by Mary Balogh
“Only, perhaps, to a private one?” Avery wondered quietly from his corner.
Sir Geoffrey wheeled about to face him. “You misunderstand, Netherby,” he said. “I set great store by proper decorum. I try at all times to conduct myself as a gentleman ought. Occasionally—rarely, I hope—I fail. And for my failure this evening I ask pardon. Of you because I caused a scene in your ballroom, of Mrs. Westcott because I caused her daughter distress, of Riverdale as Elizabeth’s brother, and of Elizabeth herself for accusing her of inappropriate behavior as she danced with a younger man.” He turned back to her. “I beg you to forgive me. If you wish, I shall make my apology to Lord Hodges too, given the fact that he is Lady Riverdale’s brother. And if you wish, or if Netherby wishes, I shall make some sort of public apology in the ballroom.”
He stood in the middle of the library, his feet firmly planted a few inches apart, his hands clasped at his back, the frown still on his brow. He seemed to have finished what he had to say.
“That is very handsome of you, Codaire,” Avery said. It was unclear if he meant it or if he was speaking ironically.
“Making a public apology would be quite the wrong thing to do,” Elizabeth’s mother said. “It would merely cause mass discomfort and provide far more food for gossip than there already is. The only thing to do is brazen it out, return to the ballroom smiling, and proceed to enjoy the evening as though that horrid incident had not happened at all. Are you able to do that, Lizzie?” She too was frowning and looking none too happy with her own suggestion.
“Elizabeth?” Sir Geoffrey took a step toward her, one hand outstretched.
“I will not return to the ballroom,” she said. “I am sorry, Avery, for the ruination of your ball.”
“Think no more of it, Cousin,” he said, wafting one beringed hand in her direction. “Our ball will be the talk of the Season. What more could any host ask? There will surely be no other to match it.” This time he did not appear to be speaking with any irony.
“Elizabeth—” Sir Geoffrey began.
“There is no betrothal,” she said. “And there will be no wedding.”
“Elizabeth?” He dropped his arm and looked rather as though she had slapped his face. “For one small mistake? No, forgive me. It was not small. But just one mistake nevertheless. You would cause the massive disaster of a ruined ball, a broken engagement, and a cancellation of wedding plans that are already well advanced? All for one mistake?”
She felt too weary to engage in any argument or explanation. There was nothing to say. Except one word.
“Yes,” she said.
“You would dare suggest that my sister is the cause of the disaster this evening?” Alexander asked.
Sir Geoffrey’s frown disappeared. His jaw hardened. He showed no sign of having heard. “I was sadly mistaken in you, I see, Elizabeth,” he said. “I believed that at your age you had long ago put aside the frivolous side of your nature that drove your first husband to drink and had acquired the level of maturity that one ought to be able to expect of a lady past the first blush of youth. And perhaps the second.”
Elizabeth did not see her brother move. But she did see him fell Sir Geoffrey with one blow to the jaw.
Her mother stifled a shriek.
“Well done, Riverdale,” Avery said softly.
Elizabeth did not move.
Fortunately there had been no furniture to add danger to Sir Geoffrey’s fall, which had nevertheless been a heavy one. He lay on the carpet dazed for a few moments but not unconscious. He rubbed a hand along his jaw and got awkwardly to his feet, ignoring the hand Alexander held out to assist him. He shook his head as though to clear it.
“You wish for satisfaction, Riverdale?” he asked stiffly.
“I have already had it,” Alexander said curtly. “It is a pity this is not my house. It would give me even more satisfaction to tell you to get out.”
“That pleasure falls to me,” Avery said, leaving his chair. “But it would be inhospitable to send a guest on his way without his hat and cloak and carriage.”
He strolled to the door, stepping around Elizabeth, who seemed incapable of moving, and instructed someone in the hall outside to call up Sir Geoffrey Codaire’s carriage if it was within hailing distance or a hackney cab if it was not. Sir Geoffrey brushed past Elizabeth too without looking at her and then past Avery and strode out into the hall to take charge of his own departure.
Avery closed the door.
“It is my turn to apologize,” Alexander said. “I ought not to have done that in your presence, Mama, or in yours, Lizzie. Or in your library, Netherby.”
“I was only disappointed that you got to him before I could,” Avery said.
Elizabeth’s mother had hurried across the library to gather her daughter in her arms. “I am so glad, Lizzie,” she said. “So glad that you refused to accept his apology. But oh, my poor girl. My poor dear.”
Elizabeth’s mind was numb. From the moment she had heard Geoffrey’s voice behind her after the waltz ended, she had not been able to think with any clarity at all. Except for the one point, upon which she had been perfectly clear from that first moment. She was not going to be able to marry him after all. She had not wavered from that conviction while she listened to his apology, though she had not spoken until a couple of minutes ago.
What a spectacular disaster.
By tomorrow, long before any official notice could appear in the papers, everyone would know that her betrothal had ended not even halfway into her betrothal ball. Even tonight everyone would know, or guess at least.
This had turned into a horrible embarrassment for Anna and Avery, who had been so kind to her. And for her mother and Alex and Wren, who had been so pleased for her.
And for Colin.
She had determinedly kept her mind away from him until now.
He was seriously looking for a bride this spring so that he could begin the new phase of his life he had been planning since last Christmas and New Year. Half the ton—at least!—were here tonight and would have witnessed the debacle. She wondered how the story would play out in fashionable drawing rooms tomorrow. She wondered who would have seen what or heard what and if those accounts would bear any resemblance to the truth. Through absolutely no fault of his own, Colin was in danger of being seen as a heartless wrecker of a formally declared betrothal.
They had waltzed together, perhaps a bit overexuberantly with their fancy footwork and exaggerated twirls, smiling into each other’s eyes and laughing. But what had been so very wrong about that? And ultimately they had been talking so earnestly with each other, their heads almost touching, that they had missed the end of the set.
What on earth had they been talking about? She could not even remember. But how would their absorption in each other be construed? Would she be seen as an older woman toying with a young man’s affections? Would he be seen as a young man deliberately goading an older man by dallying with his fiancée? And would anyone remember who his mother was and decide they were not surprised by his behavior? Would anyone seem to remember that she had driven Desmond to drink and a premature death?
Geoffrey had thought it. All these years later he had thought it.
“I am quite all right, Mama,” she said, drawing away from her mother’s arms. “Avery, I am more sorry for this than I can possibly say.”
“Let me see.” He tapped his quizzing glass against his chin and looked upward. “For which of your many sins are you expressing regret, Elizabeth? I cannot think of a single one, and quite frankly I have no wish to listen to any confession of imaginary wrongdoings.”
“Was I behaving inappropriately?” she asked. “Was I, Mama?”
“Absolutely not, Lizzie,” her mother assured her. “Everyone knows that you and Lord Hodges are exceedingly fond of each other. He is Wren’s brother and the only relative of her own with
whom she is close now that her aunt and uncle are deceased. You have nothing with which to reproach yourself. Nothing whatsoever.”
“We have been gone from the ballroom for a long time,” Alex said, flexing his right hand. “Mama is quite right, Lizzie. You have nothing over which to hang your head. Neither does Colin.”
“I am not going back up there,” she said. “I am sorry, Avery.”
“I will take you home, Lizzie,” her mother said, as though Elizabeth were a child again.
“I shall rejoin my guests,” Avery said, “and drive them all to distraction by behaving as though nothing of any moment has happened. As nothing has that is any business of anyone except you, Elizabeth, and your immediate family. Riverdale? Will you step into the lion’s den with me?”
“I shall see my mother and Lizzie on their way first,” he said.
But their mother dismissed him as soon as he had sent for the carriage. “Wren will be anxious,” she said. “Go to her, Alex. And I daresay Lord Hodges may be with her. Assure him that none of this is his fault and he is not to talk himself into taking any blame.”
* * *
• • •
It seemed forever before their carriage arrived and they had been handed inside and the steps put up and the door shut to hide them away in the darkness of the interior.
“Lizzie,” her mother said, taking her hand in a warm clasp.
“I cannot talk yet, Mama,” Elizabeth said, resting her head against the cushion behind her and closing her eyes. “I am sorry.”
Her mother squeezed her hand.
And it struck Elizabeth like a tidal wave. There was no more betrothal. There would be no wedding, no marriage, no home of her own. No children. For she would not now remarry. How could she? She had chosen Desmond for love, and he had loved liquor more than her. She had chosen Geoffrey for his steady character, and he had revealed himself as a possessive, jealous man almost before the word yes had passed her lips.
My own treasured possession, he had called her.
He had seen her as a possession.
There was after all no one to trust.
Not even herself and her own judgment.
Loneliness lunged at her and took what felt like a death grip on both her throat and her stomach. Each breath was difficult to draw and even harder to release.
Twelve
The evening was interminable.
Colin stayed and smiled without ceasing. He answered questions. Lady Overfield had a headache and had gone home with her mother. He did not know where Sir Geoffrey Codaire was; perhaps he had accompanied the ladies. He danced. Not with Miss Madson—when he returned to claim a second dance with her, her elder sister, a formidable chaperon, informed him that her card was full for the rest of the evening. Her tone implied that it would be full for the rest of the Season too. He danced with Miss Eglington after exchanging a measured glance with Ross Parmiter. She was gravely quiet through the set, though she did look up at him during one almost private moment and told him quite earnestly that she did not believe a word of any of it. He thanked her, though he could only imagine what any of it was. And he waltzed with Miss Dunmore. Her mother nodded graciously to him when he went to claim his partner, more than half expecting to be snubbed.
“It was most obliging of you, Lord Hodges,” she said, “to waltz with Lady Riverdale’s widowed sister-in-law on the occasion of her betrothal. I hope she was suitably gratified. It is really too provoking that you were drawn into that vulgar scene by Sir Geoffrey Codaire, who would surely have been beneath your notice and that of the Earl of Riverdale and the Duke of Netherby if Lady Overfield had not been desperate enough for a husband to accept an offer from him. If anyone should try to hint in my hearing that you behaved with anything less than the strictest propriety, I shall set that person right in no uncertain terms, you may be sure. Now off you go with Lydia or you will miss the start of the waltz.”
Lydia Dunmore herself seemed only too pleased to be waltzing. She was flushed and smiling as they danced and made no reference to the last waltz he had performed. She was slender and light on her feet and followed his lead without any missteps. She seemed to have grown even prettier since her come-out ball a few weeks ago. Her complexion had gained color. Her eyes sparkled as she conversed with him. But he could not find the energy to feel any great admiration for her, let alone fall in love with her. His heart was heavy with other matters.
Her engagement was off—Elizabeth’s, that was. He could not feel as sorry about that as perhaps he ought, for he had not liked Codaire even before that bizarre episode earlier. But what was going to happen to her now? There was certainly going to be gossip. There already was. She was thirty-five years old. All she had wanted was contentment in a marriage with a worthy gentleman. It had not been a lofty dream. Now it was shattered.
. . . if Lady Overfield had not been desperate enough for a husband to accept an offer from him.
Could he really bear to have Lady Dunmore as a mother-in-law?
He walked home later that night with a growing sense of guilt even though he had been assuring himself for the last few hours that he was guiltless, and others had borne him out. He had known Codaire did not like him and disapproved of Elizabeth’s dancing with him. So what had he done? He had waltzed with her anyway, and with the same sort of exuberance with which they had danced at the Boxing Day party. He had laughed and enjoyed himself with her. And then they had plunged unexpectedly into a conversation so intense that they had remained on the dance floor after everyone else had left it. What the devil had they been talking about? He could not even remember.
He wondered how she was feeling now. He doubted she was sleeping. And it was all so monstrously unfair. She had been looking radiant and happy. It had been her night. And she had done nothing wrong.
He felt no doubt whatsoever that gossip was going to erupt into outright scandal tomorrow. And gossip was always at best an exaggeration of the truth, at worst a total distortion of it.
He would have liked to remain at home the following morning. To hide. But if he hid now, it would be progressively difficult to show himself later. And word of what was being said out there would inevitably reach him—through his valet, through his friends, through the gossip columns of the papers. There was no hiding, in other words.
He went to White’s Club, which was just a stone’s throw away from his rooms, and met, purely by chance, both the Duke of Netherby and Lord Molenor on the threshold. At least, he thought as they stepped inside and relinquished their hats and gloves to a waiting servant, he had some moral support.
A group of men gathered in the reading room, as they regularly were in the mornings to read the papers and exchange news and views, were busy talking, their voices carrying beyond the open doors of the room.
“. . . a fortunate escape,” someone was saying.
“You have my deepest sympathies,” someone else said.
“They were actually embracing on the dance floor after everyone else had left it?” a third man said in the form of a question. “Surely nothing quite as vulgar, Codaire.”
Colin pricked up his ears, and his companions fell still beside him.
“It is as true as I am sitting here,” Sir Geoffrey Codaire said. “Overfield used to say she was a slut and I never believed him. I ought to have. I should have slapped a glove in that young puppy’s face last night, but he actually did me a favor. In three weeks’ time I would have been married to the woman. It scarcely bears thinking of.”
“You would not have put up with . . .” someone was saying when Colin stopped listening.
The Duke of Netherby, armed with his quizzing glass and his most haughty manner, had stepped into the doorway. Colin clamped a hand on his arm and stepped past him. Codaire saw him come and cocked an eyebrow.
“And speaking of the devil,” he said without much originality.
> The group of men, some of them elderly, all of them surely older than Codaire, gawked.
“I will hear an apology, Codaire,” Colin said, keeping his voice down in deference to the purpose of the room, though he doubted anyone in it was trying to read. “For the lie about what the lady and I were doing after the set of waltzes was at an end. And for the insult to the lady.”
“You are suddenly her father or her brother, are you, Hodges?” Codaire asked him.
“I am the brother of her sister-in-law,” he said. “More important, I am a gentleman.”
There was a collective sound from all the other men somewhere between a gasp and a sigh.
“You are implying that I am not?” Codaire asked.
“I will make it more than an implication,” Colin said. “You are no gentleman, sir. And I will hear your apology.”
“Or . . . ?” Codaire looked at him with raised eyebrows.
“Or the word will doubtless spread via the gentlemen gathered here that you are not of their number,” Colin said. “And I will ask you to name your seconds.”
Again that collective gasping sigh.
Codaire stared at him. His face had turned a dull red. “I am not a violent man, Hodges,” he said.
“There is an easy way to avoid violence,” Colin told him.