Again the Magic

by Lisa Kleypas

  She glanced up at Marcus with a teasing smile. “Spoken by the one person on earth who is more abominable at correspondence than I.”

  “I despise every aspect of it,” Marcus admitted. “In fact, the only thing worse than writing a letter is receiving one—God knows why anyone would think I would be interested in the minutiae of his or her life.”

  Continuing to smile, Aline set down her pen and glanced at a tiny smudge of ink on the tip of her finger. “Is there something you want, dear? I beg you, do something to rescue me from this unbearable tedium.”

  “No need to beg. Rescue is at hand…or at least a convenient distraction.” He showed her the sealed letter in his hand, while an odd expression crossed his face. “A delivery has arrived from London. This came with it.”

  “All the way from London? If it’s the oysters we sent for, they’re two days early—”

  “It’s not oysters.” Marcus strode to the doorway and gestured to her. “The delivery is for you. Come to the entrance hall.”

  “Very well.” Methodically Aline stoppered the cut-glass bottle of glue that she used to seal the envelopes, and closed a box of red wax wafers. When all was in order, she rose from the desk and followed Marcus to the entrance hall. The air was steeped with the heady fragrance of roses, as if the entire hall had been rinsed with expensive perfume.

  “Good Lord!” she exclaimed, stopping short at the sight of massive bunches of flowers being brought in from a cart outside. Mountains of white roses, some of them tightly furled buds, some in glorious full bloom. Two footmen had been recruited to assist the driver of the cart, and the three of them kept going outside to fetch bouquet after bouquet wrapped in stiff white lace paper.

  “Fifteen dozen of them,” Marcus said brusquely. “I doubt there’s a single white rose left in London.”

  Aline could not believe how fast her heart was beating. Slowly she moved forward and drew a single rose from one of the bouquets. Cupping the delicate bowl of the blossom with her fingers, she bent her head to inhale its lavish perfume. Its petals were a cool brush of silk against her cheek.

  “There’s something else,” Marcus said.

  Following his gaze, Aline saw the butler directing yet another footman to pry open a huge wooden crate filled with brick-sized parcels wrapped in brown paper. “What are they, Salter?”

  “With your permission, my lady, I will find out.” The elderly butler unwrapped one of the parcels with great care. He spread the waxed brown paper open to reveal a damply fragrant loaf of gingerbread, its spice adding a pungent note to the smell of the roses.

  Aline put her hand over her mouth to contain a bubbling laugh, while some unidentifiable emotion caused her entire body to tremble. The offering worried her terribly, and at the same time, she was insanely pleased by the extravagance of it.

  “Gingerbread?” Marcus asked incredulously. “Why the hell would McKenna send you an entire crate of gingerbread?”

  “Because I like it,” came Aline’s breathless reply. “How do you know this is from McKenna?”

  Marcus gave her a speaking look, as if only an imbecile would suppose otherwise.

  Fumbling a little with the envelope, Aline extracted a folded sheet of paper. It was covered in a bold scrawl, the penmanship serviceable and without flourishes:

  No miles of level desert, no jagged mountain heights, no sea of endless blue

  Neither words nor tears, nor silent fears

  will keep me from coming back to you.

  There was no signature…none was necessary. Aline closed her eyes, while her nose stung and hot tears squeezed from beneath her lashes. She pressed her lips briefly to the letter, not caring what Marcus thought.

  “It’s a poem,” she said unsteadily. “A terrible one.” It was the loveliest thing she had ever read. She held it to her cheek, then used her sleeve to blot her eyes.

  “Let me see it.”

  Immediately Aline tucked the poem into her bodice. “No, it’s private.” She swallowed against the tightness of her throat, willing the surge of unruly emotion to recede. “McKenna,” she whispered, “how you devastate me.”

  Sighing tautly, Marcus gave her a handkerchief. “What can I do?” he muttered, unraveled by the sight of a woman’s tears.

  The only reply that Aline could make was the one he most hated to hear. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  She thought that he was about to put his arms around her in a comforting hug, but they were both distracted by the appearance of a visitor who entered the hall in the wake of the busy footmen. Strolling in with his hands thrust in his jacket pockets, Adam, Lord Sandridge, gazed at the proliferation of white roses with a bemused expression.

  “I presume those are for you,” he said to Aline, removing his hands from his pockets as he approached.

  “Good afternoon, Sandridge,” Marcus said, his manner turning businesslike as they shook hands. “Your arrival is well timed, as I believe Lady Aline is in need of some pleasant distraction.”

  “Then I shall endeavor to be both pleasant and distracting,” Adam replied with a casual grin. He bowed gracefully over Aline’s hand.

  “Come walk with me in the garden,” she urged, her fingers tightening on his.

  “What an excellent idea.” Adam reached out to one of the bouquets heaped on the entrance table, broke off a perfect ivory blossom, and tucked it into his lapel. Extending his arm to Aline, he walked with her through the hall to the French doors at the back of the house.

  The gardens were brilliant with summer magic, with plump cushions of forget-me-nots, lemon balm, and vibrant yellow daylilies, surrounding plots of roses shot through with garnet clematis. Long rows of silvery lamb’s-ear stretched between large stone urns filled with rainbows of Oriental poppies. Descending the terrace steps, Adam and Aline began on a winding gravel path that led past neatly clipped yews. Adam was one of those rare people who was comfortable with silence, waiting patiently for her to speak.

  Feeling soothed by the serenity of the garden and Adam’s reassuring presence, Aline let out a long sigh. “The roses were from McKenna,” she finally said.

  “I gathered that,” Adam replied dryly.

  “There was a poem too.” She extracted it from her bodice and gave it to him. Adam was the only person on earth whom she would allow to read something so intimate. Pausing in the center of the path, Adam unfolded the slip of paper and scanned the few lines.

  When he glanced at her, he seemed to read the exquisite mingling of pain and pleasure in her eyes. “Very touching,” he said sincerely, returning the poem to her. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing. I’m going to send him away, as I originally planned.”

  Considering the words carefully, Adam seemed inclined to venture an opinion, then appeared to think better of it. He shrugged. “If that’s what you think best, so be it.”

  No one else of her acquaintance would have made such an answer. Aline took his hand and held on tightly as they continued to walk. “Adam, one of the things I adore most about you is that you never try to advise me what to do.”

  “I despise advice—it never works.” They skirted the edge of the mermaid fountain, which splashed lethargically amid heavy beds of delphiniums.

  “I’ve considered telling McKenna everything,” Aline confided, “but it would turn out badly, no matter how he responded.”

  “How so, sweet?”

  “The moment that I show McKenna my scars, he would either find them too horrible to accept, or worse, he’ll pity me, and feel duty-bound to propose out of obligation or honor…and then he’ll eventually come to regret his decision, and wish to be rid of me. I couldn’t live like that, looking into his eyes every morning and wondering if that was the day he would leave me for good.”

  Adam made a soft, sympathetic sound.

  “Am I doing the wrong thing?” she asked.

  “I never define these matters in terms of right and wrong,” Adam replied. “One should ma
ke the best choice possible given the circumstances, and then avoid second-guessing for the sake of one’s own sanity.”

  Aline couldn’t help contrasting him with Marcus, who believed so strongly in absolutes—right and wrong, good and bad—and her mouth curved with a bittersweet smile. “Adam, dear, I’ve considered your proposal over the past few days…”

  “Yes?” They stopped once again, facing each other with their hands linked.

  “I can’t accept,” she said. “It would be unfair to both of us. I suppose that if I can’t have a real marriage, I should be happy with an imitation of it. But all the same, I’d rather share a genuine friendship with you than a counterfeit marriage.”

  Seeing the glitter of unhappiness in her eyes, Adam reached out to clasp her in a strong, warm hug. “Darling girl,” he murmured, “my offer stands indefinitely. I’ll be your genuine friend until my dying day. And if you ever change your mind about marriage, you have only to snap your fingers.” He smiled wryly. “I’ve found that imitations can sometimes become damned attractive, when one can’t afford the real thing.”

  Seventeen

  Livia had spent approximately seven nights in London, returning with sufficient parcels and boxes to lend credence to the claim that she had gone to town for a shopping expedition. The female guests took great enjoyment in viewing some of Livia’s purchases…a small, high-crowned hat trimmed with dyed feathers…gloves that had been embroidered and beaded at the wrists…shawls of lace, cashmere, and silk,…a sheaf of sketches and fabric samples from the London modiste who was making gowns for her.

  Naturally, Susan Chamberlain asked if Livia had seen Mr. Shaw and McKenna while she was in London, and Livia replied with breezy offhandedness. “Oh yes, my chaperone Mrs. Smedley and I spent a most delightful evening with them at the Capitol Theater. Box seats, and an excellent view of the stage—we were positively transported!”

  However, no matter how casual Livia’s manner was, her statements were greeted by arched brows and pointedly exchanged gazes. Everyone, it seemed, suspected that there was far more to the story than what was being told.

  Aline had heard the details of the London visit as soon as Livia had returned. She went to Livia’s bedroom after her sister had changed into her nightclothes, and the two of them sat on the bed with glasses of wine. Aline leaned against one of the massive carved bedposts, while Livia settled back into the pillows. “I was with him every evening,” she told Aline, her cheeks flushed. “Seven nights of absolute heaven.”

  “He’s a good lover, then?” Aline asked with a smile, not above a little prurient curiosity.

  “The most wonderful, the most exciting, the most…” Unable to think of the precise superlative she wanted, Livia sighed and sipped her wine. Regarding Aline over the delicate rim of the glass, she shook her head in wonder. “How strange it is that he could be so different from Amberley, and yet suit me just as well. Perhaps even better in some ways.”

  “Are you going to marry him?” Aline asked with a queer pang in her chest, happy for her sister, and yet at the same time thinking how far away America was. And if she was being honest with herself, she would have to admit that an envious voice inside was demanding to know why she too couldn’t have what she most wanted.

  “He proposed to me, actually,” Livia said. Then she astonished Aline further by adding bleakly, “I turned him down.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  Aline nodded, her gaze locking with Livia’s as an entire silent conversation seemed to pass between them. Letting out a long breath, she looked down and traced the edge of her wineglass with her fingertip. “I’m certain that was the right decision, dear, though not an easy one to make.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” They sat in silence for a minute, until Livia asked, “Aren’t you going to ask about McKenna?”

  Aline stared into her glass. “How is he?”

  “Quiet. Somewhat distracted. We…spoke of you.”

  A clang of warning sounded in Aline’s mind as she heard the edge of guilt in Livia’s cautious admission. She looked up quickly, her face stiffening. “What do you mean, you spoke of me?”

  Livia took a large swallow of wine. “It turned out quite well, actually,” she said guardedly. “At least, it didn’t turn out badly, although one can’t be certain how he reacted to—”

  “Livia, out with it!” Aline demanded, turning cold with anxiety. “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing very much.” Livia gave her a defensive glance. “I finally brought myself to apologize to him about what I did to both of you, so long ago. You know, when I told Father about—”

  “Livia, you shouldn’t have,” Aline said, too furious and fearful to shout, her throat constricting to one thin channel. Her hands quivered so violently that her wine was in danger of spilling.

  “There’s no reason to be upset,” Livia said, infuriating her further. “I didn’t break my promise to you—I said nothing about your accident, or the scars. I just told him about my part in the matter, and about how our father manipulated everyone, and…well, I did happen to mention that you sent him away to protect him, because Father had threatened to harm him—”

  “What? I never wanted him to know that. My God, Livia, what have you done?”

  “I only told him a little part of the truth.” It seemed that Livia was torn between defiance and repentance, her face flushing brightly. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. But as they say, honesty is the best policy, and in this case—”

  “I’ve never said that!” Aline exploded. “That is the most overused, self-serving maxim in existence, and it is most definitely not the best policy in this situation. Oh, Livia, don’t you realize how difficult you’ve made everything for me? How infinitely harder it’s going to be to part from him again, now that he knows—” She broke off suddenly. “When did you tell him?”

  “The second night I was in London.”

  Aline closed her eyes sickly. The flowers had arrived two days after that. So that was why McKenna had sent the gifts, and the poem. “Livia, I could kill you,” she whispered.

  Evidently deciding to go on the offensive, her younger sister spoke decisively. “I don’t see what is so terrible about removing one of the obstacles between you and McKenna. The only thing left to do now is for you to tell him about your legs.”

  Aline responded with an icy glare. “That will never happen.”

  “You have nothing to lose by telling him. You’ve always been the bravest person I’ve ever known until now, when you finally have a chance at happiness, and you’re throwing it away because you’re too stubborn and afraid—”

  “I’ve never been brave,” Aline shot back. “Bravery isn’t tolerating something merely because there is no other choice. The only reason that I haven’t thrown myself to the ground and kicked my heels and screamed every day for the past twelve years is the knowledge that when I get up from the floor, nothing will have changed. My legs will always be repulsive. You can barely bring yourself to look at them—how dare you suggest that I’m being cowardly in not wanting to expose them to McKenna?” She left the bed and set her wineglass aside. “You’re a bloody hypocrite, Livia—you seem to expect that McKenna should accept me no matter what my flaws are, when you refuse to do the same for Mr. Shaw.”

  “That’s not fair,” Livia protested indignantly. “The two situations are entirely different. Your scars aren’t remotely comparable to his drinking—and how dare you imply that I’m being small-minded in refusing him?”

  Steaming with fury, Aline strode to the door. “Just leave me in peace. And don’t you dare say another word to McKenna about anything.” She barely restrained herself from slamming the door as she left.

  Aline and Livia had always lived in relative harmony. Perhaps it was because of the seven-year difference in their ages, which had caused Aline to assume a motherly role toward her younger sister. On the rare occasions in the past when they had argued, it had been their way
to avoid each other afterward, letting their tempers cool as they sought to pretend that nothing had happened. If a quarrel had been particularly bitter, they each went separately to Mrs. Faircloth, who had always reminded them that nothing was more important than their sisterly bonds. This time, however, Aline did not confide in the housekeeper, nor did she think that Livia would. The issues were too explosively personal. Instead Aline tried to go on as usual, treating Livia with a stiff politeness that was all she could manage. She supposed that she should unbend enough to offer an apology…but apologies had never come easily to her, and she would most likely choke on it. Nor did it seem that Livia was inclined to offer the olive branch, though she was most definitely the one at fault. After three days, Aline and Livia managed to achieve a state of normalcy, although a residual frostiness lingered between them.

  On Saturday evening Marcus gave an al fresco party that was soon threatened by clouds gathering overhead. The sky turned the color of black plums, while a few preliminary droplets of rain fell onto the crowd and caused the garden torches to sputter in protest. The crowd began to drift indoors, while Aline hurried back and forth giving directions to the servants as they labored to bring refreshments, glasses, and chairs into the drawing room. In the midst of the flurry, she saw something that caused her to stop in her tracks. Livia was talking with Gideon Shaw, who must have just returned from London. They stood near the doorway, while Livia rested back against the wall. Livia was laughing at some quip he had made, her face glowing, her hands clasped behind her back as if she had to restrain herself from reaching for him.

  If there had been any doubt in Aline’s mind that Livia loved Gideon Shaw, it was removed at once. She had seen her sister look at only one other man that way. And although Shaw’s expression was not visible from this angle, the protective inclination of his posture spoke volumes. What a pity, Aline thought. It was clear that no matter what their differences were, they had each found something necessary in the other.