Corinna watched her go, frowning a little. Poor lady, she thought. How unhappy she is. Softly she closed the door.
Bruce did not return home that night until after one o’clock. She had sent word to him at Whitehall that she was not well enough to come to Court, but had asked him not to change his own plans. She had hoped, passionately, that he would—but he did not. She found it impossible to sleep and when she heard him come in she was sitting up in bed, propped against pillows and pretending to read a recent play of John Dryden’s.
He did not come into the bedroom but, as always, went into the nursery first to see the children for a moment. Corinna sat listening to the sound of his steps moving lightly over the floor, the soft closing of the door behind him—and knew all at once that little Bruce was the Duchess’s son. She wondered why she had not realized it long ago. That was why he had told her almost nothing at all of the woman who supposedly had been the first Lady Carlton. That was why the little boy had been so eager to return and had coaxed his father to take him back to England. That was why they seemed to know each other so well—why she had sensed a closeness between them which could have sprung from no casual brief love-affair.
She was sitting there, almost numb with shock, when he came into the room. He raised his brows as if in surprise at finding her awake, but smiled and crossed over to kiss her. As he bent Corinna picked up Rochester’s lampoon and handed it to him. He paused, and his eyes narrowed quickly. Then he took it from her, straightened without kissing her and glanced over it so swiftly it was obvious he had already seen it, and tossed it onto the table beside the bed.
For a long moment they were silent, looking at each other. At last he said, “I’m sorry you found out this way, Corinna. I should have told you long ago.”
He was not flippant or gay about it as she had thought he might be, but serious and troubled. But he showed no shame or embarrassment, not even any regret, except for the pain he had caused her. For several moments she sat watching him, the opened book still in her lap, one side of her face lighted by the candles on a nearby table.
“She’s Bruce’s mother, isn’t she?” she said at last.
“Yes. I should never have made up that clumsy lie—but I wanted you to love him and I was afraid that if you knew the truth you wouldn’t. And now—how will you feel about him now?”
Corinna smiled faintly. “I’ll love him just as much as I ever did. I’ll love you both as much as I ever did.” Her voice was soft, gentle, feminine as a painted fan or the fragrance of lilacs.
He sat down on the bed facing her. “How long have you known about this?”
“I’m not sure. It seems like forever, now. At first I tried to pretend that it was only a flirtation and that I was being foolishly jealous. But the other women dropped hints and I watched you together and once I saw you at the New Exchange—Oh, what’s the use going over it again? I’ve known about it for weeks.”
For a time he was silent, sitting staring with a scowl down at his feet, shoulders hunched over, elbows resting on his spread legs. “I hope you’ll believe me, Corinna—I didn’t bring you to London for anything like this. I swear I didn’t expect it to happen.”
“You didn’t think she’d be here?”
“I knew she would. But 1 hadn’t seen her for two years. I’d forgotten—well, I’d forgotten a lot of things.”
“Then you saw her when you were here last—after we were married?”
“Yes. She was staying here at Almsbury House.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Almost ten years.”
“Almost ten years. Why, I’m practically a stranger to you.” He smiled, looking at her briefly, and then turned away again. “Do you love her, Bruce—” she asked him at last. “Very much?” She held her breath as she waited for him to answer.
“Love her?” He frowned, as though puzzled himself. “If you mean do I wish I’d married her, I don’t. But in another sense-Well, yes, I suppose I do. It’s something I can’t explain—something that’s been there between us since the first day I saw her. She’s—well, to be perfectly honest with you, she’s a woman any man would like to have for a mistress—but not for a wife.”
“But how do you feel now—now that you’ve seen her again and can’t give her up? Perhaps you’re sorry that you married me.”
Bruce looked at her swiftly, and then all at once his arms went about her, his mouth pressed against her forehead. “Oh, my God, Corinna! Is that what you’ve been thinking? Of course I’m not sorry! You’re the only woman I ever wanted to marry—believe me, darling. I never wanted to hurt you. I love you, Corinna—I love you more than anything on earth.”
Corinna nudged her head against him, and once more she felt happy and secure. All the doubts and fears of the past weeks were gone. He loves me, he doesn’t want to leave me. I’m not going to lose him after all. Nothing else mattered. Her life was so completely and wholly absorbed in him that she would have taken whatever he was willing to give her, left over from one love-affair or ten. And at least she was his wife. That was something the Duchess of Ravenspur could never have—she could never even acknowledge the son she had borne him.
At last Corinna said softly, her head resting just beneath his chin: “You were right, Bruce, when you said that I belonged to a different world from this one. I don’t feel that I’m part of it at all—no Court lady, I suppose, would dare admit she cared if her husband was in love with someone else. But I care and I’m not ashamed of it.” She tipped back her head and looked up at him. “Oh, darling—I do care!”
His green eyes watched her tenderly and at last he gave a faint rueful smile, his mouth touching the crown of her head just where the glossy dark hair parted. “It won’t do any good for me to tell you I’m sorry I’ve hurt you. I am. But if you read any more lampoons or hear any more gossip—Believe me, Corinna, it’s a lie.”
CHAPTER SIXTY–FOUR
IN HYDE PARK there was a pretty half-timbered cottage set beside a tiny lake, where all the fashionable world liked to stop for a syllabub or, if the weather was cold, a mug of lambs’-wool or hot mulled wine. It was almost Christmas now and too late in the year to ride, but there were several crested gilt coaches waiting in the cold grey-and-scarlet sunset outside the Lodge. The drivers and footmen smoked their pipes, sometimes stamped their feet to keep warm as they stood about in groups, laughing and talking together—exchanging the newest back-stairs gossip on the lords and ladies who had gone inside.
A sea-coal fire was burning high in the oak-panelled great room. There was a cluster of periwigged and beribboned young fops about the long bar, drinking their ale or brandy, throwing dice and matching coins. Several ladies were seated at tables with their gallants. Waiters with balanced trays moved about among them and three or four fiddles were playing.
Amber—wearing an ermine-lined hooded cloak of scarlet velvet and holding a syllabub glass in one hand and her muff of dripping ermine tails in the other—stood near the fireplace talking to Colonel Hamilton, the Earl of Arran and George Etherege.
She chattered fluently and there was an ever-shifting, vivacious play of expression over her face. She seemed to be engrossed in the three of them. But all the while her eyes watched the door—it never opened that she did not know who came in or went out. And then, at last, the languid golden Mrs. Middleton sauntered in with Lord Almsbury at her elbow. Amber did not hesitate an instant. Excusing herself from the three men she wove her way across the room to where the newcomers were standing, Jane still pausing just within the doorway to give the crowd time to discover her.