by Mary Balogh
She had Piers’ child inside her. Now. At this very moment. She spread a hand over her abdomen and closed her eyes very tightly.
***
Piers had stayed at the Pump Room for an hour, talking with the Wainwrights and Miss Dean, and with the Potters when they arrived rather late. When it was evident that Alice was not coming, and Mr. Potter was engrossed in a lively discussion with Mr. Wainwright, he offered his arm to Andrea Potter and strolled about the room with her.
“Midnight must be too late an hour for Allie to be up,” he said. “I shall have to tease her about not being able to get out of bed this morning.”
“Alice is always up early,” she said. “There must be some domestic crisis that needs her attention. She brought a young groom from London last week, and then the housekeeper complained that Alice’s maid was daydreaming all day long.”
“Ah,” he said, “the course of true love not running smooth again?”
“Apparently not,” she said. “And you, sir—you have just become betrothed?”
“And am to be married before the summer is out,” he said, “if my betrothed can just complete the essential task of gathering all her bride clothes before then. That is exclusively feminine business, I gather. My presence in London was not in any way necessary this week.”
“I see,” she said. “So you came to visit your old friend. We are all delighted you did, sir.”
“Are you?” he said, pursing his lips in some amusement. “And are like to tie your tongue in knots, ma’am, trying to ask the unaskable.”
“Oh,” she said, flushing and looking up at him, “how mortifying. Am I so transparent, sir?”
“On this particular topic, yes,” he said. “We are just dear friends, I assure you. If you had known her husband, you would understand why she would never afford me a second glance in that particular way. He had everything to offer a woman of Allie’s nature—kindness and steadiness of character. I could make the list longer.”
“But there is no reason why you would not afford her a second glance?” she asked.
“You are very perceptive,” he said. “Who could know Allie and not love her? But my life has been neither spotless nor productive, ma’am. Even if I loved her in that particular way and felt so inclined, I would have nothing of value to offer her, except money and property and a title perhaps long in the future. Can you see Allie being tempted by such lures?”
“No,” she said. “You are very different from what I have thought in the past few days.”
“Assume the question asked,” he said. “I am, of course, a curious fellow.”
“You seemed at first acquaintance to have a great deal of self-confidence,” she said. “I would have expected that you would have a good image of yourself.”
“Now why,” he said, “do I have the impression that my soul is being laid out like an unrolled parchment and carefully scrutinized?”
“I do beg your pardon,” she said. “I am not usually so unmannerly. I am just rather fond of Alice, that is all. Will you come home to breakfast with us? I promised to drag Alice off shopping afterward. Perhaps you would care to come, too.”
“It sounds like an attractively devious plan,” he said. “I accept. This is my last day here, you know. Do you think perhaps she is avoiding me by design?”
“I have very strong doubts,” she said.
“But good-byes are hard to say” he said, “when a friendship is a very close one.”
“Yes,” she said. “Even when friendship is all, good-byes are hard.”
He looked at her sidelong. “Do you make a specialty of tripping up people conversationally?” he asked. “I am not going to say it aloud, you know. You must guess at it if you will, and torture yourself with the possibility that you may be wrong.”
“Ah,” she said with a sigh, smiling rather roguishly at him, “I am almost certain that 1 am not. But you are right. There is always the niggling doubt. You are quite as reticent as Alice.”
But what kept Allie? he wondered as they strolled on and rejoined Mrs. Potter’s husband and the Wainwrights. She had been quite definite about coming this morning. And he had detected no reluctance in her during the past two days to spending her time with him. Had she indeed overslept? Had he outstayed his welcome? Had something kept her? Was she unwell?
They had only one day left. He had decided to return to London the next day.
***
A late morning visit to the shops on Milsom Street and tea and cakes at a confectioner’s, when Andrea Potter suddenly remembered that she had business to conduct elsewhere for her husband and must leave them alone. Alice would not eat any cakes, but merely sipped tea, which she drank without milk. And she smiled at his teasing and looked at him with wide and luminous eyes, but would not participate as she usually did.
An afternoon strolling in Sidney Gardens again. They had the place almost to themselves since it was a cold and blustery day. But rain drove them out of there and home long before—hours, days before—they were ready to go of their own accord.
An evening of playing cards at the colonel’s. And an early night.
A frustrating and a disappointing day. Over far too soon. And all over now, except for the good-byes in the morning.
Just a few weeks before, he would have invited himself inside for a comfortable sit and talk before taking himself back to his hotel. But not any longer. The most he could allow himself was a few minutes in his carriage before helping her down and watching her disappear inside her house.
“You are sure it was just tiredness this morning, Allie?” he asked. “You looked quite pale when I arrived with Mrs. Potter.”
“The last few days have been busy ones,” she said with a smile. “I do not usually venture out morning, afternoon, and evening, you know. And last night was rather late. I am afraid I just could not force myself to get up when the time came. I am sorry now. I missed an hour of your company.”
“A dreadful thing to miss,” he said. “Your life will be forever impoverished, Allie.”
But she would not pick up his tone. “I am sorry all the same,” she said. “And that it rained this afternoon. I could have wished that today would be perfect.”
“Will you be at the Pump Room tomorrow morning?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “No, I won’t.”
He looked at her in the darkness of the carriage for a few silent moments. “Does that mean you do not want to see me tomorrow?” he asked. “I plan to leave before noon.”
“No,” she said softly. “I did not mean that, Piers.”
“I shall call here tomorrow then on my way out?” he asked.
“Yes.” She nodded.
And there was nothing more to say. They sat and gazed at each other from opposite comers of the carriage and could not even smile.
“Well,” he said softly.
“Well,” she said.
He tapped on the panel, and his coachman set down the steps. As a final touch, Piers noticed, the rain had started again. All he could do was hand her down from the carriage and hurry her up the steps to the house.
“Good night,” he said.
“Good night, Piers.”
And she was gone.
He would see her for perhaps five minutes the next morning, when he would be tongue-tied with all there was to say. And then the journey back to London. And Cassandra. And his wedding. And the rest of his life.
And never Allie again.
Never again.
He clenched his hand into a fist suddenly and pounded the side of it lightly and rhythmically against the side of the carriage. He clenched his teeth hard.
Devil take it, he was not about to cry, was he? With the whole wide lobby of York House to walk through before he could reach the privacy of his own rooms?
The last time he had cried was when he had held Allie in his arms after Web died.
God!
Chapter 15
ALICE deliberately got u
p early the following morning so that she would be feeling more herself later. She hoped and she dreaded as she got gingerly out of bed that she would not have to go through the nausea and dizziness again that morning and each day for the next two months or so. But any fear—or should it be hope?—that her indisposition of the morning before had had another cause was soon put to rest.
She was still not feeling quite the thing when Piers arrived to take his leave of her, but she was dressed in her smartest morning dress and had had Penelope dress her hair in its most becoming style. And she was smiling.
“Piers,” she said when he was shown into the drawing room, “you are on your way. You have a better day for travel than yesterday would have been.”
“Yes,” he said. “Altogether too good to be cooped up inside a carriage, by the look of it. Perhaps I will squeeze up onto the seat between Maurice and Joe. Or send Joe to sit inside. I am sure he would enjoy the sleep.”
“Joe is not your coachman, by any chance, is he?” she asked.
“The very fellow,” he said with a grin. “Well, Allie.”
“Well, Piers.” She smiled at him, her hands clasped loosely before her. “Have a safe journey.”
“Yes.” He set his head to one side and looked at her closely. “Why so pale? Are you unwell?”
“Yes, decidedly,” she said, the smile even wider. “I hate saying good-bye to those I am fond of, Piers. I wish you were in London already and this all over with. Do you know what I mean?”
He nodded.
“I am glad you came, though,” she said. “Very glad that we are friends again.”
“Yes.” He extended a hand to her and she took it after a moment’s hesitation. “I am deeply sorry about that other, Allie. We must put it behind us as if it had never been. Take care of yourself.”
“Yes,” she said. “And you.”
So much to say. And nothing at all to say. She quelled her panic and concentrated on breathing slowly and evenly. She smiled. She thought every bone in her hand would break.
“Allie,” he said. “Let me hug you.”
And she was in his arms, her head pillowed against his shoulder, held to him, rocked against him. She closed her eyes and willed herself to remember every detail of this moment for the rest of her life. The hard muscularity of his body. The comfort of his arms and his shoulder. His cheek against the top of her head. The warmth and the smell of him. He and she, and their child between them.
Perhaps thirty seconds. At the most a minute. A minute to last a lifetime.
“There.” He was grinning down at her. “Do you have a bone in your body that is not broken, Allie? If not, I shall do it again.”
“As soon as you let me go,” she said, “I shall crumple in a heap to the floor.”
“Swooning at my feet?” he said. “How very flattering. Let us put this to the test, shall we?” He released his hold on her. “Ah, you lied, Allie.”
“At this last possible moment you have discovered my great vice,” she said. “On your way, sir, before you discover more.”
“That is a tempting idea,” he said. “But I have horses waiting, alas. And Maurice and Joe. Good-bye, Allie.”
“Good-bye, Piers,” she said.
They smiled cheerfully at each other for a few moments longer before he turned sharply and strode from the room.
Alice continued to smile at the door, her chin raised, her hands clasped tightly before her until she could no longer hear the sound of his horses clopping off into the distance. Then she sat down on the nearest chair and dropped her head as low as it could go.
***
The secret was to keep busy. To bath and change his clothes as soon as he arrived back at his rooms in London and go to White’s Club to find diversion. To find friends and acquaintances and even enemies if necessary.
Gambling had never held out any lures for him. But on the night of his return he played cards almost until dawn and came away with six hundred more pounds in his pockets than he had had when he started. Drinking had never been one of his vices, but that night he drank himself drunk and then sober again. Apart from a headache and a foul mood, he felt no different when he left the club than he had when he went in.
He had not whored for years, having given it up as a somewhat nauseating and unhealthy excess of youth. And yet he found himself at dawn in the frilled boudoir and perfumed bed of a skilled courtesan who had been his mistress for a spell years before. But he could not remember when he awoke considerably later in the morning, his head on her ample bosom, if he had done more than sleep.
She neither complained nor looked contemptuous, so he concluded that his behavior had been entirely normal. But she smiled at him, clearly expecting something in return for providing his head with a pillow until such a late hour of the morning.
“Well, Sal,” he said. “Have I been sleeping and wasting all this delicious softness?”
“That you have,” she said. “But it’s still available to you. For old times’ sake. You always was the best. “
“Ah, for old times’ sake, then,” he said, turning her beneath him and waiting for her to accommodate herself to him before lowering his weight. “Let me see if I can live up to my reputation, Sal.”
He almost could not. He almost compared her to another woman. But he closed his eyes tightly and buried his nose in the harsh, sweet perfume of Sally’s hair and drove himself toward forgetfulness and release.
“Ooh,” she said, sighing with satisfaction a few minutes later, “I’ll have bruises to remember this one by.”
“I’m sorry, Sal,” he said, kissing her and rolling away. He sat on the edge of the bed, his aching head in his hands for a few moments. “Deuce take it, I wish I were dead.”
She chuckled throatily. “You’ll take the rest of the day to sleep this one off,” she said. “How much did you drink, anyway?”
“The sea dry,” he said, getting resolutely to his feet and beginning to pull his clothes on.
Ten minutes later Sally was gaping and planning her retirement from a profession that was only very occasionally satisfying—as it had been all too briefly that morning. She was counting out the money Mr. Westhaven had left on the table by the door of her boudoir, and recounting it very slowly and carefully with trembling hands.
Six hundred pounds in addition to double her usual fee.
***
Alice waited until the next day before calling on Andrea to tell her that she had received a letter from Web’s cousin and his family in Yorkshire, inviting her to stay with them for the summer. Indeed, they even wished her to live with them indefinitely, but she was not sure yet that she wished to commit herself to such an arrangement.
“You are going away again so soon and for such a longtime?” Andrea asked in dismay. “Oh, Alice, and I have so enjoyed having you back here again. I did not know your husband had any living relatives except the ones who inherited your home.”
“They are on his mother’s side,” she said. “Web was always close to them, but they have been traveling for the last year and more. Now they are home to stay.”
Andrea clucked her tongue. “Well,” she said, “it is very selfish of me to wish you were not going, Alice. But surely you cannot seriously be considering staying there to live? You seem to value your independence so highly.”
“But it is hard to be alone,” Alice said. “I still miss Web, Andrea. Sometimes almost more than I can bear. Oh, how foolish of me.” She rose sharply to her feet and crossed the room to the window.
And how hypocritical! She had spent the whole of the day before in a nightmare of longing for Web’s friend. She was carrying the child of Web’s friend. And yet, and yet it was true. The night before she had hugged her pillow against her and stretched her arm out to the side of the bed where Web had always lain and longed and longed for the safe comfort of his presence again. If only he had not died, if only he had not been so foolish and laughed at her scoldings and pleadings that he not go out in the rai
n before he was quite recovered from his illness. He had kissed her and called her a mother hen and told her that if she really insisted, he would stay and hold her hand all day and read with her.
She had not insisted.
If only she had. If only he were still alive. She would have been saved from all the temptation, all the turmoil. For if Web were alive, she would not have dreamed of dragging her feelings for Piers up beyond the realm of dreams. All that had happened would not have, happened. She would not be raw with pain. She would be safely content.
And now she was crying for Web, noisily and awkwardly gulping back her sobs for him. Dear, safe Web, whose arm could be comfortingly about her now, on whose shoulder her head could be nestling. Toward whose happiness all her energies could be devoted, as they had been for nine years.
“I loved him, Andrea,” she said. “I did love him.”
“I do not doubt it for a moment,” her friend said from behind her, her voice distressed. “No one is arguing with you, Alice. And do you feel guilty now for loving his friend?”
“I always have,” Alice said quietly after drying her eyes and blowing her nose. She was still facing toward the window. “Since before I married Web. Since I was fourteen years old and he was handsome, devil-may-care, charming, one-and-twenty years old, and as far beyond me as the northern star. But I did love Web, too. He was the dearest man I have ever known. I would not have married him if I had been unable to love him.”
“Well,” Andrea said briskly, “a confession when I had given up trying to extract one. And the whole mystery of why Mr. Westhaven is not now marrying you instead of the girl in London—I do not even know her name. But I can understand your need to get away for a while. New scenery and new faces may be just what you. need. Don’t stay, though, Alice. You would not be happy living with someone else’s family. Now turn around. Let me see how red your eyes are. A good brisk walk around to the Crescent is what you need, my girl, and perhaps a march down to the shops. I dare you to buy the bonnet you have been resisting for the last three days.”