Authors: Mary Balogh
What could be accomplished by his remaining in Bath? Pain, that was what. He must enjoy inflicting pain on himself. For he would see her for a few days, meet her friends, talk with her, laugh with her, perhaps delude himself into feeling that those days would last forever and fall more deeply in love with her.
If that were possible. He did not think anyone was capable of loving more than he loved Allie. Despite all his terrible embarrassment when he called on her that afternoon, one look at her had brought on that familiar sensation of homecoming. She had looked so very much herself—had he expected her to be different after two weeks?—slim, graceful, elegant, beautiful, and self-possessed. She had been a little pale maybe, but she had smiled and reached out her hands for his—had he held his out first? He could not remember.
All the world had been reaching out to him, and he had taken her hands in his and known he was at home again. He would have taken her right into his arms and folded her to himself if he had not become suddenly aware that there was someone else in the room. Thank heaven for Mrs. Andrea Potter at that moment!
It had been as he thought, then, as he had discovered after Mrs. Potter had taken her leave. Allie in her usual calm and sensible manner had been quite open and forthright about it. He had come to her late at night in her own apartments, when she was already in her nightclothes. His male presence had awoken a hunger in her that had not been satisfied since Web died—women were unfortunate not to be able to satisfy their hungers as easily as men could. He had been there, and she had given in to a momentary weakness and taken him into her bed.
There was nothing to blame in that. He would not begin to blame her. Indeed, he felt an ache of sympathy for the emptiness of her life as a widow. There was no blame in what she had done. But there was no love, either.
He laughed softly to himself as the carriage came to a stop outside the house on Sidney Place. Had he hoped, against all logic and sense, to find her broken and distraught with love for him? It was extremely fortunate for both of them that she was not.
“Allie,” he said a few minutes later, “you simply must let me return to York House to change. No one will even notice me once they have glanced at you.”
She laughed. “Absurd!” she said. “Bath will gobble you up, Piers—a gentleman below the age of fifty and handsome into the bargain. And it is not even the Bath Season.”
“Well,” he said, “I was very successful in drawing that compliment from you, was I not? Thank you, ma’am. And who was sensible enough to tell you that you look superb in that shade of dark green, Allie? You wore it in London a few times, though 1 have never seen that particular gown before.”
“My eyes told me,” she said. “I like the color.”
“Very sensible eyes,” he said, ushering her out onto the street with a hand at the small of her back, and handing her into his carriage. “There are to be cards this evening? Will there be any dowager duchesses to separate from their fortunes?”
“There seems to be rather a dearth of dowager duchesses in Bath these days,” she said. “A lamentable fact. The city is not what it used to be, alas.”
“Hm,” he said. “Some dowager marchionesses, then?”
She shook her head.
“Countesses? Viscountesses? Baronesses? Good Lord, Allie, this is not to be a dull, respectable party, is it?”
“I am afraid so,” she said. “This is Bath, Piers, where the rules do not permit one to play deep even if there are fortunes to be won and lost.”
“And what do you people do for enjoyment?” he said. “Converse? Dance? Walk? Ride? Drink tea?”
“And gossip and drink the waters,” she said. “The really brave even bathe in them.”
“And no gambling,” he said.
“And no gambling.”
“Well,” he said, “I call this a very poor-spirited place, Allie, if a man cannot experience the excitement of not knowing when he recovers from his hangover in the morning whether he is still in possession of his fortune and estate or not. Where is the challenge in living?”
“Shocking, is it not?” she said.
They were both chuckling then, and he reached for her hand and took it in a warm clasp. Until he realized what he had done and released it again. He turned hastily to the window and leaned forward.
“I must say,” he said, “I am thankful not to be a horse in Bath. For that matter, I suppose I am thankful not to be a horse anywhere. But I really would not fancy hauling carriages up these hills, would you, Allie?”
“I suppose this particular team is fortunate that we do not weigh two tons apiece,” she said.
“Good Lord!” he said. “Have you been eating any creamy pastries lately, Allie?”
“No,” she said. “I have found them almost easy to resist without an impudent gentleman to place them right on my plate.”
“Well,” he said. “That situation can be rectified over the next few days. If all you need is a little temptation, then I am here at your service to provide it, ma’am.”
The next moment he was leaning forward again and asking if they were almost at Brock Street, though he knew exactly where Brock Sheet was and how far away from it they were. Devil take it, had he really spoken, that last sentence out loud? He must have because Allie behind him was busily drawing a word map of the upper portion of Bath as if it were of the utmost importance to both of them.
***
It was very much the usual sort of evening in Bath. Alice had experienced dozens just like it during the year she had lived there. Andrea was her usual talkative self. Mr. Potter, as usual, said scarcely a word and yet was a comfortable, smiling gentleman to whom people liked to talk. Colonel and Mrs. Smithers were there, always very much together. Miss Lavinia Horyath had come with her brother, even though she had just returned from a visit to their sister, who had recently given birth to her fifth child. Miss Dean had brought Sir Harold, her father, though he rarely went out these days unless the distance was very short and the weather mild. Mr. and Mrs. Wainwright had come though it was their twenty-fourth wedding anniversary and they had considered giving their own party.
“But who would have come,” Mr. Wainwright said, “when all our friends are here? Twenty-four years ago we might have welcomed the prospect of a party for two, but this year my wife welcomes the company, I would wager.”
Mrs. Wainwright flushed and looked reproachfully at him.
It was all very much the same as usual. The Smithers, Sir Harold, and Miss Horvath settled to a quiet game of cards while the rest of them conversed. And during tea Miss Dean played to them on the spinet and even sang a couple of songs.
Except that it was not at all a usual evening. And not at all the same as any of those dozens of similar evenings that had gone before. For Piers was there, too, and his presence made a whole universe of difference.
And it was not just to her. The whole company seemed cheered by the introduction of a visitor. And Piers, smiling, handsome, and charming, became an instant favorite with every conversational group. He even turned the pages of music for Miss Dean, who usually did the job for herself.
He did not stay at her side, Alice was both relieved and disappointed to find.
She was mainly relieved. The carriage ride had been something of a strain. They had succeeded very well in keeping their conversation light and bantering, but there had been those awkward moments. It would be better by far not to risk any more of those under the scrutiny of so many eyes.
Andrea sat beside her when everyone else was otherwise engaged.
“I was afraid Mr. Westhaven would not come,” she said. “It would have been a waste, would it not, Alice, for such a gorgeous gentleman to spend the evening alone at York House?”
Alice smiled. “Piers enjoys company, “ she said.
“Alice.” Andrea reached out and patted her hand briefly. “Never let it be said I am the inquisitive sort, my dear, but I am positively dying, of curiosity. Who in the world is he? And don’t tell me he was your late husband’s dearest friend. Perhaps he was, but I am talking in the present tense. Who is he?”
“He was our neighbor, “ Alice said calmly. “From Westhaven Park. He was our friend. And he is my friend.”
“Piers,” Andrea said, “and Allie. Just friends, Alice? For a moment this afternoon I thought you were about to fly into each other’s arms. I wished I could have melted into the furniture so that you would forget all about my presence. Alas, your Mr. Westhaven noticed me. And smiled. He has one of those smiles that have the strange effect of turning the beholder’s knees weak. What is going on, Alice?”
“Nothing is going on, “ Alice said. “Piers and Web were always like brothers, even from childhood. Piers and I are like brother and sister. That is all, Andrea. You must not look for a grand romance, you know, however much you always enjoy it between the pages of a book. Did you not hear me congratulate him on his betrothal?”
Andrea pulled a face. “I suppose she is a sweet young thing half his age,” she said. “What a shame to waste all that gorgeous masculinity on a green girl. I am making you blush, Alice. And I am being quite ill-mannered, pressing you when you clearly have decided to tell me nothing of any significance. Alas for good manners. I would like to shake more information from you. Have you seen the new bonnets at Darnell’s? Very tempting confections. You must come with me to see them tomorrow.”
“Yes,” Alice said, greeting this new topic of conversation eagerly. “I need some new kid gloves, too.”
She talked all evening and to most of the guests in turn. They were all her acquaintances and friends. Sir Harold asked her with a wink, just before having to pause for a lengthy coughing spell, when that rogue Lansing would be back to cut him out from her affections again. Mrs. Smithers asked her how ladies were wearing their hair in London this spring. Mr. Potter listened to her description of the galleries she had seen in town. Miss Horvath compared notes with her on the joys and trials of looking after a relative’s young children.
And every moment there was the sameness and the difference, the dull comfort of the usual routine and the exciting difference of the one detail.
For Piers was there, and try as she would to relax into the security of home and friends, she was aware of him every moment. And occasionally she caught his eye and they would both smile. A couple of times he winked at her, when he thought and she hoped that no one was observing them.
After the first hour she gave up the attempt to ignore his presence or to pretend to herself that nothing was really different at all. She would not ignore him or the effect he was having on her evening. Indeed, she would deliberately do the opposite, she decided before the evening was out, both on that occasion and during the few days to come before he returned to London.
This was all she would ever have of him, and she was going to enjoy these few days for all they were worth. She would enjoy them in the strict privacy of her heart, without either Piers or anyone else being at all aware of her reason for doing so.
He was a friend, a dear friend, spending a few days in Bath and some time with her. There was nothing indecorous about that, even if he was a newly betrothed man.
There would be nothing indecorous. Just two friends enjoying each other’s company for perhaps a few hours of each day. Only she would know that she was grasping at a little more time, just a few more days of time, with her lover.
For she loved him as she always had. That had not changed, of course, and never would. But there was more than that now, as she had discovered that afternoon as soon as he had walked through the door into her drawing room. He had been her lover for one brief night, and now she was aware of him in a far more physical sense than she ever had been before.
She knew him now. The biblical word was very apt. She had known him before, had felt very close to him, had felt that she understood him better than he understood himself. And she had loved him before, ached for him, wanted his happiness. But she knew him fully now. Oh, there were still mysteries. One could never know every shadowed comer of another person. Even she and Web, close as they had been, had not known each other completely. He had never known how much of her heart belonged to his friend. And if he had not known that about her, what had she not known about him?
And the same was true of Piers. They lived quite separate lives. They had been intimate on only that one occasion. But she knew him, nevertheless. She knew him with her body to the deepest core of her femininity. And she knew him with her love and with her friendship.
Soon she would know him only in memory. Soon she would lose him. But now, for a few days, she would be able to see him, talk with him, laugh with him. She would not be able to touch him or look at him as she wished or say any of the things she wished. But that did not matter. Piers had only ever been for her remotest dreams, anyway. In the event, she had had far more of him than she had ever hoped for.
She would make it enough, these few days. She would take him to all the places she loved best. And for the rest of her life there would be memories of him there, in the place where she lived. The pain would dull eventually. It always did. The pain of losing Web had dulled and left pleasant memories behind. The same would happen with Piers. For weeks, perhaps months, she would wish he had never come. But after that—she must impose patience on her aching heart—there would be pleasure in memories.
She would live for that time—once he had gone. But he had not gone yet. And perhaps he would stay for three or four days. Perhaps even for a week. She would not think of it. She would live and enjoy one day at a time.
“I suppose you put in an appearance at the Pump Room at seven o’clock each morning, Allie?” Piers said when his carriage was taking them home later. “You don’t sit in the waters up to your neck, by any chance, do you?”
“Gracious, no!” she said.”
“Glad I am to hear it.” he said. “I should have felt obliged to do likewise. And I think I would feel remarkably silly holding a conversation with you with only our heads showing above water, Allie.”