THE BRIDE WORE BLUE Page 7

  “The night is all I hoped it would be,” he said, his meaning encompassing more than the play.

  She shot him a mischievous glance. “It has struck me that Petruchio bears a certain resemblance to a Mr. Thomas Moreland.”

  “You malign me,” he protested, the glimmer in his eyes belying his indignation. “I’m nothing like Petruchio. I don’t have to marry for a dowry.”

  She could not mask the amusement in her voice. “Has it not struck you that he does get what he wants?”

  “But, my lady, I only gain what money can buy. You must admit there is much that cannot be procured by riches alone.”

  “ Tis true, but I believe you were born under a lucky star. Does not everything come easily for you?”

  What could she be referring to? He had worked hard for everything that had ever come his way. And the one thing he wanted most was still far from his grasp. Might not ever be within his reach, he thought as his eyes swept over the black of her dress. The black she wore for her captain. Thomas’s jaw tightened. “ ‘I am not merry; but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise.’ ”

  A curious expression passed over her face, and she whispered, “Othello.”

  He nodded as his eyes swept across the theater. Damn, but he hadn’t meant to allow her that glimpse into his innermost self.

  Carlotta sat with the colonel in a box opposite them. She nodded at Thomas, a sensuous smile on her face as she leaned toward the colonel and said something in his ear. Thomas returned the silent greeting, leaning to Felicity. “I see your colonel and Mrs. Ennis across from us.”

  “He is not my colonel,” Felicity snapped. She, too, nodded across the rounded theater. “Carlotta will be a positive lioness tomorrow. Really, Mr. Moreland, it would not have hurt you to have invited her to share our box tonight. Her regard in Bath, you must know, is as good as mine.”

  “Ah, but Mrs. Ennis is not the daughter of a viscount.”

  “I daresay if she were, it would be she sharing your box and not me.”

  “And how dull it would be not to have you to spar with, Mrs. Harrison.”

  A smug smile stole across her face. “We do seem to clash rather well.”

  The curtain behind them opened, and the four young persons noisily reentered the box.

  It rained the next day. All day. With the exception of George, who refused to allow bad weather to interfere with his shooting expedition at Winston Hall, no one else stirred outdoors. Hampered by darkened skies, Felicity and Glee bent over their embroidery, aided by candles even though it was still afternoon.

  “I didn’t think to be saying this so soon,” Felicity began, “but you have shown remarkable maturity as of late, my sweet.”

  “In what way?” Glee asked.

  “You have not once extolled the perfection of a single buck. And not once have you declared yourself to be in love with a man you’ve scarcely met. Quite a departure for you.”

  “That’s because none of the young men I’ve seen in society have captured my heart. They’re all so ... so bland, so immature. I declare, they’re all so much the same.”

  Felicity’s brows lowered. How could her little sister have changed so rapidly? Felicity could not remember a time when Glee had not found something to swoon over in every male she met. Just a few short weeks ago Glee had begged to attend assemblies, and now that she did, she adopted a cavalier attitude toward them.

  On the other hand, Dianna Moreland, though reserved in manner, appeared to relish her public outings. She was gracious to all the young men who hovered near her and Glee, and forever wore a smile on her lovely face. However, a complete metamorphosis occurred in Dianna whenever George was near. Her natural poise and gracious charm abandoned her, replaced by acute shyness. Only when she looked into George’s eyes, Felicity thought, did Dianna reveal a tender affection.

  “A pity,” Felicity said. “Perhaps you’ll not be wed, after all.”

  Pricked by a stab from her needle, Glee issued an exclamation, then glared at Felicity. “I believe I wish to wed an older man.”

  An older man? Felicity could not remember Glee ever having been attracted to older men. And what did she mean by old? When one was seventeen, seven-and-twenty seemed ancient. All of a sudden, a thud spiraled through her insides. Could Glee have developed a crush on Mr. Moreland? That would explain her sister’s resentful glances at Felicity. Sweet heaven, such a match would never succeed. Glee would be bored to distraction with Mr. Moreland’s love of Shakespeare. They were totally unsuited in every way.

  And not because of his lack of rank. Mr. Moreland would no doubt make some fashionable lady a good husband.

  But Glee was not that fashionable lady.

  “I wonder if Mr. Salvado will come today in this dreadful rain?” Glee said.

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about him. Now that you’re out, you no longer need Mr. Salvado’s services. He’s done a commendable job teaching you to dance.”

  “Oh! but . . .” Glee protested, then faltered. “Though he’s a fine instructor, I’m a most poor student. I tend to execute the right steps to the wrong dances, or some such stupidity. Please allow him to continue for another few weeks.”

  Felicity met her sister’s imploring green eyes. “Three weeks. And that’s all.”

  The door burst open, and George entered the room, rivulets of water pouring from his greatcoat, his darkened gold hair dripping down his face. Despite his sodden state, a smile stretched nearly ear to ear.

  “Winston Hall is a veritable haven for fowl,” he exclaimed. “I bagged half a dozen.”

  “I’m sure that’s very good, but you’ll have to tell us about it after you change into dry clothing,” Felicity said. “You’ll ruin the carpet.”

  Five minutes later he was back in the drawing room, intent on describing in detail his and Mr. Moreland’s good fortune shooting. “Makes me long for Hornsby Manor,” he concluded.

  His words stung Felicity. The letting of their ancestral home had always saddened Felicity, but she had been able to endure it because George had so stoically accepted the loss. His loss.

  “Did you see Dianna?” Glee inquired.

  He took the hot cup of tea Felicity had poured, then sat down. “As a matter of fact, I had tea with her before returning to Bath.”

  Glee flung down her embroidery. “Tell me, did she have on still another dress? I’ve not seen her wear the same thing twice.”

  “How would I know?” George said. “Don’t know about such.”

  “What color was her dress?” Glee asked.

  He thought for a moment. “Pink!” he finally exclaimed with pride.

  “See,” Glee said to no one in particular, “I’ve not seen her in a pink day dress before. Another dress. I’d give my new straw bonnet to see her wardrobe. I wager she’s got a hundred dresses.”

  “A young lady doesn’t wager,” Felicity scolded.

  “‘You place too much emphasis on dresses, pet,” George told Glee. “Miss Moreland would be just as pretty if she wore the same dress every day.”

  He is smitten, Felicity thought. And she did not know how to react. Of course, nothing disparaging could be found in Miss Moreland. And George did need to settle down. But he was still rather immature. She could not imagine him running a household, having a wife ... fathering a child. Though it was exactly what he needed.

  Glee sighed. “Mr. Moreland must be unbelievably rich.”

  “And he’d be as likable if he were poor,” George said. “I’ll be the first to admit my reluctance at bringing him into our circle. But now I find him just as much one of us as Blanks. Though he’s nothing like Blanks.” He eyed Felicity. “Doesn’t know how to enjoy life as Blanks does. Reminds me of you.”

  “Me?” Felicity questioned.

  He nodded. “Always somber. Acts far older than his nine-and-twenty years. The two of you are bent on seeing to others’ happiness while sacrificing your own.”

  George was more mature, Felici
ty thought, a sadness settling over her for the loss of her brother’s rattled youth. “I hardly sacrifice myself. I expect the similarity between Mr. Moreland and me arises because we’re both the firstborn.”

  “Mr. Moreland is only nine-and-twenty?” Glee questioned. “He seems so much older. To think, he’s already made more money than ever he can spend.”

  Felicity watched her sister intently, searching for a spark of affection toward Mr. Moreland. The only thing Glee revealed was her belief that nine-and-twenty was not such an old age after all.

  In the weeks that followed, easy intimacy flourished between the members of Felicity’s family and Dianna and Thomas Moreland. Mornings and afternoons were spent at the Pump Room. Wednesdays were set aside for musicales, which Felicity barely tolerated. Twice a week, assemblies provided still another opportunity to mingle in society. Felicity wondered why Mr. Moreland still accompanied her as frequently as he did. His own credit was firmly established. Women were reduced to blathering, admiring idiots when in his company. It seemed no woman in Bath was immune to his charm. Or his rugged good looks.

  Thomas hoarded Felicity’s companionship, but not to the exclusion of Colonel Gordon and Carlotta, both of whom were quick with a critical word against him. Colonel Gordon turned frigid whenever Mr. Moreland entered his circle, whereas the opposite was true with Carlotta Ennis. When in his company she gave no evidence of holding him in dislike, as she did when speaking of him to Felicity.

  “Really, Felicity,” she would say, “the man is such a flirt. I daresay you cannot believe a word he utters.” Or she would feign disinterest in him while professing his keen interest in herself.

  When she was with Thomas, however, the raven-haired beauty treated him as if he were the only man in the room. She persisted in linking her arm through his for a walk around the Pump Room, and she boldly asked him to dance with her at assemblies. And whenever an occasion called for his impressive carriage, Carlotta always managed to be seated next to Thomas.

  On another dreary, rainy day in which Felicity had decided not to leave the comfort of her home, Stanton informed her Lady Catherine Bullin wished to see her. As Stanton led the lady into the drawing room, Felicity ordered tea and asked her to take a seat.

  Felicity was puzzled that Lady Catherine was paying her a call. Though they were acquainted, the two women had never been close.

  The grave look on Lady Catherine’s face did not escape Felicity’s attention, but she chose not to remark on it.

  “Your friendship with Mr. Moreland has not gone unnoticed,” Lady Catherine began. “And since we are both of the upper class, I felt compelled to come here today to warn you about the man.”

  Felicity shot her a curious glance.

  “I must tell you of Mr. Moreland’s sordid past.”

  The allusion set Felicity’s heart to hammering as if some tragedy had befallen her. Had Mr. Moreland stolen his fortune? No, not that. Instinctively, she knew he was incapable of such an action. “Do share your grievous news with me?” she asked.

  Lady Catherine sighed. “During the years he lived in India, Mr. Moreland developed a ... an intimate relationship with an Indian woman. A very dark complected person, you understand. Terribly bad ton, you know. And during the course of their ... ah, association, several children were born of the union.”

  Felicity’s heart hammered harder. She could not remove her eyes from Lady Catherine’s.

  “I have learned that when Mr. Moreland left India, he made no provisions for his ... his family.”

  “I hardly see how this concerns me,” Felicity snapped. “It’s not as if he were marrying Glee.” Her words belied the tumultuous quaking within her.

  “It’s not Miss Pembroke who concerns me.”

  For an instant, Felicity’s eyes locked with hers, tension between them as tight as a bowstring.

  “If you think I mean to marry him, you don’t know me. I plan to stay true to my Michael’s memory.”

  Lady Catherine rose. “Then I am most relieved.” Her eyes narrowed. “I would hate to think of the wretched man attempting to use any friend of mine.”

  Then the former owner of Winston Hall swept from the room, leaving Felicity shaking in disbelief.

  Chapter Nine

  Fine lines crinkled Dr. Langston’s face when he frowned. “Some of the damage is irreparable,” he said.

  Thomas winced and leaned into the doctor’s desk, directing still another question at the patient man. “But will he ever walk?”

  Langston nodded, his spectacles slipping farther down the bridge of his ruddy nose. “With proper diet and braces, perhaps.”

  “Do whatever’s necessary. No matter what the cost,” Thomas said.

  The doctor removed his glasses and set them on his cluttered desk. “You understand the boy will be lame for the rest of his life?”

  “For one who’s never been able to walk, lameness is but a slight hindrance.” Thomas rose. “All the bills can be sent to me at Winston Hall.” He walked to the door, then turned back toward the doctor, who sat writing at his desk beside the tall window, its draperies ruffled by a breeze. “I’m depending on your discretion. No one is to know I am helping the lad.”

  Her skirts spread out on the lush grass, Felicity lounged in the shade and watched her brother and sister ride off into the thicket with Dianna. The grounds here at Winston Hall could grace a Turner landscape, she thought. The verdant land sloped to bridle trails thick with centuries-old trees, canopied with cerulean skies and speckled with shimmering lakes. Her own recent paces with Mr. Moreland’s fine horse left her exhausted. Her host, too, sought a respite from the brisk activity, reclining in the shade, while Felicity— bonnet shadowing her face—basked in the sun a few feet away. The mellow breeze tempered the sun’s penetrating warmth.

  “Your sister rides well. Were you her teacher?” Felicity asked.

  Thomas nodded. “I was horse-mad as a lad. Quite a disappointment to my father, who wanted me to work in his bookshop. Even though I loved books, I loved horses more and took a job as a groom.”

  Felicity ran her eyes along his well-clothed, muscled limbs spread out on the grass and had difficulty picturing him as an ill-dressed boy smelling of horses. His breeches of rich buff-colored superfine molded to his powerful thighs, and his chocolate frock coat hugged his huge shoulders, tapering down to the solid V of his waist. His boots bespoke a good hour of preening care from his valet. “I can understand your father’s disappointment,” she said.

  He smiled and brought his bulk up to rest on his elbows. “It turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to me. Seeing firsthand how the nobility lived ignited in me a strong desire to emulate their lifestyle. I saved my paltry few shillings, determined to make my fortune. I knew it couldn’t be done through a bookshop or other such enterprise. My fortune lay in a far-off land. Either the Colonies or India. Enamored of exotic silks and spices, I decided on India.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Just over twenty.”

  “How brave you were to forsake the familiar for worlds unknown.”

  “ ‘Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.’ ”

  His fund of Shakespeare awed her. “Two Gentlemen of Verona,” she whispered.

  “Ah, a woman after my own heart.” The long, glazed look he gave her belied his jesting tone. She felt uncomfortable being so close to him. So vulnerable to his undeniable virility. The thought of him making love to an Indian woman crowded into her thoughts. She thought of them together, and her own body was acutely affected by the idea of Mr. Moreland lying with a woman. She wondered if the poor Indian woman had been in love with him. Had the woman crumbled beneath his touch? Felicity’s breath grew short as her anger mounted.

  Her back stiffened, and she rearranged her bonnet. “How did you get on in a strange country?”

  “Before I went, I read every word that had ever been written about India, and I taught mys
elf Hindi— as well as one can without benefit of the native tongue.”

  She willed herself to concentrate on his words, not his unsettling presence. “And it was beneficial?”

  “It was.” He sat up, planting his shiny black boots in the soft grass. His legs were as powerful as the trunk of the mighty oak that shaded him. “I have a plan for everything I do. My plan was to live among the people, to learn their ways. In that way, I could better discover the sources for the riches I sought.”

  “And you were obviously successful.”

  A rustle of wind caught his coal black hair as he nodded. “By the time I’d been there two years, I had made enough money to buy my own ship. Once I had reduced my shipping costs, the wealth followed.”

  “So I presume you now own a fleet of ships.” She kept her tone light to mask the direction of her thoughts. For ever since he had confessed that he had lived among the Indian people, she could think of nothing save what Lady Catherine had told her about him. Mr. Moreland had had an Indian mistress. He had fathered Indian children. Children he had left behind.

  “And mills both here and in India.”

  He was close enough for her to touch. She could smell his sandalwood scent. She found herself wondering how the Indian woman had felt about him. Had she loved him? Had she been drawn to his undeniable masculinity? Then Felicity wondered what it was like sharing a bed with him, the bronze hardness of his body stretched beside her. Her hand flew to the locket, and she caressed it. I’m sorry, Michael. She could not be disloyal to her husband’s memory. Why was she thinking about lying with another man?

  Thomas’s black eyes followed her movement, a somber look replacing his mirth. “I picture you in a blue dress,” he said solemnly.

  She swallowed and fingered the locket even tighter. “Black suits the person I am.” She looked away from his probing eyes. “Do you know George said you are always serious, that you are just like me? I told him such sobriety must come from being the firstborn.”