Wedding of the Season
Page 24
It was a lie, of course, but at some point, a girl just had to learn not to wear her heart on her sleeve.
Will threw himself fully into work. London in September was, for most people, as entertaining as watching grass grow. But archaeologists and scientists were not the sort to care about the current plays or the latest gossip or the social whirl, and many of them chose to come to London at this time of year for meetings and the sharing of new discoveries. No worry about finding accommodations, everything was less expensive, hansom cabs were plentiful and traffic was tolerable.
He called on old professors from Cambridge who were in town; he had dinner with some of the other archaeologists he’d met over the years. His speech to the Archaeological Society was well received, and his excavation work at Thebes applauded.
He and Marlowe met at the viscount’s publishing offices and made arrangements for funding of the excavations. A photographer was chosen from those on Marlowe’s staff, but Will reserved the right to choose his own illustrator, still holding out hope. Marlowe’s only response was a slight raising of eyebrows, a murmured, “So that’s the way the wind’s blowing, eh?” and an agreement to concede the hiring of any illustrator to Will.
Will met with the curators of the British Museum, handing over to them the artifacts on loan for their exhibition and the catalog he and Trix had compiled. Her drawings were praised more than once, and he was very pleased that her talents were appreciated, but he was glad when that meeting was over, for he was trying not to think about her too much.
He tried to build his protective walls back up a little, hoping to toughen his heart for the very real possibility that he would be returning to Thebes alone and spending the next eight months without her, for he doubted one erotic—and incomplete—night together would be enough to change her mind. But though he’d spent six years building those protective walls, now that they were down, it just wasn’t possible for him to prop them back up. He ached with wanting her, day and night, more than ever.
He stared out the window of his room at the Savoy, one shoulder against the jamb, staring out at the London traffic that clogged Savoy Street and the Strand beyond. The noise of the city was loud, but he barely heard it. All he could hear was Trix—her soft, panting cries of need.
More, more, and don’t stop.
And he’d stopped.
He must have been out of his mind.
He’d had her naked, her willing body underneath his. Never before had it gone that far; even in the most impassioned moments of their youth, they’d never gone past three buttons. This time, he’d been inside her, for Christ’s sake, on the verge of taking her virginity. He needn’t have stopped. And he could have used the fear of pregnancy afterward as a way to force the issue and bring her to heel. The perfect chance combined with the perfect excuse, and he hadn’t done it. Years of unrequited desire, and he’d finally reached the threshold of paradise. With one thrust, he could have claimed it, but he’d pulled back.
Yes, he was definitely out of his mind.
He wasn’t completely out of time yet, he reminded himself, still clinging to hope. And if he failed this year, there was always next year. Just now, however, next year seemed a damned long way off, and though he suspected she’d rather sworn off marriage to anyone, not just him, he couldn’t be completely sure of that.
Despair echoed through him again. Damn it all, if only she wasn’t so stubborn. She clung to English country life and its ideals like a limpet clung to a rock.
Two weeks, he thought, rubbing a hand across his forehead. He had two weeks.
What would it take? He’d told her he still loved her, and that declaration had gone over about as well as a lead balloon.
I always loved you. All my life. I never stopped.
His words had hung in the air as he’d waited for her to say she loved him, too. But then had come one of those long, hellish, awkward silences, an indication their feelings were not mutual.
She didn’t love him anymore.
He shook his head again, rejecting that notion entirely. He’d lost faith in their love six years ago, and it had been the biggest mistake of his life. He refused to lose faith again.
Think, Will, he told himself. Think. What would woo her and persuade her to marry him and come with him? More adventures, more picnics and champagne might help, he supposed, but those things seemed so inadequate—
There was a knock on the door, and he glanced over his shoulder, but when Aman emerged from the bedroom, he returned his attention to the window.
Picnics, champagne and adventures did him no good if all that resulted was what had happened the other night at the pixy cave. That night had been agony enough; another two weeks of it could well nigh kill him. He’d never pull it off anyway. He just didn’t have the fortitude to hover at the very edge of sexual gratification like that over and over and deny himself.
“Sir?”
Will turned to find Aman closing the door to a youth in livery. “Hmm? What?”
“A telegram for you, sir.”
His valet brought the communiqué to him. He opened it and a glance at the bottom told him it was from Howard Carter.
ELECTRICITY NOW AT VALLEY OF KINGS STOP COULDN’T WAIT FOR YOU STOP WORKMEN STARTED NIGHT DIGGING STOP YOU CORRECT RE NEW AREA STOP FOUND STEPS TO NEW TOMB STOP MAYBE TUT EXCLAMATION COME AT ONCE STOP IF YOU NOT HERE 01 OCT COMMA WILL OPEN TOMB WITHOUT YOU AND SELL STORY TO PRESS MYSELF EXCLAMATION CARTER STOP STOP
A new tomb? Will read the missive again, and as he did, he felt a sweet wave of triumph. He’d been right, they’d been digging in the wrong place. And now, because Carter had listened to him and moved the excavations, a new tomb had been unearthed, a tomb that could be Tutankhamen. Excitement shot up inside Will like a bottle rocket, and he gave a shout of laughter. He’d been right, deuce take it. He’d been right.
“Good news, sir?”
He looked up, grinning, feeling like a schoolboy with honors. “Good news? Good news?” He clasped Aman by the shoulders and gave him a little shake. “Man, it’s the most splendid news that could possibly be!”
Aman remained his usual impassive self. “Indeed, sir? I am happy and relieved for you. Telegrams usually convey bad news.”
Will took a deep breath, trying to curb his excitement and jubilation enough to think things out. There was no delaying his departure now. It was already the eleventh of September. If he was to be back to Thebes by the first of October, he needed to leave immediately.
But what about Trix?
He wouldn’t have that extra fortnight in Devonshire he’d been counting on. He thought of cabling her, but though she might—might—come to London to say good-bye to him, he doubted it. She hated good-byes, and always had. And even if she were to journey down from Devonshire, she wouldn’t be persuaded to come to Egypt. Especially since they weren’t even married.
Think, Will. He shoved the telegram into his pocket and raked a hand through his hair. “A Bradshaw,” he muttered. “I need a Bradshaw.”
“Bradshaw?” echoed Aman. “Do you mean the railway guide, sir? Are we departing London?”
“Yes, Aman. We have to return to Thebes.” He yanked out his watch. It was half past three. “Isn’t there a night train out of Victoria to Exeter at ten?”
“Yes, sir. That is the train we took when we first journeyed to Devonshire. But I thought you said we are going to Thebes?”
“Right.” He shoved his watch back in his pocket. “We are. By way of Devonshire.” He didn’t stop to explain. There was too much to do and he didn’t have time. “Forget the Bradshaw. Get hold of Cook’s,” he said, striding toward the bedroom, Aman trailing after him. “I need to make travel arrangements. London to Devonshire, and one night in Stafford St. Mary. Two nights, if we can,” he amended, wanting as much time with Trix as possible. He glanced around. “Where’s my jacket?”
The valet retrieved the gray afternoon frock coat he’d been wearing earlier and held it open for him.
“The Orient Express departs from Paris on Wednesdays and Sundays, sir. I believe there is also a connecting train from Calais to Paris.”
“The things you know amaze me, Aman. Now,” he added, starting out of the bedroom. “We’ll take the Orient Express to Constantinople, a ship to Cairo, and a dahabiyeh up the Nile to Thebes.” He opened his dispatch case, looking for ready money. “The trick is that we have to arrive before October 1. Have you got all that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He counted out pound notes, pulled his money case out of his pocket and shoved notes into its leather interior, and replaced the case in the breast pocket of his jacket. “I think I’ll still have time to dine with Sir Edmund this evening, but be ready to depart from here by nine, so we can catch the ten o’clock express out of Victoria. Best to hurry over to Cook’s, and then start packing.”
Aman nodded and opened the door. Will walked through it, then stopped. “And tell them we’ll need to book passage for three people.”
“Three, sir?”
“Three,” he said firmly, refusing to believe otherwise. With that, Will went down to the Savoy’s opulent lobby to request a taxi, and when it arrived, he ordered it to take him to the Faculty Office, where he allowed his hopes free rein and applied for a special license to wed. From there, he went to Lloyd’s, then Fortnum and Mason, and then Bond Street. He then returned to the Savoy, changed for dinner, and met Sir Edmund in the hotel’s main dining room. Though it was enjoyable to see his mentor again, and exhilarating to share the news from Thebes, Will was happy when the meal ended, for he was eager to be on his way back to Trix. But after bidding farewell to Sir Edmund, Will did not take the lift back up to his rooms to fetch Aman. Instead, he left the Savoy. He still had one thing to do before he returned to Devonshire to win the woman he loved. He needed to find a courtesan.
During the week that followed Will’s departure for London and her own return to Stafford St. Mary, forlorn proved to be a fairly accurate description of Beatrix’s mood.
She tried to tell herself it was because of the tedious details of canceling her wedding. It was customary for invitations to be sent and gifts to be received only within the fortnight preceding the wedding day, so thankfully Beatrix was spared the obligation of sending letters of regret and returning presents after this broken engagement. However, consideration for her friends demanded a brief confirmation of the news by letter.
Society papers were already discussing the fact that Lady Beatrix Danbury’s engagement was off. Because she’d been at Pixy Cove, she’d been shielded from the gossip during the first few weeks following her broken engagement, but now that she was back in Stafford St. Mary, the humiliating news seemed to be everywhere. She saw heads together when she came into church on Sunday, she heard conversations cease when she walked into a card party on Tuesday, she felt speculative gazes on her as she visited shops in the High Street on Thursday. The fact that she had failed to secure not one but two handsome and eligible dukes in her lifetime, and that the return of duke number one had surely been the cause of duke number two’s departure, was information discussed ad nauseam in all the society pages. The news, Beatrix had no doubt, had been greeted with jubilation and relief by marriage-minded debutantes throughout England and America.
Though she tried not to care, Beatrix found being fodder for the scandal sheets infuriating and humiliating, especially when she read the comments of Mrs. Delilah Dawlish, gossip columnist for the society newspaper Talk of the Town. Every time she read the woman’s oft-repeated refrain: “Broken engagements seems to be the pattern of her life, my dears!” she wanted to shred the paper and Mrs. Dawlish into little pieces. The speculations about whether she’d been the one to jilt or be jilted were tiresome, Eugenia’s wailing about their family being the subject of all this gossip was aggravating, and with Julia’s departure for the Continent, Beatrix was left with no one in Stafford St. Mary whose sense of humor could help her shrug it all off.
She packed up the beautiful wedding dress Vivian had designed for her, only one or two of her tears staining its lovely white silk. She gave it to the vicar’s wife to be donated to the next village girl whose banns were posted, a girl who would no doubt be thrilled to wear it.
As etiquette demanded, she arranged for the gifts Aidan had given her during their engagement to be returned to him—a book on the workings of Parliament, an intricately carved ivory fan she’d once admired in a shop window, and a silver locket with her father’s picture inside, though she did take her father’s picture out before packing up the locket. She sent these gifts to Trathen Leagh, Aidan’s estate in Cornwall, along with his letters. Her letters to him had been returned to her already, and she took those to the storage rooms in the attic. She took the time to read them before she put them away, and as she did, she realized why it had been so easy for her heart to return to Will when her head had tried to push her to Aidan.
Her letters and his had been full of news, replies to questions about their mutual health, their families and friends, talk of what they would do with the gardens at the various estates or amusements they would enjoy during their seasons in town, but neither his letters nor hers contained anything remotely passionate. Reading it all now, she felt a hint of the same warm affection and fondness she’d always felt, and she knew that was all she would ever have felt for him. Unlike Julia, she had never found any aspect of Aidan’s character jarring or irritating, and if Will had never come back, she and Aidan would have shared a pleasant, nice, and deadly dull life together.
Mere compatibility and fondness, she now realized, were not enough for her. She’d tried to believe otherwise, and had she married Aidan, she would have made the best of things, and she might never have remembered the difference, if Will had not come back.
But he had come back, and now the difference between what she’d had with him and what Aidan had offered her stood in such stark contrast, they were like black and white. Yet she knew she was somewhere between those two extremes, and with Will, there never seemed to be any half shades or half measures. There never seemed to be middle ground or compromise. Once you jumped off the cliff, you jumped, and there was no turning back.
But what if he proved himself? a little voice whispered. She tried to shut it out, but it persisted, whispering teasing possibilities. What if he stayed and made a life here? What if he showed her that he could stick with things at home? What if he began to take his ducal responsibilities seriously?
Maybe then, she thought, maybe then she’d take the risk. But it was silly to wish for that, she knew. Will had never been like that, and never would be.
She stared out the attic window at the lane leading to the Stafford Road. How many times had she looked out her bedroom window just like this, waiting for Will? Waiting for him to come home from Eton. Then from Cambridge. Then from the Continent. Waiting for him to declare his love. Waiting for him to propose. Waiting for him to marry her. Waiting for him to come home from Egypt. And now, waiting for him to come back from London.
All the years of her life, she’d felt as if she’d been chasing heaven, thinking she’d found it, only to watch it slip away again. She was not going to wait for Will, because it wasn’t enough for heaven to come waltzing by with a few words of love and a few weeks of courtship in between seasons on another continent. Heaven also had to stick around for more than a month or two at a time, and Will had never been the sticking-around sort.
She had her own life to think of, a life that seemed rather in limbo. Her first post as an illustrator was over, it seemed, but she would find another. She didn’t know how she would deal with the objections of her family, but she’d find a way. Paul, she supposed, could be persuaded
to her point of view, given the other ladies of their acquaintance who had engaged in various professions. Eugenia would probably never accept it, but that was just too bad. Beatrix liked her newfound profession, and she had no intention of giving it up. She wasn’t like her mother—she wasn’t going to go running off with some man and disgrace the family, but neither was she going to sit around waiting for a husband to provide her with an enjoyable, worthwhile life.
She turned away from the window thinking to go downstairs, but her eye caught on a pair of steamer trunks and a pair of valises, luggage that had been brand-new six years ago, bought to hold her trousseau during her honeymoon with Will. Above it, another set of luggage, for another honeymoon and another man. The first set, she thought wistfully, had been packed with more innocence and joy than the second set.
She’d loved Will for most of her life, but she had no intention of falling back in love with him. If she did, she’d be hurt again as she’d been hurt before. Last time, it had almost destroyed her. This time, she just wasn’t willing to take the risk.
Chapter Eighteen
Beatrix was in the garden, cutting late roses, when Will arrived at Danbury the following afternoon. Eugenia led him to the library window and pointed out where she stood by the arbor, then she sat down in the chair nearest that particular view.
Keeping an eye on them, he thought with amused exasperation. That was all right, as long as she didn’t intend to be like Antonia’s maid and plant herself outside Trix’s door tonight.
He walked outside and made his way through the potager to the rose garden. There he paused at the edge, smiling at the sight of her amid the roses. In her simple shirtwaist and skirt with an apron over them, a big straw hat on her head, and a basket of long-stemmed roses over her arm, she looked just like what she was: an English country girl doing the flowers. But Trix had never been an ordinary English girl. She’d always been his girl. When they were growing up, until he’d lost her, he’d always taken that fact for granted. He never would again, at least not until they’d been married about fifty years or so. And he was determined to marry her, determined to find a way for their two worlds to combine into one shared life, determined to make her see that they belonged together no matter what country they were in. But she had to want it, too, and that was going to be the tricky part. Especially since Cook’s had been unable arrange an itinerary with any extra time in Devonshire. He had only tonight to win her over.