by Mary Balogh
“I shall look in on Phoebe,” Alice said, “and then find Amanda to discover what is planned for today.” It seemed that Amanda had a walk in the park planned for the afternoon with a friend whose mama was unable to accompany them. In the evening there was to be a private concert at the home of Lady Wingham. At least, Alice decided, she would get air and exercise and doubtless hear some good music. At least there would be no dancing that day.
And at least she was unlikely to catch more than a glimpse of Piers as he drove Miss Borden in the park. She very much doubted that he would be at the concert. Although he had liked to hear her play the pianoforte at Chandlos, he had always professed a horror of vocal music.
Piers had asked her if she found life hard without Web. She had answered truthfully. For though it had been dreadfully hard at first, and though she still found herself storing up some anecdote to tell him or planning to consult him with some problem or decision, she had faced reality after the first few months with a determination not to crumble or draw other people’s pity.
It had been a dreadful wrench to have to leave Chandlos, of course. Dreadful to leave the neighborhood where she had always lived and which she had always loved. And yet she had settled to life in Bath with surprising ease and contentment. She loved the city and its activities, and she had formed a pleasing circle of friends and acquaintances. Life was by no means exciting there, but it was very bearable.
And now that had all been upset, or threatened to be upset. She was in London, which she had always found exciting, though Web had not liked to spend much time there. And she had been to a London theater and found it marvelously fascinating and to a London ball and felt like a girl again.
She wanted to stay. She wanted to be a part of it all. And perhaps she would have considered herself wonderfully blessed by circumstances if that were all. For now, whether she liked it or not, she was being forced into the very heart of high society for a few days.
But that was not all. For she was being enticed again by a very old dream, one so old that she had thought it quite incapable of being revived. She had thought it could never bring her pain again.
But it was bringing her pain. And the need to dissemble after all these years of doing so just seemed too much of an effort now.
For several days she would be forced to watch him with younger girls, smiling at them, charming them, choosing which one he would make his bride. And discussing his choice with her and asking her opinion.
And for days she must be his friend, smiling at him and listening to him, laughing at his careless wit, accepting attentions which should be improper but which were not so because they were such very old friends and she knew she had nothing to fear from him. She must accept such brotherly gestures as hands at her waist and kisses on her cheek.
Perhaps she must even waltz with him again and feel the warmth of his closeness and smell the distinctiveness of his cologne.
And when he asked her opinion of his chosen bride, she must try to dissuade him from choosing a girl who could bring him only restlessness and boredom and ultimate unhappiness. And if by chance he chose someone who would be suited to him, she must smile her encouragement.
She must never look into his eyes, her own unmasked, and say, “Choose me, Piers. Choose me!”
Perhaps she could. Perhaps she still had enough youth and beauty. And certainly she had more social significance than when she had been merely Alice Carpenter, the rector’s daughter. But she would not. For she had far too much to lose.
She had a friendship to lose that was more dear to her than anything else in her life. A friendship that was agony to continue but that would be a living death to lose.
At the age of fifteen she had begun to train herself to cultivate a friendship where she had longed to entice love. For fourteen years she had held that love only in the deepest, most secret recesses of her being and been his friend with the rest of herself.
He had never known. Web had never suspected. And years before she had given up feeling guilty or trying in vain to deny her feelings. For there is no guilt in harboring a forbidden love unless that love sullies or diminishes the affection one should show to a lawful partner.
Web had never suffered from her love for his best friend. Perhaps she had cared for him all the better for having to make her love for him a conscious thing. And she had loved Web. Very, very dearly. Her love for him had had all those ingredients she had listed to Piers the night before. All except one—that last, nameless something that she had only ever felt for Piers himself.
She would die if she lost his friendship, she felt. And yet she longed and longed to be able to flee that friendship in order to return to the dull haven of Bath.
She saw Mary and Richard on their way for a short drive in the barouche with Jarvis after luncheon and returned home to Cavendish Square in order to change into something more appropriate for a walk in the park.
***
Mr. Bosley was not at home when Mr. Westhaven arrived late in the afternoon to take Cassandra driving, to the latter gentleman’s disappointment. He had looked forward to being entertained once more with an account of the man’s wealth, his manner of acquiring it, and his hopes of disposing of it.
However, Mr. Bosley had had a talk with his niece before leaving for an afternoon of business in the city.
“So, Cassie,” he had said with a rumbling laugh, “you had to sleep the morning away, did you, because you were dancing with all the young dandies all night.”
“Everyone was most obliging, Uncle,” she said.
He crossed the room in order to pinch her cheek. “For such a pretty puss,” he said, “they did not have to exert themselves, I’ll wager. And what is this I hear from your mama about bouquets arriving this morning?”
“Mr. Farrell and Mr. Carpenter were obliging enough to send them, Uncle,” she said.
“Hm,” he said, “I shall look into the prospects of those gentlemen, Cass. And what of Mr. Westhaven? Did he dance with you?”
“Twice, Uncle,” she said. “And he led me in to supper.”
“He is the one,” he said. “He is rich, Cass, which is all to the good since it suggests that he will not waste my blunt when he gets his hands on it. More to the point, he is a member of an old family and has a large and respected estate. That is what counts, Cassie girl. Land. That is what makes a man someone. Your uncle, now, could probably buy up the southern half of England without beggaring himself, but he will never be anyone because he don’t have what counts.”
Cassandra found no answer to this speech.
“You have to smile at him, Cassie,” her uncle said. “Talk to him. Wear your jewels. Make up to him. He’ll be yours in a week. Taking you driving this afternoon, is he?”
“Yes, Uncle,” she said. “He was kind enough to invite me.”
“No kindness in it, Cass,” he said. “He is looking for a young bride just like you. All you will be expected to do after your marriage is present him with an heir—or two, for good measure—and then you can enjoy the life of a rich lady for the rest of your days. Have you been exerting yourself to fix his interest?”
“Yes, Uncle,” she said.
“But mind, Cassie,” he said, winking and beaming at her, “never forget that you are a lady. Never do anything that a lady would not do. He would not like it and might be disgusted with you. No being alone with him or kissing him.”
Cassandra pleated the skirt of her dress with her fingers. “No, Uncle,” she said.
***
The girl was dressed in spring green muslin. The brim of her straw bonnet was trimmed with spring flowers that looked for all the world as if they were real except that they did not wilt during the whole of the drive. She looked quite pretty enough to eat.
Indeed, Mr. Westhaven was amused to find that he had acquired many other young male friends since the previous day, if the number who hailed him from horseback or the perches of their curricles was any indication. All of them, of course, afte
r commenting on the unusual felicity of the weather, turned with polite interest to be presented to his companion.
He pursed his lips and considered the strange phenomenon of a girl who spoke scarcely a word and rarely raised her eyes from her lap and yet was as alluring as the most accomplished of the courtesans he had known. If she were not so very shy, he would have wondered if her manner were not all artifice.
She clung to his sleeve as he turned his horses into the park, and then she blushed and apologized.
“You are quite welcome to take my arm if you will feel safer to do so,” he said, “though I do assure you I have never been known to overset any of my carriages. You see?” He pointed ahead with his whip. “All the fashionable world is here ahead of us.”
She looked timidly about her, and her hand crept to his sleeve again. “Mama and I were so quiet in the country,” she said. “I had not expected anything like this.”
“Do you prefer the country?” he asked. “I must applaud your taste. Sometimes I long for my own estate, especially at this time of year.”
“Oh,” she said, raising large eyes to his for a moment, “do you have an estate, sir? How can you bear to leave it?”
“Because,” he said, noting the loveliness of her cheeks as her eyelashes fumed down over them again, “life on a large estate for a single gentleman can become very lonely.”
“You have no family?” she asked.
“A mother,” he said, “who remarried years ago and spends her life in London and Paris. I had a wife and would have had a daughter had she lived. Unfortunately, neither of them did.”
He was surprised to see a tear roll from beneath her lashes, “How very tragic for you,” she said. “How very sad you must still be.”
“That was almost nine years ago,” he said. “And how did the conversation become so morbid? Tell me something of yourself. How did you spend your time in the country?”
But her short burst of conversation had died. She became mute on the subject of herself and so alarmingly shy when other people began to greet them that Mr. Westhaven began to feel his customary amusement again. He felt very much like a protective uncle. And really, he thought, delightful and lovely as she undoubtedly was, how could he feel an attraction to a girl half his age? How could he picture himself standing at the altar with her? Bedding her? Impregnating her with his heir? The very thought was enough to make him want to shout with laughter.
He was delighted to be offered a diversion. There was Allie, looking very smart indeed in dark royal blue, waiting with her niece and an unknown young lady. He maneuvered his horses over to them and drew them to a halt. He raised his hat.
“Miss Carpenter?” he said. “Allie? Ma’am? You are putting us to shame, I see, by exercising while we are exercising only the horses. May I present Miss Borden, daughter of the late Lord Margam, and newly arrived in town?”
The presentations were made and a short conversation ensued.
“I saw you last night,” Amanda said to Cassandra. “My brother danced with you.”
“Mr. Carpenter was obliging enough to send me flowers this morning,” Cassandra said.
“Was he?” Amanda laughed. “I shall be sure to tease him about that.”
“Oh, pray do not,” Cassandra said, distressed.
“Has your sister-in-law recovered, Allie?” Mr. Westhaven asked.
“She has measles,” she said, “That is why I am with Amanda. I am afraid she has to be content me as chaperon for the next several days.”
“Oh, Aunt Alice,” the girl said, linking her arm through her aunt’s, “It is vastly more fun to be with you than with Mama. Is it hot, Henrietta?”
“That can mean only one thing,” Mr. Westhaven said. “It must mean that Allie is more indulgent than your mama, Miss Carpenter. I shall have to find out your papa and advise him of the fact.”
Amanda giggled. “You would not do so,” she said. “Besides, it is not so. It is just that Aunt Alice is so pretty that she turns heads our way.”
Both young ladies giggled.
The horses were restless. “I shall see you tonight at Lady Wingham’s concert, then,” Mr. Westhaven said with a wink for Alice. “Until then, be good.”
The two girls giggled again.
Cassandra was clinging to Mr. Westhaven’s sleeve again as they resumed their slow drive. He smiled at her.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I thank you. It is just that this is so overwhelming. The crowds. But the park is very beautiful.”
“The problem is easily solved,” he said. “We will take to a less frequented path, where you may enjoy nature without the crowds.”
“You are most obliging,” she said. “I hope it is not improper.”
“Improper?” he said. “Absolutely not, Miss Borden, for we will still meet carriages and horses, you know.”
“Thank you,” she said. “You are very kind.”
Since her powers of conversation seemed to be exhausted for that day, he set himself to entertain her with a description of all the delights London had to offer.
It had not been a very wise choice of topic, he thought later as he drove home to his lodgings on St. James Street. Not at least if he did not wish to give the impression that he was singling the girl out for unusual attention. For somehow— he had no idea how—he had suggested taking the girl out to Richmond Park and to Kew Gardens. And he had found himself promising to organize a party to Vauxhall one evening when there were to be fireworks and dancing.
He was going to have to be very careful. For whomever he chose to be his bride before this infernal Season was over, it must not be Miss Cassandra Borden. To say she was a member of the infantry was to understate the case. She was a member of the nursery flock.
He was going to have to get Allie to help him. That was what he was going to have to do. Allie was always sensible. He always felt safe and unthreatened with her.
And he need lose no time before talking to her. He would see her that evening at the concert. He felt more lighthearted and cheerful just at the thought.
Chapter 6
ALICE’S hope was not to be realized, though of course she had known it that afternoon during the brief conversation in the park. Piers was at the concert, she saw as soon as she and Amanda were ushered to their seats. He was making himself agreeable to a young lady and her parents at the other side of the room. All three of them were laughing at something he had just said.
“There is Mr. King,” Amanda whispered, taking Alice’s arm in an almost painful grip. “The gentleman who danced with me twice last night and who bowed to us from his saddle this afternoon. Don’t you think him splendidly fashionable, Aunt Alice?”
“Yes, indeed,” Alice agreed. “Do you have a partiality for him, Amanda?”
Her niece groaned in reply. “Oh, he is smiling at me,*’ she said, scarcely moving her lips and smiling and nodding in return. “Just wait until I tell Henrietta.”
Alice settled herself to enjoy a recital on the pianoforte and a harp solo. They were to be followed by the main guest for the evening, a soprano who was reputed to have sung to great acclaim in both Vienna and Paris as well as in London.
Mr. King completed Amanda’s joy by offering to fetch the ladies lemonade during the interval, and then he settled to conversing with Amanda, who had been joined by another young lady and her brother before his return. Alice watched them, pleased that her niece was enjoying herself.
“Are your eardrums ringing, Allie?” Piers had taken the seat next to hers without her even noticing his approach in the crowded room.
“Ringing?” she said.
“Well, Madame whatever-her-name-is—have you noticed how opera singers always have Italian names?—is a mite screechy, is she not?” he said.
“Your trouble is that you do not appreciate good music,” she said. “She has a rather lovely voice, I thought. I am looking forward to the second half.”
“So am I,�
� he said, “She may screech, but those deep breaths she takes do wondrous things for her bosom. You aren’t blushing again, are you, Allie?”
“I hope you did not make that observation to the young lady you are sitting with, “ she said. “If you did, I think you may strike one name off your list of prospective brides.”
“To Miss Kerns?” he said. “No, no, Allie. What do you think of me? That I do not know how to behave in company?”
“Ah, I see,” she said. “I do not qualify as company. Thank you.”
He grinned at her. “Not at all,” he said. “You qualify as friend. One can say what one wishes to a friend.”
“What an alarming thought,” she said.
“Especially when one enjoys seeing her blush,” he said. “Isn’t that something rather new, Allie?”
“Not at all,” she said. “It is just that you would not have dared say some of the outrageous things you say to me in front of Web. You know you wouldn’t, Piers. He would have reprimanded you.”
“Ah,” he said. “Just so. I need your help, Allie.”
“Do you?” she asked, looking at him warily.
“I seem to have got myself into something of a predicament,” he said. “With Miss Borden, that is. She is such a sweet and timid little thing. Don’t you think so?”
“I cannot pass judgment,” she said. “I have not been enough in her company. “
“Ah,” he said. “But we can put that right, Allie. The point is that she does see me as a father figure—no, don’t look scornful, I swear she does. She clung to my sleeve in the park in the most amusing way, Allie—me, one of the most notable whips in London, even if I do say so myself. And she was terrified of all the young bucks who were making up to her. The long and the short of it is that I suggested taking her about a few times—I particularly mentioned Kew and Richmond and Vauxhall.”
“And you are wondering if Mr. Bosley has already drawn up the marriage contract?” she said. “I would not be at all surprised if you are right, Piers.”
“I feel the noose tightening about my neck,” he said. “Or perhaps it would be more appropriate to say I feel parson’s mousetrap pinching my toes or the ball and chain being soldered about my leg.”