by Mary Balogh
“Did he?” He turned his head sharply toward her. “I wish I could have done it, but the ballroom was not the place for it, was it? I could not bear the way he insulted and humiliated you before so many people.”
“You would have fought a duel with him,” she said. “Cousin Thomas told us about it this morning. I am very glad it did not come to that. As for what happened, it is best forgotten.” Foolish words. Neither of them was likely ever to forget.
“While we danced I found myself wanting to recapture the spirit of that absurd waltz at the Boxing Day party,” he said. “But I ought not to have done it at your betrothal ball of all places. I ought not to have made you laugh in that joyful way you have when you are really enjoying yourself while your betrothed and half the ton were looking on. I just did not think, and for that I must blame myself. And then to make matters worse we got into that intense conversation—I cannot for the life of me remember now what it was about. Can you? I just did not notice when the music ended.”
“Colin,” she said as they turned to walk parallel to the trees rather than passing through them to the woodland path beyond. “You really must not torture yourself any longer with such foolish self-accusations. It was not you who behaved badly. At all. Neither was it me. It was Sir Geoffrey Codaire. People are supposed to enjoy themselves at a ball. We were doing just that. They are supposed to be sociable and converse with one another. It is what we were doing. The whole incident was dealt with quite satisfactorily downstairs in Avery’s library. I put an end to our betrothal, Alex knocked him down when he turned spiteful, and Avery ejected him from the house, though not bodily. He left on his own feet. There will be a notice in the papers tomorrow to announce what everyone knows anyway. My mother and Wren have written to everyone who was invited to the wedding, all the wedding arrangements have been canceled, my mother and I will return to Riddings Park tomorrow or the day after, and . . . Well, and there is the end of the matter. I only hope all this does not have negative repercussions for you, but I do not expect it will. Men and women are usually judged by very different standards. I daresay your matrimonial prospects have actually been enhanced, if that is possible.”
They walked onward in silence for a while, the wind in their faces now and a strong suggestion of dampness in the air. It was not a pleasant day at all. Even so, it felt good to be outside and walking. It felt good too, she admitted to herself with a twinge of guilt, to be away from her family for a short while, even Wren and Alex and her mother.
But this was good-bye to Colin. Oh, not forever, she supposed. There would doubtless be family occasions that would draw her away from Riddings eventually—the birth of another child for Alex and Wren, for example. She would almost certainly see him again. But not soon and not often. She would never waltz with him again—an absurdly trivial thought that brought a soreness to her throat and a gurgle she disguised by swallowing.
“Not all men are as Codaire is,” he said. “Or as your first husband was.”
She turned to look at him, tall and good-looking and very serious. “Are you suggesting that I try again?” she asked him. “I know not all men are villains, Colin. Or all husbands. There are Alex and Avery and my Uncle Richard and Joel Cunningham and . . . and Alvin Cole to disprove any such silly notion. The problem is not with all men, but with the men I choose as husbands. I was sure Desmond was the one for me. I loved him with my whole heart. But he was weak and sick and something in him hated me and turned that hatred to viciousness. All these years later I was sure Geoffrey was the man for me—solid and steady and loyal and patient and a whole host of other good things. But he is possessive and autocratic and jealous and something in him has hated me all these years—for being frivolous enough to choose Desmond instead of him when I was young, perhaps, and then driving my husband to drink.”
“If he said that last night,” he said, “then he deserved to be knocked down.”
“It is not men I do not trust as much as it is myself,” she told him. “I am obviously a terrible judge of character. And there is something in me that . . . that men hate.”
“I do not hate you, Elizabeth,” he said, sounding almost angry. They had stopped walking, she realized. “I like and respect and admire and honor you.”
“I was sounding self-pitying almost to the point of hysteria, was I not?” she said, smiling ruefully at him. Her lips felt a bit stiff as though they had not smiled for a long time. “But thank you, Colin. You are kind. And it was good of you to come today, when I know it must not have been easy, and even to maneuver matters so that you could have this private word with me. I do appreciate it.”
He turned away slightly in order to raise the large black umbrella of Alex’s he had taken from the hall stand. It had started to drizzle slightly, she realized. He raised it over both their heads but made no move to walk onward.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
“Of course I do.” She smiled again. “But I am not considering marriage with you, Colin.”
“I thought perhaps you might,” he said, “if I asked.”
And she realized with a rush of dismay what this was all about—this call at the house, this invitation to come walking, this desire to speak privately with her. She set a hand on his arm and moved half a step closer to him.
“Because of last night?” she said. “Because you still fear you somehow compromised me and owe me marriage? Oh no, Colin. But I do thank you most sincerely.”
“Because you need someone to trust and I think I am that man,” he said. “We both know I am not solid and firmly established in life. You know I have problems to solve, an identity to establish, a future to carve out, changes to make—I could go on and on. I am not someone you can ever have considered as a husband, but by your own admission your choices have not worked well. I can be trusted, Elizabeth, and I can offer the security of name and fortune. I would never let you down. I would always care for you. No. Let me rephrase that. I would always care about you. I would never ever behave as though I own you no matter what church and state may say to the contrary. I would always respect you and hold you in affection. I would always seek out your companionship. Will your trust me? Will you marry me?”
Elizabeth blinked several times. If the umbrella had not been firmly over their heads and tipped slightly into the wind, she would have chosen to believe it was the rain that was moistening her cheeks.
“Don’t cry,” he said softly. “Have I made you cry?”
“Colin.” She set a hand flat against his chest. “My dear. You have been developing an interest in several eligible young ladies. Perhaps you have even singled out one as the favorite. Miss Dunmore, perhaps? It would hardly be surprising if you had fallen in love with her, and she would be an excellent choice.”
“No,” he said. “The number is still plural, surely an indication that I am not in love with any of them, whatever being in love means. I really do not understand the term. I care for you more than for anyone else I have met this spring.”
“You are very kind,” she said again with a sigh. “But Colin, I am almost ten years older than you.”
“Always it comes down to that, does it not?” he said. “Codaire is older than you are, Elizabeth. That is perfectly obvious. How much older?”
He had told her the day he proposed and she accepted his offer. The irony had struck her even at the time. “Nine years,” she said. “He is forty-four.”
“And when you accepted his marriage offer,” he said, “did you protest that you were almost ten years younger than he?”
“No,” she said.
“Did it even occur to you to do so?” he asked her. “Did you feel any unease at all about the age gap?”
“No,” she said. “But—”
“I feel no unease about the age gap between us,” he said. “I feel even less now than I did at Christmas. Then I thought your serenity was bone deep, or soul deep.
I thought you had reached that pinnacle of maturity that I imagine we all dream of reaching but never actually do achieve. I thought you were beyond my reach, to be admired, even worshiped from afar. But I suppose there are always more changes to adjust to, more growing to do, more doubts and insecurities to be wrestled with. You are still on a journey to somewhere, are you not, Elizabeth? Just as I am? Just as everyone is? Perhaps—no, probably—that somewhere does not really exist. Not in this lifetime anyway. Though it is to be hoped we can pick up some wisdom along the way. As you have. And as I perhaps have begun to do. But we are not the universes apart I once thought we were. Only a few miles, in fact.”
“Nine miles?” she suggested.
“It is not so very far,” he said. “Is it? Nine miles is the distance between Brambledean and Withington. It can be traveled just to take tea. Nine years are all that separate us. They are surely not an insurmountable barrier. Unless I appear so young and gauche to you that I am quite beneath your notice.”
“Colin.” She patted her hand against his chest and looked into his eyes, shaded by the brim of his hat and by the umbrella and the heavy clouds. They gazed steadily back into her own. And she was horribly tempted. She was weary and wanted to lay her cheek against his shoulder and . . . surrender.
It felt almost like a death wish. A giving up of herself because she was weary to the very depths. Weary of living, of struggling, of hoping, of making dreadful mistakes, of losing hope. And trust. Somewhere, however, she found a shred of strength.
“I will not allow you to do this,” she said. “Something this . . . monumental would need long and careful consideration even if it should be considered at all. It cannot be done just because you are a gentle, kind, and conscientious man.”
“My God, Elizabeth,” he said, and suddenly his eyes were blazing at her and his voice was sharp with anger. “You do not understand, do you? You do not know me at all. You do think I am an insecure, untried little boy. You think I must be protected from my own weakness and frailty. I may be nine years younger than you, but I am a man.”
And his free arm came hard about her waist and hauled her against him. Even as her hands splayed over his chest to brace herself he lowered his head and kissed her—urgently, ungently, and openmouthed, with all the passion with which he had kissed her on Christmas Day, except that this one did not end after a few brief seconds. Rather, it gentled and deepened as her hands slid up between them to grip his shoulders, and her mouth opened to admit his tongue. She leaned into him, feeling hard thigh muscles against her own as well as the firmness of his man’s body pressed to hers. All was heat in contrast to the chill of the weather. And yearning. And a desire too painful for pleasure.
They must be in full view of the carriage drive, she realized when rational thought began to return and she felt rain on her face. He still held the umbrella, but it had dipped to one side, the lower edge of it almost touching the ground. But she could not hear much traffic, only the distant clopping of a single set of hooves.
He was gazing into her eyes then, his arm still about her waist, the umbrella over their heads again. He still looked a bit hard-jawed and angry. Older than usual, the open, youthful eagerness missing from his face. She had never seen him like this before. She had offended him, it seemed, by holding his youth and good nature against him. Though she had not intended to belittle him, only to point out that she was a totally unsuitable choice of bride for him. Especially when that choice was being forced upon him by circumstances—or so he seemed to believe. It was horribly unfair.
He had been smiling and happy last evening as he danced with Miss Dunmore. They had looked stunningly attractive together.
She patted her hands against his chest.
“I did not ask on the spur of the moment, Elizabeth,” he said. “I have asked you more than once before.”
“Ah,” she said, “but always as a joke.”
“Perhaps to you,” he said. “Not to me.”
She tipped her head slightly to one side. Was it true? But no, he was deceiving himself. He was fond of her as she was of him, but he had never seriously considered her as a wife. Even that kiss at Christmas . . . Ah, that kiss. She relived it sometimes in her dreams when she could not control the memory and—yes, she might as well be honest—she relived it all too often in her daydreams too, when she was in control. And now he had kissed her again with real passion. Passion, though, was not love. Indeed, it had seemed to proceed more from anger.
She could not bear . . . “Colin—”
“We could replace all of today’s vile gossip with something even more sensational but altogether brighter,” he said. “We could marry tomorrow, Elizabeth. Or we could announce our betrothal tomorrow and plan our wedding with more care. We could marry at Roxingley if you wished or at Brambledean or at Riddings Park. Or here. Let us do it. Perhaps that ghastly incident last evening happened for a purpose. For this very purpose. Are we going to continue not even to consider each other with any seriousness just because of the matter of nine years?”
It was more than that. Oh, surely it was. He had come to London looking for a bride, and he had been looking—among the very young ladies who had only recently left the schoolroom. He was a great favorite with them. He could have almost any one he chose. And they were all at least fifteen years younger than she. That was a staggering fact.
But as she gazed into his eyes, she was horribly tempted not to overthink this decision, not to bring common sense to bear upon it. Common sense had never worked very well in any of the important decisions of her life. Perhaps it was time to give impulsiveness a try. It was a horribly dangerous and irresponsible way of making a huge, life-changing decision, of course, but . . . Perhaps it was time to do what she wanted to do rather than what she ought to do.
She had spent all last summer and winter and early spring thinking through her very wise, sensible decision to marry Geoffrey.
But perhaps she was still off balance after their kiss. Perhaps if she gave herself a few more minutes to recover and think clearly . . .
“No,” she said. “No, Colin. I do thank you and I do appreciate what you are trying to do. But I cannot allow it. I care too much for you.”
His jaw hardened again and he gazed at her for a long while without speaking. “You care for me,” he said at last, “but not enough to marry me.”
“I care for you too much to marry you,” she said.
“That is nonsense,” he told her. “It is such nonsense, Elizabeth. You accepted the offer of a man you did not care for at all, but you have rejected mine.”
There was no answer that would not simply take them in circles. She drew a slow breath.
“Yes,” she said.
He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. “I thought,” he said, “you would trust me.”
As if trust could solve everything. Or anything. As if it could mend a breaking heart. Only love could do that. Perhaps.
Rain—not drizzle any longer—drummed on the umbrella. A gust of cold wind blew and cut through them.
* * *
• • •
He would not come back into the house with her. He would not take the umbrella with him either, even though the rain was coming down heavily. He stood watching her climb the steps and rap the knocker against the door and step inside when it opened almost immediately. But then there was an impasse. She closed the umbrella and stood looking down at him on the pavement. He turned and strode away, water already dripping from the brim of his hat.
Elizabeth watched him go until he was almost out of sight, even though she was being partially rained upon. And her heart ached. She wanted to call him back. She wanted to dash after him. She did neither. He was a young man with a young man’s dreams, and she . . . She was past dreams. She was past even practical plans for her own future. She would endure. She had done it before and she would do it again. But she felt n
ow that she would never be happy, that she could not. And she would not drag him down with her merely because he was kind and gallant and had persuaded himself that he really wanted to do what his conscience urged him to.
She was very tempted to walk right on by the drawing room and continue upstairs to her room. She stood for a moment outside the doors, drew a deep breath, smiled, and walked in.
“The heavens have opened up,” she said, taking off her bonnet and fluffing up her hair, though it was really quite wet in front.
“Colin did not come in with you?” Wren asked, clearly disappointed.
“No,” Elizabeth said. “I believe he felt too wet. He held the umbrella more over me than himself, and he would not take it with him.” She crossed the room to warm her hands at the fire. There was a bit of a silence behind her.
“It was kind of him to come here and show some concern for you,” Aunt Lilian said.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, and added what she had not intended to say. “He offered me marriage. It was extremely kind of him. I said no.”
“Well, of course he did,” Cousin Louise said. “And of course you did.”
“He would have felt obliged to make you an offer,” Cousin Mildred agreed, “especially after what happened at White’s this morning. But it would have been absurd, to say the least. Lord Hodges did the right thing and so did you, Elizabeth.”
“I am very sorry, Elizabeth,” the dowager countess said, “that the two of you were put in such an awkward situation by Sir Geoffrey Codaire, who really ought to have known better. Young Lord Hodges is fond of you, as you are of him. I observed that at Christmastime. I only hope neither of you will allow the events of the past twenty-four hours—not even as long—to cloud your friendship. You are, after all, practically brother and sister.”