous Ministrations of the handsome French confectioner himself, and another Variety of Restorative Elixir of which he is the sole manufacturer.

Gus laughed gleefully. “Oh, Harry, is that as wicked as I think it is? Are they saying that this lady is conducting an intrigue with a French confectioner?”

“I can’t imagine another interpretation,” he said, smiling himself. Gus was looking so charmingly wicked herself that he was tempted to toss her back upon the bed for a bit of intriguing of his own. But he told himself he could not do so until he’d found the opportunity to apologize. It would be a kind of penance, and motivation, too. “Of course they mean Lady Gunston. Everyone knows she dallies with her footmen and grooms, so why not with her French confectioner as well?”

“Particularly if he is handsome,” Gus said with relish. “Oh, here’s one about another bride!

We do love the Aura of New-Wedded Bliss and Contentment that surrounds a freshly married husband and wife, and there are few things more Sweet than to witness the Joy of the Honey-moon state. So is the situation of the newly married Lord H—g—e, returned to London after a lengthy stay of recuperation in the Country.

“Oh, Harry, that’s you!” she said excitedly. “That
H—g—e
has to be Hargreave.”

“I suppose so,” he said, instantly wary. “Perhaps you shouldn’t read on, Gus.”

“Of course I’m going to read on,” she said. “I want to see what they say of you. If I learn you are visiting a Frenchwoman making lemonade, then I shall be very cross indeed.”

She held the page up, reading more loudly.