The Escape

by Mary Balogh

  “Crabbe.” Mr. Dean got to his feet when he was introduced and bowed stiffly. “I believe we have a previous acquaintance.”

  “An unhappy one, as I remember with deep regret, sir.” Julian returned his bow. “I was a wild young cub in those days.”

  He bowed to Mrs. Dean and asked her how she did.

  “Do you have an acquaintance with Miss Dean also, Mr. Crabbe?” Mrs. Hunt asked him, indicating Philippa by the window.

  At last she moved. And at last he looked at her.

  For the first time in two years.

  She curtsied. He bowed. She raised her eyes to his.

  He had held in his memory an image of a sweet, almost ethereally pretty blond, green-eyed slip of a girl with an eager, smiling countenance. Two years had made her only more beautiful, for she was clearly a woman now.

  If it was possible for a heart to stop and then resume its beating, then his surely did just that within the second or two that elapsed after the introduction.

  “Miss Dean,” he said.

  “Mr. Crabbe.”

  Ah, that well-remembered sweet, light voice. Memory had not done it full justice.

  Why the devil had Darleigh gone away?

  But he had, and she was free.

  She was free.

  “You must be wishing me at Jericho, ma’am,” he said to Mrs. Hunt, tearing his eyes away from Philippa’s. “I have come at an awkward time and embarrassed everyone.”

  He hoped the Deans would not hold it against him.

  “No one need be embarrassed on our account,” Mrs. Dean said briskly. “You invited us here for a week or two, Mrs. Hunt, on account of my mama-in-law’s friendship with Mrs. Pearl, and we have enjoyed your kind hospitality more than I can say. We will return to London with renewed vigor to enjoy the rest of the Season.”

  “It is kind of you to be so gracious,” Mrs. Hunt said. “I am quite sure there are many gentlemen who will be delighted to see Miss Dean back among them.”

  All eyes turned toward Philippa, and she half stumbled as she turned back to the window, reaching out to the windowsill to steady herself even as Julian took a hasty step toward her and her mother jumped to her feet.

  “Come and sit down, my love,” she said, hurrying toward her daughter.

  “No,” Philippa said, “thank you. I—I would rather take a turn outside and breathe in some fresh air if I may be excused. It has turned into such a lovely day.”

  “I will come with you,” her mother said.

  “I beg you will not.” Philippa looked distressed again. “I would rather—”

  “If I may be permitted,” Julian said. “My presence here in this room is decidedly de trop. But it would be my pleasure to escort Miss Dean into the garden before the house if her maid will chaperon her.”

  “That is both tactful and kind of you, Mr. Crabbe,” elderly Mrs. Pearl said even as Mr. Dean opened his mouth to speak. “You are a relative of the Redfords of Bath, are you not? And a nephew of the Duke of Stanbrook, did you say? His heir, I believe?”

  “I have that honor, ma’am.” Julian inclined his head to her. “Mr. Redford is my mother’s brother.” He looked beyond her to Mr. Dean, who was frowning at him. “With your permission, sir, I will escort Miss Dean into the garden before I resume my journey.”

  “This has all been too much for you, Miss Dean,” one of Darleigh’s sisters said. “Oh, just wait until I get my hands upon that brother of mine.”

  “If you will be so good,” Mr. Dean said to Julian, still frowning. “My daughter’s maid will be sent for.”

  And Julian crossed the distance to the window and offered his arm—and she slid her hand through it and for a moment the world stood still.

  Her eyes met his, and it seemed to him that the world stopped for her too.

  “Thank you, sir,” she murmured, and he led her from the room while everyone watched with deep concern.

  They walked along the wide corridor to the great hall without speaking. He led her through the double doors, down the flight of marble steps to the terrace, and across it to the parterres of the flower garden. A young woman, presumably her maid, came scurrying after them but remained on the terrace.

  He drew air into his lungs and allowed himself to feel elation. She was free.

  “Julian,” she said softly.

  “Philippa.” He looked down at her and saw that color had taken the place of paleness in her cheeks. And her eyes were bright. “My love.”

  “They thought it was because Viscount Darleigh has run off rather than marry me,” she said, “when in reality it was because the butler came into the room and Mrs. Hunt took your card from his tray and said your name. And then you came.”

  “Did you think I would not?” he asked her.

  She turned her face up to his.

  “Just yesterday,” she said, “I was out here with him. He is charming and good-natured and very likable, and I played horrid games with him. I am ashamed of myself.”

  “Games?”

  “I did what I could see most annoys him when his family does it,” she told him, “though he is always cheerful and well mannered and patient with them. I spoke to him as though he were an invalid, I agreed with everything he said, and I offered him help even when he did not need it and resented it. I drove him away.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked her. “Those seem very small, very subtle things, especially if he is accustomed to such treatment from his family.”

  “He told me,” she said, “that he was convinced the earth was flat, that the experts had got it wrong all those centuries ago when they apparently discovered that it is a sphere. He said it was obvious to an idiot that if one walked to the horizon one would fall off the edge. And I agreed with him.”

  He grinned at her. “He is an idiot, then?”

  “Far from it,” she said. “He was goading me. He was playing games with me as surely as I was with him. I strongly suspected it at the time and was even more sure last night in bed when I thought it all over. I decided to do today what I was tempted to do yesterday—tell him the truth and beg him not to offer for me, for I was convinced that he did not wish to marry me any more than I wanted to marry him. But he was not at breakfast, and he did not appear afterward, and everyone was horribly embarrassed and horribly cheerful, and just before you came, Mrs. Hunt admitted that he was gone and was very probably not going to come back for a while, though she had no idea how long a while that would be.”

  “Philippa.” His grin had softened to a smile, and his hand came to rest over hers on his arm. Elation bubbled up inside him. But he was aware of the watching maid and of possibly watching eyes behind the windows as he bent his head a little closer to hers. “You are free.”

  But she looked troubled.

  “It is such an embarrassment and humiliation for Mama and Papa,” she told him. “Papa is looking quite uncharacteristically bewildered. Mama is trying to be gracious about it, as though she really believes we were invited here merely to enjoy a few days in the country with friends. I feel dreadful, for it is all my fault.”

  “Yet Darleigh is the one who has fled,” he said. “If he is not an idiot, and I must confess I was not given the impression he was when I met him at Penderris Hall, then clearly he was desperate for a way out of marrying you, Philippa, especially after you drove him to the brink yesterday. I daresay you were forced upon him by all those female relatives of his and he has been feeling as trapped by circumstances as you. If he had really wished to marry you, he would not have played such a trick upon you yesterday. The blame, if blame is the correct word, is entirely his. All you did was agree with him, after all. Your parents will recover from their embarrassment. They would not wish to see you married to a man who would run away from home without a word to anyone rather than make you an offer, after all.”

  “Oh, Julian,” she said, and they stopped walking and turned to face each other. “I was so relieved to hear that he has gone. And it was so difficult not to s
how it when everyone else was horribly embarrassed and humiliated and sorry for me.”

  He devoured her face with his eyes and fought the urge to pull her into his arms.

  “It has been an eternity,” he said.

  “At the very least,” she agreed, and for the first time she smiled at him—brightly and radiantly. “You came. I never expected it. Not for a single moment. I only hoped you would remain in London and that I would have a chance to come back there to you. You had my letter, then?”

  “In Bath,” he told her. “I have not even been to London. How could I go there when you were here and I was in danger of losing you?”

  He was about to reach for her hand to raise to his lips. But something caught at the edge of his vision, and he was saved from repeating the error he had made two years ago. Mr. Dean was striding toward them.

  “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Crabbe, in leaving when you did,” he said stiffly, “and in removing my daughter from the embarrassment of being in that room after she had been jilted in the most shameful manner. I am glad to see you have some color back in your cheeks, Philippa.”

  “I am feeling better, Papa,” she said. “And I am not terribly disappointed, you know. I hope you and Mama are not.”

  “We will return to London tomorrow,” he said. “Your mother is already remembering all the invitations she accepted for you from the day after tomorrow on.”

  “Ah, London,” Julian said. “I am on my way there too—after I have spent a few days with my friend close to here, that is. My town house has been opened and my mother is there expecting me. I will hope to call upon you there, sir, to assure myself that Miss Dean has fully recovered from her embarrassment here. And I would say that Lord Darleigh’s loss is very definitely the gain of some other fortunate gentleman.”

  “Good of you to say so,” Mr. Dean said gruffly. “You lost your father a few years ago. You have brought your property in Cornwall back from the brink of ruin, I have heard.”

  “It is making a decent profit again this year, sir,” Julian told him, “and will make even more next year. It has been hard work but worth every moment.”

  Mr. Dean gave him an affable nod. “Well, Philippa,” he said, “your mama is awaiting you inside.”

  “I must be on my way,” Julian told him, making a bow that encompassed both him and Philippa.

  He gazed hungrily at her, but only for a moment, and she gazed back before making him a slight curtsy and turning back to the house with her father.

  Julian watched them go for a few moments and then strode resolutely toward the stables.

  His heart was singing even while he urged caution upon it.

  3

  Throughout the return journey from Gloucestershire to London, Philippa’s parents tried to console her for her disappointment, even though she assured them that she was not disappointed at all. She could not press the point too strongly, of course, lest they suspect that she had had a hand in the viscount fleeing.

  She felt guilty about that. Equally, she felt that he would not have gone simply because she agreed with everything he said.

  When they were not talking in the carriage, she dreamed.

  Julian had come to Middlebury Park. It had not even occurred to her that he might, but then Lord Darleigh’s butler had come to announce a visitor, and Mrs. Hunt, lifting the visiting card from his silver tray, had murmured his name.

  “The Honorable Mr. Julian Crabbe,” she had said. “And he has word of my son? Show him in.”

  And Philippa had known she was about to see him again—suddenly, with no warning at all.

  Ah, memory was a poor preserver of reality. Philippa had had vivid memories of Julian from those weeks in Bath, memories of a tall young man of pleasing, athletic build with a handsome, good-humored face. And a smile to make her breath catch in her throat and dark eyes that could turn her knees weak. And thick, dark, shining hair that made her fingers itch to run through it.

  But the present reality was so much more … real. And so much more.

  A man, a stranger, had stridden into the morning room at Middlebury Park following the butler’s announcement. A confident gentleman with a commanding presence and a serious, intelligent face beneath dark, neatly styled hair. A man to be reckoned with. A man who looked virile and elegant even in riding breeches and top boots with a coat of expensive cut and a simply tied neckcloth.

  And yet not a stranger. For he was Julian as he had become in two years, and her heart would have known him anywhere. Her whole body had yearned toward him with an awareness she had felt for no other man.

  He had made a good impression. He was the nephew and heir of the Duke of Stanbrook, who had taken in Lord Darleigh when he was carried back from the Peninsula both deaf and blind. And he had come, as was courteous and proper, to pay his respects—and had then behaved with consummate tact, withdrawing his person as soon as he decently could and escorting Philippa out into the garden for a few minutes so that she could recover from her near swoon.

  Even Philippa’s parents had been inclined to look kindly upon him and had commented upon how he had changed for the better since their last encounter with him.

  He was not mentioned during the journey back to London.

  But surely when they met him there again …

  Oh, surely.

  He did not come for five whole days. Of course, he would have felt obliged to stay away for a short while in order to make his story about visiting a friend in Gloucestershire believable.

  In the meanwhile, the busy round of social activities resumed. Philippa went out every evening, including a first visit to Almack’s, her mother having finally procured the coveted vouchers. She danced every set there except the waltz, for which she needed permission from one of the patronesses. She had three regular partners wherever she went, each of them both personable and eligible, and five or six other gentlemen had solicited her hand for a dance more than once or stopped to exchange pleasantries if they saw her on Bond Street or Oxford Street or strolling in Hyde Park.

  They could put the unfortunate incident of their visit to Middlebury Park out of their minds, her mama remarked on the fifth morning after their return while they were at breakfast. Miss Ginty had invited Philippa to a picnic at Richmond during the afternoon and there was to be a party of young people with them as well as Mrs. Ginty, of course, to act as chaperon. Mr. Mendelhall was to be one of their number. He had singled out Philippa for particular attention ever since her come-out, and everyone knew that he was in possession of a substantial fortune.

  “I believe we may be confident of an offer from him before too many weeks have passed,” she said, smiling at her daughter and looking at her husband.

  Mr. Mendelhall was good-looking in a boyish sort of way, and he had agreeable manners and easy conversation. Philippa enjoyed his company and that of her other new friends. Indeed, she told herself at the end of a very pleasant afternoon, she was one of the most fortunate of mortals. If she tried to list all her blessings, she would grow weary long before reaching the end of the list.

  Except that Julian had not come.

  And five days seemed like forever.

  How much longer would he stay away?

  Mrs. Ginty’s coachman set down the steps of the barouche when she arrived home, and she turned on the pavement to offer her thanks and say her farewells. There was a flurry of merry goodbyes as the butler opened the door of the house and held it open for her, and the barouche went on its way.

  Philippa ran up the steps and into the house—and almost collided with someone coming the other way.

  He caught her upper arms in his hands to steady her and took one step back from her.

  And suddenly the determinedly cheerful smile she had brought into the house with her so that her mama and papa would smile in return and believe her happy—suddenly her smile glowed with all the sunshine in the world.

  “Julian!” she cried.

  “Miss Dean.” He dropped his h
ands from her arms and made her a bow, and she was reminded of the presence of the butler and perhaps other persons not far off.

  “Mr. Crabbe,” she said.

  She could not tear her gaze from his face. His skin had a dark tone to it, as though it was sun-bronzed. She had forgotten that about him. It was a fact that made him more than just handsome.

  “I came to pay my respects to Mrs. Dean,” he told her, “and to assure myself that you had returned safely from Gloucestershire. I was fortunate enough to find Mr. Dean at home too.”

  “Oh,” she said, disappointment suddenly taking the place of the first euphoria of seeing that he had come at last. She had missed his visit. “I have been to Richmond for a picnic.”

  “I trust you enjoyed it,” he said. “You have certainly had a lovely day after all the rain of the past week. Mrs. Dean has informed me that you will be at Lady Ingersoll’s ball tomorrow evening, and she has kindly granted me permission to solicit your hand for a set of dances there.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes devoured him.

  “Will you waltz with me?”

  “Oh,” she said again, less happily. “No, not the waltz, I am afraid. I have not yet been granted permission.”

  “Permission?” He frowned. “That archaic social law is still in force, is it? Would you waltz with me if you were permitted?”

  “But I am not, alas,” she told him. “I have been out for only—”

  He set a finger briefly over her lips and winked slowly at her. For a moment he looked like the old roguish Julian who had so attracted her when she was sixteen.

  “I said if,” he reminded her. “If you were allowed to waltz, would you waltz with me?”

  “For all the rest of my life,” she said.

  And for a moment there was that intense look in his eyes before he smiled and bowed again with graceful formality.

  “I shall avail myself of the permission of your mother, then, Miss Dean,” he said, “and the tacit permission of your father and ask for a dance tomorrow evening. I beg you to reserve a set for me.”

  “I shall certainly do so, sir,” she promised him.