by Farr, Diane
Even his smile was soft and intimate. “For not avoiding me. For staying my friend.”
She felt herself blushing. “Nonsense.” It was terrible to be thanked for something she was secretly ashamed of. She knew perfectly well that she ought to be keeping him at a distance. She simply couldn’t bring herself to do it. Her craving for his company was a weakness. A serious, baffling, weakness.
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “It’s no small thing. When a lady rejects a man’s proposal, a little awkwardness between them is inevitable. I’m glad you didn’t cut my acquaintance.”
“I have taken pity on you,” she said mendaciously. “Since I know your wits to be addled.”
“Handsome of you.”
“Thank you,” she said demurely.
She was teasing, but she saw his expression grow thoughtful. “Someday,” he said softly, “I will explain myself to you. And you’ll see that I’m not quite as addled as I appear.”
“You could hardly be as addled as you appear.”
He laughed and she glanced warningly at Sarah, placing a finger against her lips. He leaned forward on his elbows, bringing his face closer to her and lowering his voice still further. “You may be right. I am unable to give up the notion of marrying you. I keep picturing you as my wife. And I like the picture more and more. Crazy, isn’t it?”
Her pulse began to race. She tried to frown, but failed. “A gentleman would never mention that subject again.”
“This gentleman has no choice. How else am I to change your mind?”
She wished it were possible to say you won’t change my mind, and put an end to the discussion. Unfortunately, Natalie was too honest. The words wouldn’t come. She did manage to look cross, at least. “My dear sir, this is hardly the time or place—”
“Oh, I’m not planning to ambush you with another ill-timed offer of marriage. I merely thought it was high time we discussed the topic like rational creatures.”
“What topic? Marriage?”
“That’s right. Marriage in general. Not our marriage in particular.”
Our marriage. A tiny thrill ran through her at the words. What a goose she was! It was ridiculous to let this man invade her dreams the way he had. But she couldn’t help it. She was only human. She had felt drawn to Malcolm from the moment she met him. He was prone to inexplicable behavior from time to time, but still ...
Besides, there was something about receiving a marriage proposal from a man that inevitably altered a lady’s perception of him. She had received not one, but two, offers from Lord Malcolm—if she counted that absurd remark he made on the first night they met. Three, if she counted this silly encounter.
Lately, she could not see him without remembering his offer. She could not think of him without thinking of it. The idea was, to be perfectly frank, preying on her mind. It was even keeping her awake at night.
She couldn’t let him know how his off-handed proposals had affected her. The last thing she wanted was to find herself suddenly engaged to a man who would marry her for all the wrong reasons.
She felt a craven need to put more space between their bodies. She leaned against the low wall of the boat’s side, easing her body to the edge to trail her fingertips in the water. “I see,” she said, although she didn’t. She kept her eyes on the ripples her light touch sent across the water. “Is that supposed to make me feel more comfortable? Discussing marriage in the abstract?”
She saw, out of the corner of her eye, the disarming smile he bent upon her. “I hoped it would help,” he said. “I don’t mean to press you—”
“Yes, you do,” she muttered.
“—but I would like to know what your objections are. It has occurred to me that it may be marriage, itself, that you object to. Not specifically marriage to me.”
She looked at him then, amusement warring with exasperation. “Why would I object to marriage? It is the foundation of civilized society.”
He looked chagrined. “Then it is me you object to. May I ask why?”
There were times, she thought, when she simply wanted to shake the man. This was one of them.
“I don’t object to you,” she said patiently. “I like you. But not enough to marry you. Is that so hard to understand?”
It wasn’t strictly true, but she had sounded convincing enough. He shifted in his seat, and the boat rocked beneath them like a cradle. “Frankly, yes. I hope you are not one of those females who—” He stopped abruptly, as if cutting himself off before he could say something offensive.
Natalie stiffened. “Who what?” Her eyes narrowed. “Who hope to be married for their own sakes, rather than for practical reasons?”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way,” he said gruffly. “But I will tell you, Miss Whittaker, speaking as one who has some experience of marriage, that practical reasons are the best reasons to marry. These so-called ‘love matches’ are usually more wretched than blissful.”
A chill struck at her heart. Was he speaking of his marriage to Catherine? Had he loved her? He must have loved her. And had she made him miserable? Natalie did not dare ask. She took a deep breath and kept her voice steady. “When the marriage is based on fleeting attraction, I grant you, misery is often the result. And unrequited love also is miserable. Or so I hear.”
Ah, there it was. Lines of pain appeared in his face. He seemed to withdraw from her, his eyes turning cold and bleak. “Indeed it is,” he said. “Unrequited love can drive one mad.”
This definitely sounded like the voice of experience.
Natalie felt a keen stab of something that felt suspiciously like jealousy. She sternly repressed it. Lord Malcolm’s feelings for his late wife were none of her business. And they were supposed to be speaking of marriage in the abstract, not the particular. She returned to her theme. “But true affection between man and wife—”
“Friendship. The affection of friendship is best in marriage. Liking is a stronger foundation than love, or what people call love.”
“Friendship should be part of it. But I disagree with you. I think it should not be the whole. Marriage should be based on something deeper.”
He appeared genuinely agitated. “Miss Whittaker, forgive me, but you are talking nonsense. Sentimental twaddle! It’s plain you know nothing of the matter. Love is a trap. A delusion. I have never seen it lead to anything but pain.”
“Again, you speak of infatuation. Or of that silly state where people long so deeply to fall in love that they fancy themselves in love, generally fixing their emotions on some unsuitable, or completely incompatible, person. I am speaking of—” She took a deep breath, knowing before she said it that she was going to sound like an idiot. “True love.”
He stared at her in disbelief. And, she thought, disappointment. It pained her to see him look disappointed in her. “What a bag of moonshine,” he muttered disgustedly. “Have you ever been in love?”
She glanced again at Sarah, but the little girl slept soundly. “No,” she said, very softly, but very firmly. “I have not. But I will not marry without it.”
He leaned forward again, earnestness in every line of his body. “Miss Whittaker, you’re a sensible woman. I beg you, do not waste your life crying for the moon. Do not stay single, waiting for a man who does not exist. I offer you honest friendship. And loyalty. I will promise to honor you, respect you and cherish you. You will want for nothing. And we will talk together like rational creatures, not fancying ourselves injured over trifles. I promise you, friendship like ours is superior to love in every way.” His voice dripped with contempt when he said love.
Oh, this was terrible. How could she make him understand? She shook her head, her emotions in turmoil. “I would be unhappy,” she managed to say. “Do not press me further. I cannot marry without love. I will not marry without love.” Anger suddenly licked through her. She lifted her chin and stared coolly into his eyes. “And if you badger me about this once more, Lord Malcolm, I will be forced to redraw the boundaries of o
ur friendship. I cannot allow you to see me alone if I must continually fear a renewal of your suit.”
He went very still. The lines around his mouth drew tight. “I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. “I will try not to embarrass you again with my unwelcome proposals.”
“Thank you.”
She had won. Why did she feel as if she had lost?
A twinge of despair made her wish she could crawl into a hole somewhere and have a good cry. She hated behaving like a tight-laced spinster. But what else could she do? If he continued to press her on this, it would drive her round the bend.
She shouldn’t keep seeing him alone like this—or as good as alone, since a sleeping child hardly counted. The problem was, she looked forward to seeing him. Her heart lifted every time he came into view. She supposed she had been lonely, all these years. At any rate, having a friend was such a treat, she could not bear to give him up simply because he had proposed to her a time or two. Or three. Holding herself aloof would punish her as well as him. What was the point of that?
She studied him covertly as he adjusted the neglected fishing line. He was frowning at the fishing line, not at her, but it was clearly she who had annoyed him. Her heart sank.
She had angered him with her prissy refusal to discuss the subject. This was no way to win his regard.
She wished she knew how to win his regard.
What makes a man fall in love with a lady? She had no idea. Were there books on such subjects? Did women learn it from one another, sharing secrets in a sisterhood from which she had somehow been excluded? Or were some women simply born with the knack, a God-given talent that other women—like herself—lacked?
And how could anyone, let alone Natalie Whittaker, make this particular man fall in love? A man who claimed to believe that the kind of love Natalie longed for did not exist? A man who, if he did believe in love, thought it was a dangerous aberration rather than a desirable state? Oh, it was hopeless.
And yet, the more time she spent with Malcolm Chase, the more certain she was that if he could love her ... if marriage to him offered her something more than a sort of permanent governess post ... she would accept his offer. She had begun to suspect that behind his odd, abrupt shifts of mood and impulsive behavior lay a heart full of intense emotion. He seemed to feel so deeply that he scarcely knew how to contain his feelings. Such a man, if he loved, would love passionately.
If he loved. That was the catch. The if was a towering obstacle.
She knew it was commonplace for couples to marry without love; she wasn’t completely naive. Some couples married while barely acquainted with each other. And the higher up the social ladder a family was, the more common it was to choose a mate in much the same way one chose a horse. Still, from clues that he had dropped, she suspected that he had loved Catherine to distraction. Indignation rose in her at the thought. How little he must think of her, if he expected her to play second fiddle to a ghost! And how little he knew her, if he thought she would consent to such a degradation!
What had Catherine done, she wondered, to make him love her so? And what had she done that had made him so unhappy? And why had he decided that love itself, not Catherine, was to blame? Could he ever love again, or was his heart utterly unreachable? She wished she knew. Because if it were only possible, if there were a single shred of hope that he might, someday, love her, she was tempted to try for it.
The task seemed daunting, indeed. He seemed determined to think of her as a friend, and nothing more—even if he married her.
To make a man fall in love was enough of a challenge. To make him fall in love against his will seemed impossible.
* * *
Malcolm strode up the wooded hill, scowling. He vented his feelings from time to time by whacking at the underbrush with his walking stick when it impeded his progress, but for the most part he brooded. He was in a very black mood.
He had acted like a complete dunderhead out on the lake with Natalie. He had promised himself—and her, confound it!—that he wasn’t going to blurt out another ill-timed marriage proposal, and then, ten minutes later, out it had come. If it happened again, he would lose her utterly. He couldn’t risk that.
It wasn’t just Sarah who had grown dependent on her, he had to admit. He was all but addicted to her himself. But that didn’t matter. His feelings didn’t matter. What mattered was Sarah. He needed to remarry. The devil! He wanted to remarry. And Natalie was the perfect candidate. Now that he had found her, he would not let her slip her through his fingers.
This was no whim. He had planned to remarry almost immediately after Catherine’s death. But first the prescribed period of mourning had to be observed, and afterward it had proved unexpectedly difficult to find the right lady. Most unmarried ladies fell into two camps: too young and too old. The ones that were the right age, if they had anything to recommend them at all, were already married.
He remembered the Season in London he had endured, eighteen months after Catherine’s death, and shuddered. He had dragged himself down to London and dutifully danced with all the children paraded before him by the matchmaking mamas, but couldn’t picture himself married to any of them. Some giggled, some were awkward, some were too coming, some too shy. And all were so young that they made him feel like a graybeard. No dewy-eyed chit fresh from the schoolroom for him, thank you. After the sufferings of his first marriage, he wanted a partner and an equal.
He had met several interesting women with whom it was no punishment to converse, but they were all married except one; a widow a few years older than himself. Unfortunately, it wasn’t practical to offer marriage to a woman older than himself. He needed a lady with most of her childbearing years ahead of her.
Children were important, especially now that it was clear poor old Arthur would never produce a boy. It was up to Malcolm to secure the secession. He needed a son, and the sooner the better. It was all very well for Natalie to turn up her nose at “practical” reasons to marry—the practical reasons were damned good ones, and they had nothing to do with falling in love.
Love! He snorted at the thought. The word itself irritated him. Catherine had clung like a millstone round his neck, prating of love, mewling and whining and making herself ill. For years, he had felt guilty that he could not return her regard. For years, he’d endured her endless reproaches and her sad, sad eyes, feeling mean and small because he didn’t love her, couldn’t make himself love her. Eventually he began to suspect that all her tears and megrims had been trumped up to manipulate him. It was disgust with her petty manipulations that had led him to ... ah, God, he could not think of it. It did no good to think of it.
Which version of his past was true? That he had bruised and broken his wife’s heart, or that she had had a mania for controlling him? Did the truth lie somewhere in between? He supposed he would never know the answer. All he knew was, the very mention of love caused a miasma of disgust to rise up and choke him.
He emerged from the woods at the top of the rise, breathing hard but feeling better. Nothing like exercise to clear a man’s brain. He halted to look down at the view. Below him on the left were the roof and chimneys of Crosby Hall. From this vantage point, it was possible to trace exactly where the Tudor portion ended and the more modern sections had been added. It was an architectural nightmare, he supposed, but it had a certain homelike charm. Around it, neat fields stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted with tenant cottages. Crosby Hall was obviously a working, prosperous estate. It fairly bustled with activity.
By contrast, down the hill on the right stood his own home. Larkspur, gracefully poised atop a gentle rise, was elegant and self-contained. Its pretty, useless park contained no tenants, no spreading acreage bursting with grain, no livestock. Larkspur was a rich family’s plaything, not a farm. It was purely ornamental. Much like his own life, he mused. But marriage and children—a son—those prizes, once he obtained them, would lend purpose to his existence.
But how to obtain them? He
frowned, unseeing, at the landscape. He had never guessed that the reason why Natalie remained single was that she cherished these idiotic schoolgirl notions about love. She seemed a level-headed female. She was demonstrably intelligent. Why would any rational creature build such castles in the air? And, what was more to the purpose, how could he convince her to come back to earth?
It would be hard to woo a woman who was determined to marry for love, and only for love. Hoaxing her was out of the question. The very notion of pretending to feel emotions he did not feel was repugnant to him. An honorable man shouldn’t sham such a thing—even if Malcolm could pull it off, which was doubtful. He had certainly never fooled Catherine on the rare occasions when he had tried. But how could he win Natalie’s hand without it?
It was clear that mere argument was not going to change her mind. Showing her the absurdity of her views, or reasoning her out of her sentimental illusions, would only raise her hackles. No one, not even a female, enjoyed being proven wrong. If finding herself still on the shelf at her age hadn’t given her pause, obviously there was nothing he could say or do to pluck the cobwebs from her brain.
Or was there?
An idea occurred to him. A risky, but interesting idea. Natalie was a woman grown. She was no shrinking seventeen year-old. She had needs. Every healthy woman is capable of desire. But Natalie was so untouched, she probably wasn’t aware of that incredibly significant fact.
But he was aware of it. And knowledge, as they say, is power.
Could he use her own instincts against her? Did he dare? Would it be honorable? Hah! All’s fair in love and war, he reminded himself grimly. The gamble was, she might very well send him packing the instant he touched her. But he couldn’t convince her to marry him as it was, so he had little to lose.
He strolled back down the hill toward Larkspur, thinking hard. He couldn’t just grab Natalie and kiss her. She’d probably slap his face, and that wasn’t the outcome he had in mind. No; the art of seduction required a certain atmosphere. His experience with women was not vast, but at least he knew that much. Kisses had to be coaxed, not bludgeoned. Timing was everything. He could wait forever for the perfect moment to arrive on its own, or he could seize the bull by the horns—as it were—and create the moment.