A Regency Charade (4 page)

“My head hurts,” she said with a tremulous giggle. “I’ll wager there’ll be a lump. And … oh … my
elbow
…”

“It will pass, dearest. Let me carry you back to our rooms.”

“Carry me? No, no. There’s no need at all for such heroics. I can walk,” she insisted. But he lifted her in his arms and carried her back to the hotel despite her protests and the curious glances of the passers-by.

He brought her directly to her bedroom and set her gently down against the pillows. “There. Now rest for an hour or two, and then we’ll see if you’re well enough to go out for dinner.” He took a light comforter from the foot of the bed and spread it over her.

“Alec, don’t fuss,” she said tenderly. “I’m fine, really. Only a little headache and a couple of bruises. Sit down, dear. No, here beside me on the bed.” She reached up and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. “There’s no need to look so … stricken.”

He felt a painful tightening in his throat, and he grasped her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Oh, God, Priss,” he blurted out, his voice choked and indistinct, “I thought I’d … lost you! I don’t know what I’d
do
if …”

She lifted her other hand, just to smooth away the worried lines on his forehead, but suddenly he found her in his arms, and he was kissing her in a way he never had before. It was urgent and desperate, and he was almost frightened of his own passion until he realized that she was clinging to him, trembling and tearful and responsive. And he knew, with a rush of dizzying joy, that she was his, completely his, at last.

They didn’t bother about dinner that night, and the next day, over breakfast, Priss blushed and smiled and hardly ever dared to meet his eyes. That afternoon, instead of paying a call on a distant cousin, she insisted on joining him in climbing about inside the Catacombs (despite his warning that it was a dank and dismal place). And that night, she told him—in a very shy little voice—that she didn’t like the idea of separate bedrooms.

It was a very happy Alec who returned with his bride to London to set up housekeeping in the family townhouse in Hanover Square. Although the Earl had hoped they would settle in the country—he’d have been delighted to have them live with him at Braeburn—they had decided to live in town so that Alec could explore the possibilities of a career in politics. Their first three days in London were as happy as their honeymoon. Every day Alec would go off to meet with acquaintances in government service or in Parliament, and when he returned in the evening, an eager young wife would greet him with the exciting news that she’d rearranged the furniture in the upstairs sitting room, that she’d met an old friend at the Pantheon or that she’d bought him a gold fob for his watchchain. Life was indeed idyllic for the fortunate pair.

On the fourth day, however, Alec returned home to a very different scene. When the butler admitted him to the house, he noticed a man’s beaver hat on the table near the front door. He turned to question the butler, but before the man could answer, he heard the sound of a distressed voice coming from the drawing room. Puzzled, he strode to the door and threw it open. To his horror, he found his wife weeping in the arms of a stranger. “Priss! What on
earth
—?” he exclaimed.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise and glittering with tears. “Oh, Alec! Thank
goodness
you—!”

But Alec scarcely heard her. His attentions were rivetted on the stranger, a well-built, almost stocky fellow who, because of his air of worldly sophistication, appeared to be a few years older than Alec. His dress and hairstyle proclaimed him a member of that breed of men with whom Alec had had little contact in his years at school—the Corinthians. Alec and his friends at the university had often spoken of the Corinthian set with the utmost scorn, but in truth they had all felt, in their secret hearts, a grudging admiration for that group of gentlemen who so admirably excelled in every sport, who could win a lady’s love at the snap of a finger, who could depress the pretensions of a fop with a look, and who could devastate an opponent as easily with an epigram as with a dueling-pistol. This was a typical specimen of the species, and Alec disliked him on sight.

To make matters even more disturbing, the fellow was holding
his
Prissy in an embrace whose intimacy was beyond the respectable. He had one arm about her waist, holding her much too closely to be casual, and his other hand was cupped under her chin, tilting her tear-stained face up to his. Alec had the distinct impression that the bounder had been about to kiss her when he’d interrupted them.

The Corinthian turned toward the door and studied Alec with an expression of disdain. “So …
you’re
Tyrrell,” he sneered.

“Yes, I am,” Alec said tightly, feeling a strange churning, like a presentiment of disaster, in the pit of his stomach, “but before you bother to tell me
your
name, I’d be much obliged if you’d unhand my wife.”

“Don’t care to oblige you, old man,” the fellow responded coolly. “I had a prior claim on her, you see.”

“Blake,
please
!” Priss said, wriggling out of his embrace. “I think you’d better go.”

Something in the way she said his name and in their apparent familiarity made Alec’s blood freeze. “What is this all about?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

“It’s about
you
, Tyrrell,” the fellow said, stepping forward belligerently. “You, and what you’ve done to us.”

“
Blake
!” Priss said sharply. “I told you to—”

“
Done
to you?” Alec repeated, turning quite pale.

“Yes. You, your blasted grandfather and Priss’s mother. Taking advantage of a poor, helpless female just because her mother has let their finances go all to pieces—!”

“Blake,
stop
!” Priss interrupted impatiently. “I’ve
told
you that wasn’t the—”

“Don’t try to apologize for your mother—or for him!” the Corinthian ordered her. “Let him hear the truth for once!”

“But it
isn’t
—” Priss protested.

Alec held up an unsteady hand. “Let him talk, Priss. What is this truth, Mr.—?”

“Edmonds.
Sir
Blake Edmonds. Only a baronet, and not nearly so plump in the pocket as the grandson and heir of the Earl of Braeburn, but mine is not a name to be ashamed of. At your service.” And he made a mocking little bow.

“I’m afraid I don’t see what your title and the plumpness of your pockets have to do with us,” Alec said coldly.

“It has
everything
to do with you. If it weren’t for my rank and my impecunious position, it would be
I
who’d be Priss’s husband, not you.”

Alec was beginning to feel quite sick, but he didn’t understand why. None of this was making any sense. If he could only be rid of the fellow, have a chance to talk to his wife, and to
think
, perhaps he could understand. “Whatever the might-have-beens, sir,” he said stiffly, “the fact remains that I
am
her husband, and this is my house. I must ask you to leave at once.”

“Not until I’ve had my say,” Edmonds insisted mulishly.

“Blake, do as he asks. Please leave,” Priss urged.

“No, I’m going to say what has to be said,” he muttered to her, “for I know
you
won’t.” He turned to Alec angrily. “She’s too tenderhearted to tell you the truth. But you may as well know. We love each other. Have done for a long time. You and your grandfather have ruined two lives.”

Priss made an exasperated gesture with her arm, but Alec was staring at the fellow in complete revulsion. “I can’t believe a
word
of this,” he said, aghast.

“Can’t you? Then ask her! Ask
Priss
if you don’t believe me. Ask her if she didn’t declare her love for me just three months ago! Said she’d love me all her life! Go on.
Ask
her.”

Alec felt the blood drain from his face. He turned to face his wife, but everything seemed to swim before his eyes, and he couldn’t focus properly. “Is this
true
?” he managed to croak, keeping his fists tightly clenched to try to steady his voice.

Priss ran to him. “Alec, don’t
listen
to him! It was all so long ago—”

Three months, long ago
? he wanted to cry out. He wanted to thrash someone, to shake himself out of this nightmare he seemed to have stumbled into. He had the strangest sensation that if he stood still, the entire world would begin to tremble and would soon come tumbling down about his head. He moved toward her blindly and grasped her by the arms. “
Is
it true?” he asked again, his voice sounding hollow and strange to his ears.

“Well, yes, in a
way
, but—”

“Of course its true!” Edmonds declared, coming up and pulling her from Alec’s grasp. “She never would have had to marry you if she’d listened to me and stayed in London a little while longer. But no, her mother wanted her in Derbyshire. My uncle in Scotland was dying, and I had to go to see him. I
told
her I’d come back with an inheritance in my pocket. But her mother and your grandfather arranged things very cleverly. By the time I’d returned and read the announcement in the
Times
, you’d already been sent abroad on your honeymoon, and it was too late for me to stop it.”

Priss rounded on Blake and spoke some angry words, but Alec didn’t hear them. He stood rooted to the spot, feeling the world crash about his ears. What a simpleton he’d been! She’d never loved him. Never. His brain had tried to warn him the night he’d offered for her, but he loved her so much he’d blinded himself to the truth. And why
should
she have cared for him? He was nothing but a dull scholar … no, a
schoolboy
! He had none of the accomplishments of a Corinthian … no social graces, no experience. It was only
logical
that a girl like Priss should have been attracted to a more exciting man than he. There was no doubt that Edmonds was, from a young lady’s point of view, an exciting man. Handsome, manly, he probably had all the sporting prowess, the
savoir faire
, the skill with horses and women that all his set possessed. It had probably been easy for him to sweep Priss off her feet. Alec couldn’t blame her for falling in love with him.

But he
did
blame her for her falseness. For
that
she was unforgivably to blame. Priss, who pretended to care for him, who had tempted him into marriage for the basest of reasons, who had lain in his arms in Italy and
pretended
—! Oh, God, the mere
thought
of it so wrenched his insides that he feared he would be physically ill. The girl had deceived him in every way possible! There was a roaring in his ears as the full realization of the sham his marriage had been spread through his being. If only he could leave this room … this house … get away as fast as possible from this shambles his life had become …!

Priss and Blake Edmonds were speaking together in angry voices, and the sounds struck Alec’s frayed nerves like little hammers. “
Stop
it!” he ordered hoarsely. “There’s no need for more of this scene.”

“But Alec—” Priss began.

“You can have him,” Alec muttered.

“What?” Edmonds asked, puzzled.

“Take her! I’ll free her somehow. It can’t be … too late …”

“Alec! What are you
saying
?” Priss cried.

He turned to her unsteadily and tried to focus clearly on her face. “I should never have believed …! I didn’t think, at first … that you really wanted me. But you should have told me. You shouldn’t have
lied
…!”

She grasped his shoulders violently, her eyes shocked and frightened. “Alec! You don’t think that
I
…! You
can’t
believe that Blake is speaking for
me
!”

“No more lies,” he said brokenly, shaking himself free of her. “I can’t bear to hear any more of your lies!” And he turned and stumbled out of the door.

“Alec, wait!” she gasped, but he shut the door in her face and ran from the house.

As he made his way down the darkening street, he could hear voices calling his name, but he didn’t turn back. He walked through the streets all night, sick and miserable and bewildered. But by morning he had decided what to do. He paid a visit to his solicitor. The next few days (he was in such a fog of numbness he never could be sure how many) were filled with the chores of signing papers, settling his affairs, being fitted for uniforms and packing. By the time his head cleared, he was on a ship bound for Spain.

Chapter Three

Priscilla Tyrrell, Lady Braeburn, stood morosely at the window of her dressing room in the London townhouse and watched the rain course down the pane.
Where can he be
? she asked herself for the thousandth time. The war had ended in June. Here it was, almost September, and she had not heard a word of him. He
must
have returned from abroad by this time. Was it possible that even after six years he still wished to avoid the sight of her? The thought made her wince, and she turned from the window in utter dispair.

She knew she should distract herself from her self-pity by occupying her mind with some useful or edifying pursuit, but she felt too listlessly miserable to summon up the energy. She wandered aimlessly across the room toward the chaise in the corner. Perhaps she should try to nap, as her mother was doing in the bedroom down the hall. But she knew she would not sleep. On other occasions when she’d tried in that way to make the days pass more quickly, the
nights
became unbearably long and sleepless. She turned back to the window, but her eye fell on a little miniature hanging on the wall. She had not noticed it for a long time. She took it down from its hook and looked at it closely.

It was a charming painting, done by a Derbyshire artist on the occasion of her fifteenth birthday. There had been a costume party for her, and she’d been dressed as a fairy-tale princess. Her mother had combed her long hair loosely over her shoulders and had placed a little
papier-mâché
crown on the top of her head. Her gown had been of silk brocade with sleeves that were enormously wide at the wrists so that they hung to the floor, medieval style. The artist had said the costume suited her and asked her to pose in it.