The Double Wager (10 page)

“Henry!”

“Oh, I mean Marius, I suppose, though I feel very strange saying so,” she said candidly. “You are really a very imposing figure, you know, your Gr—Marius. One would feel much more comfortable using your title.” She grinned impishly up at him.

“Hmm,” was his only reply as he gave her a sidelong glance.

In France, they traveled to Paris, arriving there on the second day. Eversleigh seemed to derive considerable amusement from showing his wife all the famous sites, accompanying her to various entertainments, and introducing her to many prominent people who lived there.

“Have you noticed, Marius,” she asked on one occasion, “that the English tend to feel that if they talk loudly enough, the French will understand them? As if talking French were an affliction of the deaf? Yet the French seem not to do it to the English.”

“Sometimes you are uncomfortably observant, Henry,” he said. “I shall have to be sure to whisper the next time I address a Frenchman, if you are close by.”

She chuckled. “You have no need to either shout or whisper, Marius,” she said. “Your French is quite fluent. At least, it sounds fluent.” He inclined his head. “I wish I had paid Manny more mind when she tried to get us to converse in French,” she added with a sigh.

Henry grew to feel comfortable with Eversleigh. He appeared to be remarkably open-minded and indulgent. And generous. She soon learned that she had only to admire a dress or a bonnet or piece of jewelry, and it was hers. She found herself clamping her mouth shut on several occasions when she was about to express a liking for something. She did not want her husband to think that she was interested only in his money. Indeed, possessions had never been of much significance to her, unless the possession were a horse, perhaps.

On only one occasion did they come close to quarreling. They were strolling along a fashionable promenade one afternoon, the sun beating down pleasantly on their heads. Henry took off her bonnet and turned up her face to the sun with a sigh of contentment.

“Put your bonnet on, Henry,” Eversleigh said immediately, “before this plump matron walking toward us sees you and has a seizure.”

“No,” she replied, “I wish to feel the sun on my face and my hair.”

“I was not offering you a choice, my love,” he said quietly, and he stepped in front of her, took the bonnet from her nerveless fingers, and put it back on her head. It was only when his fingers began to tie the bow beneath her chin that she recovered from her momentary shock.

“Marius,” she said, grasping his wrists, her eyes flashing dangerously, “I choose to walk bareheaded. Is that so terrible? Are you afraid of what people will say?”

“My wife will behave with propriety in public,” he replied calmly. “Now, shall I tie this bow or will you?”

“You said nothing when we were on the ship,” she said, still clinging to his wrists.

“There were no other ladies present to be scandalized,” he explained, “and no other gentlemen close by. It seemed reasonable to allow you to please yourself.”

“Well, I choose to please myself now,” she retorted with a toss of her head that was meant to jerk the ribbons free of his hands.

“Very well, my love,” he said meekly. He relinquished the ribbons of her bonnet and stepped to her side again. “Allow me to escort you back to our rooms. You will, of, course, remain there until I am ready to take you back to England.”

Henry stared at him openmouthed. “Well!” she exclaimed at last. When he continued to stand at her side, arm extended to her, she said, “Well!” again, tied the bow under her chin with a flourish, took his arm, and walked with him, chin high in the air, a cold haughtiness in her manner.

She succeeded in maintaining the manner for all of two minutes before something distracted her attention and she was exclaiming in delight. They did not return to their rooms.

The homecoming of the Duke and Duchess of Eversleigh was a hectic event. Henry’s family had moved in a couple of days before, under the general supervision of James Ridley and Mrs. Dean, the housekeeper. Eversleigh had come to an agreement with Sir Peter Tallant on the matter before the wedding took place. Sir Peter was still to be the legal guardian of the twins, but Eversleigh was to have full responsibility for their day-to-day upbringing. He had refused financial assistance.

The twins had taken a liking to Ridley. They rushed into his office at least a dozen times each day to ask him a million questions. Why was it, he asked himself, that their normal manner of moving was a run and the normal level of their speech was a yell? Miss Manford, who seemed always to be several steps behind her charges, frequently came panting into the office after them, and then proceeded to blush and stammer her way through an apology. Really, Ridley reflected, the poor lady had his full sympathy. He wondered rather grimly what would happen when his employer returned. He had a feeling that the two imps would not be tearing around the house with quite such noisy abandon.

Brutus had also taken a liking to Ridley. In fact, to his everlasting shame, Ridley had been bowled backward right off his feet when he had gone into the hallway to greet the new arrivals. He could not even cover his confusion by rising rapidly. The canine was straddling his body and licking his face with panting enthusiasm. The twins were dancing around, yelling at the dog to “Sit!”; the governess was pawing the air with ineffective hands and calling on the Lord to bless her soul; and the infernal bird was doling out sympathy by calling on someone to bless his boots.

It was into this household of cheerful confusion that the duke and duchess arrived in the middle of one afternoon. While a few footmen stood woodenly in the hallway and others rushed outside to haul in boxes and trunks and valises, and while the butler was bowing over his master and mistress and relieving them of their outdoor garments, Philip and Penelope came shrieking down the staircase, Brutus panting on their heels and Miss Manford rounding the curve at the top of the staircase in a vain attempt to organize her charges into a more discreet welcoming committee.

“Henry,” Penelope yelled, hurling herself bodily at her sister, “Phil and I have adjoining rooms. We can go back and forth without having to go into the corridor. And my room is green, not that ghastly pink that I had at Peter’s, and . . .”

“I say, Henry,” Philip shouted, dancing around in the background, “there are some ripping horses in the stables. The groom let me brush one of them down this morning.”

“Philip, Penelope, please let your sister come upstairs and sit down,” Miss Manford was commanding in the background, without any visible effect. “She must be tired and Mrs. Dean has some tea all ready.”

“Down, boy!” a calm voice commanded, and it seemed to be the only voice of which anyone took any notice. Brutus, who had tried to repeat the performance he had accomplished with James Ridley a few days before, was now lying quietly on the floor, tongue lolling out of his panting mouth, eyes raised adoringly to Eversleigh, who had refused to be bowled over.

The duke turned to Miss Manford and extended his right hand. “Welcome to our home, ma’am,” he said warmly. “My wife and I will try to see that you are happy here.”

Miss Manford was in such a dither of embarrassment that it took her several moments to realize that she was meant to place her own hand in the one still extended to her. But it was obvious to the observers as she did shake hands with her employer, curtsying and apologizing as she did so, that the Duke of Eversleigh had made his second conquest of the afternoon.

“Now, Penny,” he said easily, turning to his sister-in-law and, without apparent effort, herding the whole crowd up the staircase in the direction of the drawing room, “should you like to see the parasol that Henry and I have brought you from Paris? I am vastly relieved to remember that it is not pink.”

He stopped in his tracks when they entered the room and he found himself being greeted in the usual colorful language of the remaining member of the family. Eversleigh raised his quizzing glass and viewed Oscar haughtily.

“And as for you, sir,” he said severely, “you will kindly keep a civil tongue in your head when ladies are present, or I shall have your mouth cleansed with soap.”

“Gosh-a-gorry,” said Oscar penitently, and he stood still in the middle of his cage and hung his head.

Life quickly settled into some sort of pattern for the newly married pair. They tended not to see very much of each other during the daytime, except at the breakfast table. Eversleigh spent his days at his clubs, at the House of Lords, with his male friends at various sporting activities, or at home working alone or with his secretary. Henry, who was getting more used to the social life of the capital, was adapting to the change. She still rose earlier in the morning than most ladies of her class. She frequently rode in the park before it became too crowded, a groom always a short distance behind. In the afternoons she shopped, or visited, or traveled around London with the twins.

In the evenings Eversleigh usually dined at home. Sometimes afterward he would withdraw to one of his clubs. More often, he would escort his wife to some entertainment: the opera, a play, or a ball, perhaps.

On the second day after their return from France, a handsome high-perch phaeton was delivered to the duke’s mansion, a wedding present for the duchess from her dear friends, the Raeburns.

“Ah,” said Eversleigh, eyeing the conveyance through his quizzing glass, Henry at his side, “a very unusual wedding present, Henry.”

“Yes,” she said, eyes shining, “but is it not magnificent, Marius? I shall be able to drive myself in the park. It will be famous.”

He eyed her out of the corner of his eye. “Perhaps, my love, I should have a groom run along ahead of you with a hand bell to warn all unsuspecting souls that you are coming.”

“Absurd!” She laughed. “Papa used to say I must have been born in the saddle.”

“In the saddle maybe, but perched several feet above the horses’ backs, Henry, with only the ribbons and a whip to control them?”

“Pooh!” she said. “I do not anticipate any problems.”

“For my peace of mind, Henry, allow me to drive with you for a while?”

“When you speak to me like that, Marius, I know I have no choice,” she said practically, “so I might as well say yes.”

“Quite so, my dear girl,” he replied with a slight bow.

Henry was left feeling very glad that there had been no really awkward questions about the strangeness of the “wedding gift.” At least Douglas had had the tact to say that the phaeton was a gift from his family.

On the next day, a pair of perfectly matched grays was delivered to the duke’s stables. He was away from home when they arrived, but he was informed of the delivery as soon as he set foot inside the house, first by a hurtling pair of twins, who were down the stairs before the butler had time to close the door behind him, and then by his wife, who descended the staircase with only marginally more dignity.

“Marius!” she shrieked, startling his eyes wide open for a moment by rushing straight at him and throwing her arms around his neck. “You really are too generous. Yesterday you pretended to be so cautious about my phaeton.”

“I really thought you disapproved and did not want me to drive it. But today you surprised me with a pair of grays. They are perfectly gorgeous, your Grace.”

“Henry, my love, I think the hallway of our home is hardly the appropriate scene for such an impassioned embrace. Shall we discuss the matter in the drawing room?” Eversleigh asked, apparently unperturbed by the misunderstanding. “And, Phil, if you keep hopping around in that manner, dear boy, you will surely knock down one of those marble busts and Mrs. Dean will have your head, or mine.”

Henry twined her arm through his as they ascended the staircase together. “The grays are perfect for my phaeton, Marius,” she said. “I wanted to take them out this afternoon, but I remembered that you wish to be with me until you can be certain that I shall not break my neck. I shan’t, you know, but it seemed only fair to wait after you had been so generous. Did you go out first thing this morning to buy them for me?”

“I have been trying to acquire them for several months,” Eversleigh answered evasively. “I suppose our marriage finally speeded the matter on.”

“Did you have to pay a great deal for them?” she asked, looking anxiously up into his face.

He looked back into her eyes, his own half-hidden behind his eyelids. “I begin to think that the cost was not too high at all,” he answered smoothly.

The Duke of Eversleigh spent a few afternoons with his wife, sitting beside her as she drove her new phaeton, pulled by the grays. The conveyance was dangerous and daring for a woman; the grays were high-spirited and difficult animals. The combination should have been beyond Henry’s skill and strength, but as she had predicted, she proved to be an excellent whip. She drove her dashing new vehicle with precision and apparent ease. Eversleigh’s relaxed and almost-lazy posture beside her suggested that he was not at all surprised by his wife’s skills. After a few days, she was to be seen driving in the park alone, with a groom up behind. Some members of the
ton
murmured about the amount of freedom the duke was allowing his young wife.

Although Eversleigh accompanied Henry to several evening functions, he did not always dog her footsteps. Frequently at the theater he would leave their box during the intervals as soon as visitors came to call on her. He would wander into the hallway to converse with acquaintances, or enter other boxes to pay courtesy calls on their occupants. At balls he would frequently disappear into the card room after dancing once with his wife, leaving her to mingle with her growing number of friends.

And so Henry Devron, Duchess of Eversleigh, became something of the rage of London that Season. She was titled, rich, vivacious, and pretty in a thoroughly unfashionable way. Young men flocked to her. She was interesting to be with, with her refreshingly open manners and down-to-earth conversation. She knew nothing of feminine wiles and so, paradoxically, was extremely attractive to men; she was safely married and could be flirted with and dallied with without fear that an overbearing parent would demand a declaration from the man concerned. Soon after her return from her wedding trip, Henry had acquired a fairly large court of followers.