The Proposal

by Mary Balogh

  And then all the goodbyes were said, and there was nothing left to do but leave. It was something for which she had longed just an hour or so ago. Now her heart was heavy, and she dared not look where she yearned with all her heart to look.

  Neville took a step closer to her, clearly intending to carry her out to the carriage, and she turned to hand her crutches to a footman who stood nearby.

  But Lord Trentham moved faster than her brother and scooped her up into his own arms without a by-your-leave.

  “I carried you in here, ma’am,” he said, “and I will carry you out of here.”

  And he strode out through the doors and half ran down the steps with her, well ahead of Neville or anyone else.

  “So this is it,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  There were a million things she wanted to say—surely that many. She could not think of a single one. Which was just as well. Really there was nothing at all to say.

  The carriage door was open. Lord Trentham leaned inside with her and set her carefully down on the seat facing the horses. He took one of the cushions from the back of the seat opposite, set it flat, and lifted her foot onto it. He looked up into her eyes then, his own dark and blazing. His mouth was set in a grim line. His jaw looked more granitelike than ever. He looked like a hardened, rather dangerous military officer again.

  “Have a pleasant journey,” he said before withdrawing his head from the carriage and straightening up beside it.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  She smiled. He did not.

  At this time yesterday they were making love on the beach, he naked, she as good as.

  Neville climbed into the carriage and took the seat beside her, the door was slammed shut, and they were on their way.

  Gwen leaned forward and sideways to wave through the window. They were all out there, the duke and his guests, including Lord Trentham, who stood a little apart from the others, his face fiercely expressionless, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “I wonder you did not die of fright, Gwen,” Neville said, laughing softly. “I daresay it was Captain Emes’s face that breached the walls of Badajoz. He deserved all the accolades that followed, though. It is generally agreed that there was no other man in the whole army who could have done what he did that day. He must be justly proud of himself.”

  Ah, Hugo.

  “Yes,” she said, resting her head back against the cushions and closing her eyes. “Neville, I am so glad you came. I am so glad.”

  Which did not at all explain why a moment later tears were coursing down her cheeks and she was hiccupping in a vain attempt to silence her sobs and Neville was setting an arm about her shoulders and making soothing sounds and producing a large linen handkerchief from a pocket of his coat.

  “Poor Gwen,” he said. “You have been through a nasty ordeal. But I will soon have you back home, where Mama can fuss over you to her heart’s content—and Lily too, I have no doubt. And the older children have both been asking for Aunt Gwen almost from the moment you left and demanding to know when you will return. They were delighted to see me go when they knew I would be bringing you back with me. The baby, of course, was indifferent to the whole thing. Provided she has Lily close by, she is perfectly content, wise little creature. Oh, and lest you begin to think otherwise, I will be rather glad to have you back home too.”

  He grinned down at her.

  Gwen hiccupped once more and gave him a watery smile.

  “And you will soon have plenty more to keep your mind off your ankle,” Neville said. “The family will be descending upon us for Easter. Had you remembered?”

  “Of course,” she said, though in truth it had slipped her mind lately. Lady Phoebe Wyatt, the newest addition to Neville and Lily’s family, was to be baptized and a large number of their relatives were coming to the abbey to help celebrate the occasion. They included Gwen’s two favorite cousins, Lauren and Joseph.

  Oh, it did feel good to be going back home. Back to her own familiar world and the people she loved, the people who loved her.

  She turned her head to gaze out through the carriage window.

  Have a pleasant journey, he had said.

  What had she expected? A lover’s lament? From Lord Trentham?

  “We had better stop in the village,” she said. “I had better say goodbye to Vera.”

  Hugo went straight to London after leaving Penderris. He longed to go home to Crosslands, to be quiet there for a while, to see the new lambs and calves, to talk over the spring planting with his steward, to plan his flower garden better than he had done last year, to … well, to lick his wounds.

  He felt wounded.

  But if he went to Crosslands first, he might make excuses to stay there indefinitely, and he might indeed become the recluse some of his friends in the Survivors’ Club accused him of being. Not that there was anything wrong with being a recluse if one enjoyed living with oneself for company, as Hugo did, even if his friends insisted that it was not his natural state and he was in danger of exploding somehow one day, like a firecracker waiting for a spark to ignite it.

  But there was something wrong with being a recluse or even a happy farmer and gardener when one had responsibilities elsewhere. His father had been dead for longer than a year now, and in all that time Hugo had done no more than glance over the meticulously detailed reports William Richardson sent him each month. His father had chosen his manager with care and had trusted him utterly. But, he had told Hugo during those last hours of his life, Richardson was only a manager, not a visionary. Hugo’s eyes had several times paused upon some detail in the reports, and he had felt an itch to make some change, to force some new direction, to get involved. But it was an itch he had stubbornly refused to scratch. He did not want to be involved.

  It was an attitude he could not continue to hold.

  And Constance was getting older by the day. Nineteen was still very young, of course, even if she sometimes hinted in her letters that it was ancient. But he knew that many girls considered they were on the shelf if they were not married before they were twenty. Even regardless of that, though, all girls of eighteen or nineteen ought to be out enjoying themselves with other young people of their own age. They should be looking about them for prospective partners, testing the waters, making choices.

  Fiona was too sickly to take Constance anywhere herself, and she was also too sickly to allow anyone else to take Constance away from her. How would she manage without her daughter by her side every second of her waking day?

  There was no one more selfish than his stepmother. Only he could stand up to her. And it was something he must do again, for he was Constance’s guardian.

  He resisted the temptation to go to Crosslands, then, and went straight to London instead. The time had come.

  He steeled his nerve.

  Constance was more than delighted to see him. She squealed loudly and came dashing across her mother’s sitting room when he was announced, and launched herself into his arms.

  “Hugo!” she cried. “Oh, Hugo. You have come. At last. And without giving us any warning, you wretch. Will you be staying? Oh, do say you will. Hugo. Oh, Hugo.”

  He hugged her tightly to him and let love and guilt wash over him in equal measure. She was youthful and slender and blond and pretty with eager green eyes. She looked remarkably like her mother and made him understand why his sober, steady father had done something as uncharacteristic as marry a milliner’s assistant eighteen years his junior after an acquaintance of a mere two weeks.

  “I will stay,” he said. “I promised I would come this spring, did I not? You are looking remarkably fine, Connie.”

  He held her at arm’s length and looked down at her. There was a sparkle to her eyes and color in her cheeks even though it looked as though she needed to get more sunshine on her skin. He would see that that was put to rights.

  His stepmother seemed equally pleased to see him. Not that he often thought of Fiona as his stepmot
her. She was only five years older than he. He had been a big lad when she had married his father, far bigger than she. She had fawned over him, showered affection upon him, shown pride in him and praised him to his father—and ultimately driven him away. He would not have insisted that his father purchase his commission if it had not been for Fiona. He had not grown up wanting to be a soldier, after all. Strange thought that. How different his life might have been.

  It was a thought to add to all the other what-ifs of his existence.

  She held out a hand to him now, a handkerchief clutched in it. She was still lovely in a languid, faded sort of way. She was as slender as Constance. There was no gray in her hair and there were no lines on her face. There was an unhealthy pallor to her complexion, though, which might have been caused by real ill-health or by imagined ailments that kept her constantly at home and inactive. She had always had those ailments. She had used them to keep his father attentive, though she had probably not needed to use any wiles to accomplish that goal. His father had adored her to the end, even if his understanding of her character had saddened him.

  “Hugo!” she said as he bowed over her hand and carried it to his lips. “You have come home. Your father would have been pleased. He intended that you look after me. And Constance too.”

  “Fiona.” He released her hand and took a step back. “I trust your needs have been fully met during the past year even in my absence. If they have not been, someone will be answering to me.”

  “Such a masterful man.” She smiled wanly. “I always liked that about you. I have lacked for company, Hugo. We have lacked for company, have we not, Constance?”

  “But you are here now,” Constance said happily, linking her arm through his. “And you are staying. Oh, will you take me to see our cousins? Or invite them here? And will you take me—”

  “Constance,” her mother said plaintively.

  Hugo took a seat and set a hand over his sister’s soft little one after drawing her down beside him.

  He stayed for almost two weeks. He did not invite any of his relatives to his house. Fiona’s health would not allow it. He did visit his aunts and uncles and cousins, however, taking Constance with him despite her mother’s protests at being left alone. And he realized something very quickly. Most of his relatives were sociable beings and well connected in their middle-class world. They were all delighted to see him and equally happy to see Constance. Some of the younger cousins were in her age group. Any or all of them would be perfectly willing to take Constance about with them. She would make friends in no time. She would probably have a large circle of admirers within days or weeks. She could be married before summer was out.

  All she really needed was for someone—him—to put his foot down with her mother so that she was no longer incarcerated at home like an unpaid companion. He would not be compelled to marry. Not for Constance’s sake, anyway. And he was not eager to rush into marriage for the other reason. He was going to be in London for a while. He could satisfy his needs in other ways than marrying.

  It was a bit of a depressing thought, actually, but then so was marriage.

  Fulfilling his obligation to his half sister was not to be that easy after all, though. For she had definite ideas of her own about what would make her happy, and they went beyond moving in the world of her cousins, much as she loved them and enjoyed calling upon them.

  “You are a lord, Hugo,” she said when they were strolling in Hyde Park one morning before Fiona was even up from her bed. “And you are a hero. It must be possible for you to move in higher circles than Papa ever could. Once people learn that you are in town, they will surely send you invitations. How absolutely marvelous it would be to attend a ton ball at one of the grand mansions in Mayfair. To dance there. Can you imagine it?”

  He looked askance at her. He would really rather not imagine any such thing.

  “I am sure you will attract a whole host of admirers from our own world if our cousins take you under their wing,” he said. “How can you not, Connie? You are so very pretty.”

  She smiled up at him and then wrinkled her nose.

  “But they are so dull, Hugo,” she said. “So staid.”

  “Our cousins, you mean?” he said. “And so successful.”

  “Dull and successful and very dear as cousins,” she said. “But all the men they know are bound to be the same way. As husbands they would not be dear at all. I do not want dullness, Hugo. Or even success if stuffy, sober respectability must go with it. I want some … oh, some dash. Some adventure. Is it wrong of me?”

  It was not wrong, he thought with an inward sigh. He supposed all girls dreamed of marrying a prince before they actually married someone altogether more ordinary who could support them and care for their daily needs. The difference between Constance and most other girls was that she saw a way of realizing her dream or at least of getting close enough to a prince to gaze upon him.

  “And you think upper-class gentlemen will offer you dash and adventure and respectability and happiness?” he asked.

  She laughed up at him.

  “A girl can dream,” she said, “and it is your job to see that no shocking rake runs off with me for my fortune.”

  “I would flatten his nose level with the rest of his face if the thought even flitted across his mind,” he said.

  She laughed merrily, and he joined in.

  “You must know some gentlemen,” she said. “Even other titled gentlemen. Is it possible to wangle an invitation? Oh, it must be.

  If you take me to a ton ball, Hugo, I will love you forever and ever. Not that I will not do that anyway. Can you arrange it?”

  It was time to put his foot down quite firmly.

  “I daresay it might be possible,” he said.

  She stopped abruptly on the path, squealed with exuberance, and flung both arms about his neck. It was a good thing there were only trees and dew-wet grass looking on.

  “Oh, it will be,” she cried. “You can do anything, Hugo. Oh, thank you, thank you. I knew all would be well once you came home. I love you, I love you.”

  “Sheer cupboard love,” he grumbled, patting her back. He wondered what words might have issued from his lips if he had decided not to set down a firm foot.

  Whatever had he just promised—or as good as promised? As they strolled onward, he felt as though he had broken out in a cold sweat.

  And his mind was brought back to the whole gloomy question of marrying. He probably could get hold of an invitation if he made a little effort, and he probably could take Constance with him and hope a few gentlemen would offer to partner her on the dance floor. He probably could muddle through an evening, much as he would hate every moment. But would she be satisfied with one ball, or would it merely whet her appetite for more? And what if she met someone who showed more than a passing interest in dancing with her? He would not know what to do about it beyond planting the man a facer, which would not be either a wise or a sensible thing to do.

  A wife could help him do it all right.

  Not one from the middle classes, though.

  He would not marry an upper-class wife merely for the sake of a sister who was not yet willing to settle for her rightful place in society.

  Would he?

  He could feel a headache coming on. Not that he ever suffered from headaches. But this was an exceptional occasion.

  He allowed Constance to chatter happily at his side for the rest of their walk. He was vaguely aware of hearing that she had simply nothing to wear.

  He waited impatiently for the post every morning for those two weeks and shuffled through it all twice as though he thought each day that the letter he looked for had somehow got lost in the pile.

  He dreaded seeing it and was disappointed every time he did not.

  He had not said anything to her after having sex with her on the beach. And like a gauche schoolboy, he had avoided her the next day and almost missed saying goodbye to her. And when he had said goodbye, he had said
something truly profound, like have a good journey or some such thing.

  He had started to say something to her in the gig on the way back from the cove, it was true, but she had stopped him and persuaded him that it had all been quite pleasant, thank you very much, but it would be as well to leave it at that.

  Had she meant it? He had thought so at the time, but really, could women—ladies—be so blasé about sexual encounters? Men could. But women? Had he been too ready to take her at her word?

  What if she was with child and would not write to him?

  And why could he not stop thinking of her day or night, no matter how busy he was with other things and other people? He was busy. He was spending part of each day with Richardson, and he was beginning to understand his businesses more fully, and ideas were beginning to pour into his head and even excite him.

  But always she was there at the back of his mind—and sometimes not so far back.

  Gwendoline.

  He would be an idiot to marry her.

  But she would save him from idiocy. She would not marry him even if he asked. She had made it very clear that she did not want him to ask.

  But had she meant it?

  He wished he understood women better. It was a well-known fact that they did not mean half of what they said.

  But which half did they mean?

  He would be an idiot.

  Easter was almost upon them. It was rather late this year. After Easter she would be in London for the Season.

  He did not want to wait that long.

  She had not written, but what if …

  He would be an idiot. He was an idiot.

  “I have to go into the country,” he announced one morning at breakfast.

  Constance set down her toast and gazed at him with open dismay. Fiona was still in bed.

  “Just for a few days,” he said. “I’ll be back within the week. And the Season will not begin until after Easter, you know. There will be no chance of a ball or any other party before then.”

  She brightened a little.

  “You will take me, then?” she asked. “To a ball?”