“I thought Shrike had wisely left town.”
“Then maybe it wasn’t him. One Bond Street lounger is very much like another.”
“Which is the last thing any of them wishes,” he murmured, toying with his lace cuff while still studying her.
Rockets and fireballs exploded across the night sky, and she used them as a distraction. “Aren’t they lovely?”
“If one cares for that sort of thing.”
“Don’t you?”
“Maybe I have seen too many.”
“You consider yourself jaded?”
The question clearly amused him. “Yes, right now I probably am,” he replied dryly, then offered her his arm. “Let us return to the box.”
Relievedly she slipped her hand over his sleeve, and they strolled back toward the Grand Walk. There was a crush by the orchestra pavilion, where nearly everyone seemed to have congregated to watch the fireworks. In the supper box, Madeira cake and another bottle of champagne had now been placed upon the table.
Rowan refilled Marigold’s glass, and although she knew she shouldn’t, she was still in such a fluster of nerves that she sipped a little more. Bursts of color sparkled against the night sky, and there was delighted applause, but although most people’s gaze was turned skyward, Marigold’s scanned the crush for Alauda. She soon saw the Earl of Fernborough by the orchestra. He was openly importuning the soprano as she rested prior to singing again when the fireworks display was over.
At last Marigold picked out Alauda, who was once again with Sir Reginald and Lady Crane. As Marigold watched, Lady Crane shook her head at something Alauda said, but then said something behind her fan and nodded toward the box. Alauda turned, and by the furious look on her face, Marigold knew that if nothing else, Lady Crane had observed her following Rowan into the Dark Walk. It was all up, Marigold thought in dismay, for at the very least Rowan would learn that far from waiting long enough to become bored, she’d left straightaway! Her attention was drawn back to Rowan as he suddenly proposed a toast.
“To us, my lady.”
“To us, my lord.”
As their glasses clinked together, he looked curiously at her. “Is something wrong, Marigold? You seem a little, er, distracted.”
Was it better to tell him now, rather than wait for him to find out through Alauda? But as she hovered on the brink of confession, a lisping female voice greeted them loudly from the entrance to the box. “Why, what a pleathure to come upon you again, Lord Avenbuwy, Lady Avenbuwy. Are you enjoying the fireworkth?” It was Lady Crane, who had with her not only a very reluctant Sir Reginald, but Alauda too.
Rowan rose swiftly to his feet, and ignoring Sir Reginald, inclined his head at the two ladies. “Lady Crane, Lady Fernborough.”
Lady Crane, who was clearly taking malicious delight in forcing Rowan and Alauda to face each other in front of Marigold, pushed open the door of the box, and came inside. “My lord, I underthtand that Lady Fernborough and your new bwide are alweady acquainted.”
“Indeed they are,” Rowan replied.
“I wath jutht telling dear Alauda that I haven’t left Thir Weginald’th thide all evening, tho I cannot imagine why she thought I had.” Lady Crane looked maliciously at Marigold as she spoke, and the latter’s heart sank.
Rowan feigned not to understand. “I beg your pardon, Lady Crane? I’m afraid I don’t quite follow the significance ... ?”
Sir Reginald gave his wife an appalled look, for he was afraid her tongue was about to embroil him in Lord Toby’s recent fate. Lady Crane knew she’d gone far enough. “Oh, la, I don’t thuppose it weally matterth,” she murmured disappointedly.
Marigold’s thankfulness was such that she almost gave a gasp of relief.
Alauda was annoyed that the moment had come to nothing, so decided to try to make Marigold look foolish. “Why, dear Marigold, what a shock your news is, I vow I did not expect you to emerge so neatly from the jaws of disaster.”
By now Marigold’s initial shock had subsided, and once again the champagne urged her into battle. “Disaster? What on earth do you mean, Alauda?”
“Why the debacle of Merlin’s will, of course.”
“Ah, yes, the
faked
document,” Marigold replied amiably.
Alauda’s lips twitched. “Hardly that, my dear.”
“Oh. but Falk admitted it, Alauda.”
“Well, with your reputation at stake, no doubt you are forced to say such things.”
“If it ever comes to that, Alauda, I will be sure to consult with you, for if anyone knows what it is to have one’s reputation in jeopardy, you do.”
Marigold’s smile could not have been more sweet. “May I say how very lovely you look tonight? What material is your gown? I vow it is so transparent it must be Madras muslin.”
Alauda flushed. “Transparent?”
“Well, one can see a great deal of your, er, form.”
“I think you exaggerate,” Alauda replied icily. “Besides, it isn’t Madras muslin, but Swiss. I wouldn’t stoop to something as cheap as Madras.”
“Really? Well, whatever the price, vibrant yellow is definitely your color, for it is so very conspicuous, is it not?” Marigold’s trill of laughter was a cruel imitation of Alauda’s. “Why, I believe that if all the illuminations here were to be extinguished, we would still be able to see by the glow of your gown!”
Alauda looked murderous. “I’d hardly call it vibrant, but then fashion was never of particular interest to you, was it?”
“To be truthful, I fail to see why it should be of such intense concern to any woman of intelligence. Why on earth should one slavishly follow every new mode? I’m reliably informed that to a gentleman, a pretty ankle is a pretty ankle, whether it peeps from beneath ten-year-old gray flannel or the latest plowman’s gauze. Is that not what you said, my lord?” She turned suddenly to Rowan as she said this last.
He gave her a mixed look. “Yes, my lady, that is indeed what I said,” he replied, even though they both knew he hadn’t.
Looking daggers at Marigold, Alauda lapsed into a heavy silence. She’d come off worse in the skirmish, and she knew it.
Lady Crane knew it too, and laughed a little embarrassedly. “Why, la, Lord Avenbuwy, I declare thith eveningth fireworkth are the motht thplendid ever, don’t you agwee?”
“They are excellent indeed,” Rowan murmured.
Emboldened, Marigold decided it was time to fix upon Sir Reginald, who had been steadfastly avoiding both her gaze and Rowan’s. “Good evening again, Sir Reginald,” she said. “I hope you and Lord Toby were able to find supper somewhere the other night? You left the Spread Eagle so hurriedly that I thought I had imagined you there in the first place.”
Sir Reginald gave her a sickly smile. “I, er, yes, Lady Avenbury. We ate at the George and Dragon.”
“How is your poor nose?”
Invisible daggers shot from his eyes, for it was quite clear how his nose was. “It will do, madam, it will do.” He glanced out of the box, and gave a glad cry. “Why, Fernborough is waiting by our box, so I believe our supper must be ready!”
Without a word, Alauda turned and left. Lady Crane gave another embarrassed laugh. “Why, la,” she declared a little foolishly, and made much of extending her hand for her husband to present his arm. Sir Reginald duly obliged, and they too left the box.
Marigold exhaled. “What a very disagreeable few minutes,” she said.
“Much enlivened by your notion of humor,” Rowan replied, resuming his seat.
“At least I have one. Alauda’s was noteworthy for its absence.”
He sat back, and ran a fingertip slowly around the rim of his glass. “You can hardly expect her to be pleased with the situation.”
“Am I to sympathize with the odious creature? She is a snake, and just behaved very badly indeed. So did Lady Crane.”
He looked shrewdly at her. “Are you seeking an argument, my lady?”
“Do you enjoy being the bone of contention?” she countered.
“Is that how you see me?”
“It appears to be the role in which you cast yourself.”
“It isn’t, believe me.”
“But, sir, if you intend to keep a wife and a mistress who abhor each other, you are
bound
to be the bone.”
“You are still wrong. Now, I don’t intend to pursue the matter any further.” He poured her a little more champagne.
Marigold hid her anger from him, for if ever any man wanted to have cake
and
eat it, that man was Rowan, Lord Avenbury! He intended to continue seeing Alauda, and at the same time he intended to bed his wife. She smiled sweetly, and pushed the plate of Madeira cake toward him. “Do have some, sir.”
Her smile didn’t falter as he took a slice, nor did it waver as she recalled Alauda’s scathing words in the grotto.
Merlin told me she was cold and unimaginative, the equivalent of bedding a codfish.
A codfish? Well, if that was what Lord Avenbury thought his new bride would be, he was going to be very surprised. It was too long since she had been loved, and she was attracted to him in a way she wished she was not. Tonight he was going to be hers, and she meant to enjoy him to the full. He was not the only one who could have the cake and eat it. Still smiling, she took a slice as well.
It was gone midnight as Marigold stood alone on the wrought-iron balcony of her bedroom. She and Rowan had been back from Vauxhall Gardens for half an hour, and now she was waiting for him with a shameful degree of excitement. The last glass of champagne had sealed her foolishness.
This was her wedding night, and she was about to spend the intimate hours of darkness with a husband she hardly knew, but who had already come to mean far too much to her. He was a tantalizing enigma, a man with magic in his eyes and fate in his touch. He was almost otherworldly, yet only too worldly as well, and she knew she was a fool to be falling in love with him, but on this occasion folly was proving impossible to resist.
She gazed down at the moonlit garden, where silver roses bloomed and diamonds danced in the fountains. Silver and diamonds? She smiled at such fanciful metaphors, but then she was seeing through a champagne glass—brightly! An owl called in the cherry tree at the bottom of the garden, and for the first time she noticed that mistletoe grew on one of the branches. Mistletoe, the sacred plant of the druids. Suddenly the night seemed cooler, and she drew back into the room.
Her small apartment consisted of a main bedroom, a dressing room containing wardrobes and a washstand, and a mirror-walled anteroom that opened onto the landing. The furniture was upholstered in bluebell velvet, and the walls were hung with pale yellow-and-white silk.
The sumptuous four-poster bed was draped with a pagoda canopy of dainty white muslin, and the gray marble fireplace was particularly beautiful. An ormulu clock ticked on the mantelpiece, where ornaments with intricate crystal droplets caught the candlelight. It was all very elegant, and she liked it very much, especially as it looked out over the delightful gardens, unlike Rowan’s apartment at the front of the house.
A lighted candelabrum stood upon the dressing table, its flames swaying idly in the barely perceptible draft from the garden. She saw her reflection in the cheval glass in the corner, and paused to consider what she saw. Beneath the voluminous white silk, her figure was firm and reasonably curvaceous, although hardly memorable, and at least her complexion didn’t suffer the bane of freckles. She supposed her eyes might be considered handsome, they were certainly large, very green, and shaded by blessedly dark lashes. Her eyebrows were dark too, not the pale reddish hue that all but disappeared when viewed from more than a few feet away.
Her only true asset were the red-gold curls that fell loosely about the shoulders of her nightgown, but good eyes and copper gold hair alone would never make her Alauda’s equal. She looked at the mirror.
“You
are the one who will be with him tonight, not Alauda,” she reminded herself.
Suddenly the clock chimed the quarter hour. It was the time Rowan had said he would come to her. She hastened to stand by the candle, for she knew how the flame would burnish her hair and outline her figure more becomingly through the thin white silk of her nightgown. Tonight she had no shame. She heard the anteroom door open and close, and then there was a discreet tap at the door of the bedroom itself. “Marigold?”
“Please come in.”
He entered the room, and went to place the lighted candle he carried on the mantelpiece. He wore Turkish slippers, a maroon paisley silk dressing gown that was tied loosely at the waist, and his dark hair was tousled. He turned, his glance sweeping over her. “Well, here we are, madam.”
“Here we are indeed, sir.”
“Marigold, it is now my turn to offer a way out. There is still time for you to change your mind about being Lady Avenbury. Are you sure you wish to continue?”
She was taken aback. “Why do you ask?”
“Tonight at Vauxhall you were the object of much staring and quizzing. Maybe it has made you pause to think twice.”
She was unsure of him. “Or maybe
you
are the one who has thought twice, sir.”
He smiled a little. “My feelings have not changed, Marigold, although I confess to finding this situation somewhat novel.”
“Novel?”
“It is very strange to find myself with a wife.”
“Come, sir, you have often found yourself with a wife.”
He smiled again.
“Touché,
but never my own.”
“Am I so very different?”
“It is the situation that is different.”
“For you maybe.”
His eyes flickered away. “Ah yes, I must not forget that this will be the second wedding night you have known.”
“The second wedding night, and the second husband, indeed only the second man, for until now Merlin was the only one. Whereas you, sir, have no doubt lost count of your conquests.”
“I wouldn’t exactly say lost count.”
“Then let us settle for the fact that you are very experienced indeed, whereas I have only Merlin with whom to compare you.”
“You think I mean to compare you with others?”
“With one other, perhaps.”
He drew a long breath. “You do me an injustice, Marigold.”