The Secret Mistress tmt-3

by Mary Balogh

  Her eyes were still steady on his. He took off his tall hat and tossed it onto the seat opposite.

  “Will you say no?” he asked.

  He saw her swallow.

  “Are you asking?” she said.

  He looked around at the interior of his carriage and through the window to the hedgerow rushing past and the fields just visible beyond. The Peacock was only a mile or two distant.

  “I suppose,” he said, “there is no such thing as a perfectly romantic setting, is there? Or just the perfect time. Only the time and setting that are right and inevitable. Yes, I am asking, my love.”

  He reached out both hands and took both of hers. Then, because he was not satisfied, he peeled off her gloves, tossed them, inside out, on top of his hat, and held her hands again.

  “Eunice Goddard,” he said, all pretense of sleepiness gone from his eyes, “will you marry me? I have no flowery speech prepared and would feel remarkably idiotic delivering it even if I had. Will you just simply marry me, my love? Because I love you? Will you take the risk? I am fully aware that there is a risk. I can only urge you to take a chance on me while I promise to do my very best to love and cherish you for the rest of my days and even perhaps beyond them. Who knows? It might be fun playing a harp through all eternity if you were there beside me strumming on one too. Does one strum on a harp?”

  He grinned at her.

  “I would rather swing on clouds,” she said, “and jump from one to another. There would be all the thrill with none of the danger, for we could not fall to our deaths, could we? We would already be immortal. I will marry you, Lord Windrow. I think—I know—I would like it of all things.”

  She bit her upper lip, and tears sprang to her eyes.

  He raised her hands one at a time to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “Make that Charles,” he said. “ ‘I will marry you, Charles.’ ”

  “I will marry you, Charles,” she said softly.

  “I suppose,” he said, “I am going to have to make a journey to Cambridge, am I, to apply to the formidable don for permission to marry his daughter?”

  “You are,” she said. “He will probably look mildly surprised to discover that I can possibly be old enough to consider marriage yet, and then mildly gratified to discover that someone wishes to marry me without his having to exert himself in any way to find me a husband.”

  “Admirable,” he said. “And will he approve of me?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Vague as he can be, he loves me too, you see.”

  He kissed the back of her right hand again and looked past her shoulder.

  “Ah,” he said, “the infamous Peacock, scene of sin and passion—or so it is to be hoped. Heyward may be a dullard in many ways, but I was vastly impressed by the way he got into the private parlor yesterday afternoon without either opening or closing the door. At least, I did not see it open or close, did you? Though there was a great deal of banging and slamming for a moment. He veritably pulsated with passion. So did his fist. And so did his person after we left, I would happily wager. And Lady Angeline Dudley likes him, so he cannot be all dullard. I am really rather fond of her.”

  “I love them both,” Eunice said. “Very dearly. And I still think it was very, very wrong of us to leave them here yesterday.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her briefly on the lips as the carriage made the turn into the small inn yard.

  Chapter 22

  IT SEEMED LIKE a strange marvel to Angeline to discover when they arrived back at Hallings that the world really had not changed—only her world had. The house party was proceeding just as if nothing earth-shattering had happened. Indeed, Cousin Rosalie’s guests were setting up for a cricket match when they arrived sometime after noon, and they were hailed eagerly by team captains and team members alike to come and swell the numbers.

  All the gentlemen were playing except the marquess and Viscount Overmyer, who had awoken in the morning with a tight chest that had eased after his wife had applied a poultice and after he had breakfasted in his room but nevertheless must not be exposed to the vigors of cricket. The viscountess, however, was playing, as was Mrs. Lynd, her sister, and the Countess of Heyward and Miss Marianne Briden. All the nonplayers were gathered about to watch.

  And instead of floating on pink clouds for the rest of the afternoon, as she had imagined doing, basking in all the glory of the Great Secret she was harboring, Angeline recaptured the childhood she had lost after her brothers left home and threw her heart and every stitch of her energy into a game of cricket. She was on the opposing team to Edward and cheered wildly for her team when he hit a long shot that would have resulted in several runs if Ferdinand had not picked it out of the air at full stretch. And she refrained from sticking her tongue out at him when he cheered as she lunged sideways to catch a ball hit by the Reverend Martin, made a spectacular catch, began to celebrate a moment too soon, and … dropped it.

  Mrs. Lynd was formidably good as both a batter and a fielder. So were Tresham and Sir Webster. And the Reverend Martin had, he admitted later, been a bowler on the first eleven both at Eton and at Oxford in the dim, distant years of his youth, and it was obvious he had lost none of his skills even if his joints did tend to be creaky at times.

  Angeline’s team lost ignominiously, a disaster that caused them a great deal of shared laughter and brought them a great deal of sympathy from the spectators. The marquess even gave it as his opinion that they would have won handily if only they had not lost—a comment whose great wit sent him off into a wheezing cough.

  Everyone strolled back in the direction of the house, where tea was awaiting them. Everyone except Miss Goddard and Lord Windrow, that was, who were walking slowly together in the direction of the lake, and Tresham and Edward, who were talking with each other beside the wickets.

  And then, just before Angeline reached the house with everyone else, Tresham caught up with her, took her by the elbow, and steered her off in the direction of the formal gardens.

  “You had better be warned, Angeline,” he said when they were well clear of anyone else. “Heyward cannot take no for an answer, it would seem. He intends to ask you again. That must be why he went galloping after you yesterday and came back today actually inside Windrow’s carriage with you—poor Windrow. He must have been trying to ingratiate himself with you. Be prepared.”

  “Oh,” she said, “I will. Thank you for the warning. But are you sure? I thought he came after us because of Miss Goddard. They are fond of each other, you know. They have been friends forever.”

  “He would do the world a great favor if he married her, then,” he said, “which perhaps he will do after you have rejected him for a second time. Windrow has been acting strangely around her, but he must have turned queer in the head if he imagines that she will be susceptible to his sort of dalliance.”

  Angeline was not so sure. Well, she was. Miss Goddard would surely not dally in any way that would compromise her virtue. But was dalliance what Lord Windrow had in mind? Poor Tresh. He might start to feel vulnerable himself if one of his friends suddenly fell prey to love. Though it was doubtful. She could not quite imagine Tresham ever being either vulnerable or in love. When he married, as he must eventually, it would be a purely dynastic thing. He would choose just the right lady, and he would breed just the right number of children on her, and he would carry on with his life as if his marriage were no more than a pimple on the surface of it.

  Sometimes she wished she did not love her brothers so much. They did not deserve her love. Except that no one would ever be loved if he had to deserve it. Including herself.

  “I shall listen to his offer,” she said with a sigh.

  They had made love again last night—or, rather, early this morning, when dawn was already a suggestion beyond the windows of their room and one lone bird was doing its best to fill the sky with song. Edward had done it slowly and tentatively, prepared at any moment to stop if there had been to
o much pain. But really there had not, and the pleasure had far outweighed the little soreness there was. And once it had been perfectly clear to him that she did not want or need him to stop, then passion had swept them both away until they had emerged, much later, panting and sweating and all tangled up together and in the twisted bedcovers.

  She could not say it had been better or more glorious than the first time. If she did, then she had the feeling she would be saying it every time they made love for the rest of their lives, and that would be ridiculous. It had been as good and as glorious.

  And if Tresham knew …

  “Good girl,” he said. “This has been a surprisingly pleasant interlude, has it not? But it will be good to be back in London. You will be swamped with admirers again once we are. And suitors. You must put me out of my misery and accept one of them one of these days, Angeline. It would be mortally depressing to have to face this all over again next year. Not that I would have you accept just anyone.”

  “Perhaps I will put you out of your misery today and accept Lord Heyward,” she said with a laugh.

  “Devil take it, Angeline,” he said, “have some mercy on me. Imagine having Heyward as a brother-in-law for the rest of a lifetime.”

  “Imagine having him for a husband for the rest of a lifetime,” she said.

  And she felt a purely unexpected but quite identifiable aching sensation stab downward through her womb and out along her inner thighs.

  Imagine Edward as her husband!

  As they made their way back along one of the graveled paths toward the house and their tea, Tresham actually chuckled. And of course this had been a surprisingly pleasant interlude for him. Each day so far he had disappeared for an hour or two at a stretch—at exactly the same time Cousin Belinda disappeared. If there was not dalliance going on there, Angeline would be quite prepared to eat one of her hats, trimmings and all.

  EDWARD FOUND LORRAINE and Fenner together in the conservatory half an hour before dinner. As good fortune would have it, his mother and his grandmother were with them, as were Alma and Augustine and Juliana.

  “Edward,” his mother said, “how did you find Lady Windrow? I used to consider her charming though I never knew her well, but she became reclusive after Windrow died. I believe they were exceedingly fond of each other.”

  “She was well, Mama,” he said, hating the lie. Before he was forced into more of them, he turned to Lorraine and Fenner.

  “I have spoken with Lady Palmer,” he said, “but I must speak with the two of you too. This whole house party was arranged to celebrate your betrothal, after all, and it is only right that the main focus of attention be upon you. I may wish to take some of that attention away from you if Lady Angeline Dudley says yes to a question I hope to ask this evening and if she would not prefer that we delay an announcement. But it will be delayed if you would prefer it.”

  “Edward.” Lorraine smiled warmly at him. “You are going to propose marriage to her again. For the right reason this time—I can see it in your eyes. And she will, of course, say yes. How could any lady in her right mind not?”

  Now there was a touching example of filial loyalty—in a mere sister-in-law.

  “Edward!” The other ladies all spoke together. His mother pressed her clasped hands to her bosom.

  Fenner got to his feet and extended a hand.

  “Good luck, Heyward,” he said. “And I am quite sure I speak for Lorraine when I say we will be delighted to have this gathering at my sister’s made even more memorable than it already is.”

  “Thank you,” Edward said and bent to hug his grandmother, who had extended both arms to him. “But she has not said yes yet.”

  And it would be just like Angeline to find some excuse to say no just so she could witness the extent of his wrath. It would be an extremely wrathful wrath. Good Lord, she might even now be with child—a mildly panic-inducing thought.

  After dinner, by mutual consent, there was dancing in the drawing room again. The same three musicians had arrived after a hasty summons. And the Persian carpet had been rolled back from the floor again. The French windows were open wide again.

  And once more, after a few lively country dances, which left everyone laughing and breathless, it was the waltz that everyone wanted. And once again Edward took Angeline as a partner and waltzed with her out on the terrace, twirling in and out of the candlelight with her.

  Somehow his legs felt less wooden outdoors and his mind less intent upon counting out the rhythm and being careful to set his feet somewhere—anywhere—except on top of his partner’s. The waltz really was rather a splendid dance. He smiled down at her.

  “Another secret,” she said. “You are the most divine waltzing partner in the world. No one else will ever know, and I shall not tell.”

  She smiled back into his eyes. He twirled her again, and it seemed to him that he could not miss a step or tread on her toes if he tried. He led a charmed existence.

  She threw her head back and laughed.

  And it sounded as if he had hurled a silent challenge at fate, which in his experience did not like to be tempted. He stopped dancing just out of the beam of a branch of candles on the mantel inside the drawing room.

  “Come,” he said. “It is almost as bright as day out here. Look at the moonlight on the lake. Let us go closer and feast on the sight.”

  She slipped her arm through his and they proceeded across the wide, sloping lawn, which was actually darker than he had anticipated. But the moonlit water was like a beacon ahead of them and there did not appear to be any clouds overhead that might obliterate it at any moment and plunge them into total darkness.

  The air was still almost warm.

  He slid his arm free of hers and took her hand in his own, lacing their fingers together. And he drew her closer to his side so her shoulder leaned against his upper arm.

  Last night seemed a bit like a dream. It had been real, though. A dream could not possibly be so vivid. He still could not believe he had done something so … bold. Or that he still did not regret it or feel any guilt whatsoever.

  The water was as smooth as glass. There was not a breath of wind. Beyond the lake were the trees and the hill and the tower folly at the top of it. Its silhouette was visible even now in the darkness. Moonlight shimmered in a broad band across the water. It was not a silent scene, though. All around them insects were going about the business of their lives and making noise about it, darkness and night notwithstanding, and somewhere among the trees an owl hooted occasionally just to let the rest of the world know that it was there.

  The sounds merely accentuated the calm serenity of the scene.

  “Angeline,” he said, his hand tightening slightly around hers, his eyes on the water, “will you marry me?”

  “Yes, Edward,” she said.

  Just like that. And just like that they were betrothed and bound together for life.

  It was surely the most moving marriage proposal and acceptance ever made. He smiled at the water.

  He turned his head and she turned hers and their mouths met. Just like that. Their bodies did not turn. They did not wrap their arms about each other. There was no burning passion.

  Only …

  Well, only that thing beyond words.

  Peace.

  Rightness.

  Love.

  It was no use. There really were no words. And it absolutely did not matter. There did not need to be words.

  He spoke some anyway.

  “I love you,” he said.

  She smiled softly in the light of the moon.

  “I know,” she said.

  Which was by far the most eloquent speech he had ever heard from her lips.

  Chapter 23

  ANGELINE HAD CHOSEN pale yellow muslin for her wedding dress. Her initial choice had been a bright sunshine yellow, like her favorite old day dress, but she had ended up taking the advice of Cousin Rosalie and Miss Goddard, who had both accompanied her to the modiste’s a
nd were in agreement with each other.

  “The dress is to be worn on your wedding day,” Miss Goddard had explained. “And on your wedding day all the focus of attention must be upon you, not upon your clothes. And really, you know, Lady Angeline, you are worth focusing upon.”

  “And you will be especially radiant on your wedding day,” Cousin Rosalie agreed. “A bright dress will be quite unnecessary.”

  Miss Goddard had been at the modiste’s on her own account as well as to advise her friend, and she had chosen pale blue and a simple design. She was to marry Lord Windrow in Cambridge two weeks after Angeline’s own wedding. Cousin Leonard and the Countess of Heyward, now Lady Fenner, had married at his country estate two weeks ago. There was a flurry of weddings now at the end of the Season, as there always was, and there were more to come. Martha’s betrothal to Mr. Griddles had just been announced, and Maria was in imminent expectation of a declaration from Mr. Stebbins.