by Mary Balogh
And so he had kissed her. And she had kissed him back with warm and parted lips. She had kissed him with gentleness and tenderness. His mind had not found those words at the time, but his body and his heart had felt them.
She had missed him. She had said that, earlier, before the kiss.
He did not want to think beyond the kiss. It had happened, he knew. But it was too much. Too great a gift. Too far beyond belief and acceptance.
I do love you so very, very much.
No, no. She could not have meant it quite that way. What she had meant was that she felt an affection for him. He must not read too much into her words. Perhaps that was why he had laid a finger against her lips when she had been embarrassed at blurting out so stark a truth and had tried to explain. Perhaps he was afraid that it was not the truth.
I do love you so very, very much.
Friends—a man and a woman—did not talk thus to each other. Only lovers. Even Dorothea had not said that to him until close to the end.
No, he would not believe it too deeply. She was unbelievably beautiful and—perfect. He had seen her with three different men since his arrival in London, all handsome and young and fashionable. How could she have meant what she had said to him tonight? The idea was absurd.
“She loves me.” He whispered the words into the candlelit darkness and felt foolish, even though there was no one to hear except him.
“She loves me,” he said aloud and more firmly. He felt even more foolish. “Very, very much.”
Was he going to set out on his return to Yorkshire tomorrow? Or was he going to try to see her again? How? By haunting fashionable areas during the daytime in the hope of catching a glimpse of her? By attending some other evening function in the hope of having a few words with her?
By calling on her? She was living at Lady Brill’s. He knew that.
Dared he call on her? Would it not be an occasion of amusement to Lady Brill and others—and even perhaps to Samantha—if he went calling on her? But why should he not? He was the Marquess of Carew; for the first time he realized that he had not after all told her of that fact this evening. And she had been glad to see him tonight. More than glad.
I love you so very, very much.
He closed his eyes tightly again. He had to believe it. It had not been just the words themselves. Everything in that whole incredible encounter had led up to those words and confirmed them as true.
The miracle had happened.
She loved him.
THEY HAD NOT LET it be known that they would be at home to visitors. Their plan was to spend the afternoon visiting. Their intention was to take Lady Sophia with them—her first outing since her accident. Samantha was supposed to drive in the park later with Lord Francis, but it was raining. He had sent a note to ask if she wished to join the world of the ducks, in which case he would don his oilskins and accompany her, or if she would prefer to honor him with her company on the morrow, weather permitting. She wrote back that she had checked but had discovered that she did not have webbed feet and that, yes, she would be delighted to drive out with him tomorrow.
And then a note had arrived from Lady Sophia, who considered that wet weather was not good for a recently broken limb, and would Agatha and Miss Newman humor her with a visit later in the afternoon? She was going to have a rest after luncheon, another adverse effect of the wet weather, it seemed.
And so they had an unexpectedly free half an afternoon and settled in Lady Brill’s sitting room with their embroidery to have a cozy chat about last night’s ball. Samantha allowed her aunt to do most of the talking. She preferred not to think about last night’s ball. She could hardly believe that she had behaved with such dreadful forwardness toward Mr. Wade, who was, when all was said and done, practically a stranger. And she felt depressed about the fact that it was likely to be their only meeting in town. They would hardly move in the same circles there. And she did not want to think about Lionel and the strange, repellent attraction she had felt for him.
She had dreamed about him during the night. A horrible, shocking dream. He had been on the bed with her, looming over her, his body braced on his two arms on either side of her head. He had been looking at her with burning eyes and moistened lips. He had been telling her, his voice soft and persuasive, that of course she wanted him and it was silly to fight the feeling.
You are a woman now. I cannot take my eyes off you.
There had been that feeling in her womb again, and she had known that she was about to give in, to admit defeat. She did want him. There—close to her womb. But then she had felt nauseated with a revulsion at least equal to the desire and had pushed at his chest, desperate for air.
His right arm had collapsed and he had tumbled down on top of her. And had turned into Mr. Wade.
You need not be embarrassed, he had said, his voice gentle.
She had sobbed with relief and wrapped her arms tightly about him and relaxed and gone back to sleep.
She had woken with a pillow hugged tightly to her.
It was not a dream she enjoyed remembering.
Fortunately Aunt Aggy appeared not to have heard that Lionel was at the ball. She sighed after they had been sitting for almost an hour. “I suppose that soon we had better get ready to go,” she said. “There is something about a rainy day that makes one wish to stay indoors, is there not, dear? But poor, dear Sophie will be lonely if I do not go to see her.”
But there was a tap on the door at that moment, and Aunt Agatha’s butler came in with a card on a silver tray.
“Did you not say we were not receiving this afternoon?” she asked him.
“I did, ma’am,” he said. “But the gentleman wished me to ask if you would make an exception in his case.”
Aunt Agatha picked up the card and glanced at it. Her eyebrows shot up and then drew together.
“You will never believe this, Samantha,” she said. “The gall of the man. I had no idea he was back in England. And he is calling on us?”
Lionel. Samantha’s stomach performed a somersault.
“The Earl of Rushford,” Lady Brill said scornfully. “You may tell him we are not at home.” She looked fiercely at her butler. “You may tell him we do not plan to be at home for the rest of the Season.”
“He danced with me last evening,” Samantha said quietly.
Her aunt turned her fierce gaze on her, and the butler paused in the doorway.
“He took me by surprise,” Samantha said. “And he was very civil. It would have seemed ill-mannered …” She folded her embroidery without conscious thought and set it beside her on the chair. “I danced with him.”
“Gracious,” her aunt said. “After the scandal of six years ago, Samantha? After he disgraced dear Jennifer with such deliberate malice? Her own father caned her as a result!”
Samantha bit her lip. She hated the memory of listening outside Uncle Gerald’s study door with Aunt Aggy and hearing his command to Jenny to bend over his desk and then the first two whistling strokes of his cane.
“Very well,” her aunt said after a pause, “we will be civil to him, Samantha. Show him up.” She looked at her butler again. “After all, it was six years ago. A man can sometimes learn wisdom in six years.”
It was hard to believe that she had not fought against his admission, especially when Aunt Aggy herself had been reluctant to admit him. But she knew why. Of course she knew. Why keep denying it to herself? Why keep pretending?
She had never forgotten him. She had never stopped being fascinated by him. She had known last night that there was still something that drew her to him. She had known then that her life seemed destined for ugliness, not beauty, for pain, not happiness.
The only question that remained was whether she was going to continue to fight. What was the alternative to fighting? Oh, dear God, what was it?
And then he was in the room, filling it with his good looks and his charm and his charisma. He was bowing over Aunt Aggy’s hand and assuring her that she
was in remarkable good looks and that he would cherish the honor she had done him by admitting him on an afternoon when she was not officially receiving.
He was dressed in a coat of dark green superfine, Weston’s finest, with buff pantaloons and sparkling Hessians. His linen was crisply white. He was even more breathtakingly handsome now than he had been six years ago, if that were possible.
And then he was turning to Samantha and bowing elegantly and gazing at her with burning eyes—oh, dear God, she had seen his eyes like that in her dream—and thanking her for the honor she had paid him in dancing a set with him last evening.
“I came, Miss Newman, ma’am,” he said, including them both in his bow, “to make a more private and certainly more sincere apology for my part in the events of six years ago that caused such distress to your family.”
“Well.” Samantha noticed that her aunt melted without further ado. “Well, that is most civil of you, my lord, I am sure. I was just remarking to Samantha that a man can sometimes learn wisdom in six years.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “I believe I have.”
Lady Brill ordered tea and they sat for twenty minutes, engaged in an amiable conversation, during which he told them about his travels and asked after the health and happiness of Lady Thornhill.
“I have always wished her happy,” he said. “I was young and fearful, as most young men are, of matrimony. But I never wished her harm and have been deeply ashamed of the distress I caused her.” He looked at Samantha, his eyes warmly contrite.
He had never wished her harm? And yet he had maliciously caused that letter to be written and to be read aloud, a letter suggesting that Jenny and Lord Thornhill were lovers and intended to continue as lovers. If Gabriel had not married her, Jenny would have lived out her life in deep disgrace. Oh, yes, it would be a sin to try to forget—Uncle Gerald had caned her after that letter was read to the ton. And Lionel had never wished her harm? He had not even had the excuse of youth. He had been five-and-twenty at the time.
And he had pretended a passion for her, Samantha, in the hope that she would tell Jenny and Jenny would end their betrothal. And then, when the betrothal was ended anyway, he had laughed at her and told her that she must have misunderstood what was only gallantry.
Had he changed so much in six years? Was it possible? Or was he still the snake he had been then? But even more suave.
How could she even fear that she still loved him? But if it was not love, what was it that bound her to him despite the horror she felt at being so bound?
“You are very quiet, Miss Newman,” he said at last, bringing her attention back to the conversation. “Do you find me impossible to forgive? I could hardly blame you if you do.”
Good manners dictated that she give him the answer he wanted. But she felt again the fury that had rescued her the evening before. He was playing with them, manipulating them. For what reason, she did not know. Perhaps for simple amusement.
Or perhaps he was sincere.
“Perhaps not impossible, my lord,” she said carefully.
He got to his feet. “It is time I took my leave,” he said, bowing to them again. He looked at Samantha. “I shall study to win your forgiveness before the Season is out, Miss Newman.”
It had been Samantha the evening before, when Aunt Aggy had not been within hearing distance, she remembered. She nodded her head curtly.
“Would you do me the honor of walking to the door with me?” he asked.
Samantha’s eyes flew to her aunt. But Lady Brill merely raised her eyebrows and shrugged almost imperceptibly. Samantha was no girl, and he had not asked for a private visit with her, after all.
She preceded him from the room but took his offered arm to walk downstairs. Although it was higher above her own, it was not so very different from Mr. Wade’s arm, she thought. It did not feel any stronger or any more firmly muscled despite the overall splendor of his physique.
“I know how difficult you find it to forgive me,” he said quietly. “You have more to forgive me for than Lady Brill, and more than she knows of. But I will win your trust.”
Perhaps he was sincere. How did one know if a man was sincere? She had not known this man for six years. It was a long time.
“I loved you even then,” he said. “But it was hopeless. You too would have been ruined in the scandal, and I would have died sooner than ruin you. I still would. I never forgot you. I came home because I could no longer live without … Well, I do not want to sound like a bad melodrama.”
But he did. How did one know if a man was sincere? Perhaps the way he remembered—or distorted—the past was a key. He had not loved her. And the scandal had not yet touched him when he had spurned her. If he would have died rather than ruin her, would he not have died rather than viciously humiliate and hurt her?
She did not know what his game was. But game it was.
“I came home, you know,” he said, “because it is time I took a countess. And I wanted an English countess. An English rose—one more beautiful than any other.” He took her hand from his arm and raised it to his lips without removing his eyes from hers. “Will you drive with me in the park tomorrow afternoon?”
“I have a prior appointment,” she said.
“Tell me the man’s name,” he said, “so that I may slap a glove in his face.” His eyes were burning into hers again.
He was still a snake. This was too polished a performance to be real. And not a pleasant performance.
“He is a man I like and admire,” she said. “I would drive with him any day he asked, my lord. He is also a man I trust.”
He sighed and released her hand. “And you do not trust me,” he said. “I cannot blame you. But that will change. My honor on it.”
She almost laughed and asked him the obvious question—What honor? But she could feel no amusement, and she did not want to prolong their conversation.
He made her an elegant bow and took his leave.
Aunt Aggy was still in her sitting room.
“Well,” she said when Samantha returned there. “I have never seen such a transformation in my life. He has become a thoroughly amiable young man.”
“Are you sure, Aunt?” Samantha asked her. “It was not all artifice? He was not laughing at us?”
“But to what purpose?” Her aunt’s eyebrows shot up again. “It must have been extremely difficult, Samantha, for him to come here and say what he did. I honor his courage.”
“He wanted me to drive with him tomorrow,” Samantha said. “I was very glad that I am to drive with Francis.”
“I believe,” Lady Brill said, smiling archly, “he is smitten with you, Samantha. And it would hardly be surprising. You are as lovely now as when you made your come-out. Lovelier. You have a self-assurance now that is quite becoming.”
Samantha did not feel self-assured. Not any longer. Not now that he had come back.
“He was very complimentary,” she said. “But I could not think him sincere, Aunt.”
Lady Brill clucked her tongue. “I begin to despair of ever persuading you to step up to the altar with a presentable gentleman,” she said. “But we must not stand here arguing. Poor Sophie will be despairing of our coming.”
“Will you mind a great deal if I stay at home?” Samantha asked. She smiled. “The two of you can have a more comfortable coze if I am not there, anyway.”
“What utter nonsense,” her aunt said, but she made no attempt to persuade Samantha to accompany her after all.
It was a relief to be alone again, Samantha thought, retiring to her own room and sitting down at her escritoire to write a letter to Jenny. But no matter how many times she dipped her quill pen in the inkwell, she could not make a start on the letter beyond writing “My dear Jenny.”
What would Jenny and Gabriel say if they were in town this year and knew what had happened in the last two days? She could almost imagine their horror. Imagining it helped. It helped her see that renewing an acquaintance with Lionel
just would not do. They would not be fooled, as Aunt Aggy had been fooled, into thinking that he truly regretted the past. If he did regret it, surely he would pay her the courtesy of remaining out of her life.
She was four-and-twenty years old, she reminded herself. She prided herself on her maturity and her worldly wisdom. After six years of being “out,” she believed she knew a great deal about human nature in general and about gentlemen in particular. For several years she had felt very much in charge of her own life and emotions.
Was she to revert now to the naiveté of her eighteen-year-old self? She had been able to excuse her own gullibility then because she had known no better. She had been in search of love and marriage and had known nothing about either. Would she ever be able to excuse herself for making the same mistake now?
What if he was sincere? But even if he was, it would be unpardonable to have anything to do with him. What would Jenny and Gabriel think?
She found herself drawing geometric patterns with her pen below the “My dear Jenny” on the page.
He was going to remain in London for the Season. Of that she had little doubt. And he was going to pursue her for that time. For what reason she did not know. Perhaps—there was a slim chance—he was sincere. Or perhaps it merely amused him to discover whether he could do to her again what he had done six years ago.
She was not sure she would be able to endure it.
Part of her was still foolishly fascinated by him, as she had admitted to herself before his visit. Part of her had never been able to let him go and get on with her life. She had thought she had done so. But if she had, why had she never been able to love any other man? Why had she never been able to marry?
He had a hold on her emotions that she neither welcomed nor understood. She could only admit it.
She set her pen down when there was a tap on her door.
“Come in,” she called.
It was the butler again, bearing another card on his tray. Surely he had not come back, she thought. Surely he had not waited until Aunt Aggy left and then returned. She would not put such subterfuge past him. But she certainly would not receive him. The very idea!