by Mary Balogh
He sighed, studying her as she sat on the crimson silk chair. Maybe she wasn’t a beauty, but she was certainly very striking. The only one of his daughters to take after her mother, with the same cloud of russet curls and the same huge hazel eyes. It was a pity that she had freckles and that her mouth was a little wide, but she had an excellent figure, and when she smiled she was quite enchanting. How demure she looked in her cream merino gown, but how plaguey stubborn was the set of her chin. Well, my girl, you’re going to have a fight on your hands this time, he thought. He wanted the Forrester match, which would unite two prominent Cheshire families, and when he chose he could be as mulish as she.
“Have you nothing to say, Marianne?” he inquired. “Brandon Forrester is a very fine catch, and you may regard yourself as very privileged indeed that he is still prepared to accept you. Deuce take it, girl, the terms are excellent, and it’s not as if you dislike the fellow, for he’s one of your oldest friends!”
“I know, Father.” That was the trouble. Brandon was too old a friend.
“Is that all you can think of in reply?”
“I will consider the match again, Father.” Marianne toyed with the valentine card, running her fingertips over the frothy lace she had stitched so laboriously all around the edge.
“You said that far too lightly, my girl. Don’t think you can dillydally and that it will all go away. I won’t have it this time. I know that you suffered greatly at Sutherland’s hands, but—”
“Please don’t mention him,” she interrupted quickly.
“But he has to be mentioned, my dear,” her father said more gently. “What happened was most regretful, but—”
“Regretful?” She got up swiftly from the chair, the valentine card falling to the floor. “Father, I loved Piers with all my heart and I wore his betrothal ring, but then I found out that he was conducting a liaison with the most notorious and abandoned courtesan in London! I hardly think that that can be termed merely regretful!”
He drew a long breath, and then nodded. “Well, perhaps I chose an unfortunate word, but the fact remains that you and Sutherland are no longer betrothed, and haven’t been for over a year. Damn it, he’s across the Atlantic in America, and seems likely to remain there, so I fail to see why you are digging your heels in over any other marriage. You’re twenty-six years old, and if you don’t take care, you’ll become an old maid. You cast Brandon aside in Sutherland’s favor before, and it was a grave error of judgment. Don’t compound the error now by refusing the match a second time.”
“Father, I have said that I will consider the match, and that is what I will do. It’s what you wish me to say, isn’t it?”
“What I wish you to say is that you accept.” His glance went to the valentine card, and for the first time he realized what it was. Striding across the room, he bent to retrieve it. “What’s this? A valentine?”
“Yes, Father.”
He studied the beautifully painted fronts and then opened it to read aloud the verse she’d composed inside.
“Please say you’ll be my valentine,
Take my heart, and I’ll take thine.
I’ll love you forever, my sweetheart divine,
And so I beg you, be my valentine.”
Marianne waited in silence, knowing that he was bound to leap to the wrong conclusion. She was correct.
His eyes flew to her face. “Is there something you’ve been keeping from me, miss? Some fellow you’ve been neglecting to mention?”
“No, Father, there isn’t anyone.”
“Then why this?” He waved the valentine.
“I didn’t make it for myself. It’s for Chloe.”
“Chloe? The Pendeven wench?”
“She is the only Chloe we know, Father, and she also happens to be my closest friend,” Marianne pointed out quietly.
“She wears far too much rouge,” he muttered, pushing the card back into her hands.
“Rouge is very fashionable at the moment, as you well know. And although I know you regard Chloe as a little frivolous and empty-headed, I assure you that she is neither. I happen to like her very much, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed her society since she arrived in town six months ago.”
He cleared his throat. “So you’ve gone to endless trouble so that she can give a pretty folderol to her latest admirer?”
“If you put it like that, yes.”
“Who is it this time? I’ve lost count of the suitors who’ve crowded to her door since she arrived.”
“She can’t help it if she’s all that is beautiful and fascinating.”
“I suppose not, and the size of her father’s fortune helps a great deal,” he observed dryly.
“I cannot deny it.” Chloe’s father, Mr. Pendeven of Severn Park in the Forest of Dean, was immensely wealthy, and his only daughter stood to inherit everything.
Mr. Cromwell glanced at the card again. “So who is it for?” he asked again.
“I really don’t know,” Marianne confessed.
“I’ll warrant the fellow is unsuitable. An adventurer, probably, intent only upon her fortune.”
“Don’t be cynical.”
He smiled. “Perhaps I am. Chloe is a nice enough young woman, and I don’t dislike her as much as I pretend. It’s just that I see her being besieged with offers at the age of only twenty, and here you are, still being awkward about the only offer you’ve had in over a year.”
“Thank you, Father, you’ve done my self-regard immense good,” she replied.
“Oh, let’s not continue in this vein, for it will provoke an argument. So the valentine card is for Chloe’s latest swain, whose identity is a mystery.”
“Yes.”
“You must have spent hours making it.”
“I didn’t mind, for she really is my dearest friend, and anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed making it.”
His brows drew together as he glanced at the card again. “Actually, it looks a little familiar.”
“Really?” She felt dull color begin to stir into her cheeks. Yes, it was familiar, for it was the same design and verse she’d done two years ago when first she’d fallen in love with Piers.
“You really are very talented with paint and brush, my dear, and you don’t get it from me, that’s for sure. Your mother was a clever artist.”
“Yes, she was.” Marianne looked at the pretty watercolor of a Cheshire landscape hanging above the mantelpiece.
“Forgive me for being hasty a moment ago, but when I realized it was a valentine—”
“That’s quite all right, Father. I promise that I haven’t been keeping anything from you, and that there isn’t a secret admirer who has been climbing up to my window.” The words slipped out before she realized they were on the tip of her tongue, and the color in her cheeks became suddenly fiery. In the past, when Piers had been laying determined siege to her in order to win her away from the match with Brandon, there had been several occasions when he’d climbed up the walnut tree to her balcony in the dark of night. His advances had never gone beyond the bounds of propriety, but they had been so gallant and romantic that it would have been impossible for her not to have fallen desperately in love with him.
Mr. Cromwell didn’t notice the telltale color in her cheeks. “I will leave you now, my dear, for I’ve said what I came to say.”
“I promise that I will think carefully about marrying Brandon, Father.”
“See that you do, my dear, for I pin great hope upon it. If things had gone well between you and Sutherland, I would have been delighted for you, but they didn’t, and now you must put him from your thoughts once and for all.”
“I know.”
He went to the door. “By the way, I will be going out shortly. I have certain financial matters to attend to.”
“I will be out as well. Chloe sent a message about an hour ago, requesting me to call upon her as soon as possible as she has something of immense importance to discuss with me.”
“No doubt she wishe
s your opinion upon which gown to wear,” he replied drolly.
“Possibly, but I fancy it is more likely to be the matter of the recipient of this card.”
“No doubt. I trust you will be taking the carriage to Curzon Street?”
“It is much quicker and simpler to use Lansdowne Passage.”
He sighed. “I would prefer it if you took the carriage. Footpads have been known to lurk in the passage.”
She went to the window and looked across the snowy street toward the entrance of the subterranean tunnel which led for about one hundred and fifty yards between the grounds of Lansdowne House and Devonshire House, two of Mayfair’s greatest mansions. The narrow mouth of the passage was set in the high boundary wall of the Lansdowne House garden, and a flight of steps led down into the shadowy way which offered easy access to Curzon Street and the western side of Mayfair.
Mr. Cromwell repeated his request. “The carriage would be more sensible, Marianne.”
“But it’s so tedious going all that way around. Besides, will you not require the carriage yourself?”
“I, er…”He cleared his throat. “I hadn’t thought of that. I will summon a hackney carriage.”
“There isn’t any need. I will take my maid and hurry through the passage. It isn’t far, and footpads don’t usually go there during the day.”
He thought for a moment, and then nodded. “Oh, very well. The last thing I want now is another disagreement with you. Just be very careful, and promise me that if you see anyone in the tunnel when you enter, you will come back to the house immediately.”
“I promise.”
“À bientôt, my dear.”
“À bientôt, Father.”
When he had gone, she looked out of the window again. He was right to want her to accept Brandon, whose faithful interest in her had not wavered; in spite of her passionate desertion to Piers. Poor Brandon, he was as foolish to want her as she had been to want Piers. Brandon was everything any woman could wish for, charming, amiable, wealthy, and understanding, but he was nothing at all if that woman was in love with the likes of Sir Piers Sutherland.
An ironical smile came to her lips, for where Piers was concerned, she had been the greatest of gulls. From the moment she had looked into his warm gray eyes, she had been lost beyond redemption, and when he had whispered her first name, he had robbed her of all caution. He was tall, golden-haired, and heart-stoppingly handsome, but behind all his charm he was a cruel womanizer who had thought nothing of betraying her with Elizabeth Lavery, a shameless demi-mondaine with a list of admirers that included a large portion of the aristocracy.
Finding out about his liaison with Elizabeth had been the most painful and humiliating moment of Marianne’s life, for she had been foolish enough to love and trust him completely. She had ended their betrothal, but she had never stopped loving him. It was a love she now kept well hidden, however, for even thinking about him made her eyes sting with tears. They were stinging now, and if she did not keep herself firmly composed, she would give in and start to cry. There were nights when she wept into her pillow for what she had lost, because she knew she would never love again the way she’d loved then. With Piers there had been sweet abandonment, heady desire, and a stirring excitement from just being next to him. His touch had electrified her, and his kisses had melted her soul. After a love like that, everything else became pale, and could only be second best. Did poor Brandon deserve that?
She thought about him for a moment. They had known each other since childhood, for their families’ estates adjoined each other in Cheshire, and as they’d grown up, a match between them had seemed the most obvious thing. Except that she had begun to regard him as a brother, and one simply did not marry one’s brother. She had allowed herself to be swept along, and Brandon had quite obviously wanted to marry her, but then, just as the betrothal was about to take place, Piers had entered her life.
She had broken Brandon’s heart, and for that she felt endlessly guilty, especially as he had forgiven her and made every effort to maintain their friendship. Whenever he was in London he called upon her, and if she was in Cheshire, then he frequently rode over to see her. She had thought that by now he would have accepted that they should simply remain close friends, but it seemed that he still carried a torch for her. And now Father was determined to conclude the business that had been interrupted two years before. Was she wrong to draw back from marrying Brandon? Maybe they would be perfect together. The Forresters, Father, and Brandon himself evidently thought so, and maybe she was the only one who was out of step.
Turning from the window, she gave a sigh. The match would have to be thought about very carefully indeed, but for the moment she had to call upon Chloe. She glanced down at the card, smiling at the plump cherubs and pierced hearts. She had labored over it, just as she had labored over its predecessor two years ago. She had given the first card to Piers on Saint Valentine’s Day, 1815. By the same day the following year, she had discovered his unfaithfulness. In a few more weeks it would be Saint Valentine’s Day again. Should she celebrate it this time by finally accepting Brandon?
Holding the card close, she hurried from the room to change.
———
Mr. Cromwell had yet to depart when she and her maid emerged into the snow shortly afterward. Marianne wore a fur-trimmed crimson velvet cloak over a white fustian gown, and beneath her hood her russet curls were pinned up into a Grecian knot,. There were ankle boots on her feet, and her hands were deep in a warm fur muff. The valentine card reposed in a large reticule looped over her arm.
She and the maid trod with great care past the Cromwell town carriage waiting at the curb, and then went over the slippery street toward Lansdowne Passage. There was ice on the cobbles beneath the snow, making everything very treacherous indeed, and when they reached the steps leading down into the tunnel, they took extra care not to lose their footing. At the bottom of the steps, they paused to look along the passage to the other entrance in Curzon Street. There was no one else there, and so they began to walk along it, still taking care because there was more ice in places. Beneath the flagstones they could hear trickling water, for the River Tyburn passed under the tunnel.
When they were halfway along, a man suddenly entered the tunnel from the opposite direction. Marianne’s steps faltered in alarm, but then she realized that it was a gentleman. He was dressed fashionably, in an ankle-length greatcoat and tall hat, and there was a cane swinging casually in his gloved hand. Spurs jingled from the heels of his Hessian boots as he walked, and the sound carried clearly along the passage to the two women as they continued toward him.
The closer they drew, the more Marianne thought there was something familiar about him. She was convinced that she knew him, but it wasn’t until they were only a few yards apart that she realized with a dreadful jolt that it was none other than Piers.
Her breath caught and she stopped, staring at him as if at a ghost. She had thought him thousands of miles away in America, not here in London. Seeing him again so suddenly took her completely by surprise, and robbed her of the wit to do anything except stand and stare at him.
Beside her, the maid had halted as well, glancing nervously from her to Piers, and then back again. The girl had only been with Marianne for a few weeks, and so knew nothing of Sir Piers Sutherland or his significance in her mistress’s past.
At last Piers recognized Marianne, and the cane became still in his hand as he too halted. His remembered gray eyes swept briefly over her, and then met her unsettled gaze, before he removed his tall hat and inclined his head.
“It’s been a long time, Marianne,” he murmured.
The sound of his voice cut through her like a knife, and looking into his eyes was like looking into lost happiness. How handsome he still was, and how golden his hair, even in the shadows of the passage.
Her silence seemed to amuse him. “Are you snubbing me, Marianne? Or does your muteness merely signify your inability to choose which b
listering response to employ?”
At last she found her tongue. “I didn’t know you were in England,” she said, knowing that her voice was trembling.
“I came back a week ago.”
“I trust you mean to leave again soon.”
He raised an eyebrow, still amused. “I’m cut to the quick by the warmth of your welcome.”
“You surely did not expect me to smile sweetly and tell you I’m delighted to see you again?” Except that I am delighted to see you, because I’m still fool enough to love you…
The cane swung idly to and fro in his hand. “Weil, I had hoped we could at least be civil now.”
“The past cannot be lightly forgotten.”
“So it seems.”
She held his gaze. “Did you truly think I would forgive and forget?”
“I had hoped you would.”
“Then I fear I must disappoint you, sir, for I am not that noble.” Oh, liar, liar! You want him still; you want him with all your silly heart.
“I don’t ask you to be noble, merely civil.”
“I cannot be that, either.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” He studied her. “I’m told that you have still not married, and I confess to being surprised. I thought that you and Forrester would have tied the knot by now.”
“Not yet.”
“So you’re still considering him? I wondered if your unmarried state signified—”
“A bleeding heart on your account? I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir,” she interrupted.
“You’ve become sharp-tongued, Marianne.”
“Only with you, sir, and for that you have yourself to blame.”
“Do I?”
“You know it, Piers. You deceived me with that… that…”
“Woman of ill repute?” he supplied dryly.
“Yes.”
“It was a sin I more than paid for.”
“Paid for?” she cried, amazed at his hypocrisy. How dared he pretend to have suffered in any way, when she was the one who’d been made a fool of and humiliated. All he had endured was a succession of nights in the arms of his infamous demirep! His arrogance now was insufferable.