The Smithfield Bargain (25 page)

When he held out his hand, she watched her fingers rise to settle on his unblemished white gloves. He led her toward him, his smile broadening as she continued to stare at him in amazement.

“I cannot appear that different!”

“No, you don't,” she whispered, unable to speak the truth when others were listening to her. How odd they would consider it that a bride of more than a month was staring at her husband like a young maiden feeling the first flushes of love!

Love!
Romayne silenced the echo of that word. Falling in love with James would be cockle-brained, for he had made it so obvious that although he would not be averse to sharing her bed, he would sacrifice nearly anything to stop the traitor. She could not fault him, for he had given her warning of that this very afternoon.

Stroking her fingers, James murmured, “You may say that I appear much the same, but I see amazement in your pretty eyes.”

“If you wish me to be honest, then I must tell you that I never would have guessed you could tie such an intricate cravat,” she shot back to hide her uneasy emotions.

When he smiled and offered his arm, she placed her hand on it. “Shall we go, Mrs. MacKinnon? I believe we are already fashionably late.”

“More than that,” grumbled Grange. “I was beginning to wonder if you had decided to hide in your rooms as lief attend Mr. Montcrief's rout on Mr. MacKinnon's arm.”

Romayne's smile faltered at her abigail's sharp retort. By concentrating on Ellen's concerns, she had been able to disregard her own. Now she must face her friends, who would be curious about her sudden, strange marriage to a man they never had met.

When James's fingers covered hers, she looked up at his taut face. She was uncertain if he was infuriated by Grange's words or the fact that the abigail would not be the only one thinking them tonight.

As they walked out the door and toward the carriage by the curb, Romayne said, “Grange, you shall recall that Bradley is our host this evening, and he would not appreciate your words which reflect poorly upon him as well as on James and me.”

“I wish only to prepare you—”

“I am aware of what awaits us.”

Thatcher, dressed in the elegant scarlet Westhampton livery, came around the carriage to open the door. When Grange flounced into it with her wounded dignity wrapped around her like a cloak, Ellen motioned for Romayne to go next. Romayne guessed Ellen did not want to be alone with the abigail in the carriage, even for a moment.

“You have changed,” James whispered in her ear as he handed her into the carriage.

Romayne paused with one foot on the step. Looking awkwardly at him, she asked, “How?”

He chuckled softly, then glanced toward where Grange was a dark lump in the shadowed vehicle. “You talk back to everyone now. Can we expect you to have an argie-bargie with Montcrief tonight as well?”

“Don't, James,” she murmured before bending her head to sit across from Grange.

When James climbed in after her, she was startled. He caught her chin in his hand and tilted her face toward him, so she could not avoid his eyes in the dim light from the lantern by the house's door. In a whisper, he demanded, “Is
he
the only one you still will obey without question? What hold does that useless clod-pate have on you?”

“You cannot expect me to forget Bradley's love so swiftly.”

“The love that you had for him, or the love you have for him even now?”

Aware of Grange straining to hear every word, Romayne said quietly, “I am your wife, James.”

“So you are, but we both know that the ring upon your finger has nothing to do with your heart.” Louder he ordered, “Ellen, hurry in before we leave you behind.”

The young woman climbed into the carriage with Thatcher's help. She offered him a brilliant smile before glowering at her brother.

Romayne was pleased that the ride to Bradley's town house was a short one. No one spoke, for each of them had a reason to be irritated with another. Even when James assisted her to the walkway in front of Bradley's door, Romayne remained silent. He turned to help Grange, and Romayne glanced toward the door where she had been a welcome caller so often.

An icy shiver of foreboding trickled along her back as she wondered what awaited Mrs. James MacKinnon beyond the brightly lit door. To hide from her fearful thoughts, she looked at Ellen. In the younger woman's enthusiasm, she might find a cure for her despair.

“It shall be the grandest night of my life,” Ellen said, awe filling her voice as she stared up at the house.

Romayne took her cousin-in-law by the arm and drew her toward where James and Grange stood by the steps. As soon as they were ushered into the elegant house, Grange excused herself to go and sit with the other servants, but Romayne paid no attention.

She had no time. Even as their cloaks and bonnets were being taken by the bevy of silent servants that scurried about the parquet floor in the circular foyer, Romayne found herself surrounded by acquaintances, each one more eager than the next to wring her dry of every detail of her journey to Scotland. Trying to be polite, she made her excuses that she had to greet their host.

“The ravens are hoping for a bit of meat from the corpse of your relationship with Montcrief,” James murmured as he offered his arm.

Putting her hand on it gratefully, she let him steer them through the curious throng. She looked back to be sure Ellen was following, then whispered, “Such a sudden change of plans always generates gossip. They want the truth.”

“Or some semblance of it to pass onto someone else.”

Romayne did not answer as she stared at the woman standing beside Bradley in the arched doorway to the room where the party would be held. The tall brunette wore a magnificent white gown. She could not mistake Lady Philomena Boumphrey for another, because the woman had a rare beauty that had gained the attention of Mr. Boumphrey from the moment he had first seen her. Their lovematch had been swiftly ended by a heart attack that had left her a widow only two months after their wedding.

Colonel Newman's voice echoed tauntingly through Romayne's head. She had not wanted to believe that Bradley would turn to Philomena with such dispatch, but the brunette had her arm through his as he welcomed his guests. Wishing she could disappear into the crowd, Romayne had no choice but to step forward. She sensed the multitude of eyes watching this meeting. With a vow that she would do nothing to shame herself or her family, she held her hand out to Bradley.

Her poise faltered when he took her fingers in his and raised them to his lips. The fervent pressure of his lips further confused her. His gaze locked with hers, and she saw a flurry of strong emotions in his eyes. What they might signal, she did not pause to discover as she pulled her hand away. His pale brows arched in an unspoken question.

“Good evening, Bradley,” she said. “You remember my husband, James MacKinnon.”

“Your marriage to him is something I'm unlikely ever to forget.”

Fearing that this conversation would pick up exactly where their last, uncomfortable one had ended, she turned to Philomena, who was smiling coolly. “Philomena, good evening to you also. I do not think you have met my husband, James MacKinnon. James, Lady Philomena Boumphrey. You met her brother-in-law this afternoon.”

“Lady Philomena, it is a pleasure. Montcrief,” he added with a coolness that warned her that he had noticed Bradley's expression.

“And James's cousin, Ellen Dunbar,” Romayne said before the two men could voice the fury glowing in their eyes.

Bradley bowed over Ellen's hand before saying, “You are among the last to arrive. Why don't we go in together?”

“Yes, do come with us,” urged Philomena in her lush, husky voice. “I have been waiting breathlessly for you to tell us all the romantic details of your trip to Scotland.”

“I would have thought Bradley would have told you that there was nothing romantic about it.”

“Come, come, we are bosom bows.” Philomena hooked her arm through Romayne's and drew her away from the men. “You need not keep secrets from me. You might have run off to Scotland with Bradley, but you returned with this magnificent specimen of masculinity. I suspect you persuaded Bradley to go with you so you could run off with Mr. MacKinnon.”

James put his hand on Romayne's waist, saving her from having to answer the unanswerable. “Lady Philomena, if you will excuse us …” He offered no reason for his impolite words, and she guessed he had none other than to end the conversation.

For that, she was grateful, but even this light touch sent longing rippling through her. So easily, she could turn and slip her arms around his neck as she steered his mouth to hers.

“Nonsense,” said Bradley with a chuckle. “Let us allow the ladies their bibble-babble, MacKinnon. Come, and let me get you a glass of something to take the dust of the streets from your throat.” Bowing his head toward them, he locked eyes with Romayne, but again she could not guess what message he wished to divulge to her.

Evading Philomena's continuing questions, Romayne sensed Ellen's uneasiness. She offered Ellen a smile that she hoped the young woman would understand meant to have patience. Quietly she asked, “Philomena, is Lord Kimmel here tonight? I am astonished that he would be even the length of the room from you. He has been such a devoted suitor.”

Philomena brushed her hand against her dark curls. “We are no longer betrothed.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“It is for the best.” She paused, then said, “Romayne, I trust we are good enough friends for me to speak the truth. When Bradley believed that you were dead, he needed someone to listen to his grief. Little did we suspect that those heartfelt conversations would lead to love. How could I marry Allen Kimmel when I love Bradley?”

Romayne refused to lower her eyes. She
had
wed James when she loved Bradley, but, she wanted to argue, the situation had been very different. To speak of that would bring more personal inquiries she could not afford to invite.

“I am glad you were able to realize that before you spoke your vows with Lord Kimmel.” Silently she congratulated herself for maintaining her poise. “How did your father take the tidings?”

Philomena sighed. “Papa does not know. He has taken to his bed, and the doctors doubt that he shall leave it again. I would not wish to add more pain to his intolerable existence with the tale of my fickle heart. He was so set upon me marrying a titled man, and he was disappointed when my heart led me to Mr. Boumphrey.”

“Please let your father know that we are thinking of him.” Although she knew she was being as unmannerly as James had been, she added, “You must excuse us. Ellen will be having her coming-out next week, and I want her to meet a few of the people who will be attending that.”

They had gone only a few steps into the room, which was crowded beneath its pair of crystal chandeliers, before Ellen muttered, “She is quite the virago. Mr. Montcrief must be want-witted to pay court on her.”

“Ellen!”

“Don't chasten me when you don't like her either.”

“She's my friend.”

Ellen's brows rose in an expression of disbelief that aped her cousin's. “You have curious friends, Romayne, who seem to delight in taking advantage of another's sorrows. She showed scant regret at tossing aside Lord Kimmel, nor at her father's illness.”

“Philomena and Lord Harcourt have never been as close as most fathers and their daughters. There are …” Knowing she should not be speaking of such indelicate matters at a
soirée
, she finished weakly, “… many reasons.”

“No matter what defense you might offer, she is a hornet!”

As the evening unfolded, Romayne could not disagree with Ellen's assessment. The orchestra began playing for those who wished to dance, and Romayne hoped her husband would seek her out to turn to a waltz here as they had in the ballroom of Westhampton Hall. In his arms, his fingers stroking her back as his firm chest brushed her breasts, they would move in perfect unison. As they would if he came to her bed.

She closed her eyes, fighting down the craving that gnawed at her with every breath. James was right. Consummating their marriage would be asinine, because it would mean the ruin of her reputation and any chance for a good marriage after the truth was revealed. She knew that. Yet she hungered for his fingers sweeping along her as they had this afternoon when she had been ready to cede herself to ecstasy. How she longed to race to him, seize his hands, and plead with him to make love with her.

That was impossible when her hopes of even a dance seemed fated for disappointment. James continued to talk with Bradley. That astounded her, but she had no time to think of him. Instead she had to repeat endlessly the version of her adventures that she did not mind being retold about London.

“There's nothing more to tell, Lady Lorimer,” she said with a sigh as the dowager pressed for more information.

“But, Romayne—”

“If she says there is nothing more, you can believe her,” came a voice that was even deeper than James's.

Romayne smiled as she turned to a man who was nearly a decade her senior. With his dark hair laced with gray and a silver brush across his upper lip, the fashionably dressed man was a welcome sight. “Good evening, Lord Culver.”

“What a pleasure to see you!” He bowed over Romayne's hand, but his eyes lingered on Ellen. “I thought you might need rescuing, my lady.” His gaze returned to Romayne, and his brown eyes twinkled merrily. “The unending curiosity will be eased when the Season brings other contretemps to delight them.”

“I hope you are right.” Sensing Ellen's surprising shyness, Romayne put her hand on Ellen's arm to draw her within the conversation. “My cousin-in-law Miss Dunbar. Ellen, Lord Culver.”

“Miss Dunbar.” He lifted Ellen's hand to his lips, but did not kiss it.