by Mary Balogh
He was feeling downright irritable. And somehow, grossly unfairly, in the wrong, as though he owed her some sort of apology. He had not told her he loved her—as if those words meant anything. Why should one feel guilty for telling the truth? The world had turned all topsy-turvy. It had been a far simpler place when he was merely Mr. Edward Ailsbury.
“Does Tresham employ no other servants than your own personal maid?” he said, breaking the silence between them even though he had sworn to himself that he would not. “And is this the same personal maid who was conspicuously absent from the taproom at the Rose and Crown Inn a month or so ago? Is she often indisposed?”
His voice sounded as irritated as he felt.
“If this is a veiled comment upon my behavior, Lord Heyward,” she said, “I must inform you that it is none of your business. I am none of your business.”
“For which I am very thankful indeed.”
“For which I will always be eternally grateful.”
They spoke simultaneously.
“At least we are agreed upon something,” he said.
“We are,” she said as they crossed a main road and he tossed a coin to the young crossing sweeper who had cleared a steaming pile of manure out of their path.
“I am delighted,” he said, “that you had such a very happy evening. It was obvious at the time, of course, without Eunice’s having to tell me so.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “I was merely being civil.”
“You sounded spiteful,” she said. “I had a wonderful time. I had wonderful partners.”
“Including Windrow, I suppose,” he said. “You looked as if you were enjoying his company.”
“I was,” she said. “Enormously. He is charming and amusing.”
“If I remember correctly,” he said, “you told me just two nights ago at Vauxhall that it was the most wonderful evening of your life. Must every evening exceed the one before it in the pleasure it brings you? Will you not soon run out of superlatives? Or will wonderful suffice for all?”
“I was merely being civil at Vauxhall,” she said. “I thought you might be offended, even hurt, if I did not say I had enjoyed what happened there.”
Good God, he thought, they were scrapping like a couple of petulant children.
Why?
He had offered her marriage yesterday because he considered that he had compromised her at Vauxhall and because everyone seemed agreed that she was the most eligible candidate to be his countess. She had refused. Everything was in order. The story was at an end.
Much to his relief.
She was not at all the sort of woman of whom he could ever approve. She had no idea how to behave.
What the devil had she been doing calling upon Eunice? Poor Eunice!
“Do you like my bonnet?” she asked.
It was striped, the two colors being red and orange. Actually, garish as it was, it was also rather attractive. Its small, stiff brim framed her face becomingly, and its tall crown gave it a slightly military air. Certainly she was not trying to downplay her height.
“Must you always maneuver people into being either rude or untruthful?” he asked, his irritation returning—if it had ever left.
When he turned his head, it was to discover that she was smiling.
“You told the truth once,” she said, “and I laughed and you smiled. It was a good moment.”
“Then it is overbright and those colors should never be seen together upon the same person, not to mention the same garment,” he said. “And it actually suits you perfectly. It suits your character.”
Her smile deepened though she kept her gaze on the pavement ahead.
“I shall lie awake tonight,” she said, “trying to decide if that was a compliment or an insult, Lord Heyward.”
“It was a bit of both,” he said curtly. And he would lie awake tonight wondering why his manners seemed to desert him when he was with Lady Angeline Dudley. But she would try the patience of a saint.
She laughed. One could not help but like her laugh. It was not a ladylike titter or an unladylike bellow. It always sounded purely merry. And it was infectious, though he did not laugh with her.
They were nearing Dudley House, he was happy to see. They walked the remaining distance in silence and he came to a stop at the bottom of the steps in order to watch her safely inside. She stopped too and turned to look up at him.
“I am not going to thank you,” she said. “I am not grateful.”
“I do not expect you to be,” he told her. “I did not insist upon escorting you in order to incur your gratitude. I did it because it was the right thing to do.”
Good Lord, he thought, he had kissed those lips just two evenings ago and held that body close to his own. He had burned with desire for her.
Had he been insane?
And then she smiled again, and there was a flutter of something dashed uncomfortable somewhere in his chest area.
“That is precisely what I so liked about you the first time I met you,” she said. “Now you are becoming a little tiresome.”
“If you would learn to behave with greater discretion,” he said stiffly, “you would be given no opportunity to find me tiresome or otherwise, Lady Angeline, and I am sure we would both be happier for it.”
The smile remained on her face as she tipped her head a little to one side, though it looked almost wistful now.
“Yes,” she said. “We would. Good day, Lord Heyward.”
And she whisked about and half ran up the steps and through the door, which a footman was already holding open. The door closed behind her.
And now the morning had been ruined.
It was ruined even further when he returned to Lady Sanford’s and was shown again into the small parlor where Eunice sat alone.
“Ah,” she said, “I wondered if you would come back. You look like thunder. Poor Edward, were you very annoyed with her?”
“She has no idea how to go on,” he said. “I offered her marriage yesterday, you know. I did not mention it to you last evening, but I did. She refused. I have never been more relieved in my life. Did she come here to tell you? To gloat?”
“Why would she do that?” she asked him, indicating the same chair Lady Angeline had been sitting on when he entered the parlor earlier. “It would suggest a meanness of spirit of which I think her quite incapable.”
Yes, he agreed with that at least. It was his own comment that had been mean. Lady Angeline Dudley did not bring out the best in him.
“She came,” Eunice said, “to ask me to be her friend and to assure me that she would not mind in the least if I married you, since it is obvious to her that you and I love each other dearly.”
“She what?” he asked, frowning.
“There is something just a little … sad about her,” she said, “though I am not at all sure that is the right word. Wistful would perhaps be better. And of course she is wrong about us. Not wrong in believing that we love each other dearly. I believe we do. But wrong in assuming that it is a romantic love that we share.”
He was still frowning.
“I wish you would change your mind about marrying me, Eunice,” he said. “Life would suddenly become so tranquil.”
“And dull,” she said softly.
He looked keenly at her.
“Am I too dull a dog even for you, then?” he asked.
“Oh, no.” She sighed. “You are not a dull dog at all, Edward, though you often behave like one and actually seem to believe you are one. You are not. You just have not … oh, learned who you are yet.”
His brows snapped together again.
“At the age of twenty-four I do not know who I am?” he said. “I would say that I, more than most men, have self-knowledge.”
“Then you are wrong,” she said. “But I will not belabor the point. Edward, she loves you quite passionately, you know.”
“Lady Angeline Dudley?”
he exclaimed. “Nonsense, Eunice. And talk about someone who does not know herself!”
“Oh,” she said, “I agree that there is much confusion in her mind. She has had a sheltered, rather restrictive, and loveless upbringing, and now she has been thrown upon the ton to cope with a Season and the flood of admirers who wish to court her and marry her. She is excited by it all and repelled by it and really quite … well, confused. But she has seen someone who is a rock of stability in a sea of just the opposite, and she wants it very badly and very passionately.”
“Me?” he said. “If you will remember, Eunice, she refused me just yesterday.”
“You could not assure her that you love her,” she said.
“She told you that, I suppose?” he asked, wrath replacing amazement. “Was I expected to lie?”
“No, not at all,” she said. “You were probably quite right to say what you did, since it was the truth. And she was quite right to refuse you, though I believe she broke her own heart when she did so.”
“She was having a rollicking good time last evening,” he said.
“Oh, Edward,” she said, “of course she was.”
In some ways, he thought, Eunice was no different from other women after all. She spoke in riddles.
“I think you would be wise,” she said, “to look upon yesterday, Edward, not as the end of the courtship, but simply as the closing lines of the opening act. The rest of the drama is yet to be written. There is nothing more unsatisfactory than an unfinished drama.”
He would have liked to let loose with a string of profanities. But he could not do so, of course. Not until he was alone, anyway.
“I take it, then,” he said, “that I really must let go of my hopes with regard to you, Eunice?”
“Oh, you really must,” she said gently. “We would not suit, Edward, believe me. One day, I trust that you will know the truth of that as well as I do. We were meant to be friends, not lovers.”
He swallowed and got to his feet.
“I will not keep you any longer, then,” he said.
“Oh, and now you have pokered up,” she said. “We have had disagreements before, you know, and you have always assured me that you have been stimulated by them rather than annoyed. Don’t be annoyed with me now. And write the rest of that drama.”
Drama be damned, he thought as he bowed to her and left the room, the final dregs of his hopes dashed.
A few minutes later he was striding down the street, muttering some of those profanities—a string of them actually—though he did check first to make sure that no one was within earshot.
He did not feel a whole lot better when he was finished.
Chapter 14
DURING THE TWO weeks following his disastrous proposals to both Eunice and Lady Angeline Dudley, Edward was so mortally depressed that more than once he was on the verge of announcing that he was going to return to Wimsbury Abbey until next spring. Why should he not postpone marrying, after all? He was only twenty-four, he felt perfectly healthy, and he was neither a reckless driver nor a dueler. He did not indulge in any activities, in fact, that might put a sudden period to his existence. Barring some unforeseen accident, it would be quite safe to wait another year or so before settling down. Though all accidents were unforeseen, he supposed, or they would not be accidents. And really, what was the point of waiting? The deed must be done eventually, and why not now so that he could put the whole business behind him and start making the best of married life and fatherhood?
At the end of the two weeks there was a distraction. Fenner came to call late one afternoon, but instead of asking for Lorraine as he often did in order to drive her in the park, he asked to speak privately with Edward.
This was mystifying, Edward thought. He was neither Lorraine’s father nor her brother. He was no blood relation at all, in fact.
“The Countess of Heyward’s father is not in town,” Fenner explained when the two of them were alone in a downstairs salon. “I shall be writing to him, of course. But the countess has requested that I speak with you, Heyward. She feels responsible to the family of her late husband, especially so soon after his passing. She is exceedingly fond of you all and claims to have received nothing but kindness and affection from you since her marriage. Indeed, she feels as though you are her family, and of course you really are her daughter’s family. You share the guardianship with the countess, I believe. The countess is very afraid of offending you, even hurting you.”
It had been perfectly clear, of course, that a serious romance was brewing between Fenner and Lorraine. Edward had not realized it had reached such a critical stage already, but it was not really surprising, was it? They were both mature adults and both were free. It was a perfectly eligible connection. With his head Edward could even be happy for them—Maurice had not been a good husband. But with his heart? Well, Maurice had been his brother. Now it felt as though he were being consigned to the grave all over again. His mother would feel it too. So would Alma and Juliana. But theirs had been a blood connection with Maurice. Lorraine’s had not. And there was a difference. And they had all taken Lorraine to their hearts when she married into their family. She felt in many ways more like a sister than a sister-in-law.
“Lorraine’s happiness is important to us,” he said. More important under the circumstances than their grief, which was a private, ongoing thing.
“I wish to marry the countess,” Fenner said. “I loved her five years ago and I have not stopped loving her since. She wishes to marry me. I am confident that she loves me. However, neither of us wants to do anything that will appear distasteful to your family. If it appears to you that we are acting with indecent haste, then we will wait a year. No longer, I hope. But we will wait a year if we must. I hope we do not need to.”
He paused and looked inquiringly at Edward.
Love, Edward thought broodingly. What the devil did it mean? It meant all the euphoria of romance and all the underlying but unspoken power of lust, obviously. Perhaps it had only to be believed in to be experienced. But was there any real substance to it? Did it last? Somehow one had the feeling that with Lorraine and Fenner it would, perhaps because they had taken the wrong path five years ago—at least, she had—and now had a second chance to take the right one. Second chances were very rare. If Maurice had not agreed to—or suggested—that curricle race, if he and the driver of the hay cart had not met exactly on the blind part of that bend, if—Well, if any of a thousand little, seemingly insignificant details of life had been in the smallest way different from the way they actually had been, then the whole of life would be different.
There was absolutely no point to such thoughts. Lorraine and Fenner had been given their second chance, and they were embracing it with firm resolve. As they ought. Maurice was dead, and life went on.
“I cannot speak for my mother and sisters, Fenner,” he said, “though I believe they will agree with me wholeheartedly. Lorraine was the best of wives to my brother and she was and is a good mother to my niece. Her happiness is as important to me as if she were my sister. If she can find that happiness with you—and I do believe she can—then I see no reason why the two of you should be made to wait a year or even a day longer than you choose. The mourning period is at an end. Life must continue for all of us. I wish you well.”
He offered his hand, and Fenner grasped it warmly.
“Thank you,” he said. “You are kind.”
And Edward found himself, quite unreasonably, feeling more depressed than ever. Because Maurice was dead and Lorraine was moving on? Because other people seemed to believe in love and sometimes it could lead them to happiness? Or because of something else?
It did not take long for it to strike him that Fenner was Lady Palmer’s brother and Tresham’s cousin—or second cousin, anyway. He was Lady Angeline Dudley’s second cousin. And Lady Palmer was her sponsor for her come-out Season. This betrothal was sure to bring the two families together, even if only for the wedding. If he never
saw a single member of the Dudley family again, he would be entirely happy. But Fenner was a member of that family even if only in the capacity of second cousin.
His forebodings were well founded, he discovered less than a week later, just after he had read the official announcement of the betrothal in the morning paper. Actually, the situation was even worse than he had anticipated, for it was not just the wedding that was to bring the families together.
Lady Palmer had decided to celebrate the betrothal with a brief house party at Hallings in Sussex, her husband’s country estate. Edward and his family were invited to attend, of course, and he did not need to be told that Fenner’s family would be there too. The party was to last five whole days.
Nothing could be more conducive to further depression. Five days of trying to avoid Lady Angeline Dudley in the intimacy of a country setting. If he had known what was facing him when he left Wimsbury Abbey less than two months ago, he would never have left. The duty of taking his place in the House of Lords be damned. And he would have chosen a bride from the ranks of the local gentry.
But it was too late now.
The rest of the drama is yet to be written, Eunice had said to him a few weeks ago. It was utter nonsense, of course. There was nothing still to be written. It was unlike Eunice to be so very wrong.
He had not set eyes upon her since the morning she had said it. He missed her.
ANGELINE WAS DESPERATELY gay during the three weeks following her rejection of the Earl of Heyward. She spent almost every morning out riding with Ferdinand and his friends or walking in the park with Maria or Martha, sometimes both together, or shopping on Oxford Street and Bond Street. She bought three new bonnets as well as feathers and ribbons and fans and reticules that she did not need but could not resist. She visited the library twice and borrowed books each time, though there was really little point as there was absolutely no time to read—there was too much fun to be had doing other things. She called upon Miss Goddard twice, careful to take a recovered Betty with her, and they sat and talked all morning both times, since both times it was raining and they could not go out for a walk. She could not remember afterward what they had talked about except that it was not bonnets and beaux and not Lord Heyward. They had each talked an equal amount, though, and really had not stopped for a moment.