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Besides, she had not been able to persuade herself to make use of the bed even when he was not in the room. And the floor did not have even one small rug on it. She would have to make do without one tonight.
When she heard someone else at the door of the summerhouse, she opened her eyes and turned her head without lifting it.
“I have brought you a glass of ratafia,” he said. “I know you do not like lemonade.”
He remembered that about her?
“Thank you.” She took the glass from his hand and drank from it while he seated himself beside her, even though she liked ratafia even less than lemonade. “Richard, I told Lady Bancroft that we were on our way to London, and she wants us to meet there and do some things together. She will discover, of course, that you have no wife. I am sorry.”
“She will discover that I have,” he said.
“What?” She looked blankly at him.
“The ton will tell her that indeed I do have a wife,” he said.
“Oh.” Her stomach performed an uncomfortable flip-flop. He had lied earlier, then.
“She is reputed to be a reclusive lady who remains all year at Dartwood Close in Devonshire, where I never invite guests,” he told her, his eyes on her the whole while. “I suppose she-and my relationship with her-have aroused curiosity and enlivened drawing room conversations for almost a decade.”
“But there is no such person?” She frowned.
“As the reclusive wife at Dartwood?” He raised his eyebrows. “No, there is not. But is there such a person elsewhere? I honestly do not know, Nora. I have never had occasion to find out for certain either way. But everyone will be most interested to learn that Lady Bancroft has finally seen my reclusive and elusive wife.”
She closed her eyes again and inhaled slowly. He had deliberately let the ton believe that he was married. He was not even sure he was not.
Were they married? Could they possibly be?
“What has your life been like?” she asked him when the silence stretched between them.
“Better than it would have been if I had had to earn my living as a secretary,” he said. “Especially with a wife and family to support.”
She had believed the drop in status and fortune would not matter to her. Love was all that mattered. She had convinced him, against his better judgment, that she would never ever be sorry. Would she have been? If nothing had changed in her father’s life? If nothing had changed in Richard’s? It was impossible to know.
The change in status had come for her anyway-without the consolation of love.
But he thought his life would have been worse with her.
“How much better?” she asked.
“I have money and freedom,” he said. “And the work I do now is for myself and those dependent upon me rather than for someone else.”
Money and freedom.
“If you ever want to marry,” she said, “you will have to dispose of your reclusive wife somehow.”
“I daresay she is a sickly creature anyway,” he said. “She can doubtless fade away at a moment’s notice.”
“Except,” she said, “that the Bancrofts have seen her. Do I look sickly?”
He laughed softly but said nothing. She did not open her eyes.
“Have you been happy, Richard?” she asked him. “Are you happy?”
“Why would I not be?” he said by way of reply. “I have everything I could possibly want in life.”
“Including a reclusive wife who does not interfere with your freedom in any way,” she said.
“Yes, including her.”
The children in front of them shrieked suddenly as they all fell to the grass. Sounds of merriment and laughter came from the flower gardens and the terrace behind them. The music was as toe-tapping as ever. The summerhouse seemed like an oasis of quiet, though it did not drown out any sounds.
“And you,” he said. “What has your life been like, Nora?”
She laughed softly.
“I had no taste for being either a governess or a lady’s maid or a milliner’s assistant,” she said, “though I did try that last one after Papa died. My fingers acquired more holes than the pincushions. I was quite relieved when Jeremy’s marriage gave me an excuse to resign so that I could move away from London. I have been a lady’s companion ever since.”
“To the same lady?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “There have been…” She paused to count on her fingers. “There have been eight, not counting Lady Rushford, who dismissed me after two days because Lord Rushford, her son, told me quite ridiculously that my hair must have stolen all the sunbeams from the summer sky. One hopes he never has to earn his living as a poet. Oh, and not counting Mrs. Arkenwright, who died one hour before I arrived at her house, having traveled half across England to get there.”
“And your latest employer?” he asked.
“Mrs. Witherspoon?” she said. “I endured her whinings and scoldings and miserliness for six months, but when she accused me two days ago of poisoning her horrid little poodle because he had been sick on the floor in her boudoir, I had had enough and not only denied the charge but went farther. Instead of making soothing noises as I usually did and offering to clean up the mess, I told her the truth-that the dog had been sick because of all the bonbons she had fed him and that she was always ill because of all the bonbons she fed herself. She threatened to have me hauled before the magistrate and charged with insubordination or attempted murder or some such atrocity. That was the end, I am afraid. I spoke to her quite candidly and unwisely-and enjoyed every minute of my tirade. The result was that I arrived in Wimbury this morning with all my baggage and no employment and no money whatsoever. She refused to pay me.”
“One can hardly blame her,” he said.
She turned her head sharply to look at him. Even in the near-darkness, she could see that he was gri
She laughed aloud.
“It was fu
She closed her eyes again, and there was silence between them once more. Not a happy silence. She guessed that his grin had faded. Just as her laughter had died.
She wondered if he was as lonely as she was.
“I think,” he said at last, “we had better go and dance, Nora. We have been gone long enough. I came looking for you to tell you there is to be a waltz soon. It would be a shame to miss it. Have you ever danced it?”
She had learned the steps long, long ago from a dancing master. She had never performed them at an actual ball. She had never attended any balls. She never did have her Season in London.
“Only with a dancing master,” she said. “But that was during some lifetime in the distant past.”
“Let us go and see if you remember,” he said, taking her hand in his. “If you do not, I will teach you.”
He had taken her hand in his. His was large and warm and strong-fingered.
He drew her along a path through the flower beds, weaving their way past other people, several of whom spoke cheerfully to them.
It was a bittersweet happiness Nora felt for the fleeting moment-for this day was really nothing more than that in the context of a whole life.
She felt ridiculously close to tears.