A Lady's Choice

by Donna Lea Simpson

  But she had steadfastly lied, and would never forget the doubt and hurt on Andromeda’s face. Had she not grown up at all since then?

  She took a deep breath, looked down at her gloves, but then met the other woman’s steady gaze. “I lied to you when I said that Lady Yarnell had filled the box that night. In truth . . .” Rachel glanced away; how to say this next? “My future mother-in-law is a very prideful and—I will be blunt, because you are an old friend whom I trust—unpleasant woman. She is haughty. She said some disagreeable things about you, and I knew that if you were in the box with just myself, Yarnell and his mother, you would be subjected to her spite.”

  It was not quite the truth, but this would save Andromeda’s feelings best. Or would it? Was she just saving herself again? Was she still that seven-year-old girl afraid to tell the truth? She took a deep breath, and continued. “I would not have you and Miss de Launcey insulted, especially by a woman such as Lady Yarnell. But also . . . I was thinking of myself, too. I would be completely honest with you, Miss Varens.” She twisted her hands together and pulled at her gloves. “Lady Yarnell could make my life difficult in future if I do not follow her lead and freeze out those of whom she does not approve.”

  Andromeda’s frozen expression thawed. There was sympathy there, finally. “She did appear to me to be a haughty and unpleasant woman. You were in a difficult position.” She put out one ungloved, knobby hand and patted Rachel’s. “I knew it had to be something that would not reflect so poorly on you as it would if you had just changed your mind on a whim! And I told Colin as much.”

  Relieved by the other woman’s kindness, Rachel yet realized that she had not told the entire truth. If she was honest, she would have to say that she had never once thought of Andromeda and Belinda’s feelings in the matter; it had been expediency on her part only. But she vowed to herself never to be so casually cruel again, and never to be so swayed by her own needs. After all, who, in London—aside from her own family—could she trust more than Andromeda and Colin? Who would be kind to her even if all others turned their backs?

  “Thank you,” she said humbly, letting out a breath she had not been aware she was holding. “Thank you for your belief in me. I do not deserve it.”

  “Consider the matter over, my dear. After all, though we did not have a box seat with you, ultimately it was my foolish decision to purchase a seat in the pits that put us at risk. I bear the responsibility.”

  At that moment Belinda came into the room, and her tentative smile said that she had heard what had just passed between the two ladies.

  “What say,” Andromeda suggested, “we all go to the park, and then for ices?”

  And to her surprise, Rachel found that she wanted very much to accompany them. It was a jolly party that set out for an afternoon’s adventure.

  • • •

  Evening came, and there was a party that Rachel must attend with the Yarnell family group. Now that she was his fiancée, he was taking great pains to introduce her to all of his vast acquaintance. It was dull and somber and respectable, and she was tired after her long ramble with Andromeda and Belinda that afternoon. They had explored corners of London Rachel had never before seen, and had even watched a thrilling military display.

  She smiled in reminiscence, and Lord Yarnell, sitting beside her as the musicians started their next piece, said, “I would have you not display your feelings quite so openly, Miss Neville. Mother does not consider it good breeding.”

  Stifling her first response—that she did not care what Lady Yarnell liked or did not like—Rachel remained silent as she examined her fiancé. He was a good enough looking man. Many called him handsome. His perpetual demeanor was cool, courtly, polite . . . but rarely did one see any flashes of genuine feeling on his face. Now she knew that was considered correct in his family.

  And yet—

  And yet just the day before she had seen the look on his face when he had unexpectedly come across Miss Danvers in the Haven House drawing room. Had there been a preference there at one time? Was there, as she suspected, an old romance between them? She could not believe it, considering Yarnell’s oft-voiced objection to social interaction with the trade class, and Miss Danvers’s open acknowledgment that her family was in that sphere.

  But there was that look. He had been stunned and discomfited. The few minutes following that confrontation had been excruciating, but Miss Danvers had hurried away, babbling almost incomprehensibly about another appointment. Odd behavior, considering how self-possessed the young lady seemed. Yarnell had hurried away, too, after promising to send his carriage for Rachel the next evening.

  She had opened the large package he had left for her. It was a painting of himself and his mother, she standing behind his chair with her hand possessively on his shoulder. It carried a grim prescience about the future.

  “My lord,” she said, touching Yarnell’s arm.

  “Yes, Miss Neville?”

  “May we walk in the conservatory? I have heard that there are some very fine orchid specimens to be seen here.”

  “Your wish is my command, Miss Neville.” He was ever kind, courtly and cool.

  Just once she wished he would display some uncomfortable emotion with her, as he had at the sight of Miss Danvers.

  He guided her toward the conservatory, and they strolled. He kept her decorously to the pathways where other couples walked. She wondered how to ask him about Miss Danvers. And what did she really want to know? There were no illusions on her part that theirs was any great love match. She and he were marrying because they suited. She wished for a title, wealth, and a comfortable home. He married her because . . . why? Why her? There were a hundred girls with a better dowry and higher social position. And Yarnell was an acknowledged catch; he could have had his pick.

  “My lord, we have known each other for more than two months now.”

  “Yes. It has certainly been the happiest two months of my life, Miss Neville.”

  She slanted a glance toward him to see if he was being facetious, but no, he was entirely serious. She sighed. How would she think otherwise? He was always entirely serious. “Thank you. Shall we live in Barcombe most of the year?”

  “We have spoken of this already,” he said. “We shall come to London for the Season.”

  “All of us?”

  “All . . . ?”

  “Your mother as well.”

  “Of course,” he said, frowning down at her.

  The earthy scent of the potted plants smelled enticingly like spring in Yorkshire. She wondered if she had made a horrible mistake in agreeing to this engagement. Marriage was a necessity, to be sure, but even as a husband he seemed more likely to side with his mother in any future brangle than with her. Who would be on her side at her new home? She could foresee trouble and did not know how to forestall it.

  “Then at least, I think, we should have our wedding trip to ourselves,” she said, testing the waters.

  “I thought it would be a good time for you to get to know Mother,” he said with a disapproving tone.

  “I would rather get to know you!” she said, stopping suddenly on the path between the tables and turning to look up at him. She studied the expressionless, cool gray eyes and handsome countenance for a trace of warmth.

  “We will have our whole lives to get to know each other,” he said. “I can’t tell mother ‘no’ now. She is looking forward to our journey to Wight.”

  Rachel thought over the examples of new marriages she had seen over the last few months. Her brother, Haven, and new sister-in-law, Jane, were almost indecently mad over each other. It had been embarrassing to see the naked longing in their eyes every time they gazed at each other, until they finally, scandalously, ran away to Yorkshire to be married, promising to come back for her wedding.

  And even Pamela and her husband, Lord Strongwycke; they had both had that intimate expression of secret delight in their eyes. No one who saw them could mistake it for anything but a love match.
Rachel had disdained such open and indiscreet exposition of emotion. She was quite sure that she did not want some man desiring her so obviously, needing her so evidently, wanting her so very desperately. The thought had frightened her. Wanting her meant he would depend upon her, that she could make him happy or unhappy, and she didn’t want that emotional entanglement. Yarnell had been perfect, she had opined, because he was as cool and aloof as she was, and would make no embarrassing displays in public.

  But surely . . . he was a man. Should he not want to at least kiss her before their marriage? At least once? He had not even when he proposed.

  “Yarnell,” she said, pulling him toward a private alcove. “Yarnell, would you like . . . that is, I would not object to a kiss, now that we are betrothed.”

  He recoiled. “Miss Neville, please! You seem different tonight. Perhaps you are unwell. Let us go back to the ballroom and rejoin Mother.”

  Chapter Nine

  Clearly agitated, Lord Yarnell escorted her back to his mother and aunt and excused himself. She sat down and tidied her skirts around her, not sure what had just transpired. Was she repulsive to him? Why did he run from her as if she had asked him to do something repellent?

  Frowning and biting her lip, not caring if she was mindful of her expression or not for once, Rachel watched Yarnell wend his way through the crowd until he stopped, suddenly, his rigid posture indicating something had alarmed or upset him. Rachel glanced around him and saw . . . the elegant, lovely Miss Millicent Danvers. Like a pantomime, she could see the young lady ask him something, perhaps how he was. He stiffly answered, bowing from the waist in a formal greeting. She reached out one hand in mute appeal. He shook his head and gestured back, toward his family group. She nodded in understanding and was about to turn away, head down.

  And then . . . and then he stepped toward her and touched her shoulder.

  Rachel watched, spellbound. That one gesture was more natural and spoke more of true caring than every fine word he had ever said to her. Yarnell spoke to her, urgently, rapidly. She drew away and shook her head, but lingered, his hand still clutching her shoulder. He spoke again and finally she nodded, and together they walked across the corner of the dance floor, toward the terrace doors and out into the night.

  Rachel took in a deep shuddering breath. She would face it and know it. Her fiancé was in love with another woman. It was no past emotion, bringing agitation but no deep feeling, it was a living, breathing, mutual love. And the woman he loved would not disappear after their marriage. She was a permanent fixture of the village of Barcombe. They would visit back and forth, would see each other at assemblies. She and Miss Danvers would become friends, perhaps.

  Was she jealous? Was this new knowledge a stab in her heart?

  Not really. The music ebbed and flowed around her as she pondered this new knowledge. Yarnell did appear to have hidden depths to him, as Miss Danvers had stated. It was possible that in time Miss Danvers would marry and move away, and she and Yarnell could learn to care for each other. Or, the young lady could stay in the village and finally, if she loved him so very much, tempt him into an illicit affair. Rachel did not know her well enough to know if that was possible or unthinkable, morally.

  Either way, it really would impact upon her life very little. She did not expect to see that much of Yarnell after the first obligatory wedding-trip togetherness, and even then, there was his mother. He would have estate business and friends, hunting and gaming and Parliament. If he had a mistress, she supposed she would be relieved, ultimately. She would, perhaps, have her own circle of friends, and pastimes . . . and children.

  She frowned and stared off at the hazy view of swirling masses of dancers twisting and twirling in the elegant steps of the waltz.

  What would happen if—

  No. She could not do that, could not boldly change the course of her life in that manner. It was settled now. Her future was mapped. She moved impatiently on her chair, happy that Lady Yarnell and Lady Beaufort were occupied with acquaintances who sat with them, gossiping in low tones.

  But what if she did? Rachel wondered. What if she took a step that would force the issue? What if she confronted Yarnell, told him she knew how he and Miss Danvers both felt, and said she could not marry him under those circumstances?

  It was insane to even think it. She must put that thought away from her. She had arranged an advantageous match for herself and she would not just give away the dream of her life for the look in two people’s eyes.

  A young man approached her and bowed.

  “Miss Neville,” he said. “I am Dexter, Miss Pamela’s friend?”

  She nodded and greeted him, giving him her hand, though it was not strictly necessary in response to a meeting at a ball.

  “Would you do me the honor of standing up with me, Miss Neville?” he asked nervously. “I would like to ask how Miss Pamela . . . uh, Lady Strongwycke goes on, and Miss Belinda,” he added hurriedly, as if she might refuse otherwise.

  So it had come to this. She was not sought for her own hand, but as a conduit of information. “Certainly, Mr. Dexter,” she said, standing and excusing herself from Lady Yarnell and Lady Beaufort.

  As she strolled toward the dance floor on Mr. Dexter’s arm, her gaze would stray toward the terrace doors. She remembered the look in Yarnell and Miss Danvers’s eyes as they met in her drawing room. What was there between them, in truth? She must think, and where better than on the dance floor?

  • • •

  June days passed one by one, and Colin felt more confident with each passing day. Every afternoon found him in Sir Parnell’s London rooms, gloves on, even as he devoted evenings to his sister and their charge, Belinda.

  “You are indeed very good, lad,” Sir Parnell said critically, watching Colin spar with the knight’s manservant, more boxer than valet, to be sure, from the looks of him.

  “Your tutelage has made all the difference, sir,” Colin said, panting and resting his gloved fists on his knees as he bent over to catch his breath.

  “Take a break, Roger,” Sir Parnell said to the other man, and that fellow grunted and limped away, the worse for wear after a vigorous bout with the young baronet. “Rather, I think we are done for the day. Go get a plaster for that cut on your chin.” The fellow left the room.

  “I feel for that fellow, sir,” Colin said, straightening, watching Roger go then turning his gaze back to his tutor. “His eye is not good, and I am sure that must affect his reaction. He cannot see as well as I.”

  “But on the other hand he has years more experience than you, and he is not so old as his rough visage would indicate. He is thirty-five, no more, I assure you.”

  “Lord, I took him for fifty!”

  “No. Rough living takes its toll. But apart from his eye, his health is very good, I assure you. It is just that you have exceeded his skill, and it’s showing.” Sir Parnell offered Colin a cloth. “In fact, I think you are ready for your first proper bout,” he said.

  Colin felt a trickle of excitement in his stomach as he mopped the sweat off his face and neck. “Do you really think so?”

  “I do. I have never seen a gentleman with such natural ability.”

  “That is damning with faint praise, certainly,” Colin said, throwing himself into a chair.

  “Not at all. There have been many fine gentleman boxers of late.” The knight, his pale eyes shadowed by his brows as he frowned in thought, strolled away. Over his shoulder, he casually said, “Shall you be seeing your sister later today?”

  “Yes. We are going to the theater tonight. I have box seats from a fellow I went to school with. He must leave town for some errand on his estate. I have promised Andy to spend some time with her and the child. We have already been to see the Tower and other sights, and tonight is the theater.” He did not mention their previous bad experience.

  “The theater,” Sir Parnell said. “My! I have not been this age.”

  Colin stopped mopping his brow and watched the
older man for a moment. He had only known the man a week, but knew him enough to sense interest. “Would you join us, sir? It will just be a family party.”

  “Could I?” Sir Parnell said, meeting the baronet’s gaze. “I would not be . . . intruding?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You are sure your sister would not disapprove?”

  “Not up to her to approve or disapprove,” Colin said carelessly. “My party; I’ll invite whom I like.”

  “But I would not want to upset her. She might not wish me there.” There was a wistful tone in his voice that Colin did not understand.

  “Why would she not?”

  “I don’t think she approves of me, and she certainly does not approve of my training you in pugilism.”

  “As I said, sir, it is not up to her to approve or disapprove you. You are my friend, and I will invite you where I like.”

  Colin saw something like hurt on the knight’s weathered face. But the man nodded.

  “However,” he said, “this theater party is meant for her and the child, am I right? Please ask her permission. I will not come, else.”

  How strange, Colin thought, as he gathered his coat and hat, preparatory to going home. “I will send you notice once I get home, sir, about the theater tonight,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “And I will arrange your first bout, Sir Colin. I should be able to tell you more by this evening.”

  The two men shook hands and parted.

  • • •

  Later, in his bath, Colin leaned back against the copper tub and smoked a cigar, pondering on all the changes in his life since arriving in London. He was almost ashamed to think back now. He had come to London in a panic, knowing that Rachel was looking for a husband and hoping to interfere with the process and finally get her to see that he was the best candidate for her hand. From there he had proceeded to blunder into a proposal to her younger sister, Pamela, confusing that poor girl, who had always, apparently, liked him enough to consider him husband material. He hadn’t known that until a frank discussion with Haven, his old friend and neighbor. All it had done was confuse Pammy hopelessly, when she had a proposal already from the man who was now her husband and the love of her life, the Earl of Strongwycke.