The Proposal sc-1

by Mary Balogh

  It was obvious what was wrong with one of the other gentlemen. He hauled himself to his feet when Gwen came into the room, using two canes strapped to his arms. His legs looked unnaturally twisted between the canes, and it appeared as though he was supporting much of his weight on his arms.

  “Lady Muir,” the duke said from his position before the hearth, “I appreciate your making the effort to join us. I fully understand that it must have been an effort. I am delighted to have you as a guest in my home, though I regret the circumstances. I look forward to becoming better acquainted with you during the coming week. You will not hesitate, I hope, to ask for anything you may need.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, flushing. “You are very kind.”

  His words were courtesy itself, though his manner was stiff, distant, austere. But at least he was courteous. Unlike Lord Trentham, he was clearly a gentleman from head to toe. An extremely elegant gentleman too.

  “You have met Imogen, Lady Barclay, and Flavian, Viscount Ponsonby,” he continued, crossing the room to pour a glass of wine, which he brought across to her. “Allow me to introduce Sir Benedict Harper.”

  He indicated the man with the twisted legs. He was tall and slim, with a thin face and angular features that had once perhaps been purely handsome. Now they gave evidence of prolonged suffering and pain.

  “Lady Muir.”

  “Sir Benedict.” Gwen inclined her head to him.

  “And Ralph, Earl of Berwick,” the duke said, indicating a good-looking young man if one ignored the scar that slashed across one side of his face. He nodded to her but neither spoke nor smiled.

  Another dour man.

  “My lord,” she said.

  “And Vincent, Lord Darleigh,” His Grace said.

  He was a slight young man with curly fair hair. He had an open, cheerful, smiling face, and the largest, loveliest blue eyes Gwen had ever seen. Now there was a man destined to break young hearts, she thought. There was no sign of any injury he might have sustained either to body or soul. And he was so very young. If he really had been an officer during the wars, he must have been a mere boy …

  He seemed out of place in this group. He looked too young and carefree to have suffered greatly.

  “My lord,” Gwen said.

  “You have the voice of a beautiful woman, Lady Muir,” he said, “and I am told you have the looks to match. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Imogen says that you are horribly embarrassed to be here, but you need not be. We sent Hugo down onto the beach today to find you. He has a well-earned reputation for never failing in any mission set him, and this was no exception. He fetched a rare beauty.”

  Gwen was feeling a jolt of shock that had nothing to do with his last words. Indeed, for a few moments she did not even fully comprehend what they were. She had suddenly realized that despite the loveliness of his eyes and the fact that he appeared to be gazing directly at her, Lord Darleigh was blind.

  Perhaps his was the worst injury of all, she thought. She could imagine little worse than losing one’s sight. Yet he smiled and was purely charming. Did his smile extend all the way inside himself, though? There was something slightly disturbing about his cheerful demeanor now that she understood the devastation the wars had wreaked upon his life.

  “If Hugo had fetched a gargoyle, Vincent,” the Earl of Berwick said, “it would have made no difference to you, would it?”

  “Ah,” Lord Darleigh said, turning his eyes with great accuracy in the direction of the earl and smiling sweetly, “it would not matter to me, Ralph, would it, provided she had the soul of an angel.”

  “A hit indeed, Ralph,” Viscount Ponsonby said.

  And that was when Gwen heard the echo of what Viscount Darleigh had said to her—We sent Hugo down onto the beach today to find you … He fetched a rare beauty.

  “Lord Trentham came to find me?” she asked. “But how did he know I would be there? I did not plan that walk ahead of time.”

  “You would do well, Vincent,” Lord Trentham said, “to tie your tongue in a knot.”

  “Too late,” Viscount Ponsonby said. “Your secret must out, Hugo. Lady Muir, for a number of reasons, all of which seem sound to Hugo, he has decided to take a bride this year. His only p-problem is selection. He is arguably the finest soldier the British armies have produced in the last twenty years. He is not, alas, equally renowned as an accomplished l-lover and wooer of the fair sex. When he explained his situation to us last evening and added, wise man, that he was not in search of any grand love affair, he was advised to look about him for a personable female, explain to her that he is a lord and really quite f-fabulously wealthy, and then suggest that she marry him. He agreed that he would go down to the beach today and find such a woman. And here you are.”

  If her cheeks grew any hotter, Gwen thought, they would surely burst into flame. And all her earlier embarrassment and anger had returned with interest. She looked at Lord Trentham, who was standing stiff and erect like a soldier at ease, but not at ease, and her chin lifted and her eyes sparked.

  “Perhaps, then, Lord Trentham,” she said, “you would care to inform me of your stature and wealth now, in the presence of your friends. And make me your offer of marriage.”

  He looked directly at her and said nothing. He was not really given the chance.

  “Ma’am,” Lord Darleigh said, his blue eyes on hers again, though now they looked as troubled as his voice sounded. “I spoke to make everyone laugh. It was not until the words were out of my mouth that I realized how unpardonably embarrassing they were to you. We were, of course, all joking last evening, and it was pure chance that you were on the beach and hurt yourself and that Hugo happened to be there to offer you assistance. I beg you to forgive me and to forgive Hugo. He is blameless in your embarrassment. The fault is all mine.”

  Gwen transferred her gaze to him. And she laughed.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I can quite see the funny side of the coincidence.”

  She was not sure she spoke the truth.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” The young lord sounded relieved.

  “It is time that particular topic of conversation was put to rest,” Sir Benedict said. “Where is your home, Lady Muir? When you are not staying with … Mrs. Parkinson, is it?”

  “I live at Newbury Abbey in Dorsetshire,” Gwen said. “Or rather, my home is the dower house in the park. I live there with my mother. My brother and his family live at the abbey—the Earl of Kilbourne, that is.”

  “I knew him slightly in the Peninsula,” Lord Trentham said, “though he had a viscount’s title then. He was shipped home, if I remember correctly, after his scouting party was ambushed in the mountains of Portugal, leaving him close to death. He made a full recovery, then?”

  “He is well,” Gwen said.

  “It was Kilbourne’s wife, was it not,” the duke asked, “who turned out to be the long-lost daughter of the Duke of Portfrey?”

  “Yes,” Gwen said. “Lily, my sister-in-law.”

  “Portfrey and I were close friends in the long-ago days of our youth,” the Duke of Stanbrook said.

  “He is married to my aunt,” she said. “Those family relationships are a little complicated, to say the least.”

  The duke nodded.

  “Lady Muir,” he said, “it will be best for you, I believe, if we excuse you from sitting at the dining room table with us. Although I could provide a stool for your foot, it would not be adequate. The good doctor was quite adamant in his instruction that you keep your foot elevated for the next week. You will, therefore, dine in here. I do hope that will not be too inconvenient for you. We will not desert you entirely, however. Hugo has been appointed to bear you company. I can assure you that he will not assail your ears with tales of his wealth or with suggestions that you marry him in order to secure a part of it for yourself.”

  Her smile was austere.

  “I daresay I will never live down that faux pas,” Lord Darleigh said
ruefully.

  The duke offered his arm to Lady Barclay and led her from the room. The others followed. Sir Benedict Harper, Gwen noticed, did not use his canes as crutches even though they looked sturdy enough to bear his weight. Rather, he walked slowly and with painstaking care, using them for balance.

  The silence in the drawing room after the door had closed behind the diners seemed almost unbearably loud.

  Chapter 4

  It had not been his fault, Gwen thought, that joke and the coincidence of her being on the beach today of all days. It just felt as if it were his fault. She resented him anyway. She had just been horribly embarrassed.

  And Lord Trentham looked as if he resented her. Probably because he had just been horribly embarrassed.

  His eyes were on the door as though he could still see his fellow guests through its panels and longed to be on the other side with them. She wished quite fervently that he was there too.

  “Will Sir Benedict ever walk without his canes?” she asked for something to say.

  He pursed his lips, and for a moment she thought he would not answer.

  “The whole world beyond these walls,” he said eventually, still watching the door, “would say a resounding no. The whole world called him fool for refusing to have the legs amputated and then for not accepting reality and resigning himself to living the rest of his life in bed or at least in a chair. There are six of us within this house who would wager a fortune apiece on him. He swears he will dance one day, and the only thing we wonder about is who his partner will be.”

  Oh dear, she thought after another short silence, this was going to be an uphill battle.

  “Do you often see people down on the beach?” she asked.

  He turned to look at her.

  “Never,” he said. “In all the times I have been down there, I have never encountered another soul who was not also from this house. Until today.”

  There was a suggestion of reproach in his voice.

  “Then I suppose,” she said, “it seemed a safe thing to say to your friends, who were teasing you. That you would find a woman to whom to propose marriage down on the beach, I mean.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “It did.”

  She smiled at him, and then laughed softly. He looked back, no answering amusement in his face.

  “It all really is funny,” she said. “Except that now you will doubtless be teased endlessly. And I am confined here for at least a week with a sprained ankle. And,” she added when he still did not smile, “you and I will probably be horribly embarrassed in each other’s company until I finally leave here.”

  “If I could throttle young Darleigh,” he said, “without actually committing murder, I would.”

  Gwen laughed again.

  And silence descended once more.

  “Lord Trentham,” she said, “you really do not need to bear me company here, you know. You came to Penderris to enjoy the companionship of the Duke of Stanbrook and your fellow guests. I daresay your suffering together here for so long established a special bond among you, and I have now intruded upon that intimacy. Everyone has been most kind and courteous to me, but I am quite determined to be as little of a nuisance while I must remain here as I possibly can be. Please feel free to join the others in the dining room.”

  He still stood looking down at her, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “You would have me thwart the will of my host, then?” he asked her. “I will not do it, ma’am. I will remain here.”

  Lord Trentham. He could be anything from a baron on up to a marquess, Gwen thought, though she had never heard of him before today. And if what Viscount Ponsonby had said was correct, he was also extremely wealthy. Yet he did not have the manners of a thick plank.

  She inclined her head to him and resolved not to utter another word before he did, though she would thereby be lowering her manners to the level of his. So be it.

  But before the silence could become uncomfortable again, the door opened to admit two servants, who proceeded to move a table closer to the sofa and set it for one diner. Before those servants had time to leave the room, two others entered bearing laden trays. One was set across Gwen’s lap while the other was carried to the table, where the various dishes were set out for Lord Trentham’s dinner.

  The servants left as silently as they had come. Gwen looked down at her soup and picked up her spoon as Lord Trentham took his place at the table.

  “I beg your pardon,” Lord Trentham said, “for the embarrassment a seemingly harmless joke has caused you, Lady Muir. It is one thing to be teased by friends. It is another to be humiliated by strangers.”

  She looked at him in surprise.

  “I daresay,” she said, “I will survive the ordeal.”

  He returned her look, saw that she was smiling, and nodded curtly before addressing himself to his dinner.

  The Duke of Stanbrook had an excellent chef, Gwen thought, if the oxtail soup was anything to judge by.

  “You are in search of a wife, Lord Trentham?” she said. “Do you have any particular lady in mind?”

  “No,” he said. “But I want someone of my own sort. A practical, capable woman.”

  She looked up at him. Someone of my own sort.

  “I was not born a gentleman,” he explained. “My title was awarded to me during the wars, as a result of something I did. My father was probably one of the wealthiest men in England. He was a very successful businessman. But he was not a gentleman, and he had no desire to be one. He had no social ambitions for his children either. He despised the upper classes as idle wastrels, if the truth were told. He wanted us to fit in where we belonged. I have not always honored his wishes, but in that particular one I concur with him. It would suit me best to find a wife of my own class.”

  Much had been explained, Gwen thought.

  “What did you do?” she asked as she pushed back her empty soup bowl and drew forward her plate of roast beef and vegetables.

  He looked back at her, his eyebrows raised.

  “It must have been something extraordinary,” she said, “if the reward was a title.”

  He shrugged.

  “I led a Forlorn Hope,” he said.

  “A Forlorn Hope?” Her knife and fork remained suspended above her plate. “And you survived it?”

  “As you see,” he said.

  She gazed at him in wonder and admiration. A Forlorn Hope was almost always suicidal and almost always a failure. He could not have failed if he had been so rewarded. And good heavens, he was not even a gentleman. There were not many officers who were not.

  “I do not talk about it,” he said, cutting into his meat. “Ever.”

  Gwen continued to stare for a few moments before resuming her meal. Were the memories so painful, then, that they were not even tempered by the reward? Was it there that he had been so horribly wounded that he had spent a long time here recovering his health?

  But his title, she realized, sat uneasily upon his shoulders.

  “How long have you been widowed?” he asked her in what, she guessed, was a determined effort to change the subject.

  “Seven years,” she said.

  “You have never wished to marry again?” he asked.

  “Never,” she said—and thought of that strange, crashing loneliness she had felt down on the beach.

  “You loved him, then?” he asked.

  “Yes.” It was true. Despite everything, she had loved Vernon. “Yes, I loved him.”

  “How did he die?” he asked.

  A gentleman would not have asked such a question.

  “He fell,” she told him, “over the balustrade of the gallery above the marble hall in our home. He landed on his head and died instantly.”

  Too late it occurred to her that she might have answered with some truth, as he had done a short while ago—I do not talk about it. Ever.

  He swallowed the food that was in his mouth. But she knew what he was about to ask even before he spoke again.


  “How long was this,” he asked, “after you fell off your horse and lost your unborn child?”

  Well, she was committed now.

  “A year,” she said. “A little less.”

  “You had a marriage unusually punctuated with violence,” he said.

  Her answer had not needed comment. Or, rather, not such a comment. She set her knife and fork down across her half-empty plate with a little clatter.

  “You are impertinent, Lord Trentham,” she said.

  Oh, but this was her own fault. His very first question had been impertinent. She ought to have told him so then.

  “I am,” he said. “It is not how a gentleman behaves, is it? Or a man who is not a gentleman when he is talking to a lady. I have never freed myself of the habit, when I wish to know something, of simply asking. It is not always the polite thing to do, I have learned.”

  She finished the food on her plate, moved the plate to the back of the tray, and drew forward her pudding dish. She picked up her wineglass and sipped from it. She set it down and sighed.

  “My closest family members,” she said, “have always chosen to believe quite steadfastly that Vernon and I had a blissful love relationship that was blighted by accident and tragedy. Other people are notably silent upon the subject of my marriage and my husband’s death, but I can often almost hear them thinking and assuming that it was a marriage filled with violence and abuse.”

  “And was it?” he asked.

  She closed her eyes briefly.

  “Sometimes,” she said, “life is too complicated for there to be a simple answer to a simple question. I did indeed love him, and he loved me. Often our love was blissful. But … Well, sometimes it seemed to me that Vernon was two different people. Often—most of the time, in fact—he was cheerful and charming and witty and intelligent and affectionate and a whole host of other things that made him very dear to me. But occasionally, although he remained in many ways much the same, there was something almost … oh, desperate about his high spirits. And I always felt at such times that there was the finest of fine lines between happiness and despair, and he trod that line. The trouble was that he never came out of it on the side of happiness. He always tumbled the other way. And then for days, occasionally even for a few weeks, he was plunged into the blackest of black moods and nothing I could say or do would pull him free—until one day, without any warning at all, he would be back to his usual self. I learned to recognize the moment when his mood was turning to the overe-xuberant. I learned to dread such moments because there was no coaxing him back from the brink. Though for the last year his moods hovered most of the time between black and blacker. And you are the only person, Lord Trentham, to whom I have spoken of such things. I have no idea why I have broken my silence with a near stranger.”