Chapter 15
Belinda didn’t learn until almost noon that Nicholas was gone. Most of the night, she’d been plagued by images of him kneeling in front of her without his shirt and tormented by the kisses and caresses of the night before. She’d finally fallen asleep sometime after three o’clock, and when she awoke, it was nearly half past eleven.
Molly, upon bringing her a breakfast tray, was the one who informed her of Lord Trubridge’s departure for London on the early train.
So he did leave after all, she thought, staring down at her bacon and eggs. He’d asked her if he ought to stay, and she’d said it didn’t matter to her.
Hard-hearted Belinda.
She didn’t want to be hard, but how could she be otherwise, given his history? The words she’d said last night were true, she knew that. Yet in the cold light of day, she also knew that she hadn’t said them for that reason. She’d lashed out at him purely out of fear. The desires he’d awakened in her made her feel vulnerable and afraid; she had turned him away, and it made no sense to feel let down now because he’d gone. If he’d stayed, she’d have been forced to spend the coming week shoving other women at him, something that seemed equally impossible.
Belinda tried to eat her breakfast, but all she was able to taste was the bitter tinge of disappointment and regret, and she didn’t understand herself at all.
A knock on her door interrupted these musings, and Rosalie’s voice came to her from the other side. “Auntie Belinda, may I come in?”
She nodded in response to her maid’s questioning look, and the servant opened the door. “Thank you, Molly,” she added, setting the breakfast tray aside as Rosalie came in. “That will be all for now.”
The moment Molly departed, closing the door behind her, Rosalie burst into speech. “Oh, Auntie Belinda, I am so embarrassed! I made an utter fool out of myself last night, didn’t I?”
Belinda’s mind flashed back to own wayward behavior last night, reminding her that she was hardly in the position to give a lecture on propriety. Instead, she patted the bed, inviting the girl to come sit down.
Rosalie complied, crossing the room to perch herself on the edge of the mattress. “It’s so humiliating,” she went on, her cheeks as pink as her rose-colored wrapper. “I just want to die. How will I ever face him?”
“You won’t have to, dearest. Lord Trubridge is gone. He left this morning.”
“Trubridge?” Rosalie gave her a blank stare for a moment, then she shook her head. “No, no, I know Trubridge is gone. My maid told me. I wasn’t talking about him. I was talking about Sir William.”
“Oh!” Taken aback, it took Belinda a moment to think how to reply. “It isn’t so much that you made a fool of yourself,” she finally said. “Every girl—every person—does that from time to time. It isn’t what happened that matters now. It’s that you understand what could have happened had someone less honorable than Sir William witnessed you kissing a man. Your actions put your reputation and Lord Trubridge’s at risk. And mine as well,” she added, not above using guilt to be sure Rosalie never made such a risky mistake again.
“Yours?” Rosalie looked stricken, telling her that her words had made the proper impact. “But why? You didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Nonetheless, people know I have launched you in society, and to some degree, they judge me by your behavior. And your mother, and your father, too, would have been shamed if the episode came out. But that isn’t the greatest concern, dearest,” she added, softening now that she’d made her point. “Yours is the reputation most endangered by the sort of situation you risked last night. It is vital that you remember modesty and restraint.”
Even as Belinda said those words, she thought of Nicholas’s hands yanking up her skirts, of his hands shaping her buttocks, and the arousal pulsing through her body. She was a fine one to talk of modesty and restraint.
Amid this flush of hot memories, she barely heard Rosalie’s next words. “Don’t worry, Auntie Belinda,” she said as if from a great distance away, “I won’t ever do such a thing again. Heavens, I can’t imagine what Sir William must think of me after the shameless way I behaved.”
Belinda closed her eyes, unable to disengage her thoughts from her own behavior the night before. It had been something primal, and it shocked her to think she could be like that. Raw lust was something she’d never felt before. Even Charles, even in her first flush of passion for him, had never made her feel like that—hot, carnal, and utterly desperate. She had broken things off in the nick of time, for if a few more seconds had gone by, she’d have passed the point of no return.
“But he was splendid, wasn’t he?” Rosalie said in a dreamy, musing voice. “Don’t you think he was splendid?”
“Yes,” she answered, acknowledging Nicholas’s ability to arouse her passions with a resigned sigh. “He was.”
Only after she’d said it did she realize she’d spoken aloud, and she once again forced aside her own experiences of the previous night. “Sir William was very splendid, indeed.”
“I’ve never seen him angry before. My goodness, I truly didn’t know he could be like that. It was very exciting, and yet, it was reassuring, too, seeing the way he stood up for me and defended my honor.”
“You will make it clear to Sir William that he was mistaken in his conclusions and that Lord Trubridge was not to blame?”
She gave an unhappy sigh. “I suppose I must. Though it shall be terribly hard to own up to my behavior. Especially to Sir William. He’s such an honorable sort of man. What if he doesn’t forgive me?”
“Does it matter so much to you? His forgiveness?”
She nodded, biting her lip. “It matters. I care terribly what he thinks of me, and I didn’t even realize it until now.”
“I’m so glad you are at last seeing Sir William’s fine qualities.”
Rosalie’s face took on a rueful expression. “You were right all along, Auntie Belinda. And even though I made a complete fool out of myself, perhaps everything has worked out for the best.”
For the best?
With Nicholas’s departure, there would be no more scenes like last night, with Rosalie flinging herself at him, and Sir William engaging in fisticuffs, and herself turned into some primitive, desperate, carnal creature who’d allow a man to yank up her skirts and relish every second of it.
“Yes,” she answered Rosalie’s question, forcing herself to say what was true even though it wasn’t what she felt. “Everything has worked out for the best.”
AS NICHOLAS HAD predicted, Denys loved his idea, so much so that the two of them had barely finished their coffee before going downstairs in search of Denys’s father. But Lord Conyers proved less enthusiastic and much more cautious than the two younger men.
A business venture like a brewery, the earl informed them, was a tricky business, and he had no intention of granting them a loan for the capital or buying any shares without first receiving a detailed proposal, including the location of the brewery, a production schedule, an estimate of the crop yields from both their estates, and a budget that included repayment of the loan and profit estimates for their first three years of operation.
“You see,” Denys said, as they left Lord Conyers’s study, “this is why I never ask him for money. Even when I was fifteen and wanted to borrow a bit to hold me over until my monthly allowance was paid out, he would demand all the details of why I was short of funds, what I wanted the money for, when I’d pay it back, and what interest rate I was prepared to pay.”
Nicholas refused to be discouraged. “That, I suspect, is one of the reasons he’s rich. And besides, he’s merely asking us for information we would have had to obtain anyway. Look at it this way,” he added, clapping his friend on the back. “At least he didn’t look down his nose at us for wishing to be captains of industry.”
Denys brightened a bit. �
�True. So to give Papa what he wants, where do we start?”
“I say with the easiest thing. The building.”
“And why is that easiest?”
He grinned. “Because I already know where it is.”
Half an hour later, the two men were standing in front of the abandoned brewery Nicholas had seen from the train.
Denys eyed it dubiously. “This is where you want to put the place? The building is rather . . . decrepit, don’t you think?”
He couldn’t really blame his friend for a lack of enthusiasm. Though the vagrant was gone, the three-story building of sooty brick was every bit as seedy-looking as it had appeared earlier in the day, but he didn’t care. “The cosmetics don’t matter, Denys. Windows can be replaced, bricks cleaned, and steps whitewashed easily enough. No, what matters is the name.”
“The name?”
Nicholas pointed to the faded paint above the door. “Lilyfield’s,” he read aloud, and began to laugh. “By God, if that’s not a sign from the heavens, I don’t know what is.”
SIX DAYS LATER, upon her return from the house party, Belinda expected to find some word from Nicholas in the pile of correspondence that had accumulated during her absence from town, but though she searched through the letters and invitations on her desk three times, no note from him was among them.
She had no idea what would happen now. After that episode in the maze, would he still wish to carry on looking for a wife and expect her to assist him? She honestly didn’t know. She thought he’d been joking when he’d asked for a moment to consider her sarcastic suggestion along that line, but perhaps he hadn’t been joking. And if he were serious, what would she do?
During the past week, she had tried again to imagine helping him find a wife, but her brain just couldn’t seem to fashion that scenario. But if she refused to assist him in his quest, would he go on without her? He could, for she’d already paved the way for him to return to good society, and he didn’t really need her now to find himself a rich bride.
That thought made her feel rather dismal, and not even because of any sort of moral indignation on behalf of rich, innocent heiresses. No, she feared she’d become less altruistic and much more selfish in her motives where that man was concerned. She didn’t want him to find a wife because she didn’t want another woman to feel with him what she had felt.
And yet, what else could he be expected to do? What financial option was there for him other than to marry? She’d suggested he earn an income, but she was well aware that such a thing wasn’t as easy as it sounded, especially here in Britain. And now that she knew the facts about his relationship with Landsdowne, she knew it wasn’t likely the duke would reinstate his trust fund unless he married, which brought her thoughts right back to where they’d begun: finding him a rich wife.
I’m rich.
The thought came to her like the whisper of a mischievous imp, but she snuffed it out at once. Marry Nicholas? Heavens, no. She wasn’t the sort who ever made the same mistake twice if she could help it, and as she’d so bluntly pointed out the other night, nothing in his behavior thus far demonstrated he was capable of being a responsible man and a good husband. He was charming, yes. Handsome, yes. Desirable—God, yes. But responsible? That was doubtful. She understood the underlying reasons for his behavior better now, but that didn’t alter the fact that a man like Nicholas wasn’t likely to change his ways.
The only other possibility for them was an affair, and much to her chagrin, she found that a far easier proposition to imagine than marrying him, one she’d been imagining far too often of late. But there was no future in it, not for a woman of her position. If word got out that Lady Featherstone was engaging in an affair, her profession would be in ruins, and for what?
Yes, she desired him, but she didn’t love him, nor could she in all good conscience respect him. That wasn’t likely to change either, and the only thing to do was what she’d done the first time he’d kissed her—pretend it hadn’t happened, put him out of her mind until she heard from him, and carry on.
With renewed determination, she began opening her other correspondence, sure that reading and answering letters would be the perfect distraction, but she soon found she’d been mistaken.
The first letter she opened was from Mrs. Isaiah Hunt, inquiring as to possible dates for inviting Lord Trubridge to dinner. Geraldine, she wrote, hadn’t seemed to take to the marquess upon their first meeting, but Mrs. Hunt was certain the girl could be prevailed upon to change her mind. For her part, Mrs. Hunt had thought him a most delightful man, having first met him at Lady Montcrieffe’s ball.
“Oh, yes,” Belinda mumbled with a sigh. “He’s quite delightful. Unfortunately not in the way a mother would approve.”
She set Mrs. Hunt’s correspondence aside and continued on, but she’d scarcely gone through three more letters before she came across a note from Nancy, asking how the wife search for Trubridge was going and offering the names of several young ladies who had just arrived from New York that she might consider as possibilities.
Belinda set Nancy’s note aside and moved on. Two letters later, she was staring at an envelope with Carlotta Jackson’s name on it.
Oh, for heaven’s sake.
She tossed aside Carlotta’s letter without even opening it. How was she supposed to not think about him when half her letters were about him? Thoroughly exasperated, she reached for a blank sheet of stationery and yanked her pen out of its holder.
She considered for a few moments, inked her pen, and dashed off a short note, asking about his plans and intentions regarding matrimony.
His response came a few days later, and consisted of only one sentence.
Is that a proposal?
She tossed aside his reply with a huff of indignation. Proposal, indeed. He knew perfectly well it was nothing of the sort. Still, a clear and decisive letter clarifying the matter was definitely in order, and she once again pulled out pen and paper.
Lord Trubridge,
My note was most certainly not a proposal. As we discussed only a few days ago—
Belinda stopped, thinking perhaps she shouldn’t refer to that night in the maze even if their argument then was germane to the issue. She wadded up the paper, and tried again.
Lord Trubridge,
You seem to be laboring under a misunderstanding about my feelings, feelings which I have always made perfectly clear. I—
Once again, she stopped, for that was an outright lie. Her feelings regarding that man were anything but clear. She felt so muddled up, in fact, that she couldn’t even seem to write him a simple letter. Once again, she crumpled her composition into a ball and started over, reminding herself that he was a client, and she needed to respond accordingly.
Lord Trubridge,
In regard to your question, my answer is no, and I regret that my letter may have inadvertently given rise to any other impression. I am simply asking, as your matchmaker, whether or not you wish to continue seeking introductions to young ladies of my acquaintance. If so, please inform me at once.
Yours,
Lady Featherstone
She read the letter over, underlined matchmaker three times, and blotted the ink. She then folded the letter, slipped it into an envelope, and reached for sealing wax.
There, she thought a short time later as she dropped her note to him onto the tray in the foyer with the other letters for Jervis to post. That ought to be clear enough. I should be hearing back from him by tomorrow.
Despite all her determination to put what had happened at Highclyffe out of her mind, the thought of hearing from him brought a tiny thrill of anticipation. But she quashed it as best she could and resumed her efforts to think nothing more about him until she received a reply.
Her resolve lasted a week. Seven days later, when she’d received no response from him whatsoever but had received seventeen
inquiries about him from various American mothers, fathers, gossip columnists, and friends, she’d had enough.
Tossing down the afternoon post, she rang for Jervis to have her carriage brought around, and ten minutes later, her driver, Davis, was holding the door of the vehicle open for her.
“Twenty-four South Audley Street,” she told him and stepped into the carriage.
“Yes, Your Ladyship.” Davis closed the door, tipped his cap, and climbed up on the box.
“If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad,” she muttered, paraphrasing Francis Bacon as the carriage jerked into motion, “then, Muhammad will just have to go to the mountain.”
Chapter 16
Going to the mountain, she soon discovered, was not as easy as it might appear, for no one seemed to know where the mountain in question happened to be. Lord Somerton, the viscount’s mother informed her over tea, was with Lord Trubridge, but what lark the two were engaged upon, she had not the slightest clue. All she knew was that it seemed to be taking up all their time, for she hadn’t seen either of them in days. Why, she only knew they were alive because their valets had confirmed the fact.
Lady Conyers then shifted the conversation, mentioning her son’s woeful intransigence in regard to marriage, and expressed the desire for Lady Featherstone’s opinion on how he might be brought round.
“Slowly,” Belinda advised. “Very slowly. You don’t want him to dig in his heels. Perhaps,” she added before Lady Conyers could delve more deeply into the matter of marrying off her son, “Lord Trubridge’s valet might know where they’ve gone? It’s very important I reach Trubridge at once, you see. So many young ladies are asking me about him—and asking about Somerton, too, of course. Will they be at this ball or that rout, you know—and I’m sure you will agree that it isn’t right to keep the young ladies in suspense, holding out hope and saving places on their dance cards if the two gentlemen are too busy to attend the events of the season. Somerton will never be brought round to marriage unless he can be brought to earth.”
American Heiress [1]When The Marquess Met His Match Page 20
