A few minutes later Chloe had seen her papa actually shake the marquess by the hand and introduce Graham.
Ralph’s grandmother, wearing heavy mourning, had come with Great-Aunt Mary, who looked resplendent in purple with an enormous turban on her head and a jewel-encrusted lorgnette. The two of them were sitting in the small salon close to the ballroom, holding court to a number of the more elderly guests.
The Duke of Stanbrook had come, as had Lord and Lady Trentham. And several of Gwen’s family and lady friends, to whom Chloe had been introduced at an afternoon tea, were there with their husbands—the Earl and Countess of Kilbourne, the Marquess and Marchioness of Attingsborough, Viscount and Viscountess Ravensberg, Lord and Lady Aidan Bedwyn, the Duke and Duchess of Bewcastle. The ladies felt like personal friends, Chloe thought, even though she had met a few of them only on that one occasion.
She belonged.
She was wearing the emerald green evening gown she had had made especially to please the dowager duchess. She had had her hair trimmed again, and Mavis had done wonders with the curling tongs. And she wore the emerald pendant necklace and earrings with which Ralph had gifted her earlier today. She believed she looked her best and no longer felt the need to fade into the background and hide the vividness of her coloring. Whether the ton believed the Marquess of Hitching really was her father she neither knew nor cared.
She was happy. She had thought she would be contented just to be married, and indeed she would have been if the bargain she had agreed to with Ralph had been kept strictly according to its original terms. But there was so much more. Oh, she must never expect more than she already had, but it was enough to make her happy.
Ralph was a changed man. His eyes were no longer blank or shuttered. He had been forgiven—or at least he had been assured that no forgiveness was necessary because no offense had been committed. More important—of infinitely greater importance, in fact—he had forgiven himself. He had recognized too, perhaps, that he had never been as much to blame for his friends’ presence in the Peninsula and in the line of fire as he had always insisted upon believing.
He was at peace with himself. That did not mean that he had stopped mourning those three men or ever would. Nor did it mean that he would not continue suffering the aftereffects of having been at war, of having killed and been gravely wounded, of having witnessed unspeakable atrocities, all at the age of eighteen. But at least he was fully in the land of the living again.
He was fond of her, she believed. They still carried on with their nearly separate lives during the daytime, as was the way of the ton during the months of spring, and attended social functions together in the evenings. They still made love each night. Ah, but the nature of that lovemaking had changed. Some of their encounters were brief, some more prolonged. Some were quiet, others more tumultuous. Sometimes they spoke, sometimes not. Sometimes—most times, in fact—he stripped her nightgown up and off her body before he started or soon after he started. Almost always he slept with one arm beneath her neck or an arm flung across her waist, or one leg hooked over hers. He seemed to need to touch her. The lovemaking no longer seemed to be just about getting her with child.
It was not love. She must not and would not make the mistake of thinking it was. She would only invite heartbreak if she did. But it was . . . something. There was some affection there. She was sure of it. There was, after all, some emotional bond between them. And it was enough. She would make it enough.
She was happy.
Chloe and Ralph had led off the dancing together with a quadrille. Then she had danced a stately country dance with her papa. She had been standing with Graham and the Duke of Stanbrook before the third set, having just greeted a couple of late arrivals, and had expected that one of them would solicit her hand. But before either could speak up, the Marquess of Hitching was bowing to her and asking if he might claim the set.
“I suppose,” she said when the figures of the dance brought them together and allowed them a few moments for private speech, “we are the object of much curiosity.”
“Does that upset you?” he asked her.
“No.” She shook her head. “Not at all. I am glad you came.”
The figures took them apart again.
“I am glad you came back to London after last year,” he said the next time they had a chance to speak, “and that you are well married. Happily married, if I am not mistaken. Your mother must have been very proud of you, Chloe. She would be especially proud tonight.”
She smiled but did not tell him that her mother had been embarrassed by her more than she had been proud.
She danced with Lord Aidan Bedwyn and was dancing with Lord Keilly, her brother-in-law, when a bit of a commotion near the door heralded the appearance in the hall below of the large entourage that preceded the arrival of the king. Chloe hurried toward the ballroom door while the music stopped abruptly and everyone moved back to the sidelines, buzzing with eager anticipation.
The poor king had been generally unpopular when he was merely the Prince Regent, irreverently known as Prinny, prior to his father’s death. He was no more popular now. Nevertheless, he was the King of England, and it was a huge coup to have one’s entertainment graced with his company.
Despite herself, Chloe’s knees felt decidedly unsteady as she made her way downstairs on Ralph’s arm.
The king was a huge man, blown up by excessive eating and drinking and self-importance and vanity. He was also, Chloe thought after she had sunk into a deep curtsy and he had taken one of her hands in both of his and patted it and commended her on her looks and her home and her husband, capable of a boyish charm that made him irresistibly likable.