by Mary Balogh
She had been very foolish. It had been all her fault. She was, as Lionel himself had said, incredibly naive. But finally she had learned her lesson. From now on there was only Lionel and what she owed him. If he was disappointed in her now, she would teach him to be proud of her. If he did not love her now, he would in future.
She turned her head and smiled at him, her heart in her eyes. He smiled back, his eyes roaming her face and fixing themselves on her lips. He leaned a little toward her and then straightened up for good manners’ sake, his smile more rueful.
His mother, watching closely from the seat opposite, nodded her approval and turned her smile on the occupants of a landau that was passing.
11
THERE WAS AN ATMOSPHERE OF GAIETY AND and an air of expectancy among the forty guests who sat down to dinner at the Earl of Rushford’s table. Everyone knew what announcement was to be made at the end of it, but the knowing did not dampen enthusiasm. Neither did the near scandal of a few days before, which had blossomed gloriously for a few hours only to die down again, as so many would-be scandals did. Not that the dying was to be much lamented. There was always a new one eagerly waiting to take its place.
Samantha smiled, as everyone about her did, and conversed with Mr. Averleigh on her left, and even flirted with him a little. One quickly learned how to flirt in fashionable society, how to hide behind smiles and blushes and sparkling eyes and witty responses. How to draw compliments and admiration and then hold the gentleman concerned at arm’s length. Not that that always worked. She had had to refuse a marriage offer that very morning from Mr. Maxwell and was very much afraid that she might have hurt him. And Aunt Aggy had been puzzled and her uncle had been annoyed with her—both had approved his suit.
Samantha continued to smile—indeed, she redoubled her efforts—when the dreaded moment came and the Earl of Rushford got to his feet to make the announcement they had all been waiting for. She did not hear his actual words. But there was a swell of sound as many pretended surprise, and applause and laughter—and Lionel was on his feet and drawing Jenny to hers and kissing her hand. And the two of them were smiling radiantly into each other’s eyes and looking as if happily-ever-after were not a strong enough term to describe what their future was to be.
And yet, Samantha thought, withdrawing her eyes from them under the pretense of lifting her wineglass, Lionel did not love Jenny. And Jenny—well, Jenny did love him. But also she had been unduly upset over the incident with the Earl of Thornhill. And Samantha? Well, her feelings were immaterial. Except that she constantly felt wretched and could not at all concentrate on becoming especially fond of one gentleman from her flatteringly large group of admirers. And she was not even sure that Jenny was going to be happy. She herself could have borne it, she felt, if only she knew that the two of them loved each other. She would know then that her own feelings were quite wrong and must be put firmly behind her.
Well, she thought when Lady Rushford got to her feet finally to signal the ladies to leave the dining room, it was done now. Finally done. Now it was quite official and unalterable. Any faint and absurd hope that might have lingered somewhere far back in her brain was now firmly dashed.
It was a relief. Yes, it really was.
She drew close to her cousin in the drawing room, no easy matter when it seemed that all the ladies, without exception, were trying to do the same thing. Jennifer saw her and turned with shining eyes to hug her tightly.
“Oh, Sam,” she said, “wish me happy.” She laughed. “Wish me what I already have in such abundance that I believe I may well burst with it.”
Samantha could not afterward remember what she said in reply. But she did wish it. Oh, she did. She wished Jenny all the happiness in the world. Her own feelings did not matter in the slightest.
IT WAS MUCH LATER in the evening. Jennifer was hot and flushed and footsore. But happier than she could remember being. Now, tonight, at last, the dreams she had had for five long years of what this Season would be like were coming true.
She was the focus of attention and admiration—not that these things were important in themselves, she knew. But every woman has some hidden vanity and enjoys attention, even when there is one single gentleman who holds her heart. The Earl of Rushford had danced with her and made it clear that he was pleased with her. Even Papa—wonder of wonders—had led her into a set.
And Lionel—oh, Lionel had danced with her twice, both waltzes, and had declared his intention of dancing the final set with her. A man was to be excused the minor impropriety of dancing with his betrothed three times in one evening, he had said, his head bent close to hers, his eyes smiling warmly. And if the ton did not agree, well, then, the ton might go hang.
She had laughed with delight at his outrageous words.
And everyone was watching them. It was no vanity to believe that. It was true. Everyone could see that Lionel was looking at her as if he would devour her. And she did not care that they would see too that she adored him.
All doubts—if there had been any doubts—had been put to rest tonight. He had been angry and hurt yesterday. Understandably so. It had all been her fault. But now, tonight, he had put that anger aside and his true feelings for her were there for all to see—on his face and in his eyes.
He had not come to the ball. It was no surprise—she was sure that Lionel and his father would have made sure that he did not come. But it was an enormous relief. She dreaded seeing him again. It was certainly wonderful that she did not have to do so tonight of all nights. Tonight she could no longer even hear his voice in her head. Tonight she was finally free of him.
The Earl of Rushford had been called from the ballroom a short while ago. Not that Jennifer particularly noticed, but then a footman came to ask Viscount Kersey to join his father in the library, and Lionel left her side after smiling regretfully at her and squeezing her hand.
He was gone through most of the next set, which Jennifer danced with Sir Albert Boyle. She found his company interesting since he told her with a smile that she must wish him happy as he wished her. He had recently become betrothed to Miss Rosalie Ogden. She always felt a special interest in Sir Albert because he was the first gentleman she and Sam had met in London. She hastily closed her mind to the other gentleman who had been with him in the park that day.
But despite her interest in Sir Albert, she was disappointed in the long absence of her betrothed. Even if they could not dance together all evening, she could at least gaze at him much of the time. He was dressed tonight in varying shades of light green to match the color of her own gown. Aunt Agatha had thought a pale color suitable for a young lady who was now officially betrothed. Jennifer smiled secretly to herself. She wondered if five years from now or ten she would still be restless when Lionel was out of her sight for longer than a few minutes.
And then he was there again, in the doorway with his father, his face as pale as his shirt, his smile completely gone, his expression severe. What had happened? Something clearly had. Bad news? Was that why first the earl and then he had been summoned from the ballroom? His father, she saw when she shifted her glance to him, was looking decidedly grim. The set was coming to an end, but she could not hurry toward them to ask what it was. It would not be seemly. She was forced to allow Sir Albert Boyle to escort her back to Aunt Agatha’s side and to wait for Lionel to come to her. What was wrong? Oh, poor Lionel.
Whatever it was, he would be glad that the evening was almost at an end. There could be no more than one or two sets remaining.
Jennifer watched in some concern, fanning her hot face, as the Earl of Rushford, followed closely by his son, made his way toward the raised dais on which the orchestra sat, climbed onto it, and stood there, his arms raised for silence. He was holding a single sheet of paper in one hand. Lionel stood beside him, his expression stony, his eyes downcast.
A hush descended on the ballroom as the guests gradually became aware that their host was waiting to address them. Jennifer took one ste
p forward but stopped again.
“It distresses me to make any announcement to destroy the mood of the evening and put an abrupt and early end to the festivities,” the earl said, his voice stern and clear. “But something disturbing has been brought to my attention this evening, and after consultation with my son and careful deliberation, I have decided that I have no choice but to speak out publicly and without delay.”
The hush in the ballroom became almost loud. Jennifer, for no reason she could fathom, felt her heart beat faster. She could hear it beating in her ears.
“This letter was delivered to the house an hour ago,” the earl said, holding the sheet of paper he held a little higher. “And one of my servants was bribed to deliver it into the hands of one of my … guests. Fortunately, my servants are loyal. Both the letter and the bribe were put into my butler’s hands and then into mine.”
Whatever could it be, Jennifer thought in the murmuring that followed, that it had necessitated this public display? She started to fan herself, but she stopped when she realized that everyone about her was still.
“I will read this letter,” the earl said, “if you will indulge me for a few moments.” He held the sheet of paper up before him and read. “ ‘My love, Your ordeal is almost at an end, this farce of an evening that you felt obliged to suffer through. Tomorrow I will contrive to see you privately, as I have done many times before. I will hold you again and kiss you again and make love to you again. And we will make plans to steal away together so that we may kiss and love whenever we wish. Forgive my incaution in sending you this tonight, but I know you will be disappointed at not seeing me there. I have been advised to stay away after our almost open indiscretion of a few evenings ago. I will be sure that my messenger gives a large enough bribe that this will be placed in your own hands—and next to your heart after you have read it. Would that I could be there too. Until tomorrow, my love. Thornhill.’ ”
Jennifer stood very still. She was beyond thought.
“My servant was bribed,” the Earl of Rushford said, “to deliver this into the hands of Miss Jennifer Winwood.”
She had become a block of stone. Or a block of ice. Sound—sounds of shock and of outrage—swelled about her. It was something that was happening at a great distance from her.
“In the last week or so,” the earl said, having somehow imposed silence on his gathered guests again, “my son has more than once overlooked what was apparently the unfortunate but harmless indiscretion of youth and innocence. As a man of honor and sensibility, he has stood by his commitment to Miss Winwood and shielded her name from scandal and dishonor. It appears that he has been much deceived. And that the countess and I have been much deceived. We have been deceived in a friendship of many years’ standing. I will make it clear here and now that there will be no further connection between my family and Miss Winwood’s, that the betrothal announced earlier this evening is no longer in existence. Good night, ladies and gentlemen. You will excuse me, I am sure, if I feel that there is no longer anything to celebrate tonight.”
Lionel was standing beside his father, looking stern and dignified and very handsome. It was as if the part of Jennifer that was not her body had detached itself from that body and was observing almost dispassionately. It was as if what had been said and what was happening had nothing to do with her.
The Earl of Rushford stood, feet apart, on the dais, watching his guests depart. None of them approached him. They were perhaps too embarrassed to do so. Or perhaps they were in too much of a rush to get ouside so that they could glory in the retelling of what had just happened. Lionel continued to stand there too, straight-backed and pale, his gaze directed downward. Everyone was leaving. Most people did not look at her. Again, it seemed as if they were in the grip of a massive embarrassment.
Then someone grabbed her wrist with painful tightness—Aunt Agatha—and someone else grasped her other elbow in a grip that felt as if it might grind her bones—Papa. And together they turned her and propelled her from the room faster than her feet would move, or so it seemed. Somehow, although everyone was leaving, nothing impeded their progress. Everyone fell back to either side of them, almost as if they had the plague.
And then—she did not know how it could have been brought up so fast—she was inside her father’s carriage, Papa beside her, Aunt Agatha across from her, Samantha next to Aunt Agatha, and the carriage was in motion.
“I have a horse whip in the stables,” her father was saying, his voice so quiet that Jennifer knew he was more than angry. “Prepare yourself, Miss. I will be using it when we arrive home.”
“Oh, no, Uncle,” Samantha wailed.
“Gerald—” Aunt Agatha said.
“Silence!” he said.
They all stayed silent during the remainder of the journey home.
“I AM SORRY, MY lord.”
His valet’s voice somehow got all mixed up with his dream. He was trying to leave London, but no matter which street his carriage turned along, there was always a press of traffic ahead of them and tangled vehicles and angry, excited people arguing and gesticulating. And no way past. And then his valet was standing at the door of the carriage, addressing him in his most formal manner. “I am sorry, my lord.”
“Sorry, dammit. Out of my way. Get up, Gabe. Get up before I throw a pitcher of cold water over you.”
For a moment Bertie was there too, adding confusion to the melee by trying to force a high-spirited horse past his carriage. And then the Earl of Thornhill woke up.
“I am sorry, my lord,” his valet said again. “I tried to—”
“Get up, Gabe.”
Bertie, resplendent in ball clothes, pushed the valet unceremoniously aside, grasped the bedclothes, and flung them back. He was quite furiously angry, the earl realized, shaking off the remnants of sleep and waving off his man.
“Go back to bed,” he told him. “Good Lord, Bertie, what the devil are you doing here at this time? What time is it, by the way?” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, sat up, and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Get up!” Sir Albert ordered. “I am going to give you the thrashing of your life, Gabe.”
The earl looked up at him in some surprise. “Here, Bertie?” he said. “Is the space not rather confined? And you do not have a whip, my dear chap. Will you at least allow me to put on some clothes? I have an aversion to being thrashed, or even to holding a conversation, while I am naked.” He got to his feet.
“You are slime,” Sir Albert said, his voice cold with contempt. “I have always defended you from all who have defamed you, Gabe. But they have been right and I have been wrong. You were probably giving it to your stepmother after all. You are slime!”
The earl turned, having not quite reached his dressing room door. “Have a care, Bertie,” he said quietly. “You are talking about a lady. About a member of my family.”
“You disgust me!” his erstwhile friend said. “You are slime.”
“Yes.” The earl disappeared into his dressing room and came back a moment later tying the sash of a brocaded dressing gown about his waist. “So you said before, Bertie. Would it be too much to ask that you explain the reason for the violence of your feelings—at this time of the night, whatever time it is?”
“Your bribe was not high enough,” Sir Albert said very distinctly. “Your letter fell into the wrong hands.”
The earl waited, but clearly Bertie had finished. “Next time I try to bribe someone,” he said, “I must remember to double the sum. Corruption is more expensive than it used to be, it seems. My letter, Bertie? Which one is that? I have written four or five in the last few days.”
“Don’t play stupid,” Sir Albert said. “She has doubtless been at fault too, Gabe, meeting you in private, allowing intimacies. But she is basically an innocent, I believe, just as Miss Ogden is and all the other young girls who have just made their come-out. They are no match for experienced rakes bent on seducing and ruining them. It was Rushford himsel
f who intercepted that letter, you may be interested to know. He read it aloud to the whole gathering. She is ruined. I hope you are satisfied.”
The Earl of Thornhill looked at him silently for a while. “I think we had better go into my sitting room, Bertie,” he said at last, turning to lead the way, and lighting a branch of candles when he got there. “You had better tell me exactly what happened tonight.”
“How could you!” Sir Albert said. “If you had to be seducing a lady of virtue when there are all sorts of women of another class who would be only too pleased to earn the extra income, did you also have to be so mad as to risk exposing her to the whole ton? Did you have no fear that the letter would fall into the wrong hands?”
“Bertie.” The earl’s tone had become crisp. “Assume for a few minutes, if you will, that I do not know what you are talking about. Or pretend you are recounting the story to a stranger. Tell me what happened. In what way have I ruined Miss Winwood? I assume it is she I have ruined?”
Sir Albert would not sit, but he did calm down enough to give a terse account of what had happened in the Rushford ballroom less than an hour before.
“Did you see the letter?” the earl asked when the story had been completed.
“Of course not,” Sir Albert said. “Rushford was holding it. He read it in its entirety. Why would I want to see it?”
“For a rather important reason actually,” the earl said. “You know my handwriting, Bertie. That letter would not have been in it.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you did not write the letter?” his friend asked, incredulous.
“Not trying,” Lord Thornhill said curtly. “I am telling you, Bertie. Good Lord. You believe I am capable of that?”
“You are capable of kissing the girl in sight of the whole ton,” Sir Albert reminded him.