Chapter Three #2
“Careful there, old thing,” he said without smiling.
Irene did not reply. She was too busy staring in horror at what she had just understood. “You have fallen in love with someone.”
It was all too obvious. The strange demeanor. The odd mention of his friendship last night at the opera house, as though reassuring her that she was still important even though he had found affection with another. The way Wilfred had been determined to look in the book to see who was in Bath.
He wanted to see whether she, whoever she was, had arrived in Town.
And if all of those clues were insufficient, the truth was perfectly clear by the high-red cheeks her best friend now displayed.
“You have, haven’t you?” Irene breathed, stepping close to him and keeping her voice low. “You’ve fallen madly in love with some woman you hardly know, haven’t you?”
“No,” said Wilfred hurriedly.
His manner of denial was so blatant, it was all she could do to keep herself from laughing.
Wilfred, in love!
Well, that was a turnup for the books. She had never heard of something so extraordinary—though she supposed it would have to happen at some point. Strange. She had just presumed he never would.
“So, who’s the lucky lady?” Irene hissed, a grin lilting her lips as she looked out at the many ladies promenading before them. “Is she pretty?”
“I haven’t—”
“Because if she is not pretty, then I suppose she is dreadfully charming in another manner,” Irene continued, both delighted at the idea of her friend’s happiness and also something bitter mingling in her stomach. “How did you meet her?”
“Irene, I—”
“And yes, before you ask, I am very offended that I have not yet been introduced,” Irene scolded, tapping him on the arm. “Unless—goodness, do I already know her?”
The thought was rather startling. To know the future Duchess of Aynor and not even know that she knew her.
And only then did the consequences of what she had discovered wash over Irene, and her teasing smile faded.
The future Duchess of Aynor.
Of course she knew that Wilfred would have to marry eventually. He was a duke. He had his family name to think of, his lineage to preserve. She had thought perhaps a cousin could inherit, but deep down, she knew he wouldn’t want that. He needed an heir, and for that, a man needed a wife.
It was just… Well. That had always been something that would happen in the future. She supposed that now they were past twenty years of age, it was time for Wilfred to find a wife.
The thought was unpleasant and roared through her mind like a curse.
Irene shook her head as though she had water in her ears. Precisely why the thought should disquiet her so much, she did not know.
“You do not know her—”
“Aha!”
“Because there is no one to know,” Wilfred persevered, his expression wooden. “Honestly, Irene, just…just drop it, will you?”
But for some reason, which Irene could not explain, even to herself, she could not drop it. “I suppose you were won over by her charming beauty, then?”
Wilfred said nothing. He just looked away, stonily, as though…
Well. As though they had had an argument.
Irene bit her lip. They never argued. At least, not since the Great Falling Out of ’37, when Wilfred had declared her gown to be cerise and she had declared it to be peony, and she had not spoken to him for…oh, the best part of half an hour.
Her sulk, as he had always called it, had been broken by him returning to the Pernrith London townhouse with a large bouquet of peonies, which Wilfred had declared was nothing like her gown, but that she deserved the flowers nonetheless.
It was one of her favorite memories.
And now Wilfred was all at odds with her, and acting strangely, and had fallen in love without her noticing to some woman who was not going to treat him well.
How could she? This woman, whoever she was, did not know that Wilfred did not like hugs but liked his arm squeezed.
She did not know how his hair frizzed when it grew too long, or how he had learned to swim at Stanphrey Lacey, or how his pears had to be peeled before he could be prevailed upon to eat them.
This woman didn’t know him at all. Whoever she was.
Unless… And the voice that whispered this at the back of her mind was cruel in its laughter as it said, Unless she does know those things, and you just don’t know her.
It was difficult not to panic. Like her brother, Michael, Wilfred had disappeared off for weeks at a time when up at Cambridge, and the pair of them had gone, along with a few other friends, to the Continent for a four-month tour. Had he met her then?
Irene gathered herself up and stood tall. No. “So who is she, then?”
Wilfred’s throat bobbed. “No one.”
“You will tell me eventually, so you may as well save time and tell me now,” Irene pointed out. When he remained silent, she wiggled her eyebrows. “I’m up for a guessing game if you are.”
“Reeny—”
“You know I don’t like that, and if you say it again, I shall presume you are saying it to vex me,” Irene said fiercely. “Now, I presume you have not fallen in love with any of my cousins or sisters. There’d be no need to search for their names in the book.”
There was only silence in reply—at least, silence from Wilfred. The Pump Room was starting to fill up with more and more people as the rain drove those who wished for a touch more company into the building.
Goodness, if they remained there much longer, then they weren’t going to be able to promenade at all.
“Shall we go?” Irene suggested, taking Wilfred’s hand. “It’s going to be rammed in here soon—unless you would wish to stay and see if your lady love will make an appearance?”
She had said the final few words as a jest, smirking and squeezing his arm in that way she always did.
But Wilfred most unaccountably pulled away.
Pulled away. From her.
“We can leave if you want to,” he said quietly. “I am not waiting for anyone.”
Wilfred had started forward before Irene could gather her thoughts adequately, and even when she managed to make her feet move and her legs catch up with her best friend, her mind was still left behind by the wall of the Pump Room.
This was completely unaccountable. Did he not wish to tell her whom he had fallen in love with? There was surely no other explanation for his most strange behavior, and yet if he did not wish to tell her…
Well, she could not think of a reason why he would not want to.
Unless Wilfred thought that she would disapprove of his choice…
The rain was thrashing down when they reached the Pump Room porch. Irene blinked up at the sky. It did not look as though the rain was going to cease anytime soon; the clouds were dark and completely covering up the blue of the sky.
“It might lessen in a moment,” Wilfred said quietly.
Irene tried to smile, and she leaned against the doorframe as they looked out at the rain. “If you had plans to walk with your beloved later, you might find it a bit of a washout. But then she might not enjoy walks. She might—”
“There is no one else, Irene,” Wilfred snapped, turning to her and moving so quickly that Irene could not understand how he did it.
Her back to the doorframe, she looked up at the fierce expression on her best friend’s face and her voice inexplicably faltered.
He was breathing heavily, and the sudden movement had put him momentarily outside the cover of the porch and so raindrops were dripping through his fringe.
Irene swallowed and found her mouth was dry. What is going on?
“Don’t you understand?” Wilfred said in a low growl.
“Un…Understand?” Irene whispered.
She had tried to speak, but her voice had not permitted her anything more confident than a whisper. He was… He was being so un-Wilfred like that she did not know what to do with herself.
Her best friend had disappeared and this…this rogue, or rake, or something, had replaced him. The Wilfred she knew would never be so coy about a woman he cared about. Unless she was not a woman he cared about, but a mistress?
A twisting pain in her stomach, and lower, and Irene grasped at the stone doorframe with her fingertips to steady herself as the thought physically rocked her.
The very idea of Wilfred taking a mistress… He wasn’t like that. He wasn’t like her cousin Alexander, or her brother, Michael, or all the other dolts in Society who thought that bedding a widow or a servant was acceptable.
Surely, he hadn’t…had he?
“Don’t you know?” Wilfred growled, lowering his head so he was looking directly into her eyes.
And all Irene could see in them was blazing passion, passion for this woman, whoever she was, and she was angry that she would have to share this man with another.
How dare she, this woman, take him away? How could Wilfred even think about giving his heart to someone without introducing her first?
“No, I don’t know,” Irene said, struggling to find a little strength in her voice but forcing herself to speak.
She was not to be cowed, not by anyone. Not even by Wilfred.
She pushed herself forward and he was obliged to take a step back.
“And if you don’t want to explain it, then I do not know how I am supposed to know.
I am not a mind reader, Wilfred. I need you to tell me. ”
“Need me to—” Wilfred broke off and turned away as though infuriated, though Irene could not see what could have distressed him so.
He stepped away, into the rain, and Irene did not even think before following him.
The pouring rain drenched her pelisse swiftly, the dampness immediately seeping through into her gown beneath it, but Irene did not care. She was following in Wilfred’s footsteps, trying to increase her pace to get alongside him.
“Wilfred!”
“I have an appointment. You must forgive me,” Wilfred said without looking at her, holding his hand out and hailing a hansom cab that pulled up beside them on the pavement.
Irene bristled. Well! If he thought he was going to step into that cab and just leave her here without any answers—
“You have a good rest of your day, Miss Chance,” said Wilfred coldly, opening the door, lifting her bodily at the waist, and half-throwing her into the carriage. “Queen’s Square,” he muttered to the driver before handing him what appeared to be several coins and slamming the door shut.
Irene stared at the door as the carriage rumbled forward, herself the only occupant.
What in the name of—
Miss Chance? He’d had the audacity to call her ‘Miss Chance’?
Well, she fumed in her damp pelisse as the carriage rattled her home. She wasn’t going to stand for that. This woman, whoever she was, had managed to get her claws into Wilfred’s heart and was clearly tearing it apart.
She couldn’t stand for that.
Something had to be done.