“What is it, Drusilla? Your note sounded urgent.” He searched her face for signs of distress, but her brown eyes danced.
“Thank you for coming. Please sit down, Charles,” she said, gesturing to the seat placed beside her with her fan.
“I prefer to stand. We should not be found together like this. It will only cause gossip.”
She lowered her eyes and fiddled with her fan. “We have never been able to talk about what happened when Father ended our engagement. I did try to speak of it at the Brocklehurst’s soiree…but you…” She shrugged.
“I don’t see any necessity to talk of it,” he said gently. “It’s in the past, surely.”
She leaned forward. “You’ve no idea how miserable I’ve been. The marquess was a monster. A savage hunter and vicious…” she lowered her eyes, “…. in the bedroom. He would not allow me to leave our country estate. He threatened to lock me in my bedroom if I tried. And it was the same when we came to London.”
“I’m sorry, Drusilla,” he said quietly. “But should you be telling me this? What possible good does it do now?”
She sighed, a hand on her bosom, drawing his attention there. He had once wanted desperately to kiss that delectable part of her anatomy, but now he could only think of Nellie.
“You were such a gentleman, Charles, such a perfect suitor. I wanted so much to marry you.”
“Did you? Then could you not have done so? Didn’t your father tell you to choose?” he couldn’t help asking. The pain of rejection was not quite finished with him, perhaps. But he didn’t really care anymore. Drusilla was just as lovely, but his passion for her had gone.
“Father lied. I had no choice. The truth was, Thorburn’s situation was much more appealing to him. It was expected that Michael would live long enough to produce an heir…”
“I’d rather we did not discuss my brother,” he said, cutting her short. He eyed the curtain, which closed them off from the ballroom. It wouldn’t do for someone to pass and overhear their conversation. “This is pointless, Drusilla. I am married.” He turned to leave her, but Drusilla had begun to cry.
Alarmed, he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
She dabbed her eyes. “I just want someone to care about me. You used to, didn’t you? You loved me? It’s no secret your marriage to Cornelia was due to a family obligation. You married into the family because poor Michael could not.” Her eyes implored him. “You and I could give each other such pleasure. You must know that. Many married men take a mistress.”
“You refer to my wife, Her Grace of Shewsbury,” he said abruptly. “I don’t intend to discuss my marriage with you.” He shook his head. “You are a beautiful woman, Drusilla. Your husband left you more than comfortably placed. You will be free to marry when your mourning period is over. You can then cast around for a husband, better surely than a lover. It won’t be difficult. Many men are interested.” He’d heard the talk and knew there were wagers in White’s betting book as to which successful man would claim Drusilla.
She pursed her lips. A small mouth, he noticed, not generous like Nellie’s. “But I always wanted you, Charles. Am I never to have you?”
“No, Marchioness. Our time together ended years ago.” He bowed and swept the curtain back.
“You will change your mind and come to me,” she called after him. “I know how much you loved me.”
Charles let the curtain drop behind him and walked swiftly back to the ballroom. Had he loved her? At the time, he’d thought losing her made his life not worth living. But he wondered if he’d been mad with lust, for at this moment, he couldn’t rustle up enough emotion to even like Drusilla. He had been too young to see past her mesmerizing beauty, he supposed, to examine too closely what sort of person she was. Like many beauties, spoiled and vain. But if she spoke the truth about her marriage, he did feel sorry for her.
Damn it, Drusilla had kept hold of his handkerchief. It annoyed him how she’d disrespected Nellie. Deeply thankful for the turn his life had taken, he went in search of his wife.
He located her among the dancers on the floor, Nellie looked animated as she conversed with Walsh while they danced. Had they been close once?
Charles turned swiftly away. Jealousy was beneath him.
Chapter Sixteen
Nellie had seen Charles leave the ballroom as she danced with Walsh. She had struggled to assume an expression of interest in what Walsh was saying. Had she never realized how loquacious the poet could be? And he talked mostly about himself.
When Charles walked through the door again, she wanted to leave the dance floor and go to him. But the set had not finished.
She plastered a bright smile on her face. “Why do we find you in London again, Mr. Walsh?”
“Society is more entertaining here than in Dublin at present.” His eyes twinkled. “And the ladies more charming.”
Nellie felt her smile slip. She had accepted his invitation to stir some jealousy in Charles. It had failed, for Charles had left the ballroom without a backward glance.
Walsh seized the opportunity as the steps brought them together to tell her more about his latest poem. “I do hope you still intend to set up your literary salon, Your Grace.”
Distracted, Nellie nodded. “I do, Mr. Walsh.”
He beamed. “And shall I be invited to read one of my poems?”
“Of course.” Nellie wondered why she’d ever found the man attractive. Her thoughts scattered when Drusilla came in through the same door as Charles had minutes before. Had they been together?
She struggled to hide her distress as Walsh elaborated on how he’d adopted the Petrarchan sonnet, much in the same manner as Wordsworth. “We can talk further when we’re alone.
