Secrets of a Scandalous Bride Page 16

  “There, I knew you could be gracious in defeat, Pymm,” the prince said with a chuckle. “Now where is that neck-or-nothing little devil of a jockey of yours? Would very much like to meet him—or her.”

  “Mr. Lefroy’s feeling under the weather, Your Majesty,” Rowland ground out.

  The prince’s watery eyes studied him as his jowls waggled. “You can’t fool me,” he murmured loudly enough for Pymm and Wellington to hear. “’Twas that female you bussed so outrageously at St. George’s, wasn’t it? Damned talented little thing. And here I thought she was just a little mud dab you keep on the sly. You wouldn’t consider sharing, would you?” The prince guffawed as Rowland imagined ten thousand ways to separate Prinny’s head from his rotund form. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Pymm was contemplating the same thing with Rowland’s own noggin.

  The Duke of Wellington stepped forward and, with far more pomp and circumstance than either the Prince Regent or Pymm, handed Rowland the purse winnings.

  Prinny slapped him on the back. “You must join us at table tonight, man. Everyone will want to hear how you plotted the race.” He winked again. “And I order you to bring your magnificent little jockey so we can celebrate properly. She can sit beside me, since Pymm’s fiancée has so little conversation.”

  The general’s face was mottled purple with rage.

  Elizabeth wasn’t exactly certain what Ata said to her in the carriage. Her mind was still reeling with images from the race, the roar of the crowd, and Rowland’s furious face as he lifted her from the saddle.

  “What are you going to do? What would you like us to do? What shall we tell General Pymm if he saw through your disguise?” Ata flung the questions at her like a seasoned barrister. When the dowager realized Elizabeth was incapable of speech, Ata clucked a few times before a haze of silence settled over them both. Elizabeth could only hear the pumping of her heart, still racing and skittering at the remembrance of Rowland’s reaction.

  She barely glanced at the timber and herringbone brick of the ancient cloister as she was secreted inside. A maid guided Ata and Elizabeth up a tiny winding stair to a small octagonal room where a bath awaited her.

  She could feel Ata’s eyes studying her and she looked away. The dowager dismissed the maid.

  “I will help you, myself, my dear.”

  She couldn’t move.

  Ata sighed, and began to unbutton the dark blue and gold jockey’s silks. Elizabeth closed her eyes.

  Oh, this was not how she had imagined it would go. She had been sure he would be transported with happiness at the win. It would mean five thousand pounds. Enough to stave off his creditors for a long while.

  Ata slipped the hat and wig from her head.

  “I can do it,” Elizabeth finally whispered.

  “Oh, thank goodness. I was certain you were in shock,” Ata murmured.

  “I’m sorry, Ata.”

  “Why aren’t you excited? You won! I was never so in awe, my dear. You are the bravest young lady I’ve ever known.”

  Elizabeth stepped into the steaming water of the copper tub. “No. I’m the most scandalous.” She sank into the depths, submerging even her head. She wished she could stay in the warm, calming waters. Everything felt like a dream underwater.

  Her breath gave up and she rose. Ata applied soap to her hair and washed away the grime of the race.

  “You shouldn’t be doing this, Your Grace.” Elizabeth bowed her head and Ata poured clean water over her head.

  “Your Grace?” Ata said with a sigh. “Since when did I give you leave to address me in that formal fashion?”

  “I don’t want to pain your hand, Ata.”

  “Oh pish,” the dowager murmured.

  Elizabeth quickly finished with her bath and rose to accept the linen toweling and robe before settling in a chaise in front of the tiny fire in the austere grate.

  Ata picked up a comb and began the tedious task of pulling the tangles from Elizabeth’s huge mass of dripping hair. She stilled the older lady’s fingers. “Please let me do this. My hair is impossible.” Her eyes dropped to Ata’s gnarled hand that was always fisted.

  “Botheration,” Ata muttered. “It doesn’t hurt, you know.”

  Before she could think, Elizabeth posed the question not one of the ladies in Ata’s secret club had ever dared to ask. “What happened to your hand?” She stopped. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I shouldn’t have presumed to—”

  “My husband detested music.” Ata paused, her aged face drawn. “And I never played very well, you see.”

  It was so rare for the dowager duchess to admit to any fault in her person. Elizabeth turned fully on the chaise to face Ata.

  “I played the pianoforte. But my true love was the harp.”

  “I remember your mentioning something about that when we were all in Cornwall.”

  “It’s a difficult instrument. Makes the most ungodly sounds when ill played.” Ata plucked at her gown awkwardly.

  “You don’t have to tell me the story,” Elizabeth whispered.

  “No,” Ata said. “I want to tell someone. I never have, you know.”

  Elizabeth nodded silently.

  “My husband, Luc’s grandfather, had a devil of a temper like most Helstons. But you see,” she said softly, “there was something more behind it. Something in him enjoyed tormenting those weaker than himself. And I never had a complacent nature. I never could back down from a bully. And the duke was that.”

  Elizabeth covered Ata’s gnarled hand with her own.

  “After John Brown left me waiting for him over the anvil in Scotland the summer I was sixteen…well, I was so furious I agreed, despite many misgivings, to the brilliant match my parents had arranged before we toured the Highlands. It was stupid of me. The duke was well over a foot taller than me and wanted nothing more than the large fortune I brought to the marriage.”

  “He hurt you,” Elizabeth murmured.

  “As I said, he had an unparalleled temper.” Ata’s black-as-night eyes stared into hers.

  Every hair on Elizabeth’s arms rose.

  “He forbade me to ever touch the instrument again after he first heard me play. Soon after, he discovered me practicing in secret.” Ata looked down at her twisted hand. “He became enraged and knocked down the harp. My hand—fingers—were caught…broken. No surgeon was called. That is why…”

  “Oh, Ata,” Elizabeth whispered. “No…”

  They both sat in lengthening silence.

  “Elizabeth,” Ata said quietly. “I have a confession to make.”

  She looked at the older woman with the crown of gray locks braided into submission under her cap.

  “I only suggested you marry General Pymm because I thought I sometimes spied a darkness in Rowland Manning’s eyes. The same look my long-dead husband had. Until today, I feared Rowland was a bully—as heartless a blackguard as my husband. And Pymm? Well, while he might be a bit dour, and well pleased with himself, he at least has shown nothing but blind love and devotion to you. But I fear I might be wrong…Am I wrong? Are we all wrong?”

  “Why do you think you’re wrong?” Elizabeth asked gently.

  “I watched Rowland Manning while he followed the race. I’ve never seen such utter terror on a man’s face before. As if he would not be able to go on living if something happened to you.”

  “Ata, I beg your pardon, but it was not anxiety. It was anger.”

  Ata tightened her lips. “Allow me to assure you that I know the difference. Mr. Manning faltered, almost fainted dead away, when you lost your balance. Luc and Michael had to hold him back from jumping the rail to run after the pack.”

  She had no reason to doubt Ata, but the memory of Rowland’s face filled with fury countered the dowager’s every word.

  “Oh, Eliza, I do wish I could counsel you better. It’s just…well, as of late…actually, ever since Mr. Brown returned from Scotland, I have felt very unsure if I render the best advice.�
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  “Ata, that is not true. And honestly, it doesn’t seem to matter what anyone suggests to me. I fear I’m incapable of following advice.” She looked at the edge of her hem. “At least I can only blame myself when everything falls to pieces, as it always seems to do.”

  “Well, I can assure you that admitting any possible error does not change anything,” Ata said with a small voice. “I have tried it. Even Mr. Brown tried it. And we are proof that it does not work.”

  Elizabeth searched the older woman’s forlorn face. “You spoke to him?”

  “In a letter last spring. Begged his pardon for all our old arguments—my past behavior,” Ata murmured. “I begged him to return. And now I regret it, for he is here and quite obviously indifferent to me. It appears disaster is to be the cornerstone of my life no matter what I do.”

  Elizabeth gently squeezed Ata’s hand. “How can you call the last two years a disaster? These many months have been the happiest of my life. Ata…your friendship means more to me than I will ever be able to properly express.”

  “Oh, my darling. I did not mean to suggest…Ah, I have muddled this too. What I mean to say is that it is I who is grateful to you and the others for your friendship. I shall never forget any of you, as you forge your young lives.”

  “You make it sound as if we will not see each other in future,” Elizabeth said with anxiety.

  “That is not so. It is just that time presses on and each of you will have husbands and children to attend to—and all the mysteries of your lives will unfold. I shall eventually retire to Cornwall. But, fear not, I am too curious to go yet. First, I must see who shall win your hand.” Ata continued before Elizabeth could respond, “Come…let me help you with your hair ribbon.”

  As she quickly donned the newly pressed blue silk gown laid out for her, and Ata finished dressing her hair with a blue satin ribbon, Elizabeth wished she had a hint of how her life would unfold. She was so tired of mystery—so tired of choosing the wrong course.

  Ata was of the same mind.

  That very evening, Ata took her decision. She had watched Mr. Brown and the Countess of Home laugh and converse all through the endless formal dinner. And she had endured watching them dance twice, the countess flirting with John each time the intricate steps brought them together. And yet, when he had finally come to claim a set with Ata, he had not uttered more than two sentences. It was the outside of enough.

  When the last notes of the music faded away, Ata tugged John Brown behind the nearest potted palm.

  “Do you want to marry me or not?” she asked, fuming.

  He took far too long to form a reply. “Are you asking?”

  “Are you refusing?” She loathed her defensive, tinny tone.

  “Lass…” His voice was tired.

  A cool trickle of hurt filled her. “You are refusing.” She really was the stupidest woman in all of creation. She had chosen to love a man who was determined to break her heart twice in one lifetime. “I can’t believe it.”

  “You’re asking for the wrong reason,” he said gently.

  “What do reasons have to do with this? Either you want to marry me or you do not. You’ve had five decades to consider it. I had rather thought you were inclined at one time.”

  “I was. But I won’t marry you just because you are jealous of the Countess of Home.”

  “Hang the countess and her fawning ways.”

  He sighed.

  Her temper got the better of her. “I should have known you would back down when it came to the point. Nothing has changed. I’m the fool for thinking it could.”

  His lips were stiff. “I’ve explained my actions many times. I refused to allow you to throw in your lot with a poor, young man without prospects at the time. I knew your parents would refuse your dowry. You would not have enjoyed living in a crowded house with my parents and all my numerous siblings.”

  “You’re absolutely correct. I vastly preferred living in an enormous glittering castle with one tyrant,” she nearly shouted.

  “I know you will never forgive me for the choice I made—and I understand why. I’m sorry, lass. I truly am. And your anger is entirely justified. I am sorry for so many things. I don’t want to bring you any further pain or heartache. I—”

  “Oh, Mr. Brown,” purred the Countess of Home, coming around the palm with a knowing smile. “There you are! The quadrille you claimed on my card is next. Shall we? Your Grace, do excuse us.”

  Paralyzed, Ata stared after John Brown as her nemesis led him away.

  She had won their old argument. Finally. Why then, did it feel as if she had lost everything?

  For so many years she had blamed John Brown for her misery. In the past, she had never placed herself in his shoes to understand his reasons. But now she saw they were both of them wrong.

  Neither one of them was to blame.

  And now…it felt as if it was very much too late. There was too much history between them—too much to regret, and too much to forget.

  And so Merceditas “Ata” St. Aubyn, the Dowager Duchess of Helston, watched the great love of her life dance away from her.

  Rowland Manning leaned against a pillar of the folly in the formal gardens, beyond the open doors of the royal ballroom. He was behaving like a bloody fool.

  In the end he hadn’t trusted himself to attend the dinner. A cloud of disgust permeated his conscience. The cool fortitude he had formerly possessed was slipping fast from his fingers.

  He could no longer idly stand by as Pymm tried to solidify his hold on her. The next time he saw the general touch any part of her, he would pound the living daylights out of him. And so he thought it better to remain in the darkness. Perhaps she would appear, and he could make a spectacle of himself privately instead.

  Occasional voices drifted from the ballroom and from the balcony nearby. They all chattered about the race, and of the mysterious jockey. Some insisted it was a man, others—the more romantic-minded—insisted it was a girl.

  “Thank God that Manning fellow didn’t accept His Royal Highness’s invitation to dine with all of us tonight,” a grim voice floated down from the balcony’s steps. He could just make out the silhouette of a fat young man taking a pinch from his snuffbox.

  Two ladies stood on the step above him. One of them tittered. “Speak for yourself, Ronald.”

  “Yes, I see how it is. You enjoy the scent of manure.”

  “Oh, off with you, cousin. Louisa and I have something far more pressing than horses to discuss.”

  “You and your sister don’t fool me, Pamela,” the portly man replied, mounting the stairs with a sigh. “You all flutter about like magpies before men like Manning. Well”—he stumbled over the top step and righted himself—“see that you stay far away from a man like that. He’s not one of us, and I’m sure your husbands would hate to dirty their hands to protect your honor.”

  The two ladies giggled and watched him depart. “Oh, Pamela, I heard Mrs. Lockwood and Lady Loudan had liaisons with him at the same time four years ago.”

  “And Lady Rothbyrn the year before. It is said they paid him.”

  “Well,” the other replied, “I would too, if I had enough pin money.”

  The two of them dissolved in a gale of titters.

  Rowland shook his head in disgust. Where did they learn to make that god-awful sound?

  Finally, they departed, and Rowland closed his eyes, grateful for the coolness of the marble pillar at his back. After a long while, he sighed and bent to pick a few stems of lavender beyond the lip of the folly. He raised his eyes to the balcony and froze.

  It was a good thing his half brother appeared at his side in the darkness a moment later. It was even better that Michael applied a stranglehold on him that would have held an enraged bull.

  Dinner had been agony. The ball worse. Pymm crushed her to his chest at every opportunity in the movement of the waltz. He seemed to steer them toward other couples for the opportunity to grip her more firmly t
o him. And each time her eyes flew to his, she would see that same smirk on his face, daring her to say a word.

  “My darling, you are exquisite tonight,” he murmured in her ear.

  She shivered involuntarily and he pressed her closer to him.

  “But then again,” he paused, “you are not nearly as beautiful as you were this morning.”

  She stared at him, speechless.

  “What? Did you think I would not recognize you? Your friends tried to shield me from the truth. The fools. I daresay they thought I would berate you for it. But they know nothing of my admiration for you, darling.”

  She did not know how to respond.

  He pulled her closer again as they edged the ballroom. “It is the very reason I desire you. Your verve. Just think how daring my heir will be off of you. Tell me, how did Manning convince you to do it?”

  “It was wholly my idea, General.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Well, just remember that while I enjoyed the display, I only could because no one recognized you.” His voice possessed a harsh turn to it. “Soon—very soon—you will have to curb such antics and become a proper duchess. A duchess befitting my station.”

  She dared not part her lips lest she defy his order just as Ata had defied her husband. She had learned long ago that Pymm’s moods shifted on terrifyingly trivial whims.

  Without realizing his intentions, Elizabeth found herself waltzing beyond the French doors to the open and deserted balcony. He halted in the cool night air, tightened his grip, and in a half second, his thin lips drew closer.

  Good God. He was going to kiss her. Heat and sour perspiration mixed with his overly sweet perfume. She stopped breathing and turned her face away. His lips pressed against the corner of her mouth and cheek.

  He chuckled. “You’re going to have to do better than that in less than a fortnight, Elizabeth. I think you’ve forgotten how much you enjoyed it the last time.”

  She clenched her teeth and forgot to bite her tongue. “That was when I thought you an honorable man.”

  “I beg your pardon? Tsk, tsk. I am nothing if not an honorable man. Haven’t you been paying attention? I’m a living monument to British valor.”