‘I have the option I intended to choose from the moment this charade of a Season began. We can both congratulate ourselves on having done our duty. I fulfilled my mother’s wish by embarking on this enterprise, you fulfilled your duty to your husband by taking on the onerous task of presenting me. I know you find it incomprehensible, but I never had any intention of wedding a society gentleman. So, you see, your fears of being held responsible for my being raised above my station have been unfounded from the start. I thank you for your hospitality, however grudgingly given. But I think we can both admit to being relieved that we shall not have to meet again. I can see myself out. Goodbye for ever to you, too, Lady Arlsley.’
Given the efforts her sponsor had expended on her behalf, it probably would have been polite to allow the woman a chance to reply. Marcella walked out of the room leaving the Baron’s wife still gaping at her in shock.
Collecting Mary, whom she wasn’t surprised to find waiting outside the reception room door with her bonnet and pelisse, Marcella hurried out the entry and down the front steps. There was a grim satisfaction in having had an opportunity to tell off Lord Hoddleston, but beyond that, she felt...nothing.
Her family’s affection, and she hoped Austin’s, would help fill the chilly void. She should probably go first to Papa’s office, give him a sanitised version of what had happened, and let him break the news to her mother that she was ending her Season. Mama was certain to be disappointed and sorrowful at how what she’d imagined would be an exciting and glamorous adventure had turned out.
As she walked to the hackney stand, Marcella smiled sadly. She’d thought her time in society might be a lark, sometimes amusing, more often frustrating and distasteful. But she’d never imagined when she abandoned the ton that she’d be leaving behind a store of her most precious experiences...and far too much of her heart.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Later that evening, Marcella walked into the parlour at her father’s house in Tavistock Square and sat down at the pianoforte. She’d had a long talk with her father in his office, trying to sound matter of fact, but fearing he might have sensed how close she was to tears. He’d given her a hug, told her if she were ready to end her foray into society, of course he would support her and reconcile her mother to that decision.
He must have broken the news to her mother before dinner, for Mama’s eyes had been suspiciously red when she appeared for the meal. Still numb, her hands automatically going through the ritual of taking out music, Marcella thought that playing would help to soothe her as well as her disappointed mother. Even better, it would bring to a halt the flood of questions Mama kept asking about why she wished to end her Season so abruptly.
She must focus now on returning to life as it was before Dellamont. But time spent with him had created such a glittering, exciting, energising interlude, she wasn’t sure how to recover ‘normal’. When what was once ‘normal’ now looked so dispiritingly dull.
Would he call for her at her father’s office—in a week, a month, ever?
How was she to walk into the storeroom without recalling their marvellous adventure? Go to Hatchard’s for a new book, without remembering their discussion about the restrictions placed on educating women, when he’d surprised her with his willingness to listen and learn more? Ride in the park without thinking about the talks they’d shared, the merriment of her chats and his races with Lady Margaret?
Even playing tonight reminded her of the duet they’d performed at the Dellaney musicale and how he’d rescued her from Lord Hoddleston.
She’d hoped they might find a way to play duets again. Her Season had been curtailed before that could happen.
Suddenly she realised it would be almost impossible to recover her former self if she remained in London. She needed to get away, to scenes not imprinted with the heightened excitement of him walking beside her, far from places like Berkeley Square and Hyde Park and the elegant town houses of Mayfair where around each corner, her spirits might leap at the possibility of encountering him.
She needed to get away and forget that time when the sun had shone brighter, the colours of the world appeared more vivid, and every discussion more lively, because she’d shared it with him.
She didn’t dare think about kisses.
After she finished the piece, she said, ‘Mama, can we go visit Grandda? I’ve been missing him.’
After giving her a quick, concerned glance, her father said, ‘An excellent idea. I know the events of the Season can be...exhausting.’
‘They were. I find myself yearning for the serenity of the gardens at Faircastle House, the sea air and long rides through the countryside with Grandda.’
‘What do you think, my dear?’ her father asked her mother. ‘I shall need to remain in London for a while longer but I could join you there soon. Have you had your fill of buying dresses, taking tea and gossiping with friends?’
‘I should miss you terribly if we go on without you, but I always love to see my da,’ her mother replied.
‘Good.’ With a sympathetic glance at Marcella, he said, ‘Let’s make plans tomorrow to send you on your way.’
Marcella jumped up from the bench and went over to give each parent a hug, dangerously near tears. They’d always supported and loved her, as they were now. Their love would be enough.
Away from here, away from memories of him, she would find tranquillity again.
* * *
After leaving Lady Arlsley’s home on Upper Brook Street, Crispin had headed for the nearby hackney stand, intending to engage a jarvey to take him to Portman Square. He needed to warn his mother of the outcome of his meeting with Marcella and let her know he’d stand ready to escort her and his sister back to Montwell Glen as soon as they could prepare to leave.
But unsettled by their final interview, once he reached the stand, he changed his mind. A brisk walk would help soothe him and let him ponder what he should do next.
He first debated whether or not to seek out his sire and let him know he was ending his participation in the Season. But a moment’s reflection succeeded in convincing him that having an interview with the Earl would just subject him to abuse for no good purpose, since whatever harassment Comeryn meted out would not change his intentions. He’d pen a note instead.
He smiled grimly. His lack of deference in not waiting to have an in-person meeting before his departure was certain to make the Earl even more furious. But he’d deal with the repercussions of that decision the next time he was forced to meet the man.
Where would he go, after he left his family at Montwell Glen?
His immediate impulse was to return to London and pay a visit to Richard Cranmore’s office, seek out Marcella and cobble together those plans for continuing their friendship that the scandal had not given them time to arrange.
He’d found it distressingly hard to leave her in the garden at Lady Arlsley’s, once he realised that this was to be the last meeting of their bargain. A sudden but final end to all the rides, dances, talks and adventures he’d enjoyed so much over the last month. He’d several times checked his steps, driven to return to the garden—and do what?
She was determined to leave society, and after the way she’d been treated, he couldn’t blame her. He couldn’t in good faith try to persuade her to delay a little longer. With the bitter taste that had to have been left in her mouth after having her character unfairly maligned, her determination to marry her engineer must be stronger than ever. Small wonder she hadn’t hesitated to refuse his offer.
For which he was relieved. Wasn’t he?
As he’d told his mother, his instinctive aversion to marriage hadn’t changed. But Marcella was...different from any other female he’d ever met. Over the course of their association, he’d come to believe it was possible she’d had as congenial and happy a domestic life as she’d described. He’d seen through her that a family needn
’t necessarily be a source of constant strife and turmoil.
He had to admit that he liked her more than he’d ever liked any female. Her lack of interest in attracting a husband allowed him to relax around her in a way he could not around conventional, marriage-minded young ladies. She was as easy to talk with as his male friends, never resorting to the coy, attention-seeking mannerisms he found annoying in other single females.
Most striking, unlike any of his friends, she was both interested in and knowledgeable about the railway enterprises that fascinated him. With her, he’d been able to talk at length about his passion for them and his visions for their future, a passion and a vision she shared.
Indeed, he thought with a grin, she possessed much more technical expertise and was probably more intelligent than he was. In addition to her keen intellect and wide-ranging interests, her sunny, optimistic personality and subtle humour made her a delight to be around.
And then there was her physical loveliness, which sharpened every sense, igniting a simmering passion that kept him always at a knife’s edge of desire.
In short, being with her made him feel more energised, more alive, and more engaged than he could remember being with any of his other friends. Spending time with her magnified his enjoyment of whatever activity they shared.
It wasn’t until this moment, contemplating for the first time what he would be doing, with whom he’d be spending time now that their bargain had ended, that he fully realised how deeply she’d woven her way into his life. How much his enjoyment of the things they’d experienced had been heightened by her interest and expertise and by being able to share those experiences with her.
She’d taught him about more than railways. Recalling the discussion they’d begun at Hatchard’s, he now had a much greater appreciation for the difficulties faced by women whose intellectual development was hemmed in on every side by restrictions on where and how much females could study and what they could do with the fruits of their education. How frustrating and discouraging it must be for an erudite woman to have her future limited to marrying, bearing children and running a household.
She’d opened his eyes, too, to how deep and wide the sense of inherent superiority ran in those born into the gentry. Anger stirred again as he recalled the slights to which she had been subjected. She, who in beauty and intelligence was far superior to any of the gently born women he knew.
How was he to fill the gap in his life that would be left by her loss?
He had no answer to that question.
You could have married her, a little voice whispered. If you’d been more persuasive, added kisses to your plea, she might have given in and accepted. You could have had the stimulation of her friendship every day, the privilege of making love to her every night.
That possibility sent a bolt of excitement through him before the old familiar doubts recurred. He knew he had more in common with her than his parents did with each other, but he was still uneasy about committing to something as long-term as marriage. He hadn’t been successful as a son to either his mother or his father—how could he be sure of being successful as a husband? The thought of dragging down that sunny personality, making her unhappy, was intolerable.
There was also the matter of her not wanting to become a viscount’s wife. The slights and condescension she’d endured were real. How could he ask her to subject herself to that for a lifetime?
He had no answer to those questions either.
Exasperated, he reminded himself that he’d been fine on his own before he met her. After a period of time adjusting to not having her engaging companionship, he’d be fine again.
But all this contemplation was not easing the leaden ache in his gut.
He stopped short, realising in his abstraction he’d covered the distance from Lady Arlsley’s town house to Portman Square in record time. Taking a deep breath, he told himself he’d cease agonising about the end of their adventure and concentrate instead, once he’d seen his mother and sister, on packing up and getting ready to escort them out of London.
* * *
Ten days later, Crispin sat in his bedchamber at Montwell Glen, preparing to embark on his next exploratory investment journey. He’d brought with him from London copies of several bills that had been submitted to Parliament for pending railway ventures. Most interesting to him was the London & Southampton, a prospectus for which had been submitted as early as 1831, then several times revised before being submitted as the bill now expected to pass in the current Parliamentary session. Following its most recent survey, he would ride south from London through Wimbledon, Weybridge, Woking Common, Farnborough, Basingstoke, and Winchester to the terminus at Southampton. The addition of docking facilities at the port city and the need to arrange transport from the London terminus at Nine Oaks Station gave an additional element of novelty to the venture.
He was talking with Haines about what needed to be packed in his travelling kit when a footman brought up a letter. Recognising with delight his friend Alex Cheverton’s sloping script—grinning at the ducal seal that closed the missive—he broke it and read through the short letter before laying it back on the desk in astonishment.
He’d been shocked to discover his old friend was now heir to a duke. He was even more shocked that Alex had written to invite him to Edge Hall, the property he’d long managed for the Duke of Farisdeen, to attend his wedding in a week’s time.
He shook his head in disbelief. Granted, he hadn’t seen his friend since late February, but how in that time had Alex managed to fall in love and decide to marry?
Then, if one met an extraordinary person, forming an attachment didn’t require years.
Pushing the image of Marcella Cranmore out of mind, Crispin pulled stationary out of his desk and began writing his acceptance.
He couldn’t wait to meet his old friend and harass him about his great destiny.
He was even more curious to meet the woman who had tempted this self-proclaimed confirmed bachelor to marry.
His investment trip could wait. First, he needed to get himself to Sussex and bear witness as Alex, one of his closest friends, got himself married.
* * *
A week later, Crispin joined Gregory Lattimar, who’d arrived the previous evening after the long journey from Northumberland, in the parlour at Edge Hall, awaiting the arrival of the bridegroom who had gone to the kitchens to check on preparations for the wedding feast to be offered on the estate grounds after the ceremony to his friends, neighbours and tenants.
Crispin went over to clap Lattimar on the back. ‘Recovered from your journey? That was one long ride.’
‘It was,’ Lattimar acknowledged. ‘But I had to do whatever was necessary to arrive on time. I wouldn’t miss witnessing Alex get leg-shackled for the world.’
‘Do you know anything about the bride? Or their courtship? When we last met in February, unless I was too dense or drunk to remember, I don’t recall Alex saying anything about his partiality for any lady.’
‘He didn’t mention a thing,’ Lattimar confirmed. ‘When I first received the invitation, if I hadn’t recognised Alex’s handwriting on the note, I would have thought you sent it as a joke.’
‘Is she a bride recommended by the Duke?’ Crispin asked.
‘I don’t know much about her, except my mother told me she’s the daughter of the Duke’s librarian. Which means she couldn’t have been recommended by him, since Farisdeen would have wanted a much richer and higher-born bride for his heir. Also, if she’s the daughter of the Duke’s librarian, Alex must have known her for a long time. I understand the librarian, an antiquities scholar, has been in residence at Edge Hall since well before Alex started here as estate manager.’
‘Friends to lovers?’ Crispin suggested.
‘Maybe. When next we are all together in London, we must pry the story out of him. With all the family mil
ling around last night, there was no opportunity to draw him aside for private discussion, and he’ll certainly be too busy during the wedding and reception today.’
And afterwards, he won’t linger, too impatient to take his bride away and begin the honeymoon, Crispin thought. As he would be, if he were leaving his wedding reception to claim Marcella Cranmore as his bride.
‘Can’t blame him for being impatient,’ Lattimar was saying. ‘Lovely, isn’t she, his Miss Sudderfeld? I understand she’s a scholar, too, like her father. I would never have expected Alex to fall for a bluestocking.’
‘One can never predict who will engage one’s mind and touch one’s heart.’ How could he have predicted he would become so attached to a railway engineer’s daughter that he still felt like a gaping hole had been ripped in his life since he left her?
Then Alex walked in to join them, such a smile of joy on his face, Crispin could have no doubt that the choice of bride had been his alone. After quizzing him for a few minutes on the outrage of having taken this momentous step without a single consultation with his oldest friends—who could hardly be of much help in making the decision, Alex protested, as both were unmarried and determined to remain that way—it was time to escort the bridegroom to church to meet his bride.
Crispin had been sceptical of Alex’s sudden desire to marry. At first he’d attributed it to the Duke’s desire, after losing his own unmarried and childless son, to see his new heir wedding and begetting without delay. But the glow of happiness in Alex’s eyes had convinced him this wedding was entirely his friend’s idea. That he was wholeheartedly, completely committed to his lady.
It was, in fact, the reason he’d decided to marry at once, Alex confided to them on the way to the church. With the Duke pressing more ‘suitable’ candidates on him, he wanted to convince his lady, who had no desire to become a duchess, to wed him before the Duke entangled him with someone else and the lady he treasured could find more excuses to refuse him.
No desire to be a duchess. Alex’s Jocelyn sounded even more like Marcella, Crispin thought, suppressing a smile.
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