The Secret Mistress Page 3

Well … it was best not to put the matter to the test. She would return to her room and listen for his arrival. If he ever came.

  The gentleman’s eyes were blue, she remembered as she climbed the stairs. She was certain of it, though she had not seen them from close to. They were not that nondescript sort of gray that often passes for blue. They were as clear as the summer sky. They were his most outstanding feature, in fact.

  Oh, she hoped she would see him again.

  How could she possibly marry him if she did not?

  ALMOST AS SOON as Edward arrived in London, he was besieged by female relatives who adored him and had nothing but his best interests and his future happiness at heart and were determined to have a hand in securing that happiness for him.

  They were a plague.

  His mother had been staying with her parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Beckingham, for the past few months while she recovered as best she could from the sudden death of her elder son. Edward’s grandparents had now come to town, and his mother, who had traveled with them—in a new carriage that she had found atrociously uncomfortable—had moved into Ailsbury House on Portman Square to be with her younger son, now her only son.

  Lorraine, Maurice’s widow, who had retreated to her father’s house in the country following his death, had now returned to town with Susan, her daughter, and had also taken up residence at Ailsbury House, as of course she had every right to do. She still held the title Countess of Heyward, after all, Edward being as yet unmarried. Besides, he had always been fond of Lorraine and sorry for the fact that she had been in an unsatisfactory marriage with his brother. He was more than happy to offer her and his niece the shelter of his own roof for as long as they needed it.

  Both of Edward’s sisters were in town for the Season. Alma, the elder, was there with her husband, Augustine Lynd, a prominent government minister, and Melissa, their young daughter. Their two boys were away at school. Juliana was there with her husband, Christopher Gilbert, Viscount Overmyer. They also had three children, all below the age of ten, though Edward often thought that in reality Juliana had four, since Christopher was perennially indisposed with some malady or other and it seemed that no one could nurse him back to health—or rather nurse him on to the next illness—half as well as his wife.

  All five ladies—grandmother, mother, two sisters, one sister-in-law—had taken upon themselves the identical project to be accomplished during the course of the Season. They had set their collective hearts and energies upon finding Edward a bride. A bride was necessary, of course. If he were to die without a son, the title and property and fortune would pass to Cousin Alfie—never in his life had Edward ever heard him referred to as Alfred—who lived in the far north of England with his mother and who, all were agreed, was more than a little daft in the head.

  It was pointless for Edward to put forward the name of Eunice Goddard at this juncture. She was the daughter of a gentleman, it was true—a Cambridge don whom Edward had greatly admired during his years as a student there—and the niece of Lady Sanford, who had had the good fortune to meet and attach the interest of a wealthy baron at the tender age of seventeen. Eunice might have been considered unexceptionable as the bride of Edward Ailsbury, younger brother of the Earl of Heyward, especially if Maurice and Lorraine had produced a son or two. It would be trickier, though, to convince his female relations that she was the ideal wife of that same Edward Ailsbury now that he was himself the earl.

  It would be done eventually, he was confident. Edward, who was not particularly excited at the prospect of marrying anyone this early in life, had decided long ago that when he did marry, it would be to Eunice, with whom he could talk upon any subject on earth and with whom he felt perfectly comfortable. He had even made the suggestion to her one day, when he was about twenty and she nineteen, that when the time came to consider the sober responsibilities of home and family, perhaps they might consider doing it together. Eunice had told him on an earlier occasion that she hated the thought of marrying and would put off doing so as long as she possibly could, though she must marry eventually as her father could not live forever and she would hate to be a burden to her brother. She had liked his suggestion and had agreed to it. They had even shaken hands on it.

  Clearly their relationship was not characterized by high romance. Or any romance at all, for that matter. And yet, Edward thought after his arrival in London, he loved Eunice. He loved her more than any other woman he had known, though probably no more than he loved his female relatives, he admitted with incurable honesty.

  Dash it, but he was just not a romantic man.

  He did not need to be. Eunice was one of his dearest friends, and what better marriage could one make than with one’s dear friend?

  He did not really want to marry at all, of course. Not yet anyway. But he had to marry someone. Duty demanded it. And if he must marry, then he would rather it be Eunice than anyone else. Far rather.

  He bided his time before mentioning her to his relatives, however. Not that they were unaware of her existence. They knew that both she and her father had been his friends in Cambridge. They knew too that she was in town and that he called upon her within two days of his arrival there.

  She greeted him with warm pleasure in her aunt’s parlor, and Lady Sanford, who was instantly alert to the possibility of promoting a match for her niece even more brilliant than her own had been, discovered an almost immediate reason to leave the room, with apologies for doing so and instructions to her niece to entertain Lord Heyward while she was gone.

  Edward took both Eunice’s hands in his own as soon as they were alone and carried them one at a time to his lips—an extravagant gesture for him, but then it had been longer than a year since he last saw her.

  “Miss Goddard,” he said, “you are in good looks.”

  “As are you, Lord Heyward,” she said with grave emphasis upon his name. “Must we be formal, then, now that you are the earl? And must I be reassured with flatteries? Must you?”

  He smiled at her and squeezed her hands before releasing them.

  “I am happy to see you again, Eunice,” he said. “One frustration of spending the past year at Wimsbury has been my inability to see you and enjoy your conversation.”

  “I hope,” she said, “your duties as earl are not proving too burdensome. But I know you will perform them conscientiously.”

  “I must take my seat in the House of Lords,” he told her. “I will enjoy listening to the debates, even participating in them. The one thing I do not look forward to, though, is delivering my maiden speech.”

  “But you will do brilliantly at it,” she assured him, resuming her seat so that he could take his. “You have a superior mind and have cultivated it with discerning reading. Have you chosen a topic?”

  “Not yet,” he said with a sigh. “But I will soon. I so wish to say something of lasting significance.”

  “You will,” she said. “I trust your mother is well? Losing a son must be the very worst bereavement any woman can be called upon to suffer. Or any man for that matter.”

  “She was close to collapse for several months,” he said, “and still suffers. She has found a new purpose in life, though. She has set herself the task of finding me a suitable bride.”

  He smiled ruefully at her.

  She did not smile back.

  “It is commendable in her,” she said. “You must marry soon, of course. It is your duty.”

  Both her facial expression and her posture were unreadable. She appeared relaxed. Her hands, clasped in her lap, were neither white-knuckled nor fidgeting.

  “But I have already made my choice,” he told her.

  She looked steadily at him for a few moments.

  “If you are referring to me,” she said, “and a very informal agreement we made all of four years ago when both of us were minors, then you must not regard it as any sort of obligation whatsoever, Edward. I would not be an eligible bride for an earl.”

  “Why not?
” he asked her.

  “Perhaps eligible is not the right word,” she said after giving the matter some thought. “I am a lady. I am fit to be the bride of any gentleman, no matter what his rank and fortune. Desirable would be a better word. Or brilliant. I would not be a brilliant match for you, Edward.”

  “I do not ask for brilliance,” he said.

  “No,” she agreed. “You are not so swayed by outer trappings. But you have responsibilities to more than just yourself now. You must marry, and you must marry well. You need more than just any bride. You need a countess. Your mother and your sisters will know who is most eligible.”

  “And my grandmother and sister-in-law?” he said.

  “Oh, dear,” she said with warm sympathy. “Them too? Poor Edward, they must seem like an army. But yes, together they will find just the right bride for you.”

  “For me?” he asked her. “Or for the Earl of Heyward?”

  She regarded him gravely.

  “When your brother died,” she said, “and you became the Earl of Heyward, you lost the right to think only of yourself and your own comfort, Edward. You are the earl. But of course I tell you only what you already know and accept. You are not a man to shirk your responsibilities. It is one thing I have always admired in you. You must not now feel obligated by a sort of agreement you made with me long ago when the circumstances of your life were very different from what they are now.”

  “And you?” he said. “What are your feelings in all this, Eunice?”

  “If you remember,” she said, “I told you four years ago that I had no intention of marrying until age makes my spinsterhood somewhat of a burden to both me and my brother. That time has not come yet. I am only twenty-three. Let us officially release each other from any obligation that agreement laid upon us, then, even if it is only guilt and fear of hurting each other.”

  “Is that what you really want for yourself?” he asked. “Complete freedom? Even from me?”

  “Life,” she said, “is not always or even often about getting what we want, Edward. Far more often it is about doing our duty, doing what is right, taking other people into consideration.”

  He sighed aloud. She had neatly avoided answering his question, he noticed. Or had she? Perhaps she was embarrassed by that long-ago agreement. Perhaps she was glad of the excuse to bring it to an end. And perhaps not. Perhaps she was being noble. Or merely sensible.

  And what about him? How did her willingness to release him make him feel? Disappointed? Relieved? He really was not sure. There was perhaps a bit of both.

  “You are released, then,” he said. “And so am I, if you insist upon it. But I will not give up our friendship, Eunice. And I will not give up the possibility that at some future time … Well, I will not burden you with that.”

  “Your thoughts, your opinions will never be a burden to me, Edward,” she said. “I will always consider you a very dear friend.”

  He had to leave it at that. But he felt somewhat depressed as he took his leave—depression more than relief. For he had already accepted the necessity of marrying soon, and if he must now give up the comfortable thought that it would be Eunice he would marry, there was a distinctly uncomfortable void where she had been. If not Eunice, then whom? Was he going to have to meet and woo a stranger and marry her and get her with child? It was a rhetorical question, of course. That was exactly what he must do. It was one of his two reasons for leaving behind the peace and safety of Wimsbury Abbey for London. London in the spring was the great marriage mart, and he had come to shop.

  Unless Eunice could be persuaded to change her mind. She had avoided his question about her personal feelings on being set free of their agreement. Perhaps she was secretly hoping that he would refuse to be set free.

  It did not take long for the family committee to compile an alarmingly long list of marital possibilities for him, though it took even less time for them to whittle it down to a few probabilities and then to one overwhelming and unanimous favorite.

  Lady Angeline Dudley.

  Everything about her made her supremely eligible.

  She was about to make her come-out. Her come-out ball was to be held less than one week hence, in fact—on the evening of the very day appointed for Edward’s maiden speech in the Upper House. She was the daughter and sister of a duke, and her fortune was said to be astronomical. She had lived a sheltered life in the country under the tutelage of an assortment of the finest governesses money could buy. She was at the very top of everyone’s list of eligible hopefuls this Season and would be snapped up within weeks or even days of her first appearance on the marriage mart.

  For Edward there was only one impediment—and it was a huge one. Lady Angeline Dudley just happened to be the sister of the Duke of Tresham.

  Of course, he admitted to himself, she could hardly be blamed for the wildness and dissipations of her brother. Or for those of her late father. Or for the scandalous reputation her mother had enjoyed before her untimely death a couple of years or so ago.

  Indeed, it might be altogether kinder to pity the girl.

  Either way, he soon found himself committed to firing at least the opening volley in what his family hoped would be a rapid and successful courtship campaign. Lorraine took it upon herself to speak to Lady Palmer, with whom she had an acquaintance. Lady Palmer was Lady Angeline Dudley’s cousin and her sponsor for the all-important come-out Season. The outcome of the meeting was that Edward was engaged to lead Lady Angeline Dudley into the first set of dances at her come-out ball—arguably the most important set of dances in her life.

  Lorraine’s initiative was accorded the heartfelt approval of the rest of the committee. Indeed, Edward even heard—and carefully ignored—mention being made of St. George’s, Hanover Square, as the only truly proper setting for a marriage of such social magnitude. The comment came in the voice of his maternal grandmother.

  Being accepted to dance that opening set with Lady Angeline Dudley was a huge honor for Edward. It was no less an honor for her, of course. He was one of the most eligible bachelors on the market this year—and he did not doubt that the whole of the beau monde was fully aware that he was actively in search of a bride.

  It was all deucedly unnerving.

  Just a year or so ago he might have attended any and every ton ball without anyone’s remembering afterward if he had even been there. Being a second son made one blessedly invisible.

  He wondered what Lady Angeline Dudley looked like. And what she was like as a person. But it seemed he was destined to find out soon enough. He was forced to go through the excruciatingly embarrassing formality of applying to Tresham himself for that all-important set with his sister—Tresham was back in town, alas. And of course permission was granted, even though he had been forced to endure a long, inscrutable stare from Tresham’s black eyes before being informed that if Lady Palmer deemed Heyward an unexceptionable partner for Lady Angeline, then who was he to argue?

  Lord! What would it be like, Edward could not help wondering, if he ever had to apply to the duke for permission to marry the sister? It did not bear thinking of, though he believed he had acquitted himself well enough on this occasion by staring back at Tresham with equal steadiness of eye.

  All of Edward’s female relatives were fairly twittering with delight when the matter became official. And it was not just the ladies. Augustine Lynd began cracking jokes about leg shackles and braying loudly over his own wit. And Overmyer began hoping that his gout—which was in his head more than it was in his legs, in Edward’s inexpert and unkind medical opinion—would allow him to attend the ball at Dudley House so that he could witness the first fateful meeting between his brother-in-law and his future countess.

  It was a relief to Edward to discover during a chance meeting on Oxford Street that Lady Sanford and Eunice were also to attend the ball, even though Eunice despised the frivolities of most social entertainments and was going only because she did not want to disappoint her aunt. Perhaps she wou
ld dance a set with him, Edward thought, even though he hated to dance. Even though he could not dance, in fact. His right leg and foot might look like a right leg and foot, but in reality they were a left leg and foot in disguise. Or so it always seemed when he attempted to perform the intricate steps of any dance yet invented.

  Perhaps Eunice would sit out a set with him, then, or stroll in the garden outside with him if it was a pleasant evening. She would not mind having to forgo the pleasure of tripping the light fantastic for half an hour.

  Meanwhile he hired a secretary to help him with all the work of being an earl in London with an estate in Shropshire still to run in absentia. And he applied all his energies to composing a maiden speech that would render all the other peers of the realm speechless with admiration when it was delivered in the House of Lords.

  He started to suffer from insomnia and sudden cold sweats and clammy palms.

  Chapter 3

  WHEN THINKING AHEAD to her removal to London, Angeline had somehow imagined that she would make her curtsy to the queen the moment she arrived in town—well, perhaps not the very moment, but certainly within a day or two—and that she would then sweep off into all the dizzying round of entertainments with which the ton filled its days and nights during the Season.

  She was quite wrong, of course. For one thing, she had come to town rather early in the year, when there was a mere trickle of entertainments and half the ton were still in the country packing their trunks and bandboxes in preparation for the move to their town houses.

  For another thing, a young lady needed time—and lots of it—to make endless preparations for her presentation and all the balls and parties and concerts and whatnot that would follow it.

  Tresham had explained it to her in the carriage on the way to London, sounding rather bored, as if it were just too, too tedious to have a sister to bring out. And he had been sprawled across a corner of the carriage seat, one booted foot propped against the seat opposite, for all the world as though looking alert and elegant for a sister were too great a bore to be contemplated. Of course, he had looked gorgeous anyway with all his tall, dark, harsh beauty, and Angeline had gazed back at him with fond exasperation.