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‘Hmm?’ He watched her coming back to herself as he always did, marvelling at her total abandonment to pleasure, at the trust she showed in him to care for her.
‘Do you remember what you said, just before—?’
‘I am not certain I recall which day of the week it is.’
‘You were saying that you loved me when I was a boy.’ What was he doing, asking that? What did he expect now—that she would say I still do?
‘Well, yes.’ She slid from the desk and began to put herself to rights with precise little feminine dabs and tweaks that made him want to sweep her upstairs and rumple her all over again.
‘You were my friend. My best friend. Of course I loved you. I was certain one day that we would be married, although I had no idea what our fathers were scheming about. I had no idea what being married meant, of course.’ She was fussing with her hair now, pushing in pins. He couldn’t see her face and he had to put his hands behind his back to control the urge to reach out and raise her chin so he could read what was in her eyes.
‘All very innocent, although by the time of the...misunderstanding I was old enough to begin having other feelings. I suppose being so used to you as my friend meant that they just never occurred to me as what they were.’
‘And after the misunderstanding the last thing you wanted was to think of me like that,’ he stated flatly.
‘It was rather a shock for a somewhat naïve virgin.’ She looked up and all he could see was faint, rueful, amusement.
‘Yes, it must have been.’ That summer afternoon had done more than cause an unholy row and put his life on a new track. It had, he realised, killed what might have been a love match. ‘I suppose having the freedom to observe all the neighbouring marriages from the point of view of the spinster daughter gave you a somewhat cynical view of the institution,’ he ventured, not at all certain what he was fishing for.
‘You mean that I would not have seen much romance in marriage?’ Laurel finished putting her hair and clothing to rights and turned to reorganise his desk. ‘You would be surprised. My parents’ marriage was one. The curate Mr Marriott married Olivia Lawrence, much to everyone’s amazement—he being so serious and she being half his age and as flighty as they come—and that was the sweetest thing. I found them once sitting side by side on the stile into Glebe Meadow and he was making daisy chains for her hair.
‘There were others. And there were some where the couple were indifferent, or merely showed liking for one another.’ Laurel shrugged, a careless twist of her shoulder. ‘But who can tell what goes on behind closed doors? There, that is all your papers smoothed out. There is sealing wax everywhere though. I will ask Downing to send a maid in with a brush.’
‘You are going?’
‘Why, yes. I only dropped in to tell you I had been successful with Beatriz’s mama.’ She picked up the pile of post and sorted through it rapidly. ‘I will take my letters and let you get back to your labours in peace.’
So, what do we have? Giles wondered as the door closed behind his wife who had left a little trail of crushed sealing wax behind her on the carpet.
It was a friendly marriage, a companionable marriage, a sexually rewarding marriage. They were beyond liking, it seemed to him. But might Laurel love him, find those long-buried feelings she had cherished for the youth he had been?
I hope not, he thought. I have deceived her, lied to her by omission, forfeited her trust.
And this time it was no misunderstanding. If Laurel ever discovered why he had proposed to her he suspected that her feelings would go beyond the end of love. It might be that she would hate him.
* * *
‘Beatriz looks very lovely this evening,’ Laurel said to Senhora do Cardosa. The Portuguese Embassy was holding a small reception and the rooms were full of a glittering array of military uniforms and men whose clothing seemed laden with orders and medals, as well as the usual throng of the fashionable. ‘And she looks calmer. I do hope she is happier.’
‘We have a long talk,’ the other woman said. ‘There were much tears, but now she accepts that Lord Revesby truly is married and that he was never other than kind to her. She is still being foolish about her own marriage, of course.’ She heaved a sigh which made emeralds tremble across the tight golden satin sheathing her bosom. ‘Your husband is a very handsome man,’ she added in a tone of resignation.
Laurel managed not to look at Dom Frederico, who only the most devoted wife could call handsome. ‘Yes, he is. He was a most unprepossessing boy—all ears and nose and feet. I did not recognise him when I saw him again after nine years.’
‘And yet you loved him from the beginning.’ Senhora do Cardosa sighed again.
This was getting uncomfortable. ‘Excuse me, I will just go and have a word with Beatriz,’ Laurel said, seeing the young woman standing alone for a moment. ‘Senhorita Beatriz. How are you?’
‘Well, thank you.’ She looked at Laurel warily, obviously expecting a lecture. ‘I...I am sorry about... You know.’
‘I know. Tell me about your fiancé.’
‘Dom Ricardo? He is old and he is ugly.’ The pout was back, but her lower lip quivered, warning of tears soon enough.
‘How old?’
‘Thirty-five.’
‘That is not so bad. What is he like?’
