“Quite so,” he said. “Would you care to take my arm?”
Frances took it but walked as far from him as their linked arms would allow.
Arabella was also impressed by the pagoda, which was ten stories high and elaborately ornamented. But she had been far more pleased with the Temple of Bellona and several other temples because his lordship had told her that the present king had helped design some of them when he was a very young man. She had gazed at the first one, speechless with wonder.
“How very clever he was,” she had breathed at last, clinging to her husband’s arm.
He had smiled. “The buildings are not generally admired,” he had said. “But they do have a certain charm, do they not?”
And when they finally glimpsed the Dutch Palace, where the king and queen sometimes lived, she was quite ecstatic.
“Oh,” she said, “is his majesty there now? Am I gazing with my very own eyes at the palace where he is now? Is he well-tended, do you think? He is not treated cruelly?”
“I am sure he has the very best physicians attending him, Arabella,” he said. “You must not worry. He has a devoted family, I believe. But he is said to be at Windsor, not here.”
They talked all the time as they walked through the gardens. Arabella made a special effort, determined to overcome her shyness with her husband, eager to make him her friend. But she could not feel easy. Her attempts at conversation sounded forced and stilted to her own ears, and his responses were labored. And there was something between them—she had no idea what. They had never been close. Indeed, she had always felt uncomfortable with him. But this was different. There was something!
Lord Astor was attempting to make the afternoon a happy one for his wife. At the same time, he was wishing that he were a hundred miles away. Their marriage had been a mistake, he was beginning to realize. That was the plain truth stated quite baldly.
It had been a mistake for both of them. For him it had brought restlessness and uncertainty. His life had been a remarkably contented one before Arabella came into it. He had enjoyed spending his days engaged in manly pursuits with his male friends. And he had been thoroughly satisfied with his liaison with Ginny. That old life was still open to him, of course. He still had his friends and he still had Ginny.
But there was also Arabella. And why she should have upset the pattern of his life so much he could not understand. Really their marriage was much as he had expected and hoped. She was undemanding. She had made friends and was able to occupy her days quite easily without depending upon him. She was dutiful, obedient. Bedding her was not an unpleasant experience.
What was it, then, that made him spend more time with her than he needed to do? Why had he planned to take her to the theater the evening before, and why was he walking with her now at Kew? Why did he worry about her when he was away from her, even when he knew she was occupied? Why could he never quite forget about her, even when he was with Ginny? Why did he always feel guilty when enjoying—or not quite enjoying—his mistress? He was never able to go to Arabella’s bed on the nights when he had been with Ginny. And he was always driven to buy her gifts the next day.
“Aunt Hermione is to take you and Frances up in her carriage this evening on her way to Mrs. Pottier’s soiree?” he asked now.
“Yes, my lord.” Arabella looked politely up at him. “Will you be coming too? You said you might.”
“No,” he said. “I have a dinner engagement, Arabella. I shall see you when you return.”
“Yes,” she said. And then she blurted, “My lord?” She was blushing quite hotly. Her eyes slid to his cravat.
“What is it, Arabella?” he asked.
“That will not be possible,” she said in a rush, glancing nervously ahead to her sister and Theodore. “I will not be able to see you after the soiree. I mean, I will be able to see you, but . . . I cannot . . . That is . . .”
“I understand.” He covered her hand gently with his own. “You are having your period, Arabella. It is the most natural occurrence in the world, you know. There is no need for such embarrassment. I see we are approaching the orangery. After we have walked through it, perhaps we should take tea and think of returning home. It is not a very pleasant afternoon for a prolonged stroll, is it? And perhaps you are not feeling quite the thing?”
“It has been a lovely outing, though,” she said brightly, “has it not, my lord? I am so glad we came.”
He patted her hand before standing aside so that she might precede him into the long, low building that was the orangery. “The gardens are certainly worth a visit,” he said.
“The warmth feels very good, does it not, Bella?” Frances said, looking back over her shoulder.
Their marriage had been a mistake for Arabella too, Lord Astor thought. She was not happy. He had no complaint against her, of course. He could not ask for a more obedient and less troublesome bride. But he knew she was not happy.
And why should she be? She was eighteen years old, very naive and innocent, very new to the world. In many ways she was childlike. To her he must appear old. Seven-and-twenty would seem a very advanced age to an eighteen-year-old. And of course, she had not known him before their betrothal. Why was it that at the time his only anxiety had been lest his bride turn out to be ugly or uncouth? What must she have suffered? She had had no chance to enjoy life, no time to look about her at what life had to offer. She had had to prepare herself for a bridegroom she had never seen.
And she had expected his father. She had been willing to marry a man in his late fifties. And he was sure that she had been willing. He knew her well enough, and Frances well enough, to imagine just how that situation had developed. One daughter must marry the new Lord Astor for the sake of the rest of the family. Frances was the obvious choice. She was the eldest and of marriageable age. But of course Frances would have shed many a tear over the prospect of marrying an elderly man. Arabella would have stepped in and offered to make the sacrifice herself. It was just like her. She had very little confidence in her own beauty and charm.
And she was unhappy when she deserved nothing but happiness. Perhaps it was his awareness of that fact that had made him worry about her and try to entertain her himself. He felt protective of her, tender almost. He had grown to like her far more than he had intended to or expected to.
But she did not like him. That was perhaps the hardest fact of his marriage to accept. She could not be easy with him or talk easily with him. At first he had thought she was merely showing the natural shyness of a new bride to the husband who performed such unaccustomed intimacies with her. But she had still not changed after three weeks. Unless he could call the evening before and this afternoon a change. She had been making a noticeable effort to talk to him, but her efforts were painful and only accentuated her basic dislike of him.
She had made friends since coming to London, several of them male. He had watched at first with satisfaction, then with amusement, and finally with something like annoyance as she chattered long and easily with Farraday and Hubbard, with Perrot and the gangly youth. And Lincoln. Why could she be so easy with them and not with him? Had he been unkind to her? Cruel?
And so he continued to try to ingratiate himself with her. Though whether he had been trying to do that the night before, he was not sure. He had known that light would embarrass her, as would his looking into her face and talking to her while he was being intimate with her. He had felt frustrated, angry, hurt—he was not quite sure how he had felt.
