“I think,” she said, “that they want to believe, quite correctly, that their son acted on the strength of his own convictions, that he insisted upon going because it was what he wanted to do. I think the other parents believe the same thing about their sons.”
“It was a strange sort of vanity, then,” he said, “to believe that I had so much influence over them?”
Chloe hesitated.
“Yes,” she said. “I think if you search your memories, Ralph, it is quite possible you will remember that the idea came from you but that the decision was individually made by four friends.”
They lapsed into silence. One of his hands came to the back of her head again, and she felt him lower his head to kiss her.
“I do not suppose,” he said, “you will ever be an obedient wife, will you?”
“It is not unmanly to weep,” she told him.
“The devil it is not.” He nudged her away from his chest and gazed into her face. His own was a bit blotchy. His scar was more pronounced than usual.”
“I hope you do not mind too much that I stayed,” she said. “Sometimes we need company while we weep, especially when we are mourning a loss.”
“They have been dead for more than seven years,” he said.
“No,” she said. “For you they have just died.”
“What did I do to deserve you?” he asked her.
“Oh. Nothing.” She sat up abruptly and got to her feet. “I asked you, if you will remember. It was very brazen of me.” She brushed her hands over nonexistent creases in her skirt.
“I am very glad you did,” he said.
She looked down a little uncertainly at him. He was looking more disheveled than ever, quite rumpled, in fact. And almost irresistibly gorgeous.
“Are you glad?” he asked her.
“Of course I am,” she said. “I did not want to go through life a spinster.”
“And that is all this is?” He was half smiling at her. “A convenient marriage?”
She did not know how to reply.
“You tell me,” she said.
He got to his feet, took her right hand in his, and drew it through his arm.
“I think we had better go to bed,” he said, “and make love. We still have an heir to create, remember? Or perhaps a daughter first. I would like a daughter. Do you think she would have your hair? Let’s go create. And have some pleasure too. It is enjoyable, is it not?”
He turned his head and raised his eyebrows when she did not reply.
“Yes,” she said, “it is.”
His hand was on the doorknob. Before he turned it, he lowered his head and kissed her briefly and openmouthed.
23
Ralph could remember only one occasion when the ballroom at Stockwood House had been used as such. He must have been somewhere between the ages of eight and ten. It had been his grandparents’ ball, though it was his mother and father who had acted as hosts through most of the evening. Ralph and his sisters had watched the revelries from an upper gallery for half an hour or so under the supervision of a nurse, but while the girls had been enraptured by absolutely everything and everybody and could not wait until they were old enough to attend such a ball themselves, he had watched the men bow and scrape to the ladies and mince gracefully about the dance floor like idiots and wondered in horror if he would ever be expected to behave in such an asinine way.
He smiled at the memory now as he looked about the ballroom. The floor gleamed with fresh polish. The three chandeliers still rested on it, but soon the candles would be lit and they would be hoisted up close to the ceiling, which was ornately coved and gilded and painted with angels and cherubs and harps and trumpets floating in a blue sky among fluffy, pinkish clouds in a scene that came from no classical myth or Bible story that Ralph had ever encountered. The wall mirrors had been polished until not a speck of dust or a single fingerprint remained. Vines had been twined about the pillars down the length of the room. Banks of flowers and greenery surrounded them and filled the air with their mingled scents. Several instruments were propped on the orchestra dais.
Through the wide double doorway at the far end of the room, Ralph could see long tables covered with white linen cloths that would soon be piled with platters of fruit and dainties and drinks to refresh the guests before supper.
His mother had come and fussed. So had Nora. Great-Aunt Mary had come and made free with her lorgnette and advice. Grandmama had asked a thousand anxious questions. Ralph had made it clear to all of them that he and Chloe needed no assistance, that they had organized the ball themselves and did not anticipate any major catastrophe—or any minor one for that matter.
It was a bit unfair to claim all the credit, of course, since Arthur Lloyd had done a great deal of the planning and most of the work had been undertaken by the housekeeper and the cook and all the household staff.
When his mother had come to offer her services, Chloe had been from home and Ralph had been about to go out. She had sat down in the drawing room after he had thanked her for coming but declined her help and gazed at him for a long moment.
“Ralph,” she had said then, “you are back? You are really back?”
He might have been forgiven if he had not known what on earth she was talking about. But he did know.
“Yes,” he had said. “I am, Mama.”
She had closed her eyes and drawn a slow breath. “Chloe did this?” she had asked. “It is a good marriage after all, then, is it?”