Madame? He had never referred to her in that manner. Nellie gulped. Trembling, she sank onto the bed. Her world seemed to have fallen apart. She huffed out a gasp of annoyance. And really, why should she feel guilty?
After several minutes, she stood, and after dredging up a renewed sense of purpose from somewhere deep inside, she rang for Lilly.
“I’ll wear the red satin to the opera ball tonight, Lilly.”
It was not done to be seen in the same gown again so soon, but she needed that dress to give her courage and the confidence to get through the evening. She would add a silver lace shawl and lace gloves and wear the rubies.
She and Charles were unfailingly polite at dinner. They barely talked, and when they did, it was with excruciating politeness on inconsequential matters: the excellence of the roast beef and the freshness of the oysters, plus a newsworthy item in The Times. Nellie felt sick and didn’t want to eat. She pushed her food around the plate and tried not to look at Charles, the tension strung as tight as a fiddler’s bow.
In their box at Covent Garden, their cool treatment of each other went unnoticed as friends and acquaintances crowded in at intervals to talk to them. To Nellie’s disappointment, the opera was rather dull as the aria sung by the stout, but handsome Elizabeth Billington was not quite as good a performance as usual, and she was almost drowned out by the noisy patrons.
At the following opera ball, she and Charles parted at the door, seeking their own group of acquaintances. As this was the usual way of things, most saw nothing unusual in it, although Nellie did overhear a comment from an aged dowager she passed. The woman spoke loudly behind her fan to a lady beside her. “The honeymoon is over.”
“Of short duration, wasn’t it?” her companion replied, not quite managing to hide a smirk.
When a waltz was called, Nellie accepted Walsh’s invitation with the intention of pursuing her plan. She only hoped he had more sense than to dredge up the past or try to flirt with her.
Walsh did not dance as well as Charles. But what man did? She hid the contempt she had for the Irishman. She could only be relieved and thankful her father had been far wiser than she was at eighteen. Was Marian right? Had the poet been hopeful of the marriage merely to better himself? If he had been tempted to use her to raise himself up in the world, she felt justified in putting him to good use now.
They paused after a series of steps. “I am to hold my first literary salon next week,” she said, offering him a sweet smile, more for the benefit of Charles, whom she suspected was watching them, than Walsh.
“Am I to be invited?” Walsh’s eyes brightened. “I thought perhaps because of our, shall we say, unfortunate past, I thought perhaps—”
“Nonsense. We shall not speak of it again. I should like you to be our first poet. Would you entertain us with a reading of your latest poem, Mr. Walsh?”
“Delighted, Your Grace. I have two that might suit. Perhaps the…”
Nellie suffered a stab of remorse as he elaborated at length about his poetry. This was not like her. She detested conniving and underhanded behavior. But it was not enough to change her mind. She offered him another warm smile. “That will be perfect. The salon is to be held on Wednesday in the music room at Shewsbury Court.”
While Walsh enthused in his lilting Irish tenor voice, which lent an air to his poems, Nellie searched for Charles. She found him with Jason. As they talked, Charles watched her with a stony expression. Her pulse thudded, and she turned another brilliant smile on the poet.
“I have sorely missed our exhilarating discussions, Your Grace.” Walsh’s hand tightened around hers. She should rebuke him but secretly hoped Charles would be jealous. After all, what was good for the gander…
“I hope to fill the room with devotees of the literary arts, Mr. Walsh,” she said, wishing the dance would end. “And entice Wordsworth to come. And hopefully, Byron.”
He smiled thinly. “How agreeable.”
*
Jason frowned. “Is something wrong, Charles? You look like you’ve lost a shilling and found a sixpence.”
Charles drew his gaze away from Nellie. “I grow tired of these celebratory affairs.”
“Don’t we all? I shall be glad to leave London tomorrow.”
“You are to return to Dorset?”
“We go first to Shewsbury Park.” Jason smiled. “Beverly is with child.”
“I say!” Charles slapped his brother on the back. “That is excellent news. I trust Beverly is in good health. She didn’t wish to come tonight?”
“No, she was a little tired from preparing for our departure.”
“Mother will be pleased to see you both.”
“We’ll spend a month or so with her before returning home. Shall we see you there?”
“Matters in the House and royal demands keep me in the city,” Charles said. “I’ve been too long away from the estate. I dislike depending on staff. Without overseeing the work they do, things can go amiss. I’m keen to see my additions to the flock, and the bailiff has a thorny matter to deal with.”
Jason smiled wryly. “You worry too much, Chas.”
The Prince of Wales beckoned to Charles from where he sat with his lackeys and fawning acolytes among the visiting dignitaries.
“I must go. Have a safe journey, Jas. I hope we will see you at Shewsbury Park very soon.”
“And I, my poor fellow,” Jason said. “I will tell Nellie the news before I leave.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You two seem to be avoiding each other.”
“Not at all. Such is the way of these affairs,” Charles said casually. Jason was too astute; it was just as well that he was leaving London.
The waltz ended, and as Charles crossed the floor to the prince, Nellie promenaded from the dance floor on Walsh’s arm. Her throaty laugh at some aside from the Irishman reached Charles’s ears as if he was
