Chapter Twenty-Eight
Laurence did not like being alone in the ballroom. He was only attending because he’d thought Anastasia might enjoy it. She had seemed rather low of late, especially since the incident with her brother, which she still did not wish to explain.
But just as they had been about to leave for the out-of-Season event hosted by Lord and Lady Jones, she’d had an attack of sickness, and yet insisted that he still attend alone.
That had certainly not been what he had wished for. Such events had been admittedly enjoyable enough when he had been flirting and dancing with every woman there, looking for the next lovely lady to warm his bed.
But such things held no interest for him now. He had realized, over the last few weeks, that there was only one lady he wanted in his bed.
And she was currently asleep and ill in her own.
Still, he pasted on a smile, greeted the hosts, and procured a glass of wine. He did not plan on staying long—just long enough that he would not appear rude. In truth, all he wanted to do was get back to Anastasia, to see how she was faring, to see if she needed anything.
He was a rather different man than he had been the last time he had frequented society ballrooms.
“Lord Walsham! We have not seen you nearly often enough of late.” He turned around to see Lady Gillespie, a woman who had been widowed young and with whom Laurence had enjoyed a brief affair two years prior.
“Lady Gillespie,” he said, bowing his head. “It is a pleasure to see you, as always.”
“We have been denied your handsome face far too much since you wed, have we not, Caroline?” His heart dropped as she pulled her friend into the conversation.
For Caroline was known to the world as Lady Frindley, and although Laurence’s time with her had also been pleasant, its ending had been far more complicated.
She had wanted what he was not willing to give: commitment.
“Indeed, it is a great shame.”
“And I have not even met your wife yet, although of course Caroline was at the wedding. A pretty little redhead, so I hear. With the two of you locked away in your London home all these weeks, the rumors are that it’s a love match.” She smiled at him wolfishly, clearly fishing for gossip.
“Who am I to argue with rumor?” Laurence said, keen to extricate himself from the conversation. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I see a friend I must speak with.”
“Of course,” Lady Gillespie said. “But you must save a dance for each of us, Walsham.”
Laurence nodded and smiled as he hurried away, with no intention of dancing with either woman. In fact, he did not intend to dance at all. What was the point, with Anastasia not there?
As he did not want them to see him failing to meet his fictitious friend, he hurried out into the hallway and across the hall to where many gentlemen were playing cards.
So, London now thought theirs was a love match. The gossips had surely known initially that it was not. The rumor mill had gone wild at the fact that the notorious Lord Walsham had been caught on the dark walk with an innocent young lady and had been forced to wed her.
But obviously, the time they were spending together—and the lack of time they were spending elsewhere—had made people rethink the situation. Well, he would much rather that they were gossiping about it being a love match than about the situation in Vauxhall Gardens, even if it weren’t true.
Because it wasn’t true. He hadn’t married her for love. What he felt for her now…
Was that love? Wanting to be with her, and not with anyone else? Wanting to protect her, no matter the cost? Wanting her to be happy, even if it meant her hiding things from him?
Those two women he had spent many enjoyable hours with had certainly given him a lot to think about.
He did not plan to play cards, but the room was quieter, and he was less likely to be cornered or pushed into dancing.
His eyes flicked around the room and landed on a figure he did not wish to see, but he supposed he should not have been surprised to encounter: His brother-in-law, Oliver Carrington.
Carrington had spotted him too, and he waved his hand in greeting.
Laurence did not wave back. He did not understand why his brother-in-law was making his presence known at all, considering what had happened the last time they had met.
Did he think all was forgotten, or forgiven, because they were in a different setting?
Clearly, he did—because when he lowered his hand, he came over to where Laurence was standing, drinking his wine and watching.
“Good evening, Walsham.” Well, at least he had not tried to use his Christian name again.
“Carrington.” He had no wish to wish him a good evening.
“Enjoying a little freedom away from my sister?” he asked, with a nasty smile on his face.
The urge to punch him right in his obnoxious mouth filled Laurence’s chest, and only the rules of common decency stopped him. But if Oliver pushed any further, that might not be enough.
“I suggest you walk away now, and do not speak of my wife like that again.”
“Well, I must be going,” Carrington said, as though Laurence had not been the one to dismiss him.
“The cards are in my favor tonight, I’m sure of it—I just need to find the right table…”
He did not wish to stay in the card room, watching Oliver throw away good money after bad, and so he turned and exited the room, intending to head back to the ballroom for a little while before making his excuses and going home.
But he found himself face-to-face with Lady Frindley, her fan coyly in front of her face, her eyes full of joy at the chance meeting.
Whether or not it was truly chance, Laurence wasn’t sure.
“I’d hoped I might see you alone,” Lady Frindley said, reaching out to trail a finger down the center of his cravat.
Once, such a move might have made him keen to find a dark corner, to whisk her away from prying eyes and have his way with her.
But today, it made him recoil. It was not her fault, particularly—she just wasn’t the one he wanted to be in his personal space. And he thought he’d made his feelings clear when they had last met, in Russell Square.
“I was on my way home, Lady Frindley,” he said, leaning back a little to put distance between them.
She gave a sly grin.
“No need to be so formal when it’s just the two of us, Laurence.”
But he felt every need to be formal. He wanted to put distance between the relationship they’d had before and the way things were now.
He did not want her getting the wrong idea—or anyone else, for that matter.
He was sure Anastasia would be hurt if she heard rumors that he had been close with Lady Frindley, even if she was unlikely to know of their former connection.
He knew how he would feel if he heard that she had been close to another man, at any rate—and he would not wish to inflict that upon her.
“Surely you’re bored of that young wife of yours by now,” Lady Frindley said, the smile not leaving her lips, “and ready to spend time once more with a woman who knows what she is doing.” She wet her lips seductively with her tongue and gave him a knowing look. She never seemed to give up.
“Caroline, I—”
She leaned in, her lips hovering an inch away from his, and whispered,
“It would be our little secret.”
It would have been so easy to close the gap, to kiss her and fall into bed with her like old times, to be the man that everyone already thought he was.
But the image of Anastasia in his mind was a powerful deterrent. He didn’t want Caroline. He didn’t want meaningless, emotionless sex. He wanted Anastasia. He wanted this marriage. He wanted love.
The emotion was so strong that he almost shoved Lady Frindley away from him—but thankfully, he realized what he was about to do and stopped himself. Whatever he was feeling, it certainly wasn’t acceptable to push a woman.
“No, thank you,” he said forcefully, striding toward the door that led to the cool night air, deciding that it was very definitely time to go home.
As he left, he caught sight of Oliver Carrington and Baron Brett, watching him closely. He was sure they had seen the interaction with Lady Frindley—but if they had, they must have seen that he had moved away from her, that he would not do anything to hurt Anastasia.
Not that he thought either of them particularly cared about whether they hurt Anastasia or not.
*
Anastasia wished there were someone she could speak to about her suspicions that she was with child.
The sickness she had certainly heard of as a symptom, but what of the rest?
The sore breasts, the inability to sleep, the strange dreams…
Were these signs too? And how would she know when she should expect the arrival?
Did she need to consult with a doctor? It was all so unknown to her.
When her maid came in that morning, Anastasia presumed her anguish was apparent, for she paused in her brushing more than once to ask if her mistress was well.
The third time she asked, Anastasia cracked. The maid was not married, but she rather thought that she might know a little more of life than Anastasia did herself.
“Do you know, Kate, how one tells…if one is with child?” It was such a hard question to ask, and yet she immediately felt relief at having shared her burden with somebody—anybody.
The maid’s face broke into a smile. “Well, my lady. There is the ceasing of your monthly bleed…”
Anastasia nodded. She knew about that one.
“And then the thickening around the middle, as the babe grows. I believe…that is, my sisters have told me that their breasts grow bigger too, as they prepare for milk.”
“And can they hurt, too?” Anastasia asked, feeling bolder as she began to get answers.
“I believe so,” Kate said with a nod.
“And how would you know…when the baby is to be born?”
“You must count, I believe, from your last bleed. Nine months.”
Anastasia sighed.
“And if that bleeding is not always regular?”
Anastasia met her maid’s glance in the mirror, and Kate gave a sad smile and a shrug.
“I am afraid I do not know, my lady. My knowledge is only from when my mother had younger brothers and sisters, and when my sisters had their own babes. Perhaps a doctor…”
Anastasia nodded, blushing even at the thought of sharing such information with a male physician.
“Thank you. These questions…they are merely an interest, you see. I would not wish them to leave this room.”
The maid ducked her head. “Of course not, my lady.”
Once again, Anastasia was left in the dark. Who could she ask? If only she had more confidence in Laurence.