Chapter Twelve
The following sennightpassed with a strained silence between them, their argument never mentioned. Kate met Robert for dinner every evening, and he escorted her to social events. He did just what she demanded of him, complimenting her gown and remaining by her side for a good part of the evening. It was as if they performed for an audience, then went their separate ways, he supposedly to his friends at the club, her to her new friends at card parties and morning teas. She had never wished for this shabby pretense and railed against it. But what could she do? She could hardly try seducing him again, having failed so miserably before. The thought of a rebuff was too painful to contemplate.
By the third week, she feared she would explode and do something outrageous, just to gain his attention and make him look at her as if he really saw her.
They attended Lady Pendlebury’s ball, one of the last of the Season, and Kate found, despite her low spirits or perhaps because of them, she welcomed the sight of the familiar and friendly faces gathering together.
With Robert at her side, she joined in the discussion of the latest play she and Robert had seen earlier that week,Race for a Wifeat the Delphi Theatre, how rowdy the audience was, despite Frank Moreland as Sir Peckham Wry making a good fist of the role.
“My, that’s such a pretty gown you’re wearing,” Mrs. Summerton remarked, a newly married woman of a similar age to Kate. “Where did your dressmaker find such exquisite silk damask?”
Kate smoothed the folds of the elaborate gold gown. She considered herself quite grand with the two dyed ostrich plumes in her hair. “Paris,” she said with a smile.
“But of course!” Mrs. Summerton cried.
Mr. Summerton crossed the room to join them. He bowed. “Good evening, Lady St. Malin.” He smiled with an apologetic shrug. “If you’ll permit, I will borrow your husband for a moment. We shall leave you to talk about furbelows and fripperies.” He took Robert’s arm, and they strolled off, deep in conversation. A reference to the horse races drifted back with the tangy odor of snuff.
Kate looked after them, her eyes on Robert’s wide shoulders encased in bronze silk. She would enjoy this so much more if things were right between them. She sighed as Amelia, Lady Langden, who’d become a firm friend, approached. She would no doubt wish to discuss the latest scandals andon-dits. Kate would listen politely, her lips remaining firmly closed. It would not do to have her opinion repeated. Although she was a marchioness, she was new to society, and lacked the lineage to impress. She wanted to make friends, not enemies.
As Kate walked the length of the long room on Lady Langden’s arm, to where a small group gathered around a tall, Rubenesque, blonde-haired woman who had just entered.
“Who is she?” Kate asked.
“That’s Mrs. Marchant.” Amelia Langden turned a wry smile in Kate’s direction. “Formerly Millicent Burrowdale.”
The woman in her mid-twenties who was dressed in a low-cut gown, which revealed much of her excellent figure, emerged from the group on her husband’s arm. He was considerably shorter than his wife, and stout, his waistcoat straining over his stomach.
As Kate watched, Millicent approached Robert, fluttered her eyelashes, and playfully tapped his arm with her fan. He bowed, spoke briefly to her and her husband, then walked on.
“She’s very beautiful, and she knows my husband. Well, I think.” Kate suffered a rush of jealousy that heated her cheeks.
Amelia nodded, and tugged on Kate’s arm, turning her in another direction. “Let’s sit over there.”
They took a glass of champagne from a waiter and settled on two gilt chairs beside a potted rhododendron.
“I should tell you this,” Amelia said, gazing around to see if anyone was within earshot. “Your husband once asked for Millicent’s hand. But her father, who’d made his money in trade, rejected his offer for a nabob’s son. It was judged absurd at the time, but her husband could buy up half of England and a good deal of France. You should see her diamonds. As big as goose eggs.”
“So that is she,” Kate said pensively, watching Millicent cross the room. She was tall and fair with those attributes that Robert admired.
“Oh, you’ve heard of it.” For a moment, Amelia looked a bit put out before recovering herself. “That’s all in the past, of course. Your husband shows little interest in her now.”
“Doesn’t he?” Kate looked after the confident woman as she sailed through the room, like a graceful ship riding on smooth seas. A weight settled over her heart. Robert had been desperately in love with her. Was he still?
“He didn’t look back at her,” Amelia said. “You can always tell by that.”
“Can you?”
“Indeed.” Amelia nodded sagely. “If a man is interested, he can’t resist another peek. She’s a bit too tall if you ask me, and that dress is in bad taste.”
Kate smiled at her loyal friend. “I’m afraid she’s beautiful, Amelia.”
“Yes, well. She must be stupid. Fancy choosing that common little man over St. Malin, even if he wasn’t a marquess at the time, he was always going to inherit.” She patted Kate’s arm. “Besides, Robert is obsessed with you.”
Kate forced herself to smile. “How kind you are.”
“Here comes your handsome husband now. I wouldn’t mention that you know of this, my dear.”
Kate rose as Robert came to claim her for a dance. She endured his formal manner as they executed the steps of a minuet, but when he escorted her from the floor and left her to go to the gaming tables, she watched to see if he glanced back at her. She was a little comforted when, pausing at the door of the adjoining reception room, he did.
