by Mary Balogh
“No, I cannot manage without you,” she said. “And I can’t stand here wasting time in your arms, Edmund, comforting as they are. There is a great deal of work to do if we two and the children are to be ready to leave for town within the next day or two. Have you sent word to town to have the house opened up?”
“No,” he said. “But if you will release my neck, Alex, I can get a messenger on his way before morning is out. Are you sure you are up to the journey?”
“You know I have never been able to sit doing nothing when I am increasing,” she said. “And I am certainly not going to remain here without you. The very idea!”
He kissed her on the lips and looked deeply into her eyes before turning to leave the room. “Try not to worry too much,” he said. “I have a feeling those two belong together. They are just too stubborn and hotheaded to make an easy transition from the single state into marriage. They will, given time, and be as happy as you and I.”
She touched his cheek. “I couldn’t wish better for them,” she said. “Go now.”
JAMES WAS STANDING IN THE STABLEYARD OF the Duke of Peterleigh’s manor, one booted foot propped on a mounting block, an arm draped over his raised knee. He was looking at Carl Beasley, who was tapping a riding whip against his boot and seemed eager to be on his way. A couple of grooms were busy in the stalls behind them, but they were well out of earshot to all but raised voices.
“I always thought I was the one who had ended our friendship,” James said, “by punching out your lights after you had let Dora be sent away. I did not see your actions at the time as hostile, merely misguided. I often felt sorry afterward for taking out my frustration on you. But they were hostile, weren’t they? You took me for a fool and were clearly right in your judgment. I was a fool.”
Carl shrugged. “It was all a long time ago,” he said. “We were both much younger, Beckworth, and a great deal less wise.”
“Why did you never tell me that it was Peterleigh’s child?” James asked. “Why did you let me believe it was mine?”
“I suppose Dora told you,” Carl said. “I might have known she would. It might have been yours, though. You were laying her out there in the heather. You and Peterleigh both. But it was nothing to feel very guilty over, was it? Dora and I were never of great importance. We were only Peterleigh’s wards.”
“There was never any question of my looking down on either of you,” James said. “You and I were friends. And I cared for Dora. You knew that. You knew I would have married her without any hesitation at all.”
“It was all very well to rage and tear your hair and break my nose when there was nothing you could do about the situation,” Carl said. “I doubt you would have married her if there had been a real chance. Like Peterleigh, you would have looked for a way out. And do you think your dear papa would have permitted you to marry my sister?”
“Did he know?” James frowned. “Did my father know that it was Peterleigh’s?”
“Never.” Carl laughed. “If Dora were only a little better endowed with brains,” he said, “I would say that she laid an excellent trap for you, Beckworth. In reality, of course, it all happened by chance. But it was certainly better to let everyone believe that you were the culprit. You were easy to excuse—young and sowing your wild oats and all that. On the other hand, many people would have condemned Peterleigh. He was almost forty years old and Dora’s guardian. And it might well have been you, after all.”
“So,” James said, “you and Peterleigh between you let my father believe an untruth. You caused a rift between us that never healed and let me live through agonies of guilt and remorse for years.”
“You deserved it all,” Carl said. “You ruined my sister as effectively as Peterleigh did.”
James nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I did. I was much to blame. But I fancied myself in love, and I would have taken the consequences. I never did realize that you hated me so much, Carl, and resented my position as son with a living father. I never knew you felt so inferior. But you could not take out your resentment on Peterleigh, could you? You were dependent on him. So I was the scapegoat of your need to avenge yourself on the world. The blame was put on me. But of course Dora could not be allowed to marry me, could she, because I was brother to the duke’s prospective bride. The child would have been his son and his nephew both. Besides, it is hardly likely my father would have countenanced that match if he had known the truth. Peterleigh was one of the few men he thought worthy of his regard. Ironic, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Forget it,” Carl said. “When all is said and done, no great harm has been done. Dora is reasonably contented and the child is well looked after by Peterleigh. And you have done quite well for yourself.” He turned and strode from the stableyard in the direction of the house.
But James went after him. He caught him by the shoulder and swung him around so that his back was to the trunk of a giant oak. He took him firmly by the lapels of his coat.
“Has no great harm been done?” he asked. “Is a ten-year anguish no harm? And what about your vow all those years ago to revenge yourself on me for the beating I gave you? Has that been forgotten too?”
“I don’t like your hands on me, Beckworth,” Carl said icily. “And what nonsense are you talking now?”
“I want to know about your friendship with my wife,” James said.
Carl smiled.“I suggest you ask her,” he said. “I don’t want to tell tales, Beckworth, and get the lady into trouble.”
“Oh, no.” James’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I was not asking you about the nature of the friendship. I was not asking you to smear my wife’s name. And if you don’t want your nose broken again, you had better think twice about volunteering any lies on the subject. I am asking what you have told her.”
“Many things,” Carl said. “We have met many times, Beckworth. To our mutual satisfaction, I might add.”
James’s hands tightened on his lapels.
“What did you tell her about Dora?” he said. “And about the boy?”
Carl Beasley smiled again. “I did not need to say much,” he said. “She saw you alone with Dora, you know, and she heard the interchange between you and Ben and Adam. I merely comforted her.”
James dropped his hands and watched as Carl straightened his coat. “You told her that Dora and I were lovers?” he said. “And you let her believe that the boy is mine?”
Carl brushed at his sleeves with careless hands. “I was amazed that you had not already told her yourself, Beckworth,” he said. “Anyone would think you still had something to hide.”
“Just one more thing,” James said, taking a menacing half-step forward. “Did you lead Madeline to believe that there is still something between Dora and me?”
“She saw for herself,” Carl said. “I did not have to say a word.”
“But you did, didn’t you?” James’s eyes narrowed again so that for the first time Carl looked wary. “In the way you have always had, of seeming to say only what the other can be supposed to know already. And always in a manner to make the other suppose you to be a concerned friend. It was against me you felt resentment, Beasley. It was me you wanted to hurt. Why must my wife be made to suffer too?”
“Just because she is your wife,” Carl said, his eyes mocking.
“The last time we had an encounter like this,” James said, his voice quiet and level, “I punished you. In a young man’s way, with violence. I have learned that unnecessary violence settles nothing. I will only say this, Beasley. You will stay away from my wife in future. You will neither speak to her nor come near her. If you do, I will find a way of dealing with you. Do I make myself clear?”
Carl smiled. “And how is the lady to be kept away from me?” he said. “Are you going to lock her up, Beckworth? You do not seem to have done a great job of making her happy so far in your marriage, do you?”
“Fortunately,” James said, “neither my wife’s happiness nor mine nor the state of our marriage is any c
oncern whatsoever of yours, Beasley. Good day to you.” He turned and strode back into the stableyard to retrieve his horse.
But almost a month passed before he finally went after her. His instinct at first had been to go at once, to find out whether she had gone by stage or by the mail, and to pursue her and bring her back home.
But bring her back for what reason? To force her to continue being his wife? To force her to manage his household and entertain his guests, to sit beside him at meals and with him in the drawing room during the evenings? To force her to share his bed at night and cater to his pleasure? To bear his children—if they ever could have children?
To know himself hated? To know that everything she did in his home was done because he was insisting upon her obedience? To know that at any time when he had been from home he might arrive back to find her gone and have to go after her all over again?
Was that what he wanted? Madeline at all costs?
It had happened as he had always known it would happen. He had loved her and married her and destroyed her. And now there seemed to be nothing he could do to reverse the process.
Perhaps if he had known a long time ago what he knew now, things might have been different. He would not have spent years consumed with guilt and feeling that other people had destroyed any chance he had at pride and self-esteem. He would not have lost all faith in life and other people. And he would have felt free to love and be happy. Free to love Madeline, whom he had fought for years not to love.
Perhaps he could have offered her himself, not just his body on a hillside at Amberley and his hand and his name at an altar a week later.
Perhaps he could have made her happy and himself happy.
Perhaps. But it was pointless to think in terms of what might have been. The fact was that he had made a mess of his marriage and made his wife so unhappy that she had taken the almost unheard of course of leaving him.
He could not go after her and bring her back. If he loved her as much as he professed to do, then he must let her go, he must let her find whatever happiness she could without him.
He showed his love for her for a month by staying at Dunstable Hall, going about his daily business as if nothing had happened. He continued the improvements for both his tenants and his laborers that he had begun months before. He continued to keep a close eye on the activities of his bailiff and on the books. He visited his neighbors and smiled and informed them all that his wife had gone to London to visit her family and that yes, he was missing her greatly.
And at home he noticed with a pang of regret that the servants were beginning to revert to their old ways. The pretty curls and dimples that had begun to appear on the younger maids began to disappear again as Mrs. Cockings once more took charge of the running of the household.
He missed Madeline with an emptiness that was a pain. But unlike most pains, it did not lessen as time went on but grew worse and worse until he had to force himself to get out of bed in the morning and force himself to carry on with the day’s activities and then force himself to climb back into the empty bed again at night.
He had heard nothing from her and almost nothing about her. Only one letter, hastily penned, from Alex to say that they were on their way to London, having just heard that Madeline had arrived there. There was some comfort in the letter. At least he knew she was safe.
But safe with her family. Where she belonged and where she would stay for the rest of her life. Away from him, where she was not safe and not happy.
There was never a letter from her, though his days began to revolve around the daily arrival of the post.
He finally went to London himself. He rationalized his decision. He must see her. If they were to live apart, then there were arrangements to be made. He would have to see her properly settled with a comfortable allowance. And he must at least tell her the truth about Dora and Jonathan. Somehow—would it be possible?—he must apologize for what had happened on her last night at home.
He did not know if he had a good reason for going. But by the time he went, he did not need a good reason. He went because he had to go. He had no choice in the matter.
THE DOWAGER Lady Amberley leaned back on the sofa, rested her head against the back of it, and closed her eyes. She sighed.
“I really should not be here,” she said. “I should have left with your other guests. I could become the on-dit of the week, Cedric. Alone in a gentleman’s rooms at eleven o’clock at night.”
“Relax for a while,” he said. “You have been looking tired lately.”
“Mm,” she said. “I must admit it is lovely to be quiet here with just you. You are a peaceful companion.”
He sat down beside her and took her hand. “I think perhaps you have become too involved in Madeline’s problems,” he said. “You worry too much, Louisa.”
“She is so desperately unhappy,” she said. “No one who did not know her would realize it, of course. She is as involved with the entertainments of the Season as she ever was and has just as large a court as ever, too. And she is in good looks, though somewhat thinner than usual. I cannot think what will happen to her, Cedric. A broken marriage! That has always been something that happened to other people. Never within my own family.”
“She is seven-and-twenty,” he said gently. “Cruel as it might sound, my dear, it is her problem. She must solve it. With your love and support, of course. But you must not take her burdens on your own shoulders.”
“To be fair,” she said, turning her head on the cushion and smiling at him, “that is what she has told me more than once. But we are Raines. We stick close together. There is Edmund planning to leave for Yorkshire as soon as he can persuade Alexandra that she would be putting her new child at risk if she goes too. And Dominic planning to take Madeline into Wiltshire and set up the dower house for her. And Madeline fighting us all and enjoying the Season quite furiously. Oh, dear.”
He slid an arm beneath her head, leaned over her, and kissed her quite deliberately. “Take some time away from your concerns,” he said. “Concentrate on me.”
“Mm,” she said, touching his cheek with one hand. “Have I been neglecting you, Cedric?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I haven’t meant to,” she said. “You are like a rock for me. I would go all to pieces if you weren’t there.”
“I need to be more than a rock,” he said.
“Kiss me, then,” she said. “And hold me. I am beginning to depend upon this too, you know.”
He kissed her deeply and slid her gown from one shoulder so that he could kiss her shoulder and her throat too.
“Oh,” she said after a while, her head on his shoulder, kissing the underside of his chin, “you feel so good, Cedric.”
“Stay here for the night,” he said.
“Cedric?” She turned her head to look up at him. “What are you saying?”
“Stay here,” he said, “and make love with me. I need you, Louisa, more and more each day. And I’ll take your mind off all that is making you weary.”
“Yes,” she said, pulling away from him and sitting up, “you certainly would do that. Oh, dear, Cedric, I have progressed a long way since last summer. The prospect is distinctly appealing. I feel tingles all over. But no, of course we must not. Goodness, the very idea! Can you picture me crawling back into my own house at some unheard of hour of the morning with a crumpled gown and disheveled hair?”
“Stay here until morning,” he said, “and have breakfast with me.”
“And arrive home in broad daylight in an evening gown,” she said with a smile. “No, Cedric, you naughty tempter. I have a better idea. I will marry you. Do you still want me to?”
He reached for her hand again. “You know you don’t need to ask that,” he said. “Let’s do this properly, though, shall we?” He stood up, drawing her to her feet with him. He took both her hands in his. “Louisa Raine, will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
“Louisa Harvey,” she said with a s
mile. “Lady Louisa Harvey with no ‘dowager’ attached. I like it. Yes, I like it very well. And I like you very well, my friend. We will remain friends afterward, will we not?”
“I think it is possible to be friends and lovers at the same time,” he said.
“Lovers too?” she said. “Oh, I like the sound of it more and more. I want to be your lover, Cedric, even at my very advanced age. Yes, I will marry you, dear, just as soon as you care to arrange the ceremony. Kiss me to seal the bargain.”
He kissed her.
“Mm,” she said after a few minutes. “What was that about staying all night?”
“I shall escort you home immediately,” he said, putting her away from him. “I will not countenance even the risk of gossip surrounding my betrothed. You ought not to have stayed here after the other guests left, you know.”
She smiled at him.
MADELINE WAS SITTING in her mother’s drawing room, her cousin Walter on one side of her and Jennifer Simpson on the other. She was laughing with Jennifer at the account Walter had just given of a bizarre bet made at one of his clubs.
“But then,” she said, patting her cousin on the hand, “all the wagers at the gentlemen’s clubs are bizarre, from what I have heard. Are all of you constantly in your cups when there, Walter?”
He began to protest.
They were surrounded by family members and friends of the dowager countess’s and Sir Cedric’s. They had all met for an informal afternoon celebration of the betrothal, which had surprised them all.
Not that it should have been surprising, Madeline thought. Mama and Sir Cedric had been very close friends for years, and they did make a handsome couple even if Mama’s hair was liberally streaked with gray and Sir Cedric’s was completely silver. Perhaps it was the very length of the friendship that had made the betrothal so surprising. Any expectation that the two of them would eventually marry had long been put to rest.
But marry they would, just as soon as the banns had been read. And the newly married couple were to go immediately after the ceremony to the Continent for a winter of travel. And probably the following summer too, Sir Cedric had said, lacing his fingers with Mama’s and smiling at her in a way that had tugged at Madeline’s heart.
