by Mary Balogh
In the final paragraph his lawyer had suggested that Lieutenant Colonel Bennington seriously consider making a bold move to improve his chances of winning the case. Had he thought of retiring from the military in order to demonstrate that he was ready to settle down and personally take on the raising of his child? And had he considered remarrying so that the child would have a mother to return home to as well as a father? Grimes respectfully recommended that he make both moves without delay.
Rather than going up to his room to read the letter as he had done the last time, Gil had chosen to read it at the breakfast table. Miss Westcott was there reading a letter of her own and Harry was glancing through a London paper that had been delivered with the mail.
“From your lawyer again?” Harry asked. He had closed the paper without Gil noticing him do it.
“Yes.” He folded the letter and set it down beside his plate while Miss Westcott looked up. “It seems you have a lawyerly mind, Harry. Grimes suggests exactly what you recommended to me last week.”
“That you marry Abby?” Harry said. “Intelligent man.”
“Not Miss Westcott specifically,” Gil said. “But he does advise me to retire from my military career and remarry if I am to hope that a judge will look favorably upon my bid to reclaim my daughter. God damn it, I— Oh, the devil. Pardon me, Miss Westcott. But it boils my blood to discover that I have to fight for my own child when I never consented to giving her into her grandparents’ care. She had a perfectly decent nurse in my own home as well as several competent servants. She would have been safe and well cared for there even with Caroline gone. Does a father have no rights in this country? Must he—”
“There is no point in ripping up at Abby and me,” Harry said, cutting him off. “We are already in your corner, Gil. The thing is, are you going to follow your lawyer’s advice? Are you going to give up your commission?”
“I think I might,” Gil said cautiously. “In fact, I most certainly will. I had been intending to go home within the next few days in any case. I need to be there, to settle, to have my own place of belonging again. I need to see that it is ready for Katy. I have already missed more than two years of her life. And it has been clear to me that I cannot pursue a military career and be a good father.”
“There is no better feeling than that of being in your own home to stay,” Harry said. “And are you going to marry Abby?”
“God damn it—”
“Harry!” They spoke simultaneously.
“Well?” Harry looked from one to the other of them. “Are you? Or let me put it another way. Abby, are you going to marry Gil?”
Instead of snapping out an angry denial, she drew a deep breath and released it on an audible sigh. Instead of speaking, she closed her eyes.
“I think, Harry,” Gil said, scraping his chair along the floor with the backs of his knees as he got to his feet, “indeed, I know, there is much truth in that old saying that three is a crowd. This may not be my house, but I have been severely provoked. So has your sister.” He pointed at the door of the breakfast parlor. “Out. As fast as your legs will take you.”
Harry looked toward the sideboard as he stood. “I daresay that order includes servants too.”
The butler made his stately way across the room and held the door open while Harry winked at Gil and waggled his eyebrows at his sister before stepping out of the room. The butler followed him out and shut the door firmly behind them.
“When he chooses to be,” Miss Westcott said, “Harry is every bit as obnoxious as he used to be when he was a boy. More so. Oh, a hundred times more. I am so mortified I could . . . scream.”
Fortunately she did not do so.
“Miss Westcott,” Gil said, still on his feet, “will you marry me?”
“Oh.” She set her letter down beside her plate, paused to line it up parallel with the edge of the table, and leaned back in her chair as though to put more distance between herself and him. “Has it really come to this, then?”
“I do not for the life of me know,” he said. “Has it?”
“It would be madness,” she said.
“It would,” he agreed. He gripped the back of his chair and looked down at his own letter. “Will you?”
She did not answer for so long that he thought she might remain forever silent. And who could blame her? He stole a glance at her and saw that she was staring into space, a slight frown between her brows. It really would be madness. He took his cup and crossed to the sideboard to pour himself more coffee. Then he stood with his back against the sideboard, his cup cradled in hands turned suddenly cold. He heard the echo of her words—Has it really come to this, then? It would be madness. And “this,” he realized, was one of those pivotal moments in life that would forever change it regardless of what they decided.
They were damned either way.
There was a bone-deep, well nigh debilitating fear just before a battle, something bordering upon panic. He would defy any military man, of whatever rank, to claim that he had never, not even once, considered running. Deserting. Some poor sods actually did it and found themselves tied to a whipping triangle for a lashing or even facing a hanging as a result. It was a fear that disappeared once the action started, to be replaced by the mad bloodlust that was sometimes called courage.
He felt a similar sort of fear now and could not understand why he had just poured himself more coffee. Just to warm his hands maybe? Or to enable him to put more distance between them? Would the fear disappear if she said yes? But to be replaced by what?
She was looking directly at him, he realized, and they locked eyes.
“I think we had better do it,” she said.
“Why?” he asked, gripping his cup more tightly.
Unexpectedly she laughed. And good God she was pretty. He did not believe she was really amused, though.
“What would be in it for you?” he asked her. “It is perfectly obvious what would be in it for me.”
She broke eye contact with him in order to look down at her plate. “I have been thinking since we spoke several days ago,” she said. “I have been waiting for six years. Not entirely passively, it is true. I have spent the time . . . exploring who I am, deciding what I want of life and what I do not want. I have found myself glad that circumstances prevented me from moving blindly forward with the life I had been brought up from birth to expect. It was so mindless, that life, so devoid of any real understanding, of any real choice. But those expectations need to be replaced with something else, or I will live the rest of my life waiting for I know not what and trying to persuade myself that I am contented with the way things are.”
“Is marriage to me that something else, then?” he asked.
Her eyes came back to his. “I do not know,” she said. “But I do not suppose it is ever possible to be absolutely, perfectly sure of anything that is in the future, is it? One can only do what feels right.”
He considered taking a drink of his coffee. But he could not be certain his hands would be steady.
“And the idea of marrying me feels right?” he asked.
“Nothing has before now, you see,” she said. “And it is not just because I want to help you retrieve your daughter. That would feel—oh, like a good reason in a way, perhaps, but not the right reason. It is also because I want you.”
Her cheeks flushed and her eyes returned to her letter while he froze.
I want you.
Just what Caroline had said every time they met, until they lay together against all his better instincts. But Miss Westcott was not Caroline. Not even close.
“Why?” he asked her.
“I do not know,” she said again. “I mean, with my head I do not know. I cannot give a rational explanation. Even with my heart I do not know, for I do not believe I am in love with you. It is just that . . . I think you are worth knowing, though I cannot be sur
e. And I think I want to live with you, to be with you. I am sorry. This sounds like utter nonsense. Only I have never even been tempted to marry before, you see, and now I am, and I think I would be sorry if I convinced myself that marrying you would be madness and let you go. I think I would miss you after you were gone. I know I would. I think I would be unhappy.”
Good God. He wanted to run a million miles. Desert the field.
“What if,” he said, “when you get to know me, you discover that I am not at all what you want?” As Caroline had.
She laughed unexpectedly again and looked back at him. “I do not know what I want,” she said. “I have no preconceived notion of what being married to you would be like. I am certainly not being blinded by romance. I can only feel that this is what I ought to do and what I want to do if I am given the opportunity. And it would seem that I am being given it.”
I think I would miss you after you were gone. I think I would be unhappy. But she had also said her heart was not involved.
“I have killed many men, Miss Westcott,” he said.
“Yes.” She sighed. “I know. But you also saved an ugly puppy from starvation and allowed Robbie to spend hours with the dog in your room, your own private space, because you felt his need. You have been kind to Harry. I will not allow you always to see yourself in the darkest possible light.”
“As a guttersnipe?” he said.
“Yes, that too,” she said. “You did not grow up in the gutter. Your mother housed you and fed and clothed you. But even if you had, your basic human dignity would not be the less. Why should a king be of more value as a human being than a vagabond?”
“Those are revolutionary words,” he said, “for a lady who grew up among the aristocracy.”
“They are truths I have learned, or, rather, worked out for myself, during the past six years,” she said.
He turned and set his cup, the coffee untouched, on the sideboard behind him. He folded his arms over his chest.
“Would you wish me to ride to London to speak with your mother and stepfather, then?” he asked.
“Oh no,” she said sharply, her eyes widening. “No. You would find yourself surrounded by the whole Westcott family in no time at all, Lieutenant Colonel Bennington. They thrive upon crises.”
“Gil,” he said. “It is my name. Short for Gilbert, which I have never liked.” Their marrying would be a family crisis, then, would it? But of course it would. For whether she liked the word or not, he would always be a guttersnipe.
“Gil,” she said.
“Do you prefer Abigail or Abby?” he asked.
“Those close to me call me Abby,” she told him.
“And am I to be close to you?” he asked.
“Yes.” She frowned.
“Abby, then,” he said. “You do not wish me to speak to anyone at all?”
“It is Harry rather than Marcel who is head of my particular family,” she said. “Marcel has been very kind to me, but I never think of him as my stepfather and he has never called himself that or tried to exert any sort of fatherly authority over me. I do not need anyone’s consent, of course. I am three years past my majority.”
“I will, nevertheless, speak formally with Harry,” he said.
“Is it real, then?” she asked meeting his eyes.
“I believe it is,” he said, holding her gaze. “Abby, will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she said, and without her looking away, her teeth sank into her lower lip.
He wondered what the devil he was doing—or, rather, what he had done. Was this all about Katy? It felt like more than that.
“How do you wish to proceed, then?” he asked. “With a planned wedding—with guests? Or with a quiet one by special license?”
“The wedding guests would all be my family and neighbors,” she said. “It would not seem right. Besides, such a wedding would take time to plan. You do not have time to spare, do you? You need to be married as soon as possible.”
Was it all about Katy, then? She had said that for her it was not. But for him? Did he have any feelings for Abby Westcott? Any expectation of being able to make her happy? He would be presenting her—he hoped—with a ready-made child. That was not necessarily a good thing for her. Was it? Another woman’s child? But clearly she knew what she was getting into on that score.
“I shall go up to London for a license, then,” he said. “Today. I ought to be back by tomorrow night or the day after tomorrow at the latest. I will have a word with the vicar before I go.”
“Oh,” she said. “It is real, then.”
“Abby.” He strode across to her side of the table and set one hand on the back of her chair, the other on the table beside her empty plate. “It is not too late now to change your mind. It will not be too late when I return. It will be too late only after the nuptial service and the signing of the register.”
“Ah, but I do not want it to be unreal,” she said, looking up at him.
She wanted him. She had said that. In a few days’ time she would be his wife. He suddenly wondered how sweet making love to her would be. He would find out soon enough, he supposed.
He bent his head and kissed her, and she turned on her chair and raised her hands to his shoulders. Her mouth was soft and warm and sweet as it had been in the summerhouse, but this time she kissed him back, pushing her lips tentatively against his own and slightly parting her lips. A novice’s kiss. He felt instant desire. He wondered how passionate coupling with her would be. Ladies were said not to favor passion. Caroline had been the exception to that rule, though he was not sure passion was quite the word to describe her preferences.
But he must not think of his first wife when he was about to wed a second.
She kept her hands on his shoulders after he had lifted his head from hers, and gazed into his eyes. He had not noticed fully before just how blue hers were.
“Take the carriage,” she said. “It is too far to ride. You have not done a great deal of riding in your life, have you? You were not born in the saddle.”
As gentlemen were? “It is that obvious, is it?” he said.
“No,” she told him. “It was an educated guess. But your answer was a full confession.” She smiled.
Not many people had smiled at him in the course of his life, he thought. It was rather a startling realization.
“I will take the carriage,” he promised, “if Harry has no objection. Shall we go and find him?”
“Yes.” She slid her hands from his shoulders and got to her feet, a little slip of a thing. Well, not so little, perhaps. She was of medium height, even a bit above it. But she was slender and delicate and . . .
And he wanted her too.
* * *
• • •
Abigail did not change her mind. She did not panic or fall into the trap of questioning herself. She went quietly about her business, which consisted mainly of going through the linen cupboards with Mrs. Sullivan, a tedious but necessary job of sorting out which sheets were in perfectly good condition, which needed some mending, and which were fit for nothing more than to be cut up into cleaning rags. It was the perfect time to do it—rain fell outside almost from the moment she watched the carriage make its way down the drive, bearing Lieutenant Colonel Bennington—Gil—off to London. She hoped the roads were not so muddy that they would make travel hazardous.
She spent some time too at her needlework, more often than not her embroidery, which required the most concentration and artistry since she did not use a pattern but devised her own design as she went along. Beauty was usually at her feet, a disconsolate lump despite the fuss both Abigail and Harry made of her.
“She misses Gil,” Harry said on the second evening, tickling the dog with the tip of his shoe.
“Yes, poor thing,” his sister agreed.
“Do you, Ab?” Harry asked. “
Miss him, I mean? I have been feeling a bit guilty, I must admit. Did I push you into something you would not have done unless I had? Did I rush you, since there does seem to be a bit of a hurry for him to get married? Did I do the wrong thing? I wish actually I had kept my mouth shut.”
“Well, it is too late now,” she said, reaching out to turn the candelabra on the table beside her so that the candlelight would shine more directly onto her embroidery. “But when have you known me to do anything, Harry, just because you told me to do it? Or because you tried to goad me into doing it?”
He thought for a few moments. “Never?” he suggested.
“Right first time,” she said.
“You have no regrets, then?” he asked.
She sighed. “If I did,” she said, “I would call the whole thing off, you know. No one is attempting to coerce me, least of all Gil.”
“Well, that is a relief to know,” he said. “I had a hard time sleeping last night. And you need not say it served me right. I know it.”
“If I regret anything,” she told him, “it is that there will be no one at our wedding except you. No family, I mean. They will not even know. Not even Mama and Camille. I suppose I could have written to them both and sworn them to secrecy. But then we would have had to wait for them to come, and there would be no one to come for Gil. And we would have to tell them the full truth about him and about my reason for marrying him in such a hurry. And they would try to talk me out of it.”
“Do you think they would?” he asked.
“He grew up as the poorest of the poor, Harry,” she said. “His mother raised him alone. She took in other people’s washing in order to scrape together a living. He was reviled and bullied by other children and, I daresay, by adults too. He lied about his age in order to enlist with a recruiting sergeant. He became an officer only because his father, who had had nothing to do with Gil all his life, decided at last to do something magnanimous for his son. And now Gil’s daughter has been taken by her grandparents, who argue that he is unfit to have her because he physically abused his wife and threatened violence to the grandmother and her servants. How do you think Mama and Camille would react? Not to mention Grandmama—both grandmamas—and Aunt Matilda and Alexander and Avery and all the rest of them?”
