by Mary Balogh
“You realize, I suppose,” he said at last, “what you have admitted to me.” If there had been one thread of hope left in him, it was gone. On the whole, he was glad of it. He liked to have issues crystal clear in his mind.
There was a flush of color to her cheeks. But her expression did not change. She did not speak.
“You have misunderstood my character,” he said. “There will be no hideaway, no decent home for the child away from his mother, no resumption of your old way of life, no sweeping of anything under the carpet. We will marry, of course.”
Her head snapped back rather as if he had punched her on the chin. Her eyes widened and her eyebrows shot up. And then she laughed.
“Marry!” she said. “We will marry? You jest, sir, of course.”
“I do not jest,” he said. “Of course.”
“Mr. Downes.” All the old mockery was back in her face. No, it was more than mockery—it was open contempt. “Do you seriously imagine that I would marry you? You are presumptuous, sir. I bid you a good morning.” She was on her feet.
“Sit down,” he told her quietly and sat where he was, engaging in a silent battle of wills with her. He never lost such battles. This time, after a full minute of tension, he tacitly agreed to accept a compromise when she turned and crossed the room to the window. She stood with her back to him, looking out. He remained seated.
“I thank you for your gracious offer, Mr. Downes,” she said, “but my answer is no. There. You have done the decent thing and I have been civil. We are even. Please leave now.”
“We will marry by special license before going down to Mobley Abbey for Christmas,” he said.
She laughed again. “Your Christmas bride,” she said. “You are determined to have her one way or another, then? But have you not already invited Miss Grainger in that capacity? Do you have ambitions to set up a harem, Mr. Downes?”
He dared not think of that invitation to the Graingers. Not yet. Experience had taught him that only one sticky problem could be dealt with at a time. He was dealing with this one now.
“Better still,” he said, “we could take the license with us and marry there. It would please my father.”
“Your father would be quite ecstatic,” she said, “to find that you had brought home a bride as old as yourself. He wants grandchildren, I do not doubt.”
“And that is exactly what he will have, ma’am,” he said.
He could see from the hunching of her shoulders that she had only just realized her mistake. Although she must have known for a lot longer than he, although she was carrying the child in her own womb, he supposed that the truth must seem as unreal to her as it did to him.
“It will be easier if you accept reality,” he said. “If we both do. We had our pleasure of each other two months ago without a thought to the possible consequences. But there have been consequences. They are in the form of an innocent child who does not deserve the stigma of bastardy. We have created him or her. It is our duty to give him parents who are married to each other and to nurture him to the best of our ability. We have become rather unimportant as individuals, Lady Stapleton. There is someone else to whose whole life this issue is quite central—and yet that person is at the mercy of what is happening in this room this morning.”
“Damn you,” she said.
“Which would you prefer?” he asked her briskly. “To marry here or at Mobley? The choice is yours.”
“How clever you are, Mr. Downes.” She turned to look at him. “Giving the illusion of freedom of choice when you have me tied hand and foot and gagged, too. I will make no choice. I have not even said I will marry you. In my world, you know—it may be different with people of your class—a woman has to say that she does or that she will before her marriage can be declared valid. So I do still have some freedom, you see.”
He got to his feet and walked toward her. But she held up both hands as he drew close.
“No,” she said. “That is far enough. You are too tall and too large, Mr. Downes. I hate large men.”
“Because you are afraid you will not have total mastery over them?” he said.
“For exactly that reason.” Her voice was sharp. “I made a mistake two months ago. I rarely make mistakes. I chose the wrong man. You are too—too big. You suffocate me. Go away. I have been remarkably civil to you this morning. I can become ferociously uncivil when aroused. Go away.” Her breathing was ragged. She was agitated.
“I am not going to hurt you,” he told her. “I am not going to touch you against your will.” He clasped his hands behind his back.
She laughed. “Are those the sentiments of an ardent bridegroom, Mr. Downes?” she said. “Do you speak only in the present tense or do your words have a more universal meaning? You would never touch me against my will? You would be facing an arid, celibate life, sir, unless you would take your ease with mistresses.”
“I have a strong belief in marital fidelity,” he said.
“How bourgeois!” She laughed again.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Downes.” Her arms dropped to her sides. Both the agitation and the contempt were gone from her face and she looked at him more earnestly than she had ever done before. Her face was pale again. “I cannot marry you. I cannot be a wife. I cannot be a mother.”
He searched her eyes but they gave nothing away. They never did. This woman hid very effectively behind her many masks, he realized suddenly. He did not know her at all, even though he had had thorough sexual knowledge of her body.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because.” She smiled the old smile. “Because, Mr. Downes. Because.”
“And yet,” he said, “you are to be a mother whether you wish it or not. The deed is done and cannot be undone.”
She closed her eyes and looked as if she were about to sway on her feet. But she mastered herself and opened her eyes again. “I will deal with it,” she said. “I cannot keep the child. I cannot marry you. I would destroy both of you. Believe me, Mr. Downes. I speak the truth.”
He frowned, trying to read her eyes again. But there were no depths to them. They were quite unreadable. “Who hurt you?” he asked her. He remembered asking her the question before.
She laughed. “No one,” she said. “Absolutely no one, sir.”
“I am going to be your husband,” he said. “I would hope to be your companion and even your friend as well. There may be many years of life ahead for us.”
“You are not going to be talked out of this, are you?” she said. “You are not going to take no for an answer. Are you?”
He shook his head.
“Well, then.” Her head went back and both her eyes and her lips mocked him. “Behold your Christmas bride, Mr. Downes. It is a Christmas and a bride that you will come to regret, but we all choose our own personal hells with our eyes wide open, I have found. And it will happen at Mobley. I would see the ecstasy in your father’s eyes as we tie the eternal knot.” There was harsh bitterness in her voice.
He inclined his head to her. “I do not believe I could ever regret doing the right thing, ma’am,” he said. “And before you can tell me how bourgeois a sentiment that is, let me forestall you. I believe we bourgeoisie have a firmer, less cynical commitment to decency and honor than some of the gentry and aristocracy. Though I daresay that like all generalizations there are almost as many exceptions as there are adherents to the rule.”
“I will not allow you to dominate me,” she said.
“I would not wish to dominate a wife,” he told her.
“Or to touch me.”
“As you wish,” he said.
“I will make you burn for me, Edgar,” she said. “But will not let you touch me.”
“Perhaps,” he said.
Her lip curled. “I cannot make you quarrel, can I?” she said. “I would love to have a flaming row with you, Mr. Downes. It is your power over me, perhaps, that you will not allow it.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed.
/> “Do you realize how frustrating it is,” she asked him, “to quarrel with someone who will not quarrel back?”
“Probably as frustrating,” he said, “as it is going to be to burn for you when you refuse to burn for me.”
She smiled slowly at him. “I believe,” she said, “that if I did not resent and hate you so much, Mr. Downes, I might almost like you.”
He did not hate her or particularly resent her. He did not like the situation in which he found himself, but in all fairness he could not foist the blame entirely on her. It took two to create a child, and neither of them had been reluctant to engage in the activity that had left her pregnant. He did not like her. She was bitter and sharp-tongued and did nothing to hide her contempt for his origins. But there was something about her that excited him. There was her sexual allure, of course. He had no doubt that his frustrations would be very real indeed if she meant what she said. But it was not just a sexual thing. There was something challenging, stimulating about her. She would not be easy to manage, but he was not sure he wanted to manage her. She would never be a comfortable companion, but then comfort in companionship could become tedious. Life with her would never be tedious.
“Have I silenced you at last?” she asked. “Are you wounded? Are you struggling not to humiliate yourself by confessing that you love me?”
“I do not love you,” he said quietly. “But you are to be my wife and to bear my child. I will try to respect and like you, ma’am. I will try to feel an affection for you. It will not be impossible, perhaps. We are to share a child. I will certainly love our child, as will you. We will have that to bring us together.”
“Why, Mr. Downes,” she said, “I do believe there is a streak of the romantic in you after all.”
The door opened behind them.
“Oh,” Mrs. Cross said, startled. “Mr. Downes is here with you. I am so sorry, Helena. I assumed you were alone. I wondered why you were back so soon.”
“You need not leave, Aunt,” Lady Stapleton said, moving past Edgar to take Mrs. Cross by the arm. She was smiling when she turned back to him. “You must make your curtsy to Mr. Downes, who is now my affianced husband. We are to marry at Mobley Abbey before Christmas.”
Mrs. Cross’s face was the picture of astonishment. She almost gaped at Edgar. He bowed to her.
“I have offered for Lady Stapleton’s hand, ma’am,” he told her, “and she has done me the great honor of accepting me.”
“Oh, come now, Mr. Downes.” Lady Stapleton sounded amused. “This is my aunt you are talking to. The truth is, Letty, that I am two months with child. Edgar and I became too—ardent one night before your return from the country and having learned of the consequences of that night, he has rushed here to make amends. He is going to make an honest woman of me. Wish us joy.”
Mrs. Cross appeared speechless for a few moments. “I do,” she said finally. “Oh, I do indeed. Pardon me, Helena, Mr. Downes, but I do not know quite what to say. I do wish you joy.”
“Of course you do,” Lady Stapleton said. “You commented just this morning, did you not, that Mr. Downes had a soft spot for me.” Her eyes mocked him even as her aunt flushed and looked mortified. “It appears you were right.”
“Ma’am.” Edgar addressed himself to Mrs. Cross, ignoring the bitter levity of his betrothed’s tone. “We will be marrying by special license at Mobley Abbey, as Lady Stapleton mentioned. My father and my sister will be in attendance, as well as a number of our friends. I would be honored if you would be there, too, and would remain to spend Christmas with us. My father would be honored.”
“How kind of you, sir.” The lady was recovering some of her composure. “How very kind. I would, of course, like to be at Helena’s wedding. And I have no other plans for the holiday.”
Edgar looked at Lady Stapleton. “There will perhaps be time to invite other members of your family or other particular friends if you wish,” he said. “Is there anyone?”
“No,” she said. “This is no grand wedding celebration we are planning, Edgar. This is a marriage of necessity.”
“Your stepson is at Brookhurst only thirty miles from Mobley, is he not?” he said. “Perhaps—”
Her face became a mask of some strong emotion—horror, terror, revulsion, he could not tell which.
“No!” she said icily. “I said no, Mr. Downes. No! I will have my aunt with me. She will be family enough. She is the only relative I wish to acknowledge. But, yes, you must come, Letty. I will not be able to do this without you. I do not wish to do it at all, but Mr. Downes has been his usual obnoxious, domineering self. I shall lead him a merry dance, as you said I would if I ever married him, but he has been warned and has remained obdurate. On his own head be it, then. But you must certainly come to Mobley with me.”
“Have you offered Mr. Downes a cup of tea, Helena?” her aunt asked, looking about her at the empty tables.
“No, I have not,” her niece said. “I have been trying to get rid of him since he set foot inside the door. He will not leave.”
“Helena!” her aunt said, looking mortified again. “Mr. Downes, do let me send for some tea or coffee.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He smiled. “But I have other business to attend to. I shall see you both in my sister’s drawing room this evening? I shall have the announcement made there and put in tomorrow morning’s papers. Good day to you, Mrs. Cross. And to you, Lady Stapleton.” He bowed to each of them as he retrieved his greatcoat.
“I must remember,” Lady Stapleton said, “to start offering you tea whenever I set eyes on you, Edgar. It seems the only sure way to be rid of you.”
He smiled at her as he let himself out of the room, feeling unexpectedly amused. For a mere moment there seemed to be an answering gleam in her own eyes.
His betrothed. Soon to be his wife. The mother of his child. He shook his head as he descended the stairs in an effort to clear it of that dizziness again.
EDGAR WAS GLAD to get out again during the afternoon. He had arrived home to find both Cora and Francis there, having just returned from their usual morning outing with their children.
“Edgar,” Cora had said, smiling brightly, “have you concluded all your business? Are you going to be ready to leave for Mobley tomorrow after tonight’s farewell party? We met Lady Grainger and Miss Grainger in the park, did we not, Francis? They are extremely gratified to have been invited to Mobley. I have written to Papa to tell him—”
Cora’s monologues could sometimes continue for a considerable length of time. Edgar had cut her off.
“Lady Stapleton and Mrs. Cross will be coming, too,” he had told her and Francis. Francis’s eyebrows had gone up.
“Are they?” Cora had said. “Oh. How splendid. We will be a merry house party. Papa will—”
“I will be marrying Lady Stapleton at Mobley before Christmas,” Edgar had announced.
For once Cora had been speechless—and inelegantly open-mouthed. Lord Francis’s eyebrows had remained elevated.
There had been no point in mincing matters. It was rather too late for that. “She is two months with child,” he had said. “With my child, that is. We will be marrying.”
Francis had shaken his hand and congratulated him and said all that was proper. Cora had been first speechless and then garrulous. By the time Edgar escaped the house, she had talked herself into believing that she, that he, that Francis, that everyone concerned and unconcerned must be blissfully happy with the betrothal. Lady Stapleton would be just the bride for Edgar, Cora had declared. Lady Stapleton would not allow herself to be swept along by the power of his character, and he would be the happier for it. Cora had never been so pleased by anything in her life, and Papa would be deliriously happy. Francis was called upon to corroborate these chuckle-headed notions.
“I believe it might well turn into a good match, my love,” he had said less effusively than she, but with apparent sincerity. “I cannot imagine Edgar being satisfied with anything less. And the lady
certainly has character—and beauty.”
But of course Cora had issued the reminder Edgar had not needed before he made his escape.
“Oh, Edgar!” Her eyes had grown as wide as saucers and her hand had flown to her mouth and collided with it with a painful-sounding slap. “Whatever are you going to do about Fanny Grainger? You have all but offered for her. And she is coming to Mobley.”
Edgar had no idea what he was going to do about Fanny Grainger, apart from the fact that he was not going to marry her. He had not offered for her, but he had come uncomfortably close. And last evening he had even taken the all-but-final step of inviting her and her parents to spend Christmas at Mobley. Everyone of course took for granted that he had invited her there for only one reason.
He liked the girl, even though he had not wished to marry her. The last thing he wanted to do was to leave her publicly humiliated. But it seemed that that was what he was fated to do. Unless …
It was purely by chance—entirely, amazingly coincidental—that as he was walking along Oxford Street he caught a glimpse of the young man she had met on almost the exact same spot a few weeks ago when Edgar had come upon them. Jack Sperling was hurrying along, his head down, clearly intent on getting where he was going in as little time as possible. One could understand why. The wind cut down the street rather like a knife.
Edgar stepped to one side to impede his progress. Sperling looked up, startled. “I do beg your pardon,” he said before frowning and looking distinctly unfriendly. “Oh, you,” he added.
“Good afternoon.” Edgar touched the brim of his beaver hat and did what it was not in his nature to do—he acted on the spur of the moment. “Mr. Sperling, is it not?”
“I am in a hurry,” the young man said ungraciously.
“I wonder if I could persuade you not to be?” Edgar said.
Unfriendliness turned to open hostility. “Oh, you need not fear that your territory is going to be poached upon,” he said. “She has sent me a letter this morning and has explained that it will be the last. She will not see me again, and I will not see her. We both have some sense of honor. Sir,” he added, making the word sound like an insult.