She looked curiously at him as he took the empty chair between Mrs. Wiggins and Mrs. Ormsby. He looked along the table at her as he did so and winked.
He winked! Heavens, Mary thought, whatever next? But a quickly darted look across the table assured her that the viscount was deep in conversation with Lady Cathcart and had not noticed.
LORD EDMOND WAS out early the following morning, riding alone as was his custom. He would have been on his way home now, he thought with some regret, if it had not been for the totally unexpected arrival of his father the afternoon before. And yet, he had to admit, perhaps it was for the best, after all. He had always had the feeling that he could not expect to go through the rest of his life without meeting his family again. Now the dread meeting was over, and really, apart from the inevitable embarrassment, it had not been so very bad.
They had met and been polite to one another. They had spent an evening, first in the same dining room, and then in the same drawing room, and been polite to one another. There was one day to his aunt’s birthday, two to the end of this country visit. If they were all careful—and polite—those days could be lived through without any major confrontation, and forever after they would not all live in dread of being brought face-to-face with one another.
And as for Mary—well, there were two days during which he could avoid her as much as possible and be polite to her when he could not avoid her company. It could not be that difficult a time to get through if he set his mind to it.
As luck would have it, there were two ladies walking in the formal gardens as he made his way back from the stables, and one of them was his sister-in-law. He somehow never expected to encounter ladies until close to noon at the earliest. She saw him, raised a hand in greeting, said something to Lady Cathcart, and made her way toward him. Well, at least, he thought, neither Wallace nor his father was in sight. And he had liked Anne the day before.
“Good morning,” she said, smiling at him. “Have you been riding? I wish I had known. I would have come with you. Or do you prefer to ride alone?”
“I would have been happy to have your company,” he said politely. “Do you always rise early?”
“Oh, always,” she said, laughing. “I’m a creature of the country, not the city, Edmond. I am so glad your aunt arranged this little surprise. I have wanted to meet you since long before my wedding.”
“The black sheep?” he said. “The skeleton in the closet? The prodigal who did not come home?”
“The missing part of Wallace’s family,” she said. “The member rarely spoken of but always missed.” She laughed. “I have always said that Nigel is like his grandfather, and everyone has always been quick to agree. But he is far more like his uncle. So like that I cannot help but laugh when I look at you.”
“Nigel?” he said.
She clucked her tongue. “The estrangement has been almost total, has it not?” she said. “And quite foolish. Nigel is our older son. He is eleven years old. And then there are Ninian, nine, and Laura, six. They are here with us. You must meet them. You are their only uncle on their father’s side.”
Lord Edmond looked somewhat uncomfortable. “I did know that Wallace had children,” he said. “I am afraid I have never had a great deal to do with children.”
“It is not obligatory in order to get along well with them,” she said with a laugh. “We all were children ourselves, after all.”
“Not I,” he said.
“You always had your head in a book, did you not?” she said, looking closely at him. “I have learned some things about you over the years, you see, from chance remarks that have been made. You did not play a great deal.”
“I have made up for it since,” he said. “I have done nothing but play since I reached my majority.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “You do not need to look at me with that deliberately cynical look, Edmond. The fame of your reputation has reached us in the north of England, believe me. Each detail is like a knife wound to Wallace and your father.”
He shrugged. “Each one convincing them that I am incorrigible?” he said. “Well, I am, Anne. You are not about to try to find redeeming features in me, are you? Females have a tiresome tendency to do that.”
“Oh, dear,” she said, “one would hate to aspire to the mediocrity of being a typical female. What I meant was that each detail of your … your wildness, I suppose I must call it, reminds them of their own guilt, though they would not admit to that even if the Inquisition were let loose on them, of course. I hope the three of you do not mean to be polite to one another for two days. That would be a dreadful anticlimax.”
“It is just what I have been hoping for,” he said. “Would you prefer that I was rude to them, Anne? I can be dreadfully uncivil when I want to be. And dreadfully annoying, too. I have cultivated the art with great care.”
“Like insisting on having disheveled hair before appearing at dinner,” she said.
“Oh, that was real enough,” he said. “You do not know how lowering it would be for a London gentleman to appear unfashionable, Anne.”
She laughed. “Your aunt has said that this is to be a free day,” she said. “Everyone may arrange his own entertainment. Wallace and I are to take the children for a picnic with your father. Will you come with Mary?”
“With Mary?” he said.
“I like her,” she said. “Do you notice how we are on a first-name basis already? And if she is your friend, Edmond, I cannot think you quite beyond hope. She is a very sensible and interesting lady. So it will be a waste of your time trying to shock me or make me frown on you. I shall merely laugh. Will you come?”
“I think you have the wrong connection,” he said. “It is Mary and Goodrich, Anne.”
“The viscount?” she asked, turning her head to look at him. “Oh, no. That would be a disappointment. Are you sure?”
“I had personal and private notice from his own lips,” he said, “that they are betrothed. You had better not try to matchmake, Anne. He might challenge you to a duel.”
“How alarming!” she said. “Would the choice of weapons be mine? I should choose knitting needles. I shall have to invite them both to the picnic, then, and another lady. Whom shall I ask?”
“No one,” he said. “I shall stay at the house and challenge someone to a game of billiards.”
“Coward,” she said. “You must come, if only to meet your niece and nephews. And why did you bring Mary to meet us yesterday if she is only a friend and betrothed to someone else? You looked to be squeezing her hand hard enough to hurt, Edmond.”
He narrowed his eyes and looked down at her. “You see altogether too much,” he said. “I was terrified, I would have you know. Shaking in my boots. Knees knocking. Teeth clacking. If I had not been clinging to Mary’s hand, I would probably have disgraced myself and tripped over a rose in the carpet or something equally foolish.”
Her smile softened on him. “They were terrified, too,” she said. “Wallace’s hand was like a vise on my shoulder, so that for a moment I wondered if Mary or I would be the first to scream with pain. And your father had been pacing the room enough to wear a hole in the carpet for you to trip over. You must come this afternoon, Edmond. The time has come, you know. It can no longer be avoided.”
He looked at her broodingly. “You talk just like Mary,” he said. “If it were not for her, I would probably still be running straight due west. And now you are trying to make me jump right into the hornet’s nest, just when I have been hoping to tiptoe about it for the next two days.”
She smiled. “You will come, then,” she said. It was not a question. “And we might as well go today. If Mrs. Shelbourne is to be believed, this glorious weather is bound to break with earth-shattering storms any minute now.”
“She has been telling us so ad nauseam ever since we came here,” he said. “I don’t know why the woman cannot simply enjoy the sunshine.”
“For some people, happiness consists in waiting for some disaster to o
vertake them or the world,” Anne said. “It takes all types to make life interesting, Edmond. Would you really rather I did not invite Mary?”
He gave her a sidelong look and did not answer. He should answer, he knew. But he did not.
“Ah,” she said. “I heard you loudly and clearly. I am to please myself, and then any blame for what happens must fall on my shoulders. Well, they are broad ones. I am not as slender, alas, as I was when I married. I can hardly believe that I have met you at last, Edmond, and am strolling with you here just as if you were any ordinary human being and not the monstrous skeleton in the family closet that you mentioned earlier. Good old Aunt Eleanor.”
“Old fiend Aunt Eleanor, I would be inclined to say,” he said. “But I am pleased to have met you, Anne. Wally made a good marriage, I can see. But then, he was always the most sensible of the three of us.”
“I must go to my children,” she said as their strolling brought them to the foot of the horseshoe steps. “I shall look forward to this afternoon, Edmond.”
“Likewise,” he said, releasing her arm and making her a bow.
But he felt rather like a condemned man who has just learned that his execution is to take place that very day. A whole afternoon with no one else for company except his family—a father and brother from whom he had been estranged for fifteen years, two nephews and a niece whom he had never met, and a sister-in-law whom he liked but who seemed determined to force a confrontation. And perhaps Mary and Goodrich, though their company would be no consolation to him at all.
Perhaps he should, after all, have left for Willow Court that morning, he thought.
MARY WAS FEELING a little guilty, though it really was not her fault that she was spending the afternoon as the sole outside member of a family picnic while Simon was driving off with several of the other guests to explore a ruined abbey six miles away. Well, almost not her fault anyway.
The countess had found her writing letters in the morning room and had invited her to join the picnic.
“I intend to invite Lord Goodrich, too,” she had said. “I understand that he is your fiancé?”
“Oh,” Mary had said, “it is not official yet. Nothing at all is settled.” She had felt a little guilty over the last sentence, since it was not strictly true. She had said it only because for some reason she did not want Anne to know the full truth.
The countess had looked strangely pleased. “Ah, I have heard wrongly, then,” she had said. “But I shall invite him anyway. Will you come?”
“I would love to,” Mary had said. But she had guessed that Lord Edmond would also be a member of the group, and she knew that perhaps she should have made some excuse.
Just before luncheon she had met the viscount and asked him if he had had his invitation to the picnic.
“After I had already agreed to join the party to the abbey,” he had said. “I was relieved, of course, to have an excuse not to accept. It would be a pleasure to become more closely acquainted with His Grace, but since Waite is to be of the party, I am thankful that we are not.”
“But I am going,” she had said. “I accepted Anne’s invitation, since she was going to ask you, too.”
“She did, but too late.” He had frowned. “But I have said you will be coming to the abbey, Mary.”
“I am sorry,” she had said. “But I cannot go back on my word now, Simon.”
A brief argument had ensued, which had left him angry that she would go on a picnic that included Lord Edmond without his escort, and which had left her indignant that he was trying to order her life before they were even married. Both had kept to their original plans.
And yet she felt guilty. She understood that Anne had not issued the invitation to Simon until the abbey party had been all arranged. Had Anne held back deliberately, hoping to separate them? Because she, Mary, had denied that there was a betrothal, perhaps? Mary sensed that Anne liked her and was prepared to like her brother-in-law, too. However it was, she was part of the picnic group and Simon was on his way to the abbey.
The picnic was to be at the lake, and they were retracing the route by which a larger group had come there a few days before. His Grace was going with the carriage and the food by an easier and more direct route. But this time it was the earl who helped Mary over the stile. Lord Edmond and Anne were up ahead with the children. Lord Edmond was in close conversation with the older boy, Nigel.
“You have known my brother long, Lady Mornington?” the earl asked politely.
“Not very,” she said. “We were members of the same party to Vauxhall one evening just this summer. Then Lord Edmond attended one of my literary evenings and took me a couple of weeks later to meet your aunt, who was eager to make my acquaintance and has since also come to my salon. Hence my invitation here.”
“Edmond attended one of your literary evenings?” he said in some surprise. “Is that not out of character for him?”
“Mr. Beasley was expounding on some of his radical social theories,” she said. “Lord Edmond was the only guest present willing to argue against him. Everyone else was awed by his fame, I believe. It was a lively evening.” She did not know quite why she spoke of that evening as if Lord Edmond’s behavior had been exemplary.
“He is so very different,” the earl said. “I scarcely recognized him, Lady Mornington. Oh, the physical differences are not so great, except that he has aged as one would expect a man to do in fifteen years. But in every other way. I expected it, of course. We have heard enough about him. But I suppose I still expected the old Edmond when I met him again.”
“What was he like?” Mary could not resist asking the question of yet another person who had known him.
“Quiet. Serious.” The earl thought for a moment. “He loved the world of books. He used to write poetry. He lived more in his imagination than in reality, I believe. And yet I am not sure that is quite true, either. He always had a strong sense of justice and fairness, but a grasp of the realities of life. He used to feel that the wealthy and privileged had a great responsibility to the poor and downtrodden.”
“He was at university,” she said.
“Yes.” There were another few moments of silence as he thought back. “He never seemed to know how to have fun. Poor Edmond. We used to worry about him. We used to plan ways to force him to enjoy himself.” He laughed without amusement. “We need not have worried if we had been able to look into the future, need we?”
“Did you plan his twenty-first birthday party?” she asked.
He looked uneasy. “We all did,” he said. “It seemed fitting that he enter full adulthood in a more manly way than with his nose buried in a book. Unfortunately, Lady Mornington, he was unable to hold his liquor. But enough of that. Your late husband fought in the Peninsular Wars? Did you follow him there?”
They talked about Spain and Waterloo and Wellington and the peace for the rest of the walk to the lake.
But the Earl of Welwyn, Mary decided after their brief conversation about Lord Edmond, probably felt as guilty about the death of his younger brother as Lord Edmond himself did. If only they could talk to each other freely, offer healing to each other. And they were so close—together again for the first time since the day after the disaster. And yet not close at all.
But it was none of her business, she told herself as they reached the lake, glancing at the duke, who was seated already beside the water and was smiling at the children and beckoning them, ignoring his youngest son, or perhaps not knowing how to include him in his welcome without great awkwardness.
Her heart ached suddenly for Edmond. And she realized that even in her mind she had thought of him by his given name without his title to prefix it.
16
HE FELT DEUCED UNCOMFORTABLE, IF THE TRUTH were known. And if he had imagined that the worst of the embarrassment was over after that first meeting, then he was discovering that he had imagined wrongly. He found himself directing all his conversation toward Anne and his niece and nephews—especially
toward Nigel, the elder, who had inexplicably chosen to discuss Latin poetry with him during the walk to the lake. It was a novelty, he was finding, to be an uncle. But he could think of nothing that would not sound trite to say to his father and his brother. And he dared not talk to Mary. He certainly did not want to be alone with her.
“I believe that after that lengthy walk we should eat before exploring the shores of the lake,” Anne announced when they had joined the duke on the grassy bank.
“Hoorah!” cried Ninian, who was rather inclined to share his mother’s tendency to be overweight, Lord Edmond noticed, looking critically at the boy.
And so blankets were spread on the grass and the baskets carried from the carriage by the footman who had accompanied it from the house. And the children waited impatiently for Anne to hand around the food.
Lord Edmond could have sat beside his father, who had Laura seated on one side and him and empty blanket on the other. He sat down instead close to Mary, not looking at her, addressing some remark to Anne.
They sat thus through most of tea, seated close to each other, turned slightly away from each other, conversing with other people. It was the most uncomfortable meal he had ever taken, Lord Edmond thought. The food tasted rather like straw. Though perhaps that was unfair to his aunt’s cook. The truth was that he did not taste the food at all. He would not have been able to say afterward what he had eaten.
And then, halfway through the meal, he set his hand down on the blanket to brace himself, to find that Mary’s hand was there, too, their little fingers almost brushing. He should move his hand, he knew. He expected her to move hers. And yet neither moved until a couple of minutes later their little fingers rested quite unmistakably against each other.
Lord Edmond had to concentrate his attention on his wine when the thought struck him that the light brushing of two fingers could be as erotic as the most intimate of sexual contacts. He would not answer to what might have happened if there had not been three other adults and three children present.
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