by Mary Balogh
“Indeed?” She smiled at him.
“Yes, indeed,” he assured her. “I am single and I danced with you. And I realized it.”
“You are both kind and gallant, sir,” she said lightly, still smiling, though it felt as though her heart was breaking.
“What I am,” he said, “is in awe of you, Elizabeth. The more I learn of you, the more I respect and admire you. You have incredible strength of character. I still think I ought to marry you. And that you ought to marry me. It would solve both our problems. We could trust each other, could we not?”
His eyes were twinkling, she saw when she looked into them, holding her own smile in place. “I believe the last time you told me I could trust you, you spilled me into a snowbank,” she said.
“And did you take a deadly chill or break every bone in your body?” he asked. “Or any bone at all?”
“No.”
“Well, then.”
They gazed at each other across the table, smiling and . . . Was there some undercurrent to the brief silence? Or was it only on her side? It was something achingly tempting. Something unmistakably sexual. And something unthinkable. Good heavens, his older sister was married to her younger brother.
“I shall keep your offer in mind,” she said, “while I wait to see if I have a better one before the end of the Season.”
“Well, that is a death knell to my self-esteem,” he said, removing his hand from hers and sitting back in his chair. “I shall have to continue waltzing with you and using all my charm upon you until I can convince you that I am the only one for you. Confess, Elizabeth. Did you not feel it when you looked across the ballroom earlier at your mother’s bidding and saw me? Did you not feel the earth move? Did you not hear violins play?”
“Well, goodness,” she said. “Do you mean that the earth did not really move? Do you mean the violinist was not really playing a romantic melody on multiple violins?”
But everyone about them was moving. The dancing must be about to resume. She had taken one bite out of a lobster patty during the past half hour and had drunk one third of a cup of tea. He had not done any better. He stood and offered his hand.
“Allow me to escort you back into the ballroom,” he said.
Lady Dunmore was awaiting him in the doorway. She linked an arm through his. “I am sure you have done your duty by your sister’s family for one evening, Lord Hodges,” she said, nodding graciously to Elizabeth. “Come. There is a young lady to whom I must present you before the next set begins.”
Colin was about to protest, Elizabeth could see. She slipped her hand from his arm.
“Do go,” she said. “My mother is just a few steps away.” As though at her age she needed the constant presence of a chaperon.
She watched as he was led away to meet the rather plain girl who stood with Miss Dunmore.
I still think I ought to marry you. And that you ought to marry me. It would solve both our problems. And we can trust each other, can we not?
Oh, Colin.
Eight
It did not take long, Colin soon discovered, for word to get out that Lord Hodges was in search of a bride. During the two weeks following the Dunmore ball, he felt almost as though he were constantly interviewing candidates, most of them pressed upon him by their mothers. It was really quite dizzying and not a little disconcerting, for the more he thought about marrying, the more he came to believe what he had told Elizabeth at the ball. His baroness would have to be a young woman of extraordinary strength of character, for his mother would be no ordinary mother-in-law. She would not take kindly to having either her name or her position as mistress of Roxingley and the house on Curzon Street usurped.
And he, of course, would have to be an extraordinary husband in order to prevent her from overpowering his wife. He would have to be a stronger man than his father had been—or than he himself had been at the age of eighteen.
At a garden party in Richmond he took one young lady strolling through the hothouses on the suggestion of her mother, who could not stand the heat herself. He sat in an open summer house for a while with another young lady, whose mother needed urgently to have a word with their hostess. Later, on the terrace outside the house, he found himself left alone for all of ten minutes with a young lady whose mother had spotted an old and dear friend she had not seen in ages.
Soon after the mother returned, he was introduced to Miss Madson and took her out on the river in one of the boats. She was a pretty, auburn-haired girl, who seemed both intelligent and sensible. She did not seem to believe, as many other young ladies did, that it was unfeminine to talk about current affairs or the books she had read. Colin, pulling on the oars, relaxed and enjoyed her company and even kept her out a bit longer than he ought, given that there was a small queue of people awaiting their turn in the boats. He liked Miss Madson and wondered if she liked him. Her elder sister, who was sponsoring her come-out, was waiting for her on the bank and gave Colin a long and speculative look.
The following evening at a soiree he twice found himself spending several minutes tête-à-tête with young ladies before he ended up turning pages of music for Miss Dunmore as she played on the pianoforte. Miss Dunmore was a real beauty, and he found her quietly charming now that she had recovered from her shyness at her come-out ball. Her mother watched from a distance, clearly gratified that he was appreciating her daughter’s accomplished playing.
Ross Parmiter’s sister—the newly betrothed one Colin had befriended last year—was in London with her mother and Miss Eglington, her future sister-in-law, to shop for bride clothes. Colin accompanied them all to a portrait gallery one afternoon and then to Gunter’s for ices. Miss Eglington was an amiable, modest young lady. The ladies were expecting to be in town for a few weeks, she told him when he asked. He looked forward to seeing her again.
He attended a couple more balls during those two weeks and waltzed with Elizabeth at each. He enjoyed those sets more than any others. She was lovely to dance with, and she was lovely to be with. He could converse with her—or not—without any self-consciousness or mind-searching for a suitable topic. Since neither waltz was the supper dance, though, he did find himself missing the chance to converse with her at greater length.
On the afternoon following the second of the two balls, he walked around to the house on South Audley Street, hoping to find the ladies at home, though he knew Wren and Alexander had not arrived in town yet. They were there, though Mrs. Westcott was busy entertaining Mrs. Radley, her sister-in-law, and two other older ladies. When Colin asked Elizabeth if she would like a walk in Hyde Park, she seemed happy to oblige.
“I could see a beautiful afternoon waste away beyond the window,” she said after they had stepped outside and she had taken his arm.
They strolled along the bank of the Serpentine—they and what seemed like a hundred other people. The sunshine sparkled off the water, and children were at play on the bank, some of them sailing toy boats, a few being called away by anxious nurses, others trailing their hands in the water.
“Hoping to catch fish,” Colin said.
“Or fascinated by the way their hands change size and shape underwater,” she said. “How much fun children have exploring their world.” She smiled as she watched, and it seemed to Colin that she looked wistful.
“What happened to your own?” he asked her, and wished he could recall the question even before she turned her head and looked at him with raised eyebrows. “You told me you miscarried twice.”
Drat his unguarded tongue—something that seemed to happen only with her. It was a horribly intimate question to have asked. He could feel himself flush. They had stepped off the main path to be closer to the water. Fortunately there was no one really close by. Even so . . .
“The first time was quite soon after I discovered I was with child,” she said. “The second time was different. He came early. Too early. H
e could almost live on his own but not quite. He died. Or he never lived. Not outside the womb, anyway. He had lived inside me. I felt him all the time.”
“He?” he said softly.
“Yes,” she said. “He.”
He tried to frame an apology, but it was eras too late by now. She was not visibly agitated. Indeed, she was almost uncannily controlled. But there seemed to be a world of pain in her chosen pronoun—he, not it.
“They were both accidents,” she said.
But there was something in the way she said it that chilled him. Something defensive. There was something worse in her choice of word—accidents.
“Were they?” he said.
“The second one certainly was,” she said. “I fell downstairs. I broke my arm and lost my child.”
She . . . broke her arm. How many times had she broken it, for the love of God?
“And went home to your mother and brother,” he said softly.
“Yes,” she said. “I lost the child there a few days later.”
“Elizabeth—”
“Don’t,” she said, drawing him onto the path and turning to walk back in the direction of home. “It was an accident, the falling downstairs. I was trying to get away from him and I was going too fast. He did not push me.”
And the first time?
“You went home to your father the first time?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “But he did not know about my . . . condition. No one did but the two of us. It was too early. I had only just found out.”
She did not explain exactly when her first miscarriage happened or how closely connected it was to her reason for running home. But she did not need to. There obviously was a connection. Oh dear God, Elizabeth!
“I am so sorry I pried,” he said. “And how inadequate any sort of apology is. I have no right to know.”
“And I had no right to say anything,” she said, frowning. “And to a near stranger, and a man at that. I do not know why I did. Forgive me. The second time everything was explained as a tragic accident—as indeed it was. I saw a physician in London after I had recovered, and he assured me that I could still have children. That was seven years ago. But . . . Oh, this is such an inappropriate conversation. Let us talk about something else. You must know that you have become the most eligible bachelor in town.”
“I do feel a bit besieged,” he admitted. “And a bit humbled. There are many very sweet young ladies in town, Elizabeth.”
“But who is special among them?” she asked. “Your name is often coupled with Miss Dunmore’s. Is she special? And who else?”
“Miss Madson is more sensible,” he said. “And Miss Eglington is more modest. And . . . Well, I could go on. No one feels special to the exclusion of all others. Perhaps I am too difficult to please, which would suggest a horrible arrogance in me. I do not suppose I am particularly special to anyone either.” He paused and sighed. “I have a dream, Elizabeth, of having a family like yours. I want to celebrate a Christmas like last year’s with my own family, even though it is much smaller. I have a mother and three sisters, each of whom has a spouse. There are children. Yet it does not function like a family and I am not sure it ever can. Indeed, I am pretty sure it cannot. Certainly it cannot if I do not work very hard at bringing it about. And that involves choosing the right wife. But what young woman fresh from the schoolroom could possibly deal with . . . well, with my mother.”
She drew breath to speak but did not do so, perhaps because there was nothing to say.
“But enough of me,” he said, “How about you? Codaire seems to be a definite beau. He has a proprietary air when he is close to you. Is he special, Elizabeth?”
“He is very attentive,” she said. “It is flattering.”
But she had not said he was special.
And then he saw the carriage that had just driven through the park gates onto the main driveway—white and gold and ornate and pulled by four white horses. Like a fairy carriage conveying a fairy queen to and from her fairy palace.
“Lady Hodges,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes,” he said. His mother—just as though his words of a few moments ago had summoned her.
They were some distance away, and there were plenty of other conveyances and pedestrians to hide among. There were four outriders, two on each side of the carriage, black horses ridden by young men clad in black. Good God. Oh good God. It was like a circus parade. He could die of embarrassment. And the whole entourage was attracting attention, as it always did. Though he understood that her public appearances were rare these days.
Colin had seen his mother occasionally during the past five years since she always spent the months of the Season in London. It had always been from a distance, however. He had not come face to face with her or spoken with her since just after his father’s funeral when he was eighteen. He had decided then that he never wished to see her or speak with her again. He had tried to cut all ties with her, to forget her, to carry on with his own life without her. It could not be done indefinitely, of course. Not when he was the only remaining son, Baron Hodges of Roxingley, head of the family, owner of all the property and possessor of the fortune. And there was always gossip, some of which inevitably reached his ears—as in that letter of complaint after Christmas. There was also his conscience, which whispered to him that she was his mother, and a son ought to honor his parent.
His mother had always been sociable to the exclusion of all else in life. She had always loved to surround herself with people, mostly young, mostly men, who admired her and paid lavish homage to her beauty. There had been rumors of lovers—Lord Ede, for example, who was still a faithful member of her court though he was no longer young—but Colin had never known, or wanted to know, the truth of the matter. She had always loved to amuse herself with large house parties in the country, and sometimes he and his brother and sisters—with the exception of Wren—were brought down from the nursery floor to be displayed for the admiration of the guests. The guests themselves, Colin had understood after he grew up, were not always or even often chosen from among the most respectable elements of society.
Times had changed, of course. She now avoided balls and any entertainments at which she would be exposed to the raw and unflattering light of chandeliers. Rather, she chose places and occasions at which she could be staged in dim and flattering light and keep herself at some remove from those who gazed upon her. The theater and the opera were among her favorite venues. There she could arrive late, after everyone else was already seated, make a grand entrance, and sit in her private box, where she would be seen from some distance. She was always accompanied by young men who vied with one another for the privilege of waiting upon her. And almost always she had Blanche attendant upon her—Colin’s eldest sister—with Sir Nelson Elwood, her husband. Blanche was an essential part of the tableau—blond and exquisitely lovely, but not more lovely than her mother. And, from a distance, often looking the older of the two.
On one occasion Colin had witnessed the spectacle before fleeing. She had caused a stir. For though she must now be close to sixty or even past it, she had looked like a girl. Even from a distance, however, it had been obvious to him that the blond hair, puffed and curled and ringleted, was not her own, and that the youthful color in her cheeks and on her lips and the dark luster of her long eyelashes owed more to cosmetics, heavily applied, than to nature. Even the eyelashes themselves had been noticeably fake. The notice she had inspired, mostly from men in the pit—cheers, whistles, catcalls, courtly bows, and kisses blown from fingertips—had held as much mockery as genuine homage. Or so it had seemed to her mortified son. For she had looked like a caricature of a young girl rather than the real thing.
And on rare occasions, as today, she rode in her carriage in the park at the fashionable hour, sumptuously clad all in white, her face veiled as she wafted a hand in greeting to acquaintances and e
ven received a favored few at the open window. Blanche was usually at her side.
He did not know if she was today. The carriage drove on by without slowing, and Colin drew a deep breath of relief.
“You are entirely estranged?” Elizabeth asked.
“We have not spoken or come face to face for eight years,” he said. “Soon after the guests had left the house following my father’s funeral, at which she had been swathed in black, she appeared in the drawing room in her customary white, demanding that I help her write invitations to a house party. She needed cheering up, she told me when I protested. And when I asked her how it would look if she held one of her house parties so soon after my father’s death, she patted my cheek as though I were still a child and told me I was a sweet innocent. It was what everyone would expect of her, she told me. She was certainly not going to lose a year of her life and her youth dressed in black and going about with a long face and living in a silent house. I tried to lay down the law, but the law, it seemed, was not on my side. I was Lord Hodges of Roxingley, possessor of all that went with the title, but I was also a minor. Three guardians would see to it that for the following three years I lived my life wisely—according to what my mother considered wise, I understood. So I did what an eighteen-year-old would do. I washed my hands of the whole thing and left home, never to return.”
“Except that now you intend to do just that,” she said as they crossed the road and made their way along South Audley Street.
“It will not be easy,” he said.
“Will you come in?” she asked when they reached the house.
“I will not, thank you” he said. “I have taken enough of your time. I am sorry if I upset you by stirring up old memories. And there is no if about it, is there? I ought to have used the word that. I am sorry that I upset you. And I am sorry I ever made the mistake of thinking your serenity indicated a woman who had never known any great trouble in her life. I have much to learn. I wonder you put up with me.”