Almost - Almost A Bride Part 18

"He has no complaints," Arabella declared. She lost her lighthearted manner for a moment as she said, "Indeed, sir, their plight is most pitiable. Many of them arrive without shoes on their feet."

The Prince of Wales made a somewhat noncommittal grunt at this. He was perennially in debt himself and loath to find himself at the other end of a plea for money.

Arabella knew this perfectly well and was about to change the subject, when Tidmouth announced, "Lady Jersey, your grace, and Mr. Cavenaugh."

"Oh, capital," the prince declared, rising heavily to his feet. "My dear, dear Lady Jersey." He greeted the lady with fulsome compliments as he kissed every one of her fingers in a manner that Arabella considered thoroughly unnecessary. Everyone knew that Lady Jersey was the prince's mistress, but they behaved so flagrantly in public that popular opinion was far from favorable.

The prince was the latest in her series of conquests, men who had succ.u.mbed to a seductive beauty that even the most jealous of wives couldn't help but acknowledge. Arabella had decided early in her acquaintances.h.i.+p with the lady that she might have enjoyed her sharp and malicious wit if Frances Villiers had not delighted in publicly mortifying the wives whose husbands she had bedded.

"Lady Arabella." Lady Jersey embraced her as if they were bosom friends, the dyed feathers in her picture hat standing up like a peac.o.c.k's tail, her large eyes filled with mischief. "I hope you're well, my dear. I thought you looked a little peaky at Devons.h.i.+re House the other night."

"I'm perfectly well, thank you," Arabella said. She turned to greet George Cavenaugh, who carried her hand to his lips with a gallant bow. "You look enchanting as usual, Lady Arabella," he said with a slightly pointed flicker of an eye towards Frances.

"You are too kind, sir," Arabella said, sketching a curtsy. She turned back to the countess, the picture of the courteous hostess. "May I offer you a gla.s.s of sherry, ma'am?"

"Oh, no . . . no, just a little weak tea, I think." The countess drifted to a chair beside the prince and alighted in a swirl of taffeta skirts. "The complexion, you know." She patted her cheeks with mittened fingers. "I find wine causes it to overheat."

Arabella made no comment, merely rang for a footman. The prince had raised his quizzing gla.s.s and was making a great play of examining his mistress's complexion, while she bridled and protested at the complimentary scrutiny.

"George, do help yourself to the decanters," Arabella invited, gesturing to the sideboard.

The door opened once more. "Lord Morpeth has sent in his card, your grace." Tidmouth proffered the silver tray on which lay the engraved card.

"Faith, madam, you're all the rage, I swear it," the prince declared. "A man can't even have a quiet tetea-tete with you."

"Sir, I am always at your service," Arabella protested.

The prince gave a jovial laugh. "So you say, my dear ma'am, so you say. But whenever I come, you're always inundated with callers." He opened a dainty Sevres snuffbox and offered it to Fox before taking a pinch. "Send him in, Tidmouth, send him in."

Lord Morpeth entered, and with a room full of staunch Whig supporters the conversation turned to politics. Arabella glanced around her salon with satisfaction. She was a long way towards achieving her ambition of becoming a political hostess to rival the d.u.c.h.ess of Devons.h.i.+re. The house on Cavendish Square was almost as popular a meeting place as Devons.h.i.+re House.

"Jack not home, Lady Arabella?" George Cavenaugh inquired, holding his gla.s.s to a footman who was pa.s.sing with fully charged decanters. "I was hoping to have a word."

"Oh, I saw him not half an hour ago on Mount Street," Lord Morpeth said. "Coming out of Worth's house."

Lady Jersey uttered a little t.i.tter. "Dear Lady Worth," she said. "It's astounding how she grows more beautiful by the day. She never looks a minute older from one day to the next. It's no wonder the men flock to her door." She took a delicate sip from her teacup and smiled at Arabella.

It was a hyena's smile, Arabella thought savagely. The smile of one circling a soon-to-be carrion. It was one thing, distasteful enough, for the woman to dig her claws into the wives of her own lovers, another to stab for the pure pleasure of it at a woman whose husband was no affair of hers.

Of course, it was highly possible that Jack had been intimately connected to Frances Villiers at some time.

A bare instant of silence had followed Frances Villiers's comment, no more than a breath, and then Fox turned the conversation swiftly to the recent death of James Boswell. Arabella seized on the distraction and offered her own opinions on the diarist's work, giving no indication that she had even heard either Morpeth or Lady Jersey, and when Jack strolled into the salon half an hour later, she greeted him with a bland smile.

He bowed to the prince and greeted the room at large, then lightly kissed his wife's hand before taking a gla.s.s of wine from the footman and sitting down opposite her. "Get down, you ill-bred hounds," he said, pus.h.i.+ng the dogs away as they slavered over his long white hands. Feathery tails wagged vigorously at an admonition that they weren't going to take seriously.

"Handsome dogs," the prince observed, possessing himself of Lady Jersey's hand.

"They have no manners at all," Jack said tartly before warning the dogs, "Get down, or I'll put you out."

"Boris . . . Oscar . . . come here," Arabella said sharply. She still couldn't understand what it was about Jack that turned even the most ferocious dogs into adoring slaves in his presence. They came to her, albeit reluctantly, and lay down heavily at her feet with breathy sighs of resignation.

It was half an hour later before the last of their guests departed and Jack came back into the salon after showing them out. "I must congratulate you, my dear," he said, propping his shoulders against the mantelpiece and regarding her closely. "You seem to have established yourself even more quickly and thoroughly than I had expected. The prince beats a path to your door almost daily. And York was here only yesterday."

"They're not as irritating as first impressions led me to believe," she said. "At least, the duke isn't." Her lip curled slightly as she continued, "The prince is all right on his own, but as soon as Lady Jersey comes into view he becomes as addled as a rotten egg."

Jack raised his eyebrows at this vehemence. He was not to know its reason. "Perhaps marriage will change things," he suggested.

"Why should it?" Arabella retorted. "It doesn't normally affect a man's prenuptial activities." She could have cut out her tongue even as she spoke the words. Lady Worth had never been mentioned between them since the night of the opera. And she had not come to call in Cavendish Square either, although they had met several times at rout parties and dinners and always with a courtesy so sharp it could cut through wind.

Jack's expression remained impa.s.sive.

Arabella said, "I was thinking I would like to visit Lacey Court for a couple of weeks. I could bring Meg back with me."

"Why the sudden urgency?" He took snuff, regarding her through narrowed eyes.

She sipped sherry. "The tenants are accustomed to having a Lacey in residence. My father was quite often there, and although Frederick rarely put in an appearance, I-"

He interrupted her, that little blade flickering in his eyes again. "You forget, madam wife, that there are no more Laceys. The only name that counts now is Fortescu. A name that you bear."

She set down her empty gla.s.s. "I have no need of the reminder," she responded, turning away from him.

Jack came over to her, putting his hands on her shoulders. He bent and kissed her nape, brus.h.i.+ng aside the artfully arranged cl.u.s.ter of ringlets. He felt her quiver beneath his touch and let his hands slip around to hold her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, feeling their warmth beneath the thin cambric of her morning gown. "Just in case you should need a reminder of what it means to bear my name," he whispered, kissing her ear, his tongue darting into the tightly whorled sh.e.l.l so that she squirmed and against her will laughed.

"d.a.m.n you, Jack Fortescu," she said, trying to twist away from him. "Supposing someone comes in."

"I trust my staff is not so badly trained that they would fail to knock," he said, his breath rustling against her ear.

She wriggled out of his hold and examined her reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes rather bright. He could always do this to her, however determined she was to resist him.

"No," she said as he came up behind her again. "I have an engagement with Lady Pevensey. We're to visit the Botanical Gardens and I must change my dress."

"You could always send your excuses," he suggested, watching her face in the mirror.

"That would be discourteous at such short notice," she said. "Besides, I'm most interested to see the gardens. They have some species of orchids that I've only seen in pictures."Disappointment showed for an instant in the clear gray eyes, then it was banished and they were once more cool and expressionless. "Of course. I wouldn't attempt to compete with orchids, my dear." He turned away from her, saying over his shoulder, "Oh, by the way, I'm going out of Town for a few days.""Oh." She tried to sound incurious, but couldn't help asking, "Where to?""An estate I own in Hertfords.h.i.+re. There've been some difficulties with one of the tenants. I need to discuss it with the agent.""I see. When are you leaving?""This afternoon.""Then I'll see you when you return." She smiled, blew him a kiss of farewell, and left the salon. Jack stared in frustration at the closed doors. He had intended asking her to come with him. But he wasn't going to beg. Arabella found her enjoyment of the Botanical Gardens less than she had expected. Her head was aching slightly and Helen Pevensey, whom she rather liked, seemed this afternoon to be somewhat dull. She wondered if she could get home before Jack left. He hadn't invited her to accompany him, but she could make the suggestion. A breath of country air would be refres.h.i.+ng. "Forgive me, Helen, I have the headache," she said, turning away from a spectacular display of rock plants. "Would you mind if we went home?"

"No, not in the least." Her companion looked at her in concern. "You do look a trifle f.a.gged, Arabella, and I own I've seen enough flowers for one day."Arabella's carriage left Lady Pevensey at her own doorstep and took the d.u.c.h.ess home. She hurried up the steps, saying to Tidmouth as he opened the door, "Is his grace still here?""No, your grace. He left an hour past."The wash of disappointment was so strong, she almost burst into tears. Which was absurd, because she couldn't remember when she had last cried. "Thank you," she said, and made for the stairs. "Will you be wanting the carriage this evening, your grace?"

All she really wanted to do was curl up with a book in front of her own fire but that was defeatist. "Yes, the countess of Derby is having a rout party. I'll need the carriage at nine o'clock. I'll dine in my boudoir."

She was quite accustomed now to dressing without her husband's advice, just as she was accustomed to going out in the evening without his escort. Husbands and wives in this artificial world spent almost no time together in public-and from what she'd seen, very little in private. There wasn't much opportunity for it.

At the rout party, she set out as usual to gamble away a fair chunk of what she still considered to be Jack's ill-gotten gains from her half brother's estate. But for some reason her heart wasn't in it this evening. Halfway through the evening, Lord Worth took the bank at the table where she was playing faro. Arabella wasn't sure how she felt about enriching the house of Worth at the expense of the house of St. Jules.

"Is Lady Worth not here this evening?" one of the players inquired from behind her fan. "I wished to speak with her but I haven't seen her."

"No, she's gone into the country for a few days," the earl said, dealing the cards. "A sick aunt needs her attention, I believe."

Arabella kept her eyes on the cards as she moved a rouleau forward to the ace of spades. A sick aunt or an eager lover? The pips on the cards danced before her eyes but she forced herself to sit at the table until she had lost everything. Only then did she rise with casual ease, laughingly dismissing her losses, and stroll away to make her farewells to her hostess.

Chapter 15.

Jack returned to London a week later. To his surprised annoyance it hadn't been easy to stay away that long. It had never occurred to him that he would miss her but he'd found within two days that the thought of his provoking, sharp-tongued wife intruded constantly. He tried to concentrate on the business that had brought him into Hertfords.h.i.+re but frequently found his mind wandering. He missed her laugh, her ready smile, the pleasure she took in digging in the dirt. He missed the way she held her head, the way she was aware of everything going on around her even when she didn't appear to be listening, the way she walked into a room, the way she wore the jewels he delighted in giving her.

So he came back earlier than he'd intended. Arabella was not at home when he arrived in mid-morning.

"Her grace has gone out with one of her Frenchmen, sir," Tidmouth informed him with the look he wore when he was conveying information of which he disapproved. "A rather ragged gentleman, if I might say so, your grace. I gather there was a sick child involved." He gave a pointed sniff as he dusted off the crown of Jack's beaver hat. "It's to be hoped that it's not the typhus," he added. "Or the smallpox."

Jack had his own reservations about Arabella's forays into the depths of London's underbelly but he wasn't going to enter into such a discussion with Tidmouth. Nevertheless when he left the house an hour later, immaculate in dove-gray velvet, he was not in the best of moods.

He strolled into White's, where he knew he'd find most of his friends at noon on a Wednesday, settling their debts of the past week over liberal quant.i.ties of claret. A chorus of greetings met him as he walked into the main salon, handing his hat and gloves to the footman as he did so.

"Jack, thank G.o.d you're back," Fox called out. "I need a loan, my dear friend."

"How much?" Jack asked with resignation as he came over to the group sitting around a table in the window overlooking St. James's. He was used to bailing out Fox, as indeed were all Fox's friends.

"A trifle. I need six thousand guineas, but anything you can manage, my dear fellow, will be gratefully accepted."

George Cavenaugh watched, shaking his head slightly, as Jack wrote out a bank draft for a thousand guineas. He would never get it back, but there was often a price on the head of friends.h.i.+p.

Fox took the draft with effusive thanks and calmly handed it over to the marquis of Herndon, to whom he owed such a sum. Jack merely smiled and went over to George, who was beckoning him from the far side of the room.

"I wouldn't spread too much ready money around, Jack, you're like to need it closer to home," George said somberly.

Jack exhaled audibly through his mouth. "My wife."

"Jack, I hate to say this, but you have to do something. She's like to ruin you." George looked stricken.

"How many of the St. Jules diamonds has she wagered thus far?" Jack asked, sounding resigned.

"Not them, but a pair of sapphire eardrops and a pearl pendant. I . . . uh . . . I redeemed them myself . . . thought you wouldn't wish them lost." He put his hand in his waistcoat pocket and drew out a small packet that he handed to the duke.

Jack tucked it into his own inner pocket. "My thanks, George. How much do I owe you?"

George pulled at his chin. "Five thousand . . . but forgive me, Jack, it's hard to see how anyone can lose like that. It's obvious Arabella is an inexperienced gamester, but it's almost as if she wills herself to lose."

"Yes, I'm afraid you're right," Jack said, a twisted smile on his lips. "She certainly makes no attempt to win, or even to practice a little obvious strategy."

He patted the contents of his pocket reflectively, before writing out a second bank draft and giving it to his friend. Then with another word of thanks he went into the neighboring room to try a few casts of the dice.

It was early afternoon when he returned home, to be informed that her grace had returned and was in her boudoir. He went upstairs and opened the door softly. There was no sign of the dogs so he guessed they were in the kitchen cozening the chef to part with a few tasty morsels. Alphonse was captivated by them and spent almost as long boiling up bones and stripping chicken carca.s.ses for their delectation as he did preparing meals for his employer.

Afternoon sun fell onto the chaise longue where Arabella lay asleep under a woolen wrap. She was turned slightly on her side, her cheek resting on her hand, and he stood looking down at her for a long moment, gazing at the dark crescent of her eyelashes against the creamy complexion, but noticing too the faint blue shadows beneath her eyes. It looked as if she hadn't been sleeping well. Too much time racketing around the mean streets of London on her errands of mercy?

Or perhaps she'd been too busy losing his fortune at the gaming tables.

She opened her eyes abruptly, as if his silent scrutiny had awoken her, and for an instant he could have sworn a light of pleasure sparked in the tawny depths, then she sat up, pus.h.i.+ng the coverlet off her. "You're back, sir. I didn't expect you for another few days."

Arabella managed to sound as if his return was of as little interest as his absence, even though her heart was beating a little faster, her skin was p.r.i.c.kling in the way it did when they were in close proximity, and it required considerable effort not to fling herself at him with wild kisses of pa.s.sionate joy.

"Yes, ma'am, I'm back," he said, swinging a saddle-seated chair towards him and straddling it, resting his arms on the back as he looked at her. "And from what I hear, I've been away far too long." He slipped a hand inside his coat and withdrew the packet George had given him, tossing it beside her on the chaise. She picked it up, realizing immediately what it was.

"I suppose I should be grateful it wasn't the St. Jules diamonds," Jack remarked.

Arabella looked at him in undisguised shock. "I would never do that. I wager only what is mine."

"My dear, if you're obliged to wager your jewels, then your debts must far exceed the settlements we agreed upon. Settlements I considered to be more than generous. Obviously I was mistaken," he said aridly.

"Everyone gambles," she said.

"Yes, but not everyone gambles as badly as you," he pointed out. "Willfully badly, I'm forced to conclude from watching you. Even someone as ignorant of the principles of gaming as you obviously are wins some of the time."

She felt her cheeks warm under his steady, searching gaze. "I've seen the d.u.c.h.ess of Devons.h.i.+re lose ten thousand guineas in a night."

"The d.u.c.h.ess is not-I repeat, not-an example to emulate," he stated. "She's addicted to gaming and it will be the ruin of her in the end. But you see, my dear wife, I don't think you are addicted." His eyes narrowed as he watched her face, saw the quick conscious flicker in her gaze.

"I lose only what you won from my brother," she said, idly smoothing the silken folds of her ivory negligee.

"Mmm. That's rather what I thought," he said reflectively. "Well, I have to tell you, my dear, that it won't do. I'm not going to sit back and watch you ruin me, Arabella."

She frowned, little flecks of golden fire in her tawny eyes. "How do you intend to stop me?"

He seemed to consider the question, then said thoughtfully, "I have but two choices, it appears to me."

"And they are, my lord duke?" She watched him with an air of interest.

Jack tapped his fingertips together. "Of course I could increase my own winnings to cover your losses, which I have to say sounds like more effort than I'm prepared to expend, or . . ." Here he paused for a minute, before continuing, "Or I could teach you how to play to win." He raised a hand to prevent the protest that had risen to her lips. "I suggest we go to the library and try a hand of faro."

She didn't immediately move from the chaise. "How was your visit to the country?" she inquired with a smile that barely touched her lips. "Did you solve the difficulties on the estate?" She couldn't keep the sardonic note out of her voice. The image of Lilly Worth's flawless porcelain complexion and china-blue eyes had haunted her for Jack's entire absence. She despised herself for caring, but she couldn't stop herself.

"Yes," he said, looking a little puzzled at her tone. "But it would have been pleasanter if you had come with me."

What an accomplished liar he was. "Didn't you find any pleasant company, then?"

"Only my agent's and he's a dour man at best." Jack swung himself off the chair. He held out his hand. "Come, Arabella, let's begin our gambling lesson."

Later that evening Arabella was putting the lesson into practice at a card table at a party given by the marchioness of Bute. George Cavenaugh sat beside her and watched her play with surprise. "Ma'am, your luck seems to have turned," he observed as she won a hand on the ten of spades.

She laughed. "My husband has been teaching me all afternoon. The lesson has taken, it would seem."She collected the rouleaux at her elbow and for an instant stared across the table, gathering her words. There had never been a suitable moment to ask what she wanted . . . needed . . . to ask. She had felt that there would be something unseemly about discussing her husband with his best friend. But George was her friend now, not just her husband's.

With an air of resolution she turned towards him. She spoke quietly. "George, were you there when Jack played that last game with my brother?"