He was the reason why she was not now officially betrothed to Viscount Goodrich—Simon. She could not shake him from her mind. And now it was far worse than it had been all week. Now she had begun to see that perhaps, once upon a time, there had been a totally different Edmond, that perhaps the Lord Edmond she knew had been shaped by guilt and rejection and grief and other factors that she knew nothing of.
But she wanted to see none of those things. She wanted to marry Lord Goodrich. She wanted to be quiet and contented with him. She wanted to have a family with him before she was too old. She did not want to be thinking of Lord Edmond Waite at all.
But try as she would to direct her thoughts toward the future that had been definitely offered to her that evening, she could think only of Lord Edmond as she tossed and turned on her bed. And she could dream only of him after she had fallen asleep—strange, frightening dreams. In one of them he was on horseback and laughing at her as she soared over the high gate that he had just cleared. Except that she was not on horseback, and she was falling slowly, and he was running—on foot, not on horseback—slowly, much too slowly, to try to break her fall. She woke up before she touched the ground—or his outstretched arms.
TWO WEEKS WENT by, weeks during which the heat of the summer became more oppressive in the city. And yet they were not unhappy ones for Mary. Her friends Hannah and Penelope both left, one for the North, the other for Brighton. But the viscount remained and continued his almost daily attentions. He did not renew his marriage proposal during that time, but both of them behaved as if they had an understanding.
True to her word, Lady Eleanor sent an invitation to dinner for both Mary and Lord Goodrich, and they discovered that there was only one other guest, an elderly baronet of Lady Eleanor’s acquaintance, who had been invited to make up the numbers, she explained, without seeming to offend her friend.
It was a pleasant evening, followed by a pleasant drive home. And if Mary’s treacherous mind kept making comparisons, then she ruthlessly suppressed them. She was becoming accustomed to the unwelcome images and memories and was learning not to fight them too ruthlessly, but to patiently and determinedly replace them with others.
She was succeeding, she believed, until one morning when she was going through her mail—much diminished now that the Season and its flood of invitations was at an end. She looked more closely at a letter with unfamiliar handwriting, only to discover that it came from Hampshire, where he had his estate. She slit the seal with impatient and shaking hands and spread the letter on the breakfast table before her. Her eyes went first to the signature, large and bold at the bottom of the page—“Edmond.”
Mary drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes. It was not a long letter, she had noticed. She opened her eyes again.
“My dear Mary,” she read, and paused before reading on. “Contrary to what you may suppose, I did not arrange it. I knew nothing of it until my own invitation arrived this morning. I am inclined to accept because she is my aunt and has always been kind to me. And she will have only one sixtieth birthday, I suppose, unless she refuses to grow any older. However, if you have already accepted your invitation or want to do so and do not wish to see my face again, I will make some plausible excuse. All my tenants and servants can come down with smallpox or some such calamity. May I beg the favor of an immediate reply? Your obedient servant, Edmond.”
Some mysterious invitation from his aunt to a sixtieth-birthday dinner? Mary frowned and thumbed through the rest of the pile of mail, and there it was. She opened the letter with the already familiar handwriting and read the note.
But it was not an invitation merely to dinner or an evening party. It was an invitation to spend a week at Rundle Park, Lady Eleanor’s country home in Kent, in celebration of her sixtieth birthday. A few other family members and friends were to be there, too, Lady Eleanor explained. She very much hoped that Lady Mornington could be among their number. She had sent an invitation to the Viscount Goodrich, too, she added.
Mary folded the invitation and tapped it against her palm as she stared off into space.
It would be courting disaster to meet him again when she did not have to do so. She could easily find an excuse to refuse the invitation. She would not even have to resort to dooming all her servants to an attack of smallpox. She smiled unwillingly at the thought. She would be meeting him, if she agreed to do so, in the close confines of a country party. It was a quite undesirable situation.
But if she saw him again, if she spent a whole week in company with him, then she would surely be able to lay a few ghosts finally to rest. She would be able to see quite unmistakably that whatever he might have been as a very young man, before the death of his brother, now he was a man to be neither liked nor respected.
Nor loved.
She would think about it. She would discuss the invitation with Simon when he came later in the morning to take her shopping and to the library.
But she knew already what her answer would be. What it must be.
And she must write to him before the day was out. She must not keep him waiting for his answer.
It seemed so long. She closed her eyes. It seemed so long since she had seen him last.
10
HE DID NOT PARTICULARLY WANT TO BE DOING THIS, Lord Edmond Waite thought as he descended from his carriage and hugged his aunt. He was always pleased to see her, of course, and normally he would have been quite happy to give a week of his time to celebrating a birthday with her, especially as there was to be other company. He had spent several summers at Rundle Park as a boy, when his uncle was still alive, and had pleasant memories of it.
But it had been hard to leave Willow Court just when he was settling there and finding that living in the country in his own home, surrounded by his own land, and served by his own servants, had a certain charm after all. And a certain soothing influence on a turbulent heart.
Yet now he had to face her again after making such a prize idiot of himself the evening of the garden party. She had not taken his hint that perhaps she should refuse her own invitation, since, as Lady Eleanor’s nephew, he felt pretty much obliged to accept his. She had written back to say that she had no objection to meeting him at Rundle Park if he had none.
If he had none! Did she not have the sense—or the sensitivity—to realize that he would really rather face the devil than her?
And Goodrich had been invited, too. His mistress and bastard brood were going to have to live without him for a whole week, Lord Edmond thought nastily. Was Mary betrothed to him yet? If she was not, doubtless she soon would be. Perhaps this week in the country would provide a suitable environment for the announcement. Perish the thought!
“Edmond!” his aunt said, hugging him and kissing him on the cheek. “Can I believe the evidence of my own eyes? You are a day early, when you are almost always late.”
“Just say the word,” he said, grinning, “and I shall take myself off and put up at the village inn until tomorrow, Aunt. Are there any new barmaids there?”
She clucked her tongue. “You will stay here where I can keep an eye on you,” she said. “Do come inside, dear. It is an unexpected pleasure to have you all to myself for a whole day before anyone else can be expected to arrive. Perhaps I can talk some sense into you.”
“That sounds ominous,” he said, setting an arm about her waist and walking up the horseshoe steps with her to the double front doors. “And what the devil did you mean by sending me a partial guest list with my invitation?”
“Watch your language, dear,” she said. “I thought you might be pleased to know that I was inviting Lady Mornington, too.”
“And Goodrich as well,” he said. “I fell all over myself with eagerness to accept your invitation when I knew that he had been invited, too, Aunt. Has he accepted?”
“Both of them have,” she said. “I believe they are quite an item. It will be a good match for her.”
“She will have the devil of a lot of his attention,” Lord Edmond
said. “What with the two legitimate sons and his mistress and five bastards. Did you know about them?”
“I always think it unkind to use such a word to describe children born out of wedlock,” she said. “They cannot help their birth, after all. Apparently he provides well for them and has a secure future planned for each of them.”
“You do know,” Lord Edmond said. “Then what the devil are you about, saying that he will be a splendid match for Mary? Any woman deserves better.”
“Goodness me,” she said. “Your language does leave something to be desired. It is possible that she knows about that other family. Some women do not mind, you know. It enables them to have all the comforts of marriage without any of the, ah, excesses.”
Lord Edmond snorted. “Mary would mind,” he said. “Believe me, she would mind.”
Lady Eleanor looked interested. “Well, then, dear,” she said, “perhaps you think you would be a better match.”
“Me?” He laughed. “Poor Mary. It would be rather the choice between the devil and the deep blue sea, would it not? At least Goodrich has respectability. He is very discreet about his other life, and that makes it quite acceptable, of course.”
“Pour yourself a drink, dear,” Lady Eleanor said. She had led him into a downstairs salon. “Who is the devil and who the sea, I wonder.”
“No, thank you,” Lord Edmond said. “I would prefer tea, Aunt. If you are having some, that is.”
She raised her eyebrows but said nothing. She crossed to the bell rope and pulled it. “I thought you had something of a tendre for her,” she said. “Now I am sure of it.”
“For Lady Mornington?” he said scornfully. “A tendre, Aunt? What put such a ridiculous notion into your head?”
“A certain way you had of looking at her when you were in Richmond,” she said. “And a certain hostility toward a gentleman who we both agree is quite respectable and quite an eligible suitor for her.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “Anyone with any decency would feel distaste at the idea of a poor woman contemplating marriage with a man while knowing nothing of the very domestic and long-standing arrangement he has with a woman of another class.”
She smiled. “I have not heard any speeches of moral outrage from you in many years, Edmond,” she said. “Welcome home, dear.”
He frowned but said nothing as the door opened at that moment to admit the butler and a maid with the tea and cakes.
“And talking of home,” she said when they were alone again, “tell me what you have been doing at Willow Court in the past few weeks. Getting to know your property, I hope, and astounding your bailiff with your interest. And do sit down, dear. You look rather like a cross bear standing there.”
Lord Edmond sat.
SHE WOULD REALLY rather not be doing this, Mary thought as the carriage completed its long drive through the park leading to Rundle and turned in the direction of the horseshoe steps. Normally she would have been delighted at the prospect of a week in the country during the heat of August, especially as her hostess was to be someone she liked.
But she would have to meet him again just at a time when she was beginning to persuade herself that she was putting him from her memory. And just at a time when she believed Simon was preparing to renew his offer for her and she was preparing to accept.
She was going to accept. Definitely. She had decided that.
“Here we are at last,” Lord Goodrich said from beside her. She had agreed to travel with him, since the journey from London to Rundle Park could be made in a single day. “You will be glad to refresh yourself and have some tea, I am sure, Mary.”
“Yes.” She looked fearfully from the window, but the double doors at the top of the steps were only just opening. No one had yet emerged. “It has been a tiring day.”
The viscount was already handing her down onto the cobbles when Lady Eleanor came from the house and down the steps, followed by Sir Harold Wright, the same gentleman who had been at Richmond when they had dined there. There was no one else, Mary saw in some relief, except servants.
“How wonderful!” Lady Eleanor smiled at Lord Goodrich and hugged Mary. “Now everyone is here and yet it is still not quite teatime. All my guests can become acquainted before the afternoon is out.”
Mary shook hands with Sir Harold, who was asking the viscount politely about the journey.
“Do come inside, dear,” Lady Eleanor said, taking Mary’s arm. “I shall take you to your room myself, and you may take some time to freshen up. It always feels good to change one’s gown and wash one’s face after a journey, does it not? And on such a hot day, too. Is the weather not glorious? I just hope it holds for the week so that everyone can find plenty of entertainment outdoors. Ah, good. I see that your luggage and your maid have arrived. And Lord Goodrich’s valet, is it?”
Mary smiled and looked about her in interest at the neatly tiled hall of the manor. She had always wished that she had a home in the country. But Lawrence, though he had left her comfortably well-off, had not been a wealthy man.
“You are not quite the last guests to arrive,” Lady Eleanor said. “But the others are not to arrive for a few days yet and are to be kept a secret.” She smiled mysteriously. “Being sixty years old, Lady Mornington—I am going to call you Mary if you do not mind—makes one bold. One realizes that there is not limitless time left and that certain things that need doing and perhaps have needed doing for years must be done now if they are to be done at all. Along here, dear. I have given you a room facing across the park to the front. I have always preferred this view to that of the hills and trees at the back, though many people prefer the wilder aspect there. Here we are.”
“How lovely,” Mary said, looking about her at the Chinese wallpaper and screens of her room and at the floral curtains and bed hangings.
“I knew you would like it,” Lady Eleanor said. “I shall leave you, dear, and send my housekeeper in half an hour to direct you to the drawing room for tea.”
“Thank you.” Mary smiled at her hostess and wandered to the window after she had been left alone. The driveway ran very straight behind formal gardens, flanked on either side by rolling lawns and stands of trees. It was all very green. Very beautiful. She would have a country home, she thought suddenly, if she married Simon. When she married Simon.
Some of the guests were to arrive a few days later, Lady Eleanor had said. Perhaps he was one of them. Perhaps she would not have to face him that day. Perhaps there would be a few days first in which to relax.
There was hope in the thought. And also, inexplicably, a twinge of disappointment. She wanted the meeting over with. If it had to happen, then it might as well be now.
Her maid arrived at that moment with a manservant carrying her trunk, and Mary turned her mind to getting ready for tea.
THEY HAD ARRIVED. Together. He had watched them from an upstairs window, alighting from their carriage and greeting his aunt and Sir Harold. They were quite an item, his aunt had said. Well.
Lord Edmond ensconced himself in the corner of the drawing room farthest from the door and exchanged reminiscences with Peter and Andrew Shelbourne, nephews of his uncle, no blood relations of his at all. He had met them often at Rundle Park when they were all boys. Peter’s wife, Doris, sat silently at her husband’s side. She disapproved of him, Lord Edmond thought, and did what he often did under such circumstances—he fixed her with a steady look until she lowered her eyes. Now she would be a little afraid of him, too. It was so easy to intimidate women.
There were twenty-one guests in all, including Sir Harold Wright, his aunt’s faithful friend since long before his uncle’s death. Rumor had had it once upon a time that they were lovers, but if it were true, they were very discreet about their affair and had made no move to marry after his uncle’s death. Perhaps they were just friends, Lord Edmond thought. Perhaps it was just that gossip could not accept anything so dull and unscandalous as a platonic relationship. Anyway, it was none of his business.
<
br /> It was a larger gathering than he had expected, but he welcomed the numbers. It would be easier to keep his distance from her. And apart from her presence, it was an unthreatening gathering. He had always been a little afraid at his aunt’s parties that he would unexpectedly run into some other member of his family. But she had always been tactful. She had never tried to entertain his father or his eldest brother and him at the same time. He was the only guest at the party from her own family.
But then, she had always declared quite openly, even when he had been a puny and bookish and quite uninteresting boy, that he was her favorite. Bless her heart.
And then, just when he was chuckling over some long-forgotten memory with Peter and Andrew and was feeling quite off his guard, she came into the room. He knew it even though he was not looking directly at the door at the time. And sure enough, when he did look, there she was. Their eyes locked almost immediately. She had come into the room alone—without her watchdog.
He favored her with his expressionless stare, since he could not at the moment quell from his mind the memory of the abject misery with which he had taken his leave of her the last time he had seen her. She lifted her chin and then inclined her head. She did not smile.
Well, he thought, turning away to resume his conversation with his childhood friends, that was that, then. He had seen her again and he was still feeling relatively sane. The room had not crashed about his head. Many of those present—Doris Shelbourne, for example—would undoubtedly derive huge amusement from the knowledge that he had been waiting in fear and trembling for the arrival of one small, not particularly beautiful lady. Well, it was over.
He thought of an escapade that had got him and Peter into some trouble many years ago—one that the poker-faced Doris would not find quite proper—and began to tell it. To hell with the woman, he thought. If she expected vulgarity from him, then he was more than willing to oblige her.
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