The Gilded Web

by Mary Balogh

  “I never look at it,” Lord Amberley said quietly from beside her, “without feeling something like a lump in my throat and an almost unbelieving gratitude that it is mine. Why me? To think of all the thousands and millions of other people to whom it might have belonged! I pray that I will never take it for granted. Whenever I return from London and see it from the top of the hill, as you did yesterday, I wonder how I could have borne to leave it. I am afraid I may well become a hermit in my old age.”

  He smiled at her in that way he had that made his eyes impossible to look into. Alexandra turned away from him.

  “It is lovely,” she said, hearing the echo of her words long after they were spoken and realizing all their inadequacy to express how she had felt looking at it moments before when it had first come into view.

  His voice was brisker when he spoke next. “I left my mother and yours in the gardens,” he said. “I hope we will be able to offer Lady Beckworth sufficient entertainment while you are here.”

  “Mama is quite content to sit indoors with her sewing,” Alexandra said. “I don’t think anyone need worry about entertaining her.”

  “Well,” he said, “I believe my mother has a few visits planned. You will find yourself much in demand, you know, Alex. Everyone I have spoken to in the last week is eager to meet my future countess. You are a great local event. I hope you will not find your life too demanding. I shall try to see that you also have time to yourself. You like to be alone, do you not? In that way you and I are alike.”

  Alexandra looked at him, startled. She had not thought that there could be any likeness between them. And she felt true alarm. Coming to Amberley had been ordeal enough. The prospect of spending a few weeks with her betrothed and his family had been daunting. She had been warned in London that she would also be called upon to meet and socialize with his aunt and uncle. Must she also meet other neighbors? But of course, she might have guessed as much. She had realized during her month and a half in London that her own family was unusually unsociable. It was not normal almost never to visit others or be visited by them.

  “I shall be pleased to meet your neighbors, my lord,” she said.

  He turned to smile at her.

  “Edmund,” she corrected herself, and blushed.

  LORD AMBERLEY WAS PLEASED THAT HIS mother had decided to join him during the afternoon, when he took his guests on a tour of the house. She was able to listen to Lady Beckworth’s comments and answer her questions while he concentrated on those of his betrothed and her brother. He found himself nervous. He normally loved showing the house and its treasures to visitors, and he had looked forward to that afternoon. But in the event he found that Alex’s opinion of what she saw was too important to him for him to relax.

  She was to be his wife. They would live much of their life together in this house. And it was so very precious to him. It would depress him if she did not love it almost as much as he did.

  The trouble with Alex was that it was so difficult to know what she was thinking or feeling. He could understand after knowing her for a few weeks that she had learned more self-discipline in her one-and-twenty years than anyone else he had known. He recognized that her very upright bearing, her raised chin, her impassive expression were a mask behind which the real woman hid. And it was his task to penetrate that mask, to persuade her to put it off forever with him.

  It would not be easy. He did not even know who the real Alexandra Purnell was. He did not know how much there was behind the mask. He had had only a few tantalizing glimpses, most notably that morning. He had been enchanted when he had given in to his restlessness and ridden down the valley to meet her and the others. Her face had been flushed and animated, her eyes alive. And she had raced along the beach with Dominic? It was hard to imagine her doing anything so spontaneous.

  What had been her feeling about the house when she had slowed her horse almost to a standstill as it had come in sight? She had seemed unconscious of both him and the others, who had ridden past them. And yet when she had spoken, she had been so lukewarm in her praise that he had felt rather as if he had been slapped in the face.

  Lord Amberley took his guests first through the state apartments, through the grand dining room and drawing room and ballroom, full of treasures of painting and sculpture that had been gathered during the last century, first by his grandfather, and then by his father during his grand tour. The rooms were used only rarely, he explained, but at least once a year during the annual summer ball that his grandparents had made a tradition of in the neighborhood.

  “My grandmother was responsible for the wall of mirrors,” he explained in the ballroom. “Apparently she was afraid that in the country there would be too few guests to make balls splendid enough occasions. So every year we have candles and guests doubled in number.”

  Alex, he saw, was looking immaculate again after her ride of the morning. And she was distant from him, not hostile, not unresponsive, but totally unknowable. It was impossible to tell whether she liked what she saw or not.

  He took his guests through the state bedroom with its gilded and painted ceiling and its ornate canopied bed hung with gold hangings, and listened to Lady Beckworth’s enthusiastic comments. His mother was explaining to her that the room had never been occupied by royalty, though the one in the old house had reputedly been slept in by Queen Elizabeth herself during one of her progresses through the country.

  He should have kissed Alex that morning, Lord Amberley was thinking. There had been a chance, when they had returned to the stables. The others had already dismounted and moved away. And he had thought of kissing her as he lifted her down. She had looked lovely. And he had set himself the task of getting close to her, physically as well as emotionally. He did not want to marry her without ever having touched more than her hand. And he did not want a marriage in which his only physical contact with his wife was the nightly ritual for the begetting of his children.

  He must begin touching Alex, kissing her occasionally. It did not seem to be too difficult a task he had set himself. But with Alex it was. She made herself appear so thoroughly untouchable that he wondered how she would react to being kissed. And she was certainly not the sort of woman one looked at and dreamed of touching. He had let the opportunity pass him by in the stables that morning.

  He led his guests into the library, one of his favorite rooms. It was a large room, three walls lined with bookcases and filled with books, which his grandfather and his father had collected and which he had added to.

  “I have made it into a sitting room as well, as you can see,” he said, indicating the elegant Adam furniture grouped around the marble fireplace. “I spend a great deal of time here.”

  “What is the painting on the overmantel?” Purnell asked, strolling forward to examine the Apollo with his lyre more closely.

  Lord Amberley joined him there after glancing at Alexandra, who was examining the books in one of the bookcases. She turned to him when he came up behind her a few minutes later.

  “I did not dream that so many books existed,” she said. “One could spend an eternity in this room and not be bored.”

  He smiled down at her. Her eyes were dark and wide and for the moment defenseless. “Will a lifetime of access to the room suit you?” he asked.

  “Do you have that book of poems you told me about?” she asked. “The one about nature?”

  She followed him to another bookcase, from which he took a leather-bound volume that looked as if it had been used a great deal.

  “There are poems by two poets in here,” he said. “Perhaps you will like Coleridge’s too. They are splendid works of the imagination. I prefer the others because I can relate to them more closely. You might like to try the poem about Tintern Abbey. The scene described reminds me somewhat of Amberley.”

  She took the book from his hands and held it against her. “May I take it with me?” she asked.

  “Of course.” He smiled. “Anything that is mine is yours too, Alex.�
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  She flushed and looked sharply down at the book.

  “The music room is next to this,” he said. “Come, I want you to see the pianoforte.”

  IT WAS ALL SO VERY splendid, Alexandra thought. Overwhelming. It was very clear that Lord Amberley loved his home. Not just his voice and manner as he showed them each room and pointed out its treasures revealed the fact, but also the details of the rooms themselves. The library was clearly a central room in his home. It was no mere showpiece. It was used. And the music room made her ache with longing. It was a large room and almost bare. The only major piece of furniture in it was the pianoforte, a rich work of art in itself, and with a tone to match, as she had been able to tell from running her fingers over the keyboard.

  Anyone who did not truly love music would have crammed the room with other furnishings. Music must matter to Lord Amberley. She wished she could hear him play. But she would not ask him to do so. She hated to be asked herself.

  “Alexandra is quite accomplished on the pianoforte,” her mother said.

  “Oh, are you?” Lady Amberley was smiling at her. “So is Edmund, you know, and Madeline to a lesser degree. She will not practice. Will you play for us, Alexandra?”

  “Oh, not now,” she said. “I am out of practice.”

  “Perhaps some other time,” Lord Amberley said. “You must come here whenever you wish, Alex, and get used to the instrument. Each one is different, you know.”

  She was grateful to him for the quiet way in which he had smoothed over the moment. And quite overwhelmed by it all. How could she be this man’s countess, mistress of this splendid house? The reality of her situation was becoming more painfully obvious to her as the hours and days went by. She ran her hand over the smooth shining wood of the pianoforte as her mother and Lady Amberley walked out into the great hall. James was already out there, examining the marble busts that lined the walls.

  “Alex,” Lord Amberley said from behind her, “you are feeling the pressure of being here as my betrothed, are you not?”

  “Yes.” She turned to face him, his book clasped against her.

  “You need not,” he said. “I will try not to put unnecessary demands on you. I like to use this room as an escape or at least as a place in which to be alone for a while. And the library too. You must feel free to do likewise. I would like you to start thinking of this house as your home. I am sure it is difficult. I try to imagine what it must be like for a woman, who must leave the home she has been familiar with all her life and go to live in her husband’s. It must be unsettling in the extreme.”

  “Thank you.” She tried to smile. “The house is lovely.”

  He took them into the green salon at the south front of the house, and explained that it had been designed and furnished especially for his grandmother, who disliked the main reception salon next to it.

  “She objected to the heavy crimson color of the walls and furnishings,” he said, “and to the ornate gilded chairs. Grandpapa would not change that room because he felt it made an impressive contrast to the marble hall for visitors. So he had this room done for her.”

  “They were always quarreling, those two,” Lady Amberley said with a laugh. “But no one ever doubted their deep love for each other either. They always managed a compromise when their differences were irreconcilable.”

  “I wonder the countess would dare to express disapproval of her husband’s taste,” Lady Beckworth said.

  Alexandra was enchanted with the room, which was all white and gold except for the green carpet. It was like a garden. She crossed to one of the long windows, which looked out on the rose arbor.

  “Grandfather had it placed just there deliberately,” Lord Amberley said, coming up behind her. “It seems almost an extension of the room, does it not? Or perhaps the room seems to be an extension of it.”

  “I think she must have been happy here,” Alexandra said. “This room was made for happiness.” Her heart ached with a longing that she could not identify.

  Lady Amberley had already taken Purnell’s arm and led him and Lady Beckworth into the long gallery.

  “She used to sit here during the mornings with her sewing,” Lord Amberley said, “though the room was not intended for such a use. I used to come in here sometimes when I could escape from my nurse, or from my tutor when I was a little older. When I was a very small child, I used to stand on the chair behind her—she always sat straight, never touching the back of her chair. I liked to watch the design of her embroidery take shape. She used to make me take off my shoes, but she would never scold or shoo me off back to the nursery. And when my nurse would finally come, Grandmama would always lie and say that she had invited me to visit her.”

  Alexandra turned and looked up at him. That ache had become almost unbearable. “How wonderful it must have been,” she said, “to have someone—just one person—who did not always point out just your faults. And someone who would defend you even though both you and she must have known that you were in the wrong. You must have been distraught when she died. How old were you?”

  “Thirteen,” he said. “I grieved very deeply, as did we all. She was quite a character. But she was not my only advocate. Love has always been the ruling force in this family.”

  Love, not discipline? “Love?” she said, looking into his smiling eyes and clasping her book firmly against her stomach. “Is it enough? What about discipline and training?”

  “Oh, I had my fair share of both,” he said. “I always knew, sometimes quite painfully so, when I had done something that was unacceptable. But yes, love is enough, Alex. Discipline, even punishment, flow from it. I was never in doubt that I was loved quite unconditionally.”

  There was a tickle in the back of her throat that she had to swallow to control. She was on the verge of tears, she realized in some surprise. Had she always been loved by her parents? She was not sure. She had always assumed so, though she had felt too that she must earn their love. And sometimes, try as she would, she had not been able to live up to their expectations. Unconditional love?

  He reached out and touched her cheek with his fingertips. “You will be part of this family, Alex,” he said. “You will see for yourself.”

  She did not shrink from his touch. It comforted her, soothed the ache in her throat.

  And then she closed her eyes as his mouth came down to cover hers softly, warmly. His lips parted over hers. She could taste him. He was part of the comfort of the room, the love that his grandmother had brought and left there.

  But suddenly she was pushing against him with the book and staring at him in shocked disbelief. She could feel the color flooding her face. “Oh!” she said. And feebly, “How dare you!”

  “Forgive me,” he said. He did not move back from her. His blue eyes looked gently down into hers. “I did not mean to insult or to frighten you, Alex. I want to show you affection. You are to be my wife.”

  Her back was to the window. She thought she would suffocate or drown in his eyes. “Affection?” she said. “We are not married yet, my lord. You take liberties that you have no right to.”

  He took a step back. “I have been too hasty,” he said. “Forgive me, please, Alex. I did not mean to upset you.”

  But he had upset her. Her feelings were in turmoil. The intimacy of the moment had terrified her almost to the point of panic. But it was, when all was said and done, only a kiss. How appallingly naive and straitlaced he must think her. And not without reason. It would have been better far to have passed off the moment without comment. And she had not been guiltless. She had invited his kiss, even though she had not realized at the time that that was what she was doing.

  “Come,” Lord Amberley said, holding out an arm to her, “let us join the others in the long gallery, shall we? It is my favorite room in the house.”

  Alexandra focused all her efforts on bringing herself under control. She felt so dreadfully foolish. And very bewildered. She straightened her spine, drew back her shoulders, lifted he
r chin, and took his arm.

  But a footman appeared in the doorway before they reached it.

  “Mr. and Miss Courtney have been shown to the drawing room, my lord,” he said with a bow.

  “How opportune,” Lord Amberley said to Alexandra after sending the footman to take the same message to Lady Amberley in the gallery. “I am sure everyone is ready for tea. I am afraid I sometimes get carried away when I am showing off the house. I will show you the gallery and the chapel some other time. If you wish to see them, that is.”

  “Yes, I do,” she said.

  “Mr. Courtney is one of my more prosperous tenants,” he said. “I had hoped that you would not be subjected to visitors until you had had a day to recover from your journey. But you had Anna and Walter this morning, and now this. I hope you will not mind.”

  “No,” she said.

  He looked silently down at her as they climbed the marble stairs to the drawing room. She dared not look across at him and meet those blue eyes at such close quarters. She only barely had her feelings under control.

  “Say you forgive me, Alex,” he said quietly just before they reached the double doors leading into the drawing room. “I am more sorry than I can say to have discomposed you.”

  “You have not discomposed me,” she said, looking straight ahead at the back of the liveried footman who was about to open the doors for them. “And there is nothing to forgive, my lord.”

  “‘My lord,’” he repeated softly.

  “Edmund,” she said.

  MR. WILFRED COURTNEY WAS an extremely large man, who creaked inside his stays but still filled every chair he sat in almost to overflowing. His powerful neck bulged from his high starched collar. His face was florid and genial, his head bald and shining. He looked like a prosperous farmer who lived off the fat of the land. And in his particular case, looks did not deceive.

  His daughter looked as if she could not possibly be his offspring. Tiny and dainty, she had masses of auburn ringlets, large hazel eyes that looked eagerly on the world, expressive eyebrows and thick lashes, both of which features she knew how to use to advantage. Susan Courtney, apple of a doting father’s eye, sister of four elder brothers, eternal pride of a mother who had never been more than passably pretty herself, had been raised to believe that life had more to offer her than another farmhouse and another farmer like her father.