by Mary Balogh
She sighed as she shut herself up in her room.
EDWARD HAD NOT gone riding during the morning, even though he had seriously considered it when he knew that Lady Angeline was to be of the party. He could have tried to ride beside her, to engage her in conversation, perhaps challenge her to a race. But no, not that. He did not know the terrain in the park at Hallings or in the surrounding countryside. He must never encourage her to be reckless. She did that more than enough on her own initiative. Twice he had jumped awake during the night in a cold sweat, imagining what might have happened to her when they hurtled down that hill. She might have broken a leg again—or her neck. Or she might have collided head-on with a tree.
Anyway, he had not gone riding. Instead he had sat in the conservatory with Alma, who was an early riser. And he had asked her advice on something that had been bothering him.
“Would it be in bad taste, Alma,” he asked her, “to steal some of the thunder from Lorraine and Fenner while we are here?”
She did not stare at him in blank incomprehension as most people would have done. She was his sister, after all.
“Lady Angeline Dudley?” she asked.
He nodded, his eyes upon a pink geranium that had bloomed before its fellows in the same pot.
“Though maybe I should not ask her so soon anyway,” he said. “She warned me not to. But it does seem like the ideal time with both our families here.”
“She warned you not to propose marriage to her again?” she asked him, drawing her shawl more closely about her shoulders against the early morning chill. “After you proposed last month, you mean?”
“Yesterday,” he said, noticing that all the other geraniums were red. There was just the one pink bloom. Lady Angeline’s favorite color—among about fifty others.
Alma placed a hand on his sleeve and patted it.
“Suddenly, right out of the blue,” she said, “she told you not to ask her to marry you? I need a little more context here, Edward. Was this when you waltzed with her outside the drawing room last evening?”
“Yesterday afternoon,” he said. “We went up the hill beyond the lake—the one with that tower folly on top. While we were up there, her bonnet blew off in a gust of wind and ended up in a tree down below. We went down to get it, but we lost our footing on the slope and rolled down the last part of it. And I—well, I kissed her. I did not force it upon her. She—well, she kissed me back. And then she told me that this time I must not offer for her. She said she would refuse me if I did.”
“Oh, Edward,” she said, squeezing his arm. “Of course she did. And of course she would.”
There it was again—female logic. Quite frankly, it baffled him.
“I had better wait, then?” he asked her. “Perhaps forever?”
“Of course not,” she said. “But you must make it very clear to her that you ask because you love her, because you cannot contemplate life without her. You do love her, do you not?”
“Of course I do, but it makes no sense, Alma,” he said. “She is the sort of person …” He made circles in the air with one hand. “Well, this is the sort of person she is. Instead of letting me walk down the more gradual slope of the hill and back around the base to the tree where her bonnet was stuck, or at least make my way very carefully straight down the steep part while she remained safely at the top, she grabbed my hand and ran down. We might both have broken our necks.”
“And you lost your footing and rolled and arrived safely and kissed,” she said. “Did you also laugh?”
“How could we not?” he said. “Though it was not really funny, was it?”
“Life is not funny,” she said, “except when it is. Except when we make it fun. Edward, Lady Angeline Dudley is perfect for you. We have all seen it from the start. You are finally seeing it for yourself, though you are still puzzled at the realization. You have always been so afraid that you will lose control of your life if you should ever relax and enjoy it.”
“I am not as bad as that,” he said. “Am I?”
She leaned toward him and kissed his cheek.
“You are not bad at all,” she said. “That is sometimes the trouble.”
“You would have me be more like Maurice, then?” he asked, frowning.
“I would have you be more like Edward,” she said. “More like Edward as he can be if he lives to his full potential. If he does more than just love. If he also allows himself to be in love—with life and with the woman who was surely created just for him.”
“Hmm,” he said. He was a little embarrassed. Alma was his sensible, practical elder sister. He did not expect to hear poetic outpourings from her.
“But if you expect her to listen to another marriage proposal,” she said, “you must first make it clear to her that you ask from the heart, Edward. You must do something very decisive to convince her.”
He sighed and turned his head to look into her face.
“All I asked,” he said, “was whether you thought it would be in poor taste for me to make an announcement—if there is an announcement to make—during Lorraine and Fenner’s betrothal party.”
She laughed and he grinned.
“Well,” she said, “there is a simple answer to that one at least. No. It would not be in poor taste. Indeed, I believe Lorraine would be overjoyed. She is exceedingly fond of you, you know, Edward. You were always kind to her—and Susan.”
You must do something very decisive to convince her.
Right. But what?
He went fishing with most of the other men after breakfast. It was one of his favorite activities when he was in the country. And while he fished, he planned to take Lady Angeline walking again during the afternoon. He would talk with her, laugh with her again, kiss her again. And tell her he loved her. He might feel like a prize idiot as he did so—undoubtedly he would, in fact—but he would do it anyway. Such things were important to women, it seemed, and it was not as though he would be lying. He did love her.
Heaven help him.
The afternoon walk was to be delayed, though, he discovered after luncheon when Eunice bore Lady Angeline off to the conservatory for what looked like a private tкte-а-tкte. He did not see them again, even though he paced about the house long after everyone else had tired of the music in the drawing room, including the Misses Briden, who had been supplying it, and had gone outside or into the billiard room or to their own rooms for a rest.
Windrow was going home for the night—apparently it was only ten miles away. It was his mother’s birthday. A little while ago, Edward would have been delighted. Indeed, he would have hoped that Windrow would fail to return. He had got over that, though—as long as Windrow did nothing to threaten Lady Angeline’s safety or peace of mind.
And then, late in the afternoon, that was just what happened.
The butler waylaid him as he was passing through the hall, and placed a folded and sealed piece of paper in his hands.
“I was asked to deliver this to you personally at four o’clock, my lord,” he said with a bow.
Edward looked down at it. His name was written on one side in a neat, precise feminine hand. Eunice’s. He raised his eyebrows. A letter? Rather than a word to him in person?
“Thank you,” he said, and he went up to his room to read it in private.
Lord Windrow had invited Lady Angeline Dudley and her to accompany him to Norton Park as a special birthday treat for his mother, Eunice had written. Edward would know about that—he did not. It had all been arranged quite properly, of course. Both Lady Palmer and the Duke of Tresham had given their permission.
“But, Edward,” Eunice had continued, “I know that I have been invited only because permission would not have been granted for Lady Angeline to go alone. I am foolish perhaps to feel anxious. I am not normally given to groundless anxieties, as you know. But I am uneasy. How can I be certain that Lady Windrow is at Norton? Perhaps she is not. And how can I be certain that somehow I will not be spirited away somewhere, le
aving Lord Windrow and Lady Angeline alone? Oh, these concerns must be groundless, must they not? I must be doing Lord Windrow an injustice. He is a gentleman, after all, despite what you witnessed on the road to London. But, Edward, he has mentioned an inn on the way to Norton, where he says we will stop for refreshments and a change of horses. But the whole distance is only ten miles. We ought not to need to stop, ought we? Forgive this letter. It is unlike me, I know. But Lady Angeline is such an innocent. I fear for her. And Lord Windrow is such a determined flirt—or maybe worse. Do ignore these meanderings if you will—or come in pursuit. I did mention to Lady Palmer when Lord Windrow was not listening that you might follow us over to Norton, and she even seemed pleased. I believe she still has hopes for you and Lady Angeline. Oh, please—it is time to go. Please come. Your ever devoted friend, Eunice.”
Edward had turned cold.
It was unlike Eunice to panic. She was the most sensible person, of either gender, that he knew. If she was uneasy, there was something to be uneasy about.
And that villain, Windrow …
Edward flexed his hands. His fingers itched to be about the man’s throat. His knuckles ached to make contact with his jawbone.
This time, Windrow would not need to waste his breath issuing a challenge. He could save it to defend his life, of all but an inch of which he was going to be deprived before the day was over.
Lady Palmer was in the drawing room with Edward’s grandmother and mother, the Reverend Martin, and Mr. Briden. It took all of Edward’s willpower to smile and greet everyone and wait for an end to the discussion on the merits of remaining in the country all year as opposed to spending parts of it in London or at one of the spas. It took all of his willpower to speak quietly to Lady Palmer.
“Ma’am,” he said, “I will be riding over to Norton Park, if the absence of yet another of your guests will not seem a great discourtesy. I did not want to crowd Windrow’s carriage, but I did say I might follow after it.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know that, Lord Heyward. And I am happy for you young people to have an excursion you will enjoy. I am even secretly happy that you have decided to go too, for my numbers are now even again and the dining table this evening will not look sadly lopsided.”
She laughed, as did everyone else in the room. His grandmother, Edward noted, waved her lorgnette in his direction and actually winked at him.
“Lady Windrow will be so pleased to have company,” Lady Palmer said. “She suffers with rather delicate health and rarely leaves Norton. But she loves to have visitors. Let me not delay you, though. It is a longish ride.”
So Windrow’s mother was at Norton, Edward thought as he hurried from the room and upstairs to change into riding clothes. Perhaps Eunice’s fears were quite ungrounded, then. But there was still that matter of a stop at an inn on the way, and Edward certainly did not trust Windrow at inns. He was going. And let Windrow just try something. Edward almost hoped he would. His long-held conviction that a gentleman did not need to resort to violence to make a point was all very well on occasion, perhaps even on most occasions.
But this was not any occasion, or even most.
This concerned Lady Angeline Dudley. Whom Edward loved. How had Alma phrased it? Without whom he could not contemplate living. That was it, or something very like it. And what else had she said?
You must do something very decisive to convince her.
Right.
Right!
Ten minutes later, having saddled a horse himself, he was moving away from the stables at a gallop.
Chapter 19
MISS GODDARD AND Lord Windrow were engaged in a spirited discussion of Mr. Richardson’s Pamela, which Angeline had never read, partly because it had always looked disconcertingly long and partly because she had never found its subtitle, Or Virtue Rewarded, even the smallest little bit enticing. Miss Goddard was of the opinion that the hero was the most worthless villain in all of literature—and that included Iago in Shakespeare’s Othello—while Lord Windrow argued that a reformed rake made the most steadfast and worthy of heroes for the rest of his life.
Since Lord Windrow expressed himself with lazy wit and Miss Goddard’s earnest opinions were frequently punctuated with bursts of laughter, Angeline felt she really ought to enjoy just listening. She ought indeed to offer an opinion of her own, even if she had not read the book. After all, she did have something to say on the subject of rakes and the possibility—or impossibility—of their ever being reformed.
But she could not concentrate.
She felt a little sick, if the truth were known. They had been here at the Peacock Inn far longer than they needed to be just to change the horses on Lord Windrow’s carriage and partake of tea in the private parlor. They had all had two cups of tea, and what remained in the pot must be cold. They had eaten all the cakes on the plate.
And still Lord Heyward had not come.
Angeline had given her letter—it had turned into something longer than a note after the second paragraph—to Miss Goddard, who had gone off to hand it to the butler with clear instructions to put it into Lord Heyward’s hands and no other’s at four o’clock. Lord Heyward could not have mistaken the danger she had described. She had felt when she had finished composing it, in fact, that she really ought to write a Gothic novel. She certainly appeared to have the talent for lurid hyperbole. He must be consumed with anxiety for Miss Goddard.
But he had not come yet.
She had mentioned the inn in the letter, though she had not known its name at the time. But surely he would not have driven right on past. It was a small inn with a small inn yard. And the gates were open wide. Even if he had not known about the possible stop here, he surely could not have missed seeing the carriage in the yard as he passed.
She just hoped that when he came—if he came—Miss Goddard would not be laughing. And if she, Angeline, could only have some advance warning of his arrival, she would slip off to use the necessary so that he would find Miss Goddard and Lord Windrow alone together—Miss Goddard’s maid was taking refreshments in the kitchen.
Oh, would he never come? This was like waiting for Tresham at the Rose and Crown all over again. Except that then she had been excited and exuberant in anticipation of her come-out and the Season and beaux and marriage and happiness, while now she was mortally depressed. For if he came, it would be because he loved Miss Goddard, and it would be such an extravagant gesture that there would be no going back from it.
Nothing could make Angeline happier.
She felt as if every part of her—even her eyelids when she blinked—were made of lead.
Waltzing under the stars ought to be outlawed. It really ought. And so should rolling down hills. And so should … Well, everything ought to be outlawed.
“Ah, fair one,” Lord Windrow said, addressing her directly, “you simply must speak up in defense of rakes. In my defense, that is. I am a man who visits his mother on her birthday. Would a heartless villain do that?”
Despite herself Angeline laughed. And oh, goodness, she had depicted him as just that—a heartless villain—in the letter she had left behind. Yet she could not help liking him. Conscience smote her, as it ought to have done much sooner. She really ought not to have used him in such a dastardly way to arouse Lord Heyward’s jealousy, for his behavior toward Miss Goddard had never been improper. And even to herself it had been improper only that once.
As if she needed guilt to be added to all her other burdens.
She hoped Lord Heyward would not come. Perhaps Cousin Rosalie’s butler had forgotten to deliver the letter. Perhaps he had not read it. Or perhaps he had merely laughed at it and dismissed its contents as the ravings of someone who had read too many Gothic novels.
“I believe the word rake needs to be defined,” she said. “Or at least it needs to be established what a rake is not. As I understand it from what the two of you have been saying, the hero of Pamela is not a rake at all, for it seems he tried on a number
of occasions to take Pamela’s virtue by force and quite against her will. That man is an out-and-out villain, who ought not to be dignified with the name of rake. A rake, though capable of all sorts of wild, debauched, silly behavior, is still first and foremost a gentleman. And a gentleman never ever deprives a woman—and I speak not just of ladies—of her virtue against her will.”
“Oh, bravo,” Lord Windrow said.
“Wonderfully well expressed,” Miss Goddard said.
“A rake may never be reformed,” Angeline said, “for most men believe it is a manly thing to be and something to which their gender entitles them. But they are not villainous for all that. Or, if they are, then they have put themselves beyond the pale of mere rakishness.”
Lord Windrow and Miss Goddard both smiled at her—just as the door of the private sitting room crashed back against the wall and then slammed shut again.
Between the two swift, deafening actions the Earl of Heyward appeared in the room.
Angeline clasped her hands to her bosom. Miss Goddard spread hers on the table. Lord Windrow, who had been sitting with his back to the door, got to his feet and turned.
“Ah, Heyward,” he said. “Come to join us, have—”
Lord Heyward punched him right on the point of the chin. His head snapped back and he would have tumbled backward if the table had not been in the way. As it was, his back bounced off the lid of the teapot, sending it rolling across the table and clattering to the floor. The teapot tipped and spilled its contents over the cloth.
“Edward.” Miss Goddard clutched two fistfuls of the tablecloth.
“Lord Heyward.” Angeline lifted her clasped hands to her mouth and bit into one knuckle.