The change in status had come for her anyway—without the consolation of love.
But he thought his life would have been worse with her.
“How much better?” she asked.
“I have money and freedom,” he said. “And the work I do now is for myself and those dependent upon me rather than for someone else.”
Money and freedom.
“If you ever want to marry,” she said, “you will have to dispose of your reclusive wife somehow.”
“I daresay she is a sickly creature anyway,” he said. “She can doubtless fade away at a moment’s notice.”
“Except,” she said, “that the Bancrofts have seen her. Do I look sickly?”
He laughed softly but said nothing. She did not open her eyes.
“Have you been happy, Richard?” she asked him. “Are you happy?”
“Why would I not be?” he said by way of reply. “I have everything I could possibly want in life.”
“Including a reclusive wife who does not interfere with your freedom in any way,” she said.
“Yes, including her.”
The children in front of them shrieked suddenly as they all fell to the grass. Sounds of merriment and laughter came from the flower gardens and the terrace behind them. The music was as toe-tapping as ever. The summerhouse seemed like an oasis of quiet, though it did not drown out any sounds.
“And you,” he said. “What has your life been like, Nora?”
She laughed softly.
“I had no taste for being either a governess or a lady’s maid or a milliner’s assistant,” she said, “though I did try that last one after Papa died. My fingers acquired more holes than the pincushions. I was quite relieved when Jeremy’s marriage gave me an excuse to resign so that I could move away from London. I have been a lady’s companion ever since.”
“To the same lady?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “There have been…” She paused to count on her fingers. “There have been eight, not counting Lady Rushford, who dismissed me after two days because Lord Rushford, her son, told me quite ridiculously that my hair must have stolen all the sunbeams from the summer sky. One hopes he never has to earn his living as a poet. Oh, and not counting Mrs. Arkenwright, who died one hour before I arrived at her house, having traveled half across England to get there.”
“And your latest employer?” he asked.
“Mrs. Witherspoon?” she said. “I endured her whinings and scoldings and miserliness for six months, but when she accused me two days ago of poisoning her horrid little poodle because he had been sick on the floor in her boudoir, I had had enough and not only denied the charge but went farther. Instead of making soothing noises as I usually did and offering to clean up the mess, I told her the truth—that the dog had been sick because of all the bonbons she had fed him and that she was always ill because of all the bonbons she fed herself. She threatened to have me hauled before the magistrate and charged with insubordination or attempted murder or some such atrocity. That was the end, I am afraid. I spoke to her quite candidly and unwisely—and enjoyed every minute of my tirade. The result was that I arrived in Wimbury this morning with all my baggage and no employment and no money whatsoever. She refused to pay me.”
“One can hardly blame her,” he said.
She turned her head sharply to look at him. Even in the near-darkness, she could see that he was grinning.
She laughed aloud.
“It was funny,” she conceded. “Except that she had not paid me at all in six months. There was always some excuse. I endured all that dreary drudgery for absolutely nothing. Now I will have to begin all over again.”
She closed her eyes again, and there was silence between them once more. Not a happy silence. She guessed that his grin had faded. Just as her laughter had died.
She wondered if he was as lonely as she was.
“I think,” he said at last, “we had better go and dance, Nora. We have been gone long enough. I came looking for you to tell you there is to be a waltz soon. It would be a shame to miss it. Have you ever danced it?”
She had learned the steps long, long ago from a dancing master. She had never performed them at an actual ball. She had never attended any balls. She never did have her Season in London.
“Only with a dancing master,” she said. “But that was during some lifetime in the distant past.”
“Let us go and see if you remember,” he said, taking her hand in his. “If you do not, I will teach you.”
He had taken her hand in his. His was large and warm and strong-fingered.
He drew her along a path through the flower beds, weaving their way past other people, several of whom spoke cheerfully to them.
It was a bittersweet happiness Nora felt for the fleeting moment—for this day was really nothing more than that in the context of a whole life.
She felt ridiculously close to tears.
Chapter Eight
Richard had never particularly enjoyed dancing. It was something he did at social events because it was the polite thing to do. He had never thought of it as a particularly romantic activity, though, not even the waltz. Usually he chose a waltzing partner with whom he could expect to hold some sensible conversation while they twirled together about the dance floor for half an hour or so.
It was impossible to hold a sustained conversation with Nora given the volume of the music and the loudness of the voices all about them. And it was almost equally impossible to twirl her about, considering the size of the floor and the number of people who chose to waltz.
They were forced to dance rather more slowly than they would otherwise have done and at somewhat closer quarters than the customary arm’s length. And they were forced to dance in near silence. The lamps were all somewhat distant from the dance floor. They danced by the light of the moon and the stars.
It all seemed unexpectedly—and not altogether comfortably—romantic to Richard.
After a few minutes he decided that he could best protect Nora from the crowds by turning her hand in his and holding it, palm in, against his heart. And by sliding his other hand more protectively about her waist. It was still as slender as a girl’s, he found, even though she had developed a woman’s figure. Her hand moved inward along his shoulder and then to the back of his neck. He could feel the tips of her fingers against bare flesh above his shirt collar.
The proximity of their bodies as they danced would have caused scandal in any fashionable ballroom.
But this, he thought, was surely how the waltz was intended to be danced.
She glanced up into his eyes, he looked back, and their eyes held. She was not smiling. Neither was he. And yet there was warmth in her look, as there surely was in his.
It was curious how one could feel alone with one’s partner even in the densest of crowds. Suddenly there was no one in the world but Nora and him, and nothing of any significance in their surroundings except the moonlight and starlight and the sweetness of fiddles and pipes playing and the intimate steps of the waltz.
It was the 5th of May on which they had married. Almost exactly ten years ago.
A lifetime ago.
He had not been allowed to come near her afterward. He had tried, God knew, apprehensive as he had been about being beaten up again. She would not see him, he had been told every time. And she had returned all his letters unanswered—except the last. Her reply to that one had surprised him. Cynically, he had expected her to say yes.
Why had she said no?
He gazed into her eyes and would not ask the question now. Now was for the waltz and this unexpected moment of happiness.
Happiness?
But he would not analyze tonight. Tomorrow would be time enough. He would have the rest of his life in which to wonder how he could possibly have felt happy today.
Tonight he held a woman in his arms and she felt right there. Tonight he could even believe in romance.
He liked the simplicity of her gown and hair, s
o different from the Nora of his memories. He liked the depth behind her eyes, the slightly thinner line of her face. She had grown into a beautiful woman. The prettiness of the girl he had known had been largely an exterior thing, he thought now. There had, perhaps, not been much depth of character behind it. He suspected that there was a great deal of it now behind her understated beauty. Indeed, he suspected that it was at least partly depth of character that gave her the beauty.
She had suffered, he did not doubt. But whereas she had crumbled quickly after their marriage, as soon as her father caught up to her, she had not broken a few days ago when her employer had bullied and insulted her. She had left the woman’s house even though she had not been paid and had no money left in her purse after buying her ticket on the stagecoach.
She had even laughed about the whole thing a short while ago.
He rather suspected that he might like this Nora more than he had liked her younger self—if he took time to get to know her, that was. But then he had not really known her ten years ago, had he? It had been all romantic passion between them, made more desperate and therefore more appealing, by the differences in their stations, the secrecy of their meetings, and the marriage that was being forced upon her. They had made a dash for the border and had a Scottish wedding with nothing but love—or what they had called love—to sustain them.
Would it have stood the test of time?
There was no way of knowing, was there?
And perhaps young love would have been strong enough and resilient enough to have carried them through. Perhaps they would have grown up together.
Some empty space opened up suddenly beyond them and he swung her into a wide turn, smiling into her eyes as he did so.
She tipped back her head and laughed. Moonlight gleamed on her face and across her throat. Her beads swung to one side and caught the light. Rare blue pearls, indeed!
Then the laughter faded from her face and softened to an answering smile as he drew her closer again, and again they were encompassed by other dancers. But suddenly her eyes glistened in the starlight, and she lowered her head.
Tears?
He drew her closer still until her breasts were almost brushing against his coat.
“You do remember the steps after all,” he murmured into her ear.
“Yes,” she said. “My first and last waltz. I am glad it has been here today.”
And with me as a partner?
But he had not spoken aloud.
Did he want the question asked out loud? And did he want to hear the answer?
What if it was no?
And what if it was yes?
She sighed audibly, and he realized that the music was coming to an end.
He stopped dancing and looked down at her without releasing her.
“I suppose we should make our way back to the village,” he said. “I want to make an early start in the morning.”
His curricle would be ready. He had ascertained that earlier.
What he ought to do was leave tonight. There was enough moonlight to drive by. Nora could have the inn room to herself. It would be better for both of them.
“Yes,” she said, gazing up at him, her hand still on his shoulder.
But he would not leave tonight, he knew. It was too soon. And very much too late—in every imaginable way.
And then, while they still stood together, though all the other dancers had moved off the floor and even the musicians had disappeared, there was a loud bang, and it was followed by a great cascade of colored light shooting into the night sky from one side of the house.
“Oh, Richard!” she exclaimed, turning sharply in his arms to look. “The fireworks!”
Ah, he had forgotten. Sparks of dimming light were falling back to earth.
Everyone else, he realized, was hurrying off to get a closer look. But one did not need to be close to fireworks.
He wrapped both his arms about Nora from behind and drew her back against him. She laid her hands over his at her waist and, after a moment or two, rested her head back against his shoulder.
They watched together, neither of them speaking. But it was a display that set the final, magical touch upon a day that he knew he would always remember, even if he lived to be a hundred.
Perhaps with pain.
But surely also with pleasure.
The sky was alternately bright with colored fire and dim with starlight. The air smelled of smoke. Cheers and applause came from the side of the house with each explosion.
But they were alone together in a world of beauty and wonder, he and Nora.
Whose shattered relationship had surely wrecked both their lives for the past ten long years.
And for the next ten, too?
And forever?
They were questions he was not prepared to explore.
When the last of the fireworks had burned itself out in the night sky, they found the Bancrofts and thanked them for a lovely evening and took their leave, though there was more dancing to come and refreshments were already being brought out onto the terrace.
They walked back to the village and the Crook and Staff Inn even though Sir Winston tried to press the carriage on them. It was only two miles, they protested. And it was a lovely night for a walk.
They walked in silence, her arm drawn through his and pressed firmly against his side.
He tried not to think ahead—to tonight, to tomorrow, to the rest of his life.
Chapter Nine
It was foolish to have enjoyed the day so much, Nora thought when they arrived back at the Crook and Staff and she climbed the stairs ahead of Richard to his room. It was foolish to have reveled in this evening’s activities—the dinner, the dancing, the brief interlude in the summerhouse. The waltz…
Ah, that waltz! The glorious romance of it all, when she had forgotten everything except the present moment with the music and the moonlight and the man with whom she danced.
And the fireworks. The light and the colors and the sounds and the smells. And the arms of the man who held her as they watched in silence.
Spellbound.
It was foolish to have abandoned herself to it all, to have flung off her defenses. For of course, all the events of the day had been leading to the night—to a night spent in a room with him, trying to sleep on the hard floor, though sleep would be an impossibility even if she had the softest of feather beds on which to lie. And this night led inevitably to tomorrow morning, when he would resume his journey in his curricle and she would go her way on the stagecoach.
The curtains had not been pulled across the window in their room. It was not a dark night outside. It was easy to see without the aid of a candle. She was relieved when he made no move to light one.
“I will lie down over here,” she said without turning to look at him. She had picked out the dark corner beyond the washstand. She had a cloak in her valise to use as a blanket. The valise itself would serve as a pillow.
“You will, of course,” he said, sounding autocratic and impatient, “sleep on the bed.”
“Oh no,” she said, turning to him. “There is really no need to be gallant. It is your room. I am only grateful that—”
“Nora,” he said softly.
She had not realized he was so close. She could feel his body heat. She had to tip back her head to look into his eyes.
She swallowed and left her sentence uncompleted.
His fingertips touched one of her cheeks, feather-light, and she closed her eyes and stood very still.
“Nora,” he said again. A mere breath of sound.
His lips were soft and warm when they touched hers, and she was aware that her own trembled against them.
But she did not draw back as she knew she ought.
A great welling of longing held her rooted to the spot.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against her lips, “if you wish me to stop. I promised that I would not molest you.”
She would have preferred to stand where
she was and let him decide what was to happen. No decisions. No responsibility. No blame.
The old Nora, dependent upon and subservient to the men in her life—except for the one brief, colossal act of defiance, which she had not been strong enough to sustain—had been like that.
She was no longer that girl. She had a choice, and only she could make it.
She set her hands on his shoulders.
“Don’t stop,” she said.
She wondered if this had been inevitable from the moment when he had first spotted her this morning. Or from the moment when his curricle had pulled out of the inn yard just exactly when the stagecoach was pulling in. Or from the moment when she had finally walked out on Mrs. Witherspoon with a ticket for today’s stage. Or from the moment when—
How far back did causes go?
And what about effects?
She had said, Don’t stop, and her life would forever be changed in ways she could not even dream of yet. But she had said it consciously and willingly. It was what she wanted. And so there would be the memory of tonight added to that of today—and all of them to set against the memory of their disastrous wedding day.
She would never hate him again after tonight. Whatever happened, she could never hate him again.
His lips moved from hers to kiss a molten path along her throat and then her shoulder. His hands were unhooking her dress buttons and nudging the garment off her shoulders and down her arms.
She shivered, though not with cold.
He raised his head for a moment and lifted her beads from about her neck. They clattered to the floor as he dropped them. In the near-darkness their eyes met, and they smiled at each other.
It was her undoing. For this was no impersonal exercise in sexual passion. This was Richard and she. And she had never—ah, dear God, she had never stopped loving him.
Hating him and loving him.
But always, always the love.
He had smiled at her once upon a time, when she was a girl, and she had fallen in love with him. And now he had smiled at her again in the darkness of the bedchamber they shared.