The Wood Nymph

by Mary Balogh

  He bowed and moved past her in the direction of the door. He paused when he reached it, a hand on the knob. “If I can be of service to you at any time,” he said quietly, “will you ask me? Please, Nell?”

  She turned to face him, her eyes hard. “Mr. Mainwaring,” she said, “you are the last person on God’s earth to whom I would turn for help in any situation I can imagine.”

  He looked at her silently for several moments before letting himself quietly out the room.

  Helen reached out a hand to grasp a porcelain figurine that stood on a table beside her. She aimed at the door on the level of where his head had been. But she let her hand fall to her side, the figurine still safely within her grasp. Her shoulders slumped. She was being self-righteous again. Why had she not simply agreed to exchange forgiveness with him so that they could have been free of their mutual guilt and free to merely dislike and avoid each other? She could not seem to do it. She could not forgive him. Was it perhaps because she could not quite forgive herself?

  Helen replaced the porcelain ornament carefully on the table. She concentrated all her effort on not crying. Her face became so red and blotchy when she did so. Everyone would know of her misery.

  William Mainwaring rode without thinking. When he finally came to an awareness of his surroundings, he was on the Great North Road, London already receding into the distance behind him. He did not know where he had thought to go—back home to Scotland, perhaps. Was the instinct to run away taking over from conscious thought again? He slowed his horse to a walk, but he did not immediately turn back. He needed to be alone for a while yet.

  He could not possibly have botched things worse. The past twenty-four hours were like one jumbled nightmare in his mind—no, not even twenty-four. Until last evening, until he had found Nell in the person of Lady Helen Wade, he had thought that perhaps at last his life was beginning to follow some sort of satisfactory plan. Only an hour before meeting her again, he had decided to go back to Yorkshire and search her out and marry her if she would have him.

  He still could not contemplate the night before with any rational thought. Seeing her in Robert’s ballroom, knowing her real identity had completely numbed his mind. He could not now remember who his dancing partners had been. He could not remember who had been there or with whom he had talked. He could recall only his suffocating consciousness of her presence, at first standing, and later sitting on the sidelines. She had not danced even once. And she had looked sullen and quite unapproachable.

  He had looked at her several times with incredulity. It was she, of course, yet she was not the Nell he remembered, the light, dreamy little wood nymph of his memory. This was a girl who was poorly dressed— the color and style of her gown were all wrong. Her hairstyle did not suit her and her face was fuller than he remembered. She would not have attracted him at all had he seen her for the first time that evening, he knew, especially with the brooding looks that were directed most often at the floor.

  Yet he could look beyond her present appearance and see the ragged, unkempt, graceful creature he had known during the summer. And his heart had ached for her. Had London taken the bloom from her? Or had he done that? Looking at her minutes before he had approached her to ask her to dance, he had pictured her vividly as she had appeared the last time he had seen her, curled naked and sleepy beside him, flushed from his lovemaking, telling him that she loved him. He had found her refusal to dance a painful experience. He had wanted to stoop down in front of her, put his arms around her, and soothe away whatever it was that had taken away her joy.

  It had been a particularly difficult moment later in the evening, after everyone but him had left, when Elizabeth had asked him how he had enjoyed the evening. It had been relatively easy to lie, even to laugh good-humoredly at her teasing and Robert’s about the various ladies who had appeared smitten by his charms. But then she had spoken about Nell.

  “Was she always so rude when you were in Yorkshire, William?” she had asked. “I do not wonder that you removed to Scotland if that was the sort of manners to which you were exposed.”

  “The elder sisters have quite acceptable manners,” Robert had added. “My guess is that the youngest one has been overindulged. Someone should have given that girl a few good spankings when she was younger. Elizabeth wanted to throw her out when she was so rude to you, William.” He had grinned.

  Mainwaring’s smile had been strained. “I am sure there must have been good reason for her mood,” he had said. “She is not naturally an ill-natured girl.” “You are too good, William,” Elizabeth had said. “I have quite made up my mind that the girl will not be included in any of our invitations for the rest of the winter. Our friend does not have to be exposed to such uncouth behavior.”

  He had left it at that and bade them good night. It was the only time he had suspected Elizabeth of insensitivity. But how could she be expected to know?

  Mainwaring was beginning to feel cold. He wore only a riding coat, and the weather was overcast and blustery. He wished that he had his greatcoat. There was an inn perhaps a mile ahead along the road. He would stop there, he decided, and have some refreshments before heading his horse for London again.

  A few minutes later he was gratefully ensconced in the chimney corner of the inn’s taproom, a glass of ale and a steak-and-kidney pie on a plate before him. He was not hungry, but he had not had breakfast or luncheon. He must eat before setting out on his return journey. He estimated that he had been riding for about two hours before he had stopped here.

  He had not exaggerated when he told Nell that he had lain awake all the previous night. He had not slept. He had a problem that needed to be solved, and he had no idea how best to go about it. Marry the girl he must. There was no question of that. And that decision was not hard to make. It had already been decided, in fact, though he had thought it was a penniless girl he was going to claim. The problem was how to make the offer without making it seem as if he offered only because of his recent discovery.

  He was not sure that he loved Nell. The knowledge that he was free to love a woman other than Elizabeth Denning was still a novelty to him. He knew that he wanted her. Her loss of looks, so evident at the ball, had no bearing on that. And he knew that he was powerfully drawn to her, that he wanted to know her better, because he had the conviction that there was a great deal worth getting to know. But was that love? He did not know.

  And he did not care. He would marry her. His final decision had been to waste no time. The proposal would only become more difficult to make the longer he delayed it. Perhaps her unhappiness of the night before came from a belief that he no longer cared. Perhaps if he went to her the next morning and asked her to marry him, she would respond and he would have the chance to explain to her why he had left her in the summer. Then he would be able to assure her that he had been planning to make the offer regardless of her identity. Perhaps. He had decided to take the gamble.

  And it had not worked. Somehow it had been quite the wrong thing to do. She hated him and she despised him. And she believed all those things about him that he had hoped to avert. He had felt so helpless against her anger and her contempt. He had behaved badly. And he had acted with a double standard. Although he would dearly have liked to deny her accusations, he knew in his heart that he probably would not have made love to her had he known who she was. He quite possibly would not even have kissed her. It was a disturbing admission to make to himself. He had always prided himself on his treatment of those beneath him socially. He had always convinced himself that he treated people equally, regardless of their rank. And it was not true.

  Mainwaring nodded curtly when the landlord offered to refill his glass of ale. He pushed away from him the half-eaten pie.

  He had deserved her rebuff. He could not fully exonerate himself of all she had accused him of. And what could he do now? She had made it clear that she scorned his attentions. But he could not leave her alone. He had to marry her. By God, he had taken her virginity!
She would not be able to accept any other man under those circumstances, and how would she explain to her parents her reluctance to choose a husband? She really had no choice but to accept him. And she hated him. Poor Nell!

  Mainwaring paid his reckoning and walked out to the stableyard to claim his horse, which was looking refreshed after a feed and a thorough brush-down. He swung himself into the saddle. He would have to win her, prove to her somehow that marriage to him would not be the heavy sentence that she anticipated. He would have to show her that, though no angel, he was a man of integrity and conscience. He would have to try somehow to revive the love that she had given him so freely and so trustingly but a few months before.

  It was not going to be easy.

  Helen was not to be allowed to escape. No sooner had Mr. Mainwaring left the room than the butler was standing in the doorway, bowing and informing her that the countess desired her presence in the drawing room.

  Helen sighed. There was no point in trying to avoid the issue. She walked toward the door, which the butler was holding open for her.

  “Well,” her mother said, rising to her feet as soon as Helen appeared in the doorway of the drawing room, “my own dear child. I knew we would find eligible husbands for you all if we just came to town and if you exerted yourselves. I don’t know how it came about, my love, when you met Mr. Mainwaring for the first time only last evening, but such things do happen sometimes, I have heard. And to think Papa and I thought you did nothing but sulk throughout the ball.”

  “Mama . . .” Helen said.

  “You are really to marry Mr. Mainwaring?” Melissa asked. “I wish you joy, Helen. I rather favored him myself at one time, but I believe I should look around me more carefully before making any choice.”

  “I think you are very fortunate,” Emily added. “Mr. Mainwaring is a very proper sort of man even if he does not enjoy a high rank. Have he and Papa decided when the wedding is to be, Mama?”

  “Oh, not too soon, I hope,” Melissa cried in alarm. “It would not do, would it, Mama, for Helen to be married before Emmy and me?”

  “Well, my love—” the countess began.

  “Mama,” Helen said, “I have refused Mr. Mainwaring’s offer.”

  There was an incredulous silence for a moment.

  “Refused?” the countess said. “But you cannot have done that, child. Papa said that he might marry you.”

  “But I have said no,” Helen said, a slight tremor in her voice. “Papa cannot say that I must marry anyone.”

  “Helen!” Emily exclaimed. “How ungrateful can you be? Papa has brought us all here at great expense when he would much prefer to have stayed at home for the hunting season. And he has found you a quite acceptable husband. For what possible reason could you have refused?”

  “If you consider it so important for us to marry, and if you find Mr. Mainwaring so eligible,” Helen blurted, “then do you marry him, Emmy. I have no intention of marrying anyone, now or ever.”

  The countess had sunk down onto a sofa. “Child,” she said now, “what are we to do with you? You are twenty years old, practically on the shelf already, and you behave like a hoyden many years younger. You must marry. What else is there?”

  “Mama,” Helen said, seating herself beside her mother and taking her limp hand in her own, “I shall stay with you. I cannot marry, indeed I cannot. And I cannot bear Mr. Mainwaring. I should die rather than accept his offer. Please do not try to force me. I shall be a good daughter, I swear. But please do not expect me to enter the marriage mart.”

  The countess was unused to seeing her youngest daughter so distraught. She patted her hand. “Well, Helen,” she said, “I really do not know what is to become of you. And I do not know how Papa will view this. You have made him appear very foolish, you know, child. Mr. Mainwaring had his blessing. I do believe they had even talked about a settlement.’’ She sighed.

  Helen rose to her feet. “May I be excused?” she asked. “I do not feel like any luncheon, Mama. I shall rest in my room.”

  The countess sighed again. “If only you could be more like your sisters,” she said. “Melissa has had two bouquets this morning, and Emily has been asked to drive in the park with Lord Harding and his sister this afternoon.”

  Helen smiled and made her escape. In her own room she pulled the pins from her head and shook her hair loose about her shoulders. She lay down on her bed and stared at the canopy over her bed.

  What had made him come? Why had he made an offer for her? She had certainly given him no encouragement the evening before, and she knew that she had not looked good. She had behaved throughout the evening in a manner calculated to repel any man rather than to attract. Yet he had decided to come this morning, to speak to Papa in a formal offer for her hand, and then to speak to her. How could he have done such a thing?

  His reason was obvious, she supposed, and it was one that made her think worse of him than she had already done. He clearly did live by an appalling double standard. The accusation she had made to him in the heat of her anger had been quite justified. He had probably not given her a second thought since leaving her in the summer. A country wench did not merit any concern on the part of a gentleman. It was no barb for one’s conscience to have ruined such a girl. But it was a different matter altogether when one knew that that girl was a lady. Only marriage could right such a wrong. It was true that she had done wrong to deceive him. She should not have put his moral values to such a test. But, right or wrong, she had tested him. And she did not like what she had found. She had to despise him for his behavior.

  Had he seriously thought that she would accept him, gladly escape to respectability? Had he expected her to so humiliate herself, knowing full well that he offered only because he felt obliged to give her the protection of his name, as he had put it? He must have been confident if he had gone to her father first.

  What did he really think of her? Despite his offer, he must really despise her. What woman of her age and rank would have done what she had done? She had given herself quite deliberately to a stranger, when even to have given a kiss should have shocked her. There was no question of seduction. She had entered into the liaison quite as freely as he. It was only now, perhaps, since they had arrived in London that she was beginning to realize even more fully the enormity of what she had done. She saw around her the young girls of the ton, cosseted and guarded at every turn by mamas and chaperons. Most of them probably never had a chance even to be alone with a man until after they were safely married. And she had met a man alone several times and had actually made love with him.

  Yes, he must despise her. He must consider her to be a woman of very loose morals. Was she? She supposed she must be. She had suffered and she had been punished for her wrongdoing. She would continue to suffer probably for a long time to come. She could never again live the normal life of a girl of her class. She had accepted almost from the beginning that what she had done was terribly wrong. Yet despite it all, she still could not feel real shame for anything in the past except the deception she had practiced. She should be both ashamed and disgusted to remember that she had given herself to a man who was little more than a stranger. But she was not. The experience had made a woman of her in more than one way, and she would not revert to girlhood even if she could.

  Let Mr. William Mainwaring despise her, she thought defiantly. Let him think that she could be as easily persuaded to marry him as to lie with him. She really did not care. If only he did not show to quite such advantage in his city clothes! It did not seem fair that he should have looked so handsome and so distinguished the night before, while she had looked as if she were dressed in someone’s cast-off curtains. It was not fair that he had known he would see her this morning and had had the chance to dress in that closefitting riding jacket of olive green and those buff riding breeches that fit him like a second skin and the highly polished boots. She had felt so dowdy in her brown wool morning dress and her hastily piled hair. And she had felt so una
ttractive with the extra weight she had put on recently, which seemed to have settled all around her face.

  She must avoid him at all costs. She had thought that after seeing him once she would find future meetings easier. But he had made sure that that would not be the case. Now there would be all the acute embarrassment of remembering their interview of this morning. Not that another meeting would have been easy even without that encounter. Seeing him again the night before had only served to remind her of how very attractive a man William Mainwaring was. And disapproving of a man did not take away one’s attraction to him, she had discovered with some dismay. She would just have to stay well away from him. The only consolation to her mind was the conviction that he would be just as anxious to avoid her from now on.

  CHAPTER 11

  L ord Harding appeared to be quite taken with Lady Emily Wade. He was a man in his early forties, a widower. He had spent the years since the death of his wife divided between his home in Richmond and the Foreign Office, where his fluent knowledge of several European languages made him an invaluable asset during the time of the Napoleonic wars. For a long while he had not seemed to feel the need for a new wife. His unmarried sister had moved into his home soon after his bereavement and had looked efficiently to his comforts and acted as his hostess on the rare occasions when he entertained.

  But now the sister, at the age of two-and-thirty, had surprised everyone by betrothing herself to a widower, a baronet more than fifteen years her senior, who desperately needed a mature woman to care for his five children. When Lord Harding began to appear at the social events of the ton, therefore, it was rumored that he was finally looking around for a new wife. Lady Emily seemed to be his instant choice, and it was not difficult to see why that would be. She was the daughter of an earl. She was young, yet past her girlhood, elegant and dignified. He was not the sort of man who would be unduly concerned with her lack of humor.