Eleven
Although he tried to immerse himself in his own affairs, Trevor found himself more and more interested in Caitlyn’s activities. Not expecting anything for himself, he took little interest in the mail which Thompkins, the butler, set at Caitlyn’s place each morning. She would sort through it, dividing the missives into piles of estate affairs and social doings. There were usually one or two of the latter addressed to Aunt Gertrude and, occasionally, one to him.
There would ensue brief discussions over acceptance of social invitations, which arrived at an increasing rate. Of course, the most significant of imminent events was the Wallenford ball. Breakfast over, Caitlyn would closet herself in the library while Trevor escorted Ashley on some excursion or another.
Trevor wondered about matters that required such concentrated attention, but Caitlyn had so far not volunteered any information, though he surmised she dealt with estate business that should probably be his. He was not yet ready to shake the fragile accord they had achieved by asking about those matters.
He was perplexed, intrigued—even overwhelmed—by his personal reaction to this woman who was, in fact, his wife. He came to savor the light floral scent when she was near. He listened for her throaty laugh in a room. His fingers itched to touch the warm brown softness of her hair. Her most arresting feature, of course, was her eyes. If he were not careful, he might lose himself in those eyes.
She seemed to avoid any physical proximity to him. If their hands happened to touch as she passed him a dish of tea, she would quickly draw away. It was usually a footman who handed her into or from a carriage, but if it chanced that her husband did so, she allowed only the briefest of contact. Yet she clearly was not a squeamish, “untouchable” sort. He had often seen her lay a hand on or touch a fan to the arm of a man or woman with whom she spoke. And she never failed to gather Ashley—or even Ashley’s dog—into her arms, with little regard to mussing her gown.
Did she consider him so very repulsive, then? Even as he found himself responding to her more and more intensely? Her bare arms in the drawing room or at the dining table, the swell of breast at a low neckline, a glimpse of deeper cleavage as she knelt to hug Ashley—all would cause a catch in his breath, a tightening of his body.
He imagined his hands spanning her waist, caressing her body. He cursed himself for his fierce jealousy as she danced or laughed with other men—things she rarely did with him. Then he would shake himself with the reminder that he was still contemplating the dissolution of this marriage. Of course, that was not a matter of great urgency at the moment. . . .
One morning as Caitlyn sorted through the mail, she looked at a certain letter curiously.
“This one is for you, Trevor.” She handed it across to him.
Trevor recognized the bold, heavy hand immediately. “My father.” He opened it and scanned the brief contents. “A summons. The earl has returned to town and demands that I call immediately.”
He looked up to see apprehension in Caitlyn’s eyes. Such a summons no longer had the power to cause him any trepidation, but he well remembered how he had felt five years ago at the last such demand for him to present himself. He wanted to reassure Caitlyn, to erase that worried look he saw her exchange with Aunt Gertrude.
“ ’Tis not a matter for worry, ladies. He is in town for the celebrations.”
“Has Gerald come with him?” Aunt Gertrude asked in an apparent effort to discuss the matter normally.
Trevor glanced again at the letter. “Yes. Along with his bride. They all plan to stay through the celebrations.”
“That should please Lydia,” Aunt Gertrude observed. “She and Miranda get on quite well together.”
“Being birds of a feather, you mean?” Trevor asked with a derisive but not malicious laugh.
Aunt Gertrude chuckled. “Well, there is that . . .”
Gerald had been married nearly four years. Trevor recalled his mother’s letter and the clippings describing what had been one of the most lavish society weddings in a decade. He had noted at the time the pointed absence of his own wife, though Aunt Gertrude had been listed among the guests. So far, Gerald and his wife had failed to produce an heir.
“I shall go this afternoon,” Trevor said. “I should, of course, have called upon them even without such a kind invitation.”
Later, when he arrived at Wyndham House, he had a distinct feeling of déjà vu. Heston gave him a sympathetic look as he took Trevor’s hat and gloves, but there was no Melanie to give him warning. In the drawing room, his father and his brother Gerald stood to offer their hands, but Trevor felt there was more courtesy than warmth in their greetings. Trevor kissed his mother’s proffered cheek.
“You remember Miranda, of course,” the countess said, gesturing to the woman next to her on the settee.
“Yes. How do you do?” Trevor took his sister-in-law’s hand briefly. Miranda’s severely styled, almost black hair failed to soften her sharp features and contrasted starkly against her very white skin. It was a warm summer afternoon, but this woman looked cold and forbidding. What had Gerald seen in her? Trevor wondered, and then answered his own unspoken question. The proper credentials, of course. A father who was a lord, a suitable dowry, all the “correct” accomplishments of a ton miss, and a firm sense of her own lofty place in the scheme of things. She returned his greeting condescendingly.
Salutations over, Trevor took a seat and waited. His father seemed to be silently assessing his younger son. Finally, the earl spoke.
“Your mother informs me that you have taken up residence in Bedford Square. Is this true?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
The earl seemed to be waiting for Trevor to say more, but he did not elaborate.
“With that . . . that connection of Fiske?” Lord Wyndham asked, hesitating when Trevor directed a hard, questioning glare his way.
“With my wife and daughter, yes. And Aunt Gertrude.”
“Your daughter?” Miranda’s innuendo was clear.
“Yes, my lady. My daughter.” Trevor experienced a fleeting triumph when Miranda could not hold his gaze.
His mother sniffed. “No one in society believes that.”
“They will.” Trevor’s tone was flat, matter-of-fact.
“You are still the veriest gull,” Gerald sneered. “Five years seem to have taught you nothing. Nothing at all.”
“On the contrary. I learned a great many things. Foremost among them is that I need not sit here and endure your insults. If you will excuse me . . .” Trevor rose, bowed curtly, and turned toward the door.
“Now see here,” Gerald sputtered.
“Oh, Trevor, please—” his mother implored.
Miranda sat looking pinched, but said nothing.
“There is no need to fly into the boughs,” the earl said. “Gerald, hold your tongue. This will get us nowhere. Please sit down, Trevor.”
Trevor, surprised at the strength of his own fury, reluctantly resumed his seat.
“Now,” the earl continued, “we should like to know why you are pursuing a course of action that will merely make an unpleasant situation worse.”
“Sir, with all due respect, the ‘situation,’ as you put it, is mine, and the course of action will be mine as well.”
Gerald gave an audible snort. “Are you daring to tell us that you will make this family the laughingstock of the ton—again?”
“Oh, my heavens!” Miranda sounded appalled.
“You cannot allow that bit of baggage to subject us to yet further shame,” his mother said, her eyes flashing in rage.
“I will not sit here and have you insult Caitlyn, either.” Trevor rose again.
“Sit down, son, please,” his father said. “Lydia, you are not helping.”
Trevor sat again, surprised by his father’s reasonable tone with him, and even more surprised at the earl’s mild reprimand of his heir and his countess.
“Oh, Alfred.” Lady Wyndham seemed to be fighting tears. “I simply cannot bear the thought of more scandal in our family.”
Trevor might have felt sorry for her had he not been wondering how much of this was show.
Ignoring his wife’s outburst, the earl said, “Trevor, I thought you had agreed with the rest of us that this affair was best put behind us.”
“That was before—”
“Before what?” Gerald demanded.
Trevor looked directly at his brother. “Before I knew my own family had deliberately deceived me. Before I knew Ashley to be my child.”
None of them would meet his gaze.
“We acted from the best of intentions, darling,” his mother said as though she were addressing a child.
“But you had no right to withhold Caitlyn’s letters from me. You hid the truth from me.”
“And just what ‘truth’ would that be, little brother?” Gerald employed a demeaning tone that Trevor had always hated.
“You knew very well that the child was mine, but you chose to keep me uninformed.”
“We knew nothing of the kind,” Gerald declared flatly. “Nor do we know it now. That woman may have successfully fooled you, but it takes more than a passably pretty face and some clever playing with the calendar to fool the rest of us.”
“We cannot allow this, Trevor,” his father said quietly. “There is no need to continue this charade. You must convince the chit to accept our offer.”
“And if I cannot do so?”
“We shall cross that bridge only if we must,” the earl replied.
“Well,” the countess interjected in an adamant tone, “I can tell you right now I shall never recognize that . . . that woman—or her child.”
“If one could truly believe the child was a Jeffries, that would shed a different light on the matter.” Miranda’s disbelief was clear.
“As it is, there will always be doubt, you know.” The countess was placating now.
“When Gerald and I married, the initial scandal had died down.” Miranda glanced at her husband. “Now it will be all stirred up again—and just as the whole country has come to London. It is too much. Really. Simply too much.” She, too, sounded as if she would burst into tears, but her eyes were wondrously dry.
“Cannot you do something to spare the family further scandal, Trevor, darling?” his mother wheedled.
Trevor stood to lean against the mantel of the fireless hearth. “Look,” he said. “I accept fully my role in the original contretemps. And I apologize—again—for any embarrassment I caused you five years ago.”
Gerald interrupted. “That hardly excuses the situation now.”
Trevor raised his hand as a signal for him to halt. “However,” he went on, “the scandal was prolonged and has been kept alive all these years through you.”
“Wha-a-at?” His mother fairly choked on the word.
“Preposterous!” Miranda said.
Trevor held his hand in that silencing gesture again. “Had you listened to Aunt Gertrude—had you quietly accepted Caitlyn and the child, the gossip would have proved a nine days’ wonder—and not worthy of renewed attention now.”
“Well, I never.” Miranda snapped her thin lips closed.
“Allow that blackguard Fiske to foist some unknown by-blow off on us? Unthinkable,” the earl said, showing his strongest emotion yet.
Trevor glanced at his father and wondered at an enigmatic look he saw pass between his parents. He stood straighter and clasped his hands behind his back.
“Father,” he said gravely, “I have no idea what the quarrel once was—or is—between you and the Baron Fiske. However, it has nothing to do with either my wife or my daughter.”
“Your wife, yes. Unfortunately. Your daughter? Not likely.” Gerald’s sneer had not diminished.
“Gerald.” Trevor’s tone was deadly, and threatening in its quietness. “If you venture one more slur against Caitlyn or Ashley, I shall be forced to call you out, brother or no. Now, there would be a genuine scandal for you.”
“You would not,” Gerald said, but his voice indicated he believed otherwise.
“I would. I will,” Trevor said in the same quiet tone. “I was always a better shot than you—and I have had a good deal of practice lately.”
“Alfred—say something!” the countess screeched.
“Come now, Trevor. Gerald. This wrangling is unnecessary.”
“I will not accept that woman—nor her child—in my home.” His mother was being her stubborn self, Trevor noted. “Nor will I acknowledge her in public gatherings.”
“Why should you change now?” Trevor muttered under his breath. Aloud, he said, “You will not be asked to, Mother. We shall manage to contrive. Now, if you will all excuse me, I really must be off.”
“I had hoped this could be handled more amicably,” the earl said in a weary voice that caught Trevor’s attention.
He looked at his father intently. Why, he is not well, Trevor thought, somewhat surprised at realization of his father’s mortality. The earl stood and took his younger son’s hand briefly. Trevor noted that his father’s skin looked and felt like parchment. Not well, he told himself again. Trevor gave the others a stiff little bow in farewell. Their faces remained closed, rejecting.
As he left his family, he felt unutterable sadness at the breach. Thinking back, he relived the entire scene and made a surprising discovery. He had actually believed what he was saying. At some point recently, he had come not only to believe Caitlyn, but to believe in her.
Now he wanted desperately to make sense of his life. He wanted to do something worthwhile as a legacy for his child—and maybe other children to come.
But first he would have to set about the task of wooing his own wife.
Caitlyn had been jittery all day, wondering about Trevor’s interview with his father and brother. When he returned, she was entertaining callers in the drawing room. Thus, it was some time before they could speak privately.
As Aunt Gertrude bade the last of the callers goodbye, Trevor and Caitlyn retreated to the small library-study on the ground floor. He leaned over her to open the door and put his hand on the small of her back to usher her in. She drank in the faint spicy smell emanating from him, and her whole being seemed concentrated where he touched her. She moved quickly away from him as a means of preserving her sanity.
Today he was wearing a dark-blue jacket, a lighter blue waistcoat, and buff-colored trousers that hugged his thighs. The blues brought out the blue depths of his eyes. The jacket had needed but little padding to sit well on his muscular frame. She thought him the handsomest man of her acquaintance. If only . . .
She hesitated a moment, then sat in a big overstuffed chair which was, in fact, a comfortable refuge where she was wont to curl up with a book. He took a place on the settee opposite.
“Did your visit with your father go well?” she asked, making nervous conversation.
“It went . . . predictably, shall we say?”
“Is that to say it went well?”
“As a matter of fact, no.”
“Oh, dear.” She twisted her hands together in her lap.
“I share that sentiment.”
She looked up to find him smiling grimly and to find herself mesmerized, unable to avert her gaze. His eyes were friendly and reassuring.
“But,” he went on, “it is not a matter we need be overly concerned about.”
“You cannot mean that,” she said, appalled. “This is your family. And they are important in society.”
“Ah, yes. They are that. And so my mother reminded me.” He gave her a speaking look which she understood immediately.
“I take it the countess will not be calling on us any time soon.”
“Nor we on her.”
They gave each other weak smiles, and Caitlyn thought them more in accord with each other than at any time since his return.
“Oh, Trevor, I am sorry to be the instrument of discord in your family.” She rose, agitated, and walked to the window to gaze out unseeingly. Suddenly she felt him standing directly behind her.
He placed his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her toward him. “This discord is not of your making,” he said softly.
“But family is important.” She was mindful of her own profound sense of loss on the deaths of her parents, and of her intense gratitude that Aunt Gertrude had somehow contrived to fill the void for her. “And you . . . well . . . that is . . . before . . .”
He seemed to understand immediately what she was groping to say. “Yes. Five years ago, I did attend them. And I have lived to regret it.”
“You—you have?” She lifted her head, unable to keep the wonder from her tone.
He raised his hand to tuck an errant curl behind her ear, allowing his fingers to slide along her jaw to her chin. She stood very still, savoring the warmth that flowed through her.
“Yes,” he murmured. “I—”
But whatever he might have said was lost and the moment was gone with a knock on the door. She tore her gaze from his and called for entry.
“Lord Latham is here, madam.”
“Thank you, Thompkins. I am engaged to drive in the park,” she explained to Trevor.
“Of course.” His tone was utter politeness, but she thought his lips had momentarily thinned in annoyance.
Had he been about to kiss her?
How would she have responded if he had?