He had never believed in love—at least he had not for many weary years. It was no time now to start believing in it. Not at the age of thirty-six, when no decent woman could be expected to afford him a second glance.
What could he do? He must do something to drag himself out of the gloom that assailed him at frequent intervals, this time caused by a foolish infatuation for a woman.
The Season was at an end, to all intents and purposes. He could go to one of the spas as he often did during the summer. Or to Brighton. He thought with distaste of Brighton. He could go to the Continent, travel about for perhaps a year or so. Or he could go down into Hampshire. His estate there was not really far away, and yet it was almost two years since he had been there last.
Perhaps he would go there. It would be soothing perhaps to be in the country with nothing and no one to remind him of a wasted life.
Yes, he thought with sudden decision, he would go into the country—the very next day.
He rang the bell for his valet.
9
MARY WAS ANGRY. A WEEK HAD PASSED SINCE THE garden party at Lady Eleanor’s, and he had kept his promise. Oh, he had kept his promise, all right, but in such a way that she began to despair of ever being free of him. He had done it deliberately. Somewhere he was laughing at her, knowing very well what he had done to her.
She hated him with a passion.
In many ways it had been a gratifying week. She had seen Viscount Goodrich every day or evening—sometimes both—and he had been flattering in his attentions to her. If he had indeed hoped to make her his mistress the week before, he had not pressed the matter since. He had even apologized to her the day after the garden party. He had called on her during the morning.
“You are not well?” he asked her after they had greeted each other. He was looking closely at her.
She had cried for an hour the night before, and lain awake for at least another two. She smiled. “Just a little headache,” she said. “Nothing some fresh air will not blow away.”
And so he took her for a late-morning walk in the park. And asked her politely about the day before. She told him how she had liked Lady Eleanor and how the lady had said she would try to attend Mary’s literary evening the following week.
That was when he apologized. He covered the hand that was resting on his arm with his own and looked down at her. “Forgive me for my manner and words two evenings ago,” he said. “I was behaving in a possessive manner that I have no right to—yet. And I am afraid the suggestion I made was very improper. Please believe that it arose purely from my deep concern for your safety and peace of mind.”
“You are forgiven,” she said, smiling at him. “And I was indeed upset that evening. But no longer. I will be seeing no more of Lord Edmond Waite.” Strangely the words were like a heavy weight on her shoulders.
He squeezed her hand. “I am glad to hear it, ma’am,” he said. “Such a man can only mean you harm. I am convinced that there is not a decent bone in his body.”
She did not immediately reply. I will stay away from you. I will keep my promise to you because I love you. She did not want to remember those words. After she had cried bitterly over them for a whole hour, she had no longer believed them. She agreed with Lord Goodrich. And be happy, Mary. That is all I want for you. No, the man was a fiend. The very devil. How could she be happy?
“I believe you are right,” she said.
They went walking and driving together over the coming days, and visited the Tower and Westminster Abbey, where they spent a happy hour reading the tombstones and epitaphs in Poets’ Corner. They attended the theater and the opera and a concert in the home of the Earl of Raymore.
He talked to her of his home in Lincolnshire and of his two sons, who were away at school and of whose existence she had not known before. He was very close to declaring himself, she was sure. And she would accept, she had decided. She liked him. Life with him offered stability and security and the chance for a permanent contentment.
She wished that he would kiss her, but he never kissed more than her hand. She wanted him to kiss her. She had some ghosts to banish, and she needed him to banish them. But apart from that one suggestion during her literary evening, his behavior toward her was perfectly correct.
It was a happy week. She was deep into what appeared to be a serious courtship, and her friends approved. Both Penelope and Hannah were relieved at the abrupt ending of her association with Lord Edmond, and delighted with the development of her attachment to the viscount.
She was happy. Lord Goodrich could offer her all the companionship she had known with Marcus—though there had been a very special affection between her and Marcus that had not yet developed with the viscount. But it would develop in time. And Lord Goodrich could offer more. He could offer her the permanency and respectability of marriage, with none of the uncertainties and dangers that had marked her marriage with Lawrence.
She was happy. And yet anger grew in her as the week progressed. Lord Edmond Waite—she had grown to hate the very sound of his name—had proved even less honorable and less of a gentleman than in her worst fears. For if he had continued to pursue her, she could have been righteously angry with him. She could have fought him. And if he had broken off his connection with her as he had promised, she could have been exuberant with the relief of being rid of him. But he had managed to do both and neither.
He had made very sure during that drive home that she had felt again all the unwilling attraction for him that she had denied since Vauxhall. He had played on that attraction until she would gladly have lain with him right there in his aunt’s carriage if he had chosen to take her. Or she would have gone with him again to that most vulgar love nest. She did not know quite how he had aroused such feelings of surrender, but he had. And she could not even openly blame him for them. He had used no apparent coercion. Indeed, he had given her a way out and then scrupulously allowed her to take it.
So that she would look back in longing? So that she would continue to ache for him long after he had gone? So that she would forever regret that night, which they might have spent together?
To her horror, she had been quite like a puppet on a string. She had done all of those things. All week, while her mind—her real self—was happy with Lord Goodrich and looked forward to a more permanent relationship with him, her body longed for Lord Edmond.
She had cried and cried for him after he had left her that one evening. For one mad hour she had convinced herself that he really did love her. Worse, she had been convinced that she loved him, too.
The fiend! He had planned it all. And now he very carefully kept himself out of her sight. She looked for him—unwillingly—wherever she went, but never once set eyes on him. He was doing it deliberately. He knew that if she only saw him again, she would see him for what he was and be free of him.
She began to fear that she would never be free of him.
MARY HAD SENT an invitation to Lady Eleanor to attend her next—and last—literary evening. The Season was over and London was emptying fast of people of ton. Many people were removing to one of the spas or to the seaside or to their country estates. Lady Eleanor sent an acceptance and the added assurance that she was vastly looking forward to the evening.
Perhaps her nephew would accompany her, Mary thought, and hoped not and tried not to expect such a thing. He would not come, surely, after keeping his promise for almost a whole week. Unless he wanted to see what effect the week of his absence had had on her, of course.
Lady Eleanor came alone. She sat and listened to one of the two poets who had accepted Mary’s invitation, and joined in the lengthy and vigorous discussion that followed. And then she sought out Mary.
“A splendid evening, my dear Lady Mornington,” she said. “It is a while since I enjoyed myself so much. What a pity that Edmond is not here.”
“I have not seen him for almost a week,” Mary said.
“He went into the country the day after my garden part
y,” Lady Eleanor said. “Did you not know? I would normally have been glad, since he does not spend a great deal of time on his estate and needs to be there more often. But I must confess I was sad to find that my guess must have been wrong. I thought that the two of you had a tendre for each other, my dear.”
“Oh,” Mary said, flushing. “No.”
“It is a great pity,” Lady Eleanor said. “You are just exactly the woman for him, my dear, if you will excuse me for saying so. You are someone who might have brought him back to himself.”
Mary looked at her warily.
“And the sort of atmosphere that is here tonight might have brought him back, too,” Lady Eleanor said. “If he is to be brought back at all. It has been a long time. Most people, I would imagine, think that he is unreclaimable. What do you think, Lady Mornington?”
“Ma’am?” Mary frowned.
“I was under the impression that you were quite closely acquainted with him,” Lady Eleanor said. “Perhaps I was mistaken? Perhaps you know very little of him? I do beg your pardon, but I assumed, you see, that you probably would not have been with him at all if you had not known him well. He does have a deservedly shocking reputation, I am afraid.”
“My acquaintance with Lord Edmond is slight, ma’am,” Mary said.
“Ah,” Lady Eleanor said. “I shall say no more, then.” But she sighed and continued anyway. “As a young man, Edmond would have been very much at home here, Lady Mornington. He would quite possibly have been one of your poets, though doubtless his poems would have been written in Latin or Greek and almost no one would have understood them.”
Mary stared at her.
“He was too bookish,” Lady Eleanor said. “His head was never out of a book. My brother and sister-in-law were worried about him. He would never be able to live in the real world, they used to say. His only ambition was to study for the church, and he was doing so, even though he had not been destined for the church. That was to be his elder brother’s position in life—my brother always believed that Richard’s sweetness and gentleness would make him an ideal clergyman, though I had my doubts. But it was the life Edmond chose for himself.” She chuckled. “He would not have made a good clergyman, either, though. He knew nothing of life. Poor Edmond. He was always my favorite, Lady Mornington, though Richard was almost everyone else’s.”
Mary listened in disbelief. Was the Edmond Lady Eleanor was talking about the same Lord Edmond she knew? He could not be. There must be some mistake. But how could there be? Lady Eleanor was his aunt.
“At the time, I used to wish that he were a little more worldly,” Lady Eleanor said. “And yet now I look back and long to see that quiet, serious, studious boy again. If only the accident had not happened. Do you know about the accident, Lady Mornington, or is everything I am saying mystifying you?”
“The death of his brother?” Mary asked.
“Ah, you do know,” Lady Eleanor said. “But I must be boring you, dear, if you have no more than a passing acquaintance with my nephew. And I am keeping you from your guests.”
But Mary set a hand on her arm as she turned away. “Please,” she said, “you called it an accident. Are you merely being diplomatic? Or is that how you would really describe it?”
Lady Eleanor looked at her for a moment and clucked her tongue. “I suppose Edmond has been telling you the usual story,” she said, “and the one that seemed to take root here in town. About his killing Richard and all that nonsense? He is quite as bad as my brother and my eldest nephew. The truth is, Lady Mornington, that Richard was not the best of riders, but rode anyway and took a foolish and unnecessary risk and died as a result. It was everyone’s fault and no one’s. It was an accident. But it changed Edmond’s life—totally and unbelievably. And I suppose I am unrealistic to hope that he will ever come back to himself again.”
“But …” Mary said. She was interrupted by the viscount, who came up behind her and took her by the elbow. He was smiling.
“Ma’am?” he said to Lady Eleanor. “I hope you are enjoying the evening. You have outdone yourself this time, Lady Mornington. Everyone seems eager to be a part of both groups at once.”
Mary smiled at him.
“Goodrich?” Lady Eleanor said. “I always discover good things when it is almost too late. But no matter. I shall be a frequenter of your salon next year, Lady Mornington, my dear.”
“Supper must be ready,” Mary said. “I should go and see.”
“Allow me,” the viscount said, squeezing her elbow before striding from the room.
“So that is the connection,” Lady Eleanor said, smiling at Mary. “And a very eligible one, too, my dear. I wish now that I had not thought of you in association with Edmond. I find myself disappointed that it is not so. But no more of that. You are staying in town for the summer?”
“I have no plans to remove anywhere else,” Mary said.
“Then I shall see you again,” Lady Eleanor said. “I shall send you an invitation. Perhaps I will include Goodrich in it. That would not be out of line?”
Mary blushed. “I think not,” she said.
Lady Eleanor nodded and turned toward the group whose conversation she had not yet sampled.
It was later that evening that Viscount Goodrich kissed Mary for the first time and asked her to marry him. He stayed until everyone else had left, even Penelope, who looked from Mary to the viscount in some amusement, shrugged her shoulders, and bade them a good night.
They were in the hallway. Mary turned to look at him inquiringly. He was not, surely, about to renew his offer of the week before. He took her by the elbow, guided her back into the salon, out of the sight of her servants, and closed the door behind them.
“Lady Mornington,” he said, possessing himself of one of her hands, “you cannot, I think, be insensible of my feelings toward you.”
She looked up at him and said nothing.
“I hold you in the highest regard,” he said. “In the deepest affection, I might make so bold as to add.”
“Thank you,” she said, curling her fingers about his. “Thank you, my lord.”
“And if you are in any doubt about my intentions toward you,” he said, “let me clarify them without further delay. They are the most honorable. I wish you to be my wife, ma’am.”
She stared at him. He was going to be her husband. She was to grow as familiar with him—with his appearance, his speech, his habits—as she was with herself. She was to live with him in the daily intimacy she had known with Lawrence. Her mind felt satisfaction, even elation. It would be a good match. It was what she had wanted for several years. It was what she had never been able to have with Marcus.
“Will you?” He had her hand in both of his. “Will you do me the honor, Lady Mornington?”
He was too bookish … He wanted only to study for the church … He knew nothing of life. Poor Edmond … that quiet, serious, studious boy. The words, in Lady Eleanor’s voice, had been revolving in Mary’s head since before supper. She had not been able to rid herself of them. She could have wished Lord Goodrich’s timing had been a little better.
“I … I don’t know,” she said.
But she did know. She did. She wanted to marry him. She wanted to be married. She wanted to be a mother if she could.
“Ah.” He squeezed her hand. “I have spoken too precipitately. You need more time.”
“Yes.” She smiled at him in relief. She needed time to rid her head of the strange and bizarre images of Lord Edmond Waite that his aunt had put there. “A little more time, if you will, my lord.”
“I can wait,” he said, “as long as you can assure me that there is hope, Lady Mornington. May I have the privilege of calling you by your given name?”
“Yes,” she said, and when she swayed slightly toward him, she realized that she had done so almost deliberately. She wanted the images gone from her head. She wanted to be convinced that Lord Edmond meant nothing to her. “Do call me Mary.”
“Mar
y,” he said. And he released her hand, set his hands on her shoulders, lowered his head, and kissed her.
It was not close enough. He made no move either to open his mouth or to draw her closer. It was not close enough. She wanted to feel him against her, holding her close. She wanted to feel his mouth over hers. She wanted desperately to feel the same sensations she had felt the week before. She needed to be convinced that it was a man she needed physically. Not just one particular man. She wanted to be able to choose her man with her mind and know that the physical was very much less important because it was the same with every man.
A foolish wish. It was not the same with every man. Lord Goodrich’s embrace was … pleasant.
“I had better take my leave,” he said, lifting his head away from hers and looking at her with smoldering eyes. “Or I will not be able to leave at all, Mary.”
She looked at him in blank surprise. Was he speaking the truth? Had he found their embrace arousing? She had not—not to even the smallest degree. She had not thought she was meant to.
“Mary?” He was looking at her intently. “Do you want me to leave?”
“Yes, please, my lord,” she said.
“Simon,” he said.
“Simon.”
He dipped his head and kissed her again briefly. “Good night, then, Mary,” he said. “You will come walking in St. James’s Park tomorrow afternoon?”
“I shall look forward to it,” she said.
“And I, too.”
She walked out into the hall with him and saw him on his way. And she wondered as she climbed the stairs to her room why she was not now officially betrothed to him. No, she did not wonder. She knew the reason. How had Lady Eleanor phrased it? He had changed totally and … How? Unbelievably. He had been quiet and bookish, too unworldly for his own good. He had wanted to be a clergyman. He had been studying to become one. Lord Edmond Waite? It was impossible, surely. Oh, surely it was impossible!
He had written Latin and Greek poetry. Lord Edmond Waite!
He had gone into the country. That was why she had not set eyes on him since the day of the garden party.
Mary Balogh Page 35