Regency Society. Ann Lethbridge

woman? Would Beatrice-Maude Wellingham be true to her word of maintaining her silence? The thicker tie of blood would make things more difficult and, looking at the family group the other evening, she had detected a strong sense of solidarity. Too strong?

      When Martin called her as she arrived home some half an hour later, she pinched colour into her cheeks before walking out to greet him, for none of this could ever be his problem and his health was fragile. Slipping her hand into his, she kissed him on the cheek, leaning against the handles of his chair for balance.

      ‘When will Florencia be home?’ he asked her. ‘Her governess said that she was not here yet.’

      ‘Soon, I think. Your sister has taken her out for the afternoon.’

      ‘You look pale.’

      ‘I sat in the park on the way home from the reading room and it was a little chilly. Lady Beatrice-Maude Wellingham stopped to ask how we were.’

      How easy it was to stretch out the truth when all your life depended on it, Eleanor thought.

      His hand squeezed her own. ‘Sometimes I worry that I have made your life very dull, my dear.’

      She stopped him simply by raising her hand to his face. The stubble of an eight-hour shadow scratched and she noticed the way his skin had shrunk around the bones of his cheek.

      Thinner. Older. More tired.

      His fingers interlaced with hers. A good and honourable man, and a long way from the husband that she would have struggled to find had the true enormity of her predicament ever become public. No, she was the most fortunate of women and if the sacrifice of marital intimacy was the payment for respectability, then far be it from her to wish it different.

      As he continued to stroke the back of her hand, however, worrying her skin with a dull repetition, she wondered how it was possible for Cristo Wellingham’s simple touch to engender a reaction that had raced through all her body.

      ‘I would like to hold a party, Taris, to celebrate Cristo’s return.’ Beatrice entwined her feet through those of her husband’s as they lay in bed later that night. His warmth was welcomed.

      She felt his chest rise in laughter, the darkness of the room obscuring any expression. ‘I am not certain he would welcome such a thing. I know I should not. Besides, as yet we have no real idea of his motives for returning to England. He may be here to slander the name of Wellingham yet again and will leave as soon as he gets bored by the uneventful routine of everyday life.’

      ‘He is your brother, Taris. Whatever happens, you will need to mend your fences or face a lifetime of regret.’

      ‘Asher would rather erect higher barriers and push him out altogether. The sins in his past have not been simple and when he left last time the arguments between our father and Cristo were, at the least, vitriolic. He was a wild youth, I suppose, with few boundaries, though Ashborne always kept a certain distance from him, which probably made matters worse.’

      Beatrice broke in with her own understanding of the matter. ‘Yet he is not an evil man, or even a bad one.’

      His smile curved into the tips of her fingers. ‘You can tell so quickly?’

      ‘I was married to a miscreant for years. One gets a feel for them.’

      ‘Lord, Bea. Sometimes your wit is careless …’

      Her laughter drifted across the room. ‘Only with you, Taris,’ she said softly, her nails running across the bare skin of his arm, before she returned to the matter in hand. ‘It could be a weekend house party down at Beaconsmeade. Not a huge affair, but a small one.’

      ‘Who would you invite?’

      Bea felt her heart begin to race a little faster, for deception was something she had always been very bad at. ‘The family, of course, and a few other friends and acquaintances.’

      His palm took her wrist, measuring the beat. ‘Acquaintances?’ There was a tone in the word demanding truth.

      ‘I saw Lady Dromorne today in the park, Taris. Did your brother ever mention her to you?’

      Taris pushed back his pillow. ‘Eleanor Westbury? In what way?’

      ‘Had he been … interested in her at all?’

      ‘Did she say that he had been?’

      ‘No.’ Even to her own ears the denial was too quick. Too forced.

      ‘There was that fracas many years ago with Nigel Bracewell-Lowen that many insisted was a result of Cristo’s antics, though of course such an accusation was never proved. I do not think that she would welcome your invitation. Besides, she is a married woman and Martin Westbury rarely ventures out.’

      Bea nodded. Reason pointed to a happy union, but her own intuition was telling her something very different. Lady Dromorne had fainted when she had seen Cristo at the theatre and this afternoon Prudence Tomlinson had mentioned she had seen them touching hands in the public reading room.

      Bea had squashed this rumour by swearing her brother-in-law to be at Beaconsmeade for the day and Prue had laughed at her own silly imagination, glad for the chance to clear up such a misunderstanding. Yet the meeting with Eleanor had made Bea curious.

      How could Cristo’s revelations be responsible for ruining Eleanor’s reputation? Her mind ran further afield to the age and infirmity of the husband. There was a daughter, too, of about five, if memory served her well. She wondered how such an unwell and aged man had been able to father a child. Another thought charged in over the top of that one and Beatrice took in a breath. What if Martin Westbury was not the true parent of Eleanor’s daughter? Cursing her fertile imagination, she listened again to her husband.

      ‘If you are bent on repairing the relations between our family, perhaps an invitation to the two younger Westbury nieces might be a better way to do it. They are reputed to be sensible girls. Ask some of the young bucks about Beaconsmeade to even out the numbers.’

      Beatrice smiled tightly. Sense told her to leave the matter entirely, yet there was sadness in the pale blue eyes of Eleanor Westbury that was undeniably interlaced with her brother-in-law. The small opportunity to play out the conclusion of something important could not hurt, could it?

      She snuggled down into the arms of her husband and pulled the light cover across them, his heavy masculinity treasured and safe.

      ‘I love you, Taris.’

      He laughed as he turned her over, and covered the soft desire in her body with his own particular molten heat.

      ‘Show me.’

      Chapter Seven

      The invitation to the Wellinghams’ party in ten days’ time caused a stir in the Dromorne household and for many more reasons than any could have guessed.

      The two younger Westbury girls screamed with delighted shock, each imagining the gowns that might catch the fancy and admiration of the enigmatic youngest Wellingham brother.

      Martin Westbury, on the other hand, decided that he would simply decline the invite altogether, but was most insistent that his wife take his nieces and sister to the affair as it had been a long while since they had been invited to any soirée of the very first order. Not that Martin ranked things in accordance with such strict and rigid axioms, but his sister’s daughters’ futures had to be considered and another Season in London for the girls was beginning to pall on him with the hustle and bustle social intercourse demanded.

      Eleanor was just struck dumb, unable to formulate any real understanding of any of it.

      She had expected to be a persona non grata to Lady Beatrice-Maude after her outburst and instead had received one of the most sought-after social cards of the