“I suppose it did not occur to you, Neville,” his mother said, some of the usual gracious dignity gone from her manner to be replaced by bitterness, “to inform your own mother of a previous marriage? Or to inform Lauren? This morning’s intense humiliation might have been avoided.”
“Calm yourself, Clara,” the Duke of Anburey said, patting her shoulder. “I doubt it could have been, though the whole thing might have been somewhat less of a shock to you if Neville had been more honest about the past.”
“The marriage was very sudden and very brief,” Neville said. “I thought her dead and…well, I decided to keep that brief interlude in my life to myself.”
Because he had been ashamed to admit that he had married the unlettered daughter of a sergeant even if shewasalready dead? It was a nasty possibility and one he hoped was not true. But how could he have explained the impulse that had made him do it? How could he have described Lily to them? How could he have explained that sometimes a woman could be so very special that it simply did not matter who she was or—more important—who she was not? He would have given the bare facts and they would have been secretly glad,relieved, that she had died before she could become an embarrassment to them.
“I have been able to think only of somehow handling the dreadful disaster of this morning,” the countess said, sinking down into the nearest chair and raising a lace-edged handkerchief to her lips, “and of what is to become of poor Lauren. I have not been able to think beyond. Neville, tell me she is not as dreadful a creature as she appeared to be this morning. Tell me it is only the clothes…”
“You heard the boy say she is a sergeant’s daughter, Clara,” the duke reminded her, taking up his stand at the window, his back to the room. “I daresay that fact speaks for itself. Who was her mother, Neville?”
“I did not know Mrs. Doyle,” Neville replied. “She died in India when Lily was very young. There is no blue blood there, though, Uncle, if that is what you are asking. Lily is a commoner. But she is also my wife. She has my name and my protection.”
“Yes, yes, that is all very well, Neville.” His mother spoke impatiently. “But…Oh dear, I cannot think straight. Howcouldyou do this to us? How could you do it toyourself? Surely your upbringing and education meant more to you than to—to marry a woman who looks for all the world like a vulgar beggar and is indeed a product of the lower classes.” She stood up abruptly and swayed noticeably on her feet. “I have guests I am neglecting.”
“Poor Lily,” Elizabeth said, speaking for the first time. She was Neville’s aunt, his father’s sister, but she was only nine years his senior and he had never called her aunt. She was unmarried, not because she had never had offers, but because she had declared long ago that she would never marry unless she could find the gentleman who could convince her that the loss of her independence was preferable to keeping it—and she did not expect that ever to happen. She was beautiful, intelligent, and accomplished—and no one quite knew whether the Duke of Portfrey was more friend or beau to her. “We are forgettingherdistress in a selfish concern for our own. Where is she, Neville?”
“Yes, whereisshe?” his mother repeated, her voice unusually petulant. “Nothere, I suppose. There is not a single spare room at the abbey.”
“Thereisone unoccupied room, Mama,” Neville said stiffly. “She is in the countess’s room—where she belongs. I left her there to have a meal and a bath and a sleep. I have given instructions that she is to be left undisturbed until I go up for her.”
His mother closed her eyes and pressed the handkerchief to her lips again. The countess’s room, formerly hers, was part of the suite of rooms that included the earl’s bedchamber—Neville’s own. He could almost see her coming to grips with the reality of the fact that Lily belonged there.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “I am sure it is best for her to rest for a while. I look forward to making her acquaintance, Neville.”
It was like Elizabeth, he thought, to be gracious, to take a situation as it was and somehow make something bearable of it.
“Thank you,” he said.
His mother had pulled herself together again. “You will bring her down to tea later this afternoon, Neville,” she told him. “There is no point in keeping her hidden, is there? I will meet her at the same time as the rest of the family. We will all behave as we ought toward your—your wife, you may rest assured.”
Neville bowed to his mother. “I would expect no less of you, Mama,” he said. “But excuse me now. I must go and see Lauren.”
“You will be fortunate if she does not throw things at your head, Neville,” Elizabeth warned him.
He nodded. “Nevertheless,” he told her.
He left the house a couple of minutes later and set out on foot in the direction of the dower house, which was close to the gates into the park, set back from the driveway in the seclusion of the trees and its own private garden. He was well on his way before he realized that he wasstillwearing his wedding finery. But he would not go back to change. Perhaps he would never regain his courage if he did that.
He was about to face, he realized, one of the most difficult encounters of his life.
Lauren was not inside the dower house. She was out behind it, sitting on the tree swing, idly propelling herself back and forth with one foot. She was staring unseeingly at the ground ahead of her. Gwendoline was seated on the grass to one side of the swing. Both of them were still dressed for the wedding.
He would rather be anywhere else on earth, Neville thought just before his sister spotted him. They were two of the dearest people on earth to him, and he had done this to them. And there was no comfort to bring. Only a totally inadequate explanation.
Gwendoline jumped to her feet at sight of him and glared. “I hate you, Neville,” she cried. “If you have come here to make her unhappier still, you may go away again—now! What do you mean by it? That is what you can explain to me. What did youmeanby saying that dreadful woman is your wife?” She burst into noisy, undignified tears and turned her face sharply away.
Lauren had stopped swinging, but she did not turn around.
“Lauren?” Neville said. “Lauren, my dear?” He still did not know what he could say to her.
Her voice was steady when she spoke, but it was without tone too. “It is quite all right,” she said. “It is perfectly all right. It was just a convenient arrangement after all, was it not, our marrying? Because we grew up together and were fond of each other and it was what Uncle and Grandpapa had always wanted. And youdidtell me not to wait when you went away. You were quite fair and honest with me. You were not betrothed to me or even promised to me. You were quite free to marry her. I do not blame you at all.”
He was appalled. He would have far preferred to have her rush at him, teeth bared, fingers curled into claws.
“Lauren,” he said, “let me explain, if I may.”
“There is nothingtoexplain,” Gwendoline said angrily, having mastered her tears. “Is she or is she not your wife, Neville? That is all that matters. But you would not have lied in church for all to hear. She is your wife.”
