One Night for Love

to be this morning. Tell me it is only the clothes…'

'You heard the boy say she is a sergeant's daughter, Clara,' the duke reminded her, taking up his stand at the window, his back to the room. 'I daresay that fact speaks for itself. Who was her mother, Neville?'

'I did not know Mrs. Doyle,' Neville replied. 'She died in India when Lily was very young. There is no blue blood there, though, Uncle, if that is what you are asking. Lily is a commoner. But she is also my wife. She has my name and my protection.'

'Yes, yes, that is all very well, Neville.' His mother spoke impatiently. 'But… Oh dear, I cannot think straight. How could you do this to us? How could you do it to yourself'? Surely your upbringing and education meant more to you than to—to marry a woman who looks for all the world like a vulgar beggar and is indeed a product of the lower classes.' She stood up abruptly and swayed noticeably on her feet. 'I have guests I am neglecting.'

'Poor Lily,' Elizabeth said, speaking for the first time. She was Neville's aunt, his father's sister, but she was only nine years his senior and he had never called her aunt. She was unmarried, not because she had never had offers, but because she had declared long ago that she would never marry unless she could find the gentleman who could convince her that the loss of her independence was preferable to keeping it—and she did not expect that ever to happen. She was beautiful, intelligent, and accomplished—and no one quite knew whether the Duke of Portfrey was more friend or beau to her. 'We are forgetting her distress in a selfish concern for our own. Where is she, Neville?'

'Yes, where is she?' his mother repeated, her voice unusually petulant. 'Not here, I suppose. There is not a single spare room at the abbey.'

'There is one unoccupied room, Mama,' Neville said stiffly. 'She is in the countess's room—where she belongs. I left her there to have a meal and a bath and a sleep. I have given instructions that she is to be left undisturbed until I go up for her.'

His mother closed her eyes and pressed the handkerchief to her lips again. The countess's room, formerly hers, was part of the suite of rooms that included the earl's bedchamber—Neville's own. He could almost see her coming to grips with the reality of the fact that Lily belonged there.

'Yes,' Elizabeth said. 'I am sure it is best for her to rest for a while. I look forward to making her acquaintance, Neville.'

It was like Elizabeth, he thought, to be gracious, to take a situation as it was and somehow make something bearable of it.

'Thank you,' he said.

His mother had pulled herself together again. 'You will bring her down to tea later this afternoon, Neville,' she told him. 'There is no point in keeping her hidden, is there? I will meet her at the same time as the rest of the family. We will all behave as we ought toward your—your wife, you may rest assured.'

Neville bowed to his mother. 'I would expect no less of you, Mama,' he said. 'But excuse me now. I must go and see Lauren.'

'You will be fortunate if she does not throw things at your head, Neville,' Elizabeth warned him.

He nodded. 'Nevertheless,' he told her.

He left the house a couple of minutes later and set out on foot in the direction of the dower house, which was close to the gates into the park, set back from the driveway in the seclusion of the trees and its own private garden. He was well on his way before he realized that he was still wearing his wedding finery. But he would not go back to change. Perhaps he would never regain his courage if he did that.

He was about to face, he realized, one of the most difficult encounters of his life.

Lauren was not inside the dower house. She was out behind it, sitting on the tree swing, idly propelling herself back and forth with one foot. She was staring unseeingly at the ground ahead of her. Gwendoline was seated on the grass to one side of the swing. Both of them were still dressed for the wedding.

He would rather be anywhere else on earth, Neville thought just before his sister spotted him. They were two of the dearest people on earth to him, and he had done this to them. And there was no comfort to bring. Only a totally inadequate explanation.

Gwendoline jumped to her feet at sight of him and glared. 'I hate you, Neville,' she cried. 'If you have come here to make her unhappier still, you may go away again—now! What do you mean by it? That is what you can explain to me. What did you mean by saying that dreadful woman is your wife?' She burst into noisy, undignified tears and turned her face sharply away.

Lauren had stopped swinging, but she did not turn around.

'Lauren?' Neville said. 'Lauren, my dear?' He still did not know what he could say to her.

Her voice was steady when she spoke, but it was without tone too. 'It is quite all right,' she said. 'It is perfectly all right. It was just a convenient arrangement after all, was it not, our marrying? Because we grew up together and were fond of each other and it was what Uncle and Grandpapa had always wanted. And you did tell me not to wait when you went away. You were quite fair and honest with me. You were not betrothed to me or even promised to me. You were quite free to marry her. I do not blame you at all.'

He was appalled. He would have far preferred to have her rush at him, teeth bared, fingers curled into claws.

'Lauren,' he said, 'let me explain, if I may.'

'There is nothing to explain,' Gwendoline said angrily, having mastered her tears. 'Is she or is she not your wife, Neville? That is all that matters. But you would not have lied in church for all to hear. She is your wife.'

'Yes,' Neville said.

'I hate her!' Gwendoline cried. 'Shabby, ugly, low creature.'

But Lauren would not participate. 'We do not know her, Gwen,' she said. 'Yes, Neville. Tell me. Tell us. There must be a perfectly good explanation, I am sure. Once I understand, I will be able to accept it. Everything will be perfectly all right.'