Someone to Romance

by Mary Balogh

  She was gazing up at him, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted.

  “She is my late aunt’s sister,” he told her. “She was born with a deformed back and foot and hand. She takes in stray cats and dogs and any troubled wild creatures that come her way. The gardeners occasionally bring her wounded birds and she mends their wings and sets them free. She has a garden that rivals this in beauty.” He gestured at the arbor around them. “I have never known anyone so contented with her life or anyone so . . . good. I love her. Not in that way. I honor and love her and would die for her.”

  Good God. Where were such words coming from? He felt suddenly foolish. But Mary deserved to be honored.

  “But as it happened,” she said, “you were not called upon to die for her but simply to come home. To give up everything you held dear for her sake. A sort of death in itself.”

  “For the only time since I have known her,” he said, “she asked something of me. She asked me to come. And here I am.”

  He was astounded suddenly when her eyes, still riveted on his face, grew bright with unshed tears. She caught her upper lip between her teeth.

  “I would rather keep my anonymity for a short while longer,” he said. “I would like to gather a little more information than I already have. Mary, it seems, is not the only one who has been made to suffer. I blame myself for not having realized the danger of that before I came here—or perhaps of refusing to consider the possibility of it. I am indeed no angel, despite my name. I believe too I would like to meet my cousin again before divulging the truth. The one who is about to be earl.”

  She released her lip. “Why has Mr. Anthony Rochford not recognized you?” she asked him.

  “He has never seen me before now,” he said. “He was just a young boy when I went to America. Whenever his mother and father came to Brierley, which happened quite frequently, he was left at home.”

  He watched her draw a slow breath. “I will not give away your secret,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  She looked down at her hands spread on her lap for a few moments and then at the fountain and then back at him. He held her eyes with his own.

  “I would have to be a dreadful slowtop to waste an opportunity for a little romance in such idyllic surroundings,” he said.

  He gave her time to turn her head away or get to her feet and suggest they go for tea on the terrace. She did neither. She licked her lips in what was surely not meant to be a provocative gesture, though it brought his eyes to her mouth. He moved his own closer and raised his eyes to hers again. She gazed back.

  And he kissed her.

  It was a mere touching of lips. A lingering touch. He had sensed from the moment she had demanded that he romance her if he wanted a chance with her that she would scorn any aggressive moves to take her heart by storm. Her heart was not easily taken, he had judged. Hence the single rose sent to her each morning and the music he had played for her last evening and the duet. And the touch of his little finger to hers, though there had been nothing deliberate or planned about that.

  And hence this kiss, which was hardly a kiss at all except that it did things to his body and his heartbeat and his mind that far more lascivious embraces with other women had never done. It moved him somehow into a physical space that was neither his nor hers but something else without a name. It was shockingly, inexplicably intimate.

  And he wanted more. By God, he wanted more.

  He did not take more, except that he set his fingertips against her jaw, and when he drew back his head and gazed into her eyes again, he ran his thumb lightly over her slightly parted lips.

  She smiled fleetingly and moved her own head back.

  “You have a strange idea of romance, Mr. Thorne,” she said. But she did not say what she meant by that and he did not ask.

  “If we do not go for tea soon,” he said, “the food will be carried back indoors and we will go hungry.”

  “That would be a ghastly fate,” she said. “Let us go by all means. I daresay my mother is wondering where I am.”

  “Especially if she has seen Rochford and you are not with him,” he said. “I gather your family is trying to promote a match between the two of you?”

  “Just as they are trying to promote one between you and Estelle,” she said. “Being a member of the Westcott family can be a severe trial. And a great joy. Frequently frustrating and endlessly entertaining.”

  “I look forward to becoming a part of it,” he told her, removing his fingertips from her jaw and returning his foot to the ground.

  “And there you go again,” she said. “Making assumptions.” But she did not sound annoyed with him this time.

  Twelve

  Mr. Rochford was expected at Archer House. He had begged for the honor, and it had been granted. Jessica was wearing one of her new dresses, a sprigged muslin she thought would be more suited to a garden party like the one she had attended the day before yesterday. But her mother had suggested it for today. Her mother had also come to her dressing room in person to suggest that Ruth dress her hair in its usual upswept style, but a little fussier than usual for the daytime, with perhaps a few curled tendrils to trail over her ears and along her neck. Ruth had done a perfect job of it, as usual.

  Anna had gone with Cousin Elizabeth and all their children except Beatrice to visit Wren and her children. Jessica was sitting in the drawing room with her mother when they heard Mr. Rochford arrive. But she did not listen for footsteps on the stairs. He was not coming to call upon her. Not yet. He had asked to wait upon Avery.

  Last evening at a literary evening Jessica had attended because it was given by one of her friends, Mr. Rochford had seated himself beside her for the first reading and refused to be dislodged afterward. It was customary at such events to circulate, to move about the room between each reading of a poem or story, discussing its merits and conversing upon other literary topics with one’s fellow guests. Mr. Rochford had followed Jessica wherever she went and had seated himself beside her whenever she settled for another performance, even though she chose a different chair each time.

  She had found it irritating and did not doubt it had been observed and commented upon. She had also felt a bit sorry for him, for she knew that what was facing him was going to be a disappointment of colossal proportions. But then he was a liar. He had pretended he had known Gabriel Rochford as a boy when he had not. And if he had lied about that, could he be trusted on any details of the story he had told?

  This morning Mr. Rochford had sent a formal written request that the Duke of Netherby grant him half an hour of his invaluable time at two o’clock in the afternoon.

  “He is very handsome, Jessica,” her mother said now. “And personable. And charming.”

  “Yes,” Jessica agreed. “He is all three, Mama.”

  “And eligible,” her mother added.

  “Yes.” It was hard sometimes to hang on to a secret.

  “And young,” her mother said.

  Four other gentlemen had reached the point of calling formally upon Avery in the past six years or so. The last one had been close to fifty years old—older than her mother. Avery had observed in that aloof, bored way of his after she had refused him that if she had accepted, he would have locked her in her room and fed her bread and water until her wedding day.

  “Yes,” she said now. “He is probably about my age. Maybe even a little younger.”

  “You are twenty-five years old, Jessica,” her mother said. She sounded a bit despairing. “This would be a very good match for you even though it may be years before Mr. Rochford succeeds to his father’s title. You could be happy. Surely.”

  “We do not even know for certain that an offer is about to be made, Mama,” Jessica said.

  “Oh, come now.” Her mother laughed. “Are you nervous, Jessica? Do you like him?”

  “I do not disl
ike him,” Jessica said, and hoped she was not lying outright. It would be unfair to hate him. He was trying very hard. If he lacked something in town bronze, it was understandable. This was his first visit to London, after all. It was his first taste of life lived in the bosom of the ton. He was doing his best. And he would surely learn. But . . . he was a liar. And it had been such an unnecessary lie if he believed, as he no doubt did, that his cousin was dead.

  “I hope,” her mother said, “you are not dangling after Mr. Thorne, Jessica.”

  Dangling after? She had never openly flirted with anyone in her life.

  “I am not,” she said. But she thought of today’s pink rose in its narrow crystal vase upstairs beside her bed and of yesterday’s—yellow, probably as an echo of the dress she had worn to the garden party or of the rose she had cupped in her hands in the rose arbor. And of all the others, in varying shades of pink, pressed so that they would not turn brown about the edges and wither and die. And she thought of that kiss, which only afterward had she realized was not remotely lascivious, though every part of her body, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes, had melted with the sheer sensual intimacy of it. “I am not dangling after anyone, Mama, and can safely promise never to do so.”

  “It was the wrong word,” her mother admitted with a sigh. “Of course you are not. There is no need. I can think of a dozen men without even taxing my brain who would fall to their knees with one glance of encouragement from you. But do you . . . favor Mr. Thorne?”

  Jessica feared she was going to marry him.

  Feared?

  He might be a ravisher and a murderer. She had not asked him, and it seemed strange now that she had not. Had she been afraid of the answer? It seemed strange that after shrugging off so many worthy candidates for her hand she was finally giving serious consideration to the suit of a man who might have committed two of the worst crimes imaginable. But . . . Oh, but he had returned from America, not because he was the Earl of Lyndale and owner of what was probably a grand home and estate and a sizable fortune. In the more than six years since the death of his uncle he had not been tempted by those things. He had been happy in America. He had actually used that word—happy. He had returned because a hermit of a woman who had been born with severe physical challenges was about to be turned out of her modest cottage by the man who would be earl if Mr. Thorne did not come back. He had given up everything that was dear to him, perhaps forever, for the sake of that one woman. Because he loved her—though not in any romantic way.

  Could such a man be a ravisher? A murderer?

  But she had only his word . . .

  And she had only Mr. Rochford’s word . . .

  Which did she believe? She had not even asked Mr. Thorne the important questions.

  “I like him, Mama,” she said rather lamely in answer to her mother’s question.

  “We know nothing of his lineage,” her mother said, “apart from the fact that he is somehow related to Lady Vickers. We cannot even be certain that he is wealthy, though he patronizes the very best tailors and boot makers and is apparently putting up at an expensive hotel. But he may be deep in debt for all we know. And if he made his fortune in trade, he may not be quite up to snuff even if he is a gentleman. Not for your father’s daughter at least.”

  “Mama,” she said, smiling, “it is not Mr. Thorne who is downstairs with Avery.”

  No, it was not. She had thought perhaps he might come yesterday after kissing her at the garden party. Oh, not to make a formal offer, perhaps, but maybe to take her driving or walking in the park. She had thought when Avery first mentioned this morning that some gentleman had requested the favor of half an hour of his time that perhaps it was Mr. Thorne. She was getting a little tired of roses and silences. Though there had been the magical interlude with the pianoforte at Elizabeth and Colin’s party. Yes, magical. And there had been the rose arbor at the garden party, and that kiss. Not quite her first, but . . . Oh, wherever was the man? She did not want just to be romanced. She wanted . . .

  Oh, she wanted her heart to be besieged.

  “You are quite right,” her mother said, laughing. “And if it were, I daresay Avery would make short work of him. He would not willingly allow you to marry a cit, even one who is a gentleman by birth. Not that you need his permission, of course, but it would be as well to have it when you do decide to marry. Avery has his funny ways, but I would never question his judgment.”

  The drawing room door opened as she finished speaking and Avery stepped into the room. He raised his quizzing glass to his eye as the butler closed the door behind him, and he surveyed Jessica through its lens. A pure affectation, of course. There was nothing wrong with Avery’s eyesight.

  “You are looking remarkably well turned out, Jess,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She made to get to her feet. She must go down and get this over with. But Avery raised a staying hand and lowered his glass.

  “Rochford asked for half an hour and was granted exactly that,” he said. “His mission might have been accomplished sooner, but he has a tendency to wrap up the kernel of what he has to say in florid language. He wishes to convey a countess’s title upon you at some future date, Jess.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I will go down and speak with him.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I would have detained him if I had known you were eager to speak to him. Alas, he has gone.”

  “Gone?” Jessica’s mother said. “You did not refuse him, Avery, surely.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I do not have the power to do any such thing, Mother,” he said. “My duty as Jess’s guardian came to an end four years ago, a fact that afforded me as much relief as it did her. But men who wish to marry her seem to feel obliged to seek out my blessing if not my permission. That is what Rochford came to get. He failed and left. I did offer to bring him up to pay his respects to both of you anyway, but he seemed to be out of sorts and went away instead. Your efforts to look your best have been all for naught, Jess. Perhaps I had better take you and Mother to Gunter’s for an ice.”

  “Avery,” Jessica’s mother said. “You are being deliberately tiresome. Why, pray, did you withhold your blessing from Mr. Rochford’s suit? You must know that it is what all of her family has been hoping for.”

  “All?” he said, frowning. “Am I not at least an honorary member of the Westcott family, Mother, as your stepson? And as Anna’s husband? You wound me.”

  “In case neither of you has noticed,” Jessica said rather tartly, “I am here. I would be obliged if the two of you would not continue to talk about my business as though I were not. Why did you withhold your blessing, Avery?”

  He turned his attention upon her. “I cannot in all honesty say, Jess, that he would have my blessing under any circumstances,” he said. “Not unless he can lose a few teeth. But that might involve some painful extractions and I would not wish that upon my worst enemy.”

  Jessica’s mother tutted and tossed her glance at the ceiling. Jessica, despite herself, smirked.

  “I did inform him,” Avery continued, “that he will have my official blessing at least to speak to you in my house when he can offer in fact what he offered this afternoon merely in theory. The Earl of Lyndale still officially lives. When he is officially dead and Rochford’s father is confirmed in the title, then Rochford himself will be an eligible suitor for the hand of my stepsister. But before you can stamp your foot in anger over my presumption, Jess, may I remind you that I know very well you do not need my permission? It is merely my hope that you will listen to advice.”

  “Do you believe, then,” she asked him, “that the Earl of Lyndale still lives?”

  “I neither believe nor disbelieve,” he told her. “I speak merely of facts, and the fact is that the present earl lives until he has been pronounced dead by the appropriate authority.”

  He was looking very directly at her
, Jessica saw, his normally sleepy eyes unusually keen. He knows, she thought. Or if he does not know, he suspects. And if he suspects, he will ferret out the truth. Avery had a way of doing that.

  “I am not about to turn down an offer of an ice at Gunter’s,” she told him.

  He sighed. “I was afraid of that,” he said.

  Her mother looked from one to the other of them and tossed her glance at the ceiling again.

  * * *

  * * *

  The day after the garden party, Gabriel made arrangements to keep his suite of rooms at his London hotel, though he did not expect to be there for the next week. He arranged to have pink roses, accompanied by signed cards, sent to Archer House each morning for the coming week. He informed Sir Trevor and Lady Vickers and Bertie that he would be away from town for up to a week. And he took his curricle and pair, his valet, and his groom and drove north.

  The village was called Lilyvale, Simon Norton had informed him, and was thirty miles or so southeast of Brierley. Ginsberg lived there with his daughter and son-in-law on a tenant farm he had leased more than twelve years ago. The information was secondhand, even thirdhand, by the time it had reached Norton’s ears, but Gabriel had decided to trust it. If it proved false, he would have wasted a few days. It would not be the end of the world.

  The information turned out not to be false. Ginsberg lived in a fair-sized house on what looked to be a well-run farm. There was a neat garden about the house, sporting both flowers and vegetables as well as an expanse of freshly scythed lawn. Two young children, a boy and a girl, were roaring about the lawn when Gabriel arrived, involved in some noisy game. An older boy, nominally in charge of them, perhaps, was stretched out on his side on the grass, propped on one elbow, his head upon his hand. He was reading.

  The children stopped to stare, and the older boy looked up from his book. “Good morning, sir,” he said.