Chapter Seventeen
Kate feigned a smile as she watched the dancing. A small gathering, Grayson had promised, but after admonishing her to behave, he had left her, once more, to her own devices. No doubt he soon would be back, glaring at her as if he rued her very existence.
Surreptitiously, Kate lifted a hand and pressed her fingers to throbbing temples.
Her head ached from the effort to try to understand her husband.
Although he stayed close to her most of the day, he acted as though he begrudged her presence.
Yet, whenever he let her out of his sight, he returned surlier than ever.
If it were not for his attentions in bed, Kate would have denounced the marriage as a complete failure.
Yet after what she had heard at the Coxburys’, she was not sure whether to read too much into those cherished moments.
What she perceived as heartrending lovemaking might only be a means to an heir for Grayson.
He had made it perfectly clear during that dreadful trip home last night that he did not need her. Did he suspect her efforts to win him? Kate shuddered in humiliation. Why else would he make such a point of denying any feelings for her in that hateful tone?
It was daunting, even for an optimist like herself. As much as Kate hoped for the best, she had begun to wonder if Grayson would ever care for her. Indeed, since the wedding, he seemed to be growing more moody and cold, and each day in London became more discouraging than the last.
She was miserable and lonely for Hargate and Cyclops and Lucy and Tom, who, although in London, was never to be seen.
One day she had wandered to the stables in search of him, but a startled groom had looked so shocked at her query that she returned to the house.
The next morning she had sought out Meg, only to be shooed from the kitchen as it was not a proper place for a marchioness.
She even missed Grayson. Only at night did Kate catch glimpses of the man she had known.
She was not a quitter, but even the best players knew when to cut their losses—a small tidbit Grayson had taught her when discussing his love of gambling.
Her mouth tightened at the memory of his face when he had spoken of it, reminding her of her inability to stir him.
Now she was jealous of a deck of cards.
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Kate released a weary sigh. Then she blinked, suddenly conscious of eyes upon her. She had become accustomed to curious stares, but this was different. She shivered as the back of her neck tingled oddly. Who was watching her?
Looking around the room, she saw the usual clusters of dowagers and daughters and dandies.
Her gaze flitted past each and came to rest on a blond woman standing close by, who returned her notice.
Instead of hiding her interest, the woman approached in a friendly fashion that told Kate she could not have been responsible for that odd sensation of wariness.
“I hope you will forgive my forwardness, but I so wanted to meet you, Lady Wroth, and when I saw you alone, I thought I might introduce myself.” The lovely blonde wore a cautious expression, for this just wasn’t done, but Kate found her candor refreshing.
“By all means,” she said, with a nod.
She was rewarded with a dazzling smile. “Oh, thank heavens you don’t stand on ceremony, though I suspected that Wroth’s wife would not,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “I know we are going to be great friends, so I would have you call me Charlotte. My husband is the Earl of Wycliffe.”
Lady Wycliffe.
Kate couldn’t help her swift reaction of dismay. The woman was beautiful—tall and voluptuous, with a mass of golden hair that fell in tiny ringlets about her face. In short, she was everything Kate was not, and Kate felt her lack sharply.
“You are Lady Wroth, aren’t you?” the woman asked, her smile fading under Kate’s tight-lipped scrutiny. Her clear green gaze faltered, and Kate immediately felt guilty, for she saw nothing of the calculating glint she had witnessed so often since her arrival in London.
“Yes, but please call me Kate,” she murmured.
The words brightened Charlotte’s face like sunshine, and she leaned close. “It’s a love match, isn’t it?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper.
The question so startled Kate that she didn’t even think to prevaricate. “Hardly!”
Charlotte’s eyes clouded in confusion, and she turned slightly to look across the room. When Kate followed her gaze, it led to Grayson.
He was standing, casually elegant, among several men, taller than all the others and more handsome, more self-assured, more everything.
Kate couldn’t help the little catch in her heartbeat at the sight of him.
Drawing in a fortifying breath, she glanced away, trying to shore up her defenses with a cool demeanor.
“I understand that you preceded me in my husband’s affections,” she said softly.
It was Charlotte’s turn to gape. She gave Kate a startled glance and then laughed aloud—a delightful, infectious sound. “Hardly!” she echoed. “Wroth is much too fierce for me. He was very kind, but I doubted whether he had any feelings at all. I am happy to see that they are firmly engaged now.”
It took Kate a moment to understand what the woman was saying, but before she could deny that any such thing was true, Charlotte went on.
“I vow I never thought to see the great Wroth so taken, especially after he teased my husband unmercifully for falling in love with me. I am glad to see him get his comeuppance.”
Kate wanted to protest. Grayson no more loved her than he did Cyclops. But Charlotte was whispering like a giddy girl.
“See how his eyes follow you around the room,” she said, nodding toward where Grayson stood among the men. “He has not given anyone else the full force of his attention since you walked in. I marked it myself and knew then that he had met his downfall.”
Kate glanced over at her husband, but she could not tell whether Grayson was watching her or Charlotte. And the stubborn set of his lips as he did so could hardly be construed as a sign of devotion.
“La, it is all of a piece!” Charlotte exclaimed with a happy smile.
“I had heard that you were his equal, but some people are so cruel that I was not sure whether that was a compliment or a detraction. Now I see that you are perfectly matched. How wonderful! Wait until I tell Max,” she said, lifting her hand to wave at a man engaged in conversation with a turbaned dowager.
Watching Charlotte, Kate had to admit that she could not imagine the hard-hearted Grayson with such a lively creature, and any lingering suspicions about the woman’s motives disappeared when Lord Wycliffe arrived at his wife’s side.
Max, as she so carelessly called the earl, was nearly as tall and handsome and elegant as Grayson, but he did not share the marquess’ coldness or arrogance. And he bestowed an affectionate grin upon his wife that made Kate envious.
Theirs definitely was a love match.
“Max, this is Kate, Wroth’s wife. Isn’t she lovely?”
“A veritable goddess, as Raleigh would say,” Wycliffe said, bending low over her hand and winking conspiratorially at her.
“And it is a love match,” Charlotte whispered breathlessly.
Kate’s disclaimer died on her lips under the force of Wycliffe’s sudden, intense gaze.
“Really?” he said a bit archly. “I believe I will have to go congratulate Wroth at once on this happy turn of events.” He leaned close to his wife. “We are to be at your aunt’s in exactly one hour.”
“Yes, Max,” Charlotte said.
“No dawdling.”
“No, Max,” Charlotte said, her eyes twinkling.
They looked at each other with such affection that Kate felt heartsick.
Her alternately cold and hot relationship with Grayson seemed a sad mockery of what this couple shared, and all her hopeless efforts would never win her its equal.
She glanced away, unable to watch what she could never have.
“He likes to be punctual,” Charlotte explained with an indulgent smile as her husband left her side. “I am afraid we are not in London for long, for I hate to leave my son, but say you will join us at our house in Sussex before the summer is over.”
“I cannot answer for my husband,” Kate said tightly. Some of her misery must have shown on her face, because Charlotte blinked in confusion.
“What is it?”
Kate shook her head. “Nothing. You have been very kind, and I wish you well.”
“But we will see each other again soon,” Charlotte said, brightening. “I shall inform Wroth myself.”
Kate forced herself to assent, but she had a sinking feeling that she would never visit the Wycliffe home or see Charlotte again. Indeed, just as the lovely blonde was making her exit, Kate caught a glimpse of Grayson’s face across the room, and it boded ill for all of her chances.
Perhaps it was time for her to give up.
Grayson stalked into the town house, oblivious to the fact that his wife had to hurry to keep pace with him.
Ignoring the butler’s greeting, he strode toward the stairs without even waiting for her to join him.
They were in the habit of going straight up to their rooms upon their return from the evening’s engagements, for Grayson was usually on the verge of bursting the fall of his pantaloons.
Not tonight. Even though he dismissed his valet as usual, Grayson did not feel the throbbing need that had been plaguing him nightly when he entered his room. He was too angry. Throwing off his coat, he tossed it against the wall and cursed under his breath.
That idiot Wycliffe! How dare he? Grayson couldn’t remember the last time anyone had taunted him, but Wycliffe… Although Grayson wanted to smash a fist into the earl’s smug expression, he had shrugged off the sly insinuations that he was as infatuated with Kate as the earl was with Charlotte.