by Mary Balogh
“And because I love you too much,” he said as they came through the trees to the small lake. The sun was sparkling off the water that was not covered with lily pads.
She laughed, though the sound was not one of amusement.
“I have never before loved a woman,” he said. “And it is many years—far too many—since I have liked and respected one. I could not take you to bed last night, Claire, in a parody of love. Sex is not love. At least, it never yet has been with me.”
“It does not matter,” she said. “You do not need to explain. Today is the last day. Tomorrow we will both be able to return to the lives with which we are familiar.”
“Do you want to?” he asked.
She laughed again and hesitated before seating herself on the cloak he had spread on the grass. He sat down beside her and rested his elbows on his knees and stared out over the water.
“I don’t think I do,” he said. “In fact I know I do not, though of course launching out into the unknown is a little frightening too.”
“Men can do something different with their lives anytime they wish to,” she said. “Women cannot.”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “You can if you wish, Claire,” he said. “If you wish, we can share the terror—and the exhilaration. You can be a duchess if you wish. My duchess. You can discover all you have missed in the last ten years, good and bad. You can have children if you wish and nature cooperates—my children. You can be my valentine for a lifetime if you choose. Will you?”
She merely stared at him. Somehow reality and fantasy had got all mixed up in her head and she was paralyzed with the confusion of it all.
“It is not quite the fairytale situation that many might imagine it to be, Claire,” he said. “I have not lived a good life. I have a deservedly bad reputation and would not be received in any reputable home if it were not for my exalted title. I am almost estranged from the family that sustained me and loved me through my formative years. And I draw revenue from my estates without putting anything into them in exchange. I rarely even visit them. I know nothing about love and tenderness. I know nothing about making myself worthy of a gentle and virtuous woman. When I talk about wanting to step out into the unknown, you see, I speak nothing but the stark truth. For I want to change everything, Claire. But only if you are with me. I am not sure I would have the courage or the sense of purpose otherwise. Will you stoop to my level to raise me up to yours?”
Fantasy had the agonizing ring of truth. She bit her lip and felt pain. “Gerard,” she said. “I am twenty-eight years old. I know nothing. I have been nowhere. I am dreadfully dull.”
“You are beautiful and sweet and wonderful,” he said. “If you are dull, Claire, then it is dullness that I crave. Will you marry me? Please?”
“Oh,” she said.
“Now does that mean yes?” he asked. “May I smile and relax—and kiss you, Claire? I have the blessing of your brother and sister-in-law, you know. More than a blessing from your sister-in-law, in fact. I would not have been surprised to see her eyes pop right out of their sockets. Both she and your brother were very ready to poker up when they knew I had come from Florence’s. I made haste to explain who I was. Your brother, to give him his due, was not satisfied with that alone. He seemed to feel it necessary to have me assure him that I could make you happy or that at least I was eager to try. I believe he is very fond of you, Claire. And rightly so.”
Her eyes had widened. “You have been to see Roderick and Myrtle?”
“This morning,” he said. “Did you think I had abandoned you, my valentine, on the very day when we should most be together?”
She hesitated. “Yes,” she said. “I thought you had taken me in disgust last night.”
“If you only knew how I wanted you last night,” he said, his eyes kindling. “But it has to be in a marriage bed with you, Claire. Please don’t try seducing me again tonight. Promise? We will be together for the first time in our marriage bed, my love. If there is to be a marriage bed, that is. Is there?”
She felt herself flushing and bit her lip again. And then he moved resolutely closer, set one arm about her shoulders, tipped up her chin with his other hand, and kissed her soundly on the mouth.
“Will you marry me?” he asked. “Say yes, Claire. I shall keep on kissing you until you do. I have decided after all not to play fair. Say yes, my valentine. My love.”
“Yes,” she said.
He drew back his head and grinned at her. “Are you as terrified as I am?” he asked her.
“Yes.”
“Well,” he said, “I think perhaps we had better go in search of Florence’s picnic, don’t you, Claire? For two particular reasons. If we do not, I may be trying to seduce you here or you may be trying to seduce me within the next few minutes. And I am quite determined to hold out until our wedding night, which I insist will be not a moment longer than it takes for the banns to be read and our considerable families to be gathered. And secondly, I have an overwhelming urge to shout out our news to the world. The world not being available at the moment, Florence and the others will have to do.”
“Oh,” she said as he drew her to her feet and kissed her soundly again, “think of the strange chance that has led us to this, Gerard. If that other guest had not become sick, I would not have been invited. And if you had not picked up my valentine by the merest chance, I would be with someone else and so would you.”
“I’ll grant you the first,” he said. “But not the second, Claire. I chose you quite deliberately, my love. I knew your valentine would be at the left-hand corner of the table. Florence had arranged it that way. There was no chance for me in that lottery. No chance at all, in fact, to take the pun to its conclusion.”
“You chose me deliberately?” she asked, amazed. “You did, Gerard? Over all the other ladies? Before you even knew me? But why?”
“I am really not sure,” he said, circling her waist loosely with his arms and gazing down into her eyes, his smile gone. “I rather suspect, Claire, thaï without anyone’s having noticed it, there must have been a fat and naked little cherub hiding up on the chandelier, a bow and arrow in his hands. And his arrow must have pierced my heart right through the center. He was taking quite a chance. Rumor has had it for several years past that I have no heart at all.”
She smiled slowly at him and he smiled back until for no apparent reason they were touching foreheads and both laughing. And hugging. And kissing. And assuring each other that yes, in just a minute’s time they really would go in search of Lady Florence’s picnic.
Saint Valentines Eve
by Margaret Westhaven
He saw her first from the back.
She was standing in the midst of a crowd of gentlemen of varying ages and degrees of distinction. Colonel John Fairburn noticed at once the regal tilt of the head, the elegance of the upswept hair—pretty golden hair with undertones of light brown, the sort of hair that reminds one pleasantly of days spent in the sun.
When she turned around, John’s first sensation was of surprise. Despite her hair, Lady Ashburnham’s delicate skin showed no signs of the sun’s ravaging. How had she kept the one feature so guarded while allowing the bright climate of India full liberties with the other?
And as for the face itself, it did not disappoint. No woman who carried herself so could be less than striking, and Lady Ashburnham was beautiful, with large, liquid brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a sweet expression. Though he knew her to be a widow of several years’ standing, John doubted she could be as old as thirty. Why, he wondered, did there seem to be something familiar about her? He would certainly remember having met such a sophisticated beauty, and her name was new to him; he was sure of that. He had the rare talent of remembering names.
She gave him a startled glance from those beautiful eyes, then schooled them into impersonality so quickly that John thought he might have been mistaken about their first expression. Why indeed should she be surprised to meet another officer
just arrived in Calcutta? There were enough of them.
He did rue that fact. He was common as dust in this place, whereas she, a lovely and evidently aristocratic Englishwoman, was a pearl of great price. She would never single him out.
Startled, he realized that he wanted her to. And at first sight! Was the climate affecting his brain-box already? He had never had much time to spare for the ladies, preferring to find his pleasures among those females who would not expect more than the most perfunctory of gallantries.
He would definitely make an exception in this lady’s case.
“Well, Rosamund,” croaked old Lady Tidbury, who had undertaken to introduce him, “here is another one for you to charm. At least this specimen’s tall and handsome.”
There was a disgruntled murmur from Lady Ashburnham’s hangers-on, some of whom were good-looking.
Lady Tidbury looked satisfied to have taken those vain males down a peg. “Lady Ashburnham, may I present Colonel Fairburn. Of the Hampshire Fair-burns, you know. Distant cousins of mine.”
“Hampshire,” Lady Ashburnham said. John could have sworn she turned two shades paler and wondered uneasily why this should be so. “Yes, I know.”
He bowed over her hand. “Do you mean to dance, madam? And if you do, may I have the pleasure?”
Lady Ashburnham hesitated for the merest instant, then nodded. The crowd of gentlemen fell away, forming a sort of chorus as they vainly protested a newcomer’s luck. Colonel Fairburn led the lady to the floor.
She was his hostess, and this Twelfth Night ball of hers was the event of the season in Calcutta. He was drawn to her more with each passing moment, still wondering why he should feel this intense admiration.
He had met his share of beauties, after all. Was Lady Ashburnham that special?
He had already admired her house. Its refreshing air of oriental coolness was something distinct from the usual British residence in Bengal. Most of the Europeans tried simply to duplicate the buildings of home. The Ashburnham house showed that someone—likelv this lady—had been thoughtful enough to borrow from the native culture. Perhaps this was her unique quality: an air of understanding. He observed her more carefully.
“You are quiet, Lady Ashburnham,” John said when their hands met for the second time in the figures of a country dance. He had addressed several innocuous comments to her already, trying to draw out the alluring beauty who so intrigued him. But she was silent and appeared to be thinking furiously.
“Forgive me,” she said at last with a sad smile. For some reason, John fancied she looked defeated. “I’m a little surprised, I suppose, to see you again.”
“Again?” John stared into her face. “Do you mean we’ve met before? Surely I would remember.” So she was familiar. Desperately he searched his memory, but it would not do. He couldn’t recall her name.
“Ah, no, you wouldn’t remember.” She shook her head. “That is only in books.” She drifted away then, gold and ivory skirts lifting on a welcome breeze, to the next gentleman, the next steps.
When they met again, John’s curiosity was at its peak. “Do forgive my wretched memory, dear lady, and end my suspense. Where was it? London? Did I dance with you in your come-out year and fail to recognize you? Have you grown so much lovelier with time? Although you can’t have been out long, at that.”
“Flattery,” said the lady. “You were always too good at that. Now it doesn’t ring true, sir. I shouldn’t bother with any more of it.”
The dance ended, forcing her into a deep curtsy. John remained speechless with surprise at her bitter words. When she rose and took his offered arm, she was still smiling in that peculiar, pained way, which had gone beyond fascinating him. It was becoming maddening.
“Perhaps if I quoted Shakespeare, sir, it would jog that dismal memory of yours,” she said in a musing tone, not looking at him as they paced across the ballroom to one of the open French windows, she leading the way.
“Shakespeare?” Truly mystified, John faced her. They were on a terrace now, looking out upon a dark garden full of scents and trees and rare flowers which were all new to him. Supper having just been announced, they were the next thing to alone.
She studied him carefully. “ ‘Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s Day, all in the morning betime, And I a maid at your window, to be your Valentine…’ Mind you, I would rather not recite poor Ophelia’s mad scene, but I can think of nothing more appropriate.” Her tone was light, sophisticated, but with an undernote of something else.
What this might be, Colonel Fairburn could not imagine. “I don’t understand you, my lady.” He had never been a student of Shakespeare and didn’t know the rest of the words to that particular speech.
She shrugged her beautiful shoulders.
John had the sudden urge to kiss her, or to strangle her. Saint Valentine’s Day indeed! And what did she mean by quoting Shakespeare at him? Had the London party he had jokingly suggested taken place upon that date on the calendar? Women were fanatics for remembering dates, a talent he had never possessed.
Lady Ashburnham sighed, causing her bosom to rise and fall in a manner most distracting to a man who, though by now unwilling, was falling ever deeper into her sensual spell.
“I’ve spent years blaming you, yet not blaming you,” she said. “I convinced myself that I was worthless, wicked, stupid for believing your lies. I told myself I was so common a creature in your life that you wouldn’t even remember who I was after a little time had passed. But when I saw you tonight, Colonel Fairburn, and knew I’d been right about it all, such a rush of anger came over me that I determined to reveal myself.” She laughed. “But it didn’t work even then, did it? Foiled again by the same male indifference which once broke my heart. How I hate you.”
The last words were casual, more matter-of-fact than such a statement usually warranted. “Please tell me,” Fairburn said, catching her arm. “If I’ve earned your hatred, you must allow me to try and make amends.”
“Oh, must I?” She jerked her arm away and stroked it as though he had held it too tightly—which he had not, he thought in resentment. “No, Colonel, I don’t think I’m obliged to do so much.”
Again he caught her, this time by the shoulders. “Who the devil are you?” He whispered the words, mindful of a small group of people who ambled out at that moment, supper plates in hand, and passed by them down the terrace steps, laughing and chattering too loudly to notice one contentious couple. “Who can you be?”
“Nobody,” she said, but this time she did not wrench herself away. “To you, nobody at all.”
She reached up to touch his face; the touch burned him. Then she kissed him, hard. Taken by surprise, John forgot their mysterious quarrel and focused only on his strange attraction to her, clutching her to him like a madman.
After an enthralling few minutes, she disengaged herself from his arms and gave him a cold, assessing look. “I rather like kissing people I hate. Did this help your memory along?”
“My God.” He was gazing down at her in astonishment. The years fell away and he saw another face—no, it was the same face, fined down and with a different look, but the same face! Why, though, did she profess to hate him? It was his right to hate her for the hell she’d put him through—sweet Jesus, it must be ten years ago! “So changed—your hair, your face, your figure, even your name, yet it is you. It is you, Elizabeth. Elizabeth Rosamund Manton, as I believe you told me once.”
“Welcome to India, John,” said Lady Ashburnham with a demure lowering of lashes and a small, secret smile. She turned her back and left him.
———
“Did you meet anyone last night, my dear?” Rosamund, Lady Ashburnham, asked her guest at the breakfast table.
“Oh, quantities of people, ma’am,” the young lady responded. Brown-haired and blue-eyed, of the type that is usually referred to as “a sweet creature,” Minna Peabody was sensibly clad in flowing muslin, a welcome contrast to the severe and slightly stiff morning gowns s
he had brought with her from England. As a clergyman’s daughter from Yorkshire, she had owned clothing that was practical to the point of absurdity and not very cool. Rosamund had immediately ordered some new dresses.
After a few weeks in residence with Lady Ashburnham, Minna was not only looking more the thing, she was finally beginning to lose that perpetually startled expression. Perhaps, her hostess considered, the girl was coming to realize that there was not a poisonous snake or a snarling heathen behind every chair in the house even though she was in fabled India. Or perhaps not. Rosamund watched Minna catch sight of a passing servant and jump as though the salver he carried bore a knife with which to cut her throat.
“You know what I mean, Minna.” Rosamund was weary already of giving the young lady hints on kindly behavior to servants, and she determined to stick to the subject at hand without digressing into a lecture. “Did you meet anyone in particular?”
“I don’t think so,” replied the girl, frowning. Her blue eyes took on a scared look, and she burst out, “Oh, Lady Ashburnham, please don’t quiz me anymore. Can it really be true that you won’t force me into marriage with the first old nabob who looks twice at my ankles?”
Rosamund’s laughter trilled out. “It is true indeed. My home is yours for as long as you wish. But you are a lady who attended her first ball last night, and I’m naturally curious to know if anyone intrigued you.”
“I don’t think so,” Minna repeated, shrugging.
Rosamund sighed. Until John Fairburn’s arrival had distracted her, she had observed with a keen eye Miss Minna Peabody’s maiden assault upon society. The girl’s manner was that of a rabbit in a crowd of poachers. One would have to trust to time to convince Minna that no, she was not to be sold off into marriage to the first interested party.
The last thing Rosamund remembered was watching Minna scurry behind a pillar as some young officer approached her, or seemed to do so. Then that old busybody Lady Tidbury had reached out her claw and spun Rosamund around to face John Fairburn.