by Julia Quinn
Sweat broke out on David’s brow. “I—”
“How?”
“Clive…” David said in a warning voice.
But Clive was relentless. “How?” he demanded, his voice growing loud and uncharacteristically demanding.
“I love her!” David finally yelled, whirling around to face his brother with blazing eyes. “I love her. There. Are you satisfied? I love her, and I swear to God I will kill you if you ever make another false move against her.”
“Oh my God,” Clive breathed. His eyes widened with shock, and his lips parted into a small, surprised oval.
David grabbed his brother by the lapels and hauled him up against a wall. “If you ever, and I mean ever, approach her in a manner that might even hint at flirtation, I swear that I will tear you from limb to limb.”
“Good God,” Clive said. “I actually believe you.”
David looked down, caught sight of his knuckles, turned white by the force of his grip, and was horrified by his reaction. He let go of Clive abruptly and walked away. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“You really love her?” Clive asked.
David nodded grimly.
“I can’t believe it.”
“You just said you did,” David said.
“No, I said I believed you would tear me from limb to limb,” Clive said, “and that I still believe, I assure you. But you…in love…” He shrugged.
“Why the hell couldn’t I be in love?”
Clive shook his head helplessly. “Because…You…It’s you, David.”
“Meaning?” David asked irritably.
Clive fought for words. “I didn’t think you could love,” he finally said.
David nearly reeled with shock. “You didn’t think I could love?” he whispered. “My whole adult life, I’ve done nothing but—”
“Don’t start about how you’ve devoted your life to your family,” Clive interrupted. “Believe me, I know it’s all true. You certainly throw it in my face often enough.”
“I don—”
“You do,” Clive said forcefully.
David opened his mouth to protest once more, but then he silenced himself. Clive was right. He did remind him of his shortcomings too often. And maybe Clive was—whether any of them realized it or not—living down to David’s expectations.
“It’s all about duty to you,” Clive continued. “Duty to family. Duty to the Mann-Formsby name.”
“It’s been about more than that,” David whispered.
The corners of Clive’s lips tightened. “That may be true, but if so, you haven’t shown it very well.”
“I’m sorry, then,” David said. His shoulders slumped as he let out a long, tired exhale. How ironic to discover that he had failed at the one pursuit around which he’d built his entire life. Every decision he had made, everything he had done—it had always been about family, and now it appeared they didn’t even realize it. His love for them had been perceived as a burden—a burden of expectation.
“Do you really love her?” Clive quietly asked.
David nodded. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, or even exactly when during the brief time since they’d renewed their acquaintance, but he loved her. He loved Susannah Ballister, and somehow Clive’s visit had jolted his feelings into startling clarity.
“I don’t, you know,” Clive said.
“You don’t what?” David asked, his voice betraying his weary impatience.
“Love her.”
David let out a harsh little laugh. “God, I hope not.”
“Don’t mock me,” Clive warned. “I’m only telling you this because my behavior today might have led you to think that I…ah…Well, forget about all that. The point is, I care about you enough to tell you…well, you are my brother, you know.”
David actually smiled. He hadn’t thought himself capable of such an expression at that moment, but somehow he couldn’t help it.
“I don’t love her,” Clive said again. “I only sought her out today because I was jealous.”
“Of me?”
“I don’t know,” Clive admitted. “I suppose so. I never thought Susannah would set her cap for you.”
“She didn’t. I pursued her.”
“Well, regardless, I suppose I assumed she’d be sitting at home pining for me.” Clive winced. “That sounds terrible.”
“Yes,” David agreed.
“I didn’t quite mean it that way,” Clive explained, letting out a frustrated breath. “I didn’t want her to spend her life pining away for me, but I suppose I thought she would anyway. And then when I saw her with you…” He sat down in the chair David had vacated a few minutes earlier and let his head rest in his hands. After a few moments of silence, he looked back up and said, “You shouldn’t let her get away.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You shouldn’t let Susannah get away.”
“It had occurred to me,” David said, “that that might be an advisable course of action.”
Clive scowled at his brother’s sarcasm. “She’s a good woman, David. Not the right one for someone like me, but much as it wouldn’t have occurred to me if you hadn’t fallen in love with her, I think she might be exactly the right sort for you.”
“How romantically put,” David muttered.
“Pardon me for having trouble seeing you in the guise of a romantic hero,” Clive said with a slight roll of his eyes. “I’m still finding it difficult to believe you’ve fallen in love at all.”
“Heart of stone and all that,” David quipped.
“Don’t try to brush this off,” Clive said. “This is serious.”
“Oh, I’m aware of that.”
“Earlier this afternoon,” Clive said slowly, “when we were skating, Susannah said things…”
David jumped on his words. “What things?”
“Things,” Clive said, giving his brother a stop-interrupting me sort of glare. “Things that led me to believe she might not be unamenable to your suit.”
“Will you speak English?” David snapped.
“I think she might love you back.”
David sank down and found himself seated on an end table. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m not sure. I just said I think she might love you back.”
“What a marvelous vote of confidence.”
“I doubt she even knows her own mind yet,” Clive said, ignoring David’s words, “but she clearly cares for you.”
“What do you mean?” David asked, desperately trying to find something definite to latch on to in Clive’s words. Good God, the man could talk around an issue for hours without actually coming to the point of it.
Clive rolled his eyes. “All I’m saying is that I think that if you pursued her—really pursued her—she would say yes.”
“You think.”
“I think,” Clive said impatiently. “Good God, when did I tell you I was a seer?”
David pursed his lips in thought. “What did you mean,” he asked slowly, “when you said really pursue her?”
Clive blinked. “I meant you should really pursue her.”
“Clive,” David growled.
“A grand gesture,” Clive said quickly. “Something huge and romantic and entirely out of character.”
“Any type of grand gesture would be out of character,” David grumbled.
“Exactly,” Clive said, and when David looked up, he saw that his brother was grinning.
“What should I do?” David asked, hating that he was the one asking advice, but desperate enough to do it, anyway.
Clive stood and cleared his throat. “Now, what would be the fun in my telling you what to do?”
“I’d find great fun in it,” David ground out.
“You’ll think of something,” Clive said, entirely unhelpfully. “A grand gesture. Every man can come up with at least one grand gesture in his lifetime.”
“Clive,” David said with a groan, “you know that grand gestures aren’t i
n my style.”
Clive chuckled. “Then I imagine you’ll have to make them your style. At least for right now.” His brow furrowed, and then he began to sputter with only slightly controlled laughter. “At least for Valentine’s Day,” he added, doing nothing now to contain his mirth, “which I believe is…ah…only eleven days away.”
David’s belly lurched. He had a feeling it was his heart dropping into his stomach. Valentine’s Day. Dear God, Valentine’s Day. The bane of any sane and reasonable man. If ever a grand gesture was expected, it was on Valentine’s Day.
He staggered into his chair. “Valentine’s Day,” he groaned.
“You can’t avoid it,” Clive said brightly.
David threw him a killing glare.
“I can see that it’s time I took my leave,” Clive murmured.
David didn’t even bother to acknowledge his brother as he left.
Valentine’s Day. It should have struck him as perfect timing. Tailor-made for declaring one’s love.
Ha. Tailor-made if one was the loquacious, romantic, poetic sort, which David most assuredly was not.
Valentine’s Day.
What the devil was he going to do?
The following morning, Susannah woke up feeling not well-rested, not happy, hale, and hearty, and most definitely not refreshed.
She hadn’t slept.
Well, of course she’d slept, if one wanted to be annoyingly precise about it. She hadn’t lain awake the entire night. But she knew she’d seen her clock when it read half-one. And she had distinct recollections of half-two, half-four, a quarter past five, and six. Not to mention that she’d gone to bed at midnight.
So if she’d slept, it had only been in bits and snatches.
And she felt awful.
The worst part of it was—it wasn’t just that she was tired. It wasn’t even just that she was cranky.
Her heart ached.
Ached.
It ached like nothing she’d ever felt, the pain of it almost physical. Something had happened between her and David the day before. It had begun earlier, maybe at the theater, and it had been growing, but it had happened in the snowbank.
They had laughed, and she had looked into his eyes. And for the first time, she had really seen him.
And she loved him.
It was the worst possible thing she could ever have done. Nothing could have set her up for heartbreak with greater precision. At least she hadn’t loved Clive. She’d thought she had, but in truth, she’d spent more of that summer wondering whether she loved him than declaring that she did. And in truth, when he had jilted her, it had been her pride that he’d battered, not her heart.
But with David it was different.
And she didn’t know what to do.
As she’d lain awake the night before, she’d reckoned that she was caught in the midst of one of three scenarios. The first one was ideal: David loved her, and all she had to do was tell him she felt the same, and they would live happily ever after.
She frowned. Maybe she ought to wait for him to declare his love first. After all, if he did love her, he’d want to be romantic about it and make a formal declaration.
She closed her eyes in agony. The truth was, she didn’t know how he felt one way or another, and in fact, the truth could be closer to the second scenario, which was that he had only been pursuing her to irritate Clive. If that was indeed the case, she had no idea what to do with herself. Avoid him like the plague, she supposed, and pray that broken hearts healed quickly.
The third scenario was, in her opinion, probably the most likely: David liked her well enough but didn’t love her, and had only asked her to the skating party as a diversion. That seemed logical enough; men of the ton behaved that way all the time.
She flopped back on her bed, letting out a loud groan of frustration. It didn’t really matter which scenario was the truth—none of the three had a clear-cut solution.
“Susannah?”
Susannah looked up to see her sister poking her head through the slim opening between the door and the door-frame.
“Your door was open,” Letitia said.
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Very well, it wasn’t,” Letitia said, entering, “but I heard you making strange sounds and thought I should check as to your welfare.”
“No,” Susannah said, returning her gaze to the ceiling, “you heard me making strange sounds and wanted to know what I was doing.”
“Well, that, too,” Letitia admitted. Then, when Susannah made no reply, she added, “What were you doing?”
Susannah smirked at the ceiling. “Making strange sounds.”
“Susannah!”
“Very well,” Susannah said, since it was near impossible to keep a secret from Letitia, “I’m nursing a broken heart, and if you tell a single soul, I will—”
“Cut off my hair?”
“Cut off your legs.”
Letitia smiled as she closed the door behind her. “My lips are sealed,” she assured her, crossing the room to the bed and sitting down. “Is it the earl?”
Susannah nodded.
“Oh, good.”
Curiosity sparked, Susannah sat up. “Why is it good?”
“Because I like the earl.”
“You don’t even know the earl.”
Letitia shrugged. “It’s easy to discern his character.”
Susannah thought about that. She wasn’t so certain that Letitia was correct. After all, she’d spent the better part of a year thinking that David was haughty, cold, and unfeeling. Of course, her opinion had been mostly based on what she’d been told by Clive.
No, maybe Letitia was right. Because once Susannah had spent time with David herself, without Clive…well, it hadn’t taken long for her to fall in love with him.
“What should I do?” Susannah whispered.
Letitia was entirely unhelpful. “I don’t know.”
Susannah shook her head. “Nor do I.”
“Does he know how you feel?”
“No. At least, I don’t think he does.”
“Do you know how he feels?”
“No.”
Letitia made an impatient sound. “Do you think he might care for you?”
Susannah’s lips stretched into an uncertain grimace. “I think he might.”
“Then you should tell him how you feel.”
“Letitia, I could make an utter fool of myself.”
“Or you could end up blissfully happy.”
“Or a fool,” Susannah reminded her.
Letitia leaned forward. “This is going to sound dreadfully unkind, but really, Susannah, would it be so very terrible if you embarrassed yourself? After all, how could you possibly endure any greater mortification than you did last summer?”
“This would be worse,” Susannah whispered.
“But no one would know.”
“David would know.”
“He’s only one person, Susannah.”
“He’s the only person who matters.”
“Oh,” Letitia said, sounding a little bit surprised and quite a lot excited. “If that is how you feel, then you must tell him.” When Susannah did nothing but groan, she added, “What is the worst that could happen?”
Susannah shot her a heavy look. “I don’t even want to speculate.”
“You must tell him how you feel.”
“Why, so that you may vicariously live through my mortification?”
“Through your happiness,” Letitia said pointedly. “He will love you in return, I’m sure of it. He probably already does.”
“Letitia, you haven’t the least bit of facts upon which to base such a supposition.”
But Letitia wasn’t paying attention. “You must go tonight,” she said quite suddenly.
“Tonight?” Susannah echoed. “Where? I don’t even think we’ve any invitations. Mama was planning for us to remain at home.”
“Exactly. Tonight is the only night this week that you will be abl
e to sneak out and visit him at home.”
“At home?” Susannah very nearly shrieked.
“What you need to tell him must be said in private. And you will never find a moment’s privacy at a London ball.”
“I can’t go to his home,” Susannah protested. “I’d be ruined.”
Letitia shrugged. “Not if no one found out.”
Susannah grew thoughtful. David would never tell anyone, of that she was certain. Even if he rejected her, he wouldn’t do anything that would place her reputation at risk. He would simply bundle her up, find a carriage without his crest on it, and send her discreetly home.
In a way, she had nothing to lose except her pride.
And, of course, her heart.
“Susannah?” Letitia whispered, “are you going to do it?”
Susannah lifted her chin, looked her sister straight in the eye, and nodded.
Her heart, after all, was already lost.
Chapter 7
And amid all this cold and snow and ice and frigid wind and…well, amid this abominable weather, if one is going to state it quite honestly, may This Author remind you, Gentle Reader, that Valentine’s Day is fast approaching?
Time to get thee out to the stationers’ shop for valentine notes and perhaps, for good measure, the confectioner and the florist.
Gentlemen of the ton, now is the time to atone for all of your sins and transgressions. Or at least to try.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 4 FEBRUARY 1814
David’s study was ordinarily spotless, with every book in its proper place on the shelf; papers and documents organized into neat piles, or better yet, tucked away in appropriate files and drawers; and nothing, absolutely nothing, on the floor save for the carpet and the furniture.
Tonight, however, the room was littered with paper. Crumpled-up paper. Crumpled-up valentines, to be precise.
David wasn’t much of a romantic, or at least he didn’t think he was, but even he knew that one was supposed to buy one’s valentines at H. Dobbs & Co. And so, that morning, he’d driven out to New Bridge Street, clear across town by St. Paul’s Cathedral, and bought himself a box of their best.
All of his attempts at flowery script and romantic poetry were disasters, however, and so at noon he found himself once again in the quiet confines of H. Dobbs & Co., purchasing another box of their best valentines, this time a package of twelve instead of the half dozen he’d bought earlier that day.