Mary gasped.
“If he isn’t doing so already?” she repeated. “Evelyn! I don’t understand you today. In point of fact, you are deliberately going out of your way to goad me! As to why you are rude to Mr. Bryce at every opportunity—”
“I am jealous.”
“Jealous? Jealous of-of—Mr. Bryce?”
“He’s damnably handsome and clever. And here in this particular rural pocket, he is sovereign. His workers defer to him as if he were Louis XIV come amongst them. That is no small wonder, as the effortless ease in which he carries himself sets him apart from his fellows. And then there is the small fact he has a visage worthy of marble, which has females dangling at his cuffs, you included, chérie. No! Don’t shake your head. I’ve seen the way you look at him, even if you cannot.”
“Eve, I—”
“But he can only be Louis here, amongst his villagers. He’d never flourish in London, not because he don’t look or could act the part, but because he can never be one of us. Whatever drop of noble blood courses through his veins, it is a dilution of the real thing and forever polluted.”
“Diluted? Polluted? I do not understand. How is he these things? What do you know about him that I have not discovered in the eight years he has been my neighbor?”
Evelyn flicked her cheek. “You truly do not comprehend, do you? You are blind to what I saw the moment I clapped eyes on him. But that is because you are without guile, ma chérie. You take people as you find them, believe what they tell you. I wish I could be like you. Not that I think he cares the snap of two fingers about his ignoble bloodline. But you, ma chérie, you do indeed need to care. You are the daughter of Lord Fitzstuart and great-granddaughter of King Charlie—”
“I assure you I am keenly aware of what I owe my name and my lineage—my mother’s letters are a constant reminder, and the fact I must think of Teddy and our future and marry again,” Mary stated woodenly, keeping tight rein on her emotions and hoping the color in her face and the shake in her fingers were infinitesimally small compared to the pounding in her head and heart. “To tell you a truth, there is little else I do think about, given I have now turned thirty, which means my prospects of marrying again are diminishing daily.”
“Ma chérie—Mary—I came to Abbeywood with one object in mind, only to find myself confronted with him. And if I were not going away immediately after our delightful picnic in the shadow of this entrepreneurial edifice, I’d have wished for nothing better than to have this conversation alone with you in your charming sitting room. But time is not on my side. What I want you to do while I’m gone is contemplate a future with—”
“Contemplate a future?”
“—with me.”
“Eve?!” Mary’s eyes widened and her lips parted. Finally she found her voice. “What is it you are asking me?”
“Oh, I think you know very well what it is I am asking you. But I’ve no wish to declare my intentions here, in these industrial surroundings, and in the presence of Squire Worthy. So I will not descend onto bended knee until my return in a month’s time. And so, my dearest Mary, I am giving you a month’s reprieve so that you may think seriously about the offer I wish to make you and what it will mean for us both. I hope that you will see, as I do, that it is the right choice, the most logical choice, for two cousins whose families are closely bound, and who have known each other from the cradle. But,” he added with a shrug, “if in a month’s time when I do ask you and you refuse the honor, I will know it is for the very best of reasons, and I will accept your decision.”
Mary’s eyes filled with tears and her heart began to beat harder as a great weight lifted from her shoulders at the prospect of marriage to her cousin. Her mother would be delirious with happiness, and so would her extended family. She would not be marrying just any man but heir designate to an earldom, and that meant she would be a countess. She could once again enter Society’s drawing rooms with her head held high. She would be welcomed with open arms to all manner of balls, routs, and soirees. She would sit at the finest tables, dress in the finest silks and brocades, and have at her disposal carriages, sedans, houses, and servants galore. Evelyn was wealthy, and he was generous. She and Teddy would never want for anything ever again. Her daughter would have an earl for a stepfather, and a dowry befitting her mother’s elevated station, and when the time came for her to marry, there would be no shortage of eligible suitors. Marriage to Evelyn would solve all their problems.
And then just as quickly as the weight rose up, it dropped like a stone back on her shoulders. But it did not stay there, it pressed down further still to settle on her chest. Without knowing why, a great sadness washed over her. She should have been ecstatically happy to receive a marriage proposal from her closest cousin, whom she had loved since a girl. It was a dream come true. Wasn’t it? Why then was she miserable? She was wretched and eaten up with guilt, and it mystified her to the point of bringing on a sudden sick headache.
Desolate, she looked past Evelyn, out across the factory floor to where Teddy, Lord Shrewsbury, Rory Fitzstuart, Mr. Philip Audley, and the factory master were now assembled at the foot of the second stairwell in anticipation of inspecting the upper levels of the mill.
There seemed to be some discussion, and it centered around Rory. Mary realized her sister-in-law was offering to remain behind, her infirmity preventing her from taking the stairs as well as everyone else, and her slow progress aided by her walking stick would only hold up proceedings. Her grandfather was having none of her self-deprecation, and then a solution presented itself that had Mary quickly drying her eyes and smiling. Of course! While the others went on ahead, Teddy scrambling up the stairs with the factory master, Mr. Philip Audley one step behind them, and followed by Lord Shrewsbury carrying Rory’s cane, Christopher Bryce effortlessly scooped up Rory into his arms. And with her comfortably situated, Christopher turned to follow the rest of the party upstairs.
But with one booted foot on the first step, he chanced to look over his shoulder, across the room and at her. His gaze remained steady and his handsome features were expressionless, so that she had no window into his thoughts. But she knew he must think her behavior unforgivably rude. And he had every right, and she did not blame him. She and Evelyn had the arrogance to engage in a private conversation and show no interest in his manufacturing venture, when it was obvious to anyone with eyes that the mill was a source of great pride. She had hurt him, she knew it, and she had a great desire to go after him, to explain, to ask his forgiveness, and to apologize for their behavior.
But she did none of those things. For when his gaze locked on hers, even though it was for the briefest of moments, and neither said a word or showed by a look what the other was thinking, she made an astonishing discovery. She was so startled by it that it sucked the air from her lungs and sent her giddy. She leaned back against the wall to stop herself pitching forward, her knees giving way and unsteady on her feet. She was so light-headed she thought she might faint. She knew she would not make it across the room without swaying. But there was one thing of which she was definite. As confidently as she knew Monday followed Sunday, she realized beyond any doubt that she was deeply and unutterably in love, and with the wrong man.
EIGHTEEN
OF ALL THE PLACES and times too numerous to count that they had been in each other’s company, it took this place, a woolen mill, and a marriage proposal from another, for Mary to come to the astonishing realization she was in love, and had always been in love with Mr. Christopher Bryce.
From their very first introduction, when he had come to call on her husband, he had stirred within her an indefinable something which niggled and hungered inside her and would not let go. She had done her best to suppress this feeling with every fiber of her being, because she was married. And because she was married, and because her mother had taught her this from a young girl, she believed that to desire a man who was not her husband was wicked, and in a married woman who was a mother, it was also
unnatural and abhorrent.
But her mother’s dictum on female desire and marriage left her confused and troubled. For time spent living with her cousin the Duchess of Roxton had shown her a different world, one that contradicted every dictate her mother uttered. She had witnessed the playfulness that existed between the Duke and Duchess, how unselfconscious they were before family. They often held hands, shared a tender kiss, and could sit for hours together, comfortable in each other’s company without saying a word. Above all, they were always kind to one another. It was obvious, even to a girl of Mary’s tender years, that the ducal couple were deeply in love.
But in her marriage to Sir Gerald she had experienced none of these things, leaving her so emotionally and physically cold that she thought herself incapable of enjoying intimacy, and wondering if she was at all desirable. And while her husband was alive she found it effortless to suppress her natural inclinations and feelings.
When she was made a widow she continued along the same path, consumed with her uncertain future, and blind to all possibilities where love and all physical expression of love were concerned. So accustomed was she to the Squire’s presence at Abbeywood that she failed to see him in any other light, any feelings she had for him long ago buried and unlikely ever to surface from the depths of her unresponsive heart.
And then they had shared that kiss in her bedchamber, reigniting the spark of desire she had first felt on that first meeting. And now, in this moment, as she watched Christopher turn and disappear up the stairwell carrying Rory, she knew beyond doubt that she loved him. And she knew that he loved her. He had told her so, but now she believed him. Such thoughts made her tingle with happiness. She wanted to go to him, to tell him, for him to know that his love was reciprocated a hundred times over. And then, from somewhere far off beyond her thoughts she heard a voice calling to her, and the warmth that came with loving and knowing she was loved drained away, leaving her cold and overcome with an inexplicable bewilderment and a palpable turmoil.
And with awareness came veracity. What was the point of telling Christopher she loved him when she was not free to act upon her feelings? She must and would accept Evelyn’s marriage proposal. She could not, in good conscience, refuse Evelyn, and the honor done her. It was the right decision for her future, and Teddy’s. She was expected to marry well, and a man from within her own social sphere. Evelyn and she were well-suited. They came from the same family and social strata. They shared a history, and they loved one another. It would be the match of the season!
And so she knew that in a month’s time, when Evelyn asked her to become his wife, she would accept him, despite knowing that the love she had for him was quite different from the feelings she had for Christopher. The love for her cousin was safe, secure, and predictable. She knew exactly what to expect. What she felt for Christopher was something else entirely, leaving her bewildered, breathless, and floating in a raging sea of unforeseen possibilities.
And with veracity came honesty. She knew with depressing certainty she was her mother’s daughter. The Countess’s voice infiltrated her jumbled thoughts, pontificating on the subject of marriage: There could be no future for the son of a local squire and the daughter of an earl. Everyone knew that a female horse bred with a male donkey produced a jackass, a pariah that was neither a horse nor a donkey. The daughter of a squire might marry up into the nobility, but the daughters of the nobility did not marry down.
So it was with a heavy heart and a soul-deep sadness that she made the decision it was best for the peace of mind of all concerned not to act upon her feelings. And so she had come full circle. She was left numb and unresponsive. It took her several moments before she realized it was Evelyn who owned the voice that was calling to her, and that he was not far off at all.
He was still beside her, and he was asking if she was well, and did she wish to follow the others upstairs to see the rest of the mill? She shook her head. She would prefer to sit quietly for a moment on the step. And so he sat with her.
“Give me your fan, ma chérie,” he ordered gently. When she unconsciously pulled it from a pocket tied beneath her skirts he took it, flicked it open and fluttered it like a woman. He fanned cool air across her flushed face, and when he had her attention, said quietly, “This month I am away is my gift to you to live it as you please.”
“A gift?” Mary blinked at him, not understanding, yet he knew he had her complete attention.
“Yes. I may present as self-absorbed as Narcissus, but as an agent of the crown I am well trained in deception and knowing when someone is being deceitful. I can ferret out a person’s innermost feelings, their secret desires that can be leveraged against them.” He stopped fluttering the fan and smiled gently. “I am not blind, nor do I lack feeling. I see that the Squire stirs your blood, and that is no bad thing—Mary! Do not shake your head or turn your head away. Look at me!” When she met his gaze openly he said with a straightforwardness that shocked her, “If you do not satisfy yourself as to your feelings for this man, then you will always wonder, and that will be detrimental to both of us. I want a wife who is loyal in deed and thought. I also want a wife who knows something of the marriage bed. I never was one to prize virginity. Sexual inexperience is tedious in the extreme.”
“But—I have a child! How can you—”
“Gerry was a pig. I would wager he never thought of your needs, and only satisfied himself. That is not making love. In its simplest form it is a bestial mounting for the purposes of procreation; at its most selfish, self-satisfaction of male carnal need.”
“Please, Eve. I do not want—How can you talk to me about such th—”
“Because I was just like him—well, perhaps not as disgusting and definitely not as repulsive, but when I was much younger I only cared for my music. I did not care the snap of two fingers for the needs of the women I bedded. Not even Dominique.”
“Oh, Eve! But she was your wife!”
“And you were gluttonous Gerry’s wife. And thus I rest my case. But since poor Dominique’s death I have had a vast experience of women. I am very sure my cavorting would turn your glorious hair white from shock. But I do not regret, need, or want to satisfy my curiosity further where other women are concerned. But you, ma chérie, have no experience whatsoever of what it is to make love and—”
“But surely, as my husband, it would be your place to-to make me understand—to know—what it is to make love?”
“But that still leaves us with the dilemma of your unsatisfied lust for Squire Worthy—”
“Eve! I-I—How can you know—” Mary began to stutter, cheeks drained of color.
“Which is why I am gifting you this month. You deserve to know how it is to be made love to, to enjoy the experience of making love. You need to expunge the memory of what you suffered at the hands of your brute of a husband. Besides, given your Squire’s fascinating past in the Italian states, I am confident he’ll do all in his power to prove himself an ideal lover.”
Mary stared at Evelyn wonderingly. “And you would be content with such arrangement?”
“If at the end of the month your—um—curiosity is well and truly satisfied, and you accept my proposal of marriage, then such an arrangement will have benefits for us both.”
“And what of him? He is such an honorable man… I cannot imagine he will agree.”
At that Evelyn threw back his head and laughed. Mary did not see what there was to amuse him.
“Oh he’s made a most successful transformation to Squire Worthy, to be sure. None here in this backwater has the imagination to think him anything else than what he presents to the world. And I have no doubts that this is how he wishes to spend the rest of his dull days. But that does not negate his past as a much sought-after cicisbeo—”
Mary wrinkled her little nose. “Cic—cicisbeo? What is this cicisbeo? And how do you know this about him? Did you spy on him when he lived abroad?”
“Ah! I have said too much. That is for you to ask h
im.” He playfully tapped Mary under the chin with her fan, then handed it back to her and got to his feet. Helping her up, he said with a smile, “And if he esteems you as much as I think he does, and because he is tediously principled, he will want to confess all. You must remember that if you ask, you may receive a response that makes you wish you had not! Now let us rejoin the picnic party before our companions cast us adrift completely!”
WHEN MARY and Evelyn rejoined the others, they were congregated at the base of the staircase, and a considerable discussion was taking place on descending to the lower floor to inspect the workings of the waterwheel.
Christopher warned them not to be startled by the thunderous noise. That this was perfectly ordinary and was made by the rushing water as it was funneled along a narrow canal to drop onto the waterwheel, the weight of the falling water driving the wheel’s blades and forcing it to turn. He stressed that the deafening noise was so great that it made it impossible to converse; even shouting at one another at close quarters was useless. He said it was exceedingly important for them all to follow direction, to not wander, and to do precisely as he instructed. Above all, they must be vigilant of each other at all times. He said this with a smile at Teddy, who was listening to him intently, eyes wide and mouth at half-cock. When she nodded her obedience, he winked at her, then proceeded to tell the group he hoped that the noise and his instructions would not reduce their enjoyment or wonder of Mr. Smeaton’s marvelous waterwheel.
Everyone readied to descend the stairs, Teddy holding Christopher’s hand, and Rory happy to take her grandfather’s arm and use her walking stick to steady herself as there were only a dozen or so steps and these she could manage quite easily. But Lord Shrewsbury surprised them, and everyone paused and looked at him when he said gravely,
“I think it best if the ladies and the child remain here. I’m concerned about the noise, that it will be too great for female sensibilities. In light of what Mr. Bryce cautioned about not being able to hear or speak above the din, what if one of you were to faint, it could be impossible to summon help. Don’t you agree, Vallentine?”
Proud Mary Page 24