by Mary Balogh
“I do beg your pardon,” she said. “This is a social occasion. I ought to be helping you enjoy yourself, for you did not enjoy coming here and would not have done it if it had not been for your sister. I should be making you relax and laugh. I should be—”
She stopped abruptly. His free arm had come about her shoulders, and the hand that had been holding hers was loosely clasping her neck, her chin held firmly in the cleft between his thumb and forefinger. He lifted her chin and turned her head.
She could not see him clearly.
“Sometimes,” he said, “you say the daftest things. It must be the aristocrat in you.”
And he kissed her, his mouth firm on hers, warm, open. His tongue pressed into her mouth. She clasped his wrist and kissed him back.
It was not a brief embrace. Neither was it lascivious or even particularly ardent. But it was something she felt to the roots of her being. For, physical though it was, it was not about the physical. It was about … them. He was kissing her because she was Gwendoline, and he cared about her, warts and all. She was kissing him because he was Hugo and she cared about him.
After he had finished and had removed his hand from her chin in order to hold her hand in her lap again and she had tipped her head sideways to rest on his shoulder, she felt the soreness of unshed tears in her throat. For she was not, of course, in love with him. Or not just in love, anyway.
When had he become the sun and the moon to her, the very air she breathed?
And when had an impossibility become only an improbability?
She must not be swayed by romance. And perhaps that was all this was.
And the aftermath of her unburdening.
When had he grown so wise, so understanding, so gentle?
After he had suffered?
Was that what suffering was all about? Was that what it did for a person?
He moved his head and kissed her temple, her cheek.
“Don’t cry,” he murmured. “The dance must be almost at an end. And look, there is another couple out on the balcony and they are hovering at the top of the steps. We had better go in so that I can sit with Constance and Berwick at supper. So that we can sit with them.”
She lifted her head, dried her cheeks with the heels of her palms, and got to her feet.
“I still have to decide,” he said as she took his arm, “whether I want to court you or not. I’ll let you know. I am not sure I can bring myself to court a woman who limps.”
They were out from under the tree, and there was lamplight playing across his face when she looked up at him, startled.
He was not looking back at her. But there was a gleam of something in his eyes that might possibly be a smile.
Chapter 17
The damnable thing was that Lady Muir had been right. The ballroom really had been buzzing with the news of his fame. A dozen or more men had wanted to shake his hand during supper, and wherever he looked, he had intercepted nodding heads and plumes and admiring glances. It had been deuced embarrassing and had ended up causing him to look down at his plate more than anywhere else, feeling awkward and very much on display. He had spent the rest of the night dodging from one shadowed corner to another, but it had not seemed to help much. And he had been unable to leave early as Constance danced until the last chord of the final set had been played.
Now this morning there had been a veritable deluge of post, almost all of it invitations to various ton entertainments: garden parties, private concerts, soirees, Venetian breakfasts, whatever the devil they were, musical evenings—how were they different from concerts? And how could a breakfast be scheduled to begin during the afternoon? Was it not a contradiction in terms? Or did it mean that the ton slept all morning during the Season, something that made sense actually, since they obviously caroused all night? Almost all the invitations addressed to him included Constance, a fact that made it difficult either simply to ignore them or to send back a firm refusal.
There were a few invitations addressed just to Constance, as well as three bouquets—from Ralph, young Everly, and someone who had signed his card with such an extravagant flourish that his name was illegible.
Hugo went off to spend the morning with William Richardson, his manager, leaving Constance with her mother and grandmother and the two little boys the latter had brought with her this morning. Strangely, Fiona did not seem unduly distressed by their energy and incessant questions, and Constance was ecstatic at the chance to talk and play with these new cousins. She was to go driving in Hyde Park later in the afternoon with Gregory Hind, one of last night’s partners, the one with the loud, braying laugh and the tendency to find everything funny. He had passed Lady Muir’s strict scrutiny, however, and Connie liked him. And apparently Hind’s sister and her betrothed were to accompany them, so all was perfectly respectable.
Hugo immersed himself in work and longed for the country.
He was not at all sure he wanted to court Lady Muir. She limped. Really quite noticeably. But when he chuckled quietly at the memory of saying that to her, he won for himself a puzzled look from Richardson and then an answering laugh as though the man thought he must have missed a joke but would pretend he had not.
No, he was not sure he wanted to court her. He would be no good for her. She needed someone to cherish her and pamper her and make her laugh. She needed someone from her own world. And he needed someone … But did he really need anyone at all? He needed someone to bear him a son so that his father could rest in peace. He needed someone for sex. The son could wait, though, and sex could be had elsewhere than in marriage.
A depressing thought.
He did not need Gwendoline, Lady Muir. Except that she had taken him with her last night to the very darkest depth of her soul and he had felt curiously gifted. And she had kissed him as if … Well, as if he somehow mattered. And when he had said that about her limp, she had thrown back her head and laughed with sheer merriment. And except that he had been inside her body in the cove at Penderris and she had welcomed him there. Yes, she had. She had, and he, who had only ever had whores before her, had known the difference even though she had lacked most of their expertise.
He had been wanted, cherished, loved.
Loved?
Well, perhaps that was going a bit too far.
But he craved more. Her? Was it her he craved? Or it. More of it.
Or was it love he craved?
But he had been wool-gathering for too long and returned his attention determinedly to work.
Later in the afternoon he was rapping the knocker against the door of Kilbourne House on Grosvenor Square and asking the butler if he would find out if Lady Muir was at home and willing to receive him. He fully expected her to be out. It was the time when everyone was out walking or riding or driving in the park and it was a pretty decent day even if the sun was not constantly shining. Hind had been driving off with Constance as Hugo was leaving the house, braying with laughter at something she had said. Perhaps this was why he had come now—because he could be fairly sure that she would not be home.
If he ever grew to understand himself, Hugo decided, it would be a miracle of the first order.
Not only was she at home, and not only would she receive him, but also she came downstairs in person, just ahead of the butler. She was looking pale and listless, a little heavy-eyed.
“Come into the library,” she said. “Neville and Lily are out, and my mother is resting.”
He followed her into the room and closed the door.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
She turned to look at him and smiled slightly.
“Nothing, actually,” she said. “I have just come from spending the afternoon with Lauren.”
Her face crumpled and she spread her hands over it.
“I am sorry,” she said.
“Was I right?” he asked her.
Good God, what if he had not been?
“Yes,” she said, lowering her hands, her facial muscles under control again. “Yes, you we
re right. We have just spent almost a whole afternoon crying like idiots. I am to understand that I am the biggest goose ever born to keep all that bottled up inside for so long.”
“No” he said, “you are not a goose. She was wrong there. When we feel like rotten eggs, we would rather no one cracked our shells—for their sake.”
“I am a rotten egg, then.” She laughed shakily. “Is your sister happy today? I intend to call on her tomorrow morning.”
“She is out driving with Hind and his sister,” he said. “The sitting room of the house looks and smells like a flower garden. She has received five invitations, not counting the thirteen I received that include her. Yes, she is happy.”
“But you are less so?” she asked. “Oh, do come and sit down, Hugo. I will get a crick in my neck from looking up at you.”
He sat down on a love seat while she took the old leather chair across from him.
“I would be quite happy to make a bonfire out of the lot of them,” he said, “but I have to think of Connie. I came to ask your advice on which invitations to accept.”
“Of those?” She nodded at the bundle of papers he held in one hand.
“Yes,” he said, holding it out toward her. “Constance’s on top, mine below. Which ought we to go to? If any. One ton ball was all I promised, after all, and I don’t want to raise unreasonable expectations in her.”
“She can find happiness only among her own kind, you think?” she asked, taking the pile of invitations from him and setting it on her lap.
“Not necessarily.” He could feel his jaw hardening. She was making fun of him. “But probably.”
She took a few minutes to look through the invitations one by one. He watched her as she did so and was irritated. For he wanted to step over there, scoop her into his arms as he had done at Penderris when he had had every excuse to do so, and carry her back here to cradle on his lap. She was still pale. But he was not her keeper. He was not in any way responsible for bringing her comfort or anything else. Her back was ramrod straight. No, that was unfair. It was straight, but her posture was relaxed, graceful. Her spine did not touch the back of the chair, though. Her neck arched like a swan’s. She was a lady from the top of her head to her well-manicured fingertips to her daintily shod feet.
And he wanted her something fierce.
“I have received most of these invitations myself,” she said. “I would not presume to tell you which ones to accept or refuse, Lord Trentham. But there are some it would be wiser for Constance to refuse and a few it would be very advantageous for her to accept. In fact, there are three events to which I was very much hoping she would be invited so that I would not have to go to the effort of securing her an invitation.”
She laughed softly and looked up at him.
“You must not feel obliged to come with her,” she said. “I shall be delighted to take her with me and to be an attentive chaperon. However, the ton will be disappointed if the hero of Badajoz disappears from the face of the earth again after last night, when many of them either did not have a chance to speak with you and shake your hand or else were not even present. The ton is a fickle entity, though. After a while the novelty of seeing you at last will be replaced by something else and you will no longer be the focus of attention wherever you go. But everyone is going to have to be offered the chance of seeing you a number of times before that will happen.”
He sighed.
“I will accompany Constance to those three events,” he said. “Tell me which they are, and I shall send an acceptance.”
She set the three on top and handed the bundle back to him.
“How I would love some fresh air,” she said. “Will you take me walking, Lord Trentham, or will my limp embarrass you?”
She smiled as she said it, but there was something wistful in her eyes.
He got to his feet and shoved the pile of invitations into his coat pocket, pulling the fashionable garment horribly out of shape.
“You do know I was joking last night,” he said. “Your limp is part of you, Gwendoline, though I wish for your sake it was not. You are beautiful to me as you are.” He held out a hand for hers. “But I still have not decided if I wish to court you. One of those three invitations is to a garden party.”
She laughed and at last there was a little color in her cheeks.
“It is,” she said. “You will acquit yourself well enough, Hugo, if you remember one small thing. When you drink tea, hold the handle of the cup with your thumb and three fingers—but not with your little finger.”
She shuddered theatrically.
“Go and fetch your bonnet,” he told her.
I have decided not to court you,” he said.
They had been walking along the pavement in the direction of Hyde Park, Gwen’s arm tucked through his. She had been feeling weary to the marrow of her bones just a short while ago after returning from Lauren’s. She probably would have lain on her bed if Hugo had not come. She was glad he had. She was still feeling tired, but she was relaxed too. Almost happy.
They had not been talking. It had seemed unnecessary to do so.
She had been feeling … safe.
“Oh?” she said. “Why, this time?”
“I am too important for you,” he said. “I am the hero of Badajoz.”
She smiled. It was the first time he had spoken voluntarily about that episode in his life. And he had made a joke of it.
“Alas,” she said, “it is too true. But I draw consolation from the fact that you are too important for anyone. You must marry someone, however. You are a lusty man but far too important to frequent—”
Oh, dear, she was not made for this kind of banter.
“Brothels?” he said.
“Well,” she said, “you are too important. And if you must marry, then it follows that you must also court the lady of your choice.”
“No,” he said. “I am too important for that. I merely have to crook my finger and she will come running.”
“Fame has not made you conceited by any chance?” she asked him.
“Not at all,” he said. “There is nothing conceited about acknowledging the truth.”
She laughed softly, and when she looked up at him, she saw what might be a smile lurking about the corners of his lips. He had been trying to make her laugh.
“Do you plan,” she asked, “to crook your finger at me?”
There was a rather lengthy pause before his answer while they crossed the road and he tossed a coin to the young crossing sweeper who had cleared a pile of steaming manure out of their path.
“I have not decided,” he said. “I will let you know.”
Gwen smiled again, and they entered the park.
They walked past the fashionable area, where crowds were still driving or riding or walking, though they did not linger there. Even so, their arrival was noticed with far more interest than she alone would have drawn, Gwen thought, and numerous people called out to them or even stopped for a brief exchange of greetings. Both of them were delighted to see the Duke of Stanbrook riding with Viscount Ponsonby. The duke invited them to take tea with him the following afternoon. Constance Emes waved cheerfully from Mr. Hind’s barouche some distance away.
But they strolled onward rather than walk the circuit like everyone else, and passed far fewer vehicles and pedestrians.
“Tell me about your stepmother,” she said.
“Fiona?” He looked at her in some surprise. “My father married her when I was thirteen. She was working at a milliner’s shop at the time. She was extremely beautiful. He married her within a week or two of meeting her—I did not even know about her until he announced abruptly one day that he was getting married the next. It was a nasty shock. I suppose most lads, even thirteenyear-olds, imagine that their widowed fathers loved their mothers so dearly that they could never again even look at another woman with desire. I was fully prepared to hate her.”
“And did forever after?” she said, nodding to a trio of
gentlemen who passed them and tipped their hats to her and glanced at Hugo in open awe. He seemed unaware of their existence.
“I like to think I would have recovered some common sense,” he said. “I had had my father to myself most of my life and I adored him, but I was thirteen and already knew that my life did not revolve about him. But it was soon obvious that she was horribly bored. It was obvious why she had married him, of course. I suppose there is nothing too terribly wrong in marrying a man for his money. It is done all the time. And I don’t think she was ever unfaithful, though she would have been with me a few years later if I had allowed it. I went off to war instead.”
“That was your reason for going?” She looked up at him, her eyes wide.
“The funny thing was,” he said, “that I could never bear to kill even the smallest, ugliest creature. I was forever carrying spiders and earwigs out of the house to set them on the doorstep. I was forever rescuing mice from traps on the rare occasions when they were still alive. I was forever bringing home birds with broken wings and stray dogs and cats. For a while my cousins used to annoy me by calling me the gentle giant. And I ended up killing men.”
Much was explained, Gwen thought. Ah, much was.
“Is your stepmother not close to your uncles and aunts and cousins?” she asked.
“She felt inferior to them,” he said, “and consequently believed they despised her. I do not believe they did. They would have loved her and welcomed her into the fold if they had been given the opportunity. They all came from humble origins, after all. She cut herself off from her own family in the belief, I suppose, that they would drag her down from the level she had reached by marrying my father. I went to call on them a week ago. They have never stopped loving her and longing for her. Incredibly, they do not seem to resent her. Her mother and her sister have spent some time with her already, and this morning her mother brought her two young grandchildren, Fiona’s nephews. There are still her father and brother and sister-in-law to be met, but I am hopeful that it will happen. Perhaps Fiona will get her life back. She is still relatively young, and she still has her looks.”