“It’s true, though, can’t you see that? She is spoiled, and if everyone just smiles and lets her go on that way she will make herself unhappy in the end.”
“You are not her father,” Pierson ground out.
“No. Her father is even worse, for he just storms at her and calls her rude but offers no guidance. If he cared enough for her . . . oh, there’s no talking to you,” Bainbridge said, getting up and pacing back and forth. “You will not see reason where she is concerned. You see her as she has always appeared in public, but haven’t the last few days shown you what she is like? She is a termagant, wild, vociferous, spoiled—”
“Stop! You’re talking about the girl I would wed.” Pierson watched his friend’s face change, the expression cooling, calming to his habitual tranquility. Whatever was wrong with the marquess, he was letting it go. And it was a good thing, for if Bain said anything more about Lady Rowena, he was going to have to face his friend’s fist.
They fell silent again and there was no raising any subject that they could speak of. Finally they abandoned all pretense and parted ways to go to their separate homes.
• • •
As the days passed the weather became more even, and the sometimes icy winds of March softened as the days lengthened into April.
The duke was being patient and Amy could only be grateful. She had consulted with Mrs. Bower, but that lady knew of no other position that Amy could retreat to if Rowena did not find a husband by the end of the Season. Positions were not to be had so easily, it seemed.
Oddly enough, though the viscount had seemed intent on his wooing of Rowena, progress, if there was any, seemed slow and uncertain. Amy could not account for that, but was unwilling to urge either forward. In the meantime the Season was progressing happily in some ways and for some young ladies and gentlemen. Romances proceeded, engagements were announced, weddings planned.
Balls were held, card parties, dinners, the opera and the theater. Lord Bainbridge, his mother, and his sister were often present, and it seemed to Amy that the marquess purposely threw them all together. And she also noticed that while the marquess’s family group was gathered, no more incidents happened to Lady Rowena.
It was not always a happy company, for the marquess’s mother had never lost her initial distaste for Rowena and occasionally made quite cutting remarks. Amy would have expected the duke’s daughter to slyly find a way to return those jabs, but she remained silent, generally. But it was Lord Pierson, of course, whose company Amy most enjoyed. He talked to her often, even as he sat and stared at Rowena. It should have made her miserable, she supposed, but she was resigned. If she could help it, she would not make herself unhappy over the viscount, who was as out of her reach as Prinny himself.
It was another evening and another ball, a come-out ball in honor of the daughter of the house, a lovely young girl named Lady Penelope Harwicke.
Amy watched from the edge of the ballroom, near the large French doors that opened onto the terrace, as Rowena danced with Lord Bainbridge. The weather had turned truly divine, with spring flowers scenting the puffs of warm air from the garden outside. She had noted that recently, due solely to his good behavior, Lord Pierson had made enormous inroads on inverting his formerly soiled reputation. Some wise matrons were already pushing their daughters toward him—and it must be said that most of the girls were willing to be wooed, if only he had been so inclined—though if they had known the state of his finances as well as Amy did, they would still have been a little more circumspect.
Lord Pierson had traveled back to his estate for a couple of days on business that could not wait, but had said he would be back for this ball, so Amy kept her eye on the door, knowing she should not anticipate his presence so, but not able to keep her foolish heart from hoping, wishing, dreaming.
And there he was, strolling in alone, his splendid form expertly clad in black and immaculate white linens. But even if he had been clothed in poorly cut broadcloth, even if he had been as she first saw him, drenched and on his knees, she still would have considered him the only man there worth looking at, worth talking to. Why? Why him?
She had asked herself that many a night in the darkness of her elegant chamber, with Puss curled up purring in the crook of her arm. Maybe it was just his perfect manly good looks. Or perhaps it was her fondness for strays. But she doubted it. She believed her attraction to Lord Pierson lay in his kind heart, his earnest and deeply felt desire to strive to something better, and in the way he made her feel, that at least while they spoke together she was the only one of whom he was thinking. It was a heady sensation and one that, like strong wine, intoxicated her.
He caught sight of her and made his way through the crowd of delicate belles and handsome beaux. “How good to see you, Miss Corbett,” he said, reaching out and grasping her hands in his.
“My lord, how jaunty you look tonight. Has your business in Kent been resolved to your satisfaction?”
His expression clouded and he frowned. She castigated herself for raising an unpleasant subject when he had been looking so happy. But in a moment his expression cleared.
“I would speak to you of that alone, if I may, Miss Corbett. Would you walk with me on the terrace or in the garden?”
Amy glanced around and saw that the dance continued and Rowena was still in Lord Bainbridge’s arms. If there was one man in the ballroom she would consider Rowena to be safe with, it would be the marquess; for all his cynicism and occasional temper, he was a steady and reliable young man.
She nodded. “Let us talk, my lord.”
He took her arm and strolled with her out to the narrow terrace, guided her to the steps and they descended to the grassy lawn beneath. “Ah, this is much better.”
They strolled down a path and Amy leaned on his arm, enjoying the closeness, inhaling his scent. Her slippers were silent on the verdant grass, and if the breeze was still a little cool, she was wearing a merino gown and with Lord Pierson next to her would not have felt a hurricane.
“I have, as I told you before I left, been to Kent. Poor Delacorte; Miss Corbett, it’s worse than I feared in some ways and better in others. The house needs so much work. The land is not in as bad a state as I feared, and . . . well, Mr. Lincoln—that was my land manager—I’m afraid the news of him is not good. He truly has disappeared. He was on his way to Suffolk to his sister’s a few weeks ago, but he disappeared on the way and I fear the worst. While all were suspecting him of malfeasance, I fear that something tragic, some accident has happened.
“But though that is worse for him, it is, at least, putting a positive aspect on something that may be more troubling. I will not say I suspect Mr. Lincoln was running off with the money; it’s not pleasant to think or speak ill of him when we know not what happened, so I will just surmise that he . . . forgot to leave the wages when he went, being upset at the report he had just received that his nephew was ill. It is a sad case. I . . .”
He paused and thrust his free hand through his hair. “I didn’t know that he was his sister and nephew’s sole support, so when I went to speak to her I gave her some money, what I could spare. Miss Corbett, there is so much I didn’t know. I feel as though my eyes have been opened. How could I have behaved with such carelessness for so many years?”
She ached for him and the desolation she heard in his voice. “You mustn’t blame yourself. You’re doing your best to rectify matters now. Isn’t that for the best?”
“Yes, and that’s the good news. Like I said, though the house needs repairs that can’t be attempted yet, the land is in good condition and this year’s crop is in the ground and flourishing. I met with some of the tenant farmers, and I even think I won some of them over. It’ll take time, but someday it will be as it once was, a legacy to be proud of for my . . . for my son, if I should be so fortunate to ever have one.”
“I’m so happy for you, my lord.”
“Happy for me?” He paused and they stood in the dark shadows of a flowering c
rabapple on a carpet of pale petals, the sweet scent of the blossoms drifting down over them. Light from the brilliant ballroom had faded there to a dusky purple gilded with moonlight.
She turned and examined his face in the dim light. “You’ve found work worth doing and you have a determination and commitment to do it. There is no nobler task for a man than what you’ve found.”
“But would a lady feel the same?” He frowned down at their joined hands and played with her gloved fingers. “The house needs repair. It will be slow, though, since the land needs immediate attention. It’s not in too bad shape, but will need some investment. The orchards have been neglected for too long and need replacing, and the greenhouses need repair.” He shook his head. “And there I go again talking about it.”
He laughed at himself and squeezed her hands. “How would any lady find my conversation now anything but boring? Where did the charming wastrel of years gone by disappear to? I’m afraid if . . . if I marry, my bride and I will have to confine ourselves to a small portion of the house for a year or two until I can afford to repair the roof and see to the chimneys. And I won’t be able to buy new furnishings for some time to come.”
It was too easy for Amy to say what she felt truly in her heart, which was full to bursting with pride of him, pride for his reformation and pride for his strength in the face of almost insurmountable difficulties. How much easier it would have been to just keep going on in the way he always had! “My lord, any lady would be proud to have a husband who put the land and their future above trivialities like a grand home or new furnishings. You would do her honor by believing in her intelligence and ability to help in your endeavor.”
He stared at her, his eyes shadowed in the darkness. What she expected for an answer she wasn’t sure, but it was not what he did. He put one finger under her chin, lifted her face and kissed her lips gently, sweetly.
Nineteen
“You mustn’t look so lovely, my lady,” Bainbridge said, staring down at Lady Rowena as the dance ended. “It isn’t fair to all of the gentlemen who know they will never have a chance with you.”
The crowd swirled around them and the ballroom was hot and noisy, but when he looked down at her he may as well have been alone in a field of wildflowers. There was no denying it any longer, how he felt and what he wanted. What he would never have.
“What good is looking lovely, my lord,” Rowena answered, tossing her head, “when all you do is look at me to criticize?”
“I do that, don’t I?” He took her arm. “That’s only because I see so much in you. You are so . . . so perfect in your imperfection.” He shook his head, despairing at his own ineptitude. “That sounds ridiculous but I’m no poet, nor a beau. I can’t say the words you would want to hear. I know the ladies like a fellow like Pierson better. He has the romantic words that I don’t.”
Lady Rowena stared up at him. “Lord Pierson? All he ever wants to speak of is his gloomy estate and how much work there is to do there. It sounds a dead bore. I thought he would be fun. I thought a rake would be shocking and wild and lively, but he’s not.”
“My dear Lady Rowena, that is the difference between a rake and a reforming rake. Lord Pierson wishes to reform and he thinks to have you guide him to that reformation.”
They drifted toward the open terrace doors near the band, at the opposite end of the ballroom from where they had left Miss Corbett at the beginning of the dance. But Bainbridge didn’t want to release Lady Rowena just yet, not when he was hearing such interesting criticism of his old friend.
“I? I aid him to reform?” She snorted, an unladylike sound.
“He thinks you are mild and meek and sweet-tempered,” Bainbridge said, heaping coal on what he hoped was a firestorm of disapproval as he guided her toward the open doors. Deliberately sarcastic, he said, “He thinks you will be his moral compass and tell him how to achieve religion and humility.”
Lady Rowena stopped and stared up at him again, her brow furrowed. “A moral compass? Does he think me the Captain Cook of religion?”
Bainbridge threw back his head and laughed. It was what he most appreciated about the young lady, her unexpected sense of humor. She was much more intelligent and witty than she had ever let on in public, with an acerbic edge to her words that entertained him. But he immediately sobered. How had he come to this pass? How had he come to the point of falling in love with the real Lady Rowena while his friend still stubbornly insisted, beyond all reason, in loving the social face of the lady?
Could that even be called love, when one didn’t know the real person? That was like falling in love with a portrait of someone. He hesitated, but then gave in to the powerful urgings of his heart.
“Will you walk with me, my lady?” He indicated the cool green shadows of the garden below the terrace.
“I . . .” Rowena glanced back into the ballroom, looking perhaps for Miss Corbett, and then down into the garden. “I shouldn’t. I should find Amy. I should be dancing with . . . oh, who was next? I . . .” She fumbled for her dance card, and then stopped as Bainbridge took her arm.
But she wouldn’t meet his gaze. Even more interesting, for she had never failed to do so before. “Walk with me,” he entreated. He stooped, grasped her shoulders and caught her eyes and held her, fiercely. “Defy society, Rowena. Let the poor idiot who is next suffer. I want to talk to you. I need to talk to you.” He knew he was revealing his desperation, his turmoil, with every shake of her shoulders, but he didn’t care anymore. There were more important things in the world than a calm façade and unruffled demeanor.
She looked up at him and her pale face glowed. “What about?” Her voice was a whisper, cracking with suppressed emotion.
“Something of great importance to both of us. You know what it is, Rowena; you feel it too. I know you do.”
She hesitated, but then nodded. They descended the steps into the garden.
• • •
One night can change everything.
Pierson paced anxiously at his club. He was far too upset to talk to anyone, but he had left a message at the ball for Bainbridge, for he did need to talk to him, his best friend and most reliable guide to right and wrong.
What had he been thinking, kissing Miss Corbett? He must have been out of his mind. And after, she had looked up at him, her wide gray-blue eyes stricken as if he had just struck her. He had fumbled to explain, had apologized . . . in fact, he couldn’t quite remember what he had said, except that out of shame he had mumbled some weak apology, guided her back inside and fled the ballroom, not even able to face Lady Rowena. He needed to talk to Bainbridge and get his mind straight, and then the next day he was going to propose to Lady Rowena.
He stopped pacing, arrested by the thought. That was it, that was what he must do. He had waited long enough. He was going to propose and then visit her father and ask for her hand in marriage. It was what he had set out to do, and he must hesitate no longer. Hesitation was what had gotten him into this mess.
What mess? No! He pushed away his tumultuous thoughts. There was no mess. He was going to wed the girl of his dreams, the vision of loveliness who had inspired him to change his life. He spotted Bainbridge just entering and called out to him, earning filthy looks from some of the other men, the ones who came there for quiet. Motioning for Bainbridge to follow him, together they found a quiet niche away from other club members and sat down.
“What the devil do you mean, escaping the ball that way when you had just come back? I looked everywhere for you before that footman found me with your message.” Bainbridge stared at him, a dark frown on his face.
Pierson took a deep breath. He had to calm himself. He was not the impetuous fool he used to be, he told himself earnestly. He had decided that Lady Rowena was the one and had wooed her for weeks now, steady and slow. It was all planned out in his mind, the proposal, the wedding and Delacorte. She seemed to like him well enough, so now he would ask her to marry him and then ask her father. Then they would marry
and he would take her back to Delacorte and they would live happily ever.
Ah, but there was the rub. He couldn’t see her at Delacorte. And yet, she was a strong young lady; she would adjust from the luxury of her life as the pampered daughter of a duke to the Spartan existence they would need to live for a while. Surely she would. It would test their love and they would triumph.
Bainbridge still stared at him. “What’s wrong with you, Pierson? You look quite awful. Ill.”
“I’m not ill,” he snapped. “I’m . . . I’m going to ask Lady Rowena for her hand tomorrow.”
He expected some resistance. Bainbridge had been distinctly odd lately, for a couple of weeks now, but he would hear of nothing against his lady love. Bainbridge would just have to learn to love her as his friend’s wife.
Bainbridge rose and paced for a moment, and then turned to stand in front of Pierson. “My friend, what I’m about to say will shock you. You may hate me, I don’t know, but I have to say it. You don’t love her, Pierson, and she doesn’t love you. You only love who you think she is, some pure, sweet flower, and she’s not that. She is gloriously wild and contrary.”
“I knew you would try to talk me out of this,” Pierson said, leaping to his feet and facing his friend. “I knew it! I was prepared for this. But you don’t know her well enough, that’s all.”
“I know her better than you think,” Bainbridge said with an odd laugh. “I know her better than you. Do you know, Pierson, she remembers you from that mucky night when you were on the road and first saw her in her carriage.”
Pierson gasped in alarm, his dark eyes wide.
“Oh, she doesn’t know it was you and I didn’t enlighten her. But she remembers you, kneeling in the filthy water, dripping wet, accompanied by two whores. She saw you from the safety and warmth of her carriage. She told me all about the incident, and Pierson . . .” Bainbridge thrust his face closer to his friend. “Pierson, my friend, she laughed.” He poked the viscount in the chest. “She laughed about you being soaking wet and inebriated with your two . . . friends. Miss Corbett wanted to go back and help you but Rowena would not allow it. She thought it was hysterically funny, and that you got as good as you deserved.” He paced away, his fists balled.
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