Midnight Without a Moon Page 8

  “Perhaps if you behaved yourself, you wouldn’t have been forced into such a hasty, scandalous marriage, darling. I feel confident, in the light of your past amorous exploits, all of London will expect a seven-month child. Shall I ring for tea?” Looking unmoved by the reprimand, the countess reached for a bell pull by her chair.

  Picking one of the sturdier-looking chairs, Trenton sat down, his long booted legs incongruous to the pale, thick carpeting. “You may ring for it, of course. How long we stay depends on you. The fact we do not see eye to eye on most everything is between us. Please do not take it out on my wife. As long as that is understood, we can have a pleasant visit.”

  She hadn’t expected this open animosity between mother and son, and Jessica felt a little out of her depth. When her mother-in-law pinned her again with one of those unfathomable looks, she rather wished the floor would open, and she could sink away. Olivia’s smile was as cool as her fluted voice. “At least she is presentable, that’s a help, and the color of her hair is unusual enough to draw notice, but what on earth is she wearing?”

  “I’ve already had my secretary make an appointment with a dressmaker.” Trenton’s reply was equally as cool. “So you needn’t worry she’ll embarrass you in public. As she is sitting right here in the room with us, let’s not discuss Jessica as if she were an object, not a person.”

  Considering it was one of the dresses her mother had ordered for her two years ago, Jessica didn’t have any doubts her gown was both hopelessly unfashionable and worn. Lifting her chin slightly, she said defensively, “In the country, there was little need for high fashion, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m sure you are very lovely without your clothes, my dear child, so Trenton didn’t mind, did he?” Before her son could react to that statement, Olivia Wyatt announced, “I will be accompanying you to your appointment, naturally. A whole new wardrobe is in order. I doubt you’ll have the slightest idea how to select it. I also am planning a small party to celebrate your nuptials—it’s expected when an earl marries to at least give society a nod and introduce his bride. My son has never cared much for convention. I expect, however, for you to conduct yourself in a manner befitting his countess.”

  Looking carelessly amused, his dark gaze direct, Trenton murmured dryly, “What do you think, Jess? Are you willing to be a staid, proper matron, molded by my mother into a boring paragon that the entire haute ton admires and wants to emulate?”

  Since she knew very well that he was teasing her, Jessica smiled and said sweetly, “That sounds very…nice.”

  He laughed then, his well-shaped mouth twitching. “You would do it, wouldn’t you?” His gaze was intimate and warm, as if they were alone. “Just to spite me.”

  Jessica couldn’t help it. His charm was so palatable that for a second she forgot her icy mother-in-law. She stifled a laugh. “Despite your belief to the contrary, my lord, everything I do does not concern you.”

  His gaze narrowed a fraction. “Yes, it does. Don’t forget it, Jess.”

  “Don’t you want me to become a credit to your title?” Her reply was delicately taunting, since it was easy to see Trenton’s disdain for the emphasis put on position and nobility.

  It was an interesting side to him that she didn’t know existed. She liked the fact he wasn’t a snob like so many of his class, which at least partially explained why he accepted marrying someone like herself, with no dowry or exalted family bloodlines.

  Her husband shifted a little, putting the insubstantial chair in danger. His smile glimmered wickedly. “I want you, certainly. And I rather think you are fine as you are, though I suppose clothing that would give due credit to your beauty is in order.”

  Well aware his mother was avidly listening to the byplay, Jessica turned and gave her a small smile. “I truthfully would like your help with Madame Valmy, if you are sincere. My maid told me she is very formidable.”

  Olivia smiled with haughty assurance. “Not nearly as formidable as myself, child.”

  * * * *

  The afternoon had cleared and was a deep reflection of gorgeous autumn colors, even in the city. The sky was a particular cobalt color unique to this time of year, and the air was crisp, with just an edge that hinted of the teeth of winter waiting to bite. Letting himself into the townhouse, Trenton was a little surprised to see the butler, Winters, hovering just inside the doorway, his normally stoic face holding a slightly distressed expression.

  Elderly, but still upright and always painfully proper, he took Trenton’s greatcoat. “You have a visitor, your lordship.”

  Something about the way the man’s mouth pursed spoke of disapproval, which didn’t bode well. Trenton said neutrally, “Do I?”

  “I took the liberty of having Lady Tate wait in the green salon.”

  Well, bloody hell. If he hadn’t already been craving a drink after enduring nearly two hours with his mother, he would be now. In irritation, he muttered, “Well then, I guess it is just as well that Lady Declan is at the modiste with my mother, isn’t it?”

  “I am sure I can’t say, sir.”

  Trenton gave the older man an amused glance, knowing full well the servants were aware of his former relationship with the lady in question, hence the butler’s poorly concealed shock over her bold visit. “It is always best if one’s former mistress does not meet one’s current wife, Winters. Even if I have only been married a short time, I know that much.”

  “It does seem a logical conclusion to come to, my lord,” Winters admitted.

  “Yes, well, logic and women infrequently go hand in hand, but I have to agree with you there. I suppose I’ll survive, and this is best gotten done with as quickly as possible. Bring in some claret, will you? Or better yet, brandy. Something stiffer might be in order.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Walking swiftly down the hallway, Trenton pasted a grim smile on his face and opened the door to see that Alison stood by the window, turning at the sound of his entrance. As always, she wore a gown that emphasized her considerable charms to the advantage, the cleavage almost a bit too deep for the afternoon. The pale blue satin of her dress picked up the color of her eyes, and her shining ebony hair was coiled intricately at her nape. Graceful and lovely, her welcoming smile belied the cold accusation in her gaze.

  “Hello, Trenton.” The greeting was given in a low, throaty voice.

  “Hello.” Doing little more than politely inclining his head, he asked bluntly, “Did you not get my note?”

  “I did, indeed.” She lifted one sculpted dark brow. “Rather churlish of you, darling, if I may say so. A few scribbled words after all the hours I have spent in your arms?”

  “That wasn’t my intention,” he admitted truthfully. “Perhaps I am guilty as charged, but I am also now married, so what else I could do, I am not sure. Arriving here in London and going off to see you first thing would raise many eyebrows. I am simply not interested in subjecting Jessica to malicious gossip.”

  “Aren’t you?” Framed by the afternoon sunshine, Alison’s false smile quickly wavered and vanished. Her eyes were hard as diamonds. “How gallant. Where is your little bride? Off milking a cow somewhere? I understand she is a countrified chit whose family cannot scrape together two coins.”

  At one time, he’d found Alison’s blatant pretentiousness merely mildly annoying. This afternoon, it grated sorely on nerves already abraded by both his mother and her unwelcome visit. Trenton said shortly, “Her brother is one of my best friends, who is also a distinguished colonel in Wellington’s army, and the Fairmans have been our neighbors in Kent for years. What’s more, not only is she a perfectly acceptable bride for anyone, she is bright and beautiful, and refreshingly gracious.”

  “Such quick defense,” Alison said coldly, “and here I thought you’d just gotten caught fucking the wrong woman.”

  “Or the right one,” Trenton amended softly, warning implicit in his tone at both her crudity and the subject matter.

  Crystalline blue e
yes flashed cold fire. “I gave myself to you because I believed your intentions were honorable.”

  Giving a low mirthless laugh, Trenton replied, “You weren’t exactly a virgin when we met. Far from it. I was willing to overlook that fact to an extent, for I’m not some hypocrite who thinks women should languish away, preserving their innocence while their suitors amuse themselves freely. However, do not imply I ever gave you slightest reason to think my intentions were anything except strictly dishonorable, my lady.”

  “If my father knew you’d compromised me, he’d ruin you.”

  Squarely meeting her glittering gaze, Trenton arched a brow. “He could try, of course, but I have more money and more influence. If he were to approach me in any way on the subject, I’d simply give him the names of several gentlemen who could vouch for the fact that your body was not exactly uncharted territory before I enjoyed it. Besides, if you think for a moment he didn’t know of our involvement, my sweet, think again. If he ignored it then, he’d certainly not wish to address it now.” The truth was he knew Alison’s father fairly well and liked the man, which was one of the reasons he’d even briefly considered marrying her. Though they hadn’t actually discussed it, Trenton had gotten the impression that Randolph Tate had no illusions over the conduct of his very lovely but spoiled daughter.

  The arrival of the butler with a tray and glasses made no difference to Alison. Shoulders back, her face pale with anger, she said viciously, “If you think for a moment I am going to quietly endure being cast aside for some pasty-faced country wench who cleverly spread her legs in order to trap you into this farcical marriage, think again, my lord.”

  “I can’t see you have a choice, my dear Lady Tate,” Trenton responded curtly, barely controlling his temper and gratefully accepting a snifter of brandy from an expressionless Winters. Taking a large bracing sip and lifting a brow, he said with controlled emphasis, “I would, of course, offer you refreshment, but as you are just leaving, that seems pointless.”

  “I’ll meet her,” Alison said then, walking toward him with her hips swaying, her face twisted into a mask of venom. “It is bound to happen, of course. London is not such a large place after all, and we do move in the same circles. And when I do, dearest Trenton, I will take great pleasure in giving your sweet, saccharine little wife the intimate details of our relationship. Surely she knows you won’t be faithful. As for myself, I have no doubt you’ll be back sniffing around me in no time. You simply are not the kind of man who stays constant to one woman. That magnificent cock of yours isn’t interested in fidelity.”

  Trenton took another sip from his glass. Neutrally, he observed, “If you believe that’s true, Alison, why were you so bent on becoming the next Lady Declan?”

  Her shrug was calculated, her smug expression almost chillingly sincere. “You offered what I want. Title, position, money. In bed, you are refreshingly generous, and I like a man who has your…glorious size.” Stopping in front of him, she reached out and ran her hand down the front of his jacket in a suggestive movement toward the crotch of his breeches.

  Catching her wrist before she could go farther down, Trenton stepped back. “Winters will see you out, of course.”

  The fact she left without further argument was probably not a good sign, he reflected in disgust as he drank his brandy and brooded at the empty hearth. Gage had warned him, and truthfully, he hadn’t given much credence to the possibility that Alison, with her obvious charms, wouldn’t simply select another lover. She was almost twenty-two and unwed by choice, so he’d just assumed marriage hadn’t been the point of her very blatant pursuit a few months ago.

  His mistake, apparently.

  Walking over to the window and looking out abstractly into the walled garden, he pondered wryly on the exact technique a man was supposed to use to warn his wife about vindictive ex-lovers. He was usually a better judge of the level of emotional attachment incurred in an affair, not that Alison’s fury was over a broken heart, but perhaps more of stung pride and disappointment over not getting something she had decided she wanted.

  He undoubtedly needed to say something to Jessica, for if he knew Alison at all, she would make good on her threat.

  Being a responsible married man, he decided as he drained his glass, had its drawbacks.

  * * * *

  “Turn around, child.”

  Gritting her teeth to keep from a sharp reply to that snapped command, Jessica did as she was told, slowly pirouetting on the small stand, clad only in her chemise.

  “Her figure,” the dowager countess observed with detached calculation, “is lovely, but then again, my son certainly should be a connoisseur. Nice breasts, a slender waist. She should be stunning in the latest styles. However, what do you think of her hair?”

  “Not your usual blond shade, that is sure.” Madame Valmy, large, damp and untidy, with straggles of curly improbably dark hair wisping around her plump face, said firmly. “It is a problem only if one is ignorant enough to dress the new countess in pastels.” Grabbing a lock of Jessica’s loose hair, she demonstrated against a swath of midnight blue silk. “See? Pale gold against such dark, rich fabric. It will be glorious, I promise.”

  “No reds. She’s too fair.”

  Madame looked affronted. “No, indeed. I need to fan myself lest I faint at the thought. Coral, perhaps, deep rose certainly. Ivory satin trimmed with amber…”

  Composed and discreetly elegant, Olivia Wyatt sat in a chair watching as dozens of bolts of varying fabrics were brought in and presented, looking for all the world like a queen on her petty throne. It was true, Jessica realized as she stood there like a mannequin. She would certainly not have had the slightest idea what to choose. As she was measured, pinned, turned, and ordered to lift her arms, neither would she have dreamt of ordering so many different gowns. The fabrics and styles were selected in staccato jabs of a finger or a curt nod, all of them approved by the masterful and overpowering presence of the modiste herself. Everything, including undergarments, slippers, and even sleeping gowns, was a matter for deep discussion, sometimes excruciatingly embarrassing, as Olivia apparently felt no compunction about pointing out her son’s reputation as a man who enjoyed the opposite sex.

  In fact, Jessica guessed as she was finally allowed to don her own clothing, the shop in a flurry of activity with a very pleased looking Madame Valmy presiding, that seemed to be the source of the conflict between mother and son.

  Interesting.

  Once they were back in the carriage, Olivia gave her a thin smile as they rocked away down the crowded street. “I hope you paid attention. That was your first lesson in how to effectively spend your husband’s money, my dear.”

  “We certainly did that,” Jessica agreed with an inward wince, hoping the size of the bill had not been reflected in Madame Valmy’s extreme good cheer as she bid them good-bye and promised at least several gowns by tomorrow. “He did say to spend whatever was necessary, which I thought very generous.”

  “Trenton has his share of faults—maybe more than his share, though I must say,” his mother seemed to admit grudgingly, “he is not a tight-fisted ogre when it comes to money. My oldest son has an uncommon knack for managing the fortune his father left him.” Her thin brows lifted and her stare was speculative. “It is just too bad for you that that isn’t the only thing he inherited from my late husband. He is the spitting image of Robert in every way.”

  Aunt Edna’s remarks on the former earl’s rakish habits came uncomfortably to mind, and Jessica squelched a glimmer of dismay. Trying to match her mother-in-law’s formidable cool poise, she said neutrally, “I’ve known Trenton most of my life, my lady. His reputation is no secret. I may be young, but I am not idealistic, so if you are telling me he won’t be faithful, believe me, I have already considered that possibility.”

  Those arched brows went up another notch. “Have you now? You sound remarkably practical about the whole thing. Perhaps you are not as vapidly enamored of my son as was my f
irst impression. My advice is to deal with your marriage with your eyes wide open and put your own happiness first, accepting the fact that though he gives you social position and wealth, they come with a price.”

  She was all too vapidly enamored of Trenton Wyatt, but Jessica wasn’t likely to admit it to this woman who seemed to almost actively dislike him. “That is rather strange advice from his mother,” Jessica said bluntly, unable to conceal her slight shock.

  “Not at all.” Olivia adjusted her silken skirts with a languid movement of one long-fingered hand. “It is in my best interest that you deal with your marriage with dignity and do not dissolve into a puddle of hysteria at the first scandalous whisper. You are a beautiful young woman, an unknown to society who managed to snare one of England’s most determined libertines into marriage. Everyone will be watching you, child. Your behavior reflects on the Declan name and title.”

  Had Olivia once been an idealistic bride who had suffered disillusionment when she learned her husband was a philanderer? It was an interesting thought, and one best not said out loud, Jessica guessed. She cleared her throat. “While Trenton may not have lived the life of a paragon of virtue, my lady, he is nonetheless a charming, intelligent, considerate man.”

  “Charming. Yes, indeed.” The other woman’s laugh was an icy tinkle, her voice bitter. “That is the trouble, my dear. Keep in mind that as charming as you find him, so does a variety of other women. I saw him turning into his father as he grew into a man and was helpless to change him, though I certainly tried.”

  Jessica said defensively, “I cannot imagine him other than exactly as he is, nor would I wish for it.”

  “No? Listen to yourself, my dear, leaping so quickly to his defense despite your claims of pragmatic realism. Unfortunately, I saw the way you looked at him this afternoon, exactly like a besotted young bride. It would perhaps have been best if he married Alison Tate, for she at least would approach the union with the same immoral indifference. She’s an alley cat dressed in silk and satin. While you,” the countess shook her elegant head slightly, “are not nearly as well-equipped with claws.”