A faint gleam hovered about Stephen’s eyes.
“This horrible step?”
“No. Oh, no!” Amaryllis’s answer was speaking. “This . . . significant step. Marriage is a very final thing.”
“So is spinsterhood.”
“You are saving me from spinsterhood?”
Amaryllis’s tone was panicked. This must surely be the most humiliating reason ever given for a marriage offer!
“I would not be so unmannerly as to say such a thing, but I overheard one or two remarks about you which were both absurd and . . . and . . . downright nonsensical. I could not take up the cudgels in your defense—that would have been improper—but I did think that if I made you an offer it would silence a good few tongues.”
Silence a good few tongues! Amaryllis felt the color rise to her cheeks in mortification. This betrothal would not silence tongues! It would set them wagging like she was a nine-day wonder, no less!
Still, the thought of the likes of Martha Caddington being forced to give her precedence was pleasant, but more like a silly daydream than any kind of reality. It was not the best basis for a marriage, though Amaryllis felt absurdly grateful that someone of Stephen’s caliber should put himself to such pains on her behalf. She brushed back a tear and hoped Lord Redding would think it was merely sunshine in her eyes.
“My dear, I have expressed myself badly! I would not have offered for you for that reason alone, for there are many young ladies who suffer from spiteful tongues and I cannot be expected to rescue all of them! No, let us just say, Amaryllis, that you are saving me from bachelorhood.”
Amaryllis laughed, and the most delightful dimples appeared on her cheeks. Stephen wondered why he had never noticed them before. Perhaps because she was always so earnest in company!
“You talk in riddles, sir. You need no saving, for there must be a hundred young ladies at least dangling after you.”
“Indeed. Dangling after my title, you mean. I shall be perfectly direct, Amaryllis. I need an heir—preferably, though not necessarily—in the immediate future. I would very much like to be a father. My estimable mama is also badgering me like a bloodhound to marry.
“Whilst there are several suitable young candidates—I shall not hide this from you—you seem to me to be the most sensible and the kindest. I cannot say I will make a good husband, for I almost certainly shall not. In matters of—shall we say the heart?—I shall tread my own way and expect you to be complacent. I shall always, however, accord you respect, for though I may not love you, I do admire and like you.”
Stephen took a breath and noted, with a frown, the high flush on Amaryllis’s cheeks. His tone was gentler as he continued. “I do not expect you to care for me, Amaryllis—not in the traditional way—but I do think you might grow to hold me in esteem and that is as good a basis I know of for such a union.”
Amaryllis hardly knew how to respond. He continued with a wry smile.
“Do not, I pray you, look so terribly forlorn! I do not offer you love in the conventional sense, but I am not an ogre! You will be compensated by a title, such as it is worth, all the pin money you could desire, and the company of my young nieces whose acquaintances you have already made. In due course, of course, you shall have a child of your own. We shall hope it is an heir, for nothing will make me—or, indeed, my mother—happier than this felicitous outcome.’
Amaryllis blushed, but dared not speak of this time, for fear of appearing either ignorant or worse, eager. He, she noted, did not appear to be suffering from any degree of overeagerness. As for ignorance, she knew perfectly well he was not afflicted with that malady! News of his paramours was almost legendary.
She questioned, him, therefore, on the safer topic.
“Your nieces. You say I have met them. I cannot think when . . . ?”
A grin almost crossed his stern, attractive features. It made him look human and charming. Amaryllis told herself not to be a fool.
“Can you not? The night of my sister—Lady Charlotte’s—ball at Devonport. Lady Charlotte is abroad and I, for my pains, stand as ward to the two young scamps.”
“You mean . . .”
“Yes, the iced gateaux and the . . . sugar plums, was it? But we digress.”
Amaryllis thought she could detect a twinkle lurking in my lord’s eye, but she could not be certain.
For a good ten minutes more the discussion became rather more earnest. The earl, in an effort to be perfectly honest from the outset—made it abundantly—but politely—plain he was not interested in Amaryllis personally, though he liked her a good deal and thought she would make an excellent countess.
He had, however, no intention of altering his bachelor way of life or removing to his considerable estates in the country. He required an heir, a chatelaine, and an escape from the insufferable debutantes who seemed more and more inventive in their attempts to snare him.
He did not mention that he found himself drawn to Amaryllis, that it had taken a great deal of resolution not to dance with her in the last two weeks, that he found her more charming than he cared to admit, and that, even as he spoke, he was yearning foolishly to kiss her pretty lips.
No! He omitted such matters as unimportant to the contract before them. In truth, he felt uncomfortable with the matter, for he had no wish to allow Amaryllis false hopes and his amorous adventuring had been extensive enough for him to realize that such burning attractions often did not endure more than a sennight.
So he continued on in a cool and collected manner, outlining all the advantages that would accrue to her if she became his betrothed.
Amaryllis was informed that as countess she could do precisely as she pleased within the bounds of propriety, she might command an ample supply of pin money, and she might escape the indignity of dwindling into unwed loneliness. It was a crushing proposal, not the type of Amaryllis’s dreams, but she accepted quietly, if not joyfully.
Stephen had done her the justice of being truthful and for that she was grateful. It gave her the space to hide her budding feelings for him—no, to crush her feelings for him—without exposing all the pain of her longing. There was no question of her refusing such an offer. Her parents expected her to accept, and she had no reason not to, save for some foolish bit of daydreaming.
Hundreds of arranged marriages were made each morning and if her own was not quite out of a storybook, she was no worse off than dozens of girls before her. After all, Lord Redding was no Mr. Ratchins! Her mouth tilted upward at the comparison and the earl, unbeknownst to her, almost groaned in anguish.
He had never wanted to kiss someone so much in all of his life, but he knew perfectly well he must remain controlled.
Amaryllis, having accepted the proposal, did not leave the drawing room without a few victories of her own. In exchange for such a convenient marriage, she asked that her judgment be respected. She shyly demanded that she be seen harmoniously in the company of the earl on such occasions as was necessary to avoid speculation. She also asked, with a little catch to her throat, that she be permitted free rein with the earl’s nieces.
The earl, surprised at this show of independence, but not unduly alarmed, agreed affably. Miss Hastings, after all, was a sensible young woman, if not a diamond of the first water. He did not wish to be disturbed on every small matter relating to his nieces, and basic manners was not an unduly stressful demand.
He had already resolved be kind to her both in private and in public, and to accord her the respect she deserved as his wife, as the mother of a future earl, and as a peeress of the realm. On all other issues, he would go his own way. He bowed magnanimously, white teeth gleaming, and acquiesced, with a faint smile, to her terms.
Miss Hastings, who did not know, until that moment, that she had been holding her breath, released it and afforded him one of her rare and excessively beautiful smiles. She held out her hand to shake on the agreement but was disconcerted to find it taken from her and kissed, gently, lightly, slightly ironically.
Such was the effect of his lordship’s touch that Amaryllis felt light-headed. It was all she could do not to snatch her hand away, but the moment passed before she disgraced herself in such a ridiculous manner. It was just that she had not expected the earl’s touch to be so . . . she could not find the correct adjective, even in her secret thoughts.
She curtsied, and he bowed gravely, but he looked troubled. The last thing he wanted was to be saddled with a wife who suffered a tendre for him! He would be roasted by his friends and feel a cad himself for not being able to amply reciprocate the sentiments.
He was in no doubt that despite his troublesome stirring of passion he would be unable to feel remotely drawn to Miss Hastings, who did not resemble his first love or his string of subsequent paramours in the slightest. They, of course, were all beauties of the first order, raven-haired, curvaceous, selfish . . . he did not know where that particular thought came from, but he supposed it was true.
Still, when one is beautiful and can command all eyes, a certain degree of self orientation is forgivable. Expected, even. Stephen shifted uncomfortably with the concept, which did not sit true. His thoughts moved on to Amaryllis, with her shy smile and her impulsive kindness.
There was no doubt that with her demure looks and fair, understated coloring, she was gentleness itself. He had noted this on several different occasions, though he doubted whether the recipients of her warm spirit were ever even aware of her benevolence.
Yes, there was no denying a generous nature behind the limpid, somewhat insipid looks. Lord Redding, accustomed to thinking of Amaryllis in such terms, put aside his sudden fancies, and the fact that Amaryllis, today, looked anything but insipid. She was beautiful, but he, lost in his reverie, would not admit as much to himself.
In want of a wife, he had chosen the enduring quality of kindness over beauty, generosity over passion. Not that he ever intended to forsake beauty or passion, but his liaisons were discreet, and they had the indubitable advantage of being expendable.
Wives were different again. Wives were to be mothers and he wanted his offspring to have someone kind and caring to turn to in times of trouble. Miss Hastings, he thought with a slight sigh, was eminently suitable.
Lady Hastings was in high alt, and Lord Hastings, who knew little of Amaryllis’s previous failure to “take” was nonetheless gravely pleased. He enjoyed the round of congratulations at Boodle’s when the announcement appeared in the Gazette, and Lady Hastings’s home had never been so full of morning visitors.
As for Amaryllis, she had mixed feelings. It would be impossible to say she did not feel a certain exhilaration when my lord danced attendance on her, or when he gazed deeply into her eyes at the exact moment that Martha Caddington’s sour gaze alighted upon them.
Indeed, he went out of his way to ensure that she was seated beside him at dinner, that her glass was never empty, that their hands touched for a flicker of an instant (but long enough for certain debutantes to notice), and that he commented, in general terms, about his great good fortune in securing such a beautiful and noble bride.
Unfortunately, this kindness was too much for Amaryllis, who felt certain he was only being compassionate. She realized he was wreaking his revenge on the Martha Caddingtons of the world, but it was not exacted without expense.
Chapter Six
Each time he smiled at her, each time he complimented her, touched her, and hovered over her made her feel more beautiful or breathless than she had ever felt before, she had to remind herself that it was all a sham, that Lord Redding was rescuing her from spinsterhood, that he was simply teaching uncivil debutantes a rather pointed lesson. He was being kind to a wallflower. She must remember that, and learn to live with it.
His lordship, on the other hand, was rather amusing himself. The gossip columns had run a funny cartoon which figured a certain Miss M.C. colored all over in green, for envy. She was curtsying to a certain Miss A.H. and swallowing a drink labeled “gall.” He told himself it was this revenge that was causing him to hover at Amaryllis’s side.
In truth, it was more than that. He had not known, before they were thrown continually in each other’s company, that she was bright, intelligent, and showed flashes of the ironic humor that very nearly matched his own. He had known she was kind, but not that she was inventive, conversant in the classics and interested in horse breeding. Not a fit conversation for a lady, perhaps, but Miss Hastings became animated when she spoke of it, which led Stephen to speak about his stables, which in turn caused her to forget her shyness. When Amaryllis forgot to be shy, her eyes—her finest feature—lit up with animation and her cheeks glowed with vitality.
He found himself wondering why he had always thought her so insipid, then reasoned it must have been her gowns. They were always of a pale shade (untrue, for the one she had worn for Lady Charlotte’s ball had glittered becomingly), but Stephen, at a loss for any other explanation, was convinced. Also, she had now been coaxed to loosen her braids and wear her fair hair loose, a very advantageous move, for though his lordship admired brunettes, the softness of Amaryllis’s locks, and the paleness of her skin against the honey gold was alluring.
Stephen decided she needed a set of diamond pins to scatter about her. When he had bought her these, and enjoyed her exclamations of soft delight, he could not seem to help himself. He found himself spending his days dreaming up little objects that might delight her, or little treats like a visit to Hamilton Palace, where the duke’s interest in horse breeding was matched only by his interest in art, both of which were favorites with Amaryllis.
During this time, however, he had to catch himself up short, for the stupid penchant he seemed to have developed kept making him want to do something he might later regret. Almost, almost he kissed her at Asham, where the grounds were so sweet and the waterfall nearby trickled appealingly.
Miss Hastings’s maid was safely stowed in the chaise and the moment had seemed ripe, oh, far too ripe . . . then at Vauxhall, where the displays of fireworks could hardly have been brighter than the sparks he felt between them, he had taken her in his arms and succumbed to the moment.
Miss Hastings’s mouth was sweeter than he had dreamed of, and softer. He could have drowned in that moment, only her arms crept about him timidly, and he cursed himself for a damn, idiotic, foolish fool. He must not allow her to have expectations, he must not expect her tender emotions to settle into anything deeper than affection for her husband.
If she loved him, he’d be lost, marooned in guilt, incapable of offering her more than she needed . . . he would, in fact, be a veritable cad. He must set his distance from the start. He must be firm about it, else this marriage would have no hope.
He set her from him sternly and apologized shortly. Amaryllis, sensing the mood change, was puzzled, and the raging pulses she was experiencing now slowed miserably. The fireworks seemed discordant and the night darker than a moment before.
The earl had coldly helped Amaryllis into the chaise and hardly murmured a word to her on the return trip, partly because his heart was racing, partly because he felt a fool, and partly because he was angry his little wallflower was looking far too delectable for his peace of mind.
Amaryllis, sure she had offended, could nevertheless not work out where her mistake lay. Miserably, she sat with her fingers clenched, watching the sparkle on her betrothal ring against the cozy flame of the interior gas lamp. Her own inner sparkle seemed to have vanished.
After that, Lord Redding kept his distance and Amaryllis saw him only at those engagements to which they had mutually been invited. The days flew by, though, as Lady Hastings planned the wedding feast, and the bridal breakfast, the floral arrangements, the displays, the accommodation of guests from as far afield as Paris and even Rome. Then, of course, there was the wedding gown to consider, a shimmering confection in organdy with pearls stitched into every seam and diamonds (provided by the earl) interlaced subtly with every swirl of broidery Anglaise.
Dressers arrived, and milliners, and seamstresses from every corner of London. Merchants with bolts of silk, morning callers of every description, florists, oh, the list was endless, and Amaryllis barely had time to take a breath, never mind to think. When she saw Stephen, he was everything that was civil—indeed, she could hardly fault him on that score—but the intimacy that seemed to have developed between them was dimmed. And though her pulses still raced uncontrollably when their eyes met, and she still shivered, a little at his touch, these touches were rarer, as if Stephen himself were conscious of the matter and rationing them accordingly.
If Amaryllis only knew how much he burned for her! He steeled himself, now, to see her, for even her smile affected him in a manner he found salutary, and her gowns, increasingly modish, revealed delicate areas of flesh he had not previously been aware of, never mind been permitted to glimpse.
Worse, other gentlemen seemed to have noticed these advantages, for she now seemed to have a court about her, and he sometimes had to wait to greet her or scribble his name on her card or reserve her for the supper dance. Once, he had taken the matter for granted and positively seethed when he found Staunton Reynolds had beaten him to it. He nearly demanded his rights as her betrothed, then considered how foolish he would look.
He had retired, but in a black sulk, something wholly alien to him and therefore even more tiresome. Sometimes he wished he had never set eyes on Amaryllis, nor never chanced to see her hide sweets for his nieces in her reticule. Even now, his lips curved at the memory and a twinkle appeared in his deep, hazel-green eyes. He could not complain, however, for every time she saw him her eyes softened and her cheeks glowed with color.
There was never a time she did not prefer to be in his company, a fact he both loved and abhorred, for though she did not precisely wear her heart on his sleeve, he knew she felt a tendre for him and this was against everything he had so carefully planned.
An Imperfect Proposal Page 4