by Mary Balogh
“She is when someone is about to hurt her,” Con said, “even if only her reputation. She has had a raw deal of a life, Sherry, as women all too often do. She was not quite eighteen when she promised her father on his deathbed that she would make a home for her brother and sisters until they were all grown up and settled in life. That was long before my own father and then Jon died and her brother inherited the title. They were poor. But she kept her promise anyway. Merton reached his majority and the youngest sister married just two years ago. She is free of the obligation, but she is no longer young. She has probably realized that if she does not marry soon she will have the unenviable life of a spinster for the rest of her days, and be rewarded for all she has done for her family by being eternally dependent upon them. I can see that she would be an easy prey to such as you.”
He spoke heatedly despite the fact that he was still half out of breath.
“Such as me?” Duncan raised his eyebrows.
“Mrs. Turner is dead,” Con said. “So is your father, Sherry, and your grandfather is an old man. You have come to town, I presume, in order to choose a bride.”
“And if I have chosen Miss Huxtable,” Duncan said, wrapping his towel about his shoulders and wiping his face with it, “it must be because I intend to hurt her?”
“Your notoriety itself will hurt her,” Con said. “Leave her alone, Sherry. Choose someone less vulnerable.”
“But if the story of how she presented me to Frost—or was it Fog or Dew? Dew! That was it. If the story has spread, Con, and obviously it has,” Duncan said, “will I not hurt her quite irreparably by withdrawing my offer now?”
Con gazed stormily at him. “Damn you, Sherry.” He scrubbed at his face and arms and chest with his towel and stalked off to retrieve his clothes. “Why did you have to choose Margaret of all people? If you marry her and hurt so much as a hair on her head, you will have me to answer to. This was nothing.” He jerked his head back in the direction of the ring. “This was mere sparring.”
“Are you going to White’s by any chance?” Duncan asked. “If you are, I will walk with you.”
But going to White’s brought him face-to-face with the Duke of Moreland, who had still been just Viscount Lyngate when Duncan had last frequented town.
“Moreland.” Duncan nodded affably to him and the blond young man who was with him, and would have proceeded on his way to the reading room to look at the morning papers if the duke had not stood quite deliberately in his way.
“Sheringford,” he said, frowning ferociously “I will have a word with you. My wife, if you did not know it, was the former Mrs. Hedley Dew and before that Miss Vanessa Huxtable. This is the Earl of Merton.”
Ah. So Moreland had a connection with both the Dews and the Huxtables, did he? Duncan sighed inwardly. He had not realized that.
Merton inclined his head and looked grim. He was a handsome lad and a slender one, but Duncan’s practiced eye registered the fact that it would be a mistake to assume that he was therefore a weakling. That youthful physique looked very well honed indeed, and the face had character.
“Ah, Merton, well met,” Duncan said. “You are just the man I would have been seeking out later today.”
He had not thought of doing so until this very moment actually. It was a while since he had made any formal marriage offer. But though Margaret Huxtable must be several years older than this brother she had brought up almost single-handed, it was surely the decent thing to do to meet formally with him to discuss marriage settlements and all the other business surrounding an impending marriage offer.
“Later today is a little too late, is it not,” Merton asked him curtly, “when the question has already been asked and answered and word spread among half the ton? And announced in the morning paper?”
“Announced in the paper?” Duncan asked in astonishment.
“More or less,” Merton said. “On the gossip page, anyway.”
Extraordinary. And it must have been the military officer with the weak chin. No one else could have seen him and Miss Huxtable talking with each other and thought of spreading the rumor that they were betrothed. Duncan would not mind having a word or two with Major Dew.
How was Miss Huxtable holding up this morning? he wondered. Were circumstances playing into his hands and almost forcing her into accepting him? If the ton believed that she was betrothed to him—and clearly it did, or would once it had read the papers this morning—she would cause herself some embarrassment if she cried off. On the other hand, marrying him was going to bring her scandal. He was not the ton’s favorite son.
Miss Margaret Huxtable, it seemed, had trapped herself somewhere between the devil and the deep blue sea.
“I would have said no a thousand times over,” Merton said while Moreland loomed, silent and menacing, “if you had done all this properly and spoken with me privately first. I would still say no if the answer were mine to give. Unfortunately, Meg is not subject to my will. She is her own person and can answer for herself. I do not like you, Sheringford.”
Duncan raised his eyebrows.
“As far as I remember,” he said, “we met for the first time a few moments ago, Merton. You form impressions with great haste.”
“I do not like men,” Merton said, “who abandon their brides to private heartache and public scorn and run off with lawfully married ladies instead. I do not like such men at all especially when they are contemplating marriage to one of my sisters. And I do not need any prolonged acquaintance to form such an opinion.”
Duncan inclined his head.
“We are beginning to attract attention,” Moreland said.
The hall was large enough and wide enough that they were in no danger of blocking the progress of other gentlemen as they arrived or left. But heads were indeed turning their way—and no wonder if the Tindell ballroom had been as abuzz with gossip as Duncan imagined it must have been—and if the gossip writer had made as juicy a morsel of the story as gossip writers usually did. And now here was he, the notorious Lord Sheringford, in company with Miss Huxtable’s brother and brother-in-law, all of them looking as solemn as if they were attending a funeral. Yes, of course they were attracting attention.
“I promised Miss Huxtable last evening,” Duncan said, “that I would call upon her at Merton House this afternoon. If I may, Merton, I will speak with you there first.”
Merton nodded stiffly, and Duncan bowed to the two gentlemen and went on his way.
He would have left White’s without having gone farther than the reception hall, but sheer pride prevented him from crawling away now. Besides, he wanted to read what had been written about him in the papers. He proceeded upstairs, where he was greeted by a number of gentlemen. Indeed some of the greetings were jovial and even raucous and accompanied by much back-slapping. Among a certain crowd, it seemed, he had established himself as one devil of a fine fellow.
And then he read the description of himself as a jilt and a wife-stealer.
Both perfectly true.
And he read that he had been presented to the friend who had come to the rescue of Miss Huxtable as her betrothed.
It was indeed Dew who had betrayed her, then.
Again.
Duncan would definitely want a word with that particular military officer.
There was, he learned before leaving the club after an early luncheon, a wager written into the betting book on whether or not he would abandon this bride at the altar. The odds were heavily in favor of his doing so.
And this afternoon he would be making Miss Margaret Huxtable a formal marriage offer, which she might well feel compelled to accept now. He would be left with thirteen days in which to present her to his grandfather and arrange a wedding by special license.
His freedom was going to be bought—if she accepted him, that was—at a high price.
Though freedom was not the issue, was it?
Toby was.
6
MARGARET’S first instinct after
seeing the paper was to retreat to her room, crawl back into bed, and pull the covers up over her head. Perhaps by the time she emerged the whole sorry episode would be ancient news and someone would have murdered his grandmother or married his scullery maid or ridden naked along Rotten Row or done something equally startling with which to distract the fickle attention of the ton.
The ton could not be seriously interested, surely, in the fact that a dull, aging spinster had lied to a man who had once spurned her love by telling him she was betrothed to a villainous, wife-stealing rake?
But, oh, dear, when put that way, the facts really did sound intriguing, even to her.
Creeping off back to bed would solve nothing, she decided. She would go out instead. She would call on Vanessa, and perhaps together they would go to Katherine’s, and the three of them would share a good laugh over last evening and the silly story in the paper this morning.
It was a good thing they all had a good sense of humor.
But was any of this funny?
She would dearly like to have a word with Crispin Dew, Margaret thought. More than a word. She would like to give him a good tongue-lashing about now. It was true that it was she who had told the lie, but why had he spread the story about when she had told him no one else knew yet, even her family? Had it been done out of sheer spite? But why?
It was as if her wish conjured him. A footman came into the breakfast parlor at that moment to inform the butler, who informed Margaret, that a Major Dew had asked to see Miss Huxtable and had been shown into the visitors’ parlor.
Margaret followed the butler there and swept past him after he had opened the door for her.
Crispin, in uniform, was standing before the empty fireplace, looking smart and imposing and decidedly uncomfortable—as well he might. He bowed to her.
“Meg—” he began.
“I want an explanation,” she demanded, glaring at him. “Do you hate me so much, Crispin? But why do you hate me? What have I ever done to deserve it?”
“My God, Meg,” he said, taking a step toward her and looking at her, aghast, “I do not hate you. I have always adored you. You must know that.”
Her head snapped back as if he had struck her.
“Adored me?” she said with scorn. “Have you?”
“You are thinking of Teresa,” he said. “I can explain that, Meg.”
“So can I,” she said. “An imbecile could explain it. But I am not interested in hearing your explanation. Why did you betray me last evening?”
“Betray?” he said. “That is a harsh judgment, Meg. You are betrothed to Sheringford, are you not? You told me so yourself—both in Hyde Park and at the ball.”
“And on both occasions,” she said, “I told you that no announcement had yet been made, that even my family had not been told. It did not occur to me to swear you to secrecy. I trusted to your discretion and your honor.”
He winced visibly.
“I was concerned about you, Meg,” he said. “I was talking with Vanessa and Moreland when you left the dance floor to sit in that alcove with Sheringford. Moreland explained who he was and wondered who had dared introduce him to you. You could not possibly know that he was not a suitable acquaintance, he said. That worried your sister, and she would have gone to you herself if Moreland had not advised against it. I went instead. I hoped to draw you away from him without creating any sort of scene—I thought perhaps you would welcome a chance to escape if you already knew about him or would be grateful once you learned the truth. But instead you told me you were betrothed to him. What was I to do then?”
“Obviously,” she said, “there was only one thing to do, and you did it. You told everyone in the ballroom.”
“I confided in two of my fellow officers,” he admitted. “They are my friends and I trust them. I asked their opinion on whether a man who had known you all his life as a neighbor and friend had the right to interfere in your life to the extent of trying to persuade you to break your engagement.”
“You have not known me all my life,” she said. “You have not known me at all for the last twelve years, Crispin.”
… as a neighbor and friend … Those words had stung. Had there been nothing else between them as far as he was concerned?
“Meg,” he said, “Sheringford is a scoundrel of the first order. He ought not even to have been there last night. I doubt he had been sent an invitation. You cannot possibly be serious about marrying him. Break off the engagement and marry me instead.”
“What?” Her eyes widened.
“No one will blame you,” he said. “Indeed, everyone will applaud your good sense.”
“In choosing to marry you?” she said.
He flushed.
“You would have married me once upon a time,” he said. “If your father had lived, we probably would have married long ago. Nothing much has changed since then except that we are both a little older. And except that you are lovelier now than you were then.” He smiled.
“And that you have been married in the meanwhile,” she said. “And that you have a daughter.”
“Who needs a mother,” he said softly. “Meg—”
But she held up a hand and he stopped.
He was asking her to marry him. After all this time, after all that had happened, he expected her to marry him? After the terrible embarrassment he had caused her last evening?
But she would not allow her attention to be diverted from the main issue.
“It was one of the other officers who spread the news of my betrothal last evening, then?” she asked. “Is that what you are saying, Crispin?”
“It was not intentional, and it was certainly not malicious,” he said. “I was ready to rip him apart this morning after hearing all the gossip last evening and reading the papers this morning. But he was as concerned as I. He merely mentioned what I had told him to his cousin when he spoke with her after leaving me—in strictest confidence, of course. He had wanted her opinion.”
And so stories, rumors, gossip spread as surely as a wildfire did after a single spark had caught alight. The cousin had told someone else in confidence, and that someone else …
Well.
“I am so very, very sorry, Meg,” he said. “I realize it must be distressing to you to have your betrothal made public before you had even had a chance to break the news to your family—and presumably before Sheringford could apply formally to Stephen for your hand. But there would have been gossip sooner or later, you know, if your brother and sisters had been unable to talk you out of such an ineligible connection. It was not to be avoided. Sheringford is a social pariah, and justifiably so. I really do not understand how you can have listened to an offer from him, let alone accepted one. Meg—”
“Your apology has been made,” she said, interrupting him. “I assume that was your reason for coming here this morning, Crispin. You will excuse me now. I was on my way to call upon Nessie when you arrived.”
“Meg,” he said, taking another step toward her, “don’t marry him. I beg you. You will be miserable. Marry me instead.”
“And live happily ever after?” she asked him.
He had the grace to flush again.
“Sometimes,” he said, “we need time in which to gain wisdom and make up for past mistakes.”
“I do hope,” she said, “you are not calling your late wife a mistake, Crispin. Or your daughter. And perhaps Lord Sheringford ought to be granted the same opportunity to demonstrate that he is wiser now than he was five years ago and is willing and able to recover from past mistakes.”
He sighed audibly and then made her another bow.
“Your family will all have something to say about this betrothal, I promise you,” he said. “Listen to them, Meg. Don’t go against them just out of stubbornness. You always were the most stubborn person I knew, I remember. If you will not listen to me, then listen to them. Promise me?”
She merely raised her eyebrows and stared at him, and he was obliged to bid he
r an abrupt good morning and stride past her to let himself out of the room.
Margaret stood where she was, listening to his boot heels ringing on the marble floor of the hall and to the sounds of the outer door opening for him and then closing behind him.
He had asked her to marry him.
The last time he asked she had wanted quite literally to die because she had loved him so very dearly but had been unable to accept his proposal, because he was going away to war and she had to stay home to bring up her brother and sisters.
And now?
Could a love of that magnitude die? If it was true love, could it ever die? Was there such a thing as true love? Life was very sad if there were not—and unbearably so if one’s experience with romantic love turned one into an incurable cynic.
She did not love Crispin any longer. She did not want to love him again. Things could never be the same between them. Was love conditional, then? Was she determined not to love him because he had been faithless once and caused her years of heartache?
Whoever could possibly deserve love if it was conditional upon perfect behavior?
Did he love her? He had said he adored her. But did he also love her? Had he ever? But if he had, how could he have married someone else?
Had he loved his wife—Teresa?
Oh, she was horribly upset again. She had thought Crispin could never again have this power over her.
Margaret sighed and shook her head and turned determinedly to the door. She would go and make that call on Vanessa. She would see the children and restore her spirits. Never mind that silly gossip last evening or the even sillier paragraph in this morning’s paper. And never mind Crispin Dew. Or the Earl of Sheringford, who had to marry within the next two weeks or lose everything until after his grandfather died. Why should she care about that? And never mind the Marquess of Allingham and his pretty Miss Milfort.
Life could be unutterably depressing at times, but it went on. There was no point in giving in to depression.
There was a tap on the door and it opened before she could reach it.
“There is a Mrs. Pennethorne to see you, Miss Huxtable,” the butler informed her. “Will you receive her?”
