“A good idea,” he said. “More invitations like that, Mary, and you might well find yourself being tumbled on the hard ground and complaining bitterly to me afterward about my lack of restraint. If you want me, you have but to say the word and we can make the proper arrangements. But I like my mistresses in civilized surroundings.”
“In scarlet rooms,” she said. Her voice was scornful. “And mistress, did you say? Not wife any longer?”
“Why marry you,” he said, “when you seem so very available without benefit of clergy?”
She drew away from him and began to walk along the path toward the next folly, a tower which had been built ruined. Miss Wiggins was standing fearfully at the top, on the very safe ruined parapets, clinging to the arm of Andrew Shelbourne, and everyone else was either looking up at them or gazing out across the lake, which was close by.
“I have quite lost touch with you over the years,” the Reverend Samuel Ormsby said to Lord Edmond. “Ever since you were sent down from Oxford most unjustly.”
“It was hardly unjust,” Lord Edmond said. “I did call such a hallowed personage as a don an ass, you may recall.”
“At a time when everyone knew you were beside yourself with grief over the passing of your brother and the grave illness of your mother,” the Reverend Ormsby said. “Several of us signed a petition on your behalf, you know. But it seemed to do no good. What have you been doing with yourself since?”
“Perhaps you should tell me about yourself first,” Lord Edmond said.
Mary, he noticed when he turned to look at her, had joined a few of the other guests. Yet others were going in search of the grand pavilion, which was hidden away among the trees farther along the shore of the lake.
12
LADY ELEANOR GAVE A FEW INTERESTED GUESTS, mostly ladies, a guided tour of the greenhouses the following morning. Not that there was a great deal of attraction in the greenhouses, she explained to them, when it was summer and the gardens were bright with flowers. The winter was the time to wander in the warmed buildings and enjoy the summer beauties of nature while all was winter bareness outside.
Mary hung back as everyone else strolled from the last of the greenhouses on the way to the rose arbor.
“Ma’am?” she said as their hostess made to follow them. “May I have a word with you?”
Lady Eleanor smiled at her and closed the door. “What is it, Mary, my dear?” she asked.
Mary fingered the velvety leaf of a geranium plant. “I need to know …” she said. “That is, there are certain gaps in my knowledge. It is really none of my business, of course, but … I need to know,” she ended lamely.
“Of course you do, dear,” Lady Eleanor said, and she took Mary’s arm and began to stroll with her back along the length of the greenhouse. “Sometimes we cannot order our lives as we would wish, can we? We should be able to secure our own happiness with logical planning, but life does not always work that way. You have planned well, and look to be succeeding admirably—on one level. On another you wonder why it is you cannot force yourself to feel happy. Of course you need to ask more questions.”
“You know?” Mary said.
“It was very obvious to me the first time I saw you together,” she said. “An exceedingly odd couple, I overheard someone say, and I would wager that she was not the only one to say it that afternoon. But not as odd as it would seem, dear, to one who has known and loved Edmond all his life.”
“I do not wish to have any interest in him at all,” Mary said. “I have fought against his persistence and against my own feelings.”
“It would be strange if you had not,” Lady Eleanor said. “Edmond is probably the most disreputable member of the ton now gracing its ranks. He is fortunate that he is still being received at all. Only his title and his fortune have saved him from complete ostracism, I believe. No lady in her right mind would willingly fall in love with him.”
“I did not say I have fallen in love with him,” Mary said hastily. “Only that I—”
Lady Eleanor patted her hand. “If only you knew for how many years I have waited for him to meet you, Mary,” she said, “or someone like you. I had almost given up hope. Dorothea, of course, was all wrong for him. And Lady Wren, too, though I heard about his attachment to her and was pleased at first. She is a beautiful lady and must have had a dull marriage to her elderly first husband, though I never heard a whisper of scandal surrounding her name. But she was in love with her Mr. Russell, and Edmond could not see it.”
“Please,” Mary said, “I did not mean to give the impression that I am going to—”
“Of course not,” Lady Eleanor said, and turned at one end of the greenhouse so that they could walk back along its length again. “What exactly did you need to know?”
“Yesterday,” Mary said, “he told me much the same story about his brother’s accident that you had told. Except that he added that his father and his eldest brother had deliberately set out to get him drunk. It must have been easy. He had never drunk before, he said.”
“Very likely,” Lady Eleanor said. “I would not doubt the truth of that.”
“They laughed when he insisted on going riding the next morning,” Mary said. “They thought it all a great joke, even though he was still drunk.”
“Unfortunately,” Lady Eleanor said, “we often laugh at those who are inebriated, my dear. There appears to be something funny about people behaving differently from their normal selves. Seeing Edmond foxed must have seemed hilarious. He was always so very serious, so very much in control of himself.”
“But if that is all true,” Mary said, “they were more to blame for what happened than he was.”
“I have always thought so,” Lady Eleanor said, “though I was not there at the time to know exactly what happened. They were not a vicious family, Mary, none of them. And they were a very close and loving family, though I used to think that perhaps Edmond suffered from Richard’s great popularity. They were alike—both quiet and home-loving. They both adored their mother and looked up to Wallace and my brother as types of heroes. Edmond was by far the more intelligent of the two, but Richard had the gift of sweetness, which Edmond never had. I think perhaps Edmond was a little jealous of Richard.”
“And therefore his guilt would have been stronger,” Mary said. “He would have felt as if unconsciously he had wanted his brother dead.”
“Oh, dear,” Lady Eleanor said. “Yes, I suppose that is altogether possible. Edmond always looked inward far too much for his own good. He always had too tender a conscience.”
“He was banished, he said.” Mary frowned. “He was cast out from the family. And yet it was not his fault, or at least it was no more his fault than anyone else’s. How could they have treated him so cruelly?”
“Tragic accidents need scapegoats,” Lady Eleanor said. “At first, of course, it must have seemed that Edmond was entirely to blame. He was the one who had been drunk and reckless. He was the one who had not listened to Richard’s pleadings. Of course they turned on him. It was cruel, naturally, and unjust and despicable. But people are never quite rational at such times. And they did not heap more blame on him than he heaped on himself.”
“Did they not realize?” Mary swallowed, surprised to find that her voice was not quite steady. “Did they not realize that they were destroying him? Have they never realized that they lost both brothers on that terrible day?”
“Oh, if you are talking in the present tense,” Lady Eleanor said, “then I think the answer must be at least partly yes. At the time, they were too consumed by their grief for Richard and by their concern at the complete collapse and rapid decline of my sister-in-law. And Edmond’s running away and his expulsion from Oxford and his failure to put in an appearance at either funeral did not help his cause. Those absences angered even me at the time. It is hard to understand and make allowances for human nature when one’s own emotions are raw.”
“But now?” Mary said. “They will have nothing
to do with him?”
“Overtures were made years ago, I believe,” Lady Eleanor said. “But we are talking about human nature here, Mary. I did not read any of the letters that passed, but I know my brother and I know Edmond quite well. My guess is that there was too much pride on both sides, and too much willingness to assume guilt on the one side and not enough on the other. And then, as invariably happens with family quarrels, too much time had passed.”
“They have never met one another since?” Mary asked.
“Both sides are at great pains not to do so,” Lady Eleanor said. “London is understood to be Edmond’s domain, the north of England my brother’s and Wallace’s. Whenever I issue invitations, I have to be careful to issue them separately. For years my brother would always ask if I had invited Edmond, too, and Edmond always asked if I had invited his father or Wallace. Fortunately they gave up asking some time ago, confident in the belief that I would never distress them by bringing them together unexpectedly.”
“There must be so much need of healing,” Mary said. “On both sides. Perhaps too much need. Perhaps it is too late.”
Lady Eleanor opened the door of the greenhouse and motioned for Mary to precede her out onto the dark lawn. “It is a pity to miss the fresh air,” she said. “We do not know when we are to lose this glorious weather, do we?”
“It is surely the best summer I can remember,” Mary said.
“I have been saved from lying this time,” Lady Eleanor said.
Mary looked her inquiry.
“Had either side asked this time if the other was to be here for my birthday,” Lady Eleanor said, “I would have been forced to lie, Mary. I am sixty years old, or will be in just a few days’ time. My brother is four years my senior. We are getting old. We cannot delay much longer.”
Mary’s eyes widened. “He is coming here?” she asked. “Lord Edmond’s father?”
“And Wallace and his family,” Lady Eleanor said. “They should arrive sometime tomorrow. Perhaps I am doing entirely the wrong thing, Mary, especially with other guests at the house. Sparks may fly at the very least. But it is time, I believe. Much past the time, in fact.”
Mary said nothing.
“Now, tell me I am right,” Lady Eleanor said. “Please tell me I am right, my dear. I respect your opinion.”
“Yes.” Mary drew a deep breath. “You are right, ma’am. Whatever the outcome, you are right. I do not know the Duke of Brookfield or his eldest son—I am afraid I do not know his title.”
“Welwyn,” Lady Eleanor said. “The Earl of, my dear.”
“I do not know them,” Mary said. “But as far as Lord Edmond is concerned, I do not believe more harm can be done. On the other hand, good may come of it.”
Lady Eleanor squeezed her arm. “How wonderful you are, my dear,” she said. “I waited with bated breath for your verdict. I was very much afraid I had done the wrong thing. And it is still possible, of course. Perhaps they will not even alight from their carriages tomorrow if they discover that Edmond is here. And perhaps he will leap onto the back of the nearest horse and gallop for London when he sets eyes on them. Who knows? One can only try.”
“Yes,” Mary said. She hesitated. “Was your invitation to me all part of your master plan?”
Lady Eleanor laughed a little ruefully. “It is a gamble, I must admit,” she said. “I merely wanted you to see your two men together for a whole week, Mary. I wanted to set your reason at war with your heart. And I have succeeded, have I not? But again, I do not know if I have done the right thing. What if your heart wins and you end up living unhappily ever after? It is entirely possible. I am not altogether sure that Edmond is capable of having a loving relationship with anyone.”
Mary turned her head and smiled at her hostess. “I will not have you feel guilty,” she said. “I must tell you that since my arrival here I have accepted Lord Goodrich’s offer of marriage. It is what will be best for me, I am sure. And Lord Edmond has never offered me more than carte blanche, you know. Does that shock you? I would not accept either that or a marriage offer from him. I could not possibly be happy with him—or he with me, either. But at least I do not despise him as I used to do, and I am glad of that. You are partly responsible, ma’am, and I am grateful to you. And for this lovely week in the country. Sometimes I pine for the countryside.”
“You are very gracious, my dear,” Lady Eleanor said. “Very. Carte blanche, indeed. Does the man have no sense left whatsoever? Does he think to satisfy those needs with you and waste everything else you have to offer him? Men! Sometimes I could shake the lot of them.”
Mary smiled.
HE WAS NOT enjoying himself. And that was an understatement of the first order. He wished himself back at Willow Court, if the truth were known. He had never had much use for his country estate, finding life there far too dull for his tastes, but he had found a measure of peace there during the past few weeks, and he longed to be back. Alone. Away from people. Away from her.
For all his worst suspicions had been confirmed during the past couple of days. He was not only in love with her. He loved her. And that changed everything—everything by which he had lived for fifteen years. All his adult life.
Ever since he had rammed the barrel of a dueling pistol into his mouth late on the date of his mother’s funeral and had sweated and shaken and finally thrust the weapon from him and cried and cried until there were no tears left and no feeling, either—ever since then he had decided that love, family, commitment to other people could bring nothing but pain and disaster. And so he had lived for himself, for pleasure. Pleasure had become the yardstick by which he measured all the successes of his life. If he wanted something, he reached for it. And if it brought him enjoyment, then he clung to it until the pleasure had cloyed.
Perhaps the nearest he had come to being selfless in all the years since had been his comforting of Mary at Vauxhall. Even when he had mounted her there, he had done so not from any selfish desire for personal gratification but from the desperate need to shelter her from her fear. He had drawn her as close as one human being can draw another.
He cursed the chance that had brought him that invitation to Vauxhall and the whim that had made him accept. For it had changed his life as surely, if not as dramatically, as Dick’s death had done. And he did not want his life changed yet again. He had grown comfortable with it. Almost happy with it.
He loved her. And so he could no longer even try to take advantage of her. He could easily do so. She had actually told him that she was attracted to him, and her body had told him as much every time he had touched her. Her eyes told him the same story every time he met them, even though she masked their expression with coldness or disdain or hostility.
He could have her if he wanted her. It would take very little effort on his part. And he did not think he was being merely conceited to think so. He could have her.
Devil take it, he could have her.
And yet she did not want him. Every part of her except the basely physical recoiled from him. And justly so. She should not want him or like him. Or love him. And if she did, or thought she did, he would have to disabuse her. For he could not take her in any way at all. He loved her, and he was the last man on earth he would wish on her.
And yet there were four days of the country party left, and he felt obliged to stay at Rundle Park despite the longing to get away. Four days in which Mary would see him and perhaps continue to be troubled by her unwilling attraction to him. And four days during which he must fight the temptation to dally with her or to try to ingratiate himself with her.
And yet, he thought, riding out alone during the morning while several of the ladies, Mary included, were touring the greenhouses, perhaps his very best course was to pursue the first of those temptations. Perhaps he should dally with her, as he had done to a certain extent the afternoon before. Perhaps he should make himself quite as obnoxious as he possibly could. It should not be at all difficult. He was an expert at being obnoxi
ous.
He had told her too much the day before. He had felt her sympathies begin to sway his way. It was strange, perhaps, when he had never felt the compulsion to tell anyone else about that worst of all days in his life. He had never felt the need to justify himself or to try to give anyone a glimpse into his personal hell. Only Mary. But of course he loved Mary, and against all the odds and all the urgings of his better nature—if there were such a thing left—he wanted her to love him.
But he did not want her sympathy or her affection. It would be too unbearable to know that her feelings had softened toward him at all. It would be better by far if she continued to despise and even hate him as she had always done. And there was only one way to ensure that that happened.
Lord Edmond laughed rather bitterly to himself. He would probably end up fighting a duel with Goodrich before the four days were at an end.
But it would be worth it. Once he had made her hate him in true earnest, then she would be safe from him. And he from her.
He smiled to himself and spurred his horse into a gallop across a fallow field, heedless of the possibility of rabbit holes or other irregularities in the ground. If there were a high gate to be jumped, he thought with grim humor, he would jump it without a second thought, since there was no one coming along behind him to imitate his foolhardiness and break his neck.
And this time he was not even foxed!
“WE ARE GOING to get storms out of this weather before it changes, you mark my words,” Doris Shelbourne assured the people within earshot of her later that evening. “And then summer will be over. We will have an early autumn. We cannot expect to enjoy weather like this and not suffer for it.”
“Storms,” Mrs. Leila Orsmby said, looking up at her husband, who was standing beside her chair. “I do hope not. The children are terrified of them.”
“Children usually are,” Viscount Goodrich said, one hand on Mary’s shoulder as he stood behind her chair. “The best medicine is to ignore both the storm and their wailing. They quickly learn that there is nothing to fear.”
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