Chapter Twenty
It was going to be a disaster, and she hadn’t even left the house yet. Worse than that, she was not even dressed yet. Her first event back in London, a ball hosted by the duke and duchess of Eastbourne, of all people, and she could not find a single thing to wear. Literally every appropriate gown for a ball that she owned was strewn about the room, either on her bed or on the floor, and nothing was even tempting her. Not the scarlet with gold trim, not the cream muslin, not the blue silk brocade, not even her old favorite, the vibrant purple muslin with the sheer overlay, and none of the others either.
She ought to have thought about this beforehand, but there had hardly been time.
They’d been back in London three days, and the children were quite accustomed to the house and the situation, and were delighted by the amount of space in their rooms and in the garden behind the house. They’d kept her and Kit quite occupied, so much so that they’d barely seen each other but for meals. She caught the flash of heat in his eyes when she came to breakfast in her nightgown and wrap the first morning, but that had been before she had realized the children would wake early and dine with them. Since then, she had taken care to dress appropriately, at least until they were used to her and more accustomed to her ways.
But what Marianne wanted most desperately at this moment was to see her husband look at her, in all her finery and elegance, and to know what he was thinking. He’d grown so familiar to her recently, she could see the slightest flicker of emotion in his once unreadable face. And he’d become such a tease, so delightfully witty, sometimes even shocking her, that she’d begun to wonder if she had married the more playful and sly Gerrard twin. And she adored every moment.
She would know if he approved of her look within a heartbeat. Assuming she found something worth wearing. The Eastbournes were very respectable and she must look the part, as Kit Gerrard’s wife, but everything she owned was so blatantly Marianne Bray that she hesitated. She was so changed now, they did not even seem like her gowns.
Bitty had suggested that Marianne wear something with frills tonight, as she currently thought anything with frills must be the height of finery, and at this moment, she was tempted to bring her up here to pick something out for her. Bitty would be very decisive and have no prejudice to any gown in the room.
Marianne could use such a perspective.
Then she would not be standing here, hair completely unbound, half-dressed, straining against her corset with her irritated breathing. There was not time for this madness. They would be late if she did not come to her senses and pick something. It was too late for regrets, even if she could believably feign a megrim. And rather like with the Rivertons, there was no refusing the Eastbournes. Not if one wanted to conceivably remain in Society.
She turned to the long mirror, holding up a moss-colored green silk, smoothing it against her hip and legs, cocking her head. Almost, but still not quite right. She huffed in irritation and flung it back on the bed. “No, no, no,” she groaned as she rubbed her temples. “This is not going to work!”
Anna clicked her tongue sympathetically, but she looked beyond exasperated. “You have so many gowns, madam, surely…”
Marianne shook her head and adjusted a chemise strap that had slid off of her shoulder. “It is not the number of gowns, Anna. I have no qualms repeating an ensemble. The trouble is that I feel so different now, nothing seems to suit.”
She reached for her gold-embroidered muslin and looked at herself in the mirror, holding the dress up. She shook her head again, and sighed. “Everything I own for a ball is so bold and brazen, and I do not feel like that girl anymore.”
“Personally, I would go with the blue.”
They both whirled to see Kit leaning rather rakishly in the doorway, half-dressed himself, and watching with interest. His shirt was open at the neck, exposing his throat rather temptingly, and he suddenly seemed taller, more imposing, even more dangerous.
Marianne clutched her dress to her more tightly to cover herself, as she was fairly exposed thus. She had no idea how long he had been there, or how much he had seen, but propriety suddenly seemed important. Her cheeks heated and she was, for the moment, entirely without words in the face of his attractiveness.
He smirked a little and raised a brow at her.
She cleared her throat faintly. “The blue?” she managed, sounding too breathless and too slow.
He nodded once, a sultry hint of a smile on his lips. “Indeed.”
She started to smile, then tucked it back to play a little. She gave him a look of disapproval as if she would scold him for such a suggestion. “But is that not rather bold?”
Again came his slow nod. “It is, but so are you. Be bold, Marianne.” He pushed off of the doorframe with a wink and left, but not before taking in her current state with too much thoroughness.
Marianne bit her lip, buried her face in the gold dress with a faint squeal, then turned to Anna. “Let’s try the blue again.”
The Eastbourne ball was nearly as important as Almack’s to the opening of the Season, and they could always boast the best company, the best refreshment, and the best décor, should they have boasted at all. Which the Eastbournes, as a rule, never did.
The Eastbourne events were not as ornate or elaborate as the Riverton’s, but hardly faulted for it, and far less scandalous things occurred there. One entered the Eastbourne home and found themselves growing more respectable by the moment. It was for that reason, and the duke’s rather imposing glare, that all rakes, scoundrels, and rogues kept far from the premises.
There was always a dinner before the dance, and Marianne had been a little disappointed to find herself seated next to Lord Blackmoor, but she was determined to make the best of it. And one look at her husband had given her the confidence to do so, as even that brief of a glance had given her an echo of the scorching approval she’d seen when she finally descended that evening. He’d not managed a single word beyond a hoarse “good”, but his eyes had said so much more, and she’d barely managed to make it steadily to the carriage, even with his arm.
Kit had given her a very small smile over the dinner table, as more would be unlike him in public, but she returned it and inclined her head, then turned to the man beside her in an attempt to converse.
It had not gone well.
He’d been polite, but cool. Reserved, aloof, and even arrogant. She knew how highly Kit thought of him, but she had yet to find any legitimate reason why. The man might have been one of the marble statues at Glendare.
But try she did, and she could not call him rude, technically, as he’d somehow managed to be polite amidst the rest of his qualities. Hardly a proper dinner companion, but still a gentleman.
The finest of cuisine had been at their disposal and not even Lord Blackmoor’s surliness had been enough to render the meal a waste. Neither too rich nor too bland, and such a selection that it was nearly as troublesome as her dress selection to determine just what she would eat and what she would not. Compliments flowed to the host and hostess as freely as did the wine, and the former became more elaborate as the latter increased.
Soon enough, they were dismissed to the ballroom, and there, at least, Marianne felt in her element. She was immediately set upon by Gemma, who had not been able to find her before, and she was tugged aside before the usual throng could form.
In rapid, low tones, Gemma related details that she could not have put into a letter, as it was simply too shocking, she claimed. It seemed that Lily Arden had been settled into a hasty engagement with Thomas Granger, who was pleasant enough, if a bit reticent, all for the sake of saving his fortune. Lily’s parents, absent from her life but for the business details, had practically sold her off to their old friend, and Lily was heartbroken. Despite having carried a tendre for the man secretly for some time, this was hardly the situation she had wished for.
“Well,” Marianne said rather coolly, squeezing Gemma’s hand, “we shall be her steadfast friends, and do our part. If we cannot save her from him, we can at least save her from gloom.”
Gemma’s eyes blazed and she nodded. “Exactly. I knew you would see it properly.” She glanced to the side, and looked back at Marianne with a smile. “I think your coterie is waiting.”
Marianne saw them and grumbled, “Only a few weeks ago they despised me.”
“Yes, but that was before Fanny Hayes’s incident, and James Harper’s ill-timed proposal to Georgina Whittle, and before Penelope Davies tore her dress at the theater and exposed some very bowlegged knees.” Gemma grinned swiftly and kissed her cheek “You are back on top, my dear. Don’t forget me.”
“Never,” Marianne insisted. She winked and then turned with a sigh to the gathering people and began her rounds with them.
Kit watched the people surround and nearly engulf his wife, and further watched with a hint of pride at how smoothly she managed them all. While he may have wished his wife had been a bit more of a meek creature at times, there was no denying her skills when it came to people. She was efficient and brusque and never tolerated nonsense, and she did it all with such charm.
It might drive him mad, but he could not deny that he was impressed.
He mingled a little with some of the guests, the Bevertons and Whitlocks primarily, as well as Blackmoor, who had said nothing about his dinner conversation with Marianne, which Kit supposed to be very telling. Marlowe was nowhere to be seen, but Kit had learned never to expect anything with him. The Duke of Eastbourne had paid his respects, and Kit had conversed with him politely, having always held the man in high regard, but not in depth, as the man was the host and monopolizing him would have been rude.
It was some time later when he caught sight of Marianne again, this time dancing with one of her silly admirers. Apparently her sins had been forgiven and her reputation quite recovered. Her waiting throng was as massive as ever, and anyone looking on would never have guessed at her misfortune, or that she had married him.
Was that not what they had all wanted? For her to not feel the effects of her poor decisions?
So why should he suddenly be so very cross?
And as he glowered at the man now making his wife laugh, seeing the youthful and handsome face gazing down at her with such ardor, he could also admit to severe pangs of jealousy.
Had he ever been jealous before?
Of course not. He’d never had a reason to be.
Grinding his teeth together, he found himself wishing most heartily that he hadn’t a reason now. The moment the dance ended, he strode across the ballroom and placed himself directly in front of the man whose hand was outstretched and waiting for Marianne.
“I say!” the idiot protested when Marianne reached them.
Kit did not even spare a glance for him, and kept his eyes on those of his wife, who tilted her head and smiled a little coyly. “This dance is mine,” he said firmly, taking Marianne’s hand.
“No, it’s not. I’ve claimed the waltz!” the man cried.
“I don’t care,” Kit replied, feeling something quite powerful rising within him the longer he gazed at his wife. “I am taking this dance with my wife.”
At least three people gasped, and Marianne’s brow quirked just a little. “You can’t!” the same idiot sputtered, sounding scandalized.
Now Kit did glance back, giving the puppy a withering look. “Are you telling me that I cannot dance with my wife?”
The man colored and fell back a step.
“My apologies, Mr. Banks,” Marianne said in her best polite voice. “My husband has a prior claim.” Her lips twitched into a smile that curled his stomach quite pleasantly. “He will always have the prior claim.”
With as much flourish as he dared, Kit escorted her to the dance floor, and took up the proper position.
“You don’t dance, Mr. Gerrard,” Marianne murmured as her hand rested in his.
“No,” he admitted as the musicians struck up, “but I daresay I waltz.”
Marianne’s smile would have spurred him into dancing the entire night if he were less of a man. As it was, he could barely speak for their entire waltz. He looked nowhere else but at her, and she was just as intent on him. He’d missed her these last few days, when duty and responsibility had forced them apart, and had longed for their ease and comfort of Glendare, when they could be absorbed in each other without seeming excessive. Holding her in his arms now, acutely aware of the perfection in their movements and their fit, he could not imagine ever being more satisfied.
Swirling about the room, seeming the only two there, he felt himself becoming lost, falling further and further away from anyone and anything else. He wanted to swing her up into his arms and beg her to remain. He wanted to crush his mouth to hers, even in this room, and to hell with the scandal. He wanted to give her children, scores of them, and start right away. He wanted to sit quietly in a library with her, stealing glances and smiling for no reason at all. He wanted to hear her playing music when she thought she was alone. He wanted…
Control. He wanted control. And he wanted time.
And damn it, he wanted her.
But not now. Not yet.
The music came to a close and applause filled the room. Marianne was a little flushed, and he was a little short of breath. He kissed her glove and led her back to her throng.
“You were right,” she said, her words rushed.
“About?”
She glanced up at him slyly. “You do waltz. You most certainly do.”
In lieu of carrying her off into the night, he gave her a very smart bow, and squeezed her hand, then left as soon as humanly possible. Only when he was a safe distance away did he breathe again.
“Did you see that?” a woman hissed from somewhere behind the pillar he stood by.
“I thought you said theirs wasn’t a love match!” someone else gushed.
“That’s what we all thought!”
“If that wasn’t the most outrageous display of passion confined to a ballroom, I will eat this fan.”
“Positively smoldering.”
“It will be all over London by morning. The Gerrards are not only a love match, but a shocking one. No wonder he saved her, I daresay the man cannot do without her.”
“The way he looked at her, Cynthia! My goodness, what ardor!”
“I don’t condone husbands and wives dancing for that reason alone. What were they thinking? And a waltz? Really.”
“Don’t be such a prude. They are young and in love!”
Kit was seething by the time the busybodies went away, and he wrenched himself out of his position. He knew he had not been controlled enough during that dance, and there was the proof of it. No one was ever supposed to know his true feelings, and they certainly were not to speculate that he loved his wife. Or that she might, impossibly, return the sentiment.
Could a man not dance with his wife and not be wild about her? Was that so unlikely?
He caught Blackmoor’s eye, and they retreated together, finding the safety of the card room, and the men equally reluctant to dance and attention, much more to their taste.
It could not have been more than an hour and a half later when an agitated young man came into the room and looked around anxiously, seeming desperately relieved to find Kit within.
“Mr. Gerrard,” he panted as he came over and bowed. “Please, sir, it’s your wife…”
Kit groaned and looked up from his game. “What is my wife doing now?”
“She’s all in a rage, sir, and it’s drawing comment.”
He snorted in derision. “Has she struck anyone yet?”
The man seemed to shrink back in horror. “No, sir.”
“What’s it about?” he asked reluctantly, praying it was something silly he could write off.
The young man shifted his eyes nervously to the man next to him. “Lord Blackmoor, sir. The subject of supper was brought up, and it was observed that he was her companion there.”
Kit sighed heavily and hesitated to rise. There was no saying what Marianne would say or do here. A dozen possibilities rose in his mind, and each angered him more than the next.
Blackmoor surprised him by rising first. “I’ll take care of this. I am the subject after all.” He didn’t wait for a response, and left the room quickly.
“Ridiculous,” Kit muttered to himself. “Absolutely ridiculous.” He waited what seemed an age, his mind reeling. He didn’t want to know what had happened in the ballroom and he didn’t want to interfere, especially when he considered what Marianne was capable of.
The creature formerly known as his wife had apparently returned. And with it, the return of everything dark and resentful he’d associated with her.
He nearly groaned when Blackmoor returned the room, his friend’s expression blank. “Well?”
“It’s handled,” he said simply.
Kit winced. “Was it horrible?”
Blackmoor shrugged a shoulder as he picked up his cards once more. “Not really. She refused to dance with me.”
Kit closed his eyes in horror. “Good lord, that woman.” He shook his head, cursing under his breath, and looked back to his friend. “I hope you didn’t take offense.”
“Not at all. I didn’t want to dance with her either.” He suddenly seemed very pensive for a moment.
“Blackmoor?” Kit prodded.
Blackmoor came out of whatever stupor he was in and gave Kit a very frank look. “Why did you marry her? You said you had your reasons. What are they?”
At this moment, he didn’t have a clue. He shook his head, considered the phrasing for a moment, then slowly shrugged. “I just… I couldn’t let anyone else have her.”
It seemed a weak reasoning in light of what Marianne had done, but it was the truth.
“Interesting.” He looked out of the door towards the ballroom, as if something had caught his attention.
“Blackmoor?”
“Interesting idea, marriage,” he mused, bringing his attention back.
Kit snorted a little. “Not really. You’ve done it before.”
“I’m considering it again.”
If Blackmoor had said he was considering becoming a vicar, he could not have stunned him more. “How seriously?”
He shrugged. “As I said, considering.”
“Well, please consult me before you do something rash,” Kit grunted, shaking his head. “Between my wife and my brother, I have access to more information on anyone than Scotland Yard.”
“Duly noted.” Blackmoor glanced out of the door again, brows furrowed, then he shook his head and went back to their game.