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  As soon as Mrs. Morris left, Joanna heard her mother’s clear tones, then the deeper voice of a man.

  Oh, dear Lord! Her brother Richard had come to town.

  In a panic Joanna shoved the parcel underneath a cushion and hurried out into the hallway.

  “Well, sister mine?” Richard grinned at her and swept her into a hug. “How is married life treating you?”

  Joanna gathered every ounce of courage she possessed. “Very well. As I predicted, I’m loving my freedom. What are you doing in town?”

  “Helena sent me to make sure that all is well with you, and that Tarrant is keeping his word. Mother is being coy about things, as usual. Is he behaving like a gentleman, Jo?”

  “Of course,” Joanna said bravely. “Why shouldn’t he?”

  “Then I shall happily escort you and Mother to Lady Kettering’s ball. But if your husband fails to behave impeccably toward you, I can’t promise not to run him through on the spot.”

  It was casually said, but Joanna held no doubts about the depth of Richard’s distrust of Fitzroy. This was disaster!

  “Now that you’re here, don’t let’s go to this silly ball! I’d much rather we stayed and caught up on all the news. How is baby Elaine?”

  “Our darling child is well and crowing. But I’m counting on this evening, Jo. I hear Lord Kettering has a mount for sale that his wife has outgrown. I thought the beast might be interesting. And if I can’t arrange that, everyone else in town with an eye for good horseflesh will be there. It’s too good an opportunity to miss.”

  “But you can visit them all in the morning, if you are looking for a horse,” Joanna insisted. “Anyway, I have the headache. I don’t feel at all like going. Please, stay here with me!”

  “No, I think I must go. I’ll come to see you tomorrow.”

  Joanna looked up at her brother. His mouth was set in a determined line.

  He wasn’t in London to search for a horse. He was going to Lady Kettering’s ball only because Fitzroy would be there. Had rumor of the scandalous scene with Lady Reed reached all the way to Acton Mead?

  Oh, Lord! If Richard witnessed Fitzroy do the same with Lady Kettering, there might be bloodshed right there between the waltz and the Boulanger.

  Though neither Richard nor Fitzroy would be armed, she wouldn’t put it past her brother to seize the bow from the hands of the first violinist and use it to stab her husband to the heart.

  “Then I’ll come, after all. The headache isn’t so bad.”

  Richard escorted the ladies out to the Acton carriage.

  As Joanna was handed in next to her mother, Lady Acton leaned close and whispered in her ear.

  “I shall do my best, my dear child, to help you to keep them apart. I could not prevent Richard coming, I’m afraid. So could you ask Fitzroy to be more careful of public appearances, if he plans any major indiscretion tonight? I do not want to see Richard hurt over the worthless rake you have married.”

  * * *

  Fitzroy assessed the situation at a glance.

  Lady Kettering was waiting with ill-disguised impatience, tapping her fan, tossing her glossy brown curls, as she talked with some friends. Lady Acton briefly met his eyes, conveying a distinct warning and something very much like a plea. Joanna, his lovely, brave, forbidden wife, her eyes anxiously scanning the room, hung onto her brother’s arm. Richard Acton, his jaw set, was as alert as he had ever been in Spain on patrol against the French.

  What the hell was Lenwood doing in town? And tonight of all nights? How the devil was he going to handle this? To be called out by Richard Acton, a man he admired and liked, over Lady Kettering was the ultimate madness.

  Fitzroy stepped out of sight behind a pillar for a moment as the deadly absurdity of it threatened to undo him with derisive laughter.

  Lady Carhill was beautiful, at least.

  Delectable Lady Reed had even been a little in love with him. He had been left with the feeling that she had hated what she was doing as much as he had, that she really wanted something very different and had become trapped in the ugly masquerade with him almost by mistake. In another life perhaps he would joyfully have taken her as a mistress, instead of leaving her desolate, her hands empty.

  Unconsciously his fists clenched.

  For tall, graceful Lady Kettering with her perfect profile was entirely predatory.

  Fitzroy had no desire at all to pursue her.

  Yet he must. In spite of Lady Acton’s silent plea. In spite of Richard’s probable retaliation. And in spite, God help him, of Joanna.

  He wasn’t sure when it had begun, this craving for his wife. She was lovely, of course. But it was more than that. It was her courage and her humor and her passion for her art. Every night in her studio while she stood at the easel he would watch her: the graceful lines of her body, the mass of glossy hair, the way her tongue would sometimes slip onto her bottom lip as she worked in a fever of concentration.

  If he owed a debt to the gods for Juanita he was prepared to pay it.

  But why must Joanna suffer, also—and Green and Herring and Flanders?

  “Dance with me, quickly!”

  Fitzroy glanced around. His wife stood at his elbow, her face a little flushed.

  For the first time in his life, shock struck him dumb.

  “Come on!” she insisted. “Unless you want bloodshed and weeping and flocks of dark ravens!”

  He took her hand to lead her onto the floor. It was a country dance, involving a great deal of walking up and down and spinning of partners.

  “I’m sorry,” Joanna hissed, “that it’s not a waltz. It would have been easier to talk.”

  The steps separated them for a moment, but the next movement required Fitzroy to lead Joanna down the center of the aisle of dancers, then spin her about at the end, a moment when a private word could be exchanged.

  “I wanted Richard to see you behaving gracefully toward me in public, at least. Then, when you disappear, I’m coming too. Don’t look so astonished! It wasn’t hard to arrange.”

  Fitzroy swallowed hard. “And what, dear wife, have you arranged?”

  “Lady Kettering will be waiting in the summerhouse. You and I will go together into the garden. Then you can join her, while I hide in the bushes. Richard mustn’t know, you see. For though he’d prefer you to have a mistress—indeed he expects it—any public display of lubricity will make him think he has to act heroic on behalf of his sister.”

  Astonishment left him searching for balance.

  “You spoke with Lady Kettering?”

  His wife gazed up at him with wide, dilated eyes. “Why not? She was so surprised she agreed right away.”

  “Joanna. You can’t do this!”

  The steps of the dance spun them apart. When Fitzroy next took her hands Joanna grinned at him.

  “Why not? However despicable I may find my husband, I’d rather lead him to his lover than to his death—or Richard’s death, which counts more.”

  There was no time to reply. The dance was over.

  Clinging to his arm, Joanna steered Fitzroy out of the ballroom. From the corner of her eye, she saw Richard watch them leave. Her brother turned back to his partner with a set jaw. His frown furrowed a deep line between his eyebrows, but he could hardly object if his sister took a little air with her husband.

  The garden was cool and moist, dew already beading on the leaves and trailing vines.

  “The summerhouse is down there,” Joanna said, pointing. “Lady Kettering gave me precise directions. I pretended to believe that you had business with her. That disarmed her completely. She’s wondering whether I am simpleminded or merely immensely naive. I’ll be lost in the maze. It’s behind the shrubbery to our left.”

  Joanna knew quite clearly what she wanted. She wanted Fitzroy to forget Lady Kettering. She wanted him to tell her so: Devil take the shrubbery, Joanna! My only desire is to stay here with you.

  And then he would relax and laugh, and offer her something
of himself that he otherwise shared only with Lady Mary. Perhaps he would even kiss her again and take her, dizzy and enflamed, into his arms?

  Instead he inclined his head very slightly and smiled at her in the moonlight—a smile devoid of pleasure or intimacy, echoing nothing but anger and despair.

  “There is nothing I can say, Joanna. I’m so sorry.”

  He spun about and left her.

  She watched him for a moment striding away down the path toward the summerhouse. Then Joanna walked blindly through the shrubbery to lose herself in the maze.

  * * *

  Lady Kettering was leaning gracefully against a marble column. Fitzroy caught her from behind and spun her to face him.

  “Now,” he said. “No games. Do you have information for me or not?”

  She gave him a coquettish smile. “Ah, Lord Tarrant, you’re so very formidable! Are you threatening me?”

  “If you like.”

  “But if I have information, sir, you must pay the price for it. Let Helen but smile, and Trojans and Greeks war to the death. How foolish men are to fight over women! After all, Helen’s smile belonged only to Paris.”

  He thrust her up against the wall of the summerhouse, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles. The gesture mocked her, insulting.

  “You have just allowed my wife to be used in your nasty little game, Lady Kettering. That’s the one thing I cannot forgive. I will pay no further price. If you wish to give me a message, give it. Otherwise I shall walk away.”

  Lady Kettering ran one finger along his jaw. “And let Wellington die, and leave a poor lady bereft? You could not be so lacking in chivalry.”

  He seized her hand without mercy to bend her arm behind her back.

  “You have heard, perhaps, what happened in Spain to my first wife, Juanita? Don’t think you can trust me to be gallant, or spare you because of your gender. Tell me now, Lady Kettering, what you know.”

  “So you are a brute, after all,” she hissed. “I hardly believed it. Now you have proved it to be so. Very well. Let go of me and I’ll tell you. But the price is still owed, and I shall make sure it’s collected. If not now, then later. From the kindness of my heart, I let you avoid further public humiliation in the ballroom. Yet you show neither finesse nor appreciation. When the nightmare at last hollows out your soul, remember this moment, Lord Tarrant.”

  “What do you know?” he said, implacable.

  “I have a set of instructions for you. They were given to me just this afternoon. If you wish to save Wellington’s life, listen carefully. But in the future you will visit me whenever, and however, I demand it.”

  * * *

  Joanna sat on a small marble bench and peered up between the thick hedges at a wedge of night sky. A faint mist silvered the air. The stars were veiled.

  She shivered and closed her eyes.

  Fitzroy and Lady Kettering! Her throat hurt. Why did he do this? She could understand Quentin, perhaps, tied to a wife he couldn’t live with, avoiding commitment, becoming a rake. But Fitzroy? What drove him? What drove any Don Juan?

  For if he simply found every new woman irresistible, why not her? Was she so unattractive, so very undesirable to him?

  Or was it, as Lady Carhill had said, that he was still in love with his first wife?

  As soon as the opportunity presented itself, she must insist that Richard tell her what had happened.

  How had Juanita died?

  Chapter 12

  “After Theseus slew the Minotaur with the aid of Ariadne, he abandoned her. What do you suppose is the moral of that story? Never trust men in mazes?”

  Joanna’s voice almost betrayed her. “Fitzroy!”

  She could not face him. Hideous embarrassment burned, as if she might be throttled at any moment.

  He dropped onto the marble bench beside her and idly picked a blade of grass from the path at their feet.

  “Lady Kettering has returned to the ballroom. I don’t suppose you care, but other than her hand, I didn’t touch her.” He spun the grass blade about between his thumb and forefinger. “Even I, as hardened to depravity as I may be, could hardly consummate a rendezvous that was arranged by my wife, could I?”

  Her heart leaped back into its more usual orbit, beating a crazy rhythm of gladness. I didn’t touch her. Oh, it did matter!

  “Why not?” she said. “Wasn’t she pretty enough for your jaded tastes?”

  He gave her a shrewd glance, a small smile beginning to play at the corner of his mouth.

  “No, I find her very pretty, Joanna, though I don’t like her. She has promised to renew our rendezvous at some later date.”

  Joanna fought for the courage to keep her voice calm, to feign indifference.

  “Oh. Well, that’s all right, then.”

  She felt only too vulnerable, overly aware of his warmth and strength, sitting next to her in the darkness. Moonlight touched his profile, making him seem metallic, perfect, and completely unattainable.

  “Do you want to go back?” he asked.

  “To the ballroom?”

  “No, home. I have about as much desire to dance now as Hercules had to face the hydra.”

  Home? The formal rented house. It was the only home he had, of course.

  “By all means,” Joanna said. “Richard is probably breathing fire in the ballroom by now. Let’s escape and go to my studio. I can’t get your eyebrows to come right.”

  He reached out to run a thumb very gently across her forehead, smoothing down her eyebrow. Then he dropped his hand abruptly and sprang to his feet.

  They walked back to the house in silence. Throughout the carriage ride home, Joanna watched him, his mouth and his eyes, as he leaned back against the squabs, locked away in that place she could never reach, offering her nothing in return for her sacrifice.

  He is an arrogant, self-centered rogue! They had been the words of a child, understanding nothing.

  And what had her mother said? You are not selfish, Joanna. You are just filled with too much passion and too much burning longing for life.

  Fitzroy shifted a little and closed his eyes. Tension limned his jaw.

  Damn him! He has become part of my life. Can’t he understand that, and give me something—one drop of notice? Or share anything of his concerns and his torment? I’m his wife!

  * * *

  Fitzroy sat in the chair, casually posed with one arm along the back, his cravat abandoned, shirt open at the neck. Candlelight caressed his smooth skin, casting him in gold.

  Joanna, once again in her old dress and smock, hated him with a clear passion, and knew her emotion was only an imposture for desire.

  “Why don’t you paint anymore?” she asked as she mixed pigment on her palette.

  His reply was distant, preoccupied. “I have too much else to do.”

  “It seems to me a kind of cowardice.”

  He looked around at her, cocking a brow. “Does it?”

  Something was burning in her, something she had kept banked at Lady Kettering’s. But now a lonely, hot wind was stirring the embers and fanning them into flame.

  “Yes, it does. To give up a gift like yours shows an appalling failure of spirit, doesn’t it? What else can account for wasted genius? Only a craven loss of nerve, when, who knows, if you followed your talent you might prove to be a master?”

  The supple voice remained casual, impersonal. “But what if you were to make decisions in your life based on faith in that talent, and discovered that you weren’t a genius, after all?”

  His very coolness infuriated her. “Does that matter? As long as our effort is genuine, brings pleasure, fulfillment, who cares about society’s judgment? All art is a risk, isn’t it? We might show the world how mediocre we are. So it’s safer not to do it. It’s the same with your superiority and sarcasm. It shows nothing but a fear of letting your guard down, in case people see you for what you really are and remain unimpressed. Is that what happened in Spain for which Richard could never forgive
you? A base act of cowardice?”

  He stood up, his back stiff. “Perhaps.”

  Joanna marched up and down, violently stirring the paint. His casual response to this unforgivable affront to his honor only fueled her rage.

  “Just as you gave way to your father over our marriage. I think you have no bravery in you. Rakes don’t, do they?”

  “Courage is what you did tonight at Lady Kettering’s.” His voice had become very soft, intense. “You think I didn’t know, didn’t recognize that, or appreciate the spirit that it took? What’s happening now is the aftermath, like soldiers rioting after a battle. Don’t do this, Joanna!”

  “Don’t do what? I have never made any demands on you. I have honored the terms of our contract. But you have used me at every step. You left me at the church door after our wedding, and foolishly at the time I thought it rather splendid. But it meant that I was left without any support to face your father and mine—hardly the chivalrous act of a gentleman.”

  “No. I’m aware of that.”

  She spun about as her anger threatened to flame out of control.

  “And you take it for granted that I’ll be complacent and cooperative about your mistresses. But what about my pride and confidence? All those women! So beautiful and desirable. Lady Carhill was ready to weep over you.”

  He crossed the room in a few long, rapid strides. “What can I do, Joanna?”

  She looked up into his eyes, forcing herself to meet that devouring gaze in spite of the mortifying sting under her lids.

  “Meanwhile, I am the only female on this earth that you don’t want. I’ve had to swallow my humiliation over that, but it’s too hard. It makes me feel like the ugly stepsister, when every night you go to the ball with a different Cinderella. Should I chop off my heels and toes to fit them into the slipper, so that you’ll notice me, too?”

  He caught her by the wrist and tossed her palette aside, spilling paint as the wood cracked. Colors ran riotously together, a reflection of her wild, pure anger.

  “Notice you! Every night I sit in that damnable hard chair and watch you poring over your painting, giving all your love and generosity and courage to a dumb piece of canvas. Meanwhile, you’re never really studying my features. Obviously, it pains you to look at me. And why not, when I have behaved to you as I have? Yet Lady Carhill, Lady Reed, Lady Kettering, they mean nothing—nothing! Not one of them has been my mistress, though I don’t expect you to believe it. Why should you? Compared to your passion for art, I’m a mere cipher in your life. What the devil does it matter what I do?”