by Mary Balogh
She hoped the story was embellished. Crispin had hurt and disappointed her enough when he had betrayed her and married someone else. She would think even worse of him if she discovered now that he believed he could come back home and crook a finger her way and she would run right back into his arms.
She would marry, she decided—but not Crispin Dew, even if he was prepared to court her again. She would show him that she had not been pining for him and waiting around all these years in the hope that he would come back to her.
The very idea!
She knew whom she would marry.
The Marquess of Allingham had proposed marriage to her three times over the past five years. She had refused each time, but the connection between them had never been broken, since it was based upon friendship. Margaret liked him and knew that he liked her. They were comfortable together. Neither of them ever had to search for a topic of conversation. Sometimes they could even be silent together without feeling discomfort. The marquess, a distinguished-looking gentleman, was perhaps eight or nine years older than she and had been married before.
Only one thing had held her back from accepting him. She was not in love with him. She had never felt for him that surge of exhilaration and magic she had once felt for Crispin, and he did not fulfill any of the secret dreams of romance and passion she had clung to over the years. But she was being very foolish, she had decided over the winter. Romantic love had brought her nothing but heartache. It would be far more sensible to marry a friend.
She had said no each time the marquess had asked. However, on the third occasion—at the end of the Season last year—she had hesitated first and he had seen it. He had taken her hand in his, raised it to his lips, and told her he would not press the issue this year and cause her any distress. They would meet again next year, he had promised, and they would still be friends, he hoped.
He had all but promised to ask her again. By her hesitation, she had all but promised to say yes next time.
And she would say yes.
She was going to be married before she turned thirty-one. She felt comfortable, even happy, with her decision. She no longer loved Crispin Dew and had not for a number of years. But being married to the Marquess of Allingham would finally close the book on any lingering attachment to that youthful fancy. She was only sorry she had not accepted him before now. But perhaps it was as well she had not. She had needed to feel quite ready, and now she did.
So Margaret went to London at the end of May, rather later in the Season than she had intended, as certain local commitments had kept her busy at Warren Hall. Stephen was already in town. So were Vanessa and Elliott and their two children, and Katherine and Jasper and their one. Just the thought of seeing all her family again, including the children, buoyed her spirits. But beneath it all, she felt a glow of happy anticipation in knowing that at last she would begin her own independent life by marrying and starting a family.
She could scarcely wait to see the marquess again.
She spent the first few days after her arrival visiting her family and going shopping and walking with her sisters. The first entertainment she planned to attend was Lady Tindell’s ball, always a well-attended event. She felt rather like a girl anticipating her very first ball. Every hour she changed her mind about what she would wear and how she would have her maid dress her hair.
She wanted to look her very best.
The day before the ball she went walking in Hyde Park with her sisters. It was the fashionable hour of the afternoon, and it was a fine day after three days of almost steady drizzle. The carriage paths were packed almost axle to axle with fashionable carriages of various descriptions. Riders on horseback wove their way among them whenever they could find passage. Pedestrians ambled in a dense, slow-moving crowd along the footpaths. No one was in a hurry. This was not the route one would take if one wished to get anywhere fast. One came into the park during the afternoon in order to observe the beau monde and exchange greetings and gossip with friends and acquaintances. One came to see and be seen.
“After all,” Vanessa said gaily as they strolled among the throng, “I did not spend half of Elliott’s fortune on this bonnet in order to hurry along a deserted back street.”
“And very fetching it is too,” Katherine said. “Meg and I must be content to bask in your reflected glory, Nessie.”
They all laughed.
And then Margaret felt her own smile drain away, and with it half the blood in her head. One horseman, a military officer who was riding with a group of others, all looking very dashing in their scarlet regimentals, had stopped a few yards ahead of them and was looking intently at them, first in astonishment and then in open delight. A smile lit his face as he swept off his shako and made them a bow.
Crispin Dew!
“Meg!” he exclaimed. “And Nessie. And little Kate? Is it possible?”
Margaret curled her gloved fingers very tightly into her palms at her sides and concentrated hard upon not fainting, while her sisters exclaimed at the sight of him. He swung down from the saddle and came striding toward them, parting the crowd, one of his hands holding the bridle of his horse.
Oh, why had she not been warned of this? Why had no one told her?
“Crispin!” Vanessa cried, and she stepped forward to hug him. She had once been married to Hedley Dew, his brother, until Hedley died of consumption.
Katherine inclined her head and curtsied. “Crispin,” she said, her voice cool and polite.
His eyes came to rest again on Margaret, and he held out both hands for hers.
“Meg,” he said, his smile softening. “Oh, Meg, how have you contrived to grow even more beautiful over the years? How many years has it been anyway?”
She kept her hands at her sides.
“Twelve,” she said, and then wished she had not shown such an exact awareness of how long it had been since that afternoon when they had said good-bye. When she had promised to wait and he had promised to come back. When the very air had throbbed with their passion and grief. When she had thought her heart would surely break.
He was even more handsome now. His reddish hair had darkened a shade or two, and his fair complexion had weathered. He looked broader and more rugged. There was a white scar just above his right eyebrow that slanted across his forehead to disappear into his hairline. It made him look curiously attractive.
“Can it possibly be that long?” he asked, returning his arms to his sides.
He looked back at his fellow officers, who had also stopped though they were being jostled by the crowds.
“These three lovely ladies were neighbors and dear friends when I was growing up,” Crispin called to them. “I will walk with them for a while if they will permit it. You fellows go on without me.”
These three lovely ladies. What foolishly flattering words.
They were given no choice since he did not actually ask their permission. Vanessa looked slightly uncomfortable now, and Katherine looked almost morose. They knew, of course, about the secret betrothal and Crispin’s betrayal of it, though Margaret had never talked of it.
Margaret’s mind was in turmoil as Crispin turned to walk and make polite conversation with them. He had heard of Nessie’s second marriage, of course, and told her he was delighted by it. She had been a wonderful wife to Hedley and deserved to be happy again, he said. His mother had told him about Kate’s marriage to Lord Montford. He was delighted by that too and hoped to meet the gentleman soon.
But it was impossible to walk for long in a group of four. Soon Vanessa and Katherine were detained by a mutual acquaintance, and Margaret found herself walking alone at his side.
She was finding it difficult to breathe—and she was alarmed and annoyed by her own discomposure. This was Crispin Dew, who had married a Spanish lady and fathered a daughter after promising to return to her. Crispin, whom she had loved with her whole heart—and trusted with her love and her future.
“Well, Meg,” he said, his eyes warm with
admiration, “you are greatly to be commended. You remained faithful to your promise to your father. You stayed with your sisters and Stephen until they grew up, and did a very good job of raising them all. But you never did marry, did you?”
As if marriage were no longer possible for her.
She did not answer him. She pretended to be distracted by the crowd.
“I am glad you did not marry,” he said, lowering his voice. “Why would you not come to Rundle Park when I joined my voice to Mama’s to invite you there?”
Ah. So he had known what Lady Dew had written to her. He had endorsed it. She thought the less of him—if there were less to think.
“I had other commitments,” she said.
“And they were too important,” he said, “to postpone in order to visit an old friend who longed to see you again? But no matter. I have come to town and have met you here instead. I expect to be here for a month or two. I will give you my company whenever I have the time while I am here, Meg. It will be a pleasure. You are still amazingly lovely.”
Would it not be a pleasure if her looks had faded?
I will give you my company whenever I have the time…
What exactly did he mean by that? He was not asking for her company. He was not even offering her his. He was granting it to her as if it were some precious gift. As if she might be all alone and lonely without it. As if she were past the age when she might expect any but her family members or an old friend to take any notice of her. As if she ought to be grateful that he would find time for her in his busy life.
… whenever I have the time.
As if he were prepared to fit her in whenever he had nothing better to do.
She was suddenly angry.
She hated him with a passion.
All the pent-up fury of years pulsed through her.
You are still amazingly lovely.
How … oh, how condescending!
“That is remarkably kind of you, Crispin,” she said, trying to keep the edge out of her voice, “but it will be quite unnecessary.”
“Oh, it will be no trouble,” he assured her. “I would never have it said that I would not show all the gallantry that is in my power to a lady who was once such a dear friend of mine. And still is, I hope. And always will be?”
… a dear friend…
He looked down at her, his eyebrows raised in inquiry.
She was unaccustomed to feeling raw fury. She had no idea how to deal with it, how to remain prudent until she could bring it under control. So she spoke very unwisely.
“You misunderstand, Crispin,” she said. “It is quite unnecessary to extend a hand of charity my way. My fiancé might not like it.”
She heard the words come from her mouth as if someone else was speaking them. And suddenly she wished that someone else was. Whatever had she been goaded into saying so prematurely?
“Your fiancé?” he asked her, all astonishment. “You are betrothed, Margaret?”
“Yes,” she said with fierce satisfaction, “though no announcement has yet been made.”
“But who is the fortunate gentleman?” he asked her. “Would he be someone I know?”
“Almost certainly not,” she said, evading his first question.
He had stopped walking. “When will I meet him?” he asked her.
“I do not know,” she said.
“At Lady Tindell’s ball tonight?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” she said, feeling horribly trapped.
“I was not at all sure I would attend that particular ball,” he said. “But now nothing could stop me. I shall come and meet this gentleman, Margaret, and see if he is worthy of you. If he is not, I shall challenge him to pistols at dawn and then throw you across my saddle bow and ride off into the sunset with you—or perhaps into the darkness of midnight.”
He grinned at her, and she was smitten by a sense of familiarity. It was the sort of thing he would have said to her when they were very young—and she would have responded in kind until they were both helpless with laughter.
She bit her lip.
If the Marquess of Allingham was at the ball tonight—and she had counted upon his being there—would Crispin demand an introduction and say something about their engagement?
She would positively die of embarrassment.
She did not know for certain, of course, that the marquess would be at the ball. Indeed, she was not even quite certain he was in town, though he surely would be since he took seriously his role as a member of the House of Lords, and Parliament was in session. Perhaps she should stay away from the ball herself. But she had been so looking forward to going and seeing the marquess again.
Besides, why should she stay at home and postpone seeing him just because Crispin was going to be there—and because anger had goaded her into telling a lie, or a very premature truth, anyway?
“You must say nothing about my betrothal, Crispin,” she said. “I ought not to have mentioned it. Even my sisters do not know of it yet.”
“Then I am privileged indeed.” He took her right hand in his and turned it in order to set his lips briefly against the pulse at her wrist. “My lips are sealed. Ah, Meg, it is so very good to see you again. It has been far too long. And I have come too late as well, alas.”
“Twelve years too late,” she said, and swallowed awkwardly. She could feel the imprint of his lips like a brand across her wrist.
It was too late. She could feel only a pained hostility toward him. Surely he could have shown some embarrassment, some shame, some sign that he remembered how dishonorably he had treated her. He had not even written to her. She had found out about his marriage quite by chance.
Vanessa and Katherine had finished their conversation and caught up with them at last. Vanessa asked Crispin about his daughter, who was still living at Rundle Park with her grandparents.
“They are coming to town,” he said, “since I cannot do without my little Maria for too long. They should be here any day.”
Katherine took Margaret’s arm and squeezed it in silent sympathy.
Margaret smiled at her.
Her head was throbbing. If she had known that he was coming to London, she would have stayed at Warren Hall. She would not even have hesitated. It was too late now, though.
Would the Marquess of Allingham propose marriage to her tonight, when it would be their first meeting since last year—if he attended the ball, that was? It seemed highly unlikely that he would declare himself so soon. Surely he would wait until their third or fourth meeting, and even then he might be cautious since she had already refused him three times.
Oh, everything felt ruined. She would feel somehow manipulative if she encouraged his suit—although she had intended to do so even before this afternoon. She would feel as if she were trying to force him to propose marriage to her simply so that she would not lose face with a former faithless lover.
It was not that way at all!
What did she care for Crispin Dew? She cared for the kindly, courtly man she had decided to marry.
“Oh, Meg,” Katherine said. “How very distressing this must be for you. I wish we had known he was in town so that we could at least have warned you.”
“I am not distressed at all,” Margaret said. “I have been walking quietly at your side because I am having an inner debate with myself about which gown I will wear tonight for my first ball since last year. It is a very serious decision, you must understand. I wish to cut the very best possible dash. The gold, do you think?”
Katherine sighed theatrically.
“Nessie’s new bonnet this afternoon and your gold gown tonight,” she said. “I shall be quite overshadowed by the splendor of my sisters.”
They looked at each other and laughed.
Katherine was the loveliest of them all with her tall, slender figure and golden brown hair. If she wore a sack to the ball tonight, she would turn more than her fair share of appreciative heads.
Crispin was turning to take his
leave of them. Margaret smiled and nodded to him and felt a queasiness in her stomach again.
He was going to be at the ball tonight—with the express purpose of meeting her betrothed.
Lies were never worth telling, were they? And that was a massive understatement.
3
MARGARET wore her gold gown to Lady Tindell’s ball. She had bought it at the end of last Season, a foolish extravagance, she had thought at the time, as she had had no opportunity to wear it before returning to Warren Hall for the summer. But she had loved it from the moment she saw it, ready-made and ready to purchase and her exact size—though she had been a little afraid it was too revealing at the bosom. Both Vanessa and Katherine, who had been with her at the time, had assured her that it was not, that since she had a bosom she might as well show it to best advantage. It was an argument that was not necessarily reassuring, but Margaret had bought the gown anyway.
She felt young and attractive in it now. She was not really young, of course. But was she still a little attractive? Modesty said no, but her glass assured her that what beauty she had been blessed with had not altogether faded yet. And she had never lacked for partners at any of the balls she had attended during the past few years.
She had attracted the Marquess of Allingham, had she not? And he was without a doubt one of the most eligible matrimonial catches in England.
Oh, she hoped he would be at the ball tonight.
And she hoped Crispin would change his mind and stay away. She really did not want to see him again.
The underdress of fine ivory-colored silk clung to her every curve, and the transparent gold overdress shimmered in the candlelight. It was a high-waisted gown cut daringly low at the bosom, its sleeves short and puffed above her long gold gloves, which matched her dancing slippers.
She almost lost her courage before leaving her dressing room. At her age she should surely be wearing far more sober and decorous gowns. But before she could give serious thought to changing into something else, there was a tap on the door, and when her maid opened it, Stephen poked his head inside.
