by Mary Balogh
Lord Denbigh told a tale of a handsome, charming young gentleman who could dance the night away long after everyone else had collapsed from exhaustion and drive a team with such skill that he was known as the best whip in London and spar with any partner at Gentleman Jackson's without once coming away with a bloodied nose.
Andrew Easton's son was sleeping before the marquess had finished.
Chapter 16
Amy was hurrying down the driveway, wondering whether she had the courage to do what she had planned to do or whether when she reached the village she would merely step into the shop to purchase some imagined need. There had been no problem with Judith. She too apparently had something she wanted to do before the carriage was called.
Amy rounded the bend, head down against the wind. It was a chilly morning. There was no sign yet of the cold spell breaking. She lifted her scarf up over her mouth and nose.
"Good morning," someone called. "You are up and out very early."
Her head snapped up and there he was, walking toward her, his chin buried inside the neck of his coat, his cheeks reddened by the cold, his mustache whitened by the frost. And everything she had rehearsed fled from her mind.
"We are leaving," she said. "At noon. I was walking into the village to-to buy something."
"Leaving?" He stopped beside her and hunched his shoulders. "All of you? So soon?"
''Yes,'' she said. “We need to be back. We have engagements, you know. And Judith's parents will be returning from Scotland soon. She is eager to hear news of her sister from them. And I love town. There is so much yet to see there."
"We are going out to collect firewood this afternoon," he said. "We always make a festive occasion out of it. I thought that perhaps you would care to come with us. But I said good-bye yesterday, did I not? It would have been better to have left it at that, I suppose."
"Yes," she said.
He offered her his arm. "May I escort you to the village shop?" he asked.
"Thank you." She took his arm and they began walking toward the village, exchanging opinions on the weather and guesses about when it would begin to warm up and predictions on whether it would snow again.
"I was not on my way to the shop," she said in a rush all of a sudden. "I was on my way to call on you. I remembered that the rector would be busy with the boys this morning."
''Yes,'' he said quietly. ''That was why I was free to walk to the house."
She drew a deep breath. "I have had material comforts and a large home and a protective family all my life," she said, fixing her eyes on the roadway ahead. "And though I have always counted my blessings, I have been unhappy, Spencer. There has been nothing to give my life purpose. Nothing to warm my heart."
He was patting her hand.
“The only bright moments in my life have been the times when my brothers and some cousins came with their children," she said. "I always loved to play with them and talk with them. I used to think that I would give up every last thing, every last brick of the house and rag of clothing just to extend those times. It was foolish, of course. One cannot in reality live without even the basic necessities of life. But I felt it and believed it and still believe it in part."
"Amy," he said. They had stopped walking and he had turned to her.
"You were wrong," she said, her voice agitated. "You said that it would not work. Perhaps it could not from your point of view. But you were wrong about me, I…"
He laid two gloved fingers against her lips. "Don't," he said. "Don't say any more."
But she pulled back her head. "Yes," she said, "I will. It is not fair that just because I am a woman…"
"Sh," he said, and he set his hands on her shoulders and pulled her against him. "Don't say any more, Amy."
"I came to say it." She looked earnestly up into his face. "I will be sorry forever after if I do not. For once in my life…"
"Sh," he said, and he kissed her briefly on the lips. "You
are a woman, Amy, like it or not, and we live in a society which would make you feel ashamed of having to say such a thing. And you do not need to say it when I can just as easily say it myself and propriety will not be outraged. Will you marry me, my dear?"
She gazed mutely back into his eyes.
"I do not need to explain that it will not be a brilliant or even a very eligible match for you. You know that already," he said. "I have an independence, Amy, in the sense that Max does not pay me a salary, only all the expenses of the home. But I cannot offer a wife any sort of luxury. And I cannot give up this work I have begun. I am too selfishly happy doing it. But you would not want me to, I know. I can only feel sorry that I cannot offer you a better life. But the decision must be yours. I am offering myself and my life to you for what they are worth."
"Only because I was going to ask?" she said wistfully. "Only because you are a gentleman, Spencer?"
He chuckled. "I have avoided matrimony for almost forty years," he said. "I do not think I would consider entering it now just to be gentlemanly. I am not much of a romantic, am I? It should have been the first thing I said. It will have to be the last. But it is the most important. I love you, dear.''
"Do you?" She put her arms up about his neck and looked earnestly irito1rirsrrau;. '"Chi, hxti-yvwiznlK, "t^yiKjy;. Larafc. at me."
"A little bird," he said. "A cheerful little singing bird. Will you give me your answer? If it is no, I shall escort you back to the house without further delay. If it is yes, we had better go and break the news to the boys-if you are prepared for a great deal of noise and commotion. But it is dashed cold standing here. A foolish place for a marriage proposal, is it not?"
"Yes," she said.
He raised his eyebrows.
"Now we can go to tell the boys," she said.
"Ah." He threw back his head and laughed. "It was yes to the first question, was it? And would you care to tell me why you are accepting?"
She looked somewhat taken aback for a moment. And then she smiled brightly. "Because I love you, of course," she said.
Mr. Cornwell seemed to forget that it was far too cold a place for such a scene. He caught her up into a tight hug and swung her once around. And then he kissed her soundly and quite unhurriedly.
"Perhaps we can think about taking on that home of boys and girls together," he said.
"Yes," she said. "An instant and large family, Spencer. I would like that."
"And a large bundle of problems to come with them, I warn you," he said.
"Something to challenge the mind and give a reason for living," she said.
"How old are you?" he asked her.
"Thirty-six," she said.
"Quite young enough still to have what you most want out of life, then," he said, and watched her flush quite outshine the glow of coldness in her cheeks. “Perhaps a child or two of our own, Amy."
"Oh." She hid her face against his broad shoulder. "I'll not be greedy. I already have the promise of heaven."
"Heaven!" He chuckled. "Are your feet numb yet? Excuse me, but I am going to have to look down to make sure that mine are still there. Here, let me tuck my arm about you like this. You will be warmer and you fit very snugly there, do you not?"
"Yes," she said. "Oh, yes. Oh, Spencer, has this not been the most wonderful Christmas?"
***
Fortunately, he had not been at breakfast with his guests. He had ridden out on some errand, Lord Clancy explained, but he would be back soon. And they had all been invited to a neighbor's home later for dinner and an evening of cards.
"What a shame it is that you have to leave today, my dear Mrs. Easton," Miss Edith Hannibal said. "You will be missed, and your dear little children too."
"Thank you," Judith said. "But I am eager for news of my sister. I have not seen her for an age."
"And the bond between sisters is a close one," Miss Frieda Hannibal said.
No one seemed to have thought to question the fact that Lord and Lady Blakeford were expected back from Scotlan
d so soon after Christmas, far too soon for them to have celebrated the holiday there, in fact.
"Maxwell must be disappointed," Aunt Edith said. "It seemed… We thought…"
“Doubtless he will go up to town for the Season and meet Mrs. Easton there again," Lady Clancy said. "And talking about the Season…"
Judith returned her attention gratefully to her breakfast and excused herself soon afterward to go to the children in the nursery. They were not at all pleased at the prospect of going home that day. But children were resilient. They would be happy again once they were back in London.
"Papa was the best whip in London," Rupert told her. "And everybody at Gentleman Jackson's was afraid to spar with him because he was so handy with his fives."
Judith smiled. "Mr. Rundle told you a great deal yesterday," she said.
"No," he said, "it was not Mr. Rundle who told me. It was Lord Denbigh."
Judith gave him her full attention.
"Last night," he said. "He was in here. I was having that dream about Papa. But I won't be afraid of it any more, Mama. He says I am to tell those people that the Marquess of Denbigh knew Papa very well indeed and wishes he could have knocked sixes like Papa did. He said you would be asleep."
"Did he?" Judith said. "And you did not dream any more afterward?"
Rupert shook his head. "I don't remember his going," he said.
Judith had been relieved to find that he was not at breakfast. But she hoped he would not be gone all morning. She wanted to be on her way. She wanted to start on the rest of her life. She hoped that Amy would not be gone long. Or else she hoped that Amy would be gone forever. She had guessed her sister-in-law's errand from the set look on her face that morning.
If only Amy could come to an understanding with Mr. Cornwell, then something good would have come out of this Christmas after all. And Amy deserved happiness more than anyone else in the world. More than Judith did. Far more than she did.
She went into her bedchamber and summoned a maid. She sent the girl with a message requesting a private word with his lordship at his convenience. And she sat down in the windowseat, heart thumping, to wait.
***
Over an hour passed before the summons came. It was amazing, Judith thought as she descended the staircase, shoulders held firmly back, chin high, how resolution could falter in the course of an hour and how knees could weaken and heartbeat accelerate. She had not exchanged a word directly with him since before getting out of his bed at the cottage the afternoon before.
She stepped inside the library and stood still while the footman who had admitted her closed the doors behind her. And her resolution almost fled entirely. He was the Viscount Evendon as she had known him eight years before and the Marquess of Denbigh as she had known him in London a few weeks before. He stood before the fire, one elbow propped on the high mantel, one Hessian boot crossed over the other. His face was harsh, thin-lipped. He looked at her steadily from keen and hooded eyes.
I have summoned the carriage for noon. Her mouth opened to speak the unplanned words and closed again, the words unsaid.
"It was not a Christmas flirtation," she said. "It was revenge."
He said nothing.
"I have asked myself," she said, "why you would wish to take revenge. Because you were the Viscount Evendon
and heir to the Marquess of Denbigh and very high in the instep? But such a man would plan some public humiliation, would he not? You will not be able to boast of this particular triumph. So your plan for revenge must have had a more personal motive."
He turned his head sideways to look across the room away from her.
"I think," she said, "that I must have hurt you. Did I?"
His jaw hardened. He said nothing though she waited for several silent seconds.
"Whether I did or not," she said, "I behaved very badly. And that understates the case. I behaved abominably. I could not bring myself to face you at the time because I feared you and because-oh, because everyone under such circumstances, I suppose, is tempted to play the coward and I gave in to the temptation. And I have never been able to face you since over that particular matter, though the guilt has always gnawed at me. I suppose I have persuaded myself that what happened was of no great significance to you."
She found herself being regarded suddenly by those steel-gray eyes again.
"After yesterday," she said, "I know that I was wrong. I have come to beg your pardon, inadequate as the words are."
He laughed, though there was no amusement in the sound. "You still have the power to amaze me," he said. "I expected that you were coming here to rave at me and accuse, perhaps to demand that I do the decent thing. You ask my forgiveness after what I did to you yesterday?"
"I am right, am I not?" she said. "I did hurt you?"
"I loved you," he said. "Does it surprise you that a man who had none of the charm or easy manner of an Andrew Easton could love? And feel the pain of rejection? And try for a whole year literally to outrun his pain?"
She swallowed and closed her eyes. "I did not know, Max," she said. "I had no idea."
"You are forgiven," he said shortly. "There, does that make you feel better? Now what must I do to win your forgiveness? Marry you? I owe you that after yesterday. Is there a chance that you are with child? Should I summon the rector here to speak with both of us? Or should I ride in to the village alone after luncheon?"
"Max," she said, "don't."
"My apologies," he said. "You are a romantic, I suppose. You want sweet words and bended knee? Well, you can have them if you wish, Judith."
She took several steps toward him across the room. "I did not sleep last night," she said. "I don't think you did either. Certainly you were awake and not even in your room when Rupert awoke with his usual dream. I did a great deal of thinking last night."
"You need not have worried," he said. "I am giving in, you see, without even a fight.''
"I hated you when I left you yesterday afternoon," she said. "I thought it had all been a plot of revenge. I thought it had all been cold calculation. I thought I had been right about you from the start. But I was wrong. You still love me, don't you?" She could feel herself flushing, but he was not looking at her. He had turned his head away again and set his forefinger against his mouth.
"Perhaps you did not hear my words," he said, "or fully comprehend their true meaning."
"Oh, yes," she said. "Loud and clear. But they were just words, spoken at the end of it all. I think perhaps they were what you had planned to say and so you said them. But what happened before you spoke those words was not part of your plan, Max."
He laughed again. "That good, was it?" he said.
"You know it was," she said. "And thinking about it last night and remembering, I knew that I could not have been mistaken. I could not have been. Even if I had had no experience with such matters I would know beyond any doubt that I was not mistaken. But I have had experience. I was married for almost seven years. I have been made love to many times. But yesterday you were not making love to me or I to you. We were making love with each other. That has never happened to me before, and I could not possibly be
mistaken. It was no game you were playing, Max. It was love. I know it."
"So." He turned his head to look at her, and his eyes were weary, bleak. "What do you want me to do about it?"
"I don't know." She shrugged her shoulders. "Forgive me in your heart as well as with your mouth. Forgive yourself. Let go of all the bitterness. Move on into the future. There is so much goodness in your life. I will be gone within the hour. Let me go-right out of your life. Start again."
He stared at her, nodding his head slowly. "And you?" he said. "You will move on too?"
"Yes," she said.
"And if you are with child?"
"I will know," she said. "Whatever you may say, I will know that the child was begotten and conceived out of love. That is all that will matter. I do love you, you know, and it will always hurt me to kno
w that I was pain and shadow and darkness in your life for eight years. But you can be free of me now, partly because you got even, but more importantly because you have forgiven me. And I you."
"Judith," he said. "We have given each other so much pain. That can have nothing to do with love, surely?"
She shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "It obviously has a great deal to do with life.''
He reached out his free hand toward her and she took a few steps closer to him until she could set her own in it. He drew her closer until she was against him, and his arms closed loosely about her and hers about him. She turned her head to lay against his chest and closed her eyes.
They stood thus for many minutes, comforting each other wordlessly for pain and guilt and for all that might have been.
"And so," he said finally, "in one hour's time you will be gone and we can both start to reconstruct our lives."
"Forgiven and forgiving," she said.
"Pardon and peace," he said.
"Yes."
His cheek rested against the top of her head briefly. "It cannot be done together, Judith? Is it too late for us?"
She heard a gulp of a sob suddenly and realized in some horror that it had come from her. “I don't know," she said, and she tried to push away from him.
But she was pulled back against him by arms that were suddenly as hard as steel bands and when she raised her face to avoid suffocation against his neckcloth it was to look into eyes that were themselves brimming with tears. He lowered his head and kissed her fiercely, a wet and breathless kiss.
"Let us do it, Judith," he said. "Let us give life and love and peace a chance together, shall we? I cannot contemplate any of the three of them without you. Not again. I don't have the strength to do it again. I love you. Is that what I told you with my body yesterday? Did you recognize the language? I am telling you with words now. I love you. I always have."
He took one of her hands and held the palm to his mouth. She stood smiling up at him until gradually he relaxed and smiled back.
"I think we had better get married and be done with it," he said. "Don't you?"