by Mary Balogh
“But it is not fair.” Lord Eden looked earnestly at his sister. “Don’t you see that, Mad? Edmund is always cheerful, always kind, always correct. He was only nineteen when Papa died. Three years younger than we are now. And ever since then he has been shouldering the burdens of this family, getting you and me out of scrapes, making sure that our lives are comfortable and carefree. One tends to forget that Edmund is as human as the rest of us. He has feelings and dreams and hopes just as we do.”
“It is different,” Madeline protested. “Edmund is not restless as you and I are. He is happy, Dom, happy as he is. And he is almost thirty. It is time he married. Miss Purnell is a good bride for him. She is a little strange, I will admit, but I admire her. She has great pride and self-possession. I am determined to like her.”
“Sometimes I could shake you.” Lord Eden uncrossed his legs and got to his feet again. “Mad, Edmund is being forced into a marriage with a stranger. And a rather strange stranger too, as you have just commented. He doesn’t deserve that. Edmund deserves a bride who will love him and appreciate his goodness. He deserves a little happiness in return for that which he is so careful to spread around him. He was happy with Mrs. Borden, you know. Did you know about Mrs. Borden?”
“She was his mistress, I gather,” Madeline said with a blush. “I saw her once, Dom. She is a perfect fright. What could Edmund possibly see in her?”
“I don’t know,” Lord Eden admitted, “but he liked her, Mad. I would not doubt he has given her up now. It is not fair. You have to help me persuade Miss Purnell that she prefers me.”
“You were in love with Miss Carstairs just a little while ago,” Madeline said, “though I thought her altogether too silly and childish for you, Dom. Have you forgotten her so soon?”
He rounded on her. “What a foolish question, Mad,” he said. “I credited you with more intelligence and more understanding. You know that my feelings for Miss Carstairs have nothing to do with the matter. The point is that someone has to marry Miss Purnell. And who else should it be but me? Certainly not Edmund. There is no more reason why Edmund should marry her than there is that the man in the moon should do so. Can you not see that?”
Madeline got to her feet and tapped her hand lightly against his waistcoat. “Yes, I can, Dom,” she said. “Of course I can. I just do not want to see you trapped in a bad marriage for the rest of your life, that is all. It would break my heart. But you are right, of course. It would be no better to see Edmund unhappy. But you see, I would not know that Edmund was unhappy because he would never let anyone see it. Oh, yes, I suppose I would know. But I would think, as I have always thought, that it is just Edmund, and that he does not feel things as strongly as you or I. Have I really felt that way about him all my life, Dom? How perfectly horrid I must be.”
Lord Eden grinned down at her. “You will help, then?” he asked.
“I don’t know how,” she said. “Edmund would have my hide if he caught me at it. He considers a betrothal quite as binding as marriage, you know. And there was the announcement in London, and the garden party.”
“You do not have to do anything,” her brother said. “Just be willing to back me up when I invite her walking or riding. Come with us. Bring Purnell along with you. And be sure to give me a chance to talk to her sometimes without being overheard.”
“Oh, famous!” Madeline said, raising her eyes to the ceiling. “I am to be the grand prizewinner, I see. Mr. Purnell gives me the shudders. One never knows what he is thinking. And usually one is thankful one does not. And those eyes!”
“You can rise to the challenge, Mad,” he said. “You have never had a problem making conversation. Usually quite the opposite. And talk to Miss Purnell when you can. Nothing much. Just a hint here, a word there. Anything you can think of, without being too obvious. I mean to have her, you know, and I am usually successful with the ladies once I have set my mind to one.”
“What a truly modest brother I have,” Madeline said. “Perhaps the next few weeks will be quite as exciting as London after all. If only you did not have to be married to Miss Purnell at the end of it, Dom. I think I might like her, but she is all wrong for you. And Mr. Purnell is to be my portion, is he? Yes, very exciting.”
“Perhaps you should set out to ensnare him,” Lord Eden said with a grin. “We could have a double wedding, Mad.”
“Oh, spare me,” she said with a shudder. “I think I shall rush into the village and order a dozen spinster’s caps. Large size. I shall pull them down over my eyes and my ears so that I might resist the strong temptation to flirt with Mr. Purnell. I would rather flirt with an alligator! Oh, Dom, is that a carriage I hear?”
Both stood very still and listened. Then Lord Eden crossed to the windows and peered through.
“Can’t see a thing, what with the rain and the trees,” he said. “But those are definitely horses I hear. Come along, Mad, we should be with Edmund when he welcomes the guests.”
“Do you think you might contrive to call me Madeline in public?” she asked. “The other is so lowering, Dom.”
ALEXANDRA WAS SITTING quietly gazing through the carriage window. She was feeling relieved that her mother had finally fallen quiet. Lady Beckworth had scarcely stopped fretting since they had left London the day before. She thought the turnpike charges excessive when only two of them were traveling in the carriage; she wished Alexandra would not open a window to breathe in the air or to talk to James, who rode alongside them; she thought the service at the inns where they stopped for their meals slovenly—the servants would not have dared behave so if Lord Beckworth had been with them; the sheets were not properly aired at the inn where they had stayed the night before; they should have stayed there another night rather than risk traveling today in the rain.
Lady Beckworth had been terrified all day that they would be overturned in the mud. And indeed, the carriage had swayed and skidded quite alarmingly on a few occasions. But James had considered conditions quite good enough for travel, and Alexandra trusted her brother’s judgment. Now they had turned through the imposing iron gates of Amberley Court and past the stone lodge and the nodding porter, and finally all was quiet as they waited for their first glimpse of the house. Meanwhile they traveled along a densely tree-lined winding driveway. It felt almost as if they were in an enchanted world. James had ridden on ahead, the driveway being too narrow to accommodate both a horse and a carriage traveling side by side.
Alexandra felt her heartbeat quicken. She really did not wish to be where she was. Despite all the publicity that had surrounded the event, she still had not adjusted her mind to her new status as the betrothed of the Earl of Amberley. It was rather strange perhaps that she, who had never known freedom and never expected to know it except in a very relative way as a wife rather than a daughter, had glimpsed it very briefly, lost it almost immediately, and now longed passionately for it.
And yet even that one glimpse had been elusive. How could she be free? If Lord Amberley had not renewed his offer after his grace rejected her, would she have been free of the domination of a man? She would still have belonged to her father, and for the rest of his or her life—she could not have expected any further marriage offers. Her fate would have been an unenviable one, to put the matter lightly.
Why, then, did she not just reconcile her mind to marrying the Earl of Amberley? He was not an unpleasant man. Indeed, he would probably be a far kinder and more indulgent husband than the Duke of Peterleigh would have been. He was certainly younger and more personable. And he had treated her with marked courtesy during the few occasions she had seen him before his return to the country more than a week before. At their betrothal party, in particular, he had taken pains to make it appear that he was actually proud to be her affianced husband.
Why not marry him willingly, then? Pride perhaps? How could she marry a man, knowing that he had offered for her only because he had felt that he had an obligation to do so? He could not possibly wish to marry her. He was a hand
some man and a fashionable man. She was a plain, unfashionable woman who had felt all at sea in London. She had had no idea how to go on. She had not known until her arrival there how very different her life had been from that of most of her peers. She did not know how to enjoy herself or how to laugh. She did not know how to show her feelings at all. All her life she had been taught that self-control was one of the most important virtues to cultivate.
The Earl of Amberley could not possibly like her, then. And she could never willingly marry him, knowing that. Life at home with Papa would be preferable. At least that life would be familiar to her.
And did she like Lord Amberley? she asked herself, staring off through the trees beside the carriage. How could she know? They had not really had a chance to get to know each other in London. He had behaved honorably to her and had treated her with marked kindness and courtesy. He had been the perfect gentleman. But the perfect gentleman is not a real person. The Earl of Amberley was. But she had not glimpsed that person at all. He was a total stranger. And a stranger whom, despite everything, she still resented.
He thoroughly disturbed her. That was an absurd admission to make of a gentleman who had such easy, charming manners and such smiling blue eyes. But it was true nonetheless. She was aware of him physically in a way she had never felt with anyone else. She had never been afraid of meeting anyone else’s eyes. Yet she was afraid to look into Lord Amberley’s, afraid of…What? Drowning? She could think of no other word to describe the sensation.
And she had never been afraid of anyone else’s hands. Oh, Papa’s perhaps—large, blunt-fingered hands that could inflict pain until one had bitten the inside of one’s mouth raw. But hands that had never hinted violence to her? Lord Amberley’s were long-fingered, well-manicured hands that nevertheless looked strong. But she dreaded the touch of those hands. They aroused uncomfortable aches in her that she could not quell and that she did not want to feel. They made her aware of her own unawakened femininity.
She feared the Earl of Amberley because she sensed that he could make her into the sort of woman she had only dreamed of being and was frightened of becoming in reality.
Then, of course, there was the fact that he had a mistress. A woman whom he must be very well used to touching. And a woman whose experience would humiliate her and make her feel like nothing at all. She had never felt of much worth, yet she had dreamed of being a duchess, a person of some consequence. Well, she was to be a countess, a person of consequence still. Yet one who had been trapped into marrying a husband who did not really want her, who would lavish all his attention on a mistress.
Fortunately for Alexandra’s peace of mind, her attention was distracted from such thoughts by a shriek from her mother beside her. She turned her head sharply to see that the trees on the other side of the road had given place to empty space. Even through the rain she could see a magnificent panorama spread out below them. They were perched on the side of a hill above a deep and wide valley, through which a river wound its way. In the valley were trees, meadows, cultivated lawns, fountains, ornamental gardens, and an arched stone bridge. Low on the hill opposite, and dominating all, was a Palladian mansion of a magnificence to make her catch her breath even at this distance.
“Ooh!” Alexandra’s mouth formed the word even if no sound escaped her.
“We will never get down there in all this mud!” Lady Beckworth wailed, fumbling in her reticule for a handkerchief. “We will be overturned and go tumbling into the valley. We will be killed. Knock on the front panel for the coachman to stop, Alexandra.”
But Purnell rode up beside the window before Alexandra could comply. The carriage eased to a halt at the same moment. Alexandra pulled down the window.
“You will be quite safe,” he said, leaning forward so that a stream of water flowed from the brim of his hat. “The roadway has been heavily inlaid with stone. And the incline is not nearly as steep as you might imagine from here. The road descends quite gradually. Are you all right, Mama?”
“Your papa would never allow this,” she said faintly from behind the handkerchief. “He would take us back to the nearest inn, James.”
“I would not take any needless risk with your life, Mama,” he said, “or with Alex’s. Close the curtains over the window, Alex. Mama will not be so frightened if she cannot look down.”
Brother and sister exchanged warm smiles before he rode on again. He laid his wet-gloved hand over hers where it rested on the window for a brief moment and squeezed it as he looked down into the valley to the house. Alexandra felt comforted as he rode away. The gesture of sympathy had nothing to do with muddy roads and an incline into a valley, she knew.
She did not close the curtains. Her mother’s attention had become too deliberately intent on the Bible she had drawn onto her lap from the opposite seat to stray even once to the window. Her lips were moving in silent prayer. Alexandra gazed down in growing wonder and trepidation at the house and gardens spread out in the valley.
LORD AMBERLEY SAW THE APPROACH of two carriages and a rider from some distance. He was sitting in the long gallery, whose tall front windows faced east to the hillside that formed the main approach to the house. He had half-expected that their arrival would be delayed until the following day. There were many people who chose not to travel English roads during heavy rain. But he sat there anyway, unable to settle to any other activity.
His betrothal seemed so much more real to him now than it had when he was in London or even in the week he had been at home. In London he had been so concerned to save Miss Purnell from undeserved ostracism and then so intent on seeing that she was fully accepted again by all who had been prepared to shun her, that he had scarcely had time to consider the full implications for himself of his engagement.
And during his week at home, Miss Purnell’s arrival had been comfortably in the future. He had much to do to catch up on estate business that his bailiff had been attending to during his absence. Only yesterday and today had it fully dawned on him that his fiancée was coming to his home. Not just a visitor to be entertained and waved on her way after a suitable time. But his betrothed. His future wife. The woman who would occupy this house with him for the rest of their lives.
The strange thing, the ridiculous thing, was that he could not picture to himself Miss Purnell’s face. He could see in his mind a rather tall woman of proud and disciplined bearing. He could see dark hair worn in severe fashion. But there was a blank where her face should be. It was controlled and frequently impassive, he knew. Her eyes were dark. But he could form no vivid mental picture. All he could remember of her were wide dark eyes, flushed cheeks and dry lips, wild and luxuriantly wavy hair, long, shapely limbs, and a bed that looked invitingly tumbled.
But that was not Miss Purnell, he knew. Memory had played him false that first time. When he had seen her for a second time, she had been a different woman altogether. The heat of the moment had painted her lovely in his imagination. Miss Purnell was not very lovely, and she was not particularly attractive. She rarely spoke, she held herself stiff and aloof so that it was hard to imagine that she was made of flesh and blood. She flinched from his every touch.
And this was the woman he was to marry. This was the woman with whom he must share his home and his bed and his very self. His hostess. His closest companion. His lover. The mother of his children.
It was a daunting prospect.
Lord Amberley rose to his feet when he spotted the carriages. He watched them make their slow descent to the valley. There was no danger. The stones on the road made it impossible for either hooves or wheels to skid even in the worst weather, but it was natural for strangers to be intimidated by the drop on one side of the road. James Purnell must be the rider, he guessed. Miss Purnell and her mother would be in the first carriage. The other, smaller and plainer, was undoubtedly a baggage coach. Possibly Purnell had brought a valet and Lady Beckworth and Miss Purnell a maid, though it was unnecessary. He had been prepared to assign servants to
them.
Lord Amberley left the gallery and walked through to the great marble hall when he saw that the carriages had reached the valley floor and had turned to cross the stone bridge and skirt the formal gardens before driving up to the marble steps at the main entrance to the house. Rain or no rain, he intended to be on the steps to greet his guests. He would have done no less for any visitor. For his future bride, even a winter blizzard would not have kept him indoors.
He greeted James Purnell, who was dismounting from his horse. A footman let down the steps of the carriage and helped Lady Beckworth to descend.
“Good day, ma’am.” Lord Amberley took her hand and bowed over it. “How pleased I am that you have arrived safely. Welcome to Amberley Court.”
He turned back to the carriage as Purnell offered his mother his arm and hurried her up the steps and inside out of the rain. Lord Amberley waved aside the footman and stretched out his own hand for Miss Purnell’s. She put hers in it after a moment’s hesitation.
“Welcome, my dear,” he said, smiling up into her eyes. “Welcome to your future home.”
The steps were already slippery with rain. He released his hold of her hand, placed both hands on her waist, and lifted her to the ground.
“It does not always rain here, I promise,” he said gently, noting her hasty withdrawal from his touch. “I have ordered sunshine and warmth especially for you. Come on inside. You will wish to warm yourself and have some tea.”
He gave her his arm and hurried up the steps with her. Did she even know that she had not uttered one word? he wondered. He looked down at her again as they entered the hall. Yes, that was what her face was like, of course. Every feature in place where it should be. A marble face. A statue’s face. A face that could be plain or quite extraordinarily lovely, depending on the spirit that shone behind it. So far in his acquaintance with her, no spirit seemed to have been present. Except perhaps on that very first occasion.