by Mary Balogh
“I wonder,” he said, “how happy she was. One cannot somehow imagine Alice being happy. Not surprisingly, I suppose. There must have been—”
But his sister cut him off. “’Tis better not to discuss it,” she said. “I am sorry I aroused old memories by commenting on the likeness. She came to a terrible end, poor woman. One can only hope she is now at peace. But poor Lord Ashley lost a son as well. ’Tis no wonder that there is a somewhat haunted look about him. Did you find him charming, Henry?”
“A trifle reserved,” he said. “I read a certain coldness in his eyes. But I suppose that making the acquaintance of people who grew up with his wife must have put a strain upon him. It must have taken some courage to call on us. It was a courtesy I appreciate.”
“A coldness?” she said. “I think not, Henry. He has the most soulful blue eyes. But no, you need not look at me like that. I have not conceived a passion for Lord Ashley Kendrick or for anyone else. Did you admire Lady Emily Marlowe?”
“She is a beauty of the first order,” he said, “and has a sparkle that makes her quite irresistibly charming.”
Barbara laughed. “You do not find her inability to converse a deterrent?” she asked.
“On the contrary,” he said. “Any man would consider it an exhilarating challenge to keep those fine eyes concentrated on his lips and to keep that dazzling smile focused on himself.”
“Henry.” She laughed again and squeezed his arm. “You are straying, I do declare.”
“Not so,” he said, chuckling too. But he sobered and sighed. “No, absolutely not, Barbara. I could only wish there were something definite from which not to stray. Am I foolish to be so constant to a dream? But enough of that. Tonight’s ball that Kendrick referred to is Lady Bryant’s, do you think? Perhaps I will try to engage Lady Emily for a set—if she is willing to lower her gaze to a mere baronet, of course.”
“Any lady should consider herself fortunate,” she said.
• • •
Ashley was somewhat later than he intended at Lady Bryant’s ball. Luke and Anna and their children had arrived at Harndon House early in the evening, and he was caught up in all the bustle of greeting them and of adjudicating a fight between young George and James and then wrestling with both the boys, who had united against him while Luke was attempting to soothe a very cross and red-faced Harry and bend an ear to Joy’s advice at the same time, and Anna and the nurse were inspecting the nursery rooms with the housekeeper to see that all was in order.
He felt almost cheerful as he stood in the doorway of the ballroom and looked about. He saw Emily immediately. The music was between sets, and she stood close to Lady Sterne, surrounded by gentlemen, as she had been at Vauxhall last evening. She was laughing and plying her fan, flirting with her eyes over the top of it. As had been so last evening, her hair was elaborately styled and powdered and her face was painted with cosmetics. She wore a patch close to one corner of her mouth. She looked quite magnificent in a gown that appeared to be all silver. Only her fan was a different color. It was crimson.
He did not like to see her thus. He remembered his initial reaction to her at Luke’s ball, when he had singled her out as the loveliest lady in the room before he had known who she was. It had been one-tenth admiration he had felt, and nine-tenths pure lust. And when he looked at her now, it was hard to see past the outer appearance to the reality within. It was hard to see her as Emmy. He did not like the stirring of desire he felt when he saw her like this. And yet, he thought before he could push the memory away, she had not looked like this when he had possessed her. She had been Emmy then, his wild, reckless sprite.
But he was feeling almost cheerful. She was not with child. She had quite firmly rejected his marriage offers at Bowden. That episode, then, could and must be put behind him. He could safely return to the old relationship with her. It gladdened him that they no longer needed to dread seeing each other. It cheered him to think that he could actively seek her out as he had always done—though only to keep her on the periphery of his life, instead of at its center as he had done when she was a girl. He would avoid drawing her again into his darkness.
He watched her laugh at something one of her followers said to her. And there was pain again—yes, definitely, even though everyone else in the room might look at her and wonder at her total and vivid gaiety. He would have preferred to see Emmy where she belonged, to be who she really was. He smiled slightly and remembered the quite inexplicable disappointment that had warred with relief in him this afternoon. That she was not with child by him. That she would not be forced into marrying him. Relief had won—relief for both their sakes.
And then her eyes met his across the room. He had not been in her direct line of vision, but she had sensed his presence. She smiled her coquettish smile at him; then the fingers of the hand that was not holding her fan beckoned in a gesture that probably only he noticed. She was surrounded by admirers, but for the moment she was ignoring them.
Do join me, she was telling him.
And then she touched her fingertips to her heart.
I really want you to.
Ah, Emmy.
• • •
“Lud, but ’tis working, Theo,” Lady Sterne said, touching her betrothed’s arm and patting it. “He did not like it at all when he discovered that she was engaged for the next two sets after his arrival. He went slinking off to lick his wounds until this set began.”
“He went to the card room and watched young Heyward lose a small fortune,” Lord Quinn said. “Looking as cool and as disapproving as Luke himself can appear, Marj. He has changed from the days of his wild and reckless youth, I warrant you. He has eyes for no one but the gel now.”
“And did you have a word with him this afternoon as you promised?” Lady Sterne asked. “I did think of mentioning the matter myself when he came to escort Emily to the park, but I thought ’twould seem too contrived if you then gave him the same hint.”
“Egad, but it felt wicked, Marj,” he said, “after we have assured the gel that our marrying will make no difference to her prospects. But the more I think of it, the more I like the idea for myself.”
She tapped him on the arm with her closed fan. “The thought of a private wedding trip to the Lakes for two weeks has an irresistible appeal,” she said. “But why should we not do it, Theo, and enjoy it too? The idea was not conceived selfishly, after all. ’Twas designed for dear Emily and Lord Ashley’s sake.”
“’Tis not sure yet, though, Marj,” Lord Quinn said with a sigh. “I merely dropped the hint. Luke and Anna are not far from Kent now that they have come to town from Bowden, I said. Anna must hope to spend a week or two with her sister after being away from her for a month, I said after taking time to discuss the weather. I sighed, m’dear, after talking about my visits to White’s this morning, and remarked that a short wedding trip would have been pleasant if it had not been the middle of the Season and if you had not taken on the duty of bringing out dear Lady Emily—not that you consider it a duty, of course, I hastened to add. But even so . . . And then I sighed piteously. One can only hope now that my nephy will conceive the idea, entirely on his own, you understand—of inviting Luke and Anna and Emily out to Penshurst for a week or two.”
“Lud, ’twill be the very thing,” Lady Sterne said. “Look at them, Theo. The very best-looking couple at the ball, and dancing the minuet as if they were unaware of anyone else’s existence. Who would guess that she is deaf, except for the fact that she dances almost too perfectly? Dear Emily.”
“If the lad has not had her to the altar by the end of the summer and had her brought to bed of a boy before the beginning of next summer,” Lord Quinn said, “he is no nephy of mine, by my life.”
• • •
He was not quite sure how she did it. He tried to imagine having to perform the steps of the minuet if he could not hear the music. It seemed imp
ossible. But she danced perfectly in time to the music. More even than just that. She danced with grace and a sense of rhythm, as if she held the music inside herself, as if it was the other side of silence.
He smiled at her as he performed the elegant steps with her, and she smiled back. Emmy’s smile, happy, exuberant, and yet serene too. No longer coquettish.
And that was it, he thought. She did have music inside her, and beauty and peace and harmony. There were levels on which their two worlds could converge, and strangely, this was one of them. There was the music he could hear and the silent music she could feel. He remembered her painting and her explanation of the feeling of life and exaltation she had tried to reproduce with her brush and her paints. There was a beauty and richness of character and experience about Emmy far deeper than the powdered hair and the rouged cheeks and the provocatively placed heart-shaped patch she wore close to her lips.
An idea flashed into his mind—a desire to see Emmy in the hills behind Penshurst and on the shady walk beside the river. More than a desire—almost a yearning.
Despite his pleasure at once again being so near to Emmy, Ashley was not able to fully enjoy the dance. When he had returned from the card room to claim this set, he had found Emmy surrounded by the usual group of young men—plus Sir Henry Verney and his sister. Miss Verney had been talking with Lady Sterne until she was led away by a gentleman into the set that was forming. Verney himself had been talking with Emmy—and had been soliciting her company for the set following the minuet.
The thought of Verney, of all people, so much as touching Emmy made Ashley want to scoop her up into his arms and carry her forcefully off to a place of safety. Verney had better not consider becoming a regular member of her court, Ashley thought angrily; not if he knew what was good for him. And yet Ashley’s mind could not refrain from making the parallel. Ruined and abandoned—Alice by Verney, Emmy by himself. But there was a difference, he told himself. Alice had loved Verney passionately. His abandonment had destroyed all hope of future happiness for her. Emmy had not really been abandoned—he must not add that burden to his conscience. She had abandoned him.
“Thank you,” he said, bowing over her hand when the minuet was at an end and offering his arm to escort her back to Lady Sterne’s side. The wedding was only a few days off. Once it was over, he would have no further excuse to remain in town. There was work to be done at Penshurst. And yet the thought of returning there was chilling. That large and empty house was too new to give off any sense of history, but held only the presence of its most recent occupants. Alice was everywhere in that house. If he could fill it with guests . . . even perhaps with children . . . If Emmy were there . . .
He was forced to stand and make conversation with Verney, who had come early to claim his time with Emmy. He was forced to watch the two of them smile at each other and apparently like what they saw. And after a few minutes he was forced to watch Verney lead her away, presumably to find a couple of chairs or a sofa to sit upon. His eyes followed them all the way to the French doors, which stood open onto a veranda. It was bright with lamplight. He could see them strolling back and forth outside the doors for a couple of minutes, then could see them no more.
Verney had taken her down the steps into the garden, which had been made available to guests. There were lanterns among the trees, and seats. Ashley had been out there earlier while waiting for his set with Emmy—only now did it strike him as strange that he had not considered dancing with any other lady.
Certainly there was no reason why a man should not take his partner into the garden for a stroll. The night was warm and the ballroom almost uncomfortably hot. But Verney was not any man. And Emmy was not any partner. Ashley could feel the tension building inside himself, and then the anger. His uncle and Viscount Burdett were standing on either side of him, making conversation. But fury became like a steady hammer blow against Ashley’s eardrums, blocking out both the sound and the sense of what they were saying. He excused himself after five minutes had passed and made his way toward the French doors.
• • •
She liked Sir Henry Verney and felt she could relax in his company. Unlike most of the gentlemen who crowded about her almost wherever she went, he did not ply her constantly with compliments and meaningless gallantries. With him she did not feel the constant necessity to smile dazzlingly and to flutter her fan.
Smiles seemed to come easily to Sir Henry Verney, as if they were his natural expression. Looking at his wide-spaced gray eyes, she thought that before many more years had passed, he would have permanent wrinkles at their outer corners. But they would be attractive. They would be laugh lines. He was an attractive man, large and solid, with a pleasant face. He was a man to be comfortable with. A man to trust, she thought, though she did not know him at all.
“’Tis hot in the ballroom,” he said, “and you have been dancing. Would you care for a stroll outdoors, Lady Emily? The garden is lighted and there are other people there. I have Lady Sterne’s permission to take you strolling—if ’tis what you wish.”
He was making sure that she would not feel uneasy about agreeing to something that sounded so heavenly, Emily reflected. He had even spoken with Aunt Marjorie. She smiled and nodded and set her arm along his very solid one. She would be glad to go outside, where it would be darker and less crowded and cooler—and where she would not see Ashley. Her mind and her heart were still in an uncomfortable turmoil after their dance. There had been the wild exhilaration of dancing again, of feeling form and rhythm and movement. And part of the wildness and of the exhilaration had been the sight of Ashley, tall and slender and more than usually elegant in a wine-colored velvet skirted coat with silver embroidered waistcoat and gray knee breeches and sparkling white linen and lace. In addition, his hair was powdered tonight.
She would have suffocated if she had had to remain in the ballroom, she thought.
He lived near Penshurst in Kent, Sir Henry told her as they strolled on the veranda. He lived with his mother and his sister, though he often came to London for a few weeks at a time. His sister liked to shop and visit here and they both enjoyed the entertainments of the Season. He liked to travel more extensively too, he told her as he led her down the steps into the garden, though most of the time now he stayed in the British Isles so that he would not be too far from his mother if she had need of him. He had made the Grand Tour of Europe, of course, as a very young man.
Emily smiled at him and invited him to tell her more. He was not a talkative man. There had been welcome silences between the things he had told her. He seemed to realize that silences were not as awkward to her as they seemed to be to most people, that sometimes she appreciated moments without conversation so that she could turn her head from looking at her companion’s lips in order to look about her and relax. The garden was pretty, its trees and lawns intersected with several paths, all converging on a central fountain which spouted water that looked multicolored in the light of the lanterns.
They arrived at the fountain and stood gazing into the spray for a whole minute. Emily could smell the water. Although none of the spray touched her, she could feel the dampness and knew that the merest breath of a breeze could send droplets against her face and hands. She half closed her eyes and saw the lantern light filtered through a million drops of water. She could almost imagine herself back in the country. But Sir Henry leaned slightly toward her and she turned her eyes to his lips.
“I always think there is no sound more soothing than that of flowing water,” he said.
She smiled, allowing amusement to show in her face.
“Zounds. Pardon me,” he said, looking stricken. “That was unbelievably tactless of me.”
But she laughed and pointed to her eyes. She indicated her nose and breathed in, and rubbed her fingertips over her thumbs.
“You use your other senses and find them just as soothing,” he said. “And I am forgiven, Lady
Emily?”
She shrugged her shoulders and smiled as she nodded, to indicate that there was nothing to forgive. The ballroom had become uncomfortable with the heat of so many people. She had felt the discomfort. Did it also become uncomfortable with the noise of so many people? she wondered. If so, then she had been spared that annoyance. She set her arm along Sir Henry’s again so that they might resume their stroll.
But before they could do so, before she could turn her head to concentrate on his account of his Grand Tour, she had that familiar feeling again. He was close by. Closer than the ballroom or even the veranda. Her eyes found him standing some distance away, slightly to one side of the foot of the steps down into the garden. He was alone. Why had he come? she wondered. Was he merely hot and in need of air? Lonely? Unhappy?
But her partner had been about to speak. She turned her head and her attention determinedly toward him.
“I was away from England for longer than a year,” Sir Henry said, “completing my education. That is the polite way of saying that I enjoyed myself enormously, Lady Emily, doing all that was wild and extravagant. But perhaps I was learning too. ’Tis through wildness and extravagance that we learn the value of steadiness and moderation, I often believe. Are you sure you wish me to bore you with the tale of my adventures?”
She nodded, but she laughed to tell him that it would be no bore. He must have been to Paris, where Luke had lived for ten years. He must have been to Italy and seen all the riches of architecture and painting and sculpture, and to Switzerland and seen the mountains and the lakes. He must have been . . . She did not know of any other places. She knew so little.
She watched his lips intently and lived his experiences in her imagination. And yet all the time she knew that Ashley was not leaving the garden. He stayed at the foot of the steps for a while and then strolled the paths. He stood at the fountain, leaning back against the stone wall that surrounded it. He watched them. She was sure he was watching them, though he did not come close or so much as lift a hand in greeting.