by Mary Balogh
It was a decision he regretted soon after he arrived at the abbey itself, as grand and imposing a mansion as Penderris but without the comfort of being owned by one of his closest friends. The butler took his name and headed off upstairs to see if his master was at home—a rather silly affectation in the country.
Hugo was not kept waiting for long. The butler returned to invite Lord Trentham to follow him, and they made their way up to what turned out to be the drawing room.
And it was—damn it all!—crowded with people, not one of whom happened to be Lady Muir. It was too late to turn tail and run, however. Kilbourne was at the door waiting to greet him, a smile on his face, one hand outstretched. A pretty little lady was at his side, also smiling.
“Trentham,” Kilbourne said, shaking him warmly by the hand. “How good of you to call. On your way home from Cornwall, are you?”
Hugo did not disabuse him.
“I thought I would call in,” he said, “and see if Lady Muir has recovered fully from her accident.”
“She has,” Kilbourne said. “Indeed, she is out walking and is likely to get a soaking if she does not get under cover soon. Meet my countess. Lily, my love, this is Lord Trentham, who rescued Gwen in Cornwall.”
“Lord Trentham,” Lady Kilbourne said, also reaching out a hand for his. “Neville has told us all about you, and I will not embarrass you by gushing. But it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Do come in and meet our family. Everyone has come for Easter and for the baptism of our newest baby.”
And they took him about the room, the two of them, displaying him like a coveted trophy, introducing him as the man who had rescued their sister from being stranded with a badly sprained ankle above a deserted beach in Cornwall. And as the famous hero who had led the Forlorn Hope attack upon Badajoz.
Hugo could cheerfully have died of mortification—if such a mass of contradictions had been possible. He was introduced to the Dowager Countess of Kilbourne, who smiled kindly at him and thanked him for what he had done for her daughter. And he was introduced to the Duke and Duchess of Portfrey—had George not said that the duke had once been his friend?—and to the Duke and Duchess of Anburey; their son, the Marquess of Attingsborough, and his wife; and their daughter, the Countess of Sutton, and her husband. And to Viscount Ravensberg and his wife and Viscount Stern and his wife and one or two other persons. Not one of the people gathered there was without a title.
They were an amiable enough lot. The men all shook him heartily by the hand, the women were all delighted that he had been there on that deserted beach when Lady Muir had needed him. They all smiled and nodded graciously and asked about his journey and commented upon the dismal weather they had been having for the past several days and said how pleased they were finally to meet the hero who had seemed to disappear off the face of the earth after his great feat at Badajoz though simply everyone had been waiting to meet him.
Hugo nodded his head, clasped his hands behind his back, and understood the enormity of his presumption in coming here. He was a hero, perhaps—in their eyes. And he had his title—an empty thing, since everyone knew it had come as a trophy of war and had nothing whatsoever to do with birth or heritage. And he had come to suggest to one of their own that perhaps she might consider joining forces with him in matrimony.
His best course of action, he decided, was to take his leave without further delay. He need not wait to see her. He had come supposedly from Cornwall, on his way home from Penderris, and had made a detour out of politeness to inquire whether Lady Muir had recovered from her accident. Having been assured that she had recovered, he might now leave without anyone’s thinking it peculiar of him not to wait.
Or would they think it peculiar?
To the devil with them. Did he care what they thought?
He was not far from the drawing room window, talking to, or rather being talked at by someone—he had already forgotten most names—when the Countess of Kilbourne spoke up from nearby.
“There she is!” she exclaimed. “And it is raining—heavily. Oh, poor Gwen. She will be soaked. I shall hurry down and intercept her and take her up to my dressing room to dry off a bit.”
And she turned to hurry away while several of her guests, including Hugo himself, looked out into the driving rain and saw Lady Muir bobbing her way diagonally across the lawn below—her limp really was pronounced—her pelisse flapping about her in the wind and looking as though it was saturated with water, a large umbrella clutched in both hands and tipped sideways to shield as much of her person as was possible.
Hugo inhaled slowly.
Kilbourne was at his shoulder, laughing softly.
“Poor Gwen,” he said.
“If this is not an inconvenient time,” Hugo said quietly, “I would have a private word with you, Kilbourne.”
With which words, he thought, he had just burned a few bridges.
Gwen had recovered fully from her sprained ankle, but the same could not be said of her low spirits.
At first she had told herself that once she was on her feet again, everything in her life would be back to normal. It was mortally tedious to be confined to a sofa for most of the day even though many of her favorite activities were available to her there—reading, embroidering, tatting, writing letters. And she had had her mother for company. Lily and Neville had called every day, sometimes together, sometimes separately. The children, including the baby, often came with them. Neighbors had called.
And then, when she was on her feet and her spirits were still low, she had convinced herself that once the family arrived for Easter, all would be well. Lauren was coming as well as Elizabeth and Joseph and … oh, and everyone. She had looked forward to their coming with eager impatience.
But now there was no further reasonable explanation for the depression she could not seem to throw off. She was perfectly mobile again, and everyone was at the abbey and had been for the past two days. Even though the weather was dreary and they were all beginning to ask one another if they could remember what the sun looked like, there was plenty of company and activity indoors.
Gwen had discovered with some dismay that she could not enjoy that company as much as she always had. Everyone was part of a couple. Except her mother, of course. And her. And how self-pitying that sounded. She was single by choice. No woman who was widowed at the age of twenty-five could be expected to remain a widow for the rest of her life. And she had had numerous chances to remarry.
She had told no one about Hugo.
Not her mother, not Lily—and not Lauren. She had written a long letter to Lauren the day she discovered that she was not with child. She had told her cousin everything, including the fact that she had fallen in love and could not yet persuade herself to fall out again, though she would. And including the sordid fact that she had lain with him and had only now discovered that there were to be no disastrous consequences. But she had torn up the letter and written another. She would tell Lauren when she saw her in person, she had decided. There was not long to wait.
But now she had seen Lauren, and she had still said nothing even though Lauren knew there was something to tell and had asked her about it and tried a few times to get her alone so that they could have one of their long heart-to-heart chats. They had always been each other’s best friend and confidant. Gwen had resisted each time, and Lauren was looking concerned.
Gwen was walking alone this afternoon instead of accompanying her mother to the abbey for the rest of the day. She would follow later, she had said. Despite the heavy clouds and the blustery wind and the promise of rain at any moment, almost any of her cousins at the abbey would have come walking with her if she had asked. They could have come out in a merry group.
Lauren would be hurt that she had chosen solitude. Joseph would frown slightly and look a little puzzled—rather the way Lily and Neville and her mother had been looking at her lately, in fact.
It was so unlike her not always to be gregarious, cheerful, even sunny nature
d. She had tried to be at least cheerful since coming back home. She had even thought she had succeeded. But obviously she had not.
She had cried the day she knew she was not with child. What an absurd reaction. She ought to have been over the moon with relief. She had been relieved. Just not in an over-the-moon kind of way. Apart from anything else, it had been a further reminder that she could not conceive.
Sometimes—often, in fact—she tried to picture the child she had lost as he or she would have been now at the age of almost eight. Foolish imaginings. The child did not exist. And such imaginings merely left her wretched with grief and guilt.
When was she going to shake herself free of this massive, all-encompassing ennui? She was thoroughly irritated with herself. If she was not careful, she was going to develop into a whiner and would attract only fellow whiners as friends.
She was walking along the secluded woodland path that ran parallel to the perimeter of the park and parallel to the cliffs a short distance away until it reached the steep descent to the grassy valley below and the stone bridge over to the sandy beach beyond. She had always liked this path. She could walk straight onto it from the dower house, and it was overhung with the branches of low trees, which hid the cliffs and the sea. It was quiet and rural. It was not quite muddy today. It was not quite perfect for walking either, and it might yet turn muddy if it rained again—when it rained again.
Perhaps her mood would lift once they all moved to London after Easter and all the myriad entertainments of the Season began.
Hugo would be in London too.
Looking for a wife—of his own sort.
Gwen had made a decision in the secrecy of her heart. She was going to give serious consideration to any gentlemen who seemed interested in courting her this year—and there were usually a few. She would at last entertain the thought of marrying again. She would look for a kind, good-natured man, though he would have to be intelligent and sensible too. An older man might be better than a younger. Perhaps a widower who, like her, would be looking for the comfort of quiet companionship more than for anything more exciting. She would not look for passion. She had had passion quite recently and she did not want it ever again. It was far too raw and far too painful.
Perhaps by this time next year she would be married again. Perhaps she would even be … But, no. She would not think of that only to be horribly disappointed again. And she would not seek out the opinion of a physician who might be able to give her an informed opinion on her fertility. If he were to say no, even the faintest of her hopes would be dashed forever. And if he were to say yes, then she would be setting herself up for a worse disappointment if nothing happened after all.
She could live without children of her own. Of course she could. She was doing it now.
She had reached the end of the path and was at the top of the steep descent to the valley. This was the farthest she had walked since returning from Cornwall.
She rarely went down to the valley even though it was very picturesque with the waterfall that fell sheer from the cliffs to the deep, fern-surrounded pool. Her grandfather had built a small cottage beside the pool for her grandmother, who had liked to sketch there. She did not go down today either. She would not have done so even if the rain had not started. But suddenly it did, and it was no drizzle, as it had been earlier in the morning and all day yesterday. The heavens opened in a deluge from which even her umbrella was not going to provide much protection.
She turned to flee homeward. But the dower house was quite a distance away, and she knew it would be unwise to dash that far on her weakened ankle along a rain-slick path. The abbey was far closer if she cut diagonally across the sloping lawn to one side of the path. And she had been planning to go there later anyway.
She made her decision quickly and hurried up the grass, her head down, one hand holding up the hems of her dress and pelisse in a vain attempt to save them from becoming soggy and muddy, the other hand holding her umbrella at an angle best designed to keep at least part of herself dry. Before she arrived at the house she needed both hands on the umbrella handle to prevent the wind from blowing it away.
She arrived wet and breathless.
Lily must have seen her through the drawing room window. She was already downstairs in the hall waiting to greet her, and a footman was holding the door wide.
“Gwen!” Lily exclaimed. “You look half drowned, you poor thing. You had better come up to my dressing room and dry off. I will lend you something pretty to wear. Everyone is in the drawing room, and there is a visitor too.”
Gwen did not ask who the visitor was. Some neighbor, she supposed. But she followed Lily gratefully up the stairs. She could hardly appear in the drawing room looking as she did.
The drawing room door opened, however, as they reached the top of the first flight of stairs, and Neville stepped out. Gwen half smiled, half grimaced at him and then froze, for another man loomed in the doorway behind him, filling it with his massive presence. His dark eyes burned into hers.
Oh, dear God, the visitor.
“Lady Muir,” Lord Trentham said, inclining his head without removing his eyes from hers. He looked fierce and dour and rather like a coiled spring.
Whatever was he doing here?
“Oh,” Gwen said foolishly, “I look like a drowned rat.”
His eyes moved over her from head to toe and back again.
“You do,” he agreed, “though I would have been too polite to say so if you had not said it first.”
He was as blunt as ever.
Lily chose to be amused and laughed. Gwen merely stared and licked her lips, surely the only dry part of her person.
Oh, heavens, Hugo was here. At Newbury.
“I was about to whisk Gwen upstairs to dry off and change,” Lily said, “before she catches her death of cold.”
“Do that, my love,” Neville said. “Lord Trentham will wait, I do not doubt.”
“I will,” Hugo said, and Gwen yielded to the pressure of Lily’s hand pulling her in the direction of the stairs.
Whatever was he doing here?
Gwen donned a pale blue wool dress of Lily’s that was a little too long for her but otherwise fit well enough. Her hair was damp and curled more than it usually did, but it was not quite unmanageable. She was feeling breathless and dazed as she prepared to go back down to the drawing room.
Lily knew why Lord Trentham was here. He was on his way home from Cornwall, and since Newbury Abbey was not far out of his way, he had called to see that Gwen had fully recovered from her mishap.
“It is very obliging of him,” Lily said as she took Gwen’s soaked garments and set them in a heap close to her dressing room door. “And it is such an honor to meet him. Everyone is happy to see him at last. And he does not disappoint, does he? He is so large and … severe. He looks like a hero.”
Poor Hugo, Gwen thought. How he must be hating every moment. And he would not have had any idea, poor thing, that large numbers of her family were here. All of them aristocrats. None of them from his world.
Why had he really come? Surely he had not been at Penderris all this time? But there was no point in speculation. She would find out.
“And I daresay,” Lily said as they were leaving the room, “he has made the detour because he is a little sweet on you, Gwen. It would not be at all surprising, would it? And it would not be surprising if you were sweet on him. He is severe, but he is also … hmm. What is the word? Gorgeous? Yes, he is gorgeous.”
“Oh, goodness, Lily,” Gwen said as they made their way down the stairs, “you do allow your imagination to run away with you at times.”
Lily laughed. “It is a pity,” she said, “that your mind is set quite irrevocably against remarrying. Or is it?”
Gwen did not reply. Her stomach had tied itself in knots.
A sudden quiet descended upon the drawing room when they entered it. Neville was over by the window, frowning. Everyone else was present. Except Hugo.
&
nbsp; Lily noticed his absence too.
“Oh, has Lord Trentham left?” she asked. “But we were as quick as we could be. Poor Gwen was soaked through to the skin.”
He had left? After coming all this way to inquire about her ankle?
“He is in the library,” Neville said. “I just left him there. He wants a private word with Gwen.”
The hush seemed to intensify.
“It really is quite extraordinary,” their mother said, breaking it. “Lord Trentham is not at all the sort of man whose attentions you would ever dream of encouraging, Gwen. But he has come to offer for you nevertheless.”
“I consider it quite unpardonably presumptuous of him, Gwen,” Wilma, Countess of Sutton, said, “even if he did do you a considerable service when you were in Cornwall. I daresay the title and the accolades that followed upon his undoubtedly heroic act have gone to his head and given him ideas above his station.”
Wilma had never been Gwen’s favorite cousin. Sometimes it was hard to believe that she could possibly be Joseph’s sister.
“I did not feel I had the right to speak for you, I am sorry, Gwen,” Neville said. “You are thirty-two years old. I do not believe the offer is quite as impertinent as Wilma suggests, though. Trentham does have the title, after all, and he has the wealth to go with it. And he certainly is a great hero, perhaps the greatest of the recent wars. He could probably be the darling of polite society if he so chose—as our reaction to meeting him here a while ago would attest. It is perhaps to his credit that he has never sought fame or adulation and that he looked a little uncomfortable with them this afternoon. But his coming here to offer you marriage is a little embarrassing for you. I am sorry I could not merely send him away. I did, however, warn him that you have worn the willow for Muir quite constantly for seven years and are unlikely to give him the answer for which he hopes.”
