Dark Angel / Lord Carew's Bride

by Mary Balogh

  “ ‘Gabriel, I was so very foolish. I owed your father loyalty, for he was never harsh with me. I was seduced by youth and beauty and a charm that proved selfish and heartless. But no matter, I have Eliza and so I would not change the past. She is so very fair and so wonderfully blue-eyed. It is, perhaps, a pity that she so resembles her father, but I can console myself with the certain knowledge that she will be a great beauty.

  “ ‘I ramble. Has Society accepted you back, Gabriel? I should have insisted, perhaps, that you allow me to announce the truth so that your name would be cleared. I hope at least that HE is not in town this Season. Do not seek revenge if he is. He has given me Eliza and so I was the winner of that encounter. Seek love for yourself, my dear. I cannot think of anyone who more deserves it—though I do not believe the woman exists who deserves you.

  “ ‘I grow sentimental. And I run out of paper! Write to me. I miss your good sense and your cheerfulness. I remain your affectionate Catherine.’ ”

  Jennifer folded the letter carefully back into its original folds and slid it across the table to her husband. She did not look at him.

  “Well?” he said. It seemed almost as if there was anxiety in his voice. Perhaps there was.

  She looked up at him. “I told you last night that I believed you,” she said.

  “But you had doubts.” His thumb played with the corner of the letter. “Do you have any now?”

  She shook her head. “Is he in town?” she asked. “The child’s father?”

  His hand stilled. She wondered if she imagined that his whole body tensed. He shook his head, but she was not sure if it was a denial or a refusal to discuss the matter. He said nothing.

  “I am glad,” she said, “that she is happy, that good has come out of evil.” His stepmother must have thought that the world had come to an end when she found herself with child by a lover and when that lover cruelly abandoned her though she loved him. She must have wanted to die. At Chalcote. Two years ago. But good had come of it. There was the blond and blue-eyed Elizabeth and the new home and country. And the new beau. Perhaps good would come out of the ending of her world too, she thought.

  “Yes,” he said. “How would we live with ourselves if we could not feel the assurances that that does happen?”

  She wanted to comfort him, Jennifer realized suddenly. She wanted to reach out to touch his hand and to assure him that though he had done a terrible thing, all would be well after all. Until she remembered everything she had lost. Lionel—oh, dear God, Lionel. Her reputation. She remembered that humiliating and painful caning her father had given her just three evenings ago. No, he did not deserve to be forgiven so easily or so soon.

  “Will you come with me to the library to write our letters after all?” he asked. “I would like you to introduce yourself to Catherine, and I would like to boast about you and tell her what a fortunate fellow I am.”

  “Yes.” She got to her feet. Catherine had a blond, blue-eyed child. Her own children might have been blond and blue-eyed. But now they would probably have dark hair and dark eyes. She wanted children, she realized, even if they could not be Lionel’s. Even if they must be Gabriel’s. She hoped she would bear him a son first. She wanted a son.

  Something nagged at the edges of her consciousness again as he tucked her arm through his and led her in the direction of the library. She had the same feeling as she had had last night that there was something there just waiting to leap into her conscious mind. But maddeningly it evaded capture.

  SAMANTHA HAD HAD a night of broken sleep. Her heart went out to her cousin and the wedding night she was now spending with the man they had called the devil from the first. She wondered with a shudder if he would mistreat Jenny. Surely a man who was capable of such ruthless cruelty as the sending of that letter to Jenny’s betrothal ball was incapable of tenderness.

  Poor Jenny. Samantha felt terrible guilt for listening with such eager hope to Lionel’s protestations of regard and for the elation she had felt at first when she had realized that the betrothal was at an end—an elation that had got all nightmarishly mingled up with horror. Poor Jenny had suffered dreadfully—and innocently, it seemed. First the exposure at the ball, then the beating from Uncle Gerald. He had been persuaded not to send out for a whip, but she and Aunt Aggy had listened at the library door after they had been dismissed. Before fleeing in a panic, Samantha had heard both his command that Jenny bend over the desk and grip its far edge and the first swish of his cane.

  And now—and now perhaps at this very moment that man, Lord Thornhill, was subjecting poor Jenny to unknown indignities. Samantha was not really sure what happened in a marriage bed, but whatever it was would be dreadful indeed with a man one had been forced into marrying.

  But not all of Samantha’s sleepless thoughts were of her cousin. Some were of the evening just past and the dreadful pain she had felt at seeing Lionel with Horatia Chisley. It was worse—far worse—than seeing him with Jenny had been. At least that had been an attachment that had preceded his acquaintance with her and one that he was trapped in. And at least Jenny was someone she loved dearly. Seeing him with Miss Chisley felt like a dreadful betrayal.

  Except that he could not possibly show his true feelings just yet. It would be in dreadfully bad taste. He could not sever his relationship with Jenny one day and escort her cousin to the theater two days later. Not under the circumstances of that severance, anyway. He would have to wait a while. Perhaps a few weeks. Or a month. Or—heaven forbid—he might feel honor-bound to stay away from her for the rest of the Season and start afresh next year.

  He would tell her. He would seek her out and make some arrangement with her. She must be patient. She must agree with what he had decided. He was so much older than she—seven years. Sometimes she felt her youth as a dreadful handicap. Sometimes she felt that she knew nothing. She would leave it to Lionel to be wise.

  He would let her know. He would arrange a meeting with her somehow at Lady Truscott’s ball tomorrow night.

  The thought was soothing. And perhaps if the Earl of Thornhill had wanted Jenny so very badly, he would treat her kindly after all. Perhaps all would be well with Jenny. And she would not have been happy for long with Lionel. Sooner or later she would have discovered that he had felt trapped into marrying her by a promise he had made when he was too young to know quite what he was doing. He had been two years older than Samantha was now.

  Tomorrow she would talk with him. He would arrange it.

  She slept, comforted by the thought.

  16

  THE EARL OF THORNHILL AND HIS NEW COUNTESS had appeared at the theater the night before and had driven in the park this afternoon, both times accompanied by the eminently respectable Lady Brill and by Miss Samantha Newman, cousin of the countess and one of the more lovely of the new faces of the Season.

  On both occasions the newly married couple sat as close as propriety would allow, her hand on his arm, his hand covering hers. And on both occasions they smiled and looked happy. Almost radiantly so, the more kindly disposed were inclined to say. One sour dowager christened them the hussy and the rogue, and her names for them were whispered about and nodded over and chuckled at.

  And yet there was something almost romantic about the description. And something almost romantic—though shockingly improper—about the reckless manner in which the earl had wooed and won his bride. Had they fled the capital in shame and humiliation, as they really ought to have done out of deference to decency, they would doubtless have been universally condemned, and the word romance would not have occurred to even the most fanciful of minds.

  But they had not fled. And they were undoubtedly a young and an extraordinarily handsome pair. And titled and fashionable and wealthy. And apparently happy with what they had so shamelessly accomplished.

  Yes, the ton whispered with collective reluctance, there was certainly something romantic about the new marriage. They had undoubtedly been extremely naughty and should by rights be ex
pelled from decent society for life. But even the ton, jaded as it was as an entity, recognized that young love did sometimes triumph. And the ton felt a collective envy to go along with the reluctance.

  The ton was prepared—with great caution and many reservations—to begin to take the Earl and Countess of Thornhill back to its collective bosom.

  Though there was, of course, the fact that the earl had been in deep disgrace even before this scandal.

  And there was the fact that Viscount Kersey was nursing a broken heart and was being very brave about it. One might have expected that the poor gentleman would disappear to the country or even overseas to avoid the embarrassment of such public rejection. But he stayed and conducted himself with quiet dignity in company with other gentlemen and with a sweet smiling sadness in that of ladies.

  The ladies might have been disdainful of any ordinary gentleman who had been abandoned by his betrothed. But Lord Kersey, with his blond and shining hair and his bluest of blue eyes and his very manly figure, could never be an object of scorn. Especially not with that new air of tragic dignity. He could only be an object of maternal pity to older ladies and one of longing to young ladies and even to many not so young.

  The ton was constantly a prey to boredom during the Season. Despite the dizzying round of social pleasures, really there was much of a sameness about most of them, and one saw much the same faces wherever one went. Anything even a little out of the ordinary was pounced upon with well-bred glee, especially if there was also something a little scandalous about it. What about this strange and fascinating triangle of three such handsome and—yes—romantic figures? They had all stayed in London. Would Lord Kersey demand satisfaction of Thornhill? Would the countess regret her decision? Would … ? Oh, the possibilities were endless. And the chance to watch their development was quite irresistible.

  Lady Truscott, whose annual ball was never one of the main squeezes of the Season, was suddenly in the enviable position of seeing her home and her ballroom become the arena for the first formal appearance since their marriage of the Earl and Countess of Thornhill and for the first real encounter of the three protagonists since the scandal broke three evenings before.

  Lady Truscott had the unutterably pleasurable gratification of seeing her ballroom so crammed with guests before the dancing even began that it was positively bursting at the seams, as one portly gentleman was heard to remark. Everyone should be paired with someone else, another wag declared in a voice of fashionable boredom, so that they could arrange to take turns breathing.

  Lady Truscott’s cup of joy ran over.

  “SMILE,” HER HUSBAND HAD commanded her as soon as he handed her out of the carriage. It was a reminder he did not need to give. She had smiled at the theater last night until she had thought her face would crack, and she had smiled in the park this afternoon so steadily that she feared some might think she must be an imbecile. She would smile tonight even though she must expect no partners except Gabriel. Unless they were turned away from the house, of course. She did not believe she would be able to hold her smile if that happened.

  She had a horrible memory as she entered the ballroom on her husband’s arm of the last time she had been in a ballroom—just three evenings before. It felt like a lifetime ago. In that ballroom she had been betrothed to Lionel. Now she was married to Gabriel. The unreality of it made her feel slightly dizzy.

  She was fully aware, as she had been at the theater last night, of the near hush and then the renewed rush of sound when they entered the ballroom. She was less aware of the unusually crowded nature of the ballroom. She smiled warmly up at her husband and looked determinedly about her.

  There were hundreds of eyes she might have met. And perhaps she did meet some of them fleetingly, though most of Lady Truscott’s guests were too well bred to be caught gawking at her. But the pair of eyes she did consciously meet, across the full width of the ballroom, were those of Viscount Kersey.

  Her heart performed a painful somersault and for many frozen and agonized moments she could not look away. Lionel! As handsome and as elegant as ever. Her Lionel. Her love. The dream that had sustained her through five long and dreary and rather lonely years.

  And then she wrenched her eyes away and looked down at the hand she had rested on her husband’s arm. She was quite unaware, in her distress, of the intense satisfaction the ton was drawing from the scene, though none gazed openly.

  The earl took her hand in his free one and raised it to his lips. He was, as she expected, smiling at her with an admirable imitation of adoration in his eyes. She felt a strong wave of hatred again and fought not to let it show.

  Someone was bowing before her. Someone was willing to acknowledge her. She looked up in surprise and saw those blue eyes at far closer range. He reached for her hand, and she took it from her husband’s and set it in his, without realizing quite what she did. He lifted it and placed his lips against the exact spot where her husband’s had just been.

  He had never before looked at her like this, one part of her mind told her. With such softness and warmth and tenderness. Never. Oh, he never had, though she had yearned for it and told herself that it would happen as soon as their betrothal had been announced or as soon as they were married.

  “Ma’am,” he said, his voice soft, though she knew that several people around them, apparently involved in other activities and conversations, would hear what he said, “I would like to offer my sincere good wishes on your marriage. You must know that your happiness has always been my chief and my only goal. I hoped that you could find it with me, but I am glad that you have found it even at the expense of my own. You must not feel guilt.” His smile was warm and sad. “Only happiness. It is what I wish you for the rest of your life.”

  He released her hand, bowed deeply to her, turned away rather jerkily, and hurried from the ballroom.

  “The devil!” her husband muttered close to her ear. And then his hand was firm at the back of her waist, propelling her forward. “At last. The first set is to be a waltz, I hear. Come, we will dance it.”

  She wanted nothing more than to flee into the ladies’ withdrawing room and hide in its farthest corner. She stepped forward onto the dancing floor, surprised that her legs would obey the command of her brain.

  “Put your hand on my shoulder.” His voice was almost harsh as his arm came about her waist and he took her other hand in his. “Now look into my eyes.”

  She obeyed him woodenly. She rather thought she might entertain the ton by fainting in front of them. It was unthinkable.

  “Now,” he said, “tell me you love me. And when you have done that, smile again.”

  “I love you,” she said.

  “Once more.” He looked down at her lips. “And with a little more conviction. And then the smile. Your pallor will be understandable under the circumstances, but it might be misconstrued if it continues.”

  “I love you,” she said and smiled at him.

  “Good girl. Keep looking into my eyes for a while,” he said.

  It was ludicrous. Telling him that she loved him, smiling into his eyes, while both of them knew that she was almost fainting from love of another man. Lionel had been so kind and so very—noble about it. She would have expected him to cut her completely for the rest of her life. He had wished her happy. Even at the expense of his own happiness, he wished for hers. Did he not realize that her heart was aching for him?

  Except that treacherously, gazing into her husband’s face, she felt that physical pull toward him that she always seemed to feel. And looking at his lips, she thought about his way of kissing and the strange effect the touch of his mouth against her own had on her whole body. She always felt it as much in her toes as on her lips. Her smile broadened with amusement despite herself. And despite herself she found herself thinking about last night, their wedding night, and becoming a little breathless at the knowledge that it was to be repeated tonight. Every night, he had said. At least once and sometimes more if he desir
ed it and she permitted it.

  And then her thoughts shifted suddenly and unwillingly to three evenings before and the reading of that letter. Lionel had been with his father. He had been absent from the ballroom with his father, no doubt planning with him what they were to do about the intercepted letter. He had walked at his father’s side back into the ballroom and up onto the dais, where he had stood quietly while his father read.

  He desired only her happiness, he had just said. How could he have done that, then? How could he have exposed her to such cruel treatment? Even if she had been guilty, it would have been ghastly and unusual punishment. They might as well have stripped her and confined her to a pillory and whipped her. She had felt that helpless, that exposed, that hurt. Of course, the whipping—or the caning—had come later in more privacy.

  Even assuming that that letter had shocked and hurt Lionel, how could he have acquiesced in what his father had done? How could any gentleman have done such a thing? Especially a gentleman who had just professed to desire her happiness.

  He had just made a gesture so noble that she had almost fainted. But was it really so noble? He had not apologized for his cruelty and lack of gallantry. He had merely—he had made himself look like a gallant martyr to everyone who had watched and listened. She had no doubt that a vast number had watched and that a significant number had listened. His words were probably known to every guest in the ballroom by now.

  No, she was doing him an injustice. It was Lionel she was thinking of. Lionel. Her love.

  “It was kind of him,” she said hesitantly. “It was nobly done.”

  “It was pure theater,” her husband said softly. “He won the hearts and the sympathy and the deep respect of all of fashionable society, Jennifer. He put you entirely in the wrong.”