Dark Angel / Lord Carew's Bride

by Mary Balogh

  “Do be careful,” he said as she made her way back across the stones to the other side of the stream, trying not to hold her skirts too high. “Toppling into the water at this time of year might be just too exhilarating an exercise.”

  She stopped at the other side to smile at him and raise a hand in farewell. One of his arms was behind his back. The other was crooked against his hip. It was his right hand. She wondered if by some miracle he was naturally left-handed.

  “Thank you,” she said, “for a pleasant afternoon.”

  “I shall look forward to seeing you again tomorrow, Miss Newman,” he said. “Weather permitting.”

  She was through the trees in no time at all and on her way back across the meadow toward the lawns of Chalcote park. It must indeed be past teatime, she thought. If Jenny and Rosalie were back from the lake, they would wonder what on earth had happened to her.

  Would she tell them? That she had walked and sat with a total stranger for well over an hour? That she had made an assignation to meet him again tomorrow? She did not believe she would. It would sound bad in the telling, yet there had been nothing bad about it at all. Quite the contrary. There could not be a more ordinary, pleasant gentleman in existence, or one with whom she could feel so very comfortable. Neither was there a gentleman with whom she had had an encounter less romantic. There had been no physical awareness at all.

  If she told, Aunt Aggy would have ideas about coming along with her tomorrow as a chaperone. And then there would be the necessity for conversation among the three of them. It would not be a pleasant afternoon at all.

  No, she would not tell. She was four-and-twenty years old. Quite old enough to do some things alone. Quite old enough to have some life of her own.

  She would not tell. But she knew she would be looking forward to tomorrow afternoon with pleasure.

  2

  HARTLEY WADE, MARQUESS OF CAREW, WATCHED her go. He stood where he was, on his side of the stream, long after she had gone.

  She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. By far the most beautiful. She was small and shapely and dainty and graceful. Her hair was honey-blond and worn in short curls. Her bonnet had not hidden its glory. Her eyes were the bluest blue, her lashes long and darker than her hair. Her face was lovely and smiling and animated and intelligent.

  He smiled ruefully to himself. For all his seven-and-twenty years, he was reacting like a schoolboy to a rare glimpse of someone from the female world. He was in a fair way to being in love with her.

  He turned about to make his way back up the hill through the trees. With the side of his right hand he rubbed at his upper thigh. He was going to suffer tonight from all the walking. Though perhaps not too much. He had not walked a great deal during the past few months, but he had ruthlessly exercised. He smiled anew at the remembered expression on Jackson’s face when he had first walked into the famous pugilist’s boxing saloon in London three years ago. When he had limped in, rather. Jackson was proud of him now and eager to show him off to some of his other patrons. But the marquess had only ever been there in private and had only ever worked with the master himself. He was no sideshow for a fair.

  He arrived at the point close to the top of the hill where he had first seen her—Miss Samantha Newman. Yes, the tree definitely had to go. The view would be quite magnificent.

  It had not struck him immediately that she had not realized who he was. Perhaps neither Thornhill nor his lady had described him to her. They were decent people. Perhaps they had not begun any description they might have given of him with the most obvious feature. Perhaps she did not know that the Marquess of Carew was a cripple. That was the label by which he was known, he was well aware, even if it was not strictly true. Had she heard that label, she would surely have realized who he was.

  He had given her his name with some reluctance. But even that had meant nothing to her. How do you do, Mr. Wade, she had said politely. He had watched for the change in her manner, but it had not come.

  The temptation had been overwhelming—the temptation not to enlighten her. And, of course, if she had been given no description of him and if his name meant nothing to her without his title, there was no reason why she should guess his identity—even though he had been roaming his own land. He was dressed for comfort in almost the oldest clothes he possessed. His valet had warned him just that morning that if his lordship insisted on wearing these boots one more time after today, he would send a public notice to all the newspapers that he was not responsible for his master’s appearance.

  But they were such comfortable boots, and such threats were not by any means new. Hargreaves had been with him, and threatening him, for eleven years.

  The marquess continued on his way to the top of the hill and sat on the stone seat he had occupied with Miss Newman earlier. She had conversed with ease and had listened with what had seemed genuine interest. She had sat beside him for what must have been all of fifteen minutes in silence, a silence of remarkable comfort. She had not felt the necessity to speak to hold the silence at bay, nor had she felt the necessity of prompting him into speech.

  She had said—what had been her exact words? He thought carefully. I have enjoyed your company and been comfortable with you. Her voice had held the ring of truth. Other women had uttered the first part of what she had said. None had ever said the rest. And none had ever spoken with sincerity.

  He kept himself from company a great deal these days, though he was no hermit. He avoided female company whenever he could. It had become too demeaning, too hurtful, to see the instant spark of interest and acquisitiveness in female eyes as soon as he was identified and to be fawned over for the rest of that particular social event. His title was an impressive one, he supposed—he was the eighth marquess of his line. And, of course, there was this property in Yorkshire, and the one, almost equally large and prosperous, in Berkshire. He had more wealth than he would ever know what to do with.

  He could have lived with the fawning, perhaps. Many gentlemen of his class had to. It was the way of the world. But there was also the disdain he sometimes surprised in female eyes at his unprepossessing appearance. And sometimes it was worse than disdain. Sometimes it was distaste or even disgust at his grotesque limp and his twisted hand. He rarely appeared outside his home now without a glove on at least his right hand.

  Lord Byron’s limp, of course, had only succeeded in making him more attractive to the ladies. But then the Marquess of Carew did not have either Lord Byron’s beauty or his charisma.

  He wondered how Samantha Newman would have reacted if he had given her his full name. Would he have seen that familiar gleam of avaricious interest? She had admitted that she was four-and-twenty years old. She was somewhat past the normal marrying age for a woman. Though he could not imagine the reason, even if she was dowryless. She was so very beautiful.

  Beauty and the beast, he thought ruefully, resting his left hand flat on the stone seat beside him, where she had sat.

  He had not seen disgust in her face. Only concern when she had thought that he had recently hurt himself, and then embarrassment when she had realized her faux pas.

  But perhaps the disgust would have been there if she had known who he was and had seen him as someone whose favor she might court.

  No. He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the lowering sun. He did not want to believe that of her. He had liked her. It was not just her looks, though his first sight of her had fairly robbed him of breath. He had liked her.

  Ah, more than that.

  He opened his eyes and got to his feet. It was time to go home. He would not after all go to the lake today to make his plans for improvement. Perhaps she would go there with him tomorrow and he could dream along with her and explain his ideas to her. If the weather held. The clouds gathering in the west did not look promising. He hoped the weather would hold. He looked forward to tomorrow more than he had looked forward to any tomorrow for a long time.

  Perhaps by tomorrow she would
have discovered his identity for herself. If she described him to Thornhill or his lady, they would tell her with whom she had spent an hour of the afternoon. Or perhaps she simply would not come. Perhaps the afternoon had not meant as much to her as it had to him, and she would not keep their appointment. Tomorrow, if she did come, he would tell her for himself who he was. He would take the risk of seeing her attitude change. But in the meantime he would instruct his servants not to spread the word that he had arrived home unexpectedly yesterday.

  He hoped the weather would hold.

  He hoped she would come.

  Ah, yes. It was more than her beauty. And more than the fact that he had liked her.

  He really had reverted to boyhood emotions. He was head over ears in love with her.

  Beauty and the beast, indeed!

  FOR TWO DAYS IT rained a steady drizzle beyond the windows of Chalcote. Even the men did not venture outside, though the Earl of Thornhill complained that there was estate business to be attended to.

  The children were restless and even peevish, and their nurse came close to the end of her tether about how to entertain them. And so the earl, willingly abetted by Sir Albert Boyle, shocked her by taking them on his back and galloping on a cavalry charge all over the house—though she should be past shock by now, she admitted to the housekeeper belowstairs, having had five years of experience of his lordship’s unconventional behavior as a father. Lady Boyle was shocked, too, and somewhat charmed, and joined with the rest of the household in a noisy romp of hide-and-seek in which only the kitchens and the outdoors were out-of-bounds. Even Lady Brill participated—though once, when everyone had searched for her for longer than half an hour and had concluded that she must have found that one perfect hiding place none of the rest of them had yet discovered, she was finally found to be stretched out on her own bed, fast asleep.

  The game lasted, with brief intervals, for two days.

  There were guests for dinner on the second day, neighbors who had visited or been visited several times during the past three months. There were cards and music and conversation after dinner. It was all very pleasant. It was just a pity, the countess said afterward, that the Marquess of Carew had not yet returned to Highmoor Abbey. It would be good to see a different face for a change.

  “You would like him, Sam,” she said. “He is a very pleasant gentleman, but he never seems to be in residence when you are here. We must plan more carefully next time.”

  “Samantha does not need to add to her court,” the earl said firmly. “It is as large as an army battalion as it is. One more member might turn her head and make her conceited.” He winked at his wife when he knew Samantha was looking at him.

  It was on the tip of Samantha’s tongue to mention the landscape gardener who was staying at Highmoor—Mr. Wade. He was a gentleman, after all. That had been very obvious from his conversation and manners. But perhaps he would be uncomfortable in such elevated company, and perhaps he did not have the clothes to enable him to dine with the likes of Gabriel and Albert. Besides … Oh, besides, she wanted to keep him as her own secret companion for the moment. She did not want to see everyone else being polite—though of course both Gabriel and Jenny would be genuinely courteous—to a gentleman who would so obviously be out of his milieu.

  She enjoyed the two days. And she fretted at being confined to the house yet again. She was severely disappointed at being denied the treat of another walk at Highmoor with Mr. Wade. She had enjoyed his company so very much. It had been a great novelty, she had realized after returning to Chalcote and looking back on the hour she had spent with him, to be treated as a person with a mind. She was so accustomed to seeing nothing but admiration and open attraction in men’s eyes. That was flattering, of course, but she often had the impression that she was seen only as a pretty face and not as a real person at all.

  Mr. Wade had shown no attraction to her. He had merely enjoyed explaining his theories and ideas to her. And he had enjoyed, too, just being with her in lovely surroundings, she believed. Perhaps it was silly to feel so after merely one relatively short encounter, but she had the feeling that she and Mr. Wade could be friends. Companions. She had very few real friends, though she was fortunate enough to have hordes of friendly acquaintances. How had he phrased it? She thought carefully so that she might remember his exact words: … a special companion, one with whom one can talk or be silent with equal comfort.

  She felt again that sense of discovery the words had brought when they were uttered. She did not want love as other women wanted it. Her one experience with love at the age of eighteen had been humiliating and excruciatingly painful. She did not want that feeling ever again. What she really wanted—and she had not realized it until he had put it into words for her—was a special companion.

  Mr. Wade could be a special companion, she sensed. Perhaps it was ridiculous to think so when she had met him only once. Perhaps he had forgotten about her as soon as he turned back from the stream that afternoon. Perhaps he would not have kept their appointment even if it had not rained. And perhaps now she would never see him again. Perhaps his work at Highmoor was complete and he had left.

  She would be sorry not to see him again.

  On the third day the rain had stopped. All morning low clouds threatened more, but by the afternoon they were breaking up and the sun was shining through the gaps.

  The earl, with his friend in tow, had ridden off early with the estate steward to sort out some problem with a distant tenant. But they were back soon after noon and announced that it was a perfect afternoon for a family ride, since a walk would only soak boots and hems.

  “Rosie will appreciate the rest, will you not, my love?” Sir Albert said, smiling gently at his pregnant wife. “Emmy will be quite safe on the pony Gabe picked out for her when we first arrived, and Jane will ride up with me.”

  Lady Boyle had a terror of horses and seemed quite thankful that her delicate condition put her joining the riding party quite out of the question.

  “You must insist that Michael keep his pony to a sedate walk, Gabriel,” the countess said. “Or Emily will feel obliged to try to keep pace with him, and I shall have a heart seizure on the spot, and Rosalie will have one as soon as she hears of it.”

  The earl winked and grinned at her. “Mary will be up before me begging for a cavalry charge,” he said.

  His countess tutted. “Then I had better have her up before me,” she said. “Sam, you must help me keep this madman in order.”

  “If you will not mind terribly,” Samantha said, “I believe I will go walking.”

  “Ah, this madman has put terror into her,” the earl said. “It is to be a cavalry charge without sabers, Samantha, my dear.”

  “Then it is to be a charge without purpose,” she said, smiling at him. “Will you mind?”

  “How could you possibly not want to ride with four squealing infants, a mad cavalryman, a scold, and only one normal gentleman?” he asked her. “Some people are very strange. Of course we do not mind, Samantha. You must do what gives you the greatest pleasure. That was why you were invited here.”

  “Oh, I am not a scold,” the countess said indignantly. “And do stop winking at me, Gabriel, or I will believe you must have a speck of dust in your eye. Sam, your feet and your hem are going to be soaked. But there, I will not scold. And do stop laughing, Gabriel. Sam, I have endured six years of this. Am I an angel or am I not?”

  “I am,” the earl said. “The angel Gabriel.”

  Samantha left them when her cousin was tutting again and then chuckling with Albert and Rosalie. She remembered how she and Jenny had called the Earl of Thornhill Lucifer when they first knew him, because of his dark satanic looks. When they learned his given name, it had been an amusing irony, though it had not seemed so amusing at the time. He really had seemed like Lucifer, deliberately bringing to an end Jenny’s betrothal to Lionel.

  Samantha shuddered. She rarely dredged up that name or the person belonging to it
out of her subconscious mind. The devil in angel’s garb. The only man she had ever loved—or would ever love. That one sour experience had been more than enough for a lifetime.

  She changed into one of her older dresses and pulled on her half boots, though she had hoped that with winter over she would not have to wear them again for a while. She drew on a cloak, since even with the intermittent sunshine it looked chilly outside, and tied the ribbons of a bonnet securely beneath her chin.

  He would not be there, she thought as she left the house. Even if he was still at Highmoor, he would not think of keeping an appointment two days late. Besides, pleasant as the afternoon was—though definitely chilly and gusty—the grass underfoot was really quite wet.

  He would not be there, but she would enjoy the walk anyway. And surely the stone bench inside the folly at the top of the hill would be dry and sheltered enough so that she could sit there enjoying the view and the solitude for a while. It was better than riding with the others, feeling her loneliness.

  The word, verbalized in her mind, took her by surprise. She was not lonely. Never that. She was almost always in congenial company. Her life was as she wanted it to be. Why had she suddenly described herself as lonely?

  She crossed the stepping-stones and strode up the hill, not stopping even once to catch her breath. The air was invigorating, she thought, even better than it had been three days ago. And the sky looked lovely, with white clouds scudding across the blue. She made for the top, trying not to expect to see him there, trying to convince herself that she wanted to be alone there so that she could enjoy the view without distraction.

  She stopped when she was within sight of the folly. And felt a surging of happiness, which she did not stop to analyze. She smiled brightly and stepped forward.

  He was getting to his feet and smiling with his eyes at her.