by Brenda Hiatt
"And how did you know—" Azalea stopped when she saw the amusement in his face. Of course he would have been invited. There were so few entertainments at this time of year that Lady Beauforth could not bear to forgo any of them —as he well knew. And he had told her to trust him. Did he mean more by that than it appeared?
"Thank you for your consideration, my lord," she concluded with a false sweetness that she sincerely hoped did not deceive him.
He pointedly ignored her comment and helped her to dismount. At the touch of his hand on hers, a tingle went through her. She could not bring herself to meet his eyes, so she had no idea whether he was likewise affected.
As her feet touched the ground, Azalea realized that even that very brief ride had affected her insulted muscles more than she would have believed —though she was careful not to let her expression betray as much to her companion. He seemed to read her thoughts, however, and pointedly accepted her thanks with a maddening "I-told-you-so" air.
After walking for a few moments, Azalea found both her soreness and her confusion over her physical response to Lord Glaedon easing somewhat. At the same time, her curiosity reasserted itself. When he broke the silence to suggest that she continue his instruction about the New World, she suddenly thought of a way to satisfy it, at least in part.
"Before I begin, my lord, perhaps it would be helpful if you could give me some idea of what you already know about America. That way I shall not run the risk of boring you by repeating information you are acquainted with."
She held her breath, half expecting either a set-down for her prying or another tirade on the shortcomings of her countrymen. Either would be a serious blow to her hopes. But she received neither. Instead, Lord Glaedon looked thoughtful.
"Several years ago I intended to learn quite a lot about your country," he said slowly, intently regarding a pair of wrens pecking hopefully at the frozen ground. "I read about its colonization and its rebellion against the King, and I have to admit I rather admired the colonists for the stand they took. In many ways, their cause was just."
He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "When I set sail with my father six years ago, I was looking forward to seeing that vast country for myself and forming my own opinions of the land and its people. Our stay was to have been brief, but I had already half formed the idea of returning to make my fortune there if I liked what I saw. I was not then the heir, of course, but the younger son."
He glanced at her briefly, with a slight smile that made her heart pound. Surely he was about to mention their marriage now?
But he turned and fixed his gaze on the wrens again as he continued. "During the first week or two of the voyage, I spoke often with the captain— Taylor, I think his name was, or was it Whitten? I never can seem to remember. Anyway, I spoke often to him about his experiences in the colonies. He had some fascinating stories to tell. I was young enough then to become easily carried away by his tales of battling the elements and carving out one's own destiny. All too soon, however, I was given a chance to battle the elements myself —and to lose."
The Earl seemed to forget Azalea's presence completely as he relived the frightful events on the ship. "A storm blew up suddenly. I remember the wind, the flapping sails, and Captain Taylor's assurance that it would be a brief blow. He sent my father and me below, but before I could reach the hatch, I was hit on the head by a falling spar."
He closed his eyes briefly. "The next thing I remember is being hauled aboard a different ship, half-dead, to be told by a crewman I didn't recognize that he and I were the only survivors of the wreckage. He was the one who always referred to the captain as Whitten. But I'm almost certain that the name was Taylor."
Christian's brow furrowed in an effort to recall exactly what had happened, and Azalea realized she was holding her breath. Slowly, she let it escape. She was beginning to understand.
"Of course, at the time, I couldn't even remember my own name," he went on, "and certainly no one else knew it. I didn't know where I was from or where I was bound, so when the captain of this ship, a merchantman heading for Jamaica, asked if I wanted to join his crew, I had no reason to refuse.
"That captain's name was Farris, of that I'm certain. I served aboard his ship for three months, and unfortunately, I can remember every grisly moment of it. Farris was a slaver, I discovered, and a ruthless one at that—if there is any other kind. No one dared to criticize his running of the ship. Twice, I recall, crewmen who spoke out against his treatment of the 'cargo' were flogged to death, then thrown overboard. I realized even then that I was playing the coward by saying nothing, but I assuaged my conscience with the conviction that dead heroes benefit no one."
Azalea pressed her lips tightly together. She wanted to reassure him, to comfort him, but was afraid that if she spoke he would recall her presence and stop his outpouring of memories. She wondered whether this might be the first time he had related them to anyone since his return.
Oblivious to her struggle, he continued. "In Jamaica, I was able to join the crew of another merchantman, this one Dutch, which didn't depend on human misery for its profits. I remained aboard the Hyacinth for nearly four years. Though my life there was far better than it had been aboard the slaver, I behaved as a common sailor —both aboard ship and in port. I knew no better, I suppose, but some of the things I did during those years..."
He stopped and swallowed before going on. "During that time my memory began to return in bits and flashes. One morning I awoke knowing, for the first time, who I was and where I lived. As soon as I could contrive it, I returned to England.
"In my absence, Herschel had gone to fight in America, against our grandmother's pleading. He apparently felt that it was his duty to represent the family on the battlefield, as I was not available to go. Word came only a month before my return that he'd been killed in Upper Canada, at the Battle of the Thames."
Though Azalea's eyes filled as she listened, his own remained dry. He spoke dispassionately, as though telling of events that had happened to someone else.
"I had already realized that my father must have perished in the shipwreck four years earlier. I was Earl of Glaedon, and had been for some months, though the title had erroneously passed to a cousin, as I was presumed dead. However, I had no difficulty proving my identity, and my title and inheritance were restored. Much happiness they have brought me." Sudden bitterness spilled over into his voice.
"One can make one's own happiness, don't you think?" asked Azalea softly, hoping to draw him out of his melancholy mood. Quickly, she brushed her tears away.
Her words seemed to bring Lord Glaedon back to the present with a start. He stared at her for a moment and then his gaze hardened.
"So you see, Miss Clayton, I have good reason to detest Americans. Not only did they cause my brother's death and, inadvertently, my father's, but I have seen the horrors of their abominable slave trade personally —the horrors 'innocent' colonists, like yourself, try so hard to ignore. Perhaps I know all that is necessary about America, after all. Good day, Miss Clayton." Turning on his heel, the Earl walked quickly back to his waiting horse and departed without a backward glance.
Azalea stood as though rooted to the spot, staring after his retreating form. His abrupt return to the hostile manner that had marked their first meetings had startled her, but she was ready to forgive him after hearing his reasons.
What shocked her more was the certain knowledge that he had never intended to deceive her. He was as trustworthy as she had wanted to believe him. And most disturbing of all was the fact that, in spite of everything, she still loved him with all her heart.
* * *
Azalea had very little time to reflect on these unsettling discoveries, as she and Marilyn spent all of the morning and much of the afternoon combing the various shops for just the right ribbons, gloves and other accessories to set off the gowns they planned to wear to Lady Sunham's that evening.
In spite of the distracting thoughts that would
not be dismissed, Azalea could not help enjoying their outing. With a substantial amount of spending money in her reticule, she was free to indulge her tastes without regard to price, a luxury she feared she could become quite accustomed to, given half a chance.
She and Marilyn were dealing more pleasantly with one another than they had ever done, almost like the sisters Lady Beauforth enjoyed likening them to. But when her cousin mentioned that blue was Lord Glaedon's favourite colour, as she purchased a spray of artificial flowers in that hue, it cast a brief shadow over Azalea's enjoyment.
The comment served to remind her that she had come no closer to preventing the marriage that was due to take place in only two months' time. Lord Glaedon's sudden change in attitude toward her this morning made her hopes of a reconciliation, leading to a full disclosure, even less likely.
She had hoped to somehow win him away from Marilyn before attempting to explain about their marriage. Now it appeared doubtful that she would have that chance. But she would have to tell him soon, whatever his feelings towards her— especially now that she knew he was indeed ignorant of the true state of affairs. Too many people would be hurt if she remained silent.
* * *
The gathering at Lady Sunham's elegant Town house was noticeably smaller than the one at Lady Queesley's had been. Christmas was only two weeks away now, and even the most citified families were leaving daily for their country estates in order to spend the holidays in the traditional manner.
This was to be a musical evening, with a noted soprano engaged to delight the assembled guests, as well as a young Italian gentleman said to be worth listening to on the pianoforte. Dancing was to follow later.
As Lord Glaedon had implied that he would attend, Azalea discreetly scanned the room for him upon her arrival, but without success. She moved to take a seat next to Lady Dinsmore, wondering unhappily whether he had changed his mind in order to avoid encountering her. Could he possibly believe she would hold him to his promise of a dance after the way they had parted?
Azalea decided that it was just as well he was not here, for most likely they would only quarrel again. No, it would be better if they did not meet again until his temper had had time to cool. Then she might have a chance of arranging to speak with him privately.
Her thoughts were so busily engaged in convincing herself she was glad Lord Glaedon had chosen to stay away that she missed most of the soprano's performance.
"Not quite the quality we were promised, don't you agree?" The question was spoken so close to her ear that it made her start.
Glancing in some confusion at Lord Glaedon sitting behind her, and wondering how long he had been there, she replied rather at random that she had enjoyed the selection very much.
"Gammon," he whispered back. "I've been watching you, and you were hardly giving Signorina Devita your undivided attention. If you can tear yourself away from this riveting performance, I'd like to talk to you."
A few people in their immediate vicinity were glancing curiously at them by this time, and Azalea felt it would be wiser to accompany his lordship than to continue any discussion here. She rose and stepped past an elderly lady in purple crepe with a murmured apology.
Out of the comer of her eye Azalea saw Marilyn watching them but decided she could not worry about that just now. She was struggling with the decision she had made earlier in the day—to tell Lord Glaedon the truth no matter what. Perhaps this would be an opportunity to do so. Her heart began beating uncomfortably fast.
As they left the room, she whispered, "After this morning, I had expected you would avoid me like the plague."
Lord Glaedon merely led her into the supper-room with a light hand on her elbow.
In point of fact, that was exactly what Christian had intended for about fifteen minutes after he left Miss Clayton in the Park. His emotions had been in such a turmoil that he could almost believe she had in fact bewitched him with her charming smile and those sparkling green eyes. She had betrayed him, somehow, into disclosing details of his past that he had deliberately buried two years ago. He had even momentarily blamed her for the sudden resurgence of grief he had felt at the double loss of his father and brother.
As his temper had cooled, however, he was able to sort through his conflicting feelings. In reality, he had confided in Miss Clayton simply because it seemed somehow the right thing to do. In just two days— two mornings, really —a closeness had sprung up between them that he found both comforting and alarming.
Talking to her seemed almost like talking to himself. He knew, somehow, that anything he told her would be kept in the strictest confidence. That he trusted her was in itself astonishing to a man who had been cynical to the point of bitterness since his return to England two years ago.
What he felt went even beyond trust, however. There was also that recurring feeling of familiarity, that he had known this girl before. He was now almost certain that she had figured in the disturbing dreams that had plagued him at intervals since the shipwreck.
Was fate drawing them together? While not a particularly religious man, Christian had actually taken to prayer occasionally since his experience in hopes of being imparted insight about —or simply relief from— those dreams. Was this girl an answer to his prayer? He felt as if he were on the edge of some blinding revelation, and he was unsure whether to stave it off or welcome it with open arms.
Miss Clayton attracted him on a far more basic level as well. When he had first seen her in the Park this morning, he had been seized by a wild desire to take her in his arms. His brief anger had saved him from that folly, at least.
After much thought, he had decided to return home to his estates to search through his father's papers in hopes of finding some clue about her. He wasn't sure what he expected to discover, but he had an inexplicable conviction that some answer would be revealed there.
But first he needed to mend his fences with this most extraordinary young lady. And what then? Not only was he betrothed, but he shrank from the very idea of thrusting himself, with his despicable past, on Miss Clayton's sweet innocence. He did not pause to wonder why he'd had no similar reservations with regard to Miss Beauforth.
"You wished to say something, my lord?" prompted Azalea, when Christian made no move to speak immediately.
"Yes, Miss Clayton," he responded, collecting his thoughts. "First, and most importantly, I humbly beg your forgiveness for my unpardonably rude behaviour this morning. Is it too much to hope that we may put the incident behind us?"
The mute appeal in his eyes caused Azalea's heart to dance. "I have forgotten it already, my lord," she said breathlessly, hoping he would not notice the flush she could feel mounting in her cheeks.
His sudden smile at her words was so dazzling that she felt almost faint, though whether from relief or some other emotion, she could not be sure.
"Secondly," the Earl continued, "I wished to take leave of you, as I am going into the country tomorrow and will probably not return until after the first of the year. Family Christmas and all that. I did not want to depart with any ill will between us."
Azalea felt a surge of disappointment that he would be leaving, almost, but not quite, undermining the joy imparted by his previous words. She simply must tell him the truth before he left. By the time he returned, the wedding would be little more than a month away.
"I shall miss riding with you in the Park, my lord," she said, knowing she must sound forward. But she would have to be more forward still if she was to stop him from marrying Marilyn. She would have to tell him that she was his wife. Desperately, she tried to form the words that would sound so unbelievable to him.
"I, too," replied Christian before she could speak. "I hope we may resume the practice when I return."
He felt a sudden resurgence of the temptation that had assailed him that morning, now stronger than ever. With her so near, his senses fairly swam at the thought of his lips upon hers.
Azalea's eyes locked with his for an instant a
s she swayed ever so slightly forward, then were quickly veiled by those glorious lashes. "I—I hope so also." She looked back up at him then and spoke in a stronger tone. "Lord Glaedon, I—"
"Well!" Marilyn Beauforth's voice interrupted them.
Christian stepped hastily away from Azalea, for he'd been standing closer than was strictly proper. She looked guilty, too, cheeks suffused with colour.
"And what topic, pray tell, can be so fascinating that you two must steal away from that wonderful performance to discuss it?" his fiancée enquired in a shrill tone.
Not for the first time Christian wondered whether it was solely patriotism that had driven Herschel away from England before formally betrothing himself to Miss Beauforth. "I was merely apologizing to Miss Clayton, my dear," he replied smoothly. "In the past I have been less than cordial to your cousin, and I did not wish to leave London with any ill feeling on that score." That much was true, he told himself.
Marilyn's demeanour changed immediately. "How thoughtful of you, my lord, to attempt to overcome your very natural aversion to an American for my sake!" She simpered up at him in a way that he found more irritating than usual.
"Yes, quite," he said shortly, torn between annoyance at her phrasing and guilt over what his thoughts had been a moment ago. He noticed that Azalea did not meet his eyes.
"Well, then, shall we return for the remainder of the performance now?" Marilyn asked brightly.
"No, I fear I must prepare for my departure tomorrow. I came tonight so that I might take my leave. Pray give my regards to your mother, Miss Beauforth."
"I will. And now, if you will excuse me, I would prefer not to miss any more of the performance." Marilyn hurried away to resume her seat, which Christian had noticed earlier was quite near to that of Mr. Plummer.
"Good evening, Miss Clayton," he said to Azalea as she turned to follow her cousin. "I must admit that I scarcely regret missing the remainder of that soprano's offerings," he added lightly, wishing to see her smile once more. "I hope for your sake that the pianist is of better calibre."