Slightly Married by Mary Balogh Page A

He raised his eyebrows and looked instantly haughty.
    “For Becky and Davy,” she said. “My children. And for Benjamin, Thelma's son.”
    She half expected him to say something like
for the illegitimate brat
? But he did not do so. He rose from his chair and drew hers back when she got to her feet.
    “We will go to Oxford Street,” he said. “You will find plenty to spend your money on there.”
    She found a brightly painted wooden spinning top for Benjamin and a porcelain doll that looked very like a real baby for Becky. The colonel, who had wandered away from Eve's side, in boredom, she supposed, came back with two cricket bats, a ball, and wickets.
    “The boy will probably like these,” he said, “if he does not already have them.”
    “No, he does not.” She smiled at him. “Thank you. I had no idea what I would choose for him.”
    “All boys enjoy cricket,” he said.
    “Do they?” Had he? It was hard to picture him as a boy, playing, running, laughing, carefree.
    She paid for her purchases, which included lace handkerchiefs for Thelma and Aunt Mari, and Colonel Bedwyn carried the parcels out of the shop and stowed them safely on the floor of the curricle before handing Eve up one last time. She was weary. Nevertheless, when the Pulteney Hotel finally came into sight and she realized that their afternoon out was over, she felt disappointment. So soon? she thought. Reality was going to set in soon enough, she knew, but she was not ready for it yet.
    “Will you dine with us?” she asked.
    “Thank you, but no,” he said, offering no excuse. “I will return for you in the morning. We will make a timely start again.”
    He escorted her into the lobby after directing a servant to carry her purchases upstairs for her, and was about to take his leave when a distinguished-looking older gentleman in military uniform stopped abruptly beside them and raised a quizzing glass to his eye.
    “Ah, Bedwyn,” he said heartily. “I
thought
that was you. In England for the victory celebrations, are you?”
    “General Naughton,” the colonel said. “How do you do, sir?”
    Eve took a step back, aware again that she was well out of her social milieu, but the general turned his quizzing glass on her and raised his eyebrows. Colonel Bedwyn cupped her elbow with his right hand and drew her forward.
    “I have the honor of presenting my wife, sir,” he said.
    “Your wife? Bless my soul, I did not know you were married, Bedwyn,” the general said. “How do you do, Lady Aidan? Enjoying a stay in London, are you?”
    “Indeed yes,” she said. “We have been sightseeing all afternoon.”
    “Splendid, splendid. I will see the two of you at some of the celebrations.” He nodded genially and went on his way.
    Eve was feeling rather stunned.
Lady Aidan.
Foolishly, that was one thing she had not thought about since agreeing to this hasty marriage. She was no longer Eve Morris. She was Lady Aidan Bedwyn.
    “Until tomorrow morning, then,” her husband said. And with a curt bow he was gone.
    There was a terrible feeling of emptiness then. Like a child whose grand treat is over, she found herself gazing after him and into an endlessly gray future.

C HAPTER VII

    A IDAN WAS STANDING AT A WINDOW OF THE drawing room in Ringwood Manor, gazing out at grayness. For the first time since his return to England the clouds were low and heavy and rain threatened. He hoped to be well on his way to Hampshire before darkness fell, but the final leg of the journey from London had been a long one and he had accepted the invitation to take some refreshments before resuming his journey. He lifted his teacup from its saucer and drained his tea.
    The ladies were sitting in a group behind him—his wife, Mrs. Pritchard, and the governess, who had been introduced to him as Miss Rice. It had seemed strange to him that the governess should be invited to join them for tea, but several things had struck him as strange about this household—the