by Mary Balogh
She looked down at the card and then picked it up and closed her eyes as she brought her hand unconsciously to her lips.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“I put him in the salon downstairs, miss,” the butler said. “He said only if it was not too much trouble to you.”
Samantha got to her feet. She was smiling.
“It is no trouble at all,” she said, and she brushed past him in the doorway and went running lightly down the stairs. She did not wait for him to come after her to open the door to the salon. She opened it herself and rushed inside with quite undignified eagerness. Her smile had widened.
“You came,” she said, closing the door behind her and leaning back against it. “I wanted so badly last evening to ask when I would see you again, but it seemed presumptuous, and I had said and done so much else that was presumptuous before we said good night. I hope I did not give you a great disgust of me.”
His eyes glowed as he smiled at her and she felt her first real happiness of the day.
“I came,” he said.
10
HE HAD ALMOST TALKED HIMSELF OUT OF COMING. In the gloomy light of a rainy day the events of last evening had seemed unreal. But the only alternative to coming was to go home, back to Highmoor, and know that he would never see her again. It was an alternative he could not contemplate.
All the way here his stomach had been tied in knots. He had tried to think of excuses for giving his coachman instructions to take a different direction. It was rather late in the afternoon. She would doubtless be from home. She would have other visitors. He should have written asking permission to call. But he had come, and his coachman had knocked on the door, and he had handed his card to Lady Brill’s butler and asked if it might be taken to Miss Newman and if he might see her—but only if it was no trouble to her to see him.
The butler had looked with well-bred condescension on a babbling Mr. Hartley Wade.
He had paced the small salon with its heavy, rather old-fashioned furniture, wondering if it was too late to escape, hoping that she would send back some excuse not to see him.
And yet the moment the door burst open again and she hurried inside, closed the door and leaned back against it, and delivered her opening speech far faster and more breathlessly than she usually spoke, his nervousness and uncertainty fled. She was smiling. Her eyes were shining. And he listened to the words she spoke.
The miracle really had happened.
“I came,” he said.
She laughed. “But you have avoided admitting that I gave you a disgust of me,” she said. “I am so ashamed. If I had told Aunt Aggy how I behaved last night, she would have had a fit of the vapors. Do please forgive me.”
“I wish you would not apologize,” he said. “I was not disgusted.” She looked delightfully pretty in sprigged muslin, he thought. She looked like a girl. Though perhaps that was no great compliment. She had all the allure and fascination of a woman.
“You are kind.” Her smile softened. “As always. I am sorry my aunt is from home. But I will ring for tea here if you do not feel it would be too improper a tête-à-tête. We did not care about that at Highmoor, though, did we?”
“I’ll not stay long,” he said, quelling the temptation to be drawn into a mere social half hour, chatting about inconsequential matters. “Please don’t bother with tea.”
“Oh.” She looked disappointed.
“I came to ask you something,” he said. “I suppose I should lead up to it by gradual degrees, but I do not know how. I would rather just ask and hear your reply.”
“I am intrigued,” she said. She was still leaning back against the door, he noticed, her hands behind her, probably holding the door handle. “But I do hope the question is not that I will drive in the park with you tomorrow afternoon. If so, you will be the third to ask and I accepted the first. But I will be sorry if that is what you want. Perhaps—”
“I wondered,” he said, “if you would marry me.”
Her smile disappeared and she stared at him mutely, her eyes huge, her lips slightly parted.
It had been a disastrous way to ask. Baldly abrupt. Totally lacking in grace or courtliness. He wished he could withdraw the words and try again.
“I could try it on one knee,” he said, smiling, “but I am afraid you might have to help haul me back to my feet again.”
She did not smile. “What?” she said, her voice and her face bewildered.
He swallowed. It was too soon. He should have spent some time courting her first. Or perhaps he had been totally mistaken. But it was too late to retreat now.
“I would like to marry you,” he said. “If you wish to marry me, that is. I know I am not much—” No, he must not apologize for his lack of stature and looks, for his deformed hand and foot. He was as he was. And she had told him she loved him. He had believed her.
Her eyes had focused on him again. “Don’t belittle yourself,” she said quietly, having obviously completed his sentence for herself. “You are wonderful just the way you are. Far more wonderful than any other man of my acquaintance.”
They stared at each other, their eyes roaming each other’s face, no real awkwardness between them.
“I thought never to marry,” she said. “I have not given it serious consideration for a long time.”
“Someone hurt you,” he said gently. It hurt him to know that another man had hurt her—obviously very badly. “But life is not all pain. I would never hurt you. You would be quite safe with me.” They were not the romantic words he had dreamed of saying and had tried to rehearse, but they were the words needed by the moment.
“I know I would,” she said softly. “I always feel wonderfully safe and—and happy when I am with you. Do you with me? I—”
“Yes,” he said. “Always.”
She set her head back against the door and looked at him. “I would not have dreamed of feeling this tempted,” she said.
“But only tempted?” He felt as if he were holding his breath. “Would you like time to consider?”
“Yes,” she said. And then very quickly, she changed her mind. “No. I do not need time. Time only confuses the mind. I will marry you.”
Despite his hopes and his dreams and even his expectations, he was stunned. He stared at her, not sure that he had heard right. But she was coming toward him, and she reached out both her hands when she was close.
“Thank you,” she said, and there were tears shining in her eyes. “Oh, thank you.”
He took her hands in his, not even conscious for once of the deformity of his right. He laughed, his voice breathless with relief.
“I muddled it horribly,” he said. “I am so sorry. I have never done this before.”
“I hope,” she said, “since it has so embarrassed you, that you will not have to do it ever again. I will be a good wife to you, I promise. Oh, I do promise that. I shall make you—contented.”
He rather thought that she would make him delirious, as she was making him now. He looked at her, so exquisitely pretty and dainty and warmhearted, and could not for the moment believe that she was his. His love. His betrothed. She was going to be his wife, the mother of his children.
“You already have,” he said. “And I promise to see to it that you never regret the decision you have made today.”
Two tears spilled over and trickled down her cheeks. She bit her lip and laughed. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Is this really happening? I feared I would never see you again after last evening.”
For answer he leaned forward and kissed her swiftly on both cheeks, brushing away the salt tears with his lips. “Is there anyone I must ask?” he said. “Even just for courtesy’s sake? You do not still have a guardian, do you?”
“My uncle has control of my fortune until my next birthday,” she said. “Viscount Nordal, Jenny’s father. But it will be released to me immediately on my marriage. It is quite a respectable fortune. Perhaps you are marrying me for my money.” She laughed lightly a
nd breathlessly.
That was when he remembered. Oh, yes, he really had made a mess of things. He had done everything quite the wrong way around.
She laughed again. “It was a bad joke,” she said. “It was a joke. But very tasteless. I know you could never be mercenary. Forgive me.”
He squeezed her right hand with his left.
“I will call on your uncle,” he said. “And I will see about having the banns started. Next Sunday? Am I rushing you? I am almost ready to suggest a special license, but I want you to have a wedding. I want the whole world to see you as a bride. Just as soon as the banns can be read. Would you prefer to wait a while? Until summer, perhaps?”
“No.” She shook her head slowly. “No, let’s not wait. I want to be your wife—now, as soon as possible. I want to be with you. If you wish to reconsider the special license …”
But he shook his head, dizzying as the thought was of having her as his wife within the next couple of days. No, he would rather wait. He wanted to show her off to the whole ton. He wanted a wedding to remember. At St. George’s, in Hanover Square.
“No,” he said. “We must do this properly.”
“Yes, sir.” Her smile became almost impish. “I will practice wifely obedience, you see.”
He laughed. “You will not find me a hard taskmaster,” he said. “I must take my leave.” He let go of her hands regretfully. “Your aunt’s servants will be scandalized if I stay longer.”
“Yes, sir,” she said meekly. “When will I see you again? You must meet my aunt. Will you come tomorrow afternoon?”
“Yes.” He had crossed the room to the door. He looked back, his hand on the handle. No, he could not leave like this. It would be unpardonable. He had put it off long enough. Too long. And even that was an understatement.
“There is something I have not told you,” he said quietly.
“You are a convicted murderer,” she said. “You have had six wives and have murdered them all. Worse even than Henry the Eighth.” She smiled merrily. “What have you not told me?”
He licked dry lips. “When I gave you my name at Highmoor,” he said, “I thought you would recognize it and fill in what was missing. When you did not, I was tempted by the novelty of being just an itinerant landscape gardener. It seemed harmless at the time. I did not know that the day would come soon when I would want to ask you to marry me.”
She merely stared at him. He thought her face had paled.
“Hartley Wade is not my complete name,” he said. He swallowed. “I am Carew.”
Her face was drained of every vestige of color. “The Marquess of Carew?” she said in an unnaturally high-pitched voice after the silence had stretched.
He nodded.
She opened her mouth more than once to speak. “You lied to me,” she said at last.
“No,” he said quickly. “I merely withheld the full truth. Though merely is a damning word, I must admit. And I suppose I did lie. We talked about me a few times in the third person, did we not? I pretended that he was someone other than myself.”
“Why?” The word was whispered. She had closed her eyes very tightly, as if to shut off what was happening.
“You were there on the hill,” he said, “so unexpected and so—pretty and so flustered at being caught trespassing. I expected to see you become stiff and formal and even more embarrassed when I gave you my name. Instead, you did not make the connection. And I was tempted. You would not understand, perhaps, the barrier my title puts between me and new acquaintances. I wanted to talk with you. I wanted you to admire my home and my park. I did not want to see that barrier go up.”
“Oh,” she said. She had looked at him while he spoke, but now her eyes closed again. “The things I said in the ballroom at Highmoor. In your ballroom.” She spread her hands over her face.
He would have smiled at the memory, but he was too tense with fear.
“Does it make a difference?” he asked. “Will you wish to withdraw your acceptance of my offer? I am deeply sorry. Once one has deceived another, it is incredibly difficult to find the courage to undeceive her. But that is no excuse. Does it make a difference?”
He waited tensely for his world to end.
“I will not be just plain Mrs. Hartley Wade, then, will I?” she said.
“No.” He did not dare hope. “You would be the Marchioness of Carew.”
“Grand,” she said. “Very grand. And Highmoor will be my home.”
“Yes.” Will, she had said, not would.
She laughed unexpectedly against her hands. “Perhaps I am marrying you for your money,” she said. “Have you thought of that?”
“You did not know of it,” he said. “But I know you well enough to trust that my title and wealth would have done nothing to sway you. I will always cherish the memory of your accepting me when you thought me an impoverished landscape gardener. Will you now accept me, knowing that I am the almost indecently wealthy Marquess of Carew?”
She sighed and lowered her hands before looking at him rather wanly. “Yes,” she said. “How could I possibly resist the lure of Highmoor? Have you ever done any landscaping?”
He nodded. “Except in that one particular,” he said, “I have always spoken the truth to you.”
“Well,” she said. “You will come tomorrow, my lord?” She smiled rather uncertainly at him.
“I would be honored,” he said, “if you will call me Hartley. And if you will see me no differently than you ever have. Yes, I will come tomorrow.”
They exchanged a look that was not quite a smile, and he let himself out of the room. He took his cloak and hat from the butler, who must have been hovering in the hall all the time, and allowed the man to open the outer door for him.
A few moments later he was in his carriage on the way home, the rain beating against the windows. It was done, he thought, setting his head back against the squabs and closing his eyes. And she had accepted him—both as Mr. Wade and as the Marquess of Carew. She had accepted him.
She was going to be his wife.
I love you so very, very much.
They had not spoken of love this afternoon. He supposed he should have made that declaration a part of his marriage offer. He had been very gauche. But the words had not needed to be spoken. They were only words, after all. They loved each other. It had been there in every look and word they had exchanged. She had been willing to marry him just for himself. She had said yes, believing that he had nothing but himself to offer. Not that he had deliberately put her to the test. But he would always be able to remember that.
And soon—within a month—she would be his by both civil and church law. She would be his wife. He would be able to make love to her as well as loving her.
God. Ah, God. Happiness sometimes felt almost like agony.
“WHAT?” LORD FRANCIS KNELLER almost fell off the seat of his high-perch phaeton and jerked on the ribbons sufficiently to cause one of his horses to snort and jerk its head and threaten mutiny. He skillfully brought it under control.
“I am going to marry the Marquess of Carew,” she repeated. “Exactly four weeks from today. I do not believe I will be able to drive out with you like this again, Francis. But I do thank you for your friendship during the past five years.”
“Friendship?” He glanced at her incredulously before giving the road leading to the park his attention again. “Friendship, Samantha? Good God, woman, I love you.”
She gazed at him in shock.
“Francis,” she said, “what a dreadful bouncer.”
“Sorry,” he muttered. “No, it was no lie, but it ought not to have been said. But Carew, Samantha. Carew? He is a crip—Oh, dash it. I am sorry—again.”
“He is not,” she said. “He had an accident. He manages very well. And he never complains.”
“Where did you meet him?” he asked. She noticed that he had taken his phaeton past the gates into the park. “At Chalcote, I suppose. That bloody Gabe—sorry! I’ll draw his cork w
hen I see him next. And I suppose you were dazzled by his title and his fortune and Highmoor—dratted splendid place. I cannot think of any other reason why you would be marrying him. Good God, Samantha, you could do a thousand times better than him.”
“Please take me home,” she said quietly.
He drew a deep breath and blew it out through puffed cheeks. “Your trouble, Samantha,” he said, “is that you are blind in one eye and keep the other firmly closed. You do not realize, do you, that all of us, all your blood—your blessed court, are head over boots for you. And you do not care the snap of two fingers for any of us. But Carew! I—words fail me. Yes, home it is.” He turned a corner sharply enough to arouse shouts of protest and some profanities from other drivers. “You do not have to demand it again. Carew! Good Lord.”
“I care for him,” she said quietly.
“The man is the next thing to a recluse,” he said. “He has nothing to recommend him to someone like you.”
“And you do?” she asked him. “Francis, you never said—”
“Because I knew—or thought—you did not want to hear it,” he said. “I wanted to try to trick you into caring for me. I thought perhaps time would do it. The devil and his pitchfork! How long have you known him?”
“Since the day you left Chalcote,” she said. “I walked onto Highmoor property and he was there.”
He swore. And did not even apologize afterward.
“Francis.” She set a hand lightly on his arm, but he flinched and jerked away from her. “I am sorry. But I do care for him, you know. I care very much.”
“He must be worth at least fifty thousand a year,” he said. “At least! I suppose I would care very much, too, Samantha, if I was a woman.”
She said no more and they proceeded in silence—a distressed silence on her part, an angry, frustrated one on his.
“Francis,” she said as they drew nearer to Lady Brill’s, “I do not want to lose your friendship.”
“It never was friendship,” he said.