Barbara Metzger Page 19

  “Come, Robert,” Alissa said, transferring her arm to Rockford’s, to tug him out of the room before more violence ensued. “You were right. My sons have a father now. They do not need an uncle.”

  She might have been trying to move a boulder.

  “Hysmith?” Rockford’s glare could have pierced an elephant’s hide, or a duke’s.

  “What, do you think I believe that moonshine about Lady Eleanor chasing down a thief and then succumbing to influenza at your aunt’s house in Wales? That is just the kind of thing the ridiculous female would do, go haring off across the country without thinking of the consequences, but she was seen leaving with the bailiff, you know, so that won’t wash.”

  Alissa was ready to throw her own gloves at the duke, and her reticule too. “She went along to lull his suspicions until the magistrate came. With her maid for chaperon,” she hastily added.

  He ignored her, looking only at Rockford, as if to judge whether he should put more distance between them. “As for the tale you told in the clubs about your marriage being based on a long understanding, waiting for Mrs. Henning’s mourning period to come to an end, I say balderdash. You have been married, what? Less than a month, and you were here in London the entire time. You did not even have a honeymoon, or wait for your so-called sick sister to return from Wales for the nuptials you had a year to plan. When the grieving widow finally did arrive in town, what did you do? You spent the night with your foreign mistress!”

  Now Alissa wanted to toss something at her husband instead of at the duke. She’d suspected Rockford’s whereabouts, but did not need this insufferable prig to give reality to her fears by saying it aloud.

  Hysmith was not finished. “You barely acknowledge your wife’s existence, Rockford. Why should I?”

  “You go too far,” Rockford said, and then he did, in fact, throw something: his fist. “There,” he said after hauling the duke up from the floor by his neckcloth. “I have been wanting to do that for almost twenty years.”

  Lady Eleanor stepped over, balled her fingers into a fist, and struck Hysmith on the other side of his jaw. “So have I.”

  The duke looked at Alissa. She shook her head. “I have not been waiting nearly so long, only since your brother died and you did not respond to my letter. You are not worth soiling my gloves, your grace.” She raised her chin and walked out of the room, not caring if her husband followed her across the square to Rothmore House or not.

  How could she be angry at Hysmith? He was only speaking the truth. Rockford did not respect her. He did not even bother to fulfill his promise of being discreet. She was a fool to think she could make something of this marriage, and a fool to think she and her family could be accepted into Rockford’s circles. Most of all, she was a fool to come to London. The city was full of soot and snobs and spoiled dreams.

  “Claymore, start packing.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  There ought to be a rule: People should mind their own business, keep their opinions to themselves. When the Earl of Rockford needed anyone’s advice, blast it, he would ask for it!

  Who did Hysmith think he was, anyway? His title was higher, he was older, he was a respected member of Parliament, and he had been, it was said, a faithful husband and a good father. So? So he was right.

  Rockford knew there was talk of his wife around the clubs. Once she had been seen at the opera in his box, the town bucks had been quick to speculate about the latest jewel, and they were not speaking of the Rothmore sapphires she wore, either. His absence did leave Alissa open to conjecture and her reputation subject to slander. His sister’s presence fueled the gossip. His continued relationship with Princess Helga fanned the flames.

  Rockford hated to admit it, but the Duke of Hysmith was right. Confound it, he should have hit him harder.

  It was a conundrum and a quandary. No one was going to show respect for his countess until he did himself, and somehow, he found, he cared that Alissa be treated as the lady she was. Of course, none of this would have mattered if the blasted female had stayed in the country where she belonged—and where she was assaulted by bumpkins instead of Bond Street beaux. Damn!

  He never wanted another wife, but now he had one. He never wanted to be personally involved with Alissa Henning; now he was. He never wanted to want her, and now he was counting the minutes until she kissed the children good-night and it was his turn. Somehow she seemed to have acquired another boy, somewhat older and with his arm in a sling. He would not demand an explanation, not until tomorrow. Tonight he had to make her forget about the duke’s words. He had just the method in mind, too.

  When he heard noises in the adjoining chamber Rockford went to open the door, but found it locked. There it was, the conjugal key. Blast, he knew he should never have bedded the female! Sex gave women power, and they grabbed it with both hands. Make a man jump through hoops like a trick dog, then give him a reward. If he did not please you, turn the key, lock him out, make him pant for the promised treat. Bedroom blackmail, that was what it was.

  The Earl of Rockford was not going to pay. He was not going to grovel outside any woman’s door. The world was filled with females eager to share his favors. Just because he was not interested in any of them did not matter. He had not been interested in this one either, at first.

  He turned and tried to decide what to do with his evening, now that his plans had been knocked to flinders. Then he recalled the duke’s words. Deuce take it, she was his wife. He went back and knocked on the door.

  She did not answer.

  “Alissa, open the door. I am your husband.”

  “And I am packing.”

  “What do you mean, packing?” he asked through the still-closed panel.

  “I mean I am filling my trunks. I am going home to Rock Hill, just as you wanted me to do.”

  He heard the sound of something—shoes, perhaps—being thrown into a case. “Well, you cannot.”

  “I came without your say-so. I can leave without your permission.” More thumps and thuds.

  “No, you cannot return to Rock Hill. Sir George Ganyon is no longer at home at Fairmont.”

  “Good. That is all the more reason why I should leave. I will be safe from his unwanted advances and…anyone else’s.”

  He ignored the last. “You misunderstand. He did not leave because I threatened to have him drawn and quartered. He never got my message. The groom came back late last night. He said Sir George’s man would not tell where the baronet had gone, but the villagers say he tore off in a rush, with Fred Nivens driving his coach.”

  “Good riddance to both of them, then.” The sounds indicated she had gone back to her packing.

  “No. You are not safe until we know where they are.”

  “Nonsense. He would not—”

  “We both know he might. Lud, the man must be unhinged to think we would let him court Aminta. But think of her, Alissa, and her danger.”

  There were no more noises from the countess’s room for a moment. Then she said, “Very well. I will not go yet. But how will I know when it is safe for us to leave?”

  “I hired Bow Street to find him. That is where I was this morning, interviewing Runners, giving them his description and Fred’s. Then I came to find you at the duke’s house, to make sure you had ample escort and protection.”

  “I was only across the square,” she said with a sniff. “But did you really care enough to come after us?”

  “Yes.” Damn it, was that groveling? “Now open the blasted door. I am getting tired of speaking to a plank of wood.”

  The key turned and the door opened. Alissa stood holding the knob, but she did not step aside to let him enter. She had tears on her cheeks and reddened eyes. Of course. Tears were the grease that oiled the blasted lock women used to get their way. He sighed and handed over his handkerchief. Instead of weeping on his shirtfront, though, sobbing until he promised her the moon, Alissa merely dabbed at her eyes, said, “Thank you, good night,” and handed back h
is handkerchief. She started to close the door.

  “Wait! May I please come in?” Now that was groveling indeed. Rockford did not care. She needed comforting. He needed to hold her.

  “No. I need my rest. It has been a difficult day.”

  He was having a difficult night. “I, ah, read the book.” He had, a long time ago, so that was no lie.

  “I am sure Princess Helga will be delighted. Perhaps you will get your silly treaty signed after all.”

  He winced at the mention of the Austrian heiress, and wished he had knocked out a few of Hysmith’s teeth while he was there. “Devil take it, we had an agreement.”

  “No, my lord, we had rules. Your rules, remember? I was not to notice your activities, and you were not to embarrass me. You broke the rules and broke your marriage vows, but you shall not break my heart. Like your sister and Hysmith, I will not love a man who is unfaithful.”

  “Dash it, leave Eleanor and the duke out of this. They would have killed each other years ago, if they had managed to tie the knot. Who is talking about love, anyway? I am talking about—” He realized his error immediately. He could hear the conjugal lock’s tumblers clicking shut. “That is—”

  “I know what you are talking about, and I will not share my bed with a man who does not share my values. I am not a light-skirt, Rockford, selling my favors for your money and title, no matter what you, Hysmith, or all of London thinks.”

  “I never thought that.”

  “But it never mattered to you that everyone else might. You heard the duke: No one respects me because you do not. You married beneath you, outside your charmed circle, and you intend to keep me there, an outsider, a nobody. How can I give myself to a man who has so little regard for me and my feelings?”

  To hell with the Kama Sutra, Rockford cursed. There really ought to be a guidebook explaining a female’s mind. Of course, the man who could write the manual had not been born yet, and likely never would be. He stroked his chin, thinking. The first thing he thought was that he had wasted another shave. The second was that he had a great many fences to mend before he’d see the inside of Alissa’s bedroom.

  “Would you like to spend the evening with me tomorrow?” he offered. “The regent is holding a small musicale.” There. If he brought her to court, the gossip ought to be stifled; she ought to be satisfied; then he could—finally—be satisfied.

  “Thank you, but I promised the boys and Aminta that I would take them to Astley’s Amphitheatre to see the trick riding tomorrow night if we stayed in town.”

  “Surely the new tutor can escort them. With extra grooms, of course.”

  “I promised.” She looked at him in disappointment, not for missing Prinny’s affair, he thought, but because he had missed the point. “I gave my word.”

  And Alissa Bourke Henning Rothmore kept her vows. Except the one about obeying her husband, it seemed. Rockford nodded. He thought about the elegance of the regent’s entertainment, the sumptuous surroundings, the intelligent conversations. Then he thought about the raucous crowd at the circus, hundreds of shrieking, sticky schoolboys, the sickening smells of sweat and horse and cheap cologne. Damn. “May I come with you?”

  *

  The circus was worse than he’d thought, despite having the best seats, servants of their own, and a hamper with food from his own kitchen. The loud noises and pungent odors were far more piercing than he’d remembered, the crowds far less refined. He recognized no one in the huge theater, which was a mixed blessing. If any of his acquaintances had seen him in such a place, in such company, they would have laughed out loud, but they would also have spread the tale that the Earl of Rockford was dancing attendance on his wife and family. He would rather be the butt of jokes than have his countess be grist for the rumor mill. Or quarry for the hunt. Young widows and dissatisfied wives were fair game in his world. The earl’s reputation for prowess with sword or pistol, though, was worth a great deal more than a wager at White’s. No one would dare his wrath, if he was shown to have an interest.

  An interest? Hell, he could barely keep his hands from Alissa, so he rested one arm along the back of her seat, where he could pretend to touch her neck by accident, or brush her cheek as he shifted positions. She wore a cherry-red merino gown with only a locket for decoration, and he had to wonder whose picture graced the tiny frame. What if it were her late husband’s? Deuce take it, he thought. Neither weapon nor fist was defense against a dead man’s memory.

  She had her hair up in the new style she had adopted, with a few softly curling tendrils covering her ears and trailing down her neck. He liked it far better than the severe coiled braids she used to wear, but not half as well as seeing her long hair loose, billowing around her shoulders, across a pillow, where he could breathe in the sweet floral scent of it.

  The scent of the circus-goers was a far cry from milady’s perfume. Rockford was tempted to bring his handkerchief to his nose, but none of the others in his box seemed to notice the noxious odors or the deafening noise.

  Some of the language from the nearby row seats was not suitable for Alissa’s ears, much less for the children’s, so Rockford deemed it lucky that not even Hugo could translate the thick cockney dialect. Some of the cheers and whistles were more for the women riders’ legs than for their equestrian abilities. He noted that Aminta kept her eyes averted from the female performers’ scant outfits; the new boy—Rockford had still not discovered why the tutor’s brother was part of their party—did not. He almost fell out of his seat trying to lean closer, until his brother thumped him on the ear.

  William declared that he had to try riding his pony bareback, standing up; Kendall told him he would break his neck, and another argument ensued. William spilled his lemonade, of course. On Rockford’s boots, of course.

  The riders did the same tricks at least twenty times, the music was drowned out by the crowd, and the costumes were tawdry. The clowns were barely funny, until one compared them to the lords and ladies Rockford should have been rubbing shoulders with this evening. Then they were laughable, indeed.

  Hugo was fascinated by the jugglers, Kendall was determined to teach the puppies some of the dog tricks, and Aminta was so embarrassed by the display of feminine limbs that she sat looking away from the show rings, chatting with the tutor instead of watching the circus. William ate everything in sight, so the other boys declared they would not ride home with him lest he cast up his accounts, which meant Rockford would have to sit with him, up by the driver, out in the cold drizzle. The tutor’s brother pinched one of the orange sellers’ bottoms.

  Will Henning fell asleep in Rockford’s lap midway through the second act, giving the earl a cramp in his leg. He did not dare move in case he awakened the child, who slept with his mouth open, drooling.

  All in all, it was a dreadful, degrading, horrible experience—and the most fun Rockford had had in years. Seeing the circus for the first time through a boy’s eyes was a unique delight. Seeing Alissa rejoice in the children’s excitement was another pleasure, but seeing the looks of approval she kept casting his way, that was paradise. Her green eyes sparkled and she laughed as much at the boys’ antics as she did at the performers’.

  When she looked at him, though, her wide smile made him feel as if he had conjured the entire circus just for her. Here was something he could provide, something that had been missing in her hand-to-mouth existence, something he could do to please her. Other women might desire jewels and clothes and carriages; his wife wanted to see the children—his sons as well as her own—happy. And he wanted to make her happy. A lot.

  He was not eager to please her merely so she would unlock that dratted door, he told himself. This was not about sex. He simply wished to see her happy.

  Now that was the most amazing feat of the evening, Rockford marveled. Not the daredevil riding upside down under his horse’s belly, not the tightrope walker on stilts, but discovering that he really did care about his wife.

  A lot.

  *
* *

  For the first time since her marriage, Alissa was positive she had made the right decision. She had not had much selection, granted, just Rockford, Sir George, or starvation, but what a fortunate choice it had been. She had been able to give her sons so little; now they had so much. Equally important, almost, her husband could laugh!

  Her sophisticated, starched-up spouse could still enjoy the simple pleasures in life, it seemed, not just the extravagances of the social world. He was finding pleasure in being a father; she could swear to it by his grins and chuckles, and the way he kept Billy from the edge of the box, and made sure Hugo did not lose his glasses, and let Kendall sip from his wineglass when he thought she was not looking. He even let Willy sleep in his lap, tenderly ruffling her younger son’s hair.

  Perhaps he could grow to enjoy being a husband.

  He was very good at it, she decided, when he tried. Tonight Rockford had smoothed their way, handling everything from their seats to their refreshments to the number of carriages it took to transport such a large group. He even improved the language of the spectators in the next box, with a glare of disapproval and a soft, “There are children and ladies present.”

  He thought she was a lady. Alissa smiled, unfortunately just when a young man in a spotted neckcloth was looking her way from his seat below them. The fellow blew her a kiss and tossed her a flower, which Rockford caught and threw back, shaking his head. No, she was not available for flirtation, that movement told the brash young man; she was his wife, not a doxy.

  What a relief it was to Alissa to have someone else in charge for once, to have someone looking out for her after so long. As pleasant and easygoing as he was, William Henning would never have noticed her discomfort, would not have been able to discourage such forward behavior with a glance.

  William would not have turned her insides to mush with one of those rare dimpled smiles, either. She could barely remember when she felt such a thrill go through her as when Rockford’s hand touched the bare skin of her neck.

  He smiled. He knew. But he felt the quick touch of fire too, she thought, for he pulled his hand away, scorched.