by Edith Layton
“My timing is dreadful. Should you rather have a plate of lobster?” Arden asked, motioning to the couples entering the house as Francesca continued to stare at him, amazed.
“Well, if you were French, you obviously would,” he went on, “because for all they go on about l’amour, it appears they’re more interested in la carte. Just look at that thundering herd rounding on the canapes. Ah, well, I imagine once one appetite is sated, there’s always another to consider—they’re a practical people, after all. Perhaps you’d like me to come back next week?” he asked pleasantly, after a pause, “so you can have a bit more time to think it over?”
“You asked me to marry you?” she asked, her voice husky and strained.
“Why, yes, I believe I did,” he answered, smiling. “It seemed the sensible thing to do, since I’d like very much to marry you, you see.”
“You don’t know me!” she cried.
“Oh, but I do,” he said, suddenly more serious. “I know you’re beautiful. And brave. And clever. And longing for a place in life again, one that you can fill with honor and pride. And before you go on to say you don’t know me, I’ll immediately grant it may be so, and though I’m tempted to jest it’s far better that way, I do want you to say yes. So I’ll repeat that I doubt that we’ve time at this time in our lives to remedy that without legal recourse. I doubt you’ll come to me without a clergyman’s blessings, nor do I ask it of you.
“But I’ll supply some details on pertinent matters to speed things along. I’ll tell you straightaway that I’m exceedingly wealthy, I’ve a manor home in England that wouldn’t shame you. I’m neither cruel nor in the habit of beating anything but the odds, so you’ll never fear violence from me, and as to odds and evens, I’ve no more interest in gaming than in flinging my money off high bridges for amusement. I’ll promise to be generous and I’ll try to be understanding, and I’m seeking a mate who will share my advantages and be clever enough to ignore the disadvantages. To wit, since I’m determined to be honest: I’m not beautiful, nor am I in the first flush of youth, nor have I an admirable background. Very much the reverse, in fact.” He frowned, before he remembered this was a proposal, not a confession, and continued. “But my past is passed, along with that tender youth, and I don’t claim to be the answer to a maiden’s prayer. Which, I might add, is why I never sought a maiden, however my friendship with Cecily appeared to you.
“And,” he said softly, looking at her with great tenderness, “I’m not French, after all, so there are some appetites I find canapes will not fill. But I believe you share them, and indeed, may miss that dish in life’s menu, and so we’ll suit there too. I’ll never be unfaithful, Francesca, because I’m basically a simple man, and,” he added more lightly, “an exquisitely lazy one, and you know the time and trouble slipping about on a clever wife takes.
“So then?” he asked, standing back and watching her closely.
It was, she discovered to her amazement, precisely what she wanted. It was too precipitate, true. But he was quite right, there was no time for the trimmings she’d have wanted, although, she thought, if she gave the answer he wanted, there well might yet be a way to delay the vows until she was absolutely sure. If, she amended, she wasn’t already absolutely sure. There hadn’t been a word of love, but he wasn’t a sentimental man, and if she refused him, that would be embarrassment enough; she could scarcely blame him for not wanting to put his heart as well as his life under her foot for her to trample. It was enough that he’d asked; he was still unwed and it wasn’t likely he’d been turned down often, so it wasn’t likely he’d often asked. She never doubted other women reacted to him as she had, and so was as flattered as she was amazed. It was true he wasn’t a youth, nor was he a beautiful man, nor, from his many and varied odd talents, did she doubt that he hadn’t a checkered past.
But he’d not been deceiving her, all his interest had been real, he’d never played her false, and that made her joyous. And when she thought of the reasons for that sudden joy, she began to understand that he was, and had been, precisely what she wanted. And would be even if she were not in distressed circumstances. She gazed at him and found that strong, hard face one she’d seek in any crowd, that huge frame one she’d shelter beneath in any storm, that shrewd eye one she’d trust to see truth, and that humorous mouth one that would always speak words she’d want to hear. He was, she dimly began to perceive, the home she’d always longed for. She was one-and-twenty, and understood all at once that she wanted to pass the rest of her years with this man for all the reasons he’d not stated: for his honesty, for his kindness, for his wit, and for the passion she knew he controlled so well. But as she thought of what he’d said on that score, her slight, growing smile froze fast.
His smile had begun to grow with hers, and then, seeing her sudden discomfort, he grew grave as well.
“Is there another man,” he asked softly, “aside from Harry?”
She startled, and then wanted to laugh wildly. “Oh, no,” she managed, “I promise you there’s no one aside from Harry.”
He relaxed. The gentleman she’d met tonight in the garden and then angrily dismissed had no claim on her then, just as he’d thought when he’d observed them from the shadows.
“Mr. Marvell had the right of it, you know,” he said, reaching out a hand and brushing back a bit of her hair that had come free to coil beside her cheek, “‘the grave’s a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace.’ I don’t mean to be callous, for I’ve left a love beneath the earth myself, but I’d thought we’d both agreed, admittedly in unspoken fashion, that life must go forth.”
“It’s never that!” she said at once, upset that she couldn’t tell him everything, but still so confused about Harry that she couldn’t admit a truth to him that she’d not yet accepted herself. “It’s one or two other things,” she said hesitantly, guiltily remembering her chiefest lies, not so much that they were dreadful truths she had to tell, but only wondering how he’d feel about any lies she’d told.
He repressed his smiles. He’d wondered about that. And wasn’t at all unhappy. One or two was what he’d expected. She’d been married during productive years, after all. Her papa had said she was almost six-and-twenty; one or two children at the very least was what he’d imagined. As an impecunious widow with a careless father, she’d likely had to leave them in England under some relative’s care while she tried to earn her keep. That wasn’t unusual or unexpected and it was fine with him; the more he could aid her, the more he could shelter her and her children, the more he would deserve her, and win her gratitude. And he liked children very well. He only wondered what they were—a boy and girl, he guessed; trust her to do things symmetrically.
“I haven’t told the strictest truth,” she began slowly, before she went on rapidly, her great dark eyes searching his face as she spoke, “but indeed, it was Father’s idea and I don’t blame him, for he was entirely right, I needed a position and was ill-prepared the way things were…no, not ill-prepared, but considered so in the eyes of society, you see, so I had to lie about some things, and you must know of them if we are to marry, of course… I was never really married,” she blurted.
It had been many years since he’d been shocked. He’d seen things in his time that had made strong men faint and gentle women curse, but he’d not been shocked since he’d been a boy. So he didn’t know how to react to the new emotion her words brought to him. He simply grew very still and stared at her just as she’d gaped at him moments before. But he was never without speech for very long, even though he realized he was speaking from the shallows of his mind since the rest of it was numbed with disbelief. Not so much, perhaps, at her state of moral grace, as at his own uncharacteristic misreading of her character, of any other being’s character, for that matter.
“I understand,” he said, desperately trying to, and as the reasons flitted through his mind, he uttered them: “Some family disagreement? He was already wed? He had to leave to
join his company before the words could be said?”
“We didn’t want to, because I was too young,” she said, not very sadly—not sorrowfully at all, for the first time—as she realized now that it had been absolutely the right decision.
“But surely,” he said, wondering about the children with some growing alarm, “as the years passed…”
“Only a year passed,” she replied, and then, seeing his face, she bit her lip and said in her foggiest broken voice, admitting to her other lie, “I’m no more five-and-twenty than I’m a widow, you see. That’s the other thing. I’ve only just had my twenty-first birthday, which is why I came to see Father, because I’d finished with school and there was nothing else for me to do…Arden?” she asked, for he stood and looked at her, and as she watched, his gaze became a glare.
“One-and-twenty?” he asked stiffly, one sandy eyebrow rising. “And never wed? I suppose next you’ll tell me you were never lovers either, and that you’re as pure as a snowdrop…or Cecily.”
“Twenty-one, yes,” she said, wondering why he was glowering down at her, his face as immobile as if just carved from ice, although his words dripped sarcasm and his tawny eyes blazed, “and never wed, and no, never lovers. What sort of a female do you think I am? But no, not pure as a snowdrop, for I did kiss Harry, and often, and perhaps a jot more…” she quavered, lowering her eyes, thinking of embraces that had gone beyond kissing until Harry had groaned and stopped, “but, no, never lovers, you needn’t worry about that,” she said staunchly, although she was as uncomfortable now as she’d been then at Harry’s touch on her breast, remembering how she’d been shocked both at him and at the thrill of it.
It was the way she lowered her eyes that convinced him. He didn’t even take the time to frame a careful reply. “Are you mad, girl?” he thundered at her. “To even think of marrying me?” he boomed in his fury, so that several persons near the windows looked out to see what sudden storm had broken out-of-doors.
The faces at the windows made him recall himself, and he took her by the arm again, less gently, and dragged her to the deepest shadows on the terrace, too angry to stroll with her politely. One deep breath contained his rage again, another controlled his voice, and the third brought his wits back, along with his customary eloquence.
“I don’t understand,” she was saying. “I told you Harry and I were not…”
“Child,” he said softly, calmly, yet from such a distance she could scarcely believe he was the same gentleman that had just made such a warm and witty proposal to her, “I know you ‘were not…’ as you so delicately put it. Now that I know all, of course, I see all too, clever fellow that I am.” He spoke in scorn to himself, but when he spoke to her again, it was with the sad, patronizing patience of an elder gentleman lecturing an infant.
“I didn’t mean to shout, Francesca,” he explained, “but you did take me by surprise. I apologize then, and beg your pardon, and hope you’ll forget everything that went forth tonight, and last night too, of course, please. I would not have spoken or acted so, had I known.”
It was so astonishing a turnaround that Francesca could only stammer, “But…then…you don’t want to marry me after all, is that it?” And when he didn’t answer straightaway, she said, with more heat, “You were only jesting, only having a bit of fun with me, is that it?”
“No, no, child,” he replied at once, holding up one huge hand. “That proposal was sincere, and I meant it entirely. But the lady I proposed to was not…real, you see. Francesca,” he said rapidly, for he’d looked to the windows again, and one of the faces peering out into the darkness could unmistakably be recognized, even through the old distorted glass, as belonging to a suspicious Deems, and so he knew he must have his say quickly. “You can’t pretend that you love me madly. And yet I believe you were about to accept me. No, no,” he said as she lowered her eyes, “there’s no shame in that. I understand completely. It’s because I understand now that I withdraw my offer.
“If I were as beautiful as my friend Julian, I’d not question your acceptance. The boy,” he said with rueful amusement, “catches hearts through the eyes. But I do not. Neither do I believe it was my wit that snared you, because, child, fair ladies seldom elope with the jester, for all that they may laugh at him. Neither do I believe it to be because of my affluence—you work for the Deemses, you’re not one of them. No, Francesca, in me I believe you behold a safe harbor, a snug resting place—an understanding friend and a kind protector—and don’t turn up your nose, these are all good things, indeed fine things to find in a mate…if you were what you purported to be.
“But precisely because you’re not, you can have far more. You can find a husband you can take with love and passion and all the foolish, delightful things the young are supposed to have. And that you ought to have. Do you see?”
He spoke so gently she wanted to weep at the tone of his voice as well as the words. But she drew herself up and determined to be as cold, calm, and sensible as he was being now. Though events were moving swiftly, she perceived that she’d a great deal to lose if she didn’t speak up quickly. She hadn’t the time to wonder if it was his low valuation of himself or his high estimate of her that was about to ruin her chances at happiness.
“Arden,” she said with as much steadiness as she could muster, lifting her head and looking him in the eye, “do you think I’m so young and foolish that I don’t know what will bring my own happiness? After all, you’re speaking of only a few years between what I am and what you thought I was.”
“A few years, my dear?” he said quizzically. “Say, rather, a few lifetimes. I thought you were seven or eight years younger than myself, not a dozen. I thought you were once wed, and had known sublime happiness, and had lived more than a dozen, dozen months with a man, and so were now ready to settle for comfort and compassion, having once known complete love and passion.”
“Do you think I couldn’t feel that for you?” she asked in wonder.
“Passion? Oh, aye,” he said with a sad smile, reaching out to run the back of his fingers against her flushed cheek, “I might be able to give you that, teach you that, but complete love? Francesca,” he said in a hard voice, the sudden voice of a stranger, “I’m no man for a young girl to take to her heart. I’ve led a bad and a wicked life, my dear, and have forfeited the right to a great many things in so doing. And one very beautiful thing,” he whispered, as if to himself again.
“And so, after all this, it’s only that? Beauty? Is that all you ever saw in me?” she asked in hurt amazement.
“Oh, no,” he answered low. “In you I saw everything that is there, and it’s everything I could want. But I also saw what was not there, which was, even then, almost more than I deserved.”
She reached up and captured that large hand, and was about to try to dare to answer him with her lips, without words, for even in her confusion she could sense his great hurt and disappointment. But he stepped back as though he’d read her mind in her eyes, even in the darkness, and then she noticed that the darkness had been suddenly sliced by a wedge of light from the opened terrace door.
“Mrs. Devlin,” Mrs. Deems said in an awful voice, “might I have a word with you? That is to say, if you’re not too terribly busy, of course?”
*
“You look as though you’ve gotten your tail caught in the door, or is it a thorn in your paw that’s troubling you, Arden?” Julian asked as he came into his friend’s room without bothering to ask, and settled himself into a chair near to the desk where Arden was working, scowling as he wrote. He studied Arden at his task and noted how the big man’s tanned face was yellowed with fatigue, a faint rusty stubble dusted his clenched jaw, and there was a distracted look in his shadowed eyes.
“You didn’t get in until dawn, I know, for that was when I made my weary way to my own little bed,” Julian said on a yawn, though he continued watching his friend carefully, “and though your apparent exhaustion was a comforting thing to see, since it
usually speaks of hard and interesting play, as you passed me by on the stair, without a word, I could tell…no…say more honestly, my nose could sense, immediately, that it had been from exerting yourself with a far more literal sort of filly than I thought you’d been out riding all night. Ah. Now I see that the speechlessness last night wasn’t just because you didn’t see me. Is that an invitation to a duel you’re laboring over? Don’t bother, then, my eyes are too bloodshot to make it out, pick up a glove, here’s my left cheek—you’ll have to make do with it, my right one’s on the other side and I’m not moving—and then tell me straight out how I earned your royal displeasure. And make it pistols, please, or better still, cannons, because I’m too tired this morning to direct my sword to a target even as large as you.”
“Conceited pup,” Arden muttered, blotting the note he’d just done with writing and liberally sanding it before he reached for another sheet of paper. “I’m writing to my sister.”
Julian’s light eyes widened at that; he’d never known Arden had a sister, or rather, he’d heard that Arden had a dozen of them, ranging from the first one he’d been told about, the Spanish dancer, to the most recent, the nun in her cloister in Rome.
