A Certain Magic

by Mary Balogh

  He hated himself with a depth of hatred he had never felt for anyone else.

  He could not marry her. For several reasons he could not marry her. He had compromised another lady that night—oh, yes, another young innocent—and was duty bound to offer for her the next day. And he had known that full well when he had reached out for Allie. It was Cassandra Borden he must marry, not Allie.

  And even if it were not so, even if he were as free as he had been that morning, he could not marry Allie. How could he doom her to spend the rest of her days with him? When she had known Web? When she was Allie? How could he take advantage of the need he had so carelessly and selfishly aroused in her? How could he marry her when he knew that she would spend every day of her life pining for his friend?

  And yet he had made love to her. And in the process killed everything. Killed the one good thing in his life. For they could no longer be friends. From tomorrow on they would find it almost impossible to look at each other. They would never be able to do so without remembering what had happened between them on this particular night. She would hate him. And he would hate himself, knowing that.

  And so this was the end. The end of a friendship that had brightened his life through most of his adulthood. Not the end of his love. Now that he was conscious of it again, that would live on, perhaps for the rest of his life. But not as a light and a warmth. It would become dark and bitter, the knowledge that his love had been a selfish thing, reaching for its own gratification and destroying the peace of his beloved.

  For Allie would suffer for what she had done this night. And he would be the last person on this earth who could comfort her.

  She stirred at his side and opened her eyes. In the semidarkness he watched her look of bewilderment fade almost instantly. She smiled at him, and he bent his head and kissed her mouth. And continued to do so, warmly, lightly, so that he would not have to speak to her.

  “Mm,” she said sleepily, and her arm came about his chest. He hated his own weakness, his vulnerability. At least the first time he had taken himself by surprise, he had acted from instinct, thought having played very little part in what had happened. He had no such excuse this time. He knew what he did and what needs in her he played upon. And he knew that tomorrow their friendship would be at an end and he would go off to make his offer to another woman.

  He knew his own selfishness, his own evil.

  He turned her on the bed and came into her without foreplay. And he spent a long, long time moving in her, taking her slowly through the stages of arousal, and gradually—very gradually—to climax, drawing a cry of abandonment and pleasure from her at the end. And kissing her and holding her with a desperate tenderness and self-loathing when it was all over again.

  He got out of bed and dressed himself in the darkness. And he bent over her and spoke the first coherent words he had said to her since their first lovemaking had begun.

  “Don’t get up,” he said. “I will see myself out.”

  But of course she had to come downstairs with him in order to bolt the door again, so that the servants would not know that anyone had been there. She put on her nightgown and robe again.

  He took her into his arms when they were downstairs and held her close, rocking her against him.

  “Allie,” he said against her hair, “forgive me if you ever can.”

  He saw only the beginnings of her calm smile before letting himself out through the door and closing it behind him again without looking back.

  ***

  Alice went back upstairs, dropped her robe beside the bed, and lay down again—on the side of the bed where Piers had lain, on her stomach, her nose buried in the pillow.

  She would not think before morning. She would not allow herself to think. She would only feel. There was the soreness left by his lovemaking—the delicious soreness that was almost a throbbing. And there was the languor from that second, lengthy encounter finished only a few minutes before and still leaving its weakness and its drowsiness.

  And there was all the wonder of a fifteen-year-old love now come to a glorious consummation. She would glory in the wonder of it.

  She would not think. She would not recognize until the next day that what Piers had been saying downstairs was good-bye. She would let that fact reach her consciousness tomorrow.

  But despite all, despite the pain and the wretchedness that she knew were ahead for her, she would not permit herself to regret what had just happened.

  Never that.

  She was living through the most wonderful night of her life. And there was still some of it left. There was still the warmth and the smell of him in her bed, and there were still all the effects of his lovemaking on her body to be enjoyed.

  She must never allow herself to feel either regret or remorse.

  Chapter 11

  MR. Westhaven was clearly expected when he arrived in Russell Square late the following morning. Cassandra was nowhere in sight, as was proper. Mr. Bosley and Lady Margam were in the lower salon, looking rather as if they were awaiting a call from royalty, Piers thought.

  Lady Margam was inclined to be tearful and worried that her daughter was far too young to be considering matrimony. Though if she must marry, of course, the mother could think of no one more suitable than Margam’s dear friend.

  Piers clasped his hands behind him and bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment.

  Mr. Bosley was jovial and shook his guest heartily by the hand. He had seen young love at work the evening before, and who was he to stand in its way? Though of course, his little Cassie might have aspired to the hand of a duke if she had not fallen in love with a mere mister determined to turn her head.

  He chuckled merrily as he shook Mr. Westhaven by the hand again.

  Piers smiled and made a suitable reply. He was invited to take a seat.

  What was she doing now? Was she up yet? Yes, of course she would be up. It was not Allie’s way to lie in bed until noon. And probably she had not slept anyway, any more than he had. Was she getting ready for her journey to Bath? Had she left already?

  Mr. Bosley became businesslike. He was prepared to settle such and such a dowry on Cassie’s husband the day after the wedding—“for there is more to making a marriage than merely speaking a few words at the altar, as you will know, my dear sir.” He named a sum that had Piers raising his eyebrows in surprise.

  Mr. Bosley waved a hand at Mr. Westhaven’s protestations that he had no need of such a dowry, that he was well able to support a wife and a family, too. Perhaps it would be better to put the money in trust for Miss Borden and any children of the marriage.

  But that would not do, either. Much as Mr. Bosley was fond of his niece, he would not give tuppence for the female brain, especially when it came to managing money.

  “No, my dear sir,” he said magnanimously, “the money will be yours the morning after the night before, so to speak, to do with as you wish. If you are foolish enough to settle it on Cassie, then so be it. A man in love has been known to do worse things, I suppose.” Another hearty laugh.

  How was she feeling this morning? Wretched with remorse and guilt? He need not phrase it in his mind as a question. He had been trying all night and all morning not to think of how she must be feeling. But he had not been able to go to her. That was no longer an option in his life.

  Mr. Bosley would have the contract all ready to sign a week later. “Not that I could not have had it ready this morning, sir,” he explained. “But it is as well in such matters not to rush. And we know, of course, that your word as a gentleman is every bit as valuable as your signature on a contract.”

  Piers inclined his head again at the compliment.

  But should he at least have called on her this morning to explain to her that it had all been his fault, that she must not blame herself at all? Should he have gone at least to apologize to her? But how was an apology possible? “I am sorry that I burst in upon you last night and violated you?” It was impossible. It was better far to s
tay away. He would be the very last person she would want to see during the rest of her lifetime.

  “Ma’am.” He turned to Lady Margam. “With your leave, may I have a few minutes alone with your daughter? Or under your chaperonage, if you prefer.”

  She rose to her feet. “I trust you with Cassandra, Mr. Westhaven,” she said. “I shall send her down to you here. Brother?”

  Mr. Bosley crossed the room to her and set a hand on the door handle. “Ho,” he said, “Cass has probably paced a mile in her room this morning. And doubtless slept not a wink last night. I’ll wager you did not either, sir.” He chuckled at his own joke and opened the door for his sister to precede him into the hallway.

  But perhaps he should have called any way. How can one step out of a woman’s bed and out of her life? He had done it before on numerous occasions, of course. But this was entirely different. A thousand, a million times different. How could he just walk out on Allie as if she were a whore not worth revisiting?

  He shuddered. She would not, of course, put that interpretation on his absence.

  It was strange, he thought a few minutes later, how sight had been restored to him the night before and had taken away more than one form of blindness. For this morning Miss Borden’s timidity, her inability even to peep up at him from beneath her lashes, appeared totally false. She had been in company with him frequently in the past few weeks. The evening before, she had taken refuge from the storm on his lap and in his arms. And yet this morning she could not look at him.

  But would he be able to raise his eyes to Allie this morning?

  “I have spoken with your mother and your uncle this morning,” he told the girl’s bowed head. “They have both approved my suit. Your mother has permitted me to have a few minutes of your time so that I might have the honor of asking you to be my wife. Will you, Miss Borden?”

  “Oh,” was all she said, and pleated the skirt of her muslin dress between her fingers.

  She wanted more. Well, then, he thought. “I have grown fond of you in the past few weeks,” he said.

  Allie. Where was she now? What was she doing?

  “It is not because of last evening?” the girl asked. She peeped up at him briefly then. “Not because I chased after that poor little kitten and you were forced to shelter from the storm with me? Mama scolded me roundly for such an indiscretion.”

  He stepped forward and took one of her hands. “No, of course it is not because of that,” he lied. “You must have known before that that I had a partiality for you.”

  “Oh,” she said. “It is just that I have always been determined, you see, to marry someone I loved. Uncle wants me to marry you because you are rich and are to be Lord Berringer one day. But that does not matter to me. I care to marry only a gentleman who loves me.”

  “Well, then,” he said, raising her hand to his lips, “I can see no bar to our marriage at all, Miss Borden, unless you do not love me.”

  She raised her eyes full to his. Large, innocent eyes. Except that his own eyes were ho longer blind. She wanted his very soul, it seemed. Well, she would have it. He had no more use for it himself.

  “For of course I love you,” he said, kissing her again.

  “Oh,” she said, making a little rosebud of her mouth and continuing to gaze, rapt, into his eyes.

  He bent his head and kissed her. And kept his lips on hers when her own pressed sweetly against them.

  He smiled at her. “And will you keep me in suspense?” he asked. “Am I to be accepted or rejected?”

  “Oh, I will marry you, sir,” she said and blushed prettily.

  “Splendid!” he said. “We shall make the wedding soon, shall we, so that we may remove to Westhaven Park for the summer?”

  “Oh,” she said, “I do not think we should waste the rest of the Season, sir, when Mama has gone to so much trouble to bring me here and when Uncle has spent so much money on ball gowns and all the rest. And I have heard that Brighton is lovely in the summer.”

  “Have you?” he said. “I believe your mama will disapprove of my being alone with you any longer, Miss Borden. Perhaps we can discuss our future plans at another time. Would you care to call on my mother with me this afternoon?”

  “Oh,” she said, “on such a lovely day, sir? It would be a pity to sit indoors when the sun is shining. I would far prefer to drive in the park.”

  “Then the park it will be,” he said, bowing.

  He wished, ten minutes later, as he drove away in his curricle, that he had brought a horse instead. He would have taken it into Hyde Park and galloped until its legs collapsed under it. On second thought, perhaps it was as well that he had not ridden. He had never been one for cruelty to animals.

  So, he was an engaged man. Engaged to marry a very young girl who had learned somehow during her eighteen years how to get exactly what she wanted out of life. A girl who had picked her man and won him over the course of a few weeks despite his own reluctance. A girl who now intended to use her new status and his wealth to enjoy all that life in high society could offer.

  A girl he did not love and now feared that he could not even like. A girl with whom he was going to have to take a very firm hand from his wedding day on if he did not wish to be ruled for the rest of his life. She was to be his wife, mistress of Westhaven Park, mother of his children. She was to be his life’s companion.

  He slowed his curricle when a carter he narrowly missed scowled at him and a round lady tending a vegetable stall shook her fist and favored him with the full extent of her profane vocabulary.

  He dined at White’s in splendid isolation, owing to the scowls he directed at anyone who looked as if he might be approaching. And he walked afterward for miles, he knew not where. It was two o’clock when he arrived in Cavendish Square again. But this time he did not stand outside, gazing up at the windows. He knocked on the door.

  But of course, it was as he had fully expected it to be. She had left an hour before, her servant told him. And now belatedly, as he walked away, he realized that he should have called on her that morning even before going to Bosley’s. He had owed her a call, awkward and painful as it would have been to both of them.

  But he had forced her to get through the morning somehow alone. He had forced her to leave without a word of apology, without a word to assure her that what had happened had not been intentional seduction, that he respected her still, more than any other woman he knew, that it had all been his fault.

  Or was it as well that cowardice had kept him away? Was it self-indulgence—yet again—to wish that he had seen her just one more time? Was it better for her that he had failed to put even more turmoil into her morning than there must already have been?

  It was time to walk home and change and get himself ready to take his betrothed driving in the park.

  ***

  Alice rose early, even earlier than usual, though she had slept deeply through the night. She had several things to do before setting out on the journey home after luncheon. She had last-minute instructions to give to the servants who would remain in London and to her maid, who would accompany her. She had some shopping to do. And, of course, she had to call at Portman Square to take her leave of Bruce and Phoebe and their family.

  There was plenty to keep her busy, both mind and body. And she would not stay at home since she did not expect Piers to call yet knew that if she stayed, her eyes would be straying to the window and her ears listening for a knock on the door every minute—as they had done all through breakfast.

  He would not come. Of course. He had other, more important matters to settle that morning. Besides, what was there to say? There was nothing at all.

  She went shopping alone, and did not expect to see Piers anywhere on Oxford Street. Yet her stomach lurched every time she saw a tall, slim gentleman until she looked into his face and knew him to be a stranger.

  It was a relief to arrive at Portman Square. Amanda was tearful at the thought of seeing her go, and even Mary hugged her and
kissed her and told her that the two afternoons she had spent with Aunt Alice and Mr. Westhaven had been the most wonderful of her stay in London.

  “Why does he call you Allie, Aunt Alice?” she asked.

  “Because Uncle Web used to call me that,” she said. “Have you forgotten?”

  “I like it,” the girl said. “May I call you Aunt Allie?”

  And yet it was Piers who had first called her that, when she was fourteen and she had fallen in love with him with a girl’s fierce passion.

  “Allie of the braids,” he had said outside church one Sunday, lightly tugging one of them. “Don’t you ever sit on them by mistake?” And he had winked at her and moved on—to flirt with the eighteen-year-old Miss Roath, she could remember clearly. She had hated Miss Roath all that summer.

  Even Richard and Jarvis seemed sorry to see her go. Bruce lamented the fact that she had not arrived sooner, when they had really needed her.

  “I came as soon as I had your letter,” she said. “And I think I was able to do something to cheer the children.”

  “It is a miracle they did not take a chill from being taken out so soon after their illness, though,” Bruce said.

  “They did not,” Alice said briskly, “so you must not provoke yourself, Bruce.”

  “I do not know how I am to entertain Mary now that you are going, I am sure, Alice,” Phoebe said.