by Anna Gracie
himself too impatient to wait for a groom to saddle his horse so he'd
gone for a walk instead. The gardens were looking quite pretty for the
time of year. He stopped and stared at a clump of snowdrops, their
heads nodding gently in the faint breeze.
He recalled the way she'd sat there, listening to his words with
downcast eyes, all soft and submissive, her pale nape exposed,
vulnerable and appealing. Her hair was not plain brown after all, but
a soft honey colour, with a tendency to curl. And when she'd looked up
at him at the end he'd realised that she had rather pretty eyes, a kind
of deep amber, with long dark lashes. And her skin looked smooth and
soft.
Yes, he'd been pleased with his choice. Right up until the moment
she'd spoken and revealed that flash of. temper? Pique?
Magnus lashed at the nodding snowdrops with his whip, sending them
flying. He stared unseeing at the carnage.
The chit was playing games with him! Make no irrevocable
arrangements.
There'd been a malicious kind of pleasure in the way she'd said it,
sweet smile notwithstanding. He strode on, frowning.
For almost the whole of the house party the girl had been quiet, docile
and obedient. He was convinced it was her usual state--it must be--how
else had she survived living with Lae- tit ia And she lived here with
the children all year round without complaint.
No. He must have imagined her anger. He'd taken her by surprise, that
was all. He should have given her a little more warning of his
intentions. And perhaps he'd been a little clumsy--he had never before
offered marriage, and his unexpected nervousness had thrown him a
little off balance.
He should have made a flowery speech and then a formal offer, instead
of rushing into his plans. Females set store by that kind of thing.
She was quite right to put him off for a time. It was what every young
girl was schooled to do, pretending to think it over, as a true lady
should.
His mouth twitched as he remembered the way she'd held her chin so
high. For all the world as if she might refuse. Cheeky little miss!
The small flash of spirit did not displease him. A spirited dam
usually threw spirited foals, and he wouldn't want his children to be
dull. Not at all. And he'd seen the mettle in her when she'd flown to
little Georgie's side, like a young lioness defending her cub.
And spirited defiance was permissible, even desirable in the defence of
children. It was a little disconcerting for it to be directed against
himself, perhaps, but he was not displeased, he told himself again.
So why could he not shake the feeling that he'd reached to pluck a
daisy and had grasped a nettle instead? He savagely beheaded another
clump of his cousin's flowers and strode on, indifferent to the damage
the wet grass was doing to the shine on his boots.
"Magnus, what on earth are you doing to my garden?"
Laetitia's voice jerked Magnus out of his reverie. He glanced back the
way he'd come and flinched when he realised the havoc his whip had
wrought.
"Sorry, Tish. I didn't realise--' " Oh, never mind that. I need to
talk to you at once, but do come away from that wet grass; it will ruin
my slippers. Here, into the summerhouse, where we can be quite
private. "
Laetitia settled herself on a bench and regarded her cousin severely.
"How could you, Magnus? In front of all my guests! I could just kill
you! You have been extremely foolish, but I think we can pass it off
as a jest--not in the best taste, of course, but a jest all the same.
In any case, I have got rid of the girl--for which, I may add, you owe
me your undying gratitude. Although, knowing you, you will be odiously
indifferent as you always--' Magnus cut to the heart of the rambling
speech.
"What do you mean, " got rid of the girl"? You cannot mean Miss
Robinson, surely?"
"Miss Robinson indeed!" Laetitia sniffed.
"She is lucky I even acknowledged her as cousin. Well, that is all at
an end now. She will be gone within the hour!"
"Gone? Where to?"
"The village she grew up in. I forget its name."
Magnus frowned.
"What? Is there some family emergency? I understood she was an
orphan."
"Oh, she is. Not a living soul left, except for me, and that's at an
end after her base ingratitude and presumption."
"Then why is she going to this village?"
Laetitia wrinkled her nose.
"I believe she spent virtually all her life in some stuffy little
school there. Her father was in the diplomatic service, you know, and
travelled a great deal."
Poor little girl, thought Magnus. He knew what it was like to be sent
away, unwanted, at a young age.
"And she wishes to visit this school?
I suppose she must have friends there whom she would wish to ask to her
wedding. I did not realise. "
"Magnus, what is wrong with you? What does it matter where the
wretched girl goes?"
Tish, of course it matters. Do you not realise I asked Miss Robinson
to be my bride? "
"Of course I do, and it will be a long time before I will forgive you
for making such a fool of me, Magnus! But that wretched little nobody
plans to make a fool of us both, and that I will not allow!"
Magnus frowned. The uneasy feeling he'd had ever since he'd spoken to
Miss Robinson intensified. His whip tapped a sharp and fast tattoo
against his boot.
"What do you mean, " a fool of us both"?"
"She plans to refuse you!"
"What?" The instant surge of temper caught Magnus unaware. He reined
it in.
"How can you know such a thing, Tish?"
"She told me to my head, not fifteen minutes ago. Boasted of it!"
Laetitia noted his stupefaction, nodded smugly and laid a compelling
hand on his arm.
"You see now why she must be got away from here at once. I will not
have a Robinson crow to the world that my cousin, Lord d'Arenville, was
not good enough for her!"
"Are you sure?" Magnus was flabbergasted. He had not expected any
girl to refuse his offer. but a penniless orphan? Boasting? If it
was true, it was more than a slap in the face.
"She actually said so? In so many words?"
"Yes, Magnus, in just so many words. First she gloated of her success
in cutting all my friends out to snare you, and then she boasted of how
foolish we would all look when she refused you. The ungrateful
trollop! I would have her drowned if I could!"
Magnus stood up and took a few jerky paces back and forth across the
small summerhouse, his whip slapping hard and fast against his boot.
"I... I must consider this. Until I speak to you again, do nothing,"
he said, and stalked off into the garden, destroying the herbaceous
border as he passed.
No, no, dearest Tallie, you cannot leave us. it was a foolish
misunderstanding. What would we do without you? What would the
children do? And George and I--oh, please do not let my wretched
c
ousin Magnus come between us--he is nothing but a cold, proud
Icicle!
You are family, dearest Tallie, and you belong here! Oh, do not leave
us, we need you too much. "I ... I've been sent up to make sure you're
packed, miss." The maidservant hovered uncomfortably, wringing her
hands in distress.
"And John Coachman has been told to ready himself and the horses for a
long journey... I'm that sorry. Miss."
"It's all right, Lucy," said Tallie shakily. Reality crashed around
her. Laetitia had not changed her mind. Tallie truly was being thrown
out of her cousin's house.
She got off the bed where she'd been huddled and tried to pull herself
together, surreptitiously wiping her eyes.
"There's a bag on top of that wardrobe--if you could put my clothing in
that... I... I must see to other matters." She rushed out, her
brimming eyes averted from the maid's sympathetic gaze.
Moments later she slipped out of the side door, across the south lawn
and into the garden maze. Tallie knew the convoluted paths by heart,
and unerringly made her way towards the centre. It was a favourite
spot. No one could see over the high, clipped hedges, and if anyone
entered it she would have plenty of warning. She reached the heart of
the maze, hurled herself down on the wrought-iron seat and burst into
tears.
She had lost everything--her home, the children. She was about to
become a pauper. She'd always been one, she supposed, but now she
would truly be destitute. Homeless. Taken out and dumped like an
unwanted cat.
She sobbed until there were no more tears, until her sobs became hard,
dry lumps stuck in her chest, shuddering silently out of her with every
breath she drew. Eventually they sub 5
sided, only coming every minute or so, in an echo of the distress she
could bear no more of.
What would she do? This very night, unless some miracle intervened,
she would find herself deposited in the village square. Where would
she go? Where would she sleep? Unconsciously her hand crept to her
mouth and she began to nibble at her nails. No one in the village
would remember her. The vicar? No, she recalled--he'd died shortly
after she'd left. A churchgoer might recall her face amongst the
dozens of schoolgirls who'd filed dutifully into St. Stephen's each
Sunday, but it was unlikely. It was two years ago--vague recognition
was the best she could expect from anyone in the village. And no one
would be likely to take her in.
There was not a soul in the world she could turn to.
The sharp, clean scent of the close-trimmed cypress hedges was fresh in
the damp, cool air. Tallie drew her knees up against her chest and
hugged them to her. In the distance she could hear the haunting cry of
a curlew. It sounded as lost and alone as she felt.
She'd been happy at Laetitia's, but her happiness had been founded on a
lie. She had deluded herself that she was part of a family--the family
she had always yearned for. In fact she was little better than a
servant. Worse--a servant was paid, at least. If Tallie had been paid
she would have had the wherewithal to pay for a night's lodging or two.
As it was, she had nothing.
Enough of self-pity, she decided at last. There was a way out of this
mess. It was the only possible solution. She knew it, had known it
all along; she'd just been unable to face the thought until she'd
explored every other option. But there were no other options. She
would have to marry Lord d'Arenville.
Lord d'Arenville. Cold-eyed, cold-voiced, handsome Lord d'Arenville. A
cold proud Icicle, who simply wanted a brood mare for his heirs. Not a
wife. Not a loving companion. A vessel for his children. A sturdy
vessel! Tallie's mouth quivered and she bit down hard on her nails to
stop herself weeping again.
There would be no love for Tallie now--the love she'd dreamed of all
her life. But there would be security. And with he thought of
sleeping in the village churchyard that night, security was suddenly
more important than love--or, if not more important, certainly of more
immediate significance.
No, there would be no Prince Charming for Tallie, no Black Knight
galloping to her rescue, not even a dear, kind gentleman who was no one
in particular. Nobody for Tallie to love, nobody who would love her in
return. There was only Lord d'Arenville. Was it possible to love a
statue? An Icicle?
Oh, there would be children, God willing, but children were
different.
You couldn't help but love children. And they couldn't help but love
you back. Children were like puppies, loving, mischievous and
endlessly thirsting for love.
Tallie knew. She'd thirsted all her life, ever since she'd turned six
and had been sent away to school.
That was one thing she'd have to make clear to Lord d'Arenville from
the start. She wouldn't allow him to send her children away to
school.
Not until they were quite old--fourteen, fifteen, something like
that.
And she would write to them every week, and send them special treats
sometimes to share with their chums. And they would come home for
every holiday and term break. And bring any of their school friends
who couldn't go to their own families. None of her children's friends
would spend Christmas after Christmas alone in an empty school, with no
one but an elderly headmistress to keep her company.
Her children would know they were loved, know they were wanted, know
that their mother, at least, cared about them.
And the love of her children would have to be enough for her, she
decided. It was only the lucky ones, the golden ones of this world,
who were loved for themselves, after all. Who found a partner to share
secret dreams and foolish ideas with. Who found a man to cherish
them.
Cherish. Such a beautiful, magical word.
Tallie took a long, shaky breath, a sob catching in her throat as she
did so. Such dreams were for silly girls. She scrubbed at her swollen
eyes with a handkerchief. It was time to put her dreams and her
girlhood away.
It was time to go to Lord d'Arenville and tell him she would marry
him.
It was a chilly, withdrawn and much chagrined Lord d'Arenville who
returned from the garden half an hour after he'd spoken with
Laetitia.
The house party had been an unmitigated disaster. And now his ego was
severely dented by the news that a penniless girl could not bear the
thought of marrying him. Part of him concurred with his cousin that he
would like to drown Miss Thalia Robinson. Or strangle her slowly,
taking her soft, creamy throat between his bare hands. But an innate
sense of fair play told him it would be a gross miscarriage of justice
if he allowed his cousin to turn Thalia Robinson out on the streets
merely because she didn't wish to wed him.
And he had been uncannily disturbed by the sound of someone weeping in
the maze. Weeping as if their heart would break. Magn
us hated it when
women wept!
He'd taken a few steps into the maze and hovered there for some time,
clenching and unclenching his fists, listening helplessly. Not knowing
what to do. Knowing who it was, sobbing so piteously. Thalia
Robinson.
He had told himself she'd brought it on herself, boasting to Laetitia
of how she would spurn his offer. He'd told himself she deserved to be
miserable, that the girl must be a coldhearted little bitch. He'd made
her an honourable offer--there was no need for her to publicly
humiliate him. He, who had long been regarded as the finest prize on
the marriage mart, hunted by matchmaking mamas and their daughters
alike! Most girls would have been grateful for an offer from him, but
not Miss Thalia Robinson. No. She planned to humiliate him--and so
she was reaping what she had sown. Her regrets had come too late.
Magnus had told himself all these things, but they hadn't helped--he
just couldn't bear the sound of a woman sobbing.
The part of him that didn't want to strangle her had wanted to go into
the maze and speak to her--and what a stupid idea that would have been!
As if women ever made any sense when they were weeping. And as if he
would know what to do anyway. He'd always managed to stop them crying