by Mary Balogh
“You look splendid,” she said, stopping just inside the door and gazing at her cousin with mingled admiration and envy. “Oh, Jenny, how does it feel? How does it feel to be about to go downstairs to meet your future husband?”
It felt rather as if her slippers had been soled with lead. If she had been able to eat any breakfast, she would now be feeling bilious. She felt bilious anyway.
“Do you think I should have had my hair cut?” she asked, and stared at her image in the glass, amazed that she could think of nothing more profound to say on such a momentous occasion. “It is really very long, yet short hair is all the crack, according to Aunt Agatha.”
“It looks very elegant piled like that,” Samantha said. “And very pretty too with the trailing curls. I thought you would be bounding with excitement.”
“How can I,” Jennifer asked almost in a wail, “when I cannot lift my feet from the floor? It has been over a year, Sam, and even then we were never alone together and never together at all for more than five minutes at a time. What if he has changed his mind? What if there was nothing to change? What if he never did want this match? It was arranged by our papas years ago. It has always suited me. But what if it does not suit him?” Panic clawed at her.
Samantha clucked her tongue and tossed a look at the ceiling. “Men are not forced into marriage, Jenny,” she said. “Women sometimes are because we are rarely given a say in the ordering of our own lives. That is the way of the world, alas. But not men. If Lord Kersey did not like this match, he would have said so long ago and there would have been an end of the matter. You are merely giving in to the vapors. I have never heard you express these doubts before.”
She had had them, Jennifer supposed, suppressed so deep that even she had been scarcely aware of them. Fears that all her dreams would come to nothing. She did not know what she would do if that happened. There would be a frightening emptiness in her life and a painful void in her heart. But he was here—downstairs at this very moment.
“If I am not summoned soon,” she said, clenching her hands into tight fists and then stretching her fingers wide, “I shall crumple into a heap on the floor. Perhaps this is only a courtesy visit, Sam. Do you think? After all, we have not seen each other for over a year. There will be a few visits before he can be expected to come to the point, will there not? I am being unnecessarily foolish. In which case, I am doubtless very overdressed and Lord and Lady Rushford and Li—and their son will laugh privately at me. His mama and papa would not have come with him if this was it, would they?”
Samantha tossed a look at the ceiling again, but before she could say anything more there was a knock on the door behind her and a footman announced that Miss Winwood’s presence was requested in the rose salon.
Jennifer inhaled slowly and deeply through her nose before being subjected to her cousin’s hug. A minute later she was walking downstairs with a quiet dignity that belied the wild beating of her heart.
She was about to see him again. Would he look as she remembered? Would he be pleased with her? Would she be able to behave like the mature woman of twenty that she was?
Three gentlemen rose to their feet when she was admitted to the salon. A lady remained seated. Jennifer curtsied to her father and then to the Earl and Countess of Rushford when her father presented her to them. The earl was large and as haughty-looking as she remembered him. Samantha had once remarked that he was an older version of his son, but Jennifer had never been able to see any likeness. Lionel could never grow into someone so—unappealing. The countess was dumpy and placid-looking. It was hard to believe that she could have produced such a handsome son.
The earl inclined his head to her and looked her over appraisingly from head to toe, his lips pursed, rather as if she was inanimate merchandise he was considering purchasing, Jennifer thought. But she saw approval in his eyes. The countess smiled reassuringly at her and even rose to hug her and set a cheek against hers.
“Jennifer, dear,” she said. “As lovely as ever. What a very pretty dress.”
And then her father indicated the third gentleman in the room and she turned her head at last and looked at Viscount Kersey as she curtsied to him. On the rare occasions she had been about to see him in the five years since their marriage had been arranged, she had always wondered anxiously if he would be as splendid as she remembered him. And each time she had been jolted by the fact that he was even more so. The same held true now.
Viscount Kersey was not only handsome and elegant. He was—perfect. There was no feature of his face, no part of his body that could possibly be improved upon. It was the impression Jennifer had again now as her eyes took in the silver blondness of his hair, the deep blue of his eyes, his chiseled features and perfectly proportioned body beneath the immaculately fashionable clothes. He was still a few inches taller than she. She had been terrified that she would grow beyond him, but the danger was now past.
He bowed to her, his eyes on her the whole while. Cold, Samantha always called him. It was the uneasy impression Jennifer had of him now. He did not smile, though he said all that was proper and took his part in the conversation that followed when they had all seated themselves. But then she did not smile either. Doubtless she appeared cold to him. It was difficult to smile and to look and feel comfortable under such circumstances. She sat with stiff and straight back, mechanically taking her part in the conversation, aware of the critical appraisal of his parents.
It was merely a social call after all, then, she thought after a few minutes. It was foolish of her to have expected the event to have greater significance when they had not met for so long. Ridiculous of her. She hoped her appearance and her manner would not cause them to realize that she had expected more. How rustic they would think her.
And then her father got to his feet.
“I’ll show you the new section of my library I mentioned at White’s last week, Rushford,” he said, “if you would care to come and see it now. It will take but a few minutes.”
“Certainly,” the earl agreed, rising and crossing the room to the door. “My own library is sadly out of date. I shall have to set my secretary to it.”
His countess followed him. “And I shall call in on Lady Brill while I am here,” she said. “It is always a pleasure to see Agatha when I am in town. Jennifer, my dear, perhaps you will entertain my son for a short while?” She smiled and nodded at both of them.
Jennifer had lulled herself with the conviction that she had been wrong about the purpose of this visit. She felt now almost as if she had been taken unaware. Panic threatened. But gazing down at her hands, which rested in her lap, she was relieved to find that they were neither trembling nor fidgeting.
Viscount Kersey stood up when the door closed behind their parents. It was, Jennifer realized, startled, the first time they had ever been quite alone together. She looked up to find him gazing down at her. She smiled.
“You are very lovely,” he said. “I trust you are enjoying London?”
“Thank you.” She blushed with pleasure at the compliment, though the words had been formally spoken. “We arrived only two days ago and have been out but once since, for a walk in the park yesterday afternoon. But yes, I intend to enjoy it, my lord.” Her mind grappled with the realization that the moment had finally come.
“Is it an encumbrance?” he asked. “This match that was forced on you when you were far too young to know quite what was being arranged on your behalf? Do you wish yourself out of it now that you are here for the Season? Do you wish you were free to receive the attentions of other gentlemen? Do you feel trapped?”
“No!” She felt her flush deepen. “I have never for a moment regretted it, my lord. Apart from the fact that I trust my father to arrange for my future, I …”… fell in love with you at first sight. She had been about to say the words aloud. “… I find that it also suits my own inclination to accept his plans,” she said.
He inclined his head in a half-bow. “I had to ask,” he said.
“You were but fifteen. I was twenty and the circumstances for me were a little different.”
And then she remembered her earlier doubts. He had been twenty. Only twenty. Now at the age of twenty-five did he regret what he had agreed to then? Had he been hoping that she would answer his questions differently? Had he been hoping that she would offer him a way out? He still had not smiled. She had.
“B-but perhaps,” she said, “this planned match is an encumbrance to you, my lord?” Now it was not the soles of her slippers that felt as if they were made of lead, but her heart. It seemed so altogether likely suddenly. He was so very handsome and—fashionable. He did not know her at all. He had not set eyes on her since Christmas of last year.
For a moment he looked at the door through which his parents had just passed and half smiled. Then he took a few steps closer to her and leaned down to possess himself of her right hand. “It was my pleasure when it was first suggested,” he said, “to consider you as my future bride, and it is my pleasure now. I have looked forward impatiently to this moment. Shall we make it official, then? Will you do me the honor of marrying me?”
All doubts fled. She looked up into his blue, blue eyes and knew that the moment had come when all her dreams were being realized. Lionel was standing close before her, holding her hand, gazing into her eyes, asking her to be his wife. And then he smiled, dispelling any fear there might have been of coldness in his addresses, revealing perfect white teeth. She felt the old welling of excitement and love.
“Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes, my lord.” She got to her feet, not having planned to do so, not knowing quite why she did so.
“Then you have completed the happiness that began in my life five years ago,” he said, and raised her hand to his lips.
She knew suddenly why she had stood up. They were standing very close. They were alone together for the first time. He had just proposed marriage and she had just accepted. She wanted him to kiss her lips. She blushed at the realization of just how improper her unconscious wish had been. She hoped he had not guessed.
He behaved with the utmost propriety. He returned her hand to her side and took a step back. “You have made me the happiest of men, Miss Winwood,” he said.
She wanted him to call her Jennifer and wondered if she should say so. But perhaps it would be too forward. She wanted him to invite her to use his given name as she had used it in her dreams for five years. But she realized suddenly that the stiffness and formality of his manner must be the result of embarrassment. It must be so much more of an ordeal for a man to make an offer than for a woman to receive it. The woman’s role was passive while the man’s was active. She tried to imagine their roles reversed. She tried to imagine how she would have felt earlier this morning waiting for him to arrive if she had known that she must take the initiative, that she must speak the words of the offer. She smiled at him in sympathy.
“And you have made me happy too, my lord,” she said. “I shall devote my life to your happiness.”
They were saved from further conversation by the return to the salon of their parents, expectant looks on their faces. In all that followed, Jennifer held on to her happiness, to her knowledge that now, after so long, it was finally official, irrevocable, that her happiness had been signed and sealed.
They were to be married at the end of June. In the meanwhile they were to spend a month enjoying the activities of the Season in company together—or as much in company as propriety would allow—before their betrothal was officially announced and celebrated in a grand dinner and ball at the Earl of Rushford’s mansion. And then another month would follow before the wedding would actually take place.
The end of June. Two months. In two months’ time she would be the Viscountess Kersey. Lionel’s bride. And during those two months she was to dance with him at balls and assemblies, sit with him at dinners and concerts, attend the theater and the opera with him, drive out with him, walk out with him. Get to know him. Get to feel comfortable with him. Become his friend.
And then his wife forever after. His lifelong companion. The mother of his children.
It was too much like heaven, she thought, glancing across the room at him while their fathers talked. He was looking back, unsmiling again. Two months during which to dispel the slight discomfort that made this morning just a little less than perfect. Except that it was perfect, she told herself determinedly. The awkwardness was to be expected. They scarcely knew each other despite the fact that for five years they had been intended for each other. They had not even met for over a year. And a proposal of marriage would be a strained occasion even in the most ideal of circumstances.
Oh, yes, everything was perfect. Except that perfection was an absolute state, and she knew that what had begun this morning was going to get better during the following two months and even better at the end of June.
She was the happiest woman alive, she told herself. She was in love with the most handsome man in the world and she was betrothed to him—officially betrothed at last. He had smiled at her and told her she had made him the happiest of men. She was going to see to it that that held true for the rest of their lives.
He kissed her hand again when he and his parents took their leave a few minutes later. So did the earl. The countess hugged and kissed her again and even shed a few tears.
Jennifer, dismissed by her father, refused to feel flat and depressed. How ridiculous! But how natural when she had just been offered for and had just accepted and had no one at the moment with whom to share her joy. She forgot herself as far as to take the stairs two at a time to Samantha’s dressing room.
THE EARL OF THORNHILL put into effect his promise to ride in the park at the fashionable hour the day after he had ridden there early. He was accompanied by Sir Albert Boyle, as before, and by their mutual friend, Lord Francis Kneller.
This time the park was as crowded as it always was at such an hour during the spring. He was not as embarrassed as he had half expected to be, though, he found. Many of the gentlemen he now saw, he had met at White’s yesterday or this morning. Men tended not to be swayed greatly by scandal when it concerned one of their own.
Many of the ladies in the park did not know him—yet, anyway. It was a long time since he had been in London. Those who did—mostly older ladies—looked haughtily at him and would have given him the cut direct if he had given them the opportunity, but they were far too well bred to make a scene.
It all went rather well, he thought, and he was glad after all that he had come to town first before going to Chalcote. The next time he came he would be old and stale news. Other scandals would long ago have supplanted the one in which he had been involved.
“A shame,” Sir Albert said, looking around the crowd carefully. “Not a sight of her, Gabe—of them. The most delightful little blonde you have ever set eyes on, Frank. And her companion had long legs that Gabe admired. Fancied them twined about his own, or something like that. But they are not here.”
Lord Francis guffawed. “I hope you did not tell her so, Gabe,” he said. “Maybe it is common courtesy to a Swiss miss to tell her such things, but an English miss would have twelve fits of the vapors and her papa and all her brothers and male cousins and uncles would separately challenge you. You would have appointments at dawn for a month of mornings.”
“I kept my thoughts to myself,” the earl said, grinning, “until I was foolish enough to confide them to Bertie. They must be otherwise engaged this afternoon, Bertie. Or perhaps they have not been presented yet. That would explain yesterday’s solitary walk.”
He too had looked about hopefully for them—in particular for the redhead. He had surprised himself by dreaming of her last night, but she had been telling him, alas, that he should go home where he belonged.
And then his grin faded and he completely missed the witticism of Lord Francis’s that set Sir Albert to laughing. Yes, he thought. Yes!
There had been another reason for his return to London. He had hardly acknowl
edged it to himself and it might very well have come to nothing. But yes. He felt something strangely like elation. He had come at just the right time. He could not have timed it better if he had tried.
He had always known that he must confront Catherine’s former lover somehow. The Gothic notion of challenging the man to a duel and putting a bullet between his eyes had passed long ago. But there had to be something. His father was dead. He was the head of the family that had been dishonored. More important, he had always been fond of Catherine, and he had been with her through much of her pregnancy and confinement. She had had to bear the whole burden alone, not the least part of which had been a deeply bruised heart. And though she was now passionately devoted to her daughter, nevertheless all the responsibility and stress of bringing up the child was hers alone and would be for years and years to come.
The father, as was the nature of things, had suffered nothing but physical pleasure from the affair.
The least he could do, the Earl of Thornhill had decided some time ago—the very least—was inform the man that he knew. Catherine had kept his identity a closely guarded secret for a long time and even then had told only her stepson.
And now the father of Catherine’s child was riding in the park, bowing gallantly over the hand of a lady in a phaeton and flashing the whiteness of his handsome smile at her. He had not a care in the world. The earl amused himself for a moment with the mental image of his fist shattering those white teeth into a million fragments.
“You are blocking the path, Gabe,” Lord Francis said.
“What?” he said. “Oh, sorry.” Catherine’s former lover had tipped his hat to the lady in the phaeton and was riding away from the crowd into the more open spaces of the park. “Excuse me, will you? There is someone I must talk to.”