by Mary Balogh
They had come to a stop in the middle of the alley, and she had slipped her hand free of his arm. They stood facing each other, and he found himself frowning. She was speaking like the cool businesswoman she was, and she was looking him directly in the eye. There was not a glimmer of emotion in her dismissal of all her plans and hopes concerning him. But . . . was she hurting inside? Was it conceited of him to believe she might be? It really had taken enormous courage on her part to come here this afternoon, yet she had done it. Why? Just to end things with him? She could have done that by letter—or simply by not coming. She had not needed to put herself through this ordeal. It was all about this visit, then. He wondered how very alone and how very exposed she had felt. It had been three against one—three close family members against a woman who had none. And she had not even had her veil to bolster her courage as she had the last time she came here to tea.
Dash it all, but she was right. He did feel an obligation even though she had just set him free of it. He had invited her here and put her through such an unpleasant experience. He should take her at her word. No doubt she was longing to get back to her familiar, reclusive world. And it would be a relief to him. He really could not see himself happily married to her—or married to her at all, in fact. Yet—
“You are going to lose your courage, then?” he asked.
“It is not a question of courage,” she protested.
“I beg to disagree,” he said. “It took a great deal of courage to invite me to your home, to make your proposal to me, to show me your face, to take tea with my neighbors, to visit me here alone, to come here again today. But since you conceived your plan, I believe you have realized that it will be virtually impossible for you to marry and continue with the almost totally isolated life you lived with your uncle and aunt. Indeed you admitted it the last time we met.”
“I have nothing more to say, Lord Riverdale,” she said.
“You met my mother and my sister today and have taken fright,” he said. “And so you are falling back upon instinct, which is to run for cover and remain there.”
He knew he was being unfair. But surely there was truth in what he said. It was as if, having put her toe into the ocean and found the water cold, she had abandoned her intention of bathing in it.
“I am exercising my right to live my life as I choose, Lord Riverdale,” she said, all cold, straight-backed dignity. “And I do not choose you. I withdraw my offer. I have nothing to bring to you except pots and pots of money. Nothing.”
It was noticeable that she had not said he had nothing to bring her, though that would seem more to the point. He clasped his hands behind him and gazed at her for several moments, trying to fathom what was going on behind all that cool poise. He might have concluded there was nothing, but her eyes wavered for a moment before she focused them steadily on his again. And he could almost feel the pain behind the words she had spoken—I have nothing to bring you except pots and pots of money.
“If we wed,” he said, “I would draw from you the story of your first ten years, Miss Heyden. And while I am not a violent man by nature, I suspect I would thereby learn there are a few people I would dearly like to pound into the middle of next week.”
Her eyes widened, and she pressed a hand to her mouth while her eyes brimmed with tears. She turned sharply away and strode off to one side of the path, to stand against one of the elm trees, facing away from him, both hands spread over her face.
Oh, good God. What had he done?
He followed her, stood in front of her for a few moments, and then set his hands against the trunk, one on either side of her head. She lowered her hands and gazed at him.
She was frowning, and he knew that at least for that moment he was gazing back into the darkness he had always known was within her. She had nothing to say and he could not think of anything that would make her feel better. Apologize? But for what? Besides, the words had been spoken now, and he knew that somehow he had plunged her into some sort of hell that was associated with those hidden years of her childhood.
“You told me you wanted to be kissed,” he heard himself say. “Let me kiss you.”
“Why?” she asked him. “To make me feel better? You cannot deny that you are relieved to have been released from any obligation you might have felt. You saw the impossibility of it all during that ghastly half hour. You will find someone else easily enough when you go to London. Someone more . . . normal. And rich enough to rescue you from your problems.”
“Let me kiss you,” he said again, bending his arms at the elbows to bring both his face and his body closer to hers. And he was surprised to discover that he wanted to kiss her, if only out of curiosity.
“Why?” she asked again. And, when he did not answer, “Yes, then. Kiss me. And then take me back to my carriage.”
He looked into her eyes for a few moments longer and then dropped his gaze to her mouth. He kissed her. Her lips stiffened against his own and then softened and then pushed tentatively back. Her hands came up to rest on either side of his waist, on the outside of his coat. He moved his own hands away from the trunk to cup her face. His thumbs stroked her closed eyelids and her cheeks—the skin on the damaged side was as smooth as it was on the other side, he discovered. He slid one hand behind her neck and up beneath her bonnet, and circled her waist with the other arm to draw her against him. She was all tall, lithe slimness. He could feel her legs, long against his own. He could feel her awkwardness too, her inexperience—he would be willing to wager this was her first kiss. It was bound to be, in fact.
But truth to tell, he was not really analyzing the embrace clinically. He was participating in it, surrendering to the unexpected sensuality of it, the equally unexpected femininity of her, the desire to go further with her, to open her mouth with his own and explore with his tongue, to let his hands roam and caress.
But it was undoubtedly her first kiss. He did not give in to his desires. Even so, she suddenly panicked. She pressed her hands almost violently against his chest, ducked under his arm, and strode back out onto the grass of the alley before coming to a halt in the middle of it.
“I beg your pardon,” he said as he followed her.
She wheeled on him. “I permitted it. But it changes nothing, Lord Riverdale. I am going back to the terrace now.”
But now he really did feel an obligation. “Miss Heyden,” he said, his hands behind his back again as he observed the flush in her cheek, the brightness of her eyes, her general loss of poise, “I will be going to London during the coming week. I have obligations there. Will you come too and be my mother’s guest at Westcott House? I can take rooms elsewhere. Will you come to experience some of the social life there? As much or as little as you choose? Will you meet some of your peers—or none, according to your choosing? Will you allow me to court you there, with no obligation on either side?”
“No!” Her eyes had widened with shock. “Whyever would I agree to do such a thing? Because you have obligations? I have them too, I would have you know. I need to spend time at my glassworks in Staffordshire. I have a business to run. Perhaps you would like to come there and meet some of my colleagues and employees.”
“If anything were to come of our courtship,” he said, “I believe I would rather like that, Miss Heyden. But not in the springtime.”
“I would not like to go to London at any season of the year,” she said, “and certainly not in the springtime. And that is my final word.” She turned on her heel and strode off in the direction from which they had come.
He walked in silence beside her. He had tried. He had tried not to accept her release with too obvious a relief. He had tried to suggest a further trial of their courtship—if it ever had been quite that. Now his conscience could be clear. This was what she chose, what she wanted, and there was nothing more to be said.
Her carriage was waiting on the terrace. Her coachman stood by the ho
rses’ heads while her maid hovered outside the open carriage door. Alexander stopped a little distance away, took her hand in his, and bowed over it. “Thank you for giving me the pleasure of your acquaintance,” he said.
“Goodbye, Lord Riverdale,” she said.
“Goodbye, Miss Heyden.”
He handed her into the carriage and shut the door after the maid had taken the place beside her. The coachman climbed onto the box and gathered the ribbons in his hands. She did not look from the window as the vehicle moved away. He watched it as it disappeared from sight, trying and somehow failing to feel relief.
All because of a damned birthmark, he thought.
What the devil had happened during the first ten years of her life? It was clearly something catastrophic.
He turned to make his way slowly back into the house and up to the drawing room.
• • •
“You look like tragedy warmed over,” Maude said.
“Do I?” Wren set her head back against the cushions, turned her face slightly away from her maid, and closed her eyes. It was a rhetorical question and Maude did not attempt to answer it.
She had wanted to fling herself at him even after she had said goodbye. For she could not do this again with someone else. It had been an idea, she had tried it, and now she knew marriage was not a possibility for her. Though that was not the real reason why there would never be anyone else, of course, and there was no point in lying to herself. She could not do this with anyone else because no one else would be him. Yet he was an impossibility.
She relived their conversation, his kiss—she had had no idea, no idea that it could be like that. She thought of the visit with his mother and sister. She thought of his invitation to go to London as their guest and of his willingness to step into her world. She could not accuse him of being unreasonable, of acting the part of the lordly male, all take and no give. She could not accuse him of anything. Quite the contrary, in fact. She had not expected him to be a kind man. One did not with the excessively handsome—strange thought. No, the lack was all on her part. She could not enter his world, and that was that.
But oh, the pain, the emptiness, the abject self-pity. She would have it in hand by the time they arrived home, but for now she would wallow in it for the simple reason that she could not stop.
If we ever wed, I would draw from you the story of your first ten years, Miss Heyden. And while I am not a violent man by nature, I suspect I would learn that there are a few people I would dearly like to pound into the middle of next week.
Wren bit her lip, her eyes still closed, and kept her composure even while she wept inside.
• • •
The drawing room was a hive of industry when Alexander returned. His mother was tatting and Elizabeth had her head bent over an embroidery frame. Both looked up to smile at him, but his mother was soon frowning.
“Alex,” she asked, “whatever happened to her?”
“It is a birthmark,” he said.
“Oh, that was obvious as soon as I realized it was not a burn,” she said. “It is unfortunate that it covers almost half her face, and I can understand that it must be a severe trial to her when she has to meet new people and endure the same reaction as mine each time. But I did not mean that. What happened to her?”
Elizabeth was still looking up at him too, her needle with its scarlet silk thread suspended above her work. “Mama and I came to the same conclusion, that she is shut up so far inside herself that she is well nigh invisible,” she said.
He stood halfway across the room, his hands behind him. It was one of those times when he wished he were alone in the house to brood and lick his wounds in private. Though why he should feel wounded, he was not sure. A failure, then. Or just guilty. He seemed to have been weighed down by guilt for more than a year despite the fact that he knew he had nothing whatsoever to feel guilty about. He felt it anyway every time he thought of Harry fighting with a foot regiment in Spain or Portugal and of Camille marrying a portrait painter, though she seemed happy enough with him, and of Abigail, who should have been making her come-out this spring but instead was hidden away in the country with her mother, who after almost twenty-five years of being the Countess of Riverdale was back to being Miss Viola Kingsley, mother of three illegitimate children. How could he not feel guilty? And now he had made the mistake of inviting Miss Heyden here when she was not ready for it. And of hurting her. He knew she was hurting.
“I do not know what happened,” he said. “But she is sensitive about her appearance out of all proportion to the visible facts. Today was the first time she has ever gone into company unveiled.”
“It was the first time you have seen her without a veil?” Elizabeth asked in clear surprise before threading her needle through the cloth and resting her hands in her lap.
“No,” he said. “She removed it the first time we met. She invited me to Withington House and I went, assuming wrongly that there would be other guests there too. She had summoned me in order to . . . offer me marriage. Her uncle left her very wealthy, and I suppose it is no secret that I lack the sort of funds I need as owner of Brambledean.”
“Oh, Alex.” His mother had abandoned her tatting and one hand had found its way to her throat.
“She has been all alone since her uncle and aunt died last year,” he said. “She has always been a recluse, but during the last year I believe she has been lonely. She wishes to wed.”
“But not you,” his mother said.
“Did you say yes?” Elizabeth asked.
“I did not,” he said. “Neither did I say no. I suggested we get to know each other better to see if there could be any other reason for us to marry apart from . . . money. She came, veiled, to the tea I gave here for my neighbors, and we have called upon each other a couple of times since. Today she came unveiled to meet you. It took great courage.”
“Oh, Alex,” his mother said. “I feel all the sympathy in the world for her. I truly do. But it chills me to the heart to think of you married to her.”
“She was terrified,” he said. “This was something she has never done before.”
“I fear for you,” she said. “I know you are thinking of marrying for money, not for yourself but for the people here whose livelihood depends upon the prosperity of Brambledean. And I know you are kindhearted. But, Alex, she is not the bride for you. Oh, I do try not to interfere in your life. I try not to be the sort of mother who hangs about her son’s neck like a millstone. But— Oh, Cousin Humphrey Westcott was a wicked, wicked man and I do not care what anyone says about not speaking ill of the dead.”
Alexander sat down in the chair closest to the door. He rested one elbow on the arm of the chair and pinched the bridge of his nose between a finger and thumb, his eyes closed. “She has come to the conclusion that we are incompatible,” he said. “She told me so just now before she left. She has realized that as my wife she would be compelled to move beyond the life of isolation to which she is accustomed, and she believes herself incapable of doing it.”
He heard his mother expel her breath.
“I asked her to come to London this spring as your guest at Westcott House,” he said. “I offered to take rooms elsewhere. I thought she might be persuaded to meet a few people, attend a few social functions, get to feel more comfortable around her peers. But she will not, or cannot, do it. She has withdrawn her offer and said goodbye.”
Neither lady spoke for a while.
“And I suppose,” Elizabeth said, “you now feel guilty, Alex.”
He opened his eyes and laughed, though without humor. “Like you and Mama,” he said, “I wonder what happened to her. She will not speak of it. The only emotion she showed came when I broached the subject a little while ago. I believe, though, that this whole experiment of hers has left her feeling a little bit hurt. Perhaps more than a little.”
“But that
is neither your fault nor your problem, Alex,” his mother said.
He looked broodingly at her. She was quite right, of course.
“I know,” he said. “But I hate to think I may in any way have been the cause of pain to her.”
“Are you feeling a little bit hurt too, Alex?” Elizabeth asked.
He thought about it. “Her birthmark,” he said, “is just the visible symbol of much deeper pain. I was relieved to see her go, Lizzie, I must confess. It was not a relationship that was developing comfortably. But she is a person, and I got to know her a little. She likes daffodils.” He frowned down at the hands he had draped over his knees. “She calls them golden trumpets of hope but was embarrassed when she said it aloud. Perhaps I would like to be her friend, but it is too late for that. Anyway, a friendship between a single man and a single lady never seems quite appropriate. I am sorry to have clouded your day. What can I do to lift the gloom? Take you both for a walk outside, perhaps?” He smiled from one to the other of them.
“I do believe,” his mother said, “I would prefer a quiet half hour or so lying on my bed. It has been an eventful day. But you and Lizzie go outside if you wish.”
“You may be right, Alex,” Elizabeth said, bending to put her embroidery away in the bag beside her chair before getting to her feet. “It may be impossible for you to reach out to Miss Heyden in friendship, but it is not impossible for me. I should like to call upon her at Withington House, with your permission.”
Their mother sighed but said nothing.
“It is all of eight miles away,” he said, “perhaps more. Are you sure, Lizzie?”
“It is good manners to return a call, is it not?” she said. “It need be no more than that. If she freezes me out, then I shall return here with no real harm done. But perhaps she needs a friend, even if the sort of friendship I can offer can really only be conducted by letter. We ladies thrive upon letter writing, though, as you know.” Her eyes twinkled at him.