Mary Balogh

by A Counterfeit Betrothal; The Notorious Rake

  “You must not be afraid of me, you know, Olivia,” he had said to her one evening when he was escorting her home across the park from Emma’s.

  She had never before thought of being afraid of him. But one gossip of the village had regaled them all quite improperly for part of the evening with tales of an unknown rapist in a town no more than ten miles distant. And she had not really been afraid, of course, only more conscious of the darkness and loneliness of the park.

  “Perhaps you wonder why I have never tried to make love to you since Marcus left,” he had said. “I suppose you realize that there has been some gossip about us in the village since we do spend a great deal of time together.”

  “I care nothing for gossip,” she had assured him.

  “I must tell you something,” he had said. “Something I have never told anyone, Olivia, and never thought to tell. But you need to know that you must never fear me. I do not care for women in that way, you see.”

  She had been stunned. “Do you mean …?”

  “Yes, I do,” he had said. “And unfortunately it is something one cannot change by a mere effort of will. I am as I am. But no woman or man knows except you. For willpower does enable one to be chaste, you know. I have chosen chastity over the other choice. Are you totally disgusted?”

  She had been. Nauseated, too. But he had been her dear friend for several years at that time.

  “I am sorry,” she had said, “I cannot respond so soon, Clarence. I want not to be shocked. Certainly I want not to be disgusted. I think life must have been hard for you.”

  “Life is never easy, is it?” he had said. “You know that better than anyone, Olivia. I shall call on you in a few days’ time and you shall tell me quite honestly if you can continue to be my friend. And you must not lie to me. I shall know, you see.”

  No, she supposed Marc did not know.

  “You need not think that I am waiting for an answer,” he said. “I am not accusing you, Olivia. It would be rather ridiculous to start acting the outraged husband at this late date, would it not? I am glad, in fact, to find that you have been having some pleasure out of life. I imagine that he has been good to you?”

  “He is my friend,” she said. “My dear friend.”

  “Ah,” he said.

  “Lady Mornington was at Lady Methuen’s soirée,” she said.

  “Ah, was she?” he said. “I hope you avoided the embarrassment of coming face-to-face with her.”

  “No,” she said. “We spoke. She seems a refined lady.”

  “You expected a vulgar whore?” he said. “She is not. She is my friend.” There was a pause. “My dear friend.”

  She said nothing.

  He crossed the bedchamber and stooped down to pick up his nightshirt. He pulled it on and drew his dressing gown over it.

  “Well,” he said, “must we feel guilt at this night of infidelity to our dear friends, Olivia? I think not, do you? We are, after all, still married in the eyes of church and state. And sentiment always attaches itself to such occasions as family weddings. I think we can forgive ourselves.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  He laughed softly. “At least you can forgive yourself,” he said, “even if you are unable to forgive others. Good night, Olivia. Sleep well.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Good night, Marcus.”

  After he had gone, she got out of bed, drew on her nightgown, and sat on the window seat against which he had stood a few minutes before. A little later she returned to the bed to fetch a blanket to wrap about herself. And she stared out of the window into the darkness until she finally fell asleep a little before dawn.

  13

  THEY CAME SEEMINGLY BY THE DOZENS DURING the next week, the wedding guests. There were family—the duke’s brother and sister and the former’s wife; their children with their spouses and children; two cousins of the earl’s and one of the countess’s, with their families; and friends of everyone, including the bride and groom.

  “I had not realized there were so many rooms at Clifton, Papa,” Sophia said to him one afternoon after they had greeted cousins of two generations and a few infants of the third.

  “If any more people arrive,” he said, putting an arm about her shoulders, “we may have to sweep the cobwebs out of the attics, Sophia, and even set up tents on the parapets. The next time you decide to marry, my girl, remember all that comes along with a wedding, will you?”

  The next time you marry. His eyes were twinkling down at her. He was teasing, of course. But she silently resolved that there would never be a next time. She could not do this to Papa again. Besides, she would have no wish to marry once this betrothal was safely in the past.

  “Everyone has arrived,” she told Francis that evening when several of the younger people had strolled outside.

  “And so they have,” he said. “I’ll wager your papa is glad there are only three more days of this, Soph. One trips over guests wherever one turns. Are you cold?”

  “No,” she said through chattering teeth. “We cannot wait any longer, Francis. It is going to have to be done tonight. Is it to be by violent quarrel or amicable mutual consent? Either way it must be mutual, I think. I do not want you to seem thoroughly jilted.”

  “You think we should have a few servants round everyone up and send them to the drawing room?” he said. “There is going to be an almighty squash in there, Soph. And who is to make the announcement? It can hardly be me since honor does not allow me to break a betrothal. You?”

  “Me?” Her voice came out a squeak.

  “Or perhaps there should be a private meeting with our parents first,” he said. “Perhaps your papa will make the announcement.”

  “Oh,” she said and unconsciously took a death grip on his arm. “He will be so humiliated. It does not seem fair that the task should be his, does it?”

  “And yet it was for his happiness that we undertook this whole charade,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said doubtfully.

  “It looks hopeful, Soph,” he said. “They have been acting like a couple since we returned from London. They are always together to greet people, and there has been enough of that in the last few days, heaven knows.”

  “Yes,” she said, “but I cannot help thinking that they are doing it just for my sake since I told Papa how I felt, Francis.” She pulled on his arm. “We must not keep strolling like this, putting it off. We must go back to the house now and ask Mama and Papa and your parents to come to the library.”

  “Oh, Lord,” he said, “I do believe Great-uncle Aubrey and cousins Julius and Bradley and Lord Wheatley have taken possession of the library, Soph, with a brandy decanter and a bottle or three of port.”

  “To the blue salon, then,” she said.

  “Aunt Hester and Aunt Leah are exchanging a year’s worth of on dits in there,” he said, “with your great-aunt Clara and cousin Dorothea and half a dozen other ladies as audience.”

  “The morning room, then,” she said.

  “The older children have been allowed to spill out of the nursery and into there for the evening, if you remember,” he said.

  “Well, somewhere,” she said. “There has to be an empty room somewhere, Francis.”

  “I have my doubts,” he said. “But if we summon them to the middle of the hall, I daresay no one will hear what is being said.”

  “Francis!” she said.

  “I’ll tell you what, Soph,” he said, patting her hand. “This evening is entirely the wrong time to do it. Half the men are into their cups and the ladies are into their gossip and a few people out here have stolen into the shadows for a private tête-à-tête and a dozen or so people arrived only today and would not take kindly to having to pack their half-unpacked bags to leave again at dawn. I think perhaps we should leave everyone to an evening’s entertainment and tell them tomorrow in the light of day.”

  “In the light of day,” she said. “Oh, heaven forbid. Francis, it has to be done soon. If we go on like this mu
ch longer, we are going to be married.”

  “The devil, yes,” he said. “We cannot have that, can we? Tomorrow it must be, then, Soph, and not a moment later. Married, by Jove. I cannot think of any fate more dreadful, can you?”

  “None,” she said tartly. “Especially marriage to you. I could think of better ways to be comfortable in hell.”

  “Oh, come now,” he said, “there is no need for spite, is there, Soph?”

  “Well,” she said, “you are always saying things about dreadful fates and all that. Do you think our marrying would be any better a fate for me? Do you think I am secretly panting for you? Do you think I am secretly hoping that there will be no way out of this betrothal after all? If the time does not seem right to you tomorrow, Francis, I shall go up on the roof and yell the news out to the whole countryside. How do you like that?”

  “I like it very well,” he said. “I shall summon everyone out onto the lawn for you, shall I, Soph? The mental image of your standing up there, arms extended, hair streaming in the breeze, is enormously stimulating. I think you would need a larger bosom to carry it off to effect, though.”

  “Oh,” she said, “so now my bosom is too small, is it?”

  “Are you sure you will feel up to discussing such a topic with me once the first flush of your ire has cooled?” he asked. “I think perhaps it is time I kissed you and took you inside, Soph.”

  “Don’t you come near me,” she said.

  “A strange command,” he said, “when you are clinging to my arm.”

  She released it.

  “Will you be very glad to be rid of me, Soph?” he asked, cupping her face in his hands.

  “Yes, very,” she said. “Very, very glad.”

  “You will have no one to quarrel with,” he said.

  “And no one to insult me,” she said.

  “And no one to whom to release your venom.”

  “I won’t need to with you gone,” she said.

  “You are going to miss me,” he said.

  “True,” she said. “Just as I miss the surgeon who pulled one of my teeth last year. Just as I miss the pair of shoes I threw out early this spring because they gave me blisters on all ten toes. Just as …”

  “Well,” he said, “at least we share mutual feelings about being rid of each other. I was afraid that you might miss me in earnest.”

  “Conceited—mm,” she said as he kissed her.

  “Mm, yes,” he said after a considerable interval of silence. “We share that sentiment, too, Soph. Let’s do it one more time, shall we? By this time tomorrow, all will be over.”

  “It cannot be too soon for me,” she said. “Mmm.”

  “Mmm,” he said a while later. “I am in total agreement with you, Soph. Shall we go inside before this mood of rare amity is broken by another quarrel?”

  “I don’t know why you are kissing me anyway,” she said. “We do not have to deceive anyone any longer, do we?”

  “Sometimes, Soph,” he said, “one has to do something purely for oneself.”

  She looked up at him.

  “I could see that you were longing to be kissed,” he said. “Ah, that’s better. You suddenly look much more yourself.”

  “You toad!” she said.

  THEY HAD SPENT a great deal of time together since her return from London. But apart from that one night with its bitter ending, they had not been alone together. He had not been to her room again although she had lain awake at night watching the door to her dressing room, expecting him and knowing that he would not come, longing for him and dreading that he would appear.

  There were three more days to Sophia’s wedding, she told herself on the evening after the last of the guests had arrived. Easy days since there was so much to be done and so many guests to entertain and relatives and friends to spend time with. There would be no chance for them to be alone with each other, and he had shown that he had no further wish to come to her at night. She did not know why he had come that one night. He was missing his mistress, perhaps?

  Emma and Clarence were planning to leave the day after the wedding. It was enough that Lord Clifton had entertained such large numbers during the week and more leading up to the nuptials, Emma said. The least they could do was take themselves off without delay once the festivities were over.

  “And you will be glad of some peace and quiet and relaxation, Olivia,” she said, “after all this excitement.”

  Yes, she would. But she would not find those things at Clifton. When her friends returned to Rushton, she had decided, she would go with them. There she would begin her battle for inner peace all over again.

  She was sitting beside her husband on a sofa in the drawing room, their shoulders almost touching. They were in a group with her parents and the Biddefords and Emma and Clarence. Several guests were in other rooms of the house. Most of the young people had gone outside for a stroll, the rain having finally ceased the day before.

  “Yes,” her father was saying, continuing a conversation that had been in progress for several minutes. “What you say is quite right, Miss Burnett. One does not need a large number of close family members to achieve contentment in life. We have only one daughter and one granddaughter, though we wished for more of each, did we not, Bridget? But we have each other and our circle of good friends and we live a blessedly contented life.”

  “Friends are the key to contentment,” Emma said. “One can choose one’s friends, you see, whereas one cannot choose one’s family.”

  “Except one’s spouse,” the earl said.

  “But friendship consists in freedom,” Emma said, launching on her favorite theme, “the freedom to give or to withhold affection. That freedom instantly vanishes in marriage. Once one is compelled to friendship, then it no longer is friendship but forced amity. Freedom is killed. Love is killed.”

  “Not necessarily,” Olivia’s father said, leaning forward in his chair.

  “Olivia,” Clarence said with a smile, “I am going to take myself off for a turn about the terrace. If I stay any longer, I will not know who are my friends and who are not or even what friendship is. Would you care to join me?”

  She got gratefully to her feet. “That sounds wonderful,” she said.

  “Would anyone else care for a stroll?” he asked, looking about the group. But everyone else seemed engrossed in the discussion.

  Olivia met her husband’s eyes and half smiled. “Excuse me?” she said.

  “Of course.” He inclined his head.

  It was a beautiful evening, fresh after the days of rain and cool, too, but not cool enough to necessitate running upstairs for a shawl.

  “Emma is in her element,” she said, taking Clarence’s arm as they stepped out onto the terrace. “She has a totally new audience on whom to unleash her theories.”

  “I know,” he said, grinning. “But I am the old audience and thought it time to come outside for fresh air.”

  “Ah,” she said, breathing in the freshness, “it does feel good.”

  “Things are going well for you, Olivia?” he asked. “I half expected to find the two of you at daggers drawn when I arrived. Instead, I was witness to all of Marcus’s impatience to have you home from London, and the sight of the two of you after your return looking like a pair of reunited lovers.”

  “He was eager to have Sophia back home,” she said. “He has not seen enough of her over the years, Clarence. I always knew from his letters that he loved her. I did not realize until I came here that his love for her equals my own.”

  “Will you be staying?” he asked. “You know my opinion about that old quarrel and about your long and unnecessary separation.”

  “It was not a quarrel,” she said, “and it was not unnecessary. I am going to come home with you and Emma.”

  “The day after the wedding? Are you sure, Olivia?”

  “I can scarcely wait,” she said. “I feel as if I cannot breathe here, Clarence. I want to be home in my own world with my own friends
and activities.”

  “With Emma and me and the Povises and the Richardsons and everyone else?” he said. “Are we worthy substitutes for Marcus, Olivia? Has he said he wants you to go?”

  “He has not said that he wants me to stay, either,” she said. “It is intolerable being here, Clarence. When I first came, as you know, I thought it would be merely to spend a few days discussing Sophia’s future and rejecting Lord Francis’s offer. There seemed to be no question of our allowing her to marry. In fact, of course, it was not as simple as that. You warned me, did you not? Neither of us had faced the fact that she is grown up and of marriageable age and that Francis is a perfectly eligible partner for her, even if he has been a little wild since coming down from university. If I had known that this was to happen, I would have written to Marcus telling him that any decision of his would have my support. I would not have come.”

  “But you would have come for her wedding,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said. “Yes, I suppose I would have. And we have more or less agreed, Clarence, to come together occasionally after Sophia is married, to visit her or be visited by her. I wish it did not have to be. I am already dreading the next few weeks.”

  “Because you will have to go through again what you went through years ago when Marcus first left?” he asked.

  “How will I survive it?” she asked.

  “By being proud and stubborn and as strong as any ten other women put together,” he said. “And as foolish as twenty.”

  “What am I to do, then?” she asked. “Go down on my knees to him and beg him to take me back?”

  “Perhaps allow him to do that same thing,” he said.

  She laughed. “I met Lady Mornington in London,” she said. “She is not at all lovely, Clarence. And I know that sounds tabbyish, but I do not mean it that way. She seemed like a perfectly sensible, amiable, intelligent woman. She looked like the kind of woman a man would become attached to. They have been together for six years, I believe—longer than he and I were together. I told him I had met her, and he did not deny a thing or try to justify himself. He merely said that she was his dear friend.”