Chapter Nine
As the entire world would have expected, Tibby’s party was the height of spectacle, in the most elegant, fashionable, and envious of ways.
Kit had tried to prepare himself for what this event would be like, knowing Tibby’s tastes were far more extravagant than his, but also knowing there was no stopping her.
After her visit the other day, he had not been sure what sort of reception he would receive on subsequent visits from Tibby, but the moment she had seen him this evening, she had clasped his hand, touched his face, and given him the most pitying of looks.
“My poor boy,” she’d whimpered a little, patting his cheek. Then she’d snapped back into her tart character and ordered him to stand in this exact spot until she advised him otherwise. She’d positioned a rather flustered Marianne next to him and then began ordering the rest of their friends about.
Marianne was positively radiant, and it irritated him. She had chosen the palest possible shade of pink muslin adorned with delicate rosettes along the comparatively modest neckline, with more rosettes in her nearly ebony hair. With Tibby wearing a brilliant burgundy, Marianne looked like a fairer, nymph-like echo of her aunt, and her complexion glowed with it. Her dress was a little too close cut to her figure, but it only heightened her innate loveliness, and her eyes sparkled in the splendor of the candles abundantly scattered throughout the room. She was far simpler adorned than usual, which somehow made her more beautiful than ever.
She looked far too much like the girl he had proposed to six years ago, down to the shade of her dress and the curl of her hair, and the echo of the laughter of that day, mocking and hysterical, resounded in his ears when he looked at her now.
Well, her idea of a joke was now the reality for them both. What a lark.
He could not keep from scowling, and no doubt those who greeted them wondered at his displeasure. But as most of them wished to speak with his wife instead, he could not bring himself to care enough to adjust it.
Some of their friends required introduction to one or the other, though the names of each were familiar, and Marianne had far more than he did.
All told, he only had to officially introduce the Viscount Blackmoor, who had silently communicated to Kit that they would speak later, and Lord Marlowe, whose presence was causing a bit of a stir, but he would soon be forgotten, as he always was.
“Lord Blackmoor didn’t really kill his wife, did he?” Marianne whispered through a false smile as more people approached.
Kit stiffened. “We are not discussing it,” he hissed back. Really, were people still under that impression? Blackmoor had suffered enough in the last few years because of that woman, he hardly needed that accusation to still be hanging over his head as well.
“He certainly is mysterious enough to have done it,” Marianne continued, “and he is always so cross.”
“He is not cross,” Kit insisted with little patience. “He is reserved and reticent. As am I.”
“Case in point.” She sniffed and flipped open her fan. “Who was the other man you know?”
“Lord Marlowe,” he reminded her for at least the third time. Poor Rafe, to be always so easily forgotten. It suited his purposes, though, so it might have been his greatest asset.
“He is shockingly handsome,” she said as she looked at him from across the room again. “Yet no one speaks with him, and I cannot recall ever seeing him at anything. Is he foreign?”
“No.”
“Odd…”
Kit looked over at Tibby with the sort of longsuffering look that begs saving, and she ignored him for the moment.
The room began to fill with more and more people, some of whom swirled about them, and seemed to forget they were standing there.
“Gerrard finally got what he wanted,” someone said with a hint of surprise. “Looks like the second time was the charm.”
Kit’s spine stiffened of its own accord as one of his hands formed a fist by his side. He forced his face to remain composed, eyes scanning the room as if looking for a familiar face.
A lady nearby tsked. “I thought she had better taste.”
“He has a fortune,” some man pointed out.
“And the looks,” a female sighed.
Marianne shifted slightly beside him, and he slid his eyes to her, finding her perfectly poised, smile fixed, but obviously attentive to them.
“He’s wanted her for years.”
All seemed to still behind them, and Marianne with them. Kit nearly groaned. Not here, not now…
“You’re lying,” someone laughed.
“No, really, he proposed six years ago and was refused.”
Kit saw Marianne’s mouth tighten into a thin line, and his jaw echoed that same tightness.
“Can’t say that I blame her,” another said with a snort.
“Well, he’s managed it now. He is the luckiest man in England.”
“Or the most foolish.”
“Either way, he has what he wanted.”
“The Gerrards always get what they want.”
Just as Kit had been about to snap, the group began to disperse, now speaking of some other idle reports, and he fought to find rational thought again.
How could they have been so unlucky to stand by the one group of people who still talked of that rumor?
He’d heard bits and pieces like that before, but never all put together, and never with Marianne near him. Not when he’d been married to her.
He exhaled slowly, his breath halting with every pounding beat of his infuriated heart.
“What were they talking about, Kit?” Marianne whispered sharply, her fan flicking in agitation.
“Nothing,” he said in a firm tone. “Gossip.”
“Gossip has its roots in truth,” she pointed out, smiling with a delicate flutter of her lashes and resting a gloved hand on his arm, putting on a show for public eyes.
He wrenched away as discreetly as he could. “Leave it, Marianne,” he snapped, giving her a small nod, his eyes pointedly averted, and then marched away. Tibby looked at him at last, her expression fraught with unspoken tension, and he raised a taunting brow at her, daring her to command him to remain.
She did not.
He walked passed his brother and his friends, who all looked the tiniest bit unsettled by his expression, and only Colin followed him.
“Aren’t you going to dance with her?” Colin asked quietly, seeming surprised.
“No.”
“She is your wife.”
“And I don’t dance. There will be a line soon enough, and you are more than welcome to stand in it, if you think it so important.”
Colin stopped tailing him, and Kit was grateful for that. He needed space from everyone who connected him with her, for at the present his mind swirled with memories, and he could not bear it.
He found an empty hallway just off of the ballroom that was partially obscured from view and leaned against the wall, filling his lungs with the cooler air and closing his eyes.
He would never know how word had gotten out about that day. He did not think Marianne had told anyone, and he had certainly never let anyone know his feelings about her. Yet the truth was out there, swirling amidst rumors and lies and speculation, and seemed so far-fetched to everyone that it was ruled as the same. It had risen up once more when he had returned to England three years ago, and followed him everywhere he went.
If Marianne attended the same events as he, the stories resurfaced.
She had to have heard something about them before. Yet she seemed completely uninformed. Either she was ignorant or she simply sought the confirmation of whatever truth existed.
He could not give it.
He would not.
Did she remember that day? Did she have any idea what she had set in motion?
It had been a miserable day, long before he’d spoken a word to her. Hot and damp with no breeze to lighten it, and Marianne had been trapped in Tibby’s poorly ventilated drawing room, receiving caller after caller. Kit had been growing more and more agitated as the days had gone on that summer, his feelings growing wild and straining against his control.
He could not go away that Season, could not bear to be parted from her. Day after day, week after week, he would play his same part of being her friend and confidante, able to stay close to her, closer than any other soul, for their past relationship. He could make her laugh with a single look, could read her as easily as she might a novel, and could make her see what a frivolous thing the parade of preening fools was. He knew she had begun encouraging men simply to see what he would say about them, and he ever delivered, knowing she would never seriously consider anyone that did not perfectly suit.
That day, just another in the endless streams of blissfully tormented days, he had broken form.
“Marry me,” he’d said without any elegance or ceremony, bearing his heart without any preparation.
Looking back on it now, he could see the insolence of such a presentation.
But it was no excuse for the response.
“What?” Marianne had cried with a hint of a smile, her color still rosy from the last embarrassment of a suitor, about whom they had laughed heartily.
He had stepped forward, closer to her than he’d dared go in weeks, and simply said again, “Marry me, Marianne.”
“That is it?” she’d said, laughter flittering through the simple words. “Nothing else? Oh, Kit, now you are being dreadful! No one would ever say it like that and be accepted!”
And then she had dissolved into laughter, peals and peals of it, falling against the sofa in her mirth.
He ought to have stayed, to profess it more and assure her of his affections, but her laughter at his expense had been too much for his fragile pride. He’d stormed from the room, hearing her call after him laughingly, still thinking it all a joke.
He had left London that night without even a feasible excuse for his twin. Shortly after that, he had left England altogether, and did not return for two full years, when he knew he was immune to her.
Mere weeks after his return, he’d been faced with seeing her once more, and the same adoration, love, and passion had burned within him just as fiercely as it had before he’d left.
More for the long absence.
And he had hated himself, and her, just as much. He’d been able to maintain his cool demeanor, cut her with biting words, and she’d not approached him since.
And he had married that woman? Oh, he was a fool, and worse than that, a glutton for punishment. Would he always wait for a look or a smile or a kind word, despite his desire to offend and insult?
Would he always want and hate his bride as he did now?
And what of their children? Their children. It drew a chilling shudder of apprehension from him. He’d always thought of fatherhood as a prime objective in his life, but now a life of celibacy was far more appealing to him.
Perhaps not appealing, but certainly the safest, most reasonable alternative.
“Gerrard,” a low, familiar voice rumbled nearby.
He opened his eyes and saw Lord Blackmoor coming towards him, and he straightened.
“Blackmoor.”
Blackmoor raised a dark brow and waved him back. “Please, you were comfortable, and this is no ceremony.”
Kit did as he was bid and leaned back once more.
“Under the circumstances, I think I had better ask you if you need a drink,” Blackmoor said with a marked casual air.
Kit exhaled a soft laugh. “If I started, I might never finish.”
“I know how that is,” his friend sighed, matching Kit’s pose against the opposite wall, then drawing one leg up against it for support.
Kit watched his friend for a moment, having not seen him so relaxed in years, and certainly never since his marriage. Or what had transpired after. “Were you sent to fetch me?” Kit asked after a pause.
Blackmoor curved his bare smile, pale eyes unreadable. “No, not even Lady Raeburn dares to order me about, and your brother knows me only well enough to acknowledge me. Beverton I know a little, our country estates are neighboring, but he was dancing with his wife at the moment.”
“So why seek me out?”
There was a faint look of surprise. “You seemed distressed, which is not like you. I thought it my duty to see to your aid.”
“Most men would rather see to my wife,” Kit muttered, glancing back out at the ballroom.
“If I cared for your wife, no doubt I would,” Blackmoor replied without concern.
Kit turned his head to look back at him. “Why should you dislike her so? What harm as she done you?”
Blackmoor shrugged one broad shoulder, nonchalance not entirely suiting his athletic frame. “Nothing at all. I do not like her, I do not dislike her. Despite her popularity, I have never seen any reason to think well of her. Now that we have been introduced, I shall acknowledge her as I would any acquaintance of value. More than that is unnecessary at this point.”
Kit measured that for what it was worth, and compared it to Marianne’s gossiping inquiry about Blackmoor. “She is my wife,” Kit murmured.
His friend gave him a quizzical smirk. “Indeed, she is. I wondered about that, but I assumed you had your reasons.”
“I did,” Kit said with a nod, then offered a slight smile himself, “though I may forget them from time to time.”
Blackmoor nodded with a surprising degree of understanding in his eyes.
“If you could remind me that I had reasons on those occasions,” Kit sighed, giving a sardonic look to his friend, “I would be most grateful.”
Looking amused, Blackmoor nodded once more. “I shall.” He glanced towards the ballroom, then back at Kit. “Did I see Marlowe here tonight?”
Kit nodded. “You did.”
“So I take it he is…”
“Yes.”
“Still?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s never…?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Amazing,” Blackmoor murmured with a shake of his head. “I had better speak with him before he vanishes for four months again.” He looked at Kit once more. “Are you yourself once more?”
Kit nodded, smiling with a newfound degree of warmth for his somber friend. “As much as I ever was.”
Blackmoor smiled back, which would have shocked the rest of the world. “Well, that is all that we can hope for these days.” He bowed slightly, and returned to the ballroom.
Kit waited a few moments more, exhaled slowly, and did the same, his carefully composed self once again.
Marianne was irritated, and no amount of amusement from her peers could help that.
Oh, she had been swarmed by people ever since Kit had left, all begging her for the story of her horrific abduction, wanting the details as to how they all could have been so deceived by Mr. Marksby, and even the faint scattering of felicitations on her marriage. She had all the attention she could want, and from some people who had never bothered to speak to her before. She was under no illusions about those gossipmongers, and she was not about to give them the merest sniff.
She had managed to play the entire group off with coyness and false modesty, claiming it was too distressful to recall, and she was only grateful to have been saved from it. Which had sparked another series of questions about that particular venture.
Who had saved her? How did they find her? Was it terribly heroic?
Was it gratitude that had sent her flying into her husband’s arms?
She’d tried to be as delicate as possible, vague and off-putting, and it worked, for the most part. She could see the disappointed and sometimes exasperated expressions of those who had hoped for grand tales, but she’d kept them all entertained with tales of their new home. Particularly when she reminded them that the last occupant had been the Duchess of Falmouth.
They had seized upon that subject gratefully, no doubt hoping she would let something slip about her marriage, but also keen to hear about the scandalous death of Lord Rodale.
She had danced several times, and was pleased that most of her old favorites still hung about. Even Fanny had come to this event, though she looked a trifle distracted and a little pale. Poor thing, she’d never quite recovered from hearing the truth about Marksby. She alone knew what had really happened between him and Marianne, and she had vowed to keep it a secret.
Fanny might be a bit of a simpleton, but she never broke a confidence.
And then there had been that vile Lord Darlington. He’d thought this particular evening an appropriate time to attack Kit, much to the delight of others, and though she had been furious with Kit, though there wasn’t a single reason for her to do so, Marianne had flown at him in a rage, and were it not for Annalise’s calm intervention and quick thinking, a true scene might have broken out.
Clearly there was more to be done in repairing Marianne’s reputation than she thought.
She’d made Annalise promise not to tell Kit anything about that, which her sister-in-law had agreed to, though her disapproval was clear. The gossip of the incident might reach Kit anyway, but Marianne couldn’t do anything about that. She just couldn’t bear to have Kit think that anything was changed between them.
Not when there was more about their past to discover. With all of that going on, she’d not managed to get another hint of what the people had been saying about her and Kit before.
He had got what he wanted? How was that even possible?
Kit despised her! Well, perhaps that was too strong a word, but he certainly barely tolerated her. Yes, they had been close once, but he had become stiff and disapproving the more popular and sought after she became. He did not like the way she behaved in public, and she did not care.
How anyone had managed to hear about his proposal was a mystery, and the fact that anyone had taken it seriously was even more mysterious. It was an embarrassing time to remember, for her and for him, and only one person had ever been so crass as to confront her about it. Thankfully, Mr. Townsend had not been to London in ages, and he’d never spoken a word about it again.
She regretted every moment of that day, and though she had no idea at the time, it had been the end of her treasured friendship between her and Kit.
But they thought he had actually meant to marry her? As if he had truly sought her hand?
It truly was laughable. Surely someone like Kit would have done a proper job of romance.
She scanned the guests in the room, searching for the men whom she had heard speaking before. If Kit would not tell her what they meant, or what he knew, then she would go to the source of the gossip. She highly doubted these men in question were the instigators of the rumors, they merely spread the stuff.
She felt a rush of satisfaction when she caught sight of them and started in that direction.
Before they saw her, however, her arm was forcefully seized and she was steered away. She gasped and looked up to find her husband hauling her off, his expression bordering on the murderous.
“What are you doing?” she hissed, looking around to see if anyone was aware of his manhandling.
“Taking my inquisitive wife home,” he replied in harsh, clipped tones.
She glowered up at him as they exited the ballroom and headed for the entrance. “Afraid that I will discover something?”
His icy glare stole her breath for half a moment. “Afraid you will cause more trouble, Mrs. Gerrard, and you really must behave yourself.”
“I am not a child,” she reminded him pointedly as she took her cloak from the servant.
Kit nodded as he took his hat and set it on his head. “I am well aware of that. A child is far more obedient.”
She screeched between clenched teeth and marched out to the carriage ahead of him, climbed in without help, and settled herself, wishing, for once, that she could walk home.
“Kit, tell me what they were talking about,” she demanded once he entered the carriage.
“No.”
“Yes! Or I will continue to seek for answers on my own at every event and outing I attend!”
He snorted and rapped on the ceiling for the coachman to depart. “You know the gossip.”
She frowned, starting to seethe a little. “Of course, I know the gossip,” she snapped. “I’ve been fighting the torrent about you and me for years, and I’ve never heard that little detail.”
He gave her a very serious look. “Do you believe every detail about every life you hear?”
That was a fair point, but she would not be swayed. “No, of course not…”
“Then do not believe that.”
His avoidance only made her more determined. “You are hiding something from me, Kit,” she said in a low, hopefully dangerous tone, and folding her arms, “and you cannot stop me from finding out. You cannot corral me forever, not from every event and every circle. We have danced around this subject long enough, and now that we are married, it will only get worse.”
He stared at her without expression, though his jaw worked and his grip on his walking stick tightened. She could see how the words had affected him. Things would get worse, whether she had anything to do with it or not. So long as they were married and together, it would always come up.
He knew that, however reluctant he was to admit it.
Which meant this could be her only chance.
“Why would anyone ever assume that you wanted me?” she asked him without hesitation.
“Because I did.”
Her eyes widened at his low response, simply stated with marked coldness.
“What?” she cried in a breathless, weak exclamation.
A sneer curled on his features. “Surprised, are you? All of London seems to know that I was in love with you, but not you. And you are thought to be so intuitive.”
“You loved me?” she managed to stammer, suddenly going cold.
He scoffed and shook his head. “The idea that you were ignorant about that then and still are now is the most preposterous thing in the world.”
“I didn’t know that, Kit,” she insisted, wringing her hands a little. “How was I supposed to know that?”
“You have eyes,” he suggested bitterly.
“What?” she cried, her hand going to her throat. “You never said anything!”
“If I remember correctly,” he drawled with false casualness, “I did propose to you.”
“Hardly!” She shook her head in astonishment. “You never said you loved me.”
His lip curled, making her feel ill. “And you never thought of me. You laughed at me.”
“You had been teasing me about proposals and suitors!” she protested with a wild gesture of her hands. “I thought you were mocking them!”
He sat back and surveyed her without pleasure. “Well, I wasn’t.”
Her whole world had been turned upside down. He had actually proposed to her? In all sincerity?
Suddenly the words he had spoken to her upon his return three years ago echoed once more in her mind.
I have a very low tolerance for unfeeling creatures who care only for themselves.
Oh, Lord, she had been exactly that. Unknowingly, it was true, but… “I never meant to hurt you,” she said softly, feeling an ache well up within her.
“I know that,” he bit out, his composure cracking for the first time. “Don’t you think I know that? But that was worse. You didn’t take me seriously. You never even thought of me. I burned for you with such love, such passion.” He shook his head, seeming to laugh at himself. “And you didn’t even think of me.”
Good lord, what had she done?
“Kit…” she breathed, suddenly and inexplicably wanting to reach out and touch him. To mend something. To feel something.
He seemed to know her intentions and scoffed, surveying her with cold eyes. “It makes no difference now. They can say whatever they want about us. We know the truth.”
Her brief turn towards tenderness vanished and the desire surged to wound him as he had wounded her. “That I was a fool and you saved me from ruin by marrying me,” she recited in mocking tones. “A convenient marriage, aren’t I lucky?”
He raised his chin in indignation as they arrived home. “If you want out, be my guest. Lord knows, I suffer enough for it.” Without another word, he exited the coach, yet he still waited to help her down.
Still a gentleman. He ought to have left her here and gone on ahead, storming away in his fury. She would have preferred that.
But no, Kit Gerrard was a gentleman, even when he was cruel.
Reluctantly, and with a look of hatred, Marianne took his outstretched hand, then released it the moment she could. They silently walked into the house, said nothing to the servants, and separated for the night without a word.
There was absolutely nothing more to be said.
They’d said quite enough.