by Mary Balogh
“How splendid she is,” Arthur said, his face beaming with pleasure, “I never knew a lady with more courage. You must be very proud of her, Giles.”
“Perhaps it is as well that you phrased that as a statement rather than as a question, Arthur,” his brother said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Let us go in search of food. It seems to me, if I am not mistaken, that I went without breakfast this morning.”
Chapter 1
“He kissed me!” Judith made the announcement in a hissing whisper to her very best friend as they huddled against a bookshelf in Hookham’s library, supposedly choosing books. Daisy was away at the other side of the room, reading a newspaper. Her life was always too full of practical concerns to allow her to indulge frequently in novel reading. She never had progressed beyond page one of Robinson Crusoe.
Rose regarded her friend, saucer-eyed. “Did he?” she whispered back rather unnecessarily.
“We drove back from the theater,” Judith said, “and Arthur went inside, leaving the door open, and the footman was busy taking his cloak and hat, and the colonel took me by both hands and kissed me. On the lips!”
“Did he?” Rose asked again. “And did you mind, Judith?”
“It was divine!” Judith clasped her hands to her bosom. “He merely touched his lips to mine, you know, and squeezed my hands, but I liked it quite as much as the time when Lord Powers took me right into his arms and kissed me hard. Indeed, he even caused me to cut my own mouth on my teeth.”
“I have never been kissed,” Rose said, somewhat wistfully. “And do you now love the colonel, Judith? And are you going to tell Lord Powers that you no longer wish to communicate with him?”
Judith, who had been looking a little dewy-eyed, looked stricken suddenly. “I don’t know how I can,” she said. “He does love me so. How can I hurt him to the extent of telling him that I love another? Besides, I am not even sure that I love the colonel. I just think that perhaps I might come to do so.”
“But, Judith,” Rose said, “can he really love you if he wanted you to elope with him, and if he writes to you daily even when he knows that his lordship has strictly forbidden you to receive his letters, and if he now wants to compromise you so that your papa will be forced to agree to a marriage? I don’t think that is love, for love is unselfish, and such behavior is quite the opposite.”
Judith sighed, “I do like having you for a friend, Rose,” she said. “You are able to put into words thoughts that float around in my mind and will not form themselves into clear ideas. At the same time, you disturb me, for you force me into making decisions, and I have never had to make my own decisions. Someone has always done it for me. I will have to decide before the night of Vauxhall, won’t I? Four days!”
Rose squeezed her arm and looked halfheartedly along the bookshelf.
“And do you love Sir Phillip?” Judith whispered, “Perhaps he will kiss you at Vauxhall. That is a splendid place to be kissed.” She giggled, clapped a hand over her mouth, and glanced about her self-consciously.
“He is very charming,” Rose said. “I like him.”
Judith pulled a face. “That sounds like very faint praise,” she said. “But do you not think him very handsome, Rose? The more I see him, the more I think that auburn hair on men is not so unattractive, after all.”
“Yes, he is handsome,” Rose said. “Daisy thinks he will offer for me before the Season is out. Do you think it likely?”
“Very,” her friend assured her. “He has taken marked notice of you and has not looked at another lady since he set eyes on you, I think. You will accept him? Lady Corbett. It sounds impressive.”
“Daisy has her heart set on my making a brilliant match,” Rose said. “I cannot disappoint Daisy. She has worked so hard so that she might provide the best for me.”
Judith stared. “But Daisy would not want you unhappy,” she said. “And you would be unhappy with Sir Phillip, wouldn’t you? You strange girl! I could name half a dozen others who would kill for the chance you have.”
Rose smiled. “I do like him,” she said. “Perhaps I will grow to love him, like you with the colonel.”
“Get him to kiss you at Vauxhall,” Judith said wisely, “and then you will know.”
***
Daisy had read the whole of the front page of the newspaper. At least her eyes had moved over every single word written there, and she felt satisfied that she now knew all the latest news.
She hoped Julia had been able to fall asleep as she had planned to do after they had left her. The poor lady was finding these last few weeks of her confinement particularly irksome. She had complained, she had said that morning, when the baby was high beneath her bosom because she could not bend. Yet now that the baby was low, she could scarcely sit.
If only their society were not so ridiculously prudish about pregnancy and birth, Daisy thought, ladies would know a great deal more about them and not be near as fretful with their first child. For no matter what discomfort went before, and no matter how much pain accompanied the birthing process, the actual birth, the moment when all the discomfort and pain translated themselves into a curled-up, squawking red bundle of humanity, the mother became joy personified. And a year or two or at the most three later, she would be at it again whether her husband had insisted or not.
Daisy had seen it three separate times. And those were the only occasions in the last five years or more when she had somewhat regretted her spinster state. She thought she might have liked to go through that discomfort, to carry a man’s child and her own inside her for nine months. But Daisy would not be content to hide from the world as soon as it became obvious to the eye what she was about. She would want the world to see how proudly she carried her burden.
And she would have rather liked to go through the pain of childbirth so that she would be all the more aware of the miracle of birth at the end of it all. What a pinnacle of human bliss it would be, she had thought on those occasions when she had held another woman’s newborn infant, to hold her own, to put it to her breast, to try to recognize herself and her man in the suckling babe.
Daisy was not a sentimental soul, but everyone is human and entitled to some human weakness, she had consoled herself on those three occasions when for days afterward she had ached for the experience of motherhood. But it was not for her. She was far too busy mothering the people around her whose biological mothers had completed the birthing process years before.
But because the library was hushed and she was comfortable and a little tired after an almost sleepless night and unusually isolated behind her newspaper, Daisy’s thoughts strayed from Julia's plight and put herself in the same case.
She too was within a few days of having her first child. The child was low and heavy and huge in her womb, and she was excited and impatient for him to be out of there so that she could see him and hold him and put him into his father’s arms. But Giles was not like the elusive Ambrose, whom she had never met and who was so dreadfully frightened of what he was putting his wife through that he had to flee the house each day.
No, Giles sat beside her, his arm comfortingly about her, her weary head nestled on his shoulder. He was kissing her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, her lips, and assuring her when his lips were not so occupied that of course it would not matter if the child were a daughter. All that mattered was that it was their child and that it had been conceived out of love. And all that mattered was that she not have to suffer too much pain bringing it into the world.
And his hand moved gently and soothingly over her swollen abdomen so that the child wriggled inside her, and he laughed. And she told him, turning her face into his neck, that she did not care how much pain there was, that she would endure ten times as much as what the worst might be so that she could be the mother of his child, and that she would do it half a dozen more times too if he did not mind dreadfully the mother of his younger children being in her thirties when she did it.
She was about to go into labor
with a raging blizzard performing its worst outside the house so that Giles would have to deliver their child while she gasped out calm and lucid instructions between her pains.
“Daisy? It’s time England had another war, I see, so that the news would not put you to sleep.”
It was not quite the same tender, solicitous voice as that of the man who had been about to bring his own son into the world, but it was unmistakably Lord Kincade’s nevertheless. Daisy jumped, let out a snort of a snore, and dropped the paper, which went rustling to the floor as she lunged at it in an ineffectual attempt to keep it within her grasp.
“Oh,” she said, “did you have to pop up over the top of the paper like that? You startled me. I was deep in concentration.”
Lord Kincade passed a hand over his eyes as two separate voices hissed, “Sh!”
“How foolish of me,” he muttered, “to expect you to open your eyes, smile sweetly, and whisper an afternoon greeting. I suppose you were dreaming of attacking dragons or rescuing a beleaguered army from annihilation by the enemy?”
“No,” she whispered, shuffling the pages of the newspaper and slapping at them to get them into order again while Lord Kincade closed his eyes once more and grimaced. “How foolish it would be to indulge in silly daydreams like that. I was not sleeping, you know.”
“I am not sure I do know,” he murmured. “But this is not the place to begin an argument, and I do not have the energy today to participate in a was-wasn’t-was-wasn’t type of discussion. Come and have an ice with us. I see that Arthur and Peter have asked Judith and your sister already.”
Daisy looked up and smiled at the two gentlemen who were standing near the door with Rose and Judith. Lord Kincade took the large and untidy bundle of paper from her hands and folded it neatly, efficiently, and almost silently.
The conversation outside the library turned inevitably to Daisy’s exploits of the night before. Lord Doncaster congratulated her with a twinkle in his eye and a wink for Arthur. Arthur, of course, had already expressed his admiration that morning at his sister’s.
“I have never seen Fotheringham back off from any opponent,” Lord Doncaster said. “But I will swear that his knees were knocking together when he saw you coming, Miss Morrison, and his teeth chattering like Spanish castanets by the time you had finished with him.”
Daisy laughed gaily. “I believe you exaggerate, sir,” she said. “I would say his teeth were more probably gnashing with rage.”
“It was excessively brave of you to do such a thing anyway, Daisy,” Arthur said, smiling gently at her. “I wish I had been there too so that I could have ensured that the poor girl was not hurt and did not need further help.”
“Doubtless she did,” Lord Doncaster said,“but not the kind you would have been prepared to give, Arthur.”
He won a pointed glare from Lord Kincade and had the grace to look sheepish.
Daisy, walking along at Lord Kincade’s side, her arm linked through his, was feeling even more sheepish. He felt and looked alarmingly real: large and tall, with firmly muscled arm, and very fashionably dressed, and of course impossibly handsome with that blond hair that gleamed even brighter than Rose’s. It was mortifying to remember the images she had had of him— and herself—just a few minutes before: his child huge inside her, his hands about to receive the baby she delivered.
Gracious heavens! And she was not at all sure that he had not peered over that newspaper and seen it all. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew very well what she had been dreaming and that that knowledge was responsible for the hardened muscles of his arm, his disinclination to talk to her, and his bad mood.
And having resolved to put her dream from her, and convinced herself that he could not possibly know, she found herself remembering the very real experience of being in his embrace the night before. If that had not happened, she would have slept properly during the night and then she would not so easily have fallen into that silly trance at the library.
Good heavens, she thought, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, she knew exactly what every part of that splendid body felt like—through his clothing, anyway. Every part! She felt herself flushing and hoped he would not look down or the others around until she had banished such memories and resumed her more normal and sensible self. And she knew how silky that thick blond hair felt. And she knew what he tasted like.
Not at all the thoughts for a twenty-five-year-old spinster, she thought, squaring her shoulders and smiling brightly at nothing at all.
“You are either an actress working up the courage to step out on stage, or a boxer about to step into the ring, or a queen about to walk out onto the scaffold in order to set her neck on the chopping block,” Lord Kincade said without looking down at her. “Am I permitted to know which, Daisy?”
“You seem to be in a bad mood,” she said, “and I did not wish to disturb you by talking. So I was thinking.”
“What?” he said. “Me in a bad mood? What a ridiculous notion. Why should I be in a bad mood? I am merely the laughingstock today because my betrothed chose to become public champion of Drury Lane prostitutes last night. And Fotheringham has barricaded himself inside his rooms and declares that he will never come out again. Nothing at all to upset the calm geniality of my nature, Daisy.”
“I am glad Mr. Fotheringham feels ashamed of himself,” Daisy said. “I hope he learns a lesson from this. As for you. Giles, I do not see why you should be the laughingstock when all I did was defend a poor girl from attack by a brute. And besides, why should you be ridiculed? I am the one who did it. I am the one people should laugh at. And if they did, I should not care a fig.”
Fortunately for Lord Kincade’s temper, which was already hanging on a thin thread, they arrived at the confectioner's at that moment and conversation became general as they all sat at the same table.
Rose and Arthur had continued to talk about the happenings of the night before.
“I admire Daisy too,” she said. “And I know that what she did was very brave. But it was so very foolhardy too. I am always terrified for her. She does things like that without any thought to her own safety.”
He smiled down at her and patted her hand. “You need have no fear, I think,” he said. “Daisy has a strong sense of what is right and wrong, and she is the sort of person who must act on what she sees. I believe that such people are protected. By God, you see. And Giles is to be her husband. He will look after her. He used to fight my battles when we were boys until he realized that it was not because I was thin and puny that I would not fight but because I did not believe in fighting. I am afraid I had to knock him down once—I took him quite by surprise or I would never have succeeded—in order to prove my point.” He laughed.
Rose laughed too, up into his face, which was very far above her own. “Did you mean it,” she asked, “when you said that you would have helped that girl last night? And you a clergy-man?”
He raised his eyebrows. “But of course,” he said, “and because I am a clergyman, or at least because I am the kind of person who has become a clergyman. It is with such people that my mission lies. The poorest of the poor. The poor are not just those without money, you know. They are those who have had no chance of acquiring any of life’s riches—good homes, loving parents, exposure to nature and gentle living, knowledge of the beauties of life. I could go on and on. These pros—these girls are very poor indeed. It is they who need the love of God more than anyone.”
“Oh,” Rose said, “then I wish you had still been with us last night. You could have talked to her and she would have been very happy and reformed her way of life.”
Arthur smiled gently. “Unfortunately it is not as simple as that,” he said. “Not nearly. I know many men like myself who have despaired of ever making even the smallest difference to those whose poverty extends to the heart and the mind. But one has to remember how small and insignificant one is and how great God is. One has to have faith and keep on working and loving. The
parable of the mustard seed is my favorite, you know.”
“How fortunate your parishioners are going to be,” Rose said admiringly, “to have a real man of God living among them.”
Arthur laughed. “I am merely a very average man and average Christian and average clergyman,” he said. He added ruefully, “The only thing that is not average about me is my height. Ah, here we are. I am glad you mentioned this morning that you were going to the library after luncheon. A man feels foolish coming for an ice unless he has a lady with him.”
***
On the same afternoon—indeed, at the very time that Lord Kincade was watching his betrothed eat her ice, and thinking how annoyingly pretty she looked laughing at some teasing remark Lord Doncaster had made, and wondering if they would be able to sit there for all of half an hour without her finding something she might do to attract the attention of the whole of London their way—on the same afternoon a gentleman who had at least once called himself Mr. Martin put aside his cards without apology to his redheaded companion and turned to greet his son.
“Ah, Basil,” he said, beginning to drum his Fingers slowly on the edge of the table, “you make yourself quite the stranger. How goes the siege?”
“Growing somewhat cool,” Lord Powers said. “But I think the time is right. The brother’s suspicions have been lulled and the little chit’s appetite kept panting.”
The Marquess of Chalcott laced his plump fingers together. “Yes, the time is right,” he said. “And the time is urgent. I was cheated out of a bundle again last night. When a man’s fortunes turn for the worse, there seems to be no turning them around again. But this will serve.”
“The arrival of Miss Morrison on the scene has been fortunate,” Lord Powers said with an arctic smile. “She has kept Kincade’s attention distracted. She displayed all her considerable vulgarity again last night by attacking Fotheringham when he was soliciting a street prostitute. Kincade had to step in to smooth out the situation.”