Fortunately, Tristan Ditton had been the only one convinced by her words. He beamed at the assembled group.
“Come, congratulate me on my conquest!”
Nicholas Seagrave stood up. The look of scorn in his dark eyes was so swift it was barely noticeable, but Polly saw and understood. He would not make a scene in front of his guests, but the reckoning would come later.
“Thank you for your announcement, Ditton,” Seagrave said pleasantly. “I shall look forward to having the opportunity to discuss the matter with my sister and…” his hesitation was barely perceptible “…her trustee, Sir Godfrey.”
Ditton’s lips curved in a sneer. Even he was not so thick-skinned to miss the lack of warmth in the atmosphere. He turned to Polly, his hand at her waist, pushing her forwards into the centre of the room.
“Come, my love,” he murmured, “it is time to tell everyone of our tender romance! Speak up, lest your brother think you half-hearted! You know you must convince him!”
Polly could hear the threat implicit in his tone. His hand was hot and damp through the thin silk of her summer dress. Her skin crawled. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, that might help win the day, though she knew in her heart that the cause was hopeless. Then she met Lucille’s eyes. The Countess of Seagrave had one hand resting lightly on her stomach where the faintest curve of her pregnancy was beginning to show. The other hand was on her husband’s arm, in a gesture at once tender, supportive and united. And the look in her vivid blue eyes as she gazed at Polly was one of direct challenge. A sob tore itself from Polly’s throat. Lucille had everything that Polly wanted, everything that she had thought at last she might achieve with Lord Henry Marchnight, and here she was, smashing it to pieces before it had begun.
She looked at Hetty Markham and found herself trembling on the very edge of exposure. Hetty’s disgrace would be her freedom, but then there was Peter…Peter, who had never been particularly sensitive but was looking at her with a mixture of puzzlement and concern, Peter who would be so hurt…
“You must excuse me…the heat…I feel so unwell…”
But before she could escape the pitiless stare of all those eyes, Henry’s chair went clattering back. Polly saw the outrage and disgust on his face, the blazing fury as he turned his back on her and stalked out of the room, and then she fainted.
Somewhere beyond the locked door, Polly could hear the Dowager Countess’s voice rising and falling like a peal of bells.
“It’s madness, I tell you, complete madness! To throw herself away on that loathsome creature—well, really, Godfrey! Someone must speak to her! No, not you, Godfrey, you would only make matters worse! Oh, Lord, what are we to do?”
There was a rumble from Sir Godfrey, the words indistinguishable, then Polly heard Lady Bellingham’s soothing tones. “Dear ma’am, I do not believe for one moment that Lady Polly wishes to marry Mr Ditton. Surely what is of concern is the reason she feels she must!”
Polly held her breath. She had great respect for Lady Bellingham’s perspicacity.
“She has told us that it is that ridiculous business the other night!” the Dowager Countess was saying tearfully. “We have told her and told her that it is of no consequence, but she insists that her reputation is damaged! I never heard such a nonsense! The girl has taken leave of her senses! And to pretend that she holds him in esteem! It’s utterly absurd!”
Polly heard the sound of a door closing across the corridor, then Lucille’s tones, soft and questioning.
“Lucille!” the Dowager Countess expostulated. “You must speak to Polly! At once!”
Polly tensed, awaiting the knock at the door. She could hear Lucille’s tones, a brief murmur in stark contrast to the Dowager’s histrionics, and then there was silence. Polly waited, but no knock came. She felt so relieved that she almost cried all over again, for now she would at least be spared the necessity of lying to Lucille, something she simply could not bear to do.
She slipped off the bed, where her hot, furious tears had soaked right through the pillow, and went across to the open window. The cool evening breeze from the sea was stirring the curtains, caressing her swollen face with its gentle touch. Polly could not bear to look at her reflection, both to avoid seeing her ravaged face but more to avoid the shock of recognising the pain in her own eyes.
She had cried all night and for the better part of the following day, until she had no tears left. She had cried for herself, for her brother Peter, who had inadvertently put her in this situation, and for poor, feckless Hetty, whose obsession with glamour and consequence had been her own—and now Polly’s—downfall. But most of all, Polly cried for the death of all her hopes. She remembered the tenderness with which Henry had held her only the previous evening, the stupefied amazement on his face as Tristan Ditton had made his announcement, and the way he had turned his back and walked away.
She had been so foolish, believing that she could control Tristan Ditton, thinking it an easy matter to save Hetty’s reputation and then somehow save her own future. Now she realised too late that even if she explained everything at once, the barrier she had placed between herself and Henry Marchnight could never be overcome.
The shadows were falling across the bowling green. Polly found it impossible to believe that it was only the previous day that the world had seemed so bright with promise. But now…She shut her mind to it. Soon—very soon—she would have to face the cumulative disapproval of her family again, for they had been promised for an assembly at the The Angel in Woodbridge, and Polly did not trust Tristan Ditton to hold his tongue were she to cry off.
She had seldom looked so ill as when she descended the stairs that evening. None of the family had been in to see her as she was dressing, a sure sign of their disapproval, and the pity on Jessie’s face as she had viewed Polly’s pale and swollen countenance was almost enough to send her back to bed. None of the frills and furbelows, the primping and tweaking, could make any difference. She looked dreadful.
All the Seagraves, Sir Godfrey Orbison and Lady Bellingham, were assembled in the hall awaiting her. No one said a word. Polly thought that Nicholas looked as angry as when she had refused Julian Morrish—or possibly more so. His dark eyes were blazing and his mouth was drawn in a very tight line. The Dowager Countess and Sir Godfrey both looked as though they were about to pop with the effort of remaining silent, whilst Peter and Hetty looked both distressed and embarrassed. But it was Lucille and Lady Bellingham with whom Polly knew she had to be careful, for they were fully capable of guessing at least a part of what had happened.
By the time the party reached The Angel in Woodbridge, Polly felt that she had already reached breaking point. There had obviously been some agreement amongst the family that no one would mention her betrothal, for both Lucille and Nicholas, with whom she was travelling, avoided any subject that had even the slightest overtones of engagement, marriage or Mr Ditton. Polly found it rather sinister. Paradoxically, she found this silence, particularly on Lucille’s part, made her desperate to confide in her sister-in-law. But Nicholas’s dark gaze, resting on her with exasperated resignation, kept her silent.
It was clear that news of the unlikely betrothal had circulated around Woodbridge with the speed of wildfire, for dozens of their acquaintance hurried forward to offer congratulations, and those who had been at the ball were still talking about it. Miss Ditton fell on Polly’s neck as soon as they entered the ballroom.
“Sister!” she said in raptures, “how delightful to see you! Mama is still aux anges and can speak of little else!” She stood back, and frowned at Polly’s puffy, pasty face. “Good Lord, you look quite freakish tonight, my dear! I would have expected to see you happier!”
Polly, reflecting miserably on a life in which she had to tolerate Miss Ditton’s malicious pin-pricks every day, could barely face the delight of her mother. Mrs Ditton was sitting, beaming, beside a potted palm. Her unctuous son, whose smile was twice as wide, was leaning on the back of he
r chair and accepting the congratulations of all who passed. As soon as she saw him, Polly began to feel physically sick. There was such an aura of evil exuding from him that she wondered no one else could sense it.
Her torment had only just begun, however. Tristan claimed her for the first dance, and followed it up by pressing for the waltz as well. In vain did Polly protest that she did not care to dance. He swept all her objections aside.
“Nonsense!” he cried gaily, whilst his mother looked on indulgently at his ardour and the Dowager Countess of Seagrave looked considerably less enthusiastic. “Nothing could be more appropriate! My dear Polly—my very dear Polly, you are mine now to flatter and tease and monopolise! What joy! What delight!”
“It is perfectly in order for you to dance the waltz, Polly,” the Dowager Countess said, with the sort of weary patience which suggested that she thought it was probably Polly’s just desserts.
Mr Ditton clasped Polly very close. His bony hands seemed to clutch her to him, pressing against her in a thoroughly unpleasant manner. And when she tried to ease away, he pulled her tightly against his sparse chest and hissed, “Do you forget that you must dance to my tune now, Lady Polly? One word out of place and Miss Markham’s reputation dies forever! Aye, and your brother’s happiness too! Smile, my dear!”
Unbidden, an old memory came into Polly’s mind from when they had all been children together. Tristan had always been the one who took pleasure in torturing the frogs and toads they found in the woodland ponds, poking sticks at them, or worse. Polly could remember screaming at him to release a small bird that had fallen from its nest and was fluttering helplessly in his greedy, cruel hands. And now he was torturing her, and enjoying himself thoroughly in the process. She hated him. The bile was rising in her throat and a red mist hung before her eyes. The only way she could survive was to deaden all feeling.
Tristan Ditton stuck fast to Polly’s side all night, acting the attentive lover to the hilt. At some point in the evening, the Marchnights had arrived and Polly’s heart had leapt until she had realised that Henry intended to ignore her utterly. The only gentleman who did attempt to break Ditton’s monopoly was an officer of the 21st Dragoons, who were stationed at Woodbridge Barracks. A number of them were at the ball, their redcoats making a bright splash of colour amongst the more sober black of the evening dress, and the young captain made eager play for Polly’s hand in a country dance until Ditton told him to take himself off. Polly was embarrassed by Ditton’s bad manners as she saw the captain back away in puzzlement and anger. Nor did her own family evince any interest in her company. It was as though they had abandoned her completely to the Dittons. Never had she felt so alone.
“Polly, you are looking like the spectre at the feast,” Lucille said, under her breath, pausing briefly beside her sister-in-law whilst Mr Ditton’s attention was temporarily distracted by his sister. Miss Ditton was begging her brother to confirm that Lady Laura Marchnight was looking positively sallow that evening and Lucille’s clear gaze rested dispassionately on the tittering brother and sister before coming back to rest on Polly.
“Oh, Lord, Polly, I promised Nicholas that I would say nothing, but when you told me last week that you would marry the first man who asked, I scarce thought—”
Polly took a breath to tell Lucille that she wanted to explain, but Mr Ditton turned back to them and the chance was lost.
“The supper dance!” Mr Ditton said, still burning with the unpleasant glow of excitement that his torment of Polly engendered. “Lovely Lady Polly, do me the honour…”
There was no possible way that Polly could eat anything at all. The food at The Angel was very good for a provincial assembly, but Polly, plagued by the joint torments of Tristan Ditton’s presence and the sight of Lord Henry ostentatiously ignoring her, sat miserably looking at the plate of strawberries and playing with her spoon. Eventually she excused herself and slipped out of the dining-room. Not even Tristan Ditton would insist on accompanying her to the ladies’ room.
Polly gazed at her reflection with complete lack of interest and tweaked a curl back inside her coronet with a weary hand. The temptation to stay in here forever was overwhelming. She would have to tell Lucille. She could not bear it…A shadow fell across the mirror. The candles wavered. Polly swung round, a hand to her throat.
She would never have thought it of him, but then she had consistently underestimated Lord Henry Marchnight. He did not care a rush for convention and would go wherever he pleased, even into the ladies’ withdrawing-room. As she watched, he closed the door with great deliberation and came towards her.
“Good evening, Lady Polly,” Lord Henry said, with icy courtesy. “I want to talk to you.”
Chapter Fifteen
All of Polly’s emotions flashed into immediate and vivid life, as though she had previously been moving through a dream. Although Henry was standing at some distance from her, she could feel the anger emanating from him, see the hostility in his eyes. Even as she grasped at the opportunity to speak to him and attempt to explain the dreadful dilemma in which she found herself, something in her quailed before the fury she saw in him.
She put out a hand towards him. “Henry! Oh, thank God! Please—it is not as you imagine—”
“No? Then how is it, my lady?” There was no gentleness in him now. He took a step forward and caught both her arms above the elbow. “Is it that Ditton could offer what I was not free to do? Strange, I did not think you the type to accept an offer for the sake of being married! Why, you have had many better chances! Morrish! Bellars!” He shook her slightly. “So perhaps it is that Ditton’s type attracts you? But again, I could have sworn that was not so! Was his love-making prettier than mine, perhaps?”
Polly wilted in his arms. “Oh, do not,” she whispered, unable to bear the anguish in his eyes. She put up a hand to his cheek. “Harry, it was not like that! I had no choice…”
There was a moment of complete stillness, when the fury still burned in Henry’s eyes, then it faded and he slid his hands down her arms, clasping her cold hands in his.
“Polly, my love, you must tell me what has happened. I was so angry…I am sorry—” He broke off. “When I saw you tonight I knew something was dreadfully wrong. Tell me.” He tightened his grip. “You must trust me…”
The easy tears stung Polly’s eyes again and closed her throat. If Henry had remained angry, had reviled her, she would have withstood his hostility in stony silence, but this gentleness almost unmanned her.
“Oh, Harry, I cannot tell—” The tears choked her. She could not bear it.
Henry was still holding her tightly. “Ditton is compelling you into this offensive masquerade, is he not? But—” he frowned “—I cannot see by what means…”
“I cannot tell,” Polly said again, unable to meet his eyes. “Oh, Harry, do not ask me—”
“It cannot be because of that foolish incident the other night,” Henry continued, his tone hardening. “That would be a nonsense. So, Polly, what is it all about? Blackmail?”
His tone compelled her to look up and meet his eyes. She saw stark determination there, anger, puzzlement and an intentness to find out the truth. Her resolve weakened. But it would not be like confiding in Lucille—Henry would feel obliged to take some action, and to pour out Hetty’s disgrace to him would be so unfair to her future sister-in-law. She could not break her silence and expose Hetty’s guilt.
“It is not my secret to tell,” she said piteously. “But Harry, it is not my actions that have given Mr Ditton the means to exert his will…”
Henry frowned. “Then—”
“It is Hetty!” Polly said, and burst into tears.
“Miss Markham?” Henry seemed astounded. “Polly, you must tell me. Trust me—”
Polly gazed at him hopelessly. Surely he could see how desperate she was to tell him, that she trusted him more than anyone in the world, and yet…
Henry had forgiven her so much—the youthful immaturity that had
stunted her first love for him, her foolish suspicions about his activities. But now he would believe that she did not trust him enough to confide in him, not understanding that a loyalty to her family kept her silent. Polly saw the look of withdrawal she dreaded come into Henry’s eyes, and in that second, she realised that the most important thing was not to preserve Hetty’s secret, but to entrust Henry with it. She started to speak, but another voice interrupted her before she had said more than two words.
“By all accounts, fishing in other men’s pools is your favoured occupation, Marchnight!” Tristan Ditton sneered from the doorway. “An affecting tableau, but not one to which you have any right! Do not approach my promised wife again!”
All expression had been wiped clean from Henry’s face. He turned to face the other man. For a moment it seemed that Ditton flinched back, although Henry had made no move towards him.
“Take care that you do not make her a widow, Ditton,” he said softly, but with an edge to his words that made Polly shiver suddenly. “It will be my most earnest endeavour to see her so.”
“Mr Ditton!” Barely had Henry brushed past Tristan Ditton without another word before Lady Bellingham was standing behind him in the passage and addressing him in tones of deepest displeasure. “You do realise that this is the ladies’ withdrawing-room, sir? I assure you, you are the last person a lady would wish to meet when she takes refuge in here! Kindly retire!”
Mr Ditton flushed bright red and sidled off down the corridor.
“Routed!” her ladyship said with immense satisfaction. She closed the door behind her and turned her critical dark gaze on Polly.
“My dear, how very woebegone you look! Did you have the chance to speak to Lord Henry? I sent him along to you as soon as I was able, but I was afraid that that unpleasant Ditton fellow would get in the way! What a vulgar piece of work that man is!”
Polly was not sure whether to laugh or cry. There was something so bracing about Lady Bellingham’s practical common sense that it made matters seem much less black.
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