by Mary Balogh
“Is that what you think?” He frowned. “You think I am marrying you only because of the child?”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” she said. “And it’s the sensible thing to do and the responsible thing to do. And I honor you for being willing to do it, and I am not going to back out, because it would be selfish and irresponsible to do so. I just wish it were not so.”
“The baby is not why I am marrying you,” he said quietly. “It is just the excuse.”
“The excuse?”
“I have been unfair to you, Ellen, and I’m sorry,” he said. “I used the argument that I thought would best work with you, and it seems that I have succeeded very well indeed. But it was an argument that came from desperation.”
She merely looked at him.
“I didn’t think there was any other way of getting you,” he said. “But it was not the honorable thing to do. I owed you the truth, especially since I was asking you to be my wife. Married couples should not have any secrets from each other.”
“What is the truth?” she asked.
He looked rather shamefaced. “Pure selfishness, I’m afraid,” he said. “I love you, and I love the child because it is yours. Ours. I haven’t stopped loving you since I discovered you hovering over my bed in Brussels, the only stable being in a world of delirium and pain. In fact, I love you more now than I did then, because we have developed a relationship since then. I’m sorry, Ellen. I know you don’t need this when you have just lost Charlie. But I won’t burden you with my love, I promise you.”
“I did love him,” she said carefully. “For those years there was nothing brighter in my life than my feelings for him.”
“I know,” he said. “I will never make you feel guilty for feeling that way.”
“I love him still,” she said. “He is a part of me. And I won’t ever stop loving him and occasionally crying for him.”
“I know, Ellen.”
“I will never love you as I loved him,” she said.
He nodded.
“But then, I never loved him as I love you.”
He looked into her eyes, his expression quite blank.
“I never knew,” she said, “that love for two men could be so intense and all-consuming and yet so different. Charlie was my very best friend, my brother, my father, my protector. And, yes, my lover too, for we had a quite normal marriage and I loved the physical part of it because it brought me closer to him than I could be at any other time. I would have been happy with him for the rest of my life, Dominic. I would never have allowed anything more than a vague and unwilling attraction to you.”
“I know.”
“And you are my consuming passion, my web of love,” she said. “I don’t think I can ever have enough of you. And yet it is not just physical, either. At one time I thought it was, and that was when I despised and hated myself. But it is not. It is a passion, a hunger, for you, not just for your lovemaking. A hunger to be with you and part of you for a lifetime. I can return your love, Dominic, provided only you accept that a part of me will always be Charlie’s.”
He laid a finger along the length of her nose. “I would think the less of you,” he said, “if I thought that it might ever be otherwise.”
They smiled tentatively at each other.
“So, Ellen Simpson,” he said, “do you feel a little better now at the prospect of marrying me?”
She nodded.
“Before Christmas?”
“Tomorrow, if you wish,” she said.
“Alas,” he said, “there are such things as banns.”
“A shame,” she said.
“Besides, I have to ride to London, with or without you, to ask the Earl of Harrowby for the hand of his daughter. Do you think he is likely to cut up nasty?”
She smiled slowly at him. “You are going to do that?” she asked. “When I am a widow of five-and-twenty, and perhaps not his daughter anyway? How lovely, Dominic. He will be very pleased.”
“Not likely to poke me in the nose because I have caused his daughter to be increasing?” he said.
She shook her head. “I think he will thank you for making it possible for him to become a grandpapa so soon.”
“I can have the banns read next Sunday, then?” he asked.
She nodded.
He sat up suddenly and got to his feet. He reached down a hand for hers.
“How indisposed is your condition making you feel?” he asked, pulling her up beside him.
“Not at all,” she said. “I have never felt healthier in my life.”
“Good,” he said, stooping to wrap his arms firmly about her waist and lifting her from the ground to twirl her around and around until she was shrieking with laughter.
“It is so good to hear you laugh, Ellen,” he said as he came to a stop and set her feet back on the ground. “I am going to try to fill your life with laughter.”
“I wonder if the world will ever stop spinning wildly about me for as long as I am with you,” she said breathlessly.
“Absolutely not, my love,” he said against her mouth, before deepening the kiss. “I make you a solemn promise here and now that it never will.”
“Then good-bye equilibrium and sanity,” she said, wrapping her arms up about his neck. “My love.”
MARY BALOGH is the New York Times bestselling author of Simply Magic, Simply Love, Simply Unforgettable and the acclaimed Slightly novels: Slightly Married, Slightly Wicked, Slightly Scandalous, Slightly Tempted, Slightly Sinful, and Slightly Dangerous, as well as the romances No Man’s Mistress, More Than a Mistress, A Summer to Remember, and One Night for Love. A former teacher, she grew up in Wales and now lives in Canada.
ALSO BY MARY BALOGH
SIMPLY MAGIC
THE GILDED WEB
SIMPLY LOVE
THE SECRET PEARL
SIMPLY UNFORGETTABLE
SLIGHTLY DANGEROUS
SLIGHTLY SINFUL
SLIGHTLY TEMPTED
SLIGHTLY SCANDALOUS
SLIGHTLY WICKED
SLIGHTLY MARRIED
A SUMMER TO REMEMBER
NO MAN’S MISTRESS
MORE THAN A MISTRESS
ONE NIGHT FOR LOVE
Read on for a sneak peek
at the next enchanting novel in
Mary Balogh’s series
featuring the teachers at
Miss Martin’s School for Girls.
Simply Perfect
CLAUDIA MARTIN’S STORY
Coming in spring 2008
from Delacorte Press
Simply Perfect
on sale spring 2008
CLAUDIA MARTIN HAD ALREADY HAD A HARD day at school.
First Mademoiselle Pierre, one of the nonresident teachers, had sent a messenger just before breakfast with the news that she was indisposed with a migraine headache and would be unable to come to school. Claudia, as both owner and headmistress, had been obliged to conduct most of the French and music classes in addition to her own subjects. French was no great problem; music was more of a challenge. Worse, the account books, which she had intended to bring up-to-date during her spare classes today, remained undone, with days fast running out in which to get accomplished all the myriad tasks that needed doing.
Then just before the noonday meal, when classes were over for the morning and discipline was at its slackest, Paula Hern had decided that she objected to the way Molly Wiggins looked at her, and voiced her displeasure publicly and eloquently. And since Paula’s father was a successful businessman and as rich as Croesus and Paula put on airs accordingly, while Molly was the youngest—and most timid—of the charity girls and did not even know who her father was, then of course Agnes Ryde had felt obliged to jump into the fray in vigorous defense of the downtrodden, her Cockney accent returning with ear-jarring clarity. Claudia had been forced to deal with the matter and extract more-or-less sincere apologies from all sides and mete out suitable punishments to all except the more-or-less innocent Molly.
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Then, an hour later, just when Miss Walton had been about to step outdoors with the junior class en route to Bath Abbey, where she had intended to give an informal lesson in art and architecture, the heavens had opened in a downpour to end downpours and there had been all the fuss of finding the girls somewhere else to go within the school and something else to do. Not that that had been Claudia’s problem, but she had been made annoyingly aware of the girls’ loud disappointment beyond her classroom door as she struggled to teach French irregular verbs. She had finally gone out there to inform them that if they had any complaint about the untimely arrival of the rain, then they must take it up privately with God during their evening prayers but that in the meantime they would be silent until Miss Walton had closed a classroom door behind them.
Then, just after classes were finished for the afternoon and the girls had gone upstairs to comb their hair and wash their hands for tea, something had gone wrong with the doorknob on one of the dormitories, and eight of the girls, trapped inside until Mr. Keeble, the elderly school porter, had creaked his way up there to release them before mending the knob, had screeched and giggled and rattled the door. Miss Thompson had dealt with the crisis by reading them a lecture on patience and decorum, though circumstances had forced her to speak in a voice that could be heard from within—and therefore through much of the rest of the school too, including Claudia’s office.
It had not been the best of days, as Claudia had just been remarking—without contradiction—to Eleanor Thompson and Lila Walton over tea in her private sitting room a short while after the prisoners had been freed. She could do with far fewer such days.
And yet now!
Now, to cap everything off and make an already trying day more so, there was a marquess awaiting her pleasure in the visitors’ parlor downstairs.
A marquess, for the love of all that was wonderful!
That was what the silver-edged visiting card she held between two fingers said—the Marquess of Attingsborough. The porter had just delivered it into her hands, looking sour and disapproving as he did so—not an unusual expression for him, especially when any male who was not a teacher invaded his domain.
“A marquess,” she said, looking up from the card to frown at her fellow teachers. “Whatever can he want? Did he say, Mr. Keeble?”
“He did not say and I did not ask, miss,” the porter replied. “But if you was to ask me, he is up to no good. He smiled at me.”
“Ha! A cardinal sin indeed,” Claudia said dryly while Eleanor laughed.
“Perhaps,” Lila suggested, “he has a daughter he wishes to place at the school.”
“A marquess?” Claudia raised her eyebrows and Lila looked suitably quelled.
“Perhaps, Claudia,” Eleanor said, a twinkle in her eye, “he has two daughters.”
Claudia snorted and then sighed, took one more sip of her tea, and got reluctantly to her feet.
“I suppose I had better go and see what he wants,” she said. “It will be more productive than sitting here guessing. But of all things to happen, today of all days. A marquess.”
Eleanor laughed again. “Poor man,” she said. “I pity him.”
Claudia had never had much use for the aristocracy—idle, arrogant, coldhearted, nasty lot—though the marriage of two of her teachers and closest friends to titled gentlemen had forced her to admit during the past few years that perhaps some of them might be agreeable and even worthy individuals. But it did not amuse her to have one of their number, a stranger, intrude into her own world without a by-your-leave, especially at the end of a difficult day.
She did not believe for a single moment that this marquess wished to place any daughter of his at her school.
She preceded Mr. Keeble down the stairs, since she did not wish to move at his slow pace. She ought, she supposed, to have gone into her bedchamber first to see that she was looking respectable, which she was quite possibly not doing after a hard day at school. She usually made sure that she presented a neat appearance to visitors. But she scorned to make such an effort for a marquess and risk appearing obsequious in her own eyes.
By the time she opened the door into the visitors’ parlor, she was bristling with a quite unjustified indignation. How dared he come here to disturb her on her own property, whatever his business might be?
She looked down at the visiting card still in her hand.
“The Marquess of Attingsborough?” she said in a voice not unlike the one she had used on Paula Hern earlier in the day—the one that said she was not going to be at all impressed by any pretension of grandeur.
“At your service, ma’am. Miss Martin, I presume?” He was standing across the room, close to the window. He bowed elegantly.
Claudia’s indignation soared. One steady glance at him was not sufficient upon which to make any informed judgment of his character, of course, but, really, if the man had any imperfection of form or feature or taste in apparel, it was by no means apparent. He was tall, and broad of shoulder and chest, and slim of waist and hips. His legs were long and well shaped. His hair was dark and thick and shining, his face handsome, his eyes and mouth good-humored. He was dressed with impeccable elegance but without a trace of ostentation. His Hessian boots alone were probably worth a fortune, and Claudia guessed that if she were to stand directly over them and look down, she would see her own face reflected in them—and probably her flat, untidy hair and limp dress collar as well.
She clasped her hands at her waist lest she test her theory by touching the collar points. She held his card pinched between one thumb and forefinger.
“What may I do for you, sir?” she asked, deliberately avoiding calling him my lord—a ridiculous affectation, in her opinion.
He smiled at her, and if perfection could be improved upon, it had just happened—he had good teeth. Claudia steeled herself to resist the charm she was sure he possessed in aces.
“I come as a messenger, ma’am,” he said, “from Lady Whitleaf.”
He reached into an inner pocket of his coat and withdrew a sealed paper.
“From Susanna?” Claudia took one step farther into the room.
Susanna Osbourne had been a teacher at the school until her marriage last year to Viscount Whitleaf. Claudia had always rejoiced at Susanna’s good fortune in making both an eligible marriage and a love match, and yet she still mourned her own loss of a dear friend and colleague and good teacher. She had lost three such friends—all in the same cause—over the course of four years. Sometimes it was hard not to be selfishly depressed by it all.
“When she knew I was coming to Bath to spend a few days with my mother and my father, who is taking the waters,” the marquess said, “she asked me to call here and pay my respects to you. And she gave me this letter, perhaps to convince you that I am no impostor.”
His eyes smiled again as he came across the room and placed the letter in her hand. And, as if at least his eyes could not have been mud-colored or something equally nondescript, she could see that they were a clear blue, almost like a summer sky.
Susanna had asked him to come and pay his respects? Why?
“Whitleaf is the cousin of a cousin of mine,” the marquess explained. “Or an almost cousin of mine, anyway. It is complicated, as family relationships often are. Lauren Butler, Viscountess Ravensberg, is a cousin by virtue of the fact that her mother married my aunt’s brother-in-law. We have been close since childhood. And Whitleaf is Lauren’s first cousin. And so in a sense both he and his lady have a strong familial claim on me.”
If he was a marquess, Claudia thought with sudden suspicion, and his father was still alive, what did that make his father? But he was here at Susanna’s behest and it behooved her to be a little better than just icily polite.
“Thank you,” she said, “for coming in person to deliver the letter. I am much obliged to you, sir. May I offer you a cup of tea?” She willed him to say no.
“I will not put you to that trouble, ma’am,” he said, smilin
g again. “I understand you are to leave for London in two days’ time?”
Ah. Susanna must have told him that. Mr. Hatchard, her man of business in London, had found employment for two of her senior girls, both charity pupils, but he had been unusually evasive about the identity of the prospective employers, even when she had asked quite specifically in her last letter to him. The paying girls at the school had families to look after their interests, of course. Claudia had appointed herself family to the rest and never released any girl who had no employment to which to go or any about whose expected employment she felt any strong misgiving.
At Eleanor’s suggestion, Claudia was going to go to London with Flora Bains and Edna Wood so that she could find out exactly where they were to be placed as governesses, and withdraw her consent if she was not satisfied. There were still a few weeks of the school year left, but Eleanor had assured her that she was perfectly willing and able to take charge of affairs during Claudia’s absence, which would surely be no longer than a week or ten days. Claudia had agreed to go, partly because there was another matter upon which she wished to speak with Mr. Hatchard in person.
“I am,” she told the marquess.
“Whitleaf intended to send a carriage for your convenience,” the marquess told her, “but I was able to inform him that it would be quite unnecessary to put himself to the trouble.”
“Of course it would,” Claudia agreed. “I have already hired a carriage.”
“I will see about un-hiring it for you, if I may be permitted, ma’am,” he said. “I plan to return to town on the same day and will be pleased to offer you the comfort of my own carriage and my protection for the journey.”
Oh, goodness, heaven forbid!
“That will be quite unnecessary, sir,” she said firmly. “I have already made the arrangements.”
“Hired carriages are notorious for their lack of springs and all other comforts,” he said. “I beg you will reconsider.”
“Perhaps you do not fully understand, sir,” she said. “I am to be accompanied by two schoolgirls on the journey.”