Earl's Invention

by Diana Campbell

  “And now?” Bonnie snapped. “You also indicated that my refusal has rendered you the happiest man in England. Do you no longer care about my safety?”

  “Your safety was ensured by Aunt Cornelia's arrival. You would not return to Barbados when your mother is here. So I fancy everything has worked out for the best.”

  Worked out, Bonnie thought. She wondered if Francis would ever Find the courage to defy his mother. Probably not. Sooner or later. Lady Hellier would select another suitable bride, and he would be driven into a loveless marriage. But that was not Bonnie’s concern, and she was eager to be gone before her ladyship came back from Oxford Street.

  “I fancy so,” she muttered aloud. ‘‘I trust you will inform Aunt Judith of the situation at the earliest opportunity?” He nodded. "Then I shall bid you good day.”

  The vestibule was empty, and Bonnie sped through it, let herself out the front door, and hurried along the footpath. She had just crossed Oxford when she spied Lady Hellier walking toward her from the direction of Grosvenor Square. Fortunately, her ladyship was on the opposite side of the street, and Bonnie stopped, averted her face, and watched from the comer of her eye until she had safely passed. Where had she been? Bonnie idly wondered, resuming her forward journey. There were no shops in the immediate vicinity, and Lady Hellier had not had time to walk all the way to Piccadilly and back.

  But it didn't signify, Bonnie reflected, heaving a great sigh of relief. Her ordeal was over, and she need not tease herself about "Aunt Judith” again.

  13

  The vestibule clock was striking ten as Bonnie twisted the knob of the front door, and she paused a moment, marveling that so much could have happened in such a brief expanse of time. For once, she reflected. Fate had behaved in a wholly beneficent manner: Cornelia had appeared at precisely the right instant, and within a few hours of her arrival, all Bonnie’s problems had been resolved. As a consequence of her great good luck, she found herself anticipating Lady Hellier’s assembly with a remarkable degree of enthusiasm. She would wear her favorite gown, she decided—the gold crepe with the embroidered apron—and perhaps she would look so very handsome that David would be inspired to confess his feelings at once. With this delightful prospect in mind, she pushed the door open and stepped into the entry hall.

  “Bonnie!” Cornelia flew out of the dining room and seized her elbow in a viselike grip. “I must warn you,” she hissed. “A dreadful thing occurred in your absence—”

  “Bonnie?”

  David’s voice issued from the other direction, the direction of the library, and as Bonnie turned toward it, Cornelia emitted a little whimper and released her elbow. The earl was

  standing in the library doorway, one broad shoulder casually propped against the jamb.

  “It is you," he said pleasantly. “How unfortunate that you did not return five or ten minutes since. Had you dont so, you would have had an opportunity to chat with your future mother-in-law.”

  “My . . . my . . ” Bonnie tried to moisten her lips, but her mouth had gone altogether dry. This had been Lady Hellier’s mysterious errand, she realized distantly—a call in Grosvenor Street. And the reason for her visit was horribly clear.

  “Yes, Judith came to discuss our happy announcement.” David might have been reading her thoughts. “She reminded me of our decision last evening that I should be the one to proclaim the news. I initially collected she was referring to the news of our long-lost colonial relative, I had somehow conceived the impression that that was the subject of the announcement. Imagine my surprise when I learned we were to announce your engagement to Francis.”

  “I trust you will excuse me?” Cornelia murmured. She began to creep toward the staircase.

  “No, there is no need for you to leave.” David’s tone remained infinitely, terrifyingly pleasant. “I’ve nothing to say to Bonnie that you cannot hear. I am merely a trifle curious to know when Francis offered for her hand.”

  He raised his brows, and Bonnie licked her lips again.

  “I am sorry, David.” Her voice was the merest croak. “I own that I—”

  “I do not believe it could have been last night.” He essayed an elaborate frown. “Inasmuch as Judith mentioned the announcement just a few minutes after we joined them.”

  “David, please listen to me. There is to be no—”

  “Nor was it yesterday afternoon. I chanced to inquire of Kimball whether Francis had called, and Kimball said he had not.”

  “He did not, but I can explain—”

  “So it must have been prior to yesterday. Wednesday evening, I should guess, after you dined in Orchard Street. Or did he propose during Lady Cunningham’s ball?”

  “It was Wednesday evening. I started to tell you—”

  “But you elected not to. You did not tell me then, you did not tell me yesterday morning, and when Judith introduced the matter, you deliberately lied to me about the nature of the announcement. I can only infer that you feared I should advise Judith of your true circumstances. I doubt she would wish to wed her son to an impoverished governess.”

  “That wasn’t it at all. I—”

  “Permit me to assure you that your fears are quite groundless. I shall not inform Judith what you are at. To the contrary, I judge your betrothal by far my finest prank. Little did I dream when we embarked on our charade that I could trick Judith into contracting a ridiculously unsuitable match.” “David, I beg you to hear me out—”

  “But the trick is on you as well, Bonnie.”

  He drew himself abruptly up, and his amiability vanished like a cloak slipping from his shoulders. His face was white with rage, and his eyes had narrowed to brilliant sapphire slits.

  “I suspect you set your cap at Francis long before you met him.” His voice had sunk to a savage whisper. “As soon as I explained that he was my heir, you must have begun envisioning yourself as a wealthy countess. Pray be assured that that will not happen either. You will be a countess, yes; I cannot deny Francis my title. But he will receive only the entailed portion of my estate, and—as I fancy I also explained— that comprises only a small fraction of the total. I shall bequeath the rest to various charities. Indeed, I should throw it in the Thames before I left a single groat to you and Francis.”

  “David, please—”

  “I am sure I need not add that you will have none of my money in my lifetime either. You and your husband and your in-laws can run up the most shocking bills, and I shall not provide a farthing in payment. So unless I have the grace to expire prematurely, you are facing several decades of abject hardship. Perhaps you should consider that before you allow your engagement to be announced.”

  “There is nothing to consider.” Her own voice was shrill with desperation. “I—”

  “You are sincerely in love with Francis? Then I trust you will accept my apology for the injustice of my remarks. Now, if you will pardon me, I should like to return to my breakfast.” He strode across the foyer, passing so close that Bonnie could readily have stopped him. Could easily have snatched his sleeve or gripped his wrist or simply stepped in front of him to bar his path. But she did not because she perceived that any further protest would be futile. He reached the dining-room archway and spun around, snapping his fingers in sudden—or pretended— recollection.

  “It occurs to me that I neglected to report the specific purpose of Judith’s call. She feels that Cornelia’s unexpected arrival has altered the situation. That your . . . ah . . . mother should be granted the privilege of announcing your engagement. However, Cornelia and I expressed our mutual view that the choice should be left to you.”

  He had given her a final chance, and Bonnie clenched her hands. “If you would listen to me, you would understand—” “You needn’t render a decision immediately.” He had donned his cloak again; his tone, his expression, were wonderfully kind. “Judith also requested us to be in Orchard Street at eight o’clock—a full hour before the guests. We shall have ample opportunity to disc
uss the particulars of the announcement then. Let us plan to depart at a quarter to eight; I shouldn’t want to be late for such a thrilling evening.” He swept a bow, turned away, and stalked on into the dining room. Bonnie watched his retreating figure, entertaining an absurd hope that he would miraculously glimpse the truth and come racing back. But he did not, of course, and when he had disappeared, she gazed despairingly at Cornelia.

  “What a bumblebath.” Cornelia expelled a great sigh. "I should hate to think I failed you, dear, but by the time I was summoned to the conference, Judith had already let the cat out of the bag. And I did not judge it my place to advise them that you didn’t intend to marry Francis. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

  “No, you weren’t mistaken. My father would have said I was justly punished for my lies.” Bonnie could not repress a wry grin, and—overset as she was—the mere act of smiling bolstered her courage. “And maybe it isn’t such a bumblebath. When we go to the ball and David learns there is to be no engagement, he will listen to my account of what actually occurred.”

  “I am afraid he will not.” Cornelia shook her head. “David is in such prodigious poor humor that he will undoubtedly conclude you terminated the engagement after your conversation with him. After he warned you that you would be penniless if you married Francis.”

  Yes. Bonnie realized grimly, that was precisely the conclusion the earl would draw. “Then what am I to do?” she asked, casting Cornelia another stricken look.

  “I believe you must swallow your pride and admit your feelings to David. Tell him frankly that you love him.” “Now?” Bonnie’s stomach knotted, and she glanced fearfully toward the breakfast parlor.

  “No, not now. David is excessively angry, deeply wounded, and he should be given some time to regain his equilibrium.” Cornelia paused a moment, her brow furrowed in thought. “Were I you, I should wait until this evening.” “Tell him at the assembly, you mean?”

  “My suggestion is that you forgo the assembly. Go to David’s room just prior to your scheduled departure and speak with him then. I shall alert the servants that you are not to be disturbed. And I myself shall leave for the ball at half past seven so as to afford you total privacy.”

  “Lady Hellier will be furious when her guest of honor fails to appear.” Bonnie shuddered, but she could not entirely quell another grin.

  “I suspect Judith is quite furious with you already. Cornelia said dryly. “And she will have a guest of honor, will she not? I am also her long-lost colonial relative."

  She flashed a wicked grin of her own, and for the first time in days, Bonnie laughed aloud.

  Bonnie withdrew her gold crepe gown from the wardrobe, smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from the apron, then frowned. It was her favorite dress and the one she judged most flattering, but it was scarcely appropriate for an evening at home. She peered once more into the wardrobe, and when her eyes fell on Mama’s old black bombazine, she was struck by a sudden impulse. David had accused her of envisioning herself a wealthy countess, and in his present dark mood, he might well suspect her profession of love to be prompted by mercenary motives. Perhaps she would create a favorable atmosphere if she eschewed the finery he had bought her and appeared as exactly what she was: “an impoverished governess.” She returned the gold crepe to the wardrobe, removed the black bombazine, and put it on.

  She did, indeed, look like a penniless governess, she thought wryly, examining her image in the mirror. It occurred to her that she had grown exceedingly spoiled during the preceding weeks, had come to take her splendid bedchamber and elegant new clothes quite for granted. But had David chanced to be poor, she would cheerfully have consented to live in a garret. To wear Mama’s ancient gown every day for the rest of her life. She would love him if he were a simple clergyman like Papa or a tenant farmer like Tom Carlisle or even . . . even a music instructor.

  Bonnie combed her hair and applied a bit of rouge to either cheek, and as she studied her finished reflection, there was a light tap on the door. David? she wondered, her heart crashing against her ribs. She hurried across the room, cracked the door, and heaved a sigh of relief when she found Cornelia in the corridor.

  “I came to tell you good-by, dear.” Cornelia stepped just over the threshold and closed the door behind her.

  “Good-by?” Bonnie echoed. Her heart fluttered again. “Is ... is it that late?”

  “Twenty-five past seven, and I desired Kimball to be ready at half past. He will await me at Judith’s, of course, and I advised Alice and Nell to remain in their quarters the rest of the night. So you and David will be able to converse without interruption.”

  Cornelia stood back, inspected Bonnie from head to toe, and nodded her approval. “You look very handsome, dear That is a lovely dress.”

  Bonnie initially assumed she was jesting, but when she glanced at Cornelia's gown, she saw that it was rather older than her own. Well, not older, she amended; it showed hardly any wear. But whatever its chronological age, Cornelia’s dress was hopelessly outmoded—from the high, square neck to the tier of transparent muslin around the bottom of the skirt.

  “Thank you,” she said solemnly, biting back a smile.

  “You look very handsome,” Cornelia repeated, "and I am confident you and David will speedily resolve your differences.” She patted Bonnie’s shoulder, hesitated, cleared her throat. “I should like to say that had I been blessed with a daughter, I should have wanted her to be exactly like you. Good luck, child.”

  She opened the door and slipped back into the hall, and Bonnie gazed after her, swallowing a lump in her own throat. She and David would definitely exchange visits with Cornelia, she vowed. Would take their children to Barbados at frequent intervals . . .

  But it was a trifle premature to be considering children, she chided herself; she must first survive the evening. She peered nervously at the mantel, then remembered that there was no clock in her bedchamber. It must be half past seven by now, she calculated, and she paced the border of the Aubusson carpet, counting the seconds under her breath and the minutes on her fingers. When the latter count reached ten, she squared her shoulders, gritted her teeth, and marched down the corridor to David’s room. She paused at his door, sorting through the several hundred introductory remarks she had composed, but before she could raise her hand to knock, the door swung inward.

  “What the deuce ...?” The earl started and blinked down at her. “Am I late?” He turned his head, evidently to consult a clock inside the room. “No, it is only twenty to eight." He returned his eyes to her and sketched a chilly smile. “But I can well imagine how eagerly you are anticipating the forthcoming festivities.”

  He had seized the initiative, put her on the defensive as he always did, and Bonnie could not recollect a single one of the clever comments she’d devised. She could only stare at him, marveling anew that she had not recognized her emotions long since. He was the man she had dreamed of all her life, and she felt such a rush of love that she was hard put to stand erect.

  “So let us be off,” David said briskly. His eyes swept over her much as Cornelia’s had, but—unlike Cornelia—he concluded his inspection with a gasp of dismay. “Good God! You intend to go to the ball in that?”

  “No,” Bonnie mumbled. She discovered that she couldn’t look into his face and talk at the same time, and she focused on his left ear. “No, I do not intend to go to the assembly.”

  “Not go to the assembly?” he barked. “You will not be present for the announcement of your own engagement?”

  “There is to be no announcement. I tried to tell you so this morning, but . . .” She stopped; an accusation was hardly the proper opening. “At any rate, Cornelia has already left for the ball, and she will convey our regrets to Lady Hellier. My regrets, that is; you may wish to attend without me.”

  He was silent for such a long time that she began to fancy he hadn't heard her. “No, I believe not,” he said at last. "Would you . . . er . . . care to come in?”

  He st
epped to one side of the doorway, and Bonnie walked past him and halted in the center of the Axminster rug. Nell’s fine touch was visible here as well, she observed: the wash- stand and bedside cupboard, the chest of drawers and the dressing table were liberally adorned with dust. But it was a handsome room nonetheless—the dark mahogany furniture offering a pleasing contrast to the bright green and gold of the draperies and the counterpane.

  Bonnie heard the soft click of the latch, and she ceased her idle scrutiny and turned around. David was leaning against the door, his arms crossed behind his back, his fingers still fastened on the knob.

  “You stated,” he said gruffly, “that you have terminated your engagement.”

  “No, I stated that there was to be no announcement.” He was sufficiently far away that she was able to meet his eyes. "There never was an engagement, David. I never consented to marry Francis.”

  “Then why the devil did Judith suppose you had?”

  “Because I didn’t refuse his offer either. Not immediately, that is. That was the dreadful thing that happened, the thing I started to tell you Wednesday evening. When Francis asked me to marry him, I was so startled that I quite lost my wits. He naturally conceived the impression that I was considering his proposal and so advised Lady Hellier.”

  David’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, but he left the door and ventured a few feet into the room. “Go on,” he said tersely.