Silent Melody

by Mary Balogh

  Victor appeared to be recovering himself. He frowned. “Emily is betrothed, Kendrick,” he said. “The announcement was made yesterday. You were there. A betrothal is as binding as a marriage. Besides, you have been back at Bowden less than two days. You came a little too late for such maneuverings, did you not?”

  His manner had become stiffer, more disapproving. It was hard to believe, Ashley thought, that Royce was younger than himself. The responsibilities of his position and family life had put dignity and the illusion of years on him.

  “Her betrothal must be ended,” Ashley said. “She will marry me.”

  “I am well aware,” Victor said, now sounding downright irritable, “that you have suffered a severe loss, Kendrick, that coming home and having to break your news has put great stress upon you in the past couple of days. But—”

  “But she will marry me,” Ashley said. “She has no choice. Neither do I.”

  The Earl of Royce went very still and looked at him fixedly for several long moments before coming toward him.

  “What exactly do you mean by that?” he asked.

  “Just what you think I mean,” Ashley said.

  He saw it coming. He might quite easily have avoided it. He did not move, even to the extent of taking his arms from behind him. The back of his head crashed against the door, pain exploded in the right side of his jaw, and his vision blackened for a few moments. He kept his hands where they were.

  “You swine!” There was fury and contempt in Royce’s voice. “You will meet me for this, Kendrick.”

  “If I must,” Ashley said. “But perhaps it would be more rational to talk business. If I lived through a duel, nothing would have changed. If I died and there were . . . consequences for Emmy, she would be in an impossible situation.”

  He watched the other man fight his fury as he considered the sense of what had just been said. His nostrils flared.

  “It was ravishment?” he asked.

  Ashley did not immediately answer him. “If she says so,” he said. “You must ask Emmy. But her answer can change nothing. We will marry.”

  “Powell may feel less concern than I about whether you live or die,” Victor said.

  Ashley inclined his head. “That will be his choice,” he said. “I shall find him as soon as I have left here.”

  “No!” Victor said sharply. “You will leave that to me, Kendrick.”

  Ashley considered the matter and nodded. “Let us proceed to business, then,” he said, indicating the desk that faced him across the room.

  But Victor did not turn. “You will pardon me if we postpone this discussion until later today,” he said. “This matter is hard to digest. And by my life, ’tis hard to accept. ’Tis not enough that you are scarcely out of mourning for one wife, but you must be stealing another from under the nose of a perfectly decent man?”

  Ashley’s head went back, but he said nothing.

  “If you will excuse me,” Victor said coldly.

  Ashley stood away from the door, but he spoke again. “I would have no harsh words spoken to Emmy,” he said. “She is under my protection now, and I will allow no one to upset her.”

  The Earl of Royce paused with his hand on the doorknob. He did not look away from it. “Zounds,” he said, “but if you were a man, Kendrick, you would have been there with your wife and child. You would have saved them from the blaze or perished with them.”

  Ashley said nothing. His jaw was throbbing like a giant toothache. He did not touch it.

  • • •

  Emily found Lord Powell in the morning room conversing with Charlotte and Jeremiah. Emily smiled at all of them and beckoned Lord Powell. He followed her from the room, looking half embarrassed, while Charlotte looked archly at Emily and Jeremiah looked somewhat disapproving.

  Emily led the way to the library, opened the door before either Lord Powell or a footman could get there to do it for her, and waited inside to close it. Lord Powell looked decidedly uncomfortable by the time she had done so.

  “Good morning, my dear,” he said, reaching out both hands for hers. “How delightful to have a private greeting from you. But we must not be too long alone. We are as yet only betrothed.” He smiled at her.

  She did not smile back or take his hands. She reached through the slit of her petticoat to the pockets taped about her waist and removed the letter she had written that morning after she had woken up. She had been enormously surprised to discover that she had slept—and apparently for several hours. She awoke feeling sore and uncomfortable and heavy of heart.

  The remorse she had anticipated the night before had been there in full force. Guilt and sorrow and shame—they had assailed her from all directions. But she had refused to lie there and wallow in any of them. She had known what she did. She had known what the consequences would be. She had no right now to nurse her suffering. She had no right to suffer.

  And so she had written the letter. And then two more.

  She handed the first letter to Lord Powell and noted with a stabbing of pain that he looked pleased.

  “For me?” he said. “You have written to me, Lady Emily?”

  She had not anticipated his expecting that it was some sort of love letter she had written. She lowered her eyes for a moment, but she would not give herself that comfort. She watched him as he unfolded the paper and read, and then watched as his eyes moved up the page so that he could read it again. There was no discernible expression on his face.

  “My lord,” she had written. She could remember every word—she had taken a whole hour to write it. Words—even written words—did not come easily to her. “Forgive me if you ever can. I cannot continue our betrothal. I cannot marry you. The fault is not yours. It is all mine. I have written to my brother and to the Duke of Harndon to tell them so. With regret, Emily Marlowe.”

  His eyes lifted and met hers and held them.

  “Why?” he asked.

  She could only stare mutely at him.

  “Your promise has been given,” he said. “The marriage papers have been signed by both Royce and myself. The betrothal has been announced to your family—and to my own.”

  She bit her lip.

  “Is it fear?” he asked. “Fear of leaving here where you are loved and understood? Fear that your affliction will cause insuperable problems when you go to live among strangers? Is that it?”

  No. She had felt that fear, but she had been willing to accept the challenge. She shook her head.

  “Why, then?” He was frowning now. “Two evenings ago the answer was yes. Yesterday the answer was yes. Why is it suddenly no this morning when ’tis too late for no? There must be a reason. Write it for me.” He looked about the library and strode toward the desk by the window. He pulled a piece of paper to its edge, tested the nib of a quill pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and held it out to her.

  She moved reluctantly toward him and took the pen from his hand. What had he said so quickly and so angrily? What did he want of her? How could she marshal thought and feeling into words? Writing was almost as impossible to her as speech. Her mind did not think in words.

  “I cannot,” she wrote. But he already knew that. He deserved more. She wished she could explain, but she could not.

  “Because of this?” he said. “Because you cannot speak? Because you cannot hear? I knew these things before I came to Bowden Abbey. I was prepared even before I met you to accept you as a bride. You are eligible in every other way. Explain yourself.”

  She could see that the anger in his face was almost explosive now.

  “I am sorry,” she wrote after dipping the pen in the inkwell again. She kept her gaze on the paper. She could not continue the conversation—if conversation it was. As it was, she would see his bewildered, angry face in her memory and feel his humiliation for days and weeks to come. Perhaps longer. She had no illusions about
that.

  What she had done to him was unforgivable. She would never forgive herself. She did not even have the excuse of having been so caught up by emotion that she had not thought of all the implications and consequences of what she was doing.

  She had known.

  But he had not finished with the conversation. His hand came beneath her chin and raised it and even turned her head to the light from the window. It had started to rain, she saw. It had looked this morning as if it might rain. Heavy clouds had covered the sky since she had been lying outside, looking up at the stars.

  “There is someone else,” he said when her eyes came to rest unwillingly on his lips. “There has to be. And it takes no genius to discern who that someone must be. Lord Ashley Kendrick.”

  She frowned and closed her eyes and shook her head. But his hand tightened on her jaw and lifted it higher so that her head was at an uncomfortable angle. She opened her eyes again.

  “He danced with you,” he said. “You gave him the set you had granted to me. You had nothing but smiles for him. He calls you ‘Emmy.’ There was the fondness of brother and sister between you, I thought. I begin to believe I am a fool. But he will not marry you. He is a duke’s son. He is enormously wealthy, from all I have heard in the past day or so. He is somewhat above my stamp, Lady Emily. He will look for more in a bride than I am able to. Besides, he lost a wife just over a year ago and has been devastated by her loss. Perhaps you dream of comforting him and replacing her in his affection?”

  It hurt her to see the sneer on his face. It was not a pleasant or a becoming expression. And she had put it there. She could not grasp what he was saying. She read only the hurt and humiliation behind his words.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “he will take the comfort if you offer it blatantly enough. But he will not marry you. You will be sorry you did not have me when you had the chance. I will take my leave of you. I will be gone from this house before the day is out. Believe me, it cannot be soon enough for me.”

  He had removed his hand from her chin at last. He made her now a deep and mocking bow before hurrying past her. She did not turn to watch him leave the room. She lowered her head and stared downward for a long time, her eyes directed unseeing on the carpet beneath her feet.

  10

  SHE was not at the falls, though he walked there in the rain to look for her. She was not in the nursery, where the children played with loud enthusiasm. He found her in the conservatory, seated among the large potted plants, almost hidden from view. She did not look up when he came into her line of vision.

  He stood looking down at her, not even attempting for a while to speak with her. Her hair was neatly dressed this morning. It was smooth over her head and knotted at the back. She wore no cap. She was wearing stays and small hoops beneath her simple, unadorned open gown. Her face was pale and composed. The hands in her lap were still.

  He remembered the smiling, exuberant girl who used to bound about outdoors like a young colt—or a little fawn. He remembered the smiling, trusting eyes as she watched him speak. He remembered her warm, responsive hand, her cheerful patience as she mended his quill pens when he worked for Luke. Dear Emmy. Sweet child.

  This was what she had come to, this pale, calm, beautiful woman. This was what he had done to her. He could still scarcely believe how all the tender brotherly feelings he had always had for her had been converted into unbridled lust last night. He had tried to fight it, it was true. He had urged her several times to leave. But the fault for what had happened was entirely his. Emmy had had only two faults—a vast innocence and an unbounded generosity. She had seen him suffering and she had come to comfort him.

  She had not understood that he could no longer take comfort from her in the old way. And yet when she had realized it, she had not taken fright. She had given anyway. She had given the ultimate gift.

  And now her betrothal, her future, her life, were in ruins. There had been a fondness—perhaps more—between herself and Powell.

  He remembered with deep shame how he had used her the night before. He remembered how she felt inside, how he had been less than gentle there with her. How he had taken and taken and taken. He did not want such memories of Emmy. He wanted her to be that sweet child again. He did not want to remember how he had lusted after her, how possessing her body had driven him wild with the desire for release. He wanted the gentle memories, not the harsh reality.

  He went down on his haunches in front of her and looked into her face. She gazed steadily enough back at him, though color crept into her cheeks.

  “Emmy,” he said, “how are you?” Foolish question. How did he think she was?

  Her mouth smiled fleetingly.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, realizing the ambiguity of his words even as he spoke them. He had meant physically. He could remember the seemingly endless moments of stretching before the virgin barrier had broken. He could remember the involuntary vigor with which he had worked to his climax soon after sheathing himself in her newly opened depths.

  She shook her head slightly. He felt a moment’s relief about that at least, but he could hardly expect her to admit to soreness or pain even if she felt either, he supposed. If there was soreness, she should at least have had the consolation of this being the morning after her wedding night.

  It should have been Powell . . .

  “I will not insult you by asking for your forgiveness,” he said. “What I did was unforgivable.”

  There was light in her eyes suddenly. She shook her head vigorously.

  “I know,” he said, “without having to ask you, that you consider yourself equally guilty, Emmy. But you were not. You came to help me. Even through your happiness yesterday, you saw that I was unhappy. And so you came last night to comfort me—as you always used to do when you were no more than a child. Your generosity was boundless, and I was scoundrel enough to take advantage of it. And so I have destroyed your happiness. You do not intend this morning to continue with your betrothal?”

  She frowned briefly in that characteristic way of hers when someone was speaking too fast or too long. But she understood his final question. She shook her head.

  “You have already spoken with Powell?” he asked.

  She nodded, her eyes huge and sad.

  “Poor Emmy,” he said. “I am so very sorry. How did you do it, I wonder. But you can always make yourself understood when you want to. I have spoken with your brother already.”

  Her eyes asked the question. She still did not understand, of course. Her sense of honor had led her to breaking her betrothal, but she did not fully understand. Perhaps she had thought she could retire quietly into her old way of life.

  “I shall wait to talk with a few other people today,” he said, speaking more slowly. “Luke. Your sister—your sisters. Your clergyman brother-in-law, perhaps. And I shall stay to lend you some moral support today. But I will leave at first light tomorrow. I should be back the following day with a license. Our wedding can be solemnized three days from now.”

  Her eyes were wide with bewilderment and then disbelief. She shook her head.

  He rested one knee on the floor. “Yes,” he said. “Oh yes, Emmy. We will marry.”

  She tried to get to her feet, but he was kneeling too close to her and would not move. She sat down again. No, she told him. No, no, no. Her eyes gave him no reason, only the adamant refusal.

  His smile was somewhat twisted. “You loved him, Emmy?” he asked. “You love him? And only yesterday you were facing a happily-ever-after with him. ’Twas an evil day for you when I came home. But it signifies nothing in what must now happen. In three days’ time you will be Lady Ashley Kendrick. You will be respectable again.”

  The very idea of Emmy’s not being respectable was preposterous. Innocence shone from her eyes despite last night’s dark deed.

  No, she told him again. But now her eyes and her expr
essive hands said more. He did not need to do this. She had given freely. She wanted and expected nothing in return. There was no need of this.

  “Emmy,” he said, and for the first time he touched her. He set his fingertips against the back of one of her hands. “I had your maidenhood last night. Your brother knows it this morning. Everyone in this house and at Wycherly will know it before the day is out. Thanks to my perfidy, you are a fallen woman today.” The absurdity of his words was clear to him—as was their truth. “You must allow me to do what is honorable.”

  He saw her eyes move to his jaw, which was doubtless darkening into a bruise. And he watched them fill with tears and knew that he must wait. There could be no conversation, no communication while she could not see. None of the tears spilled over.

  She loved him, he knew. Only the deepest love could have prompted her actions of last night. But it was not a sexual love, even though paradoxically that was the form it had taken last night. She did not love him as a woman loves a man. Her love was purer than that—and he had sullied it. And now, he knew, he must forever shackle it to himself, and perhaps destroy it and her in the process.

  And so he had to destroy himself as well. He had been loved unconditionally, and he had selfishly squeezed the life and the joy out of that love. It was a heavy burden. The heaviest of all.

  “Did you understand me?” he asked when he could see that her vision had cleared. She had to understand that there was no choice whatsoever. “We will marry. My seed might bear fruit.”

  He watched awareness come into her eyes and color to her cheeks. He watched understanding dawn—that they had been together as man and wife, that perhaps they had begotten a child. Even to him, though he had thought of it before, the idea was dizzying.

  Not Emmy. Not in Emmy.

  He could not think of her so. He did not want to think of her in sexual terms. He did not want her as his wife, his woman. He loved her too dearly. Sexual passion and marriage were foul things.