Dark Angel / Lord Carew's Bride

by Mary Balogh

  “But he wished me happy,” she said.

  “He does not care the snap of two fingers for you,” he said. “There is one love and one love only in Kersey’s life—and that is Kersey himself. If you did but know it, Jennifer, you are a thousand times better off with me.”

  She looked at him, startled, her smile slipping for a moment. There was quiet venom in his voice. She would have expected him to feel some shame at the wrong he had done Lionel. But perhaps it was natural to hate the person one has wronged.

  And then it was there, full-blown and startlingly unexpected and unbidden—that thought that had been nudging at her consciousness like a maddening irritant. Lionel had been with his sick uncle at Highmoor House two years ago. Catherine, at nearby Chalcote, had had a secret lover two years ago. She had been seduced by youth and beauty and charm, as she had put it in her letter. Her daughter was blond and blue-eyed—like her father. Gabriel, when she had asked if the child’s father was in London now, had not really answered her question. Gabriel hated Lionel.

  The tumbling thoughts so terrified her that she tried to push them from her back to the place where they had only irritated her.

  “Who was your stepmother’s lover? Who is Eliza’s father?” Horrified, she heard herself whispering the questions.

  “No.” His hand tightened somewhat at her waist and he twirled her about a corner and then twirled her again. “This is neither the time nor the place, my love. We are dreadfully much on view.”

  She felt enormous, knee-weakening relief that he had refused to answer, yet she knew that she would not be able to leave it alone. She knew that when they went home she would ask again and that she would not rest until she had heard his answer. Though she knew what the answer would be. And denied it to herself with panicked vehemence.

  The set was almost at an end. But it did not end quite soon enough to save her. Even as the music drew to an unmistakable end, the final thought opened the door into her conscious mind and stepped through.

  Gabriel hated Lionel. Because Lionel had been Catherine’s lover and had abandoned her and denied paternity of her daughter. Do not seek revenge, Catherine had written.

  But he had sought it.

  And he had achieved it, too.

  In the crowded and stuffy and stifling hot ballroom, Jennifer suddenly felt freezing cold right through to her heart.

  LADY BRILL HAD BEEN very afraid that her one niece’s notoriety would reflect on the other. She had feared that Samantha would have no partners at Lady Truscott’s ball. She had been quite prepared to use all the power of her influence in order to prevent the disaster of her niece’s being a wallflower. The situation might well be irreversible if it once happened. And so Samantha, just like Jennifer, was instructed as soon as she stepped from her uncle’s carriage to smile.

  But Aunt Agatha need not have worried. Her usual court was about her almost before she had settled in one spot inside the ballroom and she had promised the first three sets. Even some gentlemen who did not normally crowd about her did so this evening. Samantha guessed that she was somehow benefiting from Jennifer’s disgrace. Perhaps a few of them hoped that she would say something to feed their thirst for gossip.

  She smiled and danced and chattered to gentlemen and to other young ladies of her acquaintance. And she noted with pleased satisfaction that Jenny was not being shunned but that she danced each set. But she could not feel happy. She had witnessed the incredible spectacle of Lionel crossing the ballroom—he had not walked around the edge of the dancing floor as people usually did but right across its emptiness—and kissing Jenny’s hand and saying something to her and bowing to her and then hurrying from the room.

  While her heart had gone out to him for his courage and nobility in doing something so very difficult to do, the scene had also depressed her. He truly cared for her. She heard those words or words to that effect all about her as people discussed the incident.

  Perhaps Lionel had loved Jenny after all.

  She watched unhappily for his return to the ballroom and felt mortally depressed at the strong possibility that he had left the house. But he had not. During the second set he returned. He spoke with a group of ladies and danced the third set with one of them.

  Samantha waited for him to approach her. Or if not that, for him at least to glance at her. For some sort of signal to pass. Surely he would give some sign. A smile, perhaps. An inclination of the head. Some private promise that he would speak with her openly at a more opportune time.

  But there was nothing. He was being very discreet.

  Or she was being very foolish?

  She could stand it no longer when supper was over and she could see that Lord Graham was about to ask her for the next set. Lionel was standing close to the doorway, talking with two other gentlemen.

  “Excuse me, please,” Samantha said, and she hurried away after murmuring to Aunt Agatha that she was going to the ladies’ withdrawing room. She did not stop to listen to the exasperated question of why she had not gone there when she was passing it a few minutes ago on the way back from the supper room.

  Her heart beat painfully as she approached the doorway. She had never in her life contemplated anything so brazenly improper. She bumped awkwardly against Lord Kersey as she hurried past him and stammered an apology as he caught at her upper arms.

  “Let me speak with you outside,” she whispered, and hurried on past.

  A moment later she would have given anything in the world to have those words and that collision back. How could she? Oh, how could she? She stood uncertainly, fanning herself, and decided that after all she would rush for the ladies’ room. He would think he had imagined what she had said.

  But he came strolling from the ballroom while she still hesitated.

  “Ah, Miss Newman,” he said, making her an elegant bow and taking her hand to raise to his lips. “I am charmed to see you here. I trust you are enjoying the evening?”

  “Oh, yes, my lord, thank you,” she said breathlessly, looking anxiously into his face. Let him speak without delay, she thought. There was nothing improper in their exchanging civilities for a few moments. But a few moments were all that propriety would allow.

  He was looking at her politely, his eyebrows raised. There was … amusement? in his eyes. “Yes, Miss Newman? How may I be of service to you?”

  How unspeakably mortifying. Except for that look in his eyes—that knowing look—he might have been addressing a stranger.

  “I thought—” she said. “That is—When you were still betrothed to Jenny you said—I—”

  He leaned his head a little closer to her as if trying to make sense of a child’s meanderings. “I believe,” he said, “your extreme youth has led you into a misconception, Miss Newman. You are a lovely young lady, and I have always appreciated loveliness. Perhaps I expressed some gallantry that you misinterpreted?”

  She stared at him in disbelief and horror. And realized in a painful rush everything that her extreme youth had led her into. She had been disturbed by his willingness to speak secretly of love to her when he was promised to Jenny. And she had once suspected that he wanted her to try to end the betrothal by speaking with Jenny. She had been quite right—though she had mistaken his motive. Oh, yes, she had. It was so crystal clear to her now that she felt mortified at her own stupidity. Or at her own childish refusal to listen to her own doubts.

  “You wanted your freedom from Jenny,” she whispered. “You tried to use me. Oh!”

  “My dear Miss Newman.” His look was one of avuncular concern. “I believe the heat of the ballroom has been too much for you. May I fetch you a glass of lemonade? And help you to a chair first?”

  But another ghastly thought had struck her. Jenny had denied those indiscretions that the letter had listed, and Samantha had known it was almost impossible for her to have had clandestine meetings with the Earl of Thornhill. And Jenny had said the earl had denied writing the letter. Lionel had done nothing to protect Jenny from th
at dreadfully public disgrace. He might have confronted her privately, put her away from him quietly. But he had not. And now she knew why.

  “You wrote the letter.” She was still whispering.

  “I believe,” he said—he was chafing her hand—“I should summon your aunt, Miss Newman, and advise her to take you home.”

  “No.” She snatched her hand away, brushed past him with ungainly haste, almost collided with the Earl of Thornhill, remembered where she was, and hurried toward the ladies’ withdrawing room.

  The music had come to an end before she came out again. She would decide tomorrow whether or not she should tell Jenny and Lord Thornhill what she now suspected, though really it was more than suspicion that she felt. Yes, she should tell them. But in the meantime there was the remainder of a ball to be enjoyed and partners to be danced with, and perhaps—yes, perhaps a husband to be chosen.

  Although she had been in the ladies’ room for only half an hour, she felt as if she had grown up at least five years in that time. She was no longer a naive and innocent girl. She felt quite like a cynical woman of the world.

  Never again would she allow herself to be so deceived.

  Never again would she love.

  17

  THE EARL OF THORNHILL HAD BEEN DEEPLY AFFECTED by the letter from Switzerland. The very fact that it had absolved him in Jennifer’s eyes of at least one of the charges against him was no small matter, of course. But it was not just that. There were two particular points in the letter that had impressed themselves deeply on his mind.

  She had begged him not to seek revenge. Her plea had come too late, of course. He had already sought revenge and failed to get it. He had helped rather than hurt Kersey, he firmly believed. Kersey had been quite happy to rid himself of the encumbrance of an unwanted betrothal. But the attempt at revenge had not been without result. Far from it. It had hurt two people—Jennifer and himself.

  And he had been contemplating further and more vicious revenge. He had been half planning Kersey’s death—by provoking him into a duel, perhaps. And yet Catherine’s plea had somehow made him realize that hatred merely breeds hatred and violence. He had made himself every bit as bad as Kersey in the past month. Yes, every bit.

  It was a chilling realization.

  Especially in view of that other thing Catherine had said. I was the winner of that encounter. She really had been. It was true that she had suffered dreadfully, but the experience had matured her, and it had led her to find for herself the place and the life that would make her happy. She was about to remarry, it seemed. And most important, she had Eliza, whom she adored.

  Yes, Catherine had gained in almost every way, while Kersey was still selfish and rootless and very possibly unhappy.

  I was the winner of that encounter. The words had haunted him all day. In his efforts to get some measure of revenge, he had severed Kersey’s betrothal to Jennifer and had been tricked and trapped into marrying her himself. Was he the loser of the encounter? Was he? Or was he the winner, as Catherine had been?

  Was it in fact, in both their cases, a matter of loser take all?

  It was a severe provocation when Kersey came to speak to Jennifer at the start of the ball. It was so obviously a well-calculated move. And the Earl of Thornhill would not have been human had he not felt furiously angry and even murderous. But he chose to make his wife his chief concern throughout the evening. He could never atone for what he had done to her in the past. But he could and would do everything in his power to protect her interests and look to her security and contentment in the future. It was all he could do.

  He was relieved to find that she was not after all to be a social pariah. Frank, of course, came to pay his respects as soon as the first set had ended and led her into the second set. And at the end of that Bertie brought his blushing and timid betrothed to present—with her mother’s permission, Bertie had whispered when the earl had raised his eyebrows and looked pointedly at him. Bertie danced the next set with Jennifer while the earl was forced to lead out the terrified Miss Ogden. It took all of his charm and all of five minutes to draw the first smile from her and another two minutes to draw a giggle. When she relaxed and smiled, she was almost pretty, he thought. She certainly had a considerable amount of sweetness. He must remember to commend Bertie on his choice.

  When that set was ended, Colonel Morris strolled over to talk and then bowed in courtly manner to Jennifer and asked for the honor of a dance. And after that the crisis seemed to have passed. It apparently became the fashionable thing to dance with the notorious new Countess of Thornhill.

  Such was the fickleness of the ton, her husband reflected, watching her and not even trying to hide the admiration in his eyes. He had watched her with deliberate admiration while he had been seeking his revenge. Well, now it had become very real.

  And yet all was not perfectly well. Of course it was not. It was only amazing that the evening was proceeding as well as it was. The earl danced the supper dance with her himself even though he had seen two other prospective partners approaching her. He was not quite sure of what would happen at supper and preferred to be at her side to protect her if necessary.

  He was very glad he had had the forethought to do so. He had seated her at a table with Bertie and Miss Ogden and two other couples of their acquaintance. The table adjoining theirs was empty, but three older couples were approaching it, among them the Earl and Countess of Rushford. And then the countess, who must have been in the card room all evening, saw them and froze.

  “Rushford,” she said after a significant pause and in a very distinct voice, “find me another table, if you please.” She lifted her head and sniffed the air delicately. “There is something—putrid in the vicinity of this one.”

  Rushford led her away and the other two couples trailed after them while the Earl of Thornhill lowered his head to his wife’s, made some mundane remark to her, and smiled. She smiled back at him.

  Before supper was over, everyone in the supper room, and doubtless everyone else who had not come there, would have heard what the countess had said. Many would applaud her wit.

  No, all was not yet perfectly well. And it was going to be difficult to forget about revenge when his wife was likely to be the butt of other sallies of wit like that one during the week before he would take her away to the peace and safety of Chalcote.

  Henry Chisley danced with her after supper while the earl watched as usual. She was a woman of great strength of character, he thought with an unexpected twinge of pride. She was holding up wonderfully well under circumstances that would have given most other women the vapors long ago and sent them into a permanent decline. Jennifer, he suspected, would not go into a decline even when the full reality of what had happened to her in the past few days finally hit her.

  He remembered suddenly her asking him who Catherine’s lover had been, who Eliza’s father was. Was she suspecting the truth? He drew a slow breath.

  But his attention was distracted.

  He had been half aware of the fact that Samantha had left her aunt’s side and was approaching the doorway. There was nothing very strange about that, but his attention was caught when she stumbled against Kersey of all people. She hurried on past him and out through the doors, but no more than a few seconds later Kersey turned and left too.

  The earl frowned. He had not had the chance yet to become well acquainted with Samantha, but she was Jennifer’s cousin and even younger than she. He did not see why Kersey would want to have anything to do with Samantha when he had just rid himself of Jennifer. But if he did decide to turn his charm on the girl, her youth and inexperience would doubtless make her easy prey.

  He hesitated and looked back to his wife, who was still dancing with Chisley and saying something that had him chuckling. He hesitated a moment longer and then slipped from the room himself.

  Yes, Kersey had accosted her and they were talking. He could see only Kersey’s back, but she looked considerably agitated. She appeared
not to notice him as he strolled closer just in case he was needed. Perhaps he had given up the idea of revenge, but he was not going to stand by while Kersey seduced an innocent young girl.

  “… a lovely young lady,” he heard Kersey say, “and I have always appreciated loveliness. Perhaps I expressed some gallantry that you misinterpreted?”

  The earl watched agitation give place to horror in Samantha’s face. “You wanted your freedom from Jenny,” he heard her say, though she spoke almost in a whisper. “You tried to use me. Oh!” The final exclamation was agonized.

  It did not take a great deal of intelligence to understand what had happened. Kersey had obviously been playing two games at the same time in the hope that if he did not win the one, he would succeed with the other. And in the process he had quite heartlessly hurt two innocents.

  The Earl of Thornhill felt again the murderous urge to get even. He stood where he was until Samantha pushed past Kersey, almost collided with him, and hurried on in the direction of the ladies’ withdrawing room. Kersey turned a moment later, a look of amusement on his face. The look disappeared when he saw the earl standing no more than a few feet away.

  “Ah,” he said, “a soft-footed spy. Must I be looking over my shoulder wherever I go for the rest of the Season, Thornhill?”

  “It might be arranged if I thought it would give you a few sleepless nights,” the earl said pleasantly. “I will have a word with you now, Kersey.”

  “Will you?” Viscount Kersey smiled, at his ease again. “I believe I can be expected not to consort with the man who is responsible for my broken heart.”

  “I shall wait, then,” the earl said, unruffled, “for you to return to the ballroom and then slap a glove in your face in defense of the honor of my cousin by marriage, Miss Newman.”

  “You would simply make an ass of yourself,” the viscount said contemptuously.

  “We will put it to the test.” The earl smiled at him. “I have very little to lose, after all. When reputation is gone, there is nothing much left to guard from public scorn, is there?”