by Mary Balogh
The Earl of Sheringford had called him a dull dog.
She had been horribly disconcerted by the marquess's announcement last evening. But had she also been /upset/? Did she feel heartbroken today?
In light of everything else that had happened, she had spared him scarcely a thought.
These people wanted her to be happy. But how did they know what would make her happy?
Did /she/ know?
Once she had thought happiness and Crispin Dew were synonymous terms.
But today he had offered her marriage again, and she had refused because … Oh, there was a host of reasons.
But she realized something as her family all looked at her in love and concern and waited for her to say something.
She was ripe for rebellion.
Or else she was just stubborn.
She had such a short acquaintance with the Earl of Sheringford that she could not even remember clearly what he looked like. She knew he was tall, well built, dark-haired and dark-complexioned, with angular features and almost black eyes. She knew that her first impression of him was that he was almost ugly. She remembered too that her eyes had nevertheless been drawn to that face while they talked. There had been an intensity there, in his eyes, in the tautness of his almost morose features, that had somehow fascinated her. /He/ had fascinated her.
She had never held a conversation with any other man that even remotely resembled her conversation with him. His honesty had fairly taken her breath away. He had urged her to marry him in almost the same breath as he had admitted to being a wife-stealer and a man who had abandoned his bride on their wedding day. And he had not pretended to any sudden infatuation for her, Margaret. He had told her exactly why he wished her to marry him. He needed a wife before two more weeks had passed.
Surely any other man in the same circumstances would have gone out of his way to charm her with sweet talk and lies, and to keep the truth about himself from her for as long as possible – until after their marriage if he could.
He was – /different/. She was quite sure that if she met him again in the cold light of day and listened to his marriage proposal, she would reject him in a heartbeat. Today she would see him for the unattractive, ill-tempered villain that he was. She would see the desperation in him and be repulsed by it. What man, after all, would be prepared to marry a stranger – /any/ stranger – merely in order to keep the house and property from which he drew an income until his grandfather died and left him a fortune?
And she was the stranger he had chosen.
It was really quite insulting.
But he had fascinated her and still did.
And she /was/ stubborn. Her family was united in urging her against even seeing the Earl of Sheringford again. Crispin had urged her to change her mind and marry /him/ instead. Mrs. Pennethorne had urged her to put an end to her betrothal.
The silence had become quite lengthy – and very tense. "The Earl of Sheringford is coming here this afternoon," she said, "to speak with /me/ – after he has spoken with you, Stephen. It would be uncivil of me to refuse to receive him, especially when I was the one who caused all the gossip by introducing him to Crispin as my betrothed last evening. It was not /he/ who said it, re member." "You were upset," Vanessa said, "at seeing Crispin again so unexpectedly, Meg. It is understandable that – " But Margaret held up a hand to stop her from continuing. "It is neither understandable nor excusable," she said, "that I would use one gentleman merely to spite another. Which, if I am to be perfectly honest with you and myself, is exactly what I did. I will speak with the earl this afternoon. I will apologize for involving him in all this foolish gossip when I daresay he hoped to slip quietly back into society after so many years as a castaway. What has happened was all my fault, and I owe it to Lord Sheringford to tell him so in person." "It is just like you to take all the burden of blame on your own shoulders, Meg," Stephen said, looking troubled. "It is something you always did. Let me do something for you now in return. Let me send the fellow on his way." "He is not /the fellow/, Stephen," she said, getting to her feet. "He is the Earl of Sheringford. And I will speak with him myself." "Bravo, Meg," Jasper said. "Oh, Meg," Vanessa said, hurrying toward her to hug her, "you are always so noble. But I am just afraid that you will see him to apologize to him and end up betrothing yourself to him." "Trust me," Margaret said as they all got up.
Trust her to do /what/, though?
Would she really be seeing Lord Sheringford only to express her regrets over the consequences of her impulsive words last evening? Which he had urged upon her, by the way.
Or would she be seeing him because she wanted to bring his face into focus again?
Or because she was fascinated by her memories of him?
Or because she was thirty years old and had just come face to face with a faithless lover from her past and with the fiancГ©e of the man she had expected to marry herself this year?
Or because she had just been called righteous and the soul of propriety and a woman of spotless virtue? "Oh, we /do/ trust you, Meg," Katherine said, hugging her after Vanessa had stepped back. "Of course we do." Yes, of course they did. She had always been eminently trustworthy and dependable and predictable, had she not?
And dull.
7
ALMOST precisely fifty hours after his grandfather had issued his ultimatum, Duncan was standing alone in the library at Merton House, staring out through the window, waiting to make a formal marriage offer to Miss Margaret Huxtable.
It was all disorienting, to say the least. Good Lord, he did not know the woman at all. She did not know /him/. He could scarcely even remember what she looked like. He remembered well enough what she had /felt/ like, pressed against his body, but the more he tried to bring her face into focus in his mind, the more he saw a blank surrounded by dark hair. He could remember only that he had thought her beautiful.
Which was /some/ consolation, he supposed.
It had been something of a relief to find Merton alone in the library when he had been admitted more than half an hour ago. He had fully expected Moreland to be there too – and the duke was a formidable figure of a man. He had Greek blood in him, and it showed.
But Merton was no soft touch either, young as he was. Duncan would guess his age to be no more than twenty-two or three. He had made no bones about the fact that that he disliked and despised Duncan and opposed any match with his sister. He had offered a more than generous dowry with her but had insisted that every penny of it be put at her disposal and that of any children of the marriage. He had probed meticulously into Duncan's present means and future prospects and had declared that he would call upon the Marquess of Claverbrook to confirm what he had heard – since he did not trust the word of a known villain.
It had taken all of Duncan's self-control to stop himself from stalking out of the room and out of the house. It could not be done. He had made Miss Huxtable an offer of sorts last evening, the morning paper had made much of it this morning, and honor dictated that the offer be made official today. If she refused him, so be it. He would resume the hunt with thirteen days to spare.
He had taken a huge bouquet of flowers, he remembered, when he had called to propose marriage to Caroline Turner. A footman had whisked it away at the door and he had not seen it again. He had been welcomed with smiles and bows and a hearty handshake by her father. He had gone down on one knee when alone with Caroline and delivered a rehearsed speech that was more floral than the vanished bouquet. He had covered the back of her hand with kisses when she had said yes and called himself the happiest of men. He had assured her that he loved her and would until he drew his final breath – and beyond that through all eternity. And he had meant every word, God help him.
He had come empty-handed today, and there was no rehearsed speech rattling around in his brain. And no ardor accelerating his heartbeat.
The door opened behind him and closed again even as he turned. He was relieved to recognize her, though she looked somewhat
different. She was dressed in dark blue today. Her hair was styled more simply and looked thicker and glossier. Candlelight had not unduly flattered her. She must be one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Not to mention voluptuous – he had not exaggerated /that/ fact in his memory.
She also looked calm and self-possessed. And … intelligent. Her eyes looked him over steadily and unhurriedly. Perhaps, like him, she had been afraid that she might not even recognize him today.
He bowed formally. She did not curtsy in return. She inclined her head instead. "Miss Huxtable," he said. "Lord Sheringford." "I do apologize," he said, "for the very public reaction to our encounter last evening." "On the contrary," she said, "it is I who must apologize to you, my lord. If I had been looking where I was going, I would not have run into you. And if I had not told Major Dew in the park the day before yesterday that I was betrothed and then been embarrassed last evening to discover that the Marquess of Allingham was already engaged to marry someone else, I would not have presented /you/ as my betrothed. It was all very foolish and very out of character for me. But that latter fact is beside the point. I have caused you embarrassment and I am sorry." He had been surprised last evening by her candor. He was surprised again today. He had expected that she would heap blame upon him. "There will be no further embarrassment for either of us," he said, "when a formal announcement of our engagement appears in tomorrow's papers." She moved farther into the room and seated herself on a chair by the fireplace. She indicated one on the other side. "Do sit down," she said. "You are under no moral obligation whatsoever to offer for me today, you know. It would be absurd for either of us to feel forced into marrying by a little idle gossip. We have done nothing wrong or even indiscreet. We danced and talked in a crowded ballroom, as did everyone else who was there. Both activities are the very point of a ball. There really has been nothing resembling scandal, has there?
Gossip is simply that – empty talk that is quickly replaced by some other.
Everyone will forget within a week." "But Miss Huxtable – " She held up a hand to stop him from continuing. "However," she said, "I do remember your telling me that your need to marry without delay is a rather desperate one. It is this fact, I suppose, that has brought you here this afternoon." "I hope," he said, "I would have come anyway." "I would have had Stephen assure you that your gallantry was appreciated but quite unnecessary," she said. "I would have had him send you on your way to freedom with my thanks. But freedom is not what you will face if I send you away, is it?" "There is always freedom," he said, "unless, I suppose, one is actually incarcerated. I could seek employment." "But you would prefer to marry," she said. "Why is that?" She was actually /interviewing/ him. This encounter was not proceeding at all as he had expected. "I suppose," he said, "because I would prefer to live the life of a landed gentleman to which I am accustomed." "Poverty is not a pleasant thing," she said. "We were always poor until Stephen inherited the earldom. We were not unhappy. Indeed, we were often very happy indeed. But we had never known wealth or the security of a large home and farms and a sizable income. Now that we /do/ know it, I do not doubt we would find it extremely difficult to go back. You have never known poverty, I suppose. Are you afraid of it?" He leaned back in his chair and cocked one eyebrow. "I am not really afraid of anything, Miss Huxtable," he said.
There was indeed very little left to fear. The worst had happened to him already. And somehow he would manage no matter what happened – or did not happen – during the next two weeks. All sorts of little boys, after all, were raised quite adequately by men who had to work for a living. "You would be a foolish man if that were the truth," she said. "But I do not believe it is. I believe you are simply a liar. You are in good company, however. Men will admit to almost any shortcoming before they will admit to feeling fear. It is considered weak and unmanly." "Miss Huxtable," he said, "I have Woodbine Park in Warwickshire to offer you if you marry me. It is a sizable home in spacious, well-kept grounds. And its income, though no vast fortune, is more than comfortable. I have future prospects of far greater splendor. I am the Marquess of Claverbrook's heir, and he has properties dotted all over England. He is vastly wealthy." "And is this /all/ you have to offer, Lord Sheringford?" she asked after regarding him in silence for several moments.
He opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again. What else /was/ there? She was not imagining, was she, that he had fallen violently in love with her last evening and had his heart to lay at her feet? "I cannot offer an unsullied name," he said. "I am afraid I earned a notoriety that will not quickly die – if it ever does." "That is true," she agreed. "But the past cannot be changed. Only the future is at least partially in our control. Are you sorry for what you did?" He felt a spurt of anger. Was she about to read him a sermon? "No," he said curtly. "You would do it again, then?" she asked. "Yes," he said. "Without hesitation." "It must be good," she said so quietly that he almost did not hear the words, "to be loved that dearly." He opened his mouth to reply and closed it yet again. "What will you do," she asked him, "if I reject you today?" He almost hoped she would. He did not find her … comfortable.
He shrugged. "Resume the hunt," he said. "I still have almost two weeks." "Thirteen days, to be exact," she said. "An eternity." "Yes." "But this time," she said, "you will carry the unpleasantness of today's gossip with you into the courtship, as well as your notoriety. Your chosen bride and her family will believe that you have jilted me too." "Perhaps." He would not glare. It would suggest that she was getting under his skin. He fixed her with a stare that many people found intimidating.
When trying to recall her face earlier, he had assumed that with her dark hair she must have brown eyes. They were actually a startling blue – and they did not waver from his. "Why should I marry you?" she asked him. "Give me reasons, Lord Sheringford. Not the financial details. I knew of those even before stepping in here. I am not swayed by such considerations. I no longer have to fear poverty even if I never marry and live to be a hundred. Why should I marry you? With what persuasions did you arm yourself before you came here?" If he had arrived in that ballroom two minutes before or after he actually had, he thought, there would have been no collision and no dance and no conversation in an alcove. He would have picked out some pathetic-looking girl who would have been only too delighted to marry him. Indeed, he had already picked out such a girl a moment before the collision, had he not? He would not be sitting here now being interrogated by a woman he suspected he might easily come to dislike quite intensely.
He stopped himself from drumming his fingertips on the arm of his chair. "You are not a young woman," he said. "How old /are/ you?" "Thirty," she said. "You think I am desperate for a husband, then? You did not expect that any great persuasion would be necessary?" He stared at her for a few moments. "You would have to be blind to be desperate," he said. "Since you are not, you must know how beautiful you are. You must also realize how sexually appealing you are, though I do not suppose you use just those words in your genteel mind. We both know that I do not represent your last chance, Miss Huxtable. But you have been shaken during the past few days by the reappearance of a former lover. /Was/ he a lover, by the way? Or was he merely a man you loved?" For the first time she flushed. She did not look away from him, though. "He was – " she said before stopping abruptly. "You are impertinent." Ah – interesting! "You went to last evening's ball," he said, "expecting that Allingham would offer you marriage. You were ready to accept him even though you do not love him." "How do you know I do not?" she asked him. "You were not distraught," he said.
She raised her eyebrows. "I was not? Yet I collided with you when attempting to dash from the ballroom in ungainly haste," she reminded him. "Because you were chagrined, even humiliated," he said, "and because you had spotted your faithless lover and remembered that you would not after all have a fiancГ© to dangle before him. When Allingham came to claim his dance with you, you showed no symptoms of a woman whose heart he had just shattered." "I am relieved to hea
r that," she said. "Major Dew came here this morning to beg me not to marry you. He offered to marry me instead." "And?" He raised his eyebrows. "And I said no," she told him. "And yet," he said, "you still love him." She looked consideringly at him. "Do I?" she said. "You seem to know me better than I know myself, Lord Sheringford. But you would marry a woman you believe to be in love with someone else?" "You would not be happy with him," he said. "Because he has a weak chin?" She raised her eyebrows again. "Because he loves /himself/ more than he loves anyone else," he said. "Such men do not make good husbands." "But you would?" she asked him. "I am not in love with myself," he said. "Or with you." The corners of her mouth lifted in a slight smile. "Are you always so honest?" she asked him. "We lie," he told her, "in order to persuade the world and ourselves that we are something we are not – usually something far better and more flattering than what we really are. I have no wish to deceive myself, and others already believe they know me very well indeed." "And /do/ they?" she asked him. "Are you defined by what you did five years ago?" "You must confess," he said, "that there is nothing much worse a man can do than abandon his bride on her wedding day – except perhaps to run off with her married sister-in-law instead." "Why did you do it?" she asked him. "I suppose," he said, "because I liked the one woman better than the other and was willing to take what I wanted and be damned to the consequences." "And yet," she said, "you told me last evening that you were head over ears in love with your bride. Are your feelings so fickle? And do you always take what you want?" He ignored the first question and thought about his answer to the second. "What I want is not always available for the taking," he said. "Do you want /me/?" she asked.
But she held up a hand again before he could answer. "You claim always to tell the truth," she said. "Tell it now, Lord Sheringford. As you said a short while ago, there is still time for you to find a different bride. Despite everything, there is bound to be someone out there who will be only too happy to marry an earl and future marquess. Do you want /me/?" He scorned to look away from her, and she would not look away from him, it seemed.
