Unforgiven (The Horsemen Trilogy)

by Mary Balogh

  “I felt responsible,” Kenneth said. “She suffered dreadfully, Nat. She told me she wished she need never set eyes on me again. I allowed for the fact that she spoke only hours after her ordeal. I gave her a week. When I asked her again, she said the same thing. So if you are imagining that I have cruelly abandoned a wife who is pining for me, you may revise the image.”

  “And she said this one week after miscarrying,” Mr. Gascoigne said. “One week, Ken? And you believed her?”

  “Since when have you become an authority on women?” Kenneth asked.

  “Since having five sisters and a resident female cousin,” Mr. Gascoigne said. “They never say what they really mean when their emotions are up, Ken. They are just like men in that respect. I am leaving. It was quite all right, you know, for me to deny my pain after I had been under the knife that time and to curse you for offering me soothing words and laudanum—I recovered faster. I am not at all convinced that you will recover at all if you deny your pain. On which words of priceless wisdom, I really do take my leave. I’ll see you at White’s in the morning?”

  Kenneth went to bed after seeing his friend on his way. But an hour later, as dawn broke, he was still awake and staring upward. He diverted himself for a while with images of having Nat Gascoigne tied up hand and foot and of visiting exquisite torture on his person. But since it was impossible after all to contemplate the pain of a friend with any degree of pleasure, he got up from bed, pulled on a night robe, and went downstairs to the library, where he wrote a letter.

  He set it on the tray in the hall to go out with the morning post before he went back to bed—and to sleep.

  * * *

  MOIRA had indeed recovered her health, and boundless energy to go with it, it seemed. Although Penwith was not a large manor and her mother had always been the one to see to its smooth running, Moira set about the daunting task of teaching herself to be mistress of Dunbarton despite the rather disapproving references the housekeeper occasionally made to the way the Countess of Haverford had always done things. Moira had reminded Mrs. Whiteman—and herself—that she was now the Countess of Haverford.

  She spent a great deal of time out of doors, consulting with the head gardener, making suggestions for changes in the courtyard and in the park. Soon the fountain in the courtyard, which for years had been merely ornamental, was again spouting water, and the empty lawns surrounding it sported colorful flower beds.

  She visited or entertained almost daily, refusing to cower away out of sight for fear of what was being said about her among her friends and neighbors. What they believed about her broken engagement to Sir Edwin Baillie, about her hasty marriage, about her illness, about the fact that she now lived alone, she did not know. She made no explanation and all her acquaintance—even Harriet—were far too well-bred to ask. But of course she was accepted. After all, everything was respectable and even more than respectable in her life. She soon learned that the difference between being Miss Moira Hayes and being the Countess of Haverford was like the difference between night and day. Her company was eagerly sought after, as were her invitations.

  She walked out a great deal, alone almost always. Large as the park about Dunbarton was, it was not large enough for her energy. She walked along the cliff tops, across the beach, along the tops of the hills, through the valley. She watched spring pass by and summer begin to take its place.

  She was very fortunate, she convinced herself. She had been saved from a marriage of convenience that had been only a little less than abhorrent to her. She had been saved from the alternative of impoverishment. She had a home as magnificent as any in England, she dared say, and enough pin money with which to buy everything she could possibly need. Indeed, when she had had new clothes made after recovering her health, she had waited for the bill to come that she might pay it, but when she had finally asked Mr. Watkins about it, he had looked surprised and assured her that his lordship had already taken care of it. She had security for a lifetime—and so did her mother. If and when Sir Edwin decided that Mama must leave Penwith, then she would move to Dunbarton.

  It was all more than Moira could possibly have dreamed of just a few months before. And she need never fear that the happy routine of her days would be upset. He had gone forever. He would never come back. She was happy that it was all finally over. She even consoled herself for her miscarriage with the thought that now there would not be even the birth of a child to bring him home. She was far better off without him. She truly did not want ever to see him again.

  It was strange, then, perhaps, that she should react as she did when the butler handed her the post on her return from an early walk to the cliffs one morning and she thumbed through the pile as she stood in the hall, paused at one letter, turned pale, swayed on her feet, and then went racing off up the stairs and into her private sitting room to stand with her back against the door, her eyes closed, as if she thought to keep an army at bay.

  It would be a formal inquiry after her health, she thought. It would be a scolding over her extravagance with the dressmaker. It would be a reprimand about the unnecessary expense of repairing the fountain and making the flower beds. It would be . . . She opened her eyes and looked down at the letter. Her hand, she saw, was trembling. Why? What was wrong with her that she should react thus to a letter from him?

  She sat down on the chaise longue and opened the letter. It was very short, she saw. A mere business letter, then. What had she expected? Something personal? He had signed himself boldly at the end—Haverford.

  “Ma’am,” he had written, “it would please me if you would set out for London within two days of your receipt of this. My steward will take care of all the details. There will be a few weeks of the Season to be enjoyed after your arrival here. Your servant, Haverford.”

  She stared at it for a long time. It was a summons, she thought. It would please me . . . Your servant . . . They were meaningless courtesies. It was an imperious summons, a command. But why? Why would it please him? Why should he care that she enjoy a few weeks of the Season? Why did he wish to see her again?

  She would not go. She would write just as short, just as curt a letter informing him that it would not please her to travel to town and that she would derive no enjoyment from the London Season.

  She could go to London. She had been once to Bath when she was sixteen. She had been nowhere else in her whole life. She could go to London during the Season. There would be balls and routs and concerts and the theater and Vauxhall Gardens and Hyde Park. She had heard about them all, dreamed about them, but had never expected to see them or experience them for herself.

  She could go—the day after tomorrow.

  She could see him again. There was such a stabbing of pain in her lower abdomen that she bent her head down and lifted the letter to her face. She could see him again. She could see him again.

  She could punish herself yet again and once more disturb the quiet peace of her days.

  She sat up once more and stared way off into space. He had summoned her. He had given Mr. Watkins commands. She had vowed to obey him. Very well, she would obey him now.

  She would go to London.

  She would see him again.

  17

  FOR longer than a week, Kenneth had been performing mental calculations, always with the same results. If his messenger had taken the least amount of time possible to ride to Dunbarton, and if Watkins had been able to make the necessary arrangements in the two days allotted him, and if his carriage made the best time possible on the way to London, then he might expect her tomorrow—tomorrow at the very earliest. Most likely it would be the day after or perhaps the day after that, especially if rain should hinder travel. He would try not to expect her tomorrow.

  He would be wise not to expect her at all. It had taken him an hour to write and rewrite his short letter. He had been careful not to command her to come but merely to inform her that it wo
uld please him if she did so. A command might have had less effect than a request with Moira. If she did not wish to come, or if she felt that defiance was worth any cost, then she simply would not come.

  And what would he do then? Go after her? He knew he would not. If she refused to come, then he would end the matter right there—forget about Dunbarton, forget that he was a married man. He would travel all over the world. Perhaps he would employ a mistress and take her with him. He would put something of a life together. He would not mope over a wife who did not want him. As for begetting a son and heir—well, to the devil with it.

  The very earliest he could expect her was tomorrow.

  He knew that if he stayed at home he would be like a caged bear. And so he went off to a garden party in Richmond and spent an agreeable afternoon mingling with the other guests, strolling with Lady Rawleigh, talking with Miss Wishart and her newly betrothed, an earnest young man for whom she obviously felt a deep affection, playing a game of croquet with Mrs. Herrington, a bold widow, who had told him just the week before that she was in search of a new lover and favored large blond men, and avoiding Miss Wilcox.

  He went off to White’s afterward and dined with a group of acquaintances, including Nat and Eden. He decided not to go to the theater afterward or to Mrs. Somerton’s soirée. Perhaps he would look in at Almack’s later, he told a group who were off to the opera.

  “You look like a bear in a cage, Ken,” Lord Pelham said.

  Kenneth smiled and stopped drumming his fingernails on the tabletop.

  “I suppose,” Lord Pelham said, “you are considering whether to accept the widow’s proposition. She told me about it, you see, when she thought I was about to make her one of my own.”

  “Was she right, Ede?” Mr. Gascoigne asked, chuckling. “Were you about to?”

  “You have just set up your little dancer,” Kenneth said.

  Lord Pelham grinned. “And a fine and vigorous performance she gives, too,” he said, “both on and off the stage. I was merely being gallant to Mrs. Herrington.”

  “Ha,” Mr. Gascoigne said.

  “She would make a fascinating armful, though, Ken,” Lord Pelham said. “She told me that blond men drive her—wild was the word she used, especially when they come equipped with tall military bearing and cold silver eyes. God’s truth.” He held up his right hand while his two friends roared with laughter. He joined them.

  “I am not at present in the market for a mistress,” Kenneth said, getting to his feet. “Come to Haverford House for port? Almack’s later? Do you fancy it?”

  “We had better not be one second later than eleven, then,” Mr. Gascoigne said, “or the dragons will not let us past the doors—even if we put you in front, Ken, to charm them with your blond hair and tall military bearing and chilly silver eyes.”

  They all laughed again as they left the dining room.

  They were still laughing when they arrived at Haverford House on Grosvenor Square. They were reenacting the Battle of Waterloo, avoiding the bloodbath it had been by organizing a bout of single combat between a French champion and a British champion who would slay his foe with his blond good looks and his tall military bearing and his silver eyes cold as ice and sharp as lance points. The ability to laugh and to focus on the absurd had stood them in good stead during the years when there had been little in life that was amusing.

  “Have port and brandy sent up to the drawing room,” Kenneth instructed his butler.

  “Yes, m’lord,” the man said. “M’lord—”

  “We could have sent Ede along with you as your squire,” Mr. Gascoigne said. “His blue eyes have been known to wreak havoc upon certain persons who have the misfortune to gaze into them.”

  “Now, if old Boney could only have been prevailed upon to send out a female as his champion . . .” Lord Pelham said with a loud sigh.

  “She would probably have turned out to favor dark Latin lovers,” Kenneth said, “with black oiled hair and curled, waxed mustaches and teeth.” They were all laughing as he opened the drawing room door and led the way inside.

  He stopped short a few paces inside the door. A woman was rising from a chair beside the fireplace, all tall grace and willowy curves. She wore a stylish gown of pale blue, elegant in its simplicity. Her hair, dark and shining, was curled softly about her face, piled high behind. Her long oval face was again like that of a Renaissance Madonna. There was a flush on her cheeks, a light in her eyes. She looked in perfect health. She looked beautiful.

  He was aware of silence in the room and took a few hurried steps forward before stopping and making her a bow. She curtsied, her dark eyes remaining on his.

  “Ma’am,” he said, “you have made excellent time. I trust you are well?”

  “Very well, thank you, my lord,” she said.

  “And I trust your journey was comfortable and not too exhausting?” he asked.

  “It was very pleasant, thank you,” she said.

  He felt so breathless he could scarcely speak. It seemed so very unreal to have her—to have Moira here in London. She had come. She had not defied him. He took two more steps forward.

  “May I have the honor of presenting my friends to you?” he asked. “Mr. Gascoigne. Lord Pelham.” He turned and indicated them, noted their polite, curious glances. “The Countess of Haverford, gentlemen.”

  “Mr. Gascoigne. Lord Pelham.” She curtsied.

  “My lady.”

  “Ma’am.”

  They bowed.

  It was all stiffly, embarrassingly formal.

  “But of course,” he said, “you have met before.”

  Recognition dawned in Nat’s eyes first. “When we were staying at Dunbarton,” he said. “You played the pianoforte for the dancing one evening. It is a pleasure to meet you again, ma’am.”

  Eden’s face was a blank mask that hid horrified embarrassment, if Kenneth’s guess was not very wide of the mark. “You displayed remarkable talent, ma’am,” he said.

  She smiled.

  “Please do sit down again, my dear,” Kenneth said, and then cursed himself for deciding upon the endearment, which sounded hopelessly unnatural. “I have asked for port to be sent up. Shall I order the tea tray too?”

  “Yes, please.” She sat down on the chair she had vacated at their entrance and smiled at his guests while he pulled on the bell rope and went to stand beside her chair.

  “My wife has come up from Cornwall to join me for the last few weeks of the Season,” he explained. It would have been very much easier if he had told them he was expecting her. But he had been afraid of appearing weak and foolish to his friends if she had refused to come.

  “You will find town busier than usual, ma’am,” Lord Pelham said, “with numbers swelled by former officer types like us.”

  “I have never been to London before, my lord,” she said. “I have never been beyond Cornwall except for one visit to Bath when I was a girl.”

  Kenneth looked at her in some astonishment. He had not known that. He had assumed that Hayes must have brought her to town for at least one Season.

  “Then you must prepare yourself to be amazed and impressed, ma’am,” Mr. Gascoigne said. “Being in town during the Season is an experience not to be missed.”

  “I am looking forward to it, sir,” she said, smiling. “Did you know my husband in the army?”

  He had seen her, Kenneth realized suddenly, only stiffly uncomfortable in the company of Sir Edwin Baillie and angry and defiant and hostile in her dealings with himself both before and after their fateful indiscretion. He stood beside her chair now, feeling that in some ways he was seeing her for the first time. She was warm and charming, interested and interesting. He watched, fascinated, as his friends relaxed and fell under her spell during the half hour before Nat, closely followed by Eden, got determinedly to his feet, made his bow, and took his
leave.

  “We will see ourselves out, Ken,” Lord Pelham said, lifting a staying hand as Kenneth would have accompanied them from the room. “Lady Haverford? It has been an honor and a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

  Kenneth stood looking at the closed door for several silent moments after they had left. “Well, ma’am,” he said finally, turning to look at her. She was standing before the fireplace. Some of the light and the warmth had gone from her face, but the flush of color remained in her cheeks. He could hardly believe how she had changed for the better in two months. She certainly showed no visible signs of having pined for him—ridiculous thought.

  “Well, my lord,” she said quietly and she resumed her seat. Her spine did not touch the back of the chair, he noticed, and yet she sat with an easy grace.

  He walked toward the empty fireplace and set one hand on the high mantel and one foot on the hearth. He gazed at the unlit coals. He felt all the awkwardness of being alone with her and for a moment cursed his impulsiveness in having sent for her.

  “I was not sure whether to expect you or not,” he said. “I thought you might not come.”

  “When I married you,” she said, “I vowed to obey you, my lord.”

  He turned his head to look at her for a moment before directing his gaze back at the coals. He almost smiled. He did not at all believe in such meekness. “You are in good looks,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She made no effort to carry the conversation now as she had done while his friends were still present. She showed no visible pleasure in the compliment he had paid her. There was a lengthy silence.

  “Why did you come?” he asked. “Apart from the fact that you felt obedience necessary.”

  “I wished to come,” she said. “I wished to see London. I wished to see it during the Season. I wished to participate in some of its entertainments. I would have had to be inhuman not to wish to come.”

  “You had no wish to see me again?” he asked.