by Mary Balogh
“Yes,” she said. “I will come. Tomorrow. Shall I come in the afternoon?”
“For tea?” he said. “We will have a tea party, Ellie. Just the two of us.”
Ellie!
“Yes,” she said. “Just the two of us.” She had forgotten, completely forgotten, that old pet name. His arms were still spread out to both sides. A few pedestrians had been forced to step from the pavement into the roadway in order to pass him. He had drawn several curious glances.
Ellen turned and hurried away from the Earl of Harrowby. Her legs felt decidedly shaky by the time Dorothy’s coachman had helped her into the carriage and closed the door behind her.
“PERHAPS I SHOULD have called on them myself before now,” the Countess of Amberley was saying to her husband. “It is so hard to know what is the thing to do. They both looked so completely broken up when I met them in the park-you were still in Brussels at the time-that I felt it would be intruding to call on them. Especially when they did not call on me, as I had invited them to do.”
“She was looking quite cheerful this morning,” the earl said. “It is to be hoped that she is recovering, my love.”
“Do you think Dominic just imagined that she returned his feelings for a while?” she asked. “I still find it hard to believe, Edmund. She was so devoted to Captain Simpson, and he had been dead for only a month when you arrived there. Surely she could not have fancied herself in love with Dominic or anyone else, could she?”
“I really don’t know,” he said. “I know only what Dominic went through.”
“I would be so prostrate with grief if anything happened to you,” she said, “that I don’t think I would even know that anyone else existed in the world.”
He took her hand in a warm clasp. “It is impossible to know how one would act in a situation of such extreme catastrophe,” he said. “Impossible, Alex.”
“You are telling me that I am judging her too harshly if it all turns out to be true, then,” she said. “And you are right, of course. I am afraid my upbringing still clouds my vision at times, Edmund. I still tend to see things in very black-and-white terms, as Papa always does.”
“Mama and Madeline are entertaining the Simpson ladies this afternoon,” he said. “Did I tell you that?”
“No,” she said. “I didn’t know. Dominic is in communication with her, then? Or with Miss Simpson, perhaps. He seemed very fond of her when we were still in Brussels. This is all very intriguing, Edmund.”
“Perhaps we should take up matchmaking,” he said, easing the kid glove from her hand and laying his own fingers the length of hers on the seat between them. “With whom shall we match Dominic, Alex? With Miss Simpson, Mrs. Simpson, Anna, or Susan Jennings? We have quite a choice, don’t we?”
“I wouldn’t dream of even trying to interfere,” she said. “What a dreadful idea, Edmund. He will never marry Anna, though. He has never had any sort of tendre for her. Besides, she is your first cousin. And he would never seriously consider marrying Susan, would he? Oh, I do hope not. She is such an artificial little creature. And why are you grinning at me in that perfectly odious way?”
He made a kissing gesture with his mouth. “You fall into a trap so easily, Alex,” he said, lacing his fingers through hers and carrying her hand to his lips. “I love you.”
“Horrid man!” she said, maintaining her dignity and turning to look out the window.
ONE FACT WAS CLEAR to Lord Eden. He was still in love with Ellen Simpson. He wished it were not so. And he had really convinced himself that his infatuation with her had been a purely temporary thing brought on by the stress of circumstances. Until he saw her again, that was.
But it was not so. He loved her and had not slept at all during the night following their walk in Kensington Gardens. He had scarcely slept the night before, either, and even when he had, he had woken several times, his mind grappling each time with the question of whether he should be in his mother’s drawing room when she came to tea with her stepdaughter.
Something else was clear to him too. If he saw much more of Miss Simpson, there would be people to think that he owed the girl something. Like an offer of marriage. He had come perilously close in Brussels to committing himself. He did not want to put himself into the embarrassing predicament of feeling honor-bound to offer for the stepdaughter when he loved the stepmother. And had been her lover.
Then, of course, there was Anna. She had never made any secret of the fact that she intended to marry him when she grew up. But what had always amused him when she was a girl was somewhat more serious now that she was a lovely young lady who had made her come-out and who was definitely on the market for a husband. One of these days he was going to have to have a good talk with Anna. And she was coming to tea as well, with Aunt Viola.
And when he had escorted Susan to the library, he had somehow found himself also inviting her to join him and Edmund and Alexandra at the theater one evening. He did not quite know how he had come to do such a thing, since Susan had spent almost the whole of their outing worrying about how she was imposing upon his time.
He had almost married Susan once upon a time. And now she was a widow and in a delicate emotional state. He really did not harbor any leftover feelings for her, beyond the fondness he had always felt for her, even when she was a child. He did not want to marry her.
Ellen was the only woman he wanted to marry, and that was out of the question.
Somehow, he thought, life had been far less complicated when he had first bought his commission and gone off to Spain and there were only the French and the mud and the heat and death to worry about.
He did attend his mother’s tea, even though he knew he would be the only man present. And he very deliberately seated himself beside Ellen when she arrived, and conversed with his aunt, who sat on his other side. Anna and Miss Simpson had their heads together and looked quite pleased with themselves.
“William has decided that we are going home soon,” Mrs. Carrington said, “and I can’t say I am sorry. Two months were all we expected to be away. But thanks to you, my dear”-she patted Lord Eden’s hand-“we extended our stay. And here we still are. Anna and Walter don’t want to go home, of course. But when Papa speaks, they have no choice.”
“In my experience,” Lord Eden said, grinning, “when Uncle William speaks, Anna starts to twist him about her finger.”
“Gracious, Dominic!” she said as Madeline laughed, and tapped him sharply on the hand. “You must not say so, especially when she is like to hear.” She glanced at her oblivious daughter. “Poor William is too indulgent by half.”
“So you are going home,” he said. “Edmund and Alexandra too, I believe. And I plan to take myself off into Wiltshire within the next week or so. I have a home and an estate to make my own.”
“You have decided, then, Dominic?” his mother asked. “I had hoped that you would wait until after Christmas, dear. But I daresay you will come to Amberley for the festivities, anyway.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But I have a life to get on with. And I feel quite fit again and eager for something definite to do.”
“I was very pleased to see the progress Lieutenant Penworth has made,” the dowager said to Mrs. Carrington. “There has been a marked improvement since I saw him last in Brussels.”
Madeline focused her attention on that line of conversation.
“I will be taking myself out of your life soon, you see,” Lord Eden said quietly to Ellen, smiling down at her.
“Yes,” she said.
“You will be glad of that.”
Her cup rattled ever so slightly in its saucer as she set it down. “Yes,” she said.
“I think it very likely that I will not see you again after today,” he said. He looked at her for a silent moment. “Ellen, are you quite sure that you are not in need at all? I suppose you would not allow me to help you anyway. But I am worried about you.”
“You need not be.” She looked up at him, her jaw very fir
m. “Do you think it possible that Charlie, who knew for years that he might die at a moment’s notice, would not have made adequate provision for his daughter and me? We are not in any kind of need, my lord.”
“I am glad, then,” he said.
She moved her eyes to Madeline, who was talking to her aunt and her mother, but he could tell that she was not listening. His own eyes moved over her profile, over her hair, as if to commit all the details to memory.
How could he have known her all those years, been frequently in company with her, and not known? It seemed incredible now that he could ever have looked at her and not known.
Her head moved jerkily and her eyes met his, wavered for a moment, and held. She swallowed and licked her lips. His eyes dropped to follow the movement.
“I met my father this morning,” she said hastily.
His eyebrows rose. “The Earl of Harrowby?”
“The earl, yes.” She flushed.
“Did you, Ellen?” he said. “I am glad for you. Should I be glad?”
Her gray eyes were wide and fully focused on him. “I have not seen him since I was fifteen,” she said. “I told you about that last meeting, didn’t I? He hasn’t really changed. He looked very familiar. I am going to visit him tomorrow.”
“Are you?” He clenched into a loose fist the hand that had been about to reach out to cover one of hers.
“Is it the wrong thing to do?” she asked. “He is not my father. Is it foolish to revisit the past? It was my home. And now I am going there as a visitor. Should I have refused?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I can see in your eyes that this is very much something you want to do, Ellen. Then you should do it. And he was your father for fifteen years, even if he did not beget you. You had good times with him. You told me about some of them.”
She half-smiled into his eyes.
“What does your sister-in-law say?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I have not told anyone else,” she said. “I was alone this morning. I think I want to go. I want to have someone of my own, even if he is not quite mine. Do you know what I mean?”
He nodded. “Families can be the plague of one’s life,” he said. “But I cannot imagine a worse fate than to be totally without mine. You must go, Ellen. He invited you?”
She nodded.
“Then you must go.”
If he held his breath, perhaps the spell would never be broken. They were smiling into each other’s eyes, not saying anything, but unembarrassed nonetheless. Just as they had done frequently through almost two weeks. She was talking from the heart, just as she had done then. He felt almost that he could reach out for her hand and she would give it to him and let it rest companionably in his.
And he had just told her that he would probably not see her again.
“Dominic!” Anna’s voice was laughing and exasperated all at the same time. “Are you deaf? I suppose you and Mrs. Simpson are deep in war reminiscences. Could I please have a little of your attention?”
Ellen’s eyes widened before dropping away from his. She flushed.
“Sorry,” he said. “What is it, Anna?”
“Jennifer is coming to the Tower with Walter and me tomorrow,” she said, “and Mr. Phelps cannot come. It would be very lowering for me to have to go along with a mere brother, Dominic. You must rescue me. Will you? If you come, I will instantly become the most envied female in London, for you are easily the most handsome gentleman in town.” She laughed gaily.
“I can resist anything but flattery,” he said, “and the chance of having a pretty lady to escort about London.”
“Oh, splendid!” she said, smiling back at Jennifer. “And we will charm the men into taking us to Gunter’s for ices.”
“At this time of year?” Lord Eden asked. “You must be mad, Anna.”
Ellen, he noticed, had been drawn into conversation with his mother, his aunt, and Madeline. He did not talk with her again until she and her stepdaughter rose to take their leave.
“I shall see you tomorrow,” he said to Jennifer as he took her hand in his. “It is years since I saw the Tower.”
“And I have never seen it,” she said, her face bright and eager. “I shall so look forward to the outing, my lord.”
“Good-bye, Ellen,” he said, taking her hand in a quite tight grasp and looking closely into her eyes. There was nothing else to be said. They were surrounded by members of his family and Miss Simpson, all talking at once, it seemed. And this might be good-bye indeed. There were a thousand things to say. He felt panic rise into his throat.
“Good-bye, my lord.” She returned the pressure of his hand. And then drew it free and turned to smile at his mother.
“What a very prettily behaved young lady Miss Simpson is,” the dowager said after all her guests had left. “It is quite a pity that Anna has not had her for a friend for longer. And Mrs. Simpson is quite charming, and looking very much better than when I saw her in Belgium.” She looked curiously at her son.
“Yes,” he said. “She is too strong a person to crumble even under the cruelest blow. I saw her comfort men in Spain after enduring exactly the same adverse conditions as they.”
“You were talking with her,” she said. “Has the bitterness been put an end to, Dominic? I do hope so, for both your sakes.”
“Yes,” he said. “I don’t think there is any left, Mama.”
“And is there any chance,” she said, “that after her year of mourning is at an end you can mean more to each other?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I think it unlikely that I will meet her again. I am quite serious about leaving for Wiltshire next week.”
She sighed. “What a shame!” she said. “I have not met a young woman I would like better as a daughter-in-law since I met Alexandra.”
“Well,” he said, putting an arm about her shoulders and hugging her, “we cannot load you down with new relatives, now, can we, Mama? Penworth is next, I believe. Then it will be my turn, perhaps, if I can persuade anyone to take me on.”
Madeline made a sound very like a snort. “Just whisper that you are on the market, Dom,” she said, “and there will be girls and their mamas lined up outside your door for the distance of half a mile.”
He chuckled, and felt rather as if his heart had turned to stone inside him.
MADELINE ARRIVED AT Mr. Septimus Foster’s house the following day after luncheon and was shown into a salon on the ground floor, where she found her betrothed sketching on a piece of paper with some charcoal.
She leaned over his shoulder and kissed his forehead. “The fireplace,” she said, “in minutest detail.”
He tossed the paper aside and looked up at her. “Madeline,” he said, “I told you that Septimus and his wife would be from home this afternoon. You should not be here.”
“Oh, faradiddle!” she said. “I am five-and-twenty years old, Allan. Years past the necessity of having armies of chaperones trailing along behind me.”
“Even so,” he said, “I don’t want you talked about. You are Lady Madeline Raine. Someone special.”
“Do you think so?” she said, sitting down beside him. “How very flattering, sir.”
“Not just to me,” he said. “You draw admiration wherever you go. It’s not just your looks, though they are quite good enough. There is a sparkle about you, something that draws the eyes. I really shouldn’t have allowed you to betroth yourself to me. It’s not right, Madeline.”
“Are we going to have this argument again?” she asked, smiling at him and taking one of his hands in hers. “Because you are missing a leg, Allan? And an eye? I don’t care about those things. I shall be your missing leg and eye.”
“But you shouldn’t have to be,” he said. “You shouldn’t be tied to a cripple. And besides, no one can be a missing limb for someone else. I have to learn to cope with my own disabilities.”
“Oh, you are cross today, Allan,” she said, kissing the back of his hand. “
Would you like me to read to you?”
“No, I would not!” he said. “I can read for myself when I want to.”
“But your eye tires. You have told me that,” she said. She laid her cheek against the back of his hand.
He turned his head to look at her. “Oh, Lord,” he said. “I am treating you abominably, aren’t I? My leg has been aching all morning. I would swear it is still there. It has definitely been aching. And I have been thinking again. That is always a fatal thing to do. And I am thoroughly out of sorts with the world and sorry for myself. And I am taking it all out on you. When you have done so much for me. You brought me back to life when all I wanted to do was die. Forgive me?”
She turned her head and kissed his hand again. “I understand,” she said. “I do, Allan. And I am not hurt or offended. It is all right.”
“But it is not,” he said. “You should not be tied to me or subject to my moods of irritability. You should be free to enjoy life again.”
“Oh,” she said, smiling, “if you only knew how little I have enjoyed life in the past few years, Allan. It was all surface enjoyment and gaiety. I am not complaining, because it was a life of privilege and I know thousands would give a great deal to have just half the pleasure that was mine. But there was something missing. Some substance. And I have found it with you. Maybe I helped you back to life. But you have given meaning to my life. You have. So don’t talk anymore about my going away to enjoy myself. I am enjoying myself-with you.”
He sighed and withdrew his hand from hers in order to put his arm about her shoulders. “I just hope that in five years’ time,” he said, “or ten, you will not feel tied down by the fact that you are married to me. But look, Madeline, you ought not to be here alone with me. If you won’t go away as you ought, then we must go out. A carriage ride in the park?”
“Are you sure you feel well enough?” she asked, sitting upright. “Are you willing to venture out, Allan? I know you did not enjoy the visit to Edmund’s a few afternoons ago.”
“Only because you are so anxious to protect me from embarrassment that you would not let me speak a word,” he said. “You must learn not to do that. But we argued that out quite effectively at the time. We don’t need to reopen that quarrel. Yes, let’s go out. If we go in a closed carriage, I won’t have to inflict the sight of me on anyone. Though of course in a closed carriage you really should have a maid. I’ll ring for a carriage to be brought around.”