by Mary Balogh
“I have come,” the Earl of Thornhill said, “for Miss Winwood’s property.”
“For … ? I will have you tossed out for this, Thornhill.” Lord Rushford’s voice vibrated with fury.
“I believe,” Lord Kersey said, raising a quizzing glass to his eye, “he is asking for the letter, Father. By what right do you claim that slut’s, ah, property, Thornhill?”
“I have the honor of being the lady’s betrothed,” Lord Thornhill said coldly and distinctly. “I am reluctant to slap a glove in your face, Kersey, as I am sure you are well aware. The lady has suffered enough at our hands. But if you utter one whisper of an insult about her from this moment on, you will leave me with no choice. Now, the letter.” He held out an imperious hand to Rushford.
The earl drew in a sharp breath. “The letter,” he said, “has been burned. My house is sullied by even the ashes of such filth.”
“So you are going to marry her.” Lord Kersey chuckled until he caught his father’s stern eye on him.
“Ah.” Lord Thornhill’s hand returned to his side. “I feared it. And since it is you who tell me, Rushford, I believe you. It was wisely done, too, though I will pay you the courtesy of believing that perhaps you did not realize it. If the letter still existed, there would be more men than just me who could have vouched for the fact that it was not in my hand.”
“You would have been foolish not to have had some lackey pen it for you,” Lord Kersey said. “But denial would be pointless. Who else would have had a motive to write it—and sign your name to it? You have destroyed my happiness, Thornhill, and made a good pass to destroy my name. Only the bold action of my father averted that chance and brought me the sympathy of the ton instead. My father’s name too might have been brought to humiliation. For that fact more than any other I find your behavior unforgivable.”
“The bold action of your father destroyed the name of an innocent young lady instead,” Lord Thornhill said, “and in the cruelest manner imaginable. For a man newly affianced and apparently deep in love, you have recovered from her apparent defection with remarkable speed, Kersey. If I were you, I would put on a longer face when you go out. You would not wish it said, I am sure, that you were glad to be set free, that perhaps you had maneuvered to be free.”
The viscount’s eyes flashed. “It would be like you to spread such slander, Thornhill,” he said. “I merely ask you to consider whose word is more likely to be trusted among the ton. The answer is rather obvious, is it not?”
“I must ask you to leave, Thornhill,” Lord Rushford said. “My son has suffered a severe shock at your hands and at the hands of the woman I cannot bring myself to name. And the countess and I have suffered a painful disappontment in her. If you dare to come back, I will have you thrown out bodily. I trust I make myself understood?”
“Assuming that the question is rhetorical,” Lord Thornhill said with a bow, “I will leave it unanswered. Good day to you.”
It had been a slim hope, he thought as he made his way from the house on foot. If he could have proved that the letter was not in his hand, perhaps he could have set up enough doubt in fashionable drawing rooms that her way back into society would be made a little easier. Though, of course, there was no denying the fact that he was the one who had kissed her openly at the Velgards’ costume ball and that she had been the one he had kissed.
No, it had been a slim chance. And he had not really expected that the letter would still exist. If he had been Rushford, he would have burned it. If he had been Kersey, he would have burned the house down too as an extra precaution.
He had paid the call for another reason. He had wanted them to know that Jennifer Winwood was to be his wife, that they would carry on any sort of a campaign against her at their peril. And he had wanted Kersey to know that he understood fully and that the game was not yet at an end.
Kersey had won the first round. There was no doubt about that. Far from suffering humiliation at the loss of his betrothed, he had deliberately arranged matters so that he could be free of her. He had wanted to be free of her. And he had done it in such a way that his adversary was stuck with her instead—though the earl winced away somewhat from the word he had used in his mind. She deserved better than that attitude. She was a total innocent, a victim of the plotting and cruelty of both Kersey and himself.
When he had told her earlier that he would devote his life to making sure that she would one day be glad of her decision, he had meant it. He would see to it that her reputation was restored and that for the rest of her days she would have whatever her heart desired. He would salve his conscience perhaps a little by doing that.
But the game with Kersey was not over. Somehow he would have his revenge. A more satisfactory revenge than a mere humiliation. Somehow he was going to find a way to kill Kersey.
In the meantime there was a special license to be obtained and all sorts of arrangements to be made.
Good Lord, he thought, stopping suddenly on the pavement, this time tomorrow he was going to be a married man.
But there was panic in the thought. He pushed it from him.
SAMANTHA TAPPED HESITANTLY ON Jennifer’s door after luncheon. Although Jennifer had not come down for that meal, Samantha had learned that she was no longer in disgrace or in solitary confinement. She had learned to her utter astonishment that Jenny was to marry the Earl of Thornhill tomorrow.
“May I come in?” she asked, peering around the door. “Or would you rather I went away?”
Jennifer was sitting curled up on a chair, a cushion hugged to her bosom. “Come in, Sam.” She smiled wanly.
Samantha came into the sitting room and glanced toward the half-open door into the dressing room. There was a great bustling going on in there. “Your things are still being packed?” she asked. Could she have possibly mistaken?
“To be removed to Grosvenor Square tomorrow,” Jennifer explained. “I am to be married, Sam. It is a great triumph, is it not? I must be the first of those presented at Court this spring to be married. And I will be a countess, no less.” She bent her head to rest her forehead against the top of the cushion.
“Oh, Jenny.” Samantha gazed at her in some distress. “It is better than the alternative, at least.”
“That is exactly what he pointed out,” Jennifer said with a little laugh. “Do you know why I eventually said yes, Sam? For an enormously important reason. Papa was going to have my hair cropped short before sending me away today. I said yes so that I would not have to have my hair cut.”
She buried her face against the cushion. Samantha could not tell whether she was laughing or crying. Not that it really mattered. The emotion was the same.
She could think of nothing to say to her cousin. Nothing that would console her. She seated herself on a sofa and gazed at Jennifer’s bowed head and thought back with horrified guilt to the unwilling elation she had felt last night—and still felt today. She did not really feel happy. Oh, no, she did not. It hurt dreadfully to watch Jenny suffering and to know the cruel circumstances that had brought about that suffering. Though Jenny had been so indiscreet … perhaps. Something worried her.
“Jenny,” she said and then bit her lip. It must be the last thing her cousin wanted to talk about. “When did you have those clandestine meetings with him? We have always been together or with Aunt Aggy.”
Jennifer’s head shot up. “What?” She was frowning.
“The letter—” Samantha, facing those hostile eyes, said no more.
“That letter was a cruel hoax,” Jennifer said. “He is deranged, Sam. He is obsessed with me. It was all lies. He did it to make sure that my betrothal would end and in such a way that I would be ruined and would have no alternative but to marry him instead. He is having his way. I will be marrying him tomorrow. But I have told him that I will hate him for the rest of my life. To such a man that probably does not even matter. I think my b-body must be all he wants.”
Samantha stared at her. “I cannot believe that he co
uld be capable of such dreadful cruelty,” she said.
“Well, believe it.” Jennifer buried her face again. “He denied having written the letter. Can you imagine that, Sam? If he did not, who did, I would like to know? Who else could possibly have wanted to ruin me and to end my engagement?”
“No one.” Samantha continued to stare at her bowed head. “No one, Jenny.” Except herself. Not that she had ever wished even one moment of suffering on Jenny, of course. Never that. But she had dreamed of the engagement’s somehow coming to an end. Lionel had said that if only he had met her, Samantha, before Jenny …
And Lionel had wished his betrothal at an end. He had felt trapped by it. He had wished he was free to pay court to Samantha. But Lionel did not wish any harm to Jenny either. Lionel was a man of honor. Samantha frowned.
Jennifer was looking at her and smiling rather bleakly. “I am not very good company today, am I?” she said. “Don’t you envy me, Sam? The Countess of Thornhill this time tomorrow?”
“Jenny.” Samantha leaned forward. “Perhaps it will not be so very bad. He is very handsome and he has wealth and property. At least you will be able to console yourself with the knowledge that he was willing to go to great lengths to win you. I believe he must love you deeply.”
“If you love someone,” Jennifer said, “you do not deliberately cause that person deep misery, Sam.”
“I did not say he was perfect.” Samantha smiled. “I am just trying to help you to see the bright side. I know that at this moment there must seem nothing bright in life to you at all. But think about it. Lionel—Lord Kersey—promised himself to you a long time ago, when he was a very young man. Did he make great efforts to see you in the years following? To press forward your marriage? Has he professed deep love for you this Season or tried to make an earlier wedding date than that arranged by his parents and Uncle Gerald?”
“What are you trying to say?” Jennifer was angry, Samantha saw.
“Only that perhaps in a way the Earl of Thornhill loves you more than Lord Kersey does,” Samantha said. “Only that perhaps life might not have turned into the idyll you expected if you had married the viscount and that perhaps it will not turn into quite the nightmare you expect now.”
The anger died from Jennifer’s eyes and she smiled. “Sam,” she said, hurling the cushion, but not with any great force. “You could sell a hat to a milliner. I swear you could. It really does not matter when all is said and done, does it? I’ll never know what life would have been like with Lord Kersey. And I dare not think of it now or I will become a watering pot. Aunt Agatha has instructed me to be in my very best looks for tomorrow. For my wedding day.”
She smiled again and then spread her hands over her face and broke into wrenching sobs.
“Oh, Jenny.” Samantha in her turn clutched the cushion to her bosom and found herself wondering treacherously how long Lionel would deem it proper to leave it before he called on her.
And then she hated herself for thinking of her own hopes when her dearest friend was in such misery.
Growing up was not nearly the pleasant, uncomplicated business she had expected it to be. Sometimes it was downright frightening.
13
IT WAS THE FIRST OF SEVERAL WEDDINGS TO UNITE members of the ton that were the primary purpose and inevitable result of the Season. It should therefore have been a singular triumph for the bride and her family, something to gloat over with well-bred condescension for the rest of the spring.
But this particular wedding, though it united a peer of the realm with the daughter of a viscount, was not a large, fashionable affair. It did not take place in St. George’s or any other fashionable place of worship. It took place in a small church, where the rector was willing to perform the service at such short notice. And it was not attended by a large number of fashionable guests—merely by the groom’s two friends, Sir Albert Boyle and Lord Francis Kneller, and by the bride’s father, aunt, and cousin.
Jennifer, walking down the cold aisle of an empty, echoing church with her father and coming to a halt beside her bridegroom, tried to hold her mind blank. She tried not to think of the wedding in one month’s time that she had been expecting.
She had not looked at her bridegroom, though she saw now in some surprise that he wore buckled shoes and white stockings. He was dressed as if for an evening social event. As was she. Aunt Agatha had insisted on white silk and lace, the finest of her evening gowns. Just as if it were a special occasion.
She supposed it was.
His hand, when it took her own, felt warm. And large and strong. She looked at it, at the long, well-manicured fingers. There was fine lace at his wrist and a blue satin sleeve. His hand squeezed her own slightly.
It was, she realized, a significant moment. A significant symbol. She had placed her hand in his and thereby surrendered all of herself to him for the rest of her life. To a man who had seduced his stepmother and then abandoned her and her child. To a man who was ruthless enough to do anything in order to win the object of his obsession. She was surrendering to him because she did not want to have her hair cut off.
He was speaking, repeating what the rector said to him. He was promising to worship her with his body and to endow her with all his worldly goods. She felt the hysterical urge to giggle and involuntarily gripped his hand more tightly in order to stop herself.
And she promised—she could hear herself as if it were another person—to love, honor, and obey him. To obey him. Yes, it was total surrender. Something he had forced her into. Something for which she would hate him for the rest of her life. Yet she was promising to love him. Solemnly promising before witnesses and before God.
She looked up into his face for the first time. He was the handsome stranger of Hyde Park, the gentleman whom she had come to like and believe despite herself. The first—and only—man to have kissed her. Dark hair, dark eyes—focused steadily on hers—finely chiseled features. Devil with an angel’s name. Her husband. That was what the rector was saying. He was her husband.
He bent his head and kissed her lips. Briefly and lightly as he had done twice before. As on both those occasions, she felt his kiss right down to her toes. His eyes smiled at her—a kindly, reassuring expression that hid the triumph he must be feeling. He had won. In no time at all. He had seen her and desired her and taken her away from Lionel and married her himself.
She wondered suddenly what he would do when he tired of her, as he surely would. He would put her away with as much callousness and as much ruthlessness as he had used to get her, she did not doubt. She felt an inward shiver.
Aunt Agatha was dabbing at her eyes with a confection of a lace handkerchief. Samantha was weeping openly. Her father was looking relieved. They all hugged her and shook the earl by the hand. His friends, smiling and overhearty, shook his hand more firmly and kissed Jennifer’s. Lord Francis called her the Countess of Thornhill.
She was. Yes, she was. His countess, his wife, his possession.
He handed her into his carriage—she had a general impression of dark blue velvet and luxury—and a footman closed the door. She had hoped that Sam or perhaps his friends would ride with them. But no, they were to come on to Papa’s for the wedding breakfast by other carriages.
She had been alone with him before. There was nothing so very strange about it. She must accustom herself to being alone with him. She was his possession.
At first he drew her arm through his and covered her hand with his own. They sat in silence until the horses had been set in motion. His arm and his hand were warm, but her own hand, sandwiched between the two, could draw no warmth or comfort to herself.
And then he released her arm in order to set his about her shoulders and draw her close to him. “You are like a block of ice,” he said. “The church was cold and your gown is thin. Though I do not suppose either of those two facts is the real cause.” He lifted her chin with his free hand, his palm warm beneath it, his fingers cupping her jaw. He set his mouth to hers ag
ain. “It is not going to be the nightmare you expect. I promise you it will not.”
The side of her head was brushing his shoulder. She let it rest fully against the warm satin there and closed her eyes. She must not try to fight her way free. She was his wife. Besides, she was so very weary. She had slept last night in mere fits and starts. She would be inclined to believe that she had not slept at all, except that she could remember bizarre dreams.
“Jennifer.” His voice was low against her ear. It was always so hard when she listened to his voice or when she was within the aura of his physical presence to believe that in reality he was the very devil. “We are man and wife, my dear. We must make the best of it. If either of us is to find any happiness in what remains of our lives, we must find it in each other. If we try very hard, perhaps we will not find the task altogether impossible.”
Almost, she thought, as if he had been forced into this marriage as much as she had. She felt a flash of anger, but she quelled it. Any strong emotion might precipitate her out of the welcome lethargy that had taken her through the morning. She did not want to wake to full reality yet.
“You look very beautiful today,” he said. “I am more proud than I can say that you are my wife.”
And then his mouth was on hers again, warm, not at all demanding. His lips were parted. She wondered idly if all men kissed like this—if it was the way to kiss. But she would never know. She felt warmth seep into her flesh and into her bones. She pushed her lips back against his, reaching for greater comfort.
She was half asleep by the time the carriage drew to a halt outside her father’s house. Half asleep and half dreaming. But when she opened her eyes and he drew back his head, it was Gabriel, Earl of Thornhill, at whom she gazed, not Lionel, Viscount Kersey.
With a sharp jabbing of pain, which seemed almost physical, she understood that she was married to this man. That there would never again be Lionel. Never again the dream, except perhaps during the kindest—or cruelest—sleep.