"Mrs. Parkinson," she said rather sharply, "you will be quite boring Her Grace by so monopolizing her attention."

Mrs. Parkinson turned a sweet smile upon her hostess. "I was telling Her Grace about the time when I played matchmaker at Penderris Hall for my dearest friend, who was still Viscountess Muir at the time," she said.

"As I heard it," Mrs. Eddingsley remarked, "the lady met Lord Trentham while she was out walking alone and twisted her ankle when inadvertently trespa.s.sing upon Penderris land. He came upon her and carried her up to the house. I have always thought it a particularly romantic story with a happy ending."

"You are quite right, Mrs. Eddingsley," Mrs. Parkinson said. "But my dear Gwen lost no time in summoning me and begging to be brought back to my house, so embarra.s.sed was she to have been caught on the duke's land. I was quick-witted enough, however, to insist that she remain at Penderris while her ankle healed. It was very clear to me that true love needed a helping hand."

A few of the ladies t.i.ttered.

What an absolute horror of a woman, Dora thought. She wondered what on earth had induced Gwen to come and stay with her. It was a good thing she had, though, or she would probably never have met Hugo. How strange the twists of fate could be.

"The first time my husband took me down onto the beach," Dora said, "he showed me the steep fall of stones where that accident happened and the sheltered rock where Lord Trentham was sitting when he witnessed it." She smiled about at all the ladies. "Is it not a marvel to live close to golden sands and the sea? I feel wondrously blessed, having lived all my life inland."

As she had hoped, a number of the ladies had something to say on the subject, and the conversation remained general until Dora rose to take her leave. Although she had been the last to arrive, she understood that no one would make any move to leave until she did. She thanked Mrs. Yarby for her hospitality, smiled as she bade everyone else a good afternoon, and made her escape.

It was unfortunate that she thought of her departure as escape, she thought while she was conveyed back home in the landau. Mrs. Yarby had gone to great trouble to entertain her in style, and the other ladies had been amiable and flatteringly respectful.

But that woman! Oh, gracious heaven, that woman.

Mrs. Parkinson was a bore and an obsequious name dropper-and those were her good qualities. What on earth had she been trying to accomplish with those last things she had said? Vent spite? But why? Cause mischief? But why? If Dora could have stopped her ears, she would have done so. Like a child, she would have hummed loudly while doing it. But it had been impossible given where she was, and now she feared her thoughts and dreams would be haunted by all the nasty little details Mrs. Parkinson had quite masterfully compressed into that minute or two.

As the landau approached the house, Dora could see that George was standing at the bottom of the steps before the front doors, watching it come. He looked dearly familiar, his hands clasped behind him, his face beaming with pleasure.

He did not wait for the coachman to descend from the box but opened the door of the conveyance himself, set down the steps, and reached up both hands for hers.

"I have missed you," they said together as she got down, and they both laughed.

Dora lifted her face for his kiss. He hesitated for the briefest moment while she remembered that they were in the presence of servants and she really ought to be behaving with more decorum.

He kissed her softly on the lips.

"I am so happy to be home," she told him.

15.

She told him during dinner about her visit to Mrs. Yarby.

"Anyone would think," she said, "that I am someone special."

"But you are," he a.s.sured her. "And furthermore, you are a d.u.c.h.ess."

That made her think-and then laugh with delight.

"You are such a flatterer, George," she told him, wagging a finger in his direction.

He told her about his afternoon, which he had not spent on the beach as she had not been with him. He had walked along the headland instead and almost lost his hat in the wind.

"I am very glad I did not," he told her. "I would have looked mildly undignified chasing after it across the park. Dukes are never undignified, you know."

He loved her laugh.

And yet there was something . . . It was there all through dinner and it was there after they had retired to her sitting room. She chose to play something rather melancholy on her pianoforte. He did not recognize it, and he did not ask. That something was still there after she had seated herself across the hearth from him and he had lit the fire even though it was summer and the day had been a warm one. They read for a while. At least, that was what they were apparently doing. But he kept glancing across at her. He was almost certain she had not turned a single page.

She looked up and caught his eye and smiled. "A good book?" she asked him.

"Yes," he said. "And yours?"

"Yes."

He closed his own, keeping one finger in the page to mark his place. He did not say anything else. Experience had taught him that silence often drew confidences when the other person obviously had something on his or her mind. And Dora clearly had something on hers.

I am so happy to be home, she had told him on her return from the village. But there had been no real happiness in her tone-or even simple weariness after a busy afternoon. There had been something else, something bordering upon desperation. And she had invited his kiss while they were in full view on the terrace with servants about them. That was unlike her.

She turned a page for the first time but then shut the book with a decisive snap.

"I have it on the best authority," she said, "that you are a dear friend of Mrs. Parkinson."

"What?"

"Not her dearest friend, however," she added, raising one forefinger. "That place in her heart and esteem is reserved for Gwen. Mrs. Parkinson introduced her to you and your fellow Survivors here, I understand, and she played fond matchmaker for her and Hugo."

This was what had been on her mind? No, he did not believe it. But he was amused anyway.

"And your best authority was the lady herself, I presume?" he said. "There is at least some truth in what she told you. She did indeed make very sure that Gwen remained here after she sprained her ankle, much to the chagrin of Gwen herself, who was mortified at the prospect of imposing upon a private house party of strangers. I believe Mrs. Parkinson's motive was something other than matchmaking, however. She saw in Gwen's predicament a way of ingratiating herself with me and my guests, all of whom, except Imogen, were handsome men with t.i.tles and fortunes, and none of whom was married at the time. She was extremely attentive to her dearest friend in the world and came here every day and stayed for several hours. I do believe Flavian had the distinction of being her favorite. You were in sore danger of not having him for a brother-in-law, Dora."

"What entirely escapes my understanding," she said, shaking her head slowly, "is why Gwen was staying with such a dreadful woman in the first place."

"Apparently they were acquainted as girls making their debut in society," he said, "and continued some sort of a correspondence afterward. When Mrs. Parkinson lost her husband, my guess is that Gwen felt sorry enough for her to offer her company for a while. I believe she came to regret her kindheartedness very soon after her arrival, but she was ultimately rewarded when she twisted her already lame ankle on my land and a certain gentle giant stepped down from among the rocks to scoop her up and carry her here."

"There is no truth to Mrs. Parkinson's first claim?" she asked him. "She is not your dear friend?"

He shook his head. "Alas," he said.

She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms over her stomach, and grasped her elbows. Her smile faded. And he knew that she was coming to it-whatever it was.

"She commiserated with me," she said, "on the interruption to our wedding."

"Ah." He removed his finger from his book and set the volume down on the table beside him. "I suppose it was inevitable that word of such a dramatic scene would arrive here. I hope she said nothing else to upset you."

But he knew that something else must have been said. The past just would not die and leave him alone, would it? They had not spoken of it since that ghastly day in the gallery, and they had been happy. Life had been good. But here it was again.

He could see her hesitate before she spoke.

"I believe," she said, "I was being consoled for being unable to inspire any great pa.s.sion in you-because of my age and my looks, I suppose. It is not a bad thing to be middle-aged and plain and unattractive, however, for apparently you grow hot-tempered and jealously possessive and perhaps even violent when you do feel a pa.s.sionate attachment to a woman. At least . . . I believe this is what Mrs. Parkinson was implying. I believe she stopped liking me when I would not agree with her insinuations that Hugo was a vulgar upstart and Gwen married beneath her."

She spoke softly and rather tonelessly, her eyes on the dying fire.

George stretched his fingers in his lap, curled them into his palms, and relaxed them again.

"You must not put any great credence in anything Mrs. Parkinson has to say, Dora," he said. "Even from what you have told me, I can see that her words were full of contradictions. I have not treated you to any grand romance or pa.s.sion since our marriage, but I have a deep regard for you. Your age and your looks make you more dear to me than if you were a young girl of dazzling youth. You are beautiful to me and just exactly the right age to be my companion and friend. You are perfect in every way as my lover."

"I did not believe her," she a.s.sured him, turning her gaze on him, a frown between her brows. "She is a spiteful, nasty person, one of the most unpleasant people it has ever been my misfortune to meet. I am happy with our marriage just as it is, George. I cannot imagine you being jealous or possessive or violent. You are everything that is the opposite, in fact. You do not cling to what you love. You give it wings instead and let it fly. I have only to know and speak with your fellow Survivors to understand that."

He felt strangely like weeping. "And then I wish they had not flown away," he said.

"No, that is not true of you." She set her head back against the chair and looked at him with the softness of what could only be affection. Her frown had disappeared. "You miss your friends when they are far away. You even feel a bit lonely without them. But you absolutely do not wish you had made them so dependent upon you that they would need still to be here living at Penderris. You are happy in their independence and happiness. There is no point in denying it even if you feel so inclined. I have seen you with them. And you have given me wings with your gifts of my pianoforte and harp. I am even more than partly reconciled with my mother because you encouraged me to visit her and talk with her. I will not fly away, however. Not ever, for you have married me and are good to me. I will stay. That is a promise and a commitment-not just because I made vows during our wedding, but because I could never wish to leave you."

Her eyes remained on his as he gazed steadily back at her and knew with some amazement that she spoke the truth. But why amazement? He had married her so that he would have a lifelong companion, someone of his very own who would stay. But . . . she had said "because I could never wish to leave you." He had never been offered such a priceless gift. How could he dare accept it without clinging desperately to it?

"I hope," he said, "I never give you cause to regret that promise."

"The Earl of Eastham must have loved your wife very dearly," she said.

His fingers curled into his palms again. He felt a twinge of pain as one of his fingernails penetrated the skin. What-?

"His sister must have been very dear to him," she said. "Only that would explain his going to London and interrupting our wedding as he did. He must have been very upset to learn that you were about to remarry. It was not at all well done of him to react as he did. Indeed, it was shockingly bad of him. But when emotion gets the best of us, we can all behave badly. Perhaps it would be best to give him the benefit of the doubt and forgive him. I daresay he deeply regrets what he did so impulsively. May I write to him? Or would that merely cause him more pain?"

He inhaled sharply and let the breath out more slowly. "I would very much prefer you did not, Dora," he said. "You may very well be right. He was fond of Miriam and she of him. He had a hard time believing she could have killed herself. It was easier, I suppose, to believe that I had pushed her, especially as he and I had never particularly liked each other."

"Did you forbid him to visit your wife here?" she asked, her frown returning, her voice troubled. "And did you refuse to allow your son to visit his grandfather and uncle at their home?"

Oh, Lord!

"Never the latter," he said, "and not always the former. When I did, there were reasons. We did not have a happy marriage, Dora, Miriam and I. We were forced into marrying when I was seventeen and she was twenty. My father was dying and for some insane reason wanted to see me married before he went, and her father thought it was high time she took a husband. I met her for the first time when I proposed marriage to her-in the presence of her father and mine. I met her for the second time at our wedding the following day-the marriage license had already been procured."

"She was beautiful," Dora said.

Ah, Mrs. Parkinson really had filled her ears. He wondered what the other ladies had been doing while the woman had been tte--tte with Dora. Surely Mrs. Yarby would not have allowed such talk to go on unchecked in her drawing room if she had heard it.

"Incredibly so," he said. "She was one of the most perfectly beautiful women I have ever set eyes upon." But not one-tenth as beautiful to him as his second wife. The words would have sounded forced and false if he had spoken them aloud, though.

"Did you purchase your son's commission and have him sent to the Peninsula against her wishes?" she asked.

He felt a sudden wish to have Mrs. Parkinson's neck between his two hands.

"Against hers, yes," he told her. "But not against his."

"I am so sorry," she said. "That he died, I mean."

He drew a deep breath and held it for a while before letting it go. "I sometimes think," he said, "that Brendan had neither the wish nor the intention of returning alive from the Peninsula. And that is the burden I must bear upon my soul for as long as I have breath in my body, Dora. Perhaps now your questions are at an end."

He got to his feet and left the room without looking back.

It was many hours later before he went to bed. Indeed, he had half expected dawn to be showing on the eastern horizon when he made his way back along the headland. But it was still dark after he had thrown off his clothes and made his way into his bedchamber. He expected to find the bed empty. But she was curled up in the center of it, fast asleep, one arm flung across his half.

He stood in the darkness, gazing at her for many moments before moving her arm carefully aside and lying down beside her. He gathered her into his arms and pulled the covers over them both as she snuggled up to him, grumbling incoherently in her sleep. He nestled his cheek against the top of her head, closed his eyes, breathed in the warm, comforting scent of her, and slept.

Dora had fallen asleep fearing that she had ruined her marriage with her inquisitiveness. George had made it very clear on several occasions that he would allow no intrusion into his memories of his first marriage, but she had pried anyway. And it was no consolation that she had done so not just out of curiosity but out of a conviction that he needed to talk about the past, to exorcise some of the demons she was sure lurked there. And oh, there had been evidence that she was right.

I sometimes think that Brendan had neither the wish nor the intention of returning alive from the Peninsula. And that is the burden I must bear upon my soul for as long as I have breath in my body.

Whatever had he meant?

But she would never know. He would never volunteer the information, and she would never ask again.

She fell asleep fearing for her marriage but woke up some time after dawn to find herself snuggled, as usual, in his arms. When had he come in? She knew he had gone outside, but she had made no move to follow him. She had not heard him return, but she was so glad-so glad-he had come home.

"If it was not quite barbaric," he said softly against the top of her head, "I would be quite happy to boil Mrs. Parkinson in oil."

It was so unexpected that she exploded into laughter against his naked chest and raised her face to his.

"It is barbaric," she agreed. "Did you know, though, that I just adore barbarians?"

His eyes smiled into hers. His hair was disheveled, the silver all mingled with the dark. He needed a shave. He looked gorgeous.

"I am deeply sorry about last night," he said. "But never let that woman sow doubts in your mind, Dora. I chose you consciously, and I chose even more wisely than I knew at the time. You are beautiful to me, and you are attractive, and both qualities encompa.s.s your appearance and your character and mind, and your very soul. Not for one single moment have I regretted going into Gloucestershire to find you again and claim you for my own."

She smiled at him and bit her lip at the same time. His words made her want to cry. But he looked troubled despite his words, and she could see he had not finished.

"My first marriage was difficult and unhappy," he said. "I had my friends and Miriam had hers. Mrs. Parkinson was one of them, though she was a very young lady in those days. I purchased Brendan's commission not just because he begged it of me and certainly not because his mother was adamantly opposed, but because I thought it was right for him-the only right thing. His death will weigh heavily upon me for the rest of my life, as will his unhappiness before he died, but I am not weighed down by guilt."

She gazed into his face as he spoke. He was giving her facts, she thought, facts that throbbed with emotion, but he had a tight leash upon that. Ah, George. There was so much more he was not saying.

"And that something else you have wondered about," he continued. "That absence in the gallery of a painting of my own family. My life was unhappy for many years, Dora, miserably, irrevocably unhappy. I had no wish to have it immortalized in paint for future generations to gaze upon. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps all those other portraits hide secrets that only those pictured there knew of. Perhaps it was not my call to deprive future generations of thirty years of family history."

He closed his eyes, and she heard him swallow. She spread a hand over his chest, but what could she say? Bland words of comfort or rea.s.surance would be worthless. All she could do was be here with him. He opened his eyes again and smiled at her.

"My life is happy now," he said, and she bit her lip again to hold back the tears, "and I am content that all the world see it, both now and in the future. There will be a portrait after all of my family. You are my family, Dora."

She rested her forehead against his chest.

"Have I answered your questions?" he asked. "Are you content?"

"Yes," she said.

Oh, there were a thousand more questions she could ask, for what he had told her was really like the tip of an iceberg, she suspected. Why had his marriage been such an unhappy one? Irrevocably unhappy, he had called it. But he was such a kind, accommodating man. She would ask no more, however. If he wanted her to know more, then he would tell her. In the meanwhile all she could do was try to make him less unhappy with his second marriage. And that would not be difficult. My life is happy now, he had said. She must trust that he meant it, that he felt it, that he would always feel it.

"I mentioned appearance, mind, character, and soul," he said. "Did I also mention that I find you s.e.xually attractive?"