She wondered if he would talk to her today about yesterday and what might have provoked that incident. She knew nothing about his first marriage, about his first wife, about his son. She knew nothing about his heart. She would be going to Penderris Hall with him soon, where he had lived for almost twenty years with them. She had not thought of it that way before. Would she sense their residual presence? Would she be able to be all in all to him? Would he be able to be all in all to her?

Foolish, foolish questions. Their marriage would be what they made of it. They had agreed upon companionship, friendship, and intimacy, and those things had sounded very good indeed to her. They still did. She must not begin to yearn for all in all or happily-ever-after or those other romantic, fairy-tale things a girl might dream of.

His hand was resting lightly upon her abdomen, over her nightgown.

"You are undoubtedly sore," he said. "I will restrain myself for a night or two while you heal, but I want you here in this bed with me, Dora, tonight and every night. I hope it is what you wish too?"

"It is." She turned her head and rested a cheek against his shoulder-oh, goodness, he smelled so masculine and so good. He nestled his head against the top of hers and Dora felt she could quite easily swoon with contentment.

Yes, it was enough. This was enough, this quiet happiness with the man she had married yesterday and slept with last night.

She nodded off to sleep again.

10.

George escorted Dora across the square to her sister's house the following morning. They took the shortcut through the little park at the center of the square, but it turned into more of a long-cut since she had to stop several times to look at the flowers and comment appreciatively upon how they were arranged in their beds. She took particular note of the bed of roses and leaned over one dark red bud to cup it gently between her hands. She breathed in the scent of it and turned her head to glance up at him.

"Could anything in the whole universe be more beautiful or more perfect?" she asked him.

Actually he could think of one thing, and he was looking right at it-and he was not looking at the rosebud nestled within her slim, sensitive musician's fingers. She was wearing what he guessed was one of her new dresses, a somewhat smarter version of what she usually wore. The dusky pink color was a bit of a surprise, though. He suspected that Agnes or one of the other ladies had talked her into being a little more daring than usual. It shaved a few years off her age-or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it lent some of the bloom of youth to her real age. She was clearly not trying to look like anyone she was not.

"Yes," he said. "Something could."

"Oh?" She straightened up and looked a bit indignant. "What?"

"Well," he said, "if I tell, then I will feel remarkably foolish, as though I had mistaken myself for a young sprig of a sighing lover with stars shining in his eyes."

He watched the indignation fade and give place to understanding. "Oh," she said, "how very silly."

"You see?" He gestured with one hand. "I am considered silly even when I do not tell. So I will. That little straw bonnet you are wearing is every bit as lovely as the rose."

She gazed at him for a moment longer and then burst into delighted laughter-and there went a few more years from her age.

"You, sir," she said, "have no powers of discrimination."

He suspected that he was grinning-unusual for him. "I would have to disagree with you, ma'am," he said, "most adamantly."

He offered his arm and they resumed their short walk to Arnott House. They did not speak again, but George felt warmed by the brief, foolish exchange. It was a huge relief to have got past that ghastly awkwardness of yesterday and to be relaxed and comfortable together today, as he had dreamed they would be from the start. This morning he was filled with hope again for the future. And it was a lovely morning again. There was warmth in the air and the whole of summer to look forward to.

He reveled in the thought that she was his wife, his lover as well as the woman to whom he was legally bound for the rest of their lives. The consummation had been sweet despite her awkwardness and the restraints he had imposed upon himself for her sake. It had been . . . perfection itself.

They were going to Arnott House so that Dora could take her leave of her father and Lady Debbins as well as of her brother and his wife, who were all setting out on their separate ways home. One carriage already stood outside the doors and two footmen were loading a trunk and numerous other packages and hatboxes onto it. There was a bustle of activity inside the house too as both couples prepared to leave, but everyone turned as one when George and Dora entered the hall unannounced. The men proceeded to look speculatively at George while the ladies hugged Dora. There was a great deal of sound and laughter.

"The drawing room is spilling over with l-ladies," Flavian told George with a theatrical look as he ran the tip of one forefinger beneath the high points of his shirt collar. "The Survivors have gone to Hugo's and are expecting me to bring you there if I can drag you away from your bride. We had better go. I have a strong suspicion that we will not be wanted here after the travelers have left. Mere men and all that."

George grinned at him.

"It is more a case," Agnes said, turning her attention away from her family for a moment, "of us not being wanted there, Flavian. Hugo a.s.sured Gwen, of course, that she absolutely must not feel that she was being driven from her own home, but then Vincent arrived and informed her that he had just delivered Sophia to our door. It is the wives of the Survivors, among others, who are in the drawing room, Dora. Significantly, the husband of the only female member is not here, but I daresay that is a good thing for poor Percy."

Sir Walter and his wife were leaving, and attention focused upon them again. George shook his father-in-law by the hand and kissed the cheek of Lady Debbins. He watched as Dora also shook her father's hand until he covered hers with his free hand and said something to her that George could not hear. She set her hand on his shoulder then and kissed him on the cheek. It was not an effusive goodbye. Neither was it a cold one. She shook her stepmother's hand, and they exchanged smiles.

More than ten minutes pa.s.sed before a second carriage bore the Reverend Oliver Debbins and his wife on the way back home to their children. Those goodbyes included prolonged hugs between brother and sister and sisters-in-law. Agnes too showed greater warmth toward them than she had toward her father and his wife.

That broken marriage so many years ago had caused much lasting pain, George thought.

"You will not mind if I go to Hugo's for an hour or so?" he asked when the carriage had departed. He had taken Dora's hand in his and was gazing into her eyes. There were tears there, though they had not spilled over onto her cheeks.

"Of course not," she said. "I would not subject you to a drawing room full of ladies, especially the morning after our wedding." She blushed.

"Quite so," he said.

Five minutes later Flavian's curricle drew up outside the doors and they drove away. The members of the Survivors' Club always spent time alone together whenever they could. They had done so almost daily during the three years when they were all living at Penderris Hall, and they had continued to do so most nights during their three-week annual reunions and whenever circ.u.mstances threw them together between times. They spoke openly and from the heart about the progress they had made, about their triumphs and setbacks, and about anything else that was of deep personal concern to one or other of them. They had become almost like seven segments of one soul while at Penderris, and they had remained closely bonded.

Nevertheless, George had always felt a little different from the others. For one thing, Penderris was his home. For another, he had suffered no personal injury in the wars. He had never been to the Peninsula or to Belgium, where the Battle of Waterloo had finally put an end to Napoleon Bonaparte's ambitions. He had shared less of himself than the others had. He had been better at listening. He had always seen it as his role to be the strong one, the comforter, the nurturer. He even thought he had been something of a father figure to Vincent and Ralph, who had been very young when they came to him.

Now, this morning, he suspected as he sat silently beside Flavian, he would be the focus of attention. Yesterday must be accounted for. Sympathy, understanding, and aid would be his for the asking. He was feeling remarkably uncomfortable. For what he had never shared with these closest of friends could never be shared. There were . . . secrets that were not his to divulge.

Hugo lived at some distance from Grosvenor Square in a house that had been his father's. The late Mr. Emes had been a successful, prosperous businessman with no pretensions to gentility. Hugo had been awarded his t.i.tle-Baron Trentham-after leading a particularly vicious but successful forlorn hope in the Peninsula. But then all forlorn hope attacks were vicious by their very nature. They were always made up of volunteers who knew that in all probability they would die.

George and Flavian were the last to arrive. The others were gathered in the sitting room, variously drinking coffee and liquor. The only nonmember of the club was Percy, Earl of Hardford, Imogen's husband, though he got to his feet when George was ushered into the room.

"I do not belong here," he said. "I have no intention of staying."

"You might as well sit while you are here," Hugo said. "You are perfectly welcome to stay if you wish, Percy, but you certainly need to be here for a while."

Percy sat again, and attention turned to George.

"We expected you a little earlier," Ben informed him as George poured himself a cup of coffee and then took a seat. "Up late this morning, were you, George? After a late night, perhaps? And not too much sleep?"

"The d.u.c.h.ess was looking remarkably r-rosy when George brought her across to Arnott House, I could not help but notice," Flavian added. "Of course, the sun was shining, and some might say the walk across the square is a l-lengthy and somewhat strenuous one, but even so . . ."

George sipped his coffee with a steady hand. "Off limits, you two," he said. "Cut line."

"I think, Flave," Ben said, "it was almost definitely a late night and not too much sleep."

"One can but hope, Ben," Flavian said with a sigh as he sat down with a gla.s.s of something in his hand.

"About yesterday, George," Ralph said.

It was evident that he was referring not to the day in general, but to one specific segment of it.

George sighed and set his cup down. "I must thank you and Hugo," he said, "for removing Eastham with the minimum of fuss, Ralph. And you for keeping him removed, Percy. How did you do it?"

"I can be quite persuasive when I want to be," Percy said with a grin, "and very discreet too. There was no riot in Hanover Square when you emerged from the church, you may have noticed. No rotten tomatoes or eggs flying about your head or anyone else's. The man wanted to talk when I expressed some sympathy for his cause. I invited him to a tavern with whose reputation I am familiar. He did not have a chance to do much talking, however. It was most unfortunate, but we were caught up in a brawl no more than a couple of minutes after we arrived. It was quite unclear who started it. I escaped with my face and my wedding finery intact and hoofed it back to Hanover Square in time to accompany Imogen to the wedding breakfast. Eastham, I understand, was not so fortunate. I believe his face and person suffered some slight damage."

"How did you know," George asked rather stiffly, "that his story would not have been worth listening to?"

"I do not doubt," Percy said, still grinning, "that it would have been interesting to listen to, George. But worthwhile? Hardly. Imogen would have me believe that you are on the side of the angels in all things and are perhaps even one of their number in human disguise. Murder does not seem quite in your style. However it is, I am done here. Alas, I promised the dog who adopted me the day I met Imogen and has been unwilling to unadopt me ever since a walk in Hyde Park, and if I fail to show up he will gaze reproachfully at me when I do with his bulging eyes and make me feel like the lowest, most heartless of mortals."

"Oh, Percy," Imogen said, "you know very well that you dote upon Hector."

"I think, Imogen," Vincent said, "Percy is trying to withdraw tactfully to leave us to ourselves."

"Oh, I understand that," she said, laughing.

"I am off, then," Percy said. "Thank you for the drink, Hugo."

And he sauntered from the room and closed the door behind him.

George cleared his throat.

"I a.s.sured my wife last night," he said, "that there was absolutely no truth in Eastham's accusation. I give you all that same a.s.surance now."

"Well, that is a great relief, I must say, George," Ralph said. "We have known you for not quite a decade, so naturally when a stranger turned up in St. George's yesterday to accuse you of murder without a shred of evidence, we believed him without question and lost all faith in you."

"You did not really expect us to have any doubts, did you, George?" Imogen asked.

Vincent had leaned forward in his chair and was looking right at George in that uncanny way he had. "I believe you may have saved my life all those years ago at Penderris, George," he said. "I know you saved my sanity when I was still deaf as well as blind. I would not believe you guilty of murder or any violence against another person even if you were to stand up now and tell us you were. Not that you would. You are not a liar any more than you are a murderer. I would not believe anything ill of you. I would die for you if such a melodramatic thing were ever called for."

"Bravo, Vince," Hugo growled.

George felt absurdly close to tears and desperately hoped no one realized it.

He had not spoken much at all about his past-to anyone. His friends knew, of course, about the death of Brendan in Portugal and about Miriam's suicide soon after. They knew about his most persistently recurring nightmare, the one in which he ran toward the cliff upon which she stood, feeling as though he were moving through something thick and resistant rather than through air, trying to reach her in time to pull her back from the edge, trying to call out something that would persuade her to step back, and failing-and then thinking of just the right words a moment too late as his hand almost touched hers as she jumped.

"Eastham was Miriam's half brother," he said, "though he acquired the t.i.tle after her death. They were very fond of each other. She used to go home quite frequently and stay for long periods-her father's health was poor for years before he died. Eastham-Meikle, as he was then-used to come to Penderris too until I . . . discouraged him. He came after Brendan's death to offer Miriam some comfort, though not to Penderris itself. After she . . . died, he accused me of killing her. He was beside himself, of course-as I was. But he did not retract the accusation in the days before the funeral, and he accused me to anyone who would listen. Many people did listen, of course, as you might expect, and a few who were predisposed to believe him did so. The gossip blew over in time, however, from lack of any evidence, and Meikle left Cornwall directly after the funeral, vowing revenge if it took him the rest of his life. I suppose yesterday was his revenge. I do not suppose he found it perfectly satisfactory, though he did ruin the day for Dora. Perhaps there will be more to come."

Deuce take it, perhaps there would be more. But what more could there be?

A lengthy silence followed his words. That was characteristic of their sessions. They never spoke merely for the sake of making sound or with any empty words of comfort or rea.s.surance.

"You . . . discouraged him?" Ben asked at last.

"There was never any love lost between us," George said. "I was very young when I married-a mere seventeen. He was ten years older, a huge gap during the years when one is maturing. We had . . . reasons to dislike and resent each other. But finally he became too offensive to be borne, and he had caused great damage within my family. I informed him that he was no longer welcome at Penderris."

"Offensive?" Flavian said.

George looked at him and slowly shook his head. He would trust this group with his life. He loved them totally. But he could say no more.

"Offensive, yes," he said.

"I hope," Imogen said, "Percy did not do more harm than good yesterday, George. I hope he did not stir up more trouble for you by arranging to have that man put out of action for the rest of the day."

"Percy did his best to ensure that Dora's wedding day was not an utter disaster," George told her. "I will be forever grateful to him. If there is more trouble brewing, it is not because Percy embroiled him in a tavern brawl."

"What now?" Ralph asked. "What can we do for you, George?"

They all sat forward in their seats. They would go out and move mountains for him if he asked it of them, George knew. He forced himself to smile.

"Nothing at all," he said. "The worst of the trouble came years ago after Miriam died. It stirred to life again yesterday, and I do not doubt that it will be the main topic of conversation in clubs and drawing rooms for the next few days. I do not expect to find myself being shunned as a possible murderer, however, any more than I was then. Besides, I will be taking Dora home to Cornwall within the next few days and that will be an end of the matter."

Except that he could not quite believe that.

"You do not expect him to follow you there?" Hugo asked.

"If he does," George a.s.sured him, his stomach lurching uncomfortably, "I cannot stop him, but he will stay somewhere other than Penderris Hall, and I shall ignore his presence. But I do not expect it. What would be the point?"

There was no point, was there, apart from dragging up old and stale resentments and embarra.s.sing Dora.

"That old nightmare is not plaguing you?" Vincent asked.

"Not lately," George a.s.sured him. "I am confident that in time it will stop altogether. I have a new wife and a new marriage to give me hope and happiness."

There was silence again.

"It is just a pity," he added, "that some things can never be entirely forgotten just by trying. But we have all learned that lesson."

"Indeed," Imogen said.

Vincent would never forget that it was a foolish, naive move of his on the battlefield that had blinded him for life. Imogen would never forget that she had shot the bullet that killed her beloved first husband in the Peninsula when they were both in captivity. Hugo would never forget that he was one of the very few men to survive the forlorn hope attack he had led, or that he was the only one who had survived without even a scratch. Ralph would never forget that he had persuaded his three closest school friends to purchase commissions and join him in the Peninsula-and that soon after he had watched them blown to smithereens in a cavalry charge. They all had burdens they would carry for the rest of their lives even though they had learned to live with them and even to find happiness again.

He would be happy again, George thought, despite all the burdens of the past. He was happy. His heart lifted with gladness when he thought about Dora. He would see to it that she was happy too.

Flavian got to his feet and patted George's shoulder as he pa.s.sed behind him to return his gla.s.s to the sideboard. "I had better take you b-back home, George," he said, "or my sister-in-law will stop speaking to me and then Agnes may stop too."

It was a signal for everyone else to leave, except Imogen, who would await Percy's return from his walk in the park. They would all be returning to their homes in the country within the next few days, and it was doubtful they would be together again until their annual reunion next spring. By then there would be a few new children to bring to Penderris-their core group of seven was rapidly expanding. They all hugged one another and wished one another a safe journey.

He had probably not been at Hugo's much longer than an hour, George thought as he sat beside Flavian in the curricle again. It seemed far longer than that. He smiled at the realization that he was missing his wife and could hardly wait to see her again. How old was he again? Forty-eight, soon to be nineteen?

"A penny for them, George," Flavian said.

"For my thoughts? Not even a pound, Flave." George grinned at his friend. "Not even twenty pounds."

They walked back to Stanbrook House about the square rather than across it through the park, Dora's hand drawn through George's arm. How lovely it was today, she thought, after all the pomp and excitement of yesterday, to be going home quietly with her husband.

"Oh, I must tell you," she said. "Someone has expressed an interest in moving to Inglebrook to teach music-a Mr. Madison. He is to call upon Viscount . . . upon Sophia and Vincent this afternoon. He is even interested in the fact that there is a cottage for sale in the village. He has been a member of a symphony orchestra for several years and has traveled all over Britain and Europe. But he has recently married and begun a family and wants a life that is quieter and more settled but still lucrative enough to provide him with a steady income."

"He will be a poor subst.i.tute for you," George said with a sidelong smile.