At Last Comes Love

by Mary Balogh

  Stephen was standing at the window, facing into the room, his hands clasped behind his back, his booted feet slightly apart, an unusually grim expression on his face.

  Elliott was standing behind Vanessa’s chair beside the fireplace, one hand on her shoulder. She was looking agitated; he was looking like a dark, brooding Greek god. Jasper was sitting on a love seat beside Katherine, Baby Hal asleep in the crook of his arm. Katherine was perched on the edge of her seat, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles showed white.

  All of them, with the exception of Hal, turned toward the door, glanced beyond Margaret’s shoulder, and almost visibly relaxed when they saw that Lord Sheringford was not with her.

  “Well, Meg?” Stephen asked tensely, and it occurred to her that at some time during the past couple of years, when she had not been paying particular attention, he had grown fully and admirably into his role as head of the family. He was no longer simply the carefree, sometimes careless, always charming youth she remembered.

  “Well,” she said cheerfully, “here I am, and I have given directions for the tea tray to be brought up without further delay. You must all be as parched as I am. There will be an additional guest in your box at the theater this evening, Elliott. I hope you do not mind. I have invited the Earl of Sheringford to join us there.”

  Of course he minded. It showed in the further darkening of his expression.

  They all minded.

  She would have minded, very much indeed, if she had been sitting there and one of her sisters had been standing here. She would have wondered if the sister concerned had windmills in her head instead of a functioning brain.

  “Oh, Meg,” Kate said, “you have accepted him.”

  “I am not betrothed to the earl,” Margaret said. “If I had been, I would have brought him up here with me to present to you all.”

  Stephen’s shoulders sagged with relief.

  “I knew you would not accept him in a million years, Meg,” Vanessa said, smiling warmly at her. “You have always been by far the most sensible of us all, and it would be decidedly un-sensible to marry a man like the Earl of Sheringford merely because of a little silly gossip.”

  Vanessa was right, Margaret thought. She was sensible. She was all sorts of very proper, very reasonable, very dull things. But since last evening, and more especially since this morning, she had conceived the startlingly irrational urge to do something that was not sensible at all. She wanted to… Well, she wanted to live.

  “But you have nonetheless invited Sherry to join you at the theater this evening, Meg?” Jasper said. “A consolation prize for the poor man, perhaps?”

  The tea tray must have been all ready to bring when she had given the word. It was carried into the room almost on Margaret’s heels, and they all fell silent while it was set on a low table that had been placed before her usual chair, which everyone had left empty.

  It was a chair that would probably be left empty for her use all her life if she did not marry, Margaret thought. No one must sit in it because it was Aunt Margaret’s chair—or Great-Aunt Margaret’s—and she needed to be close to the fire to keep the chill out of her aged bones and close enough to the mantel to prop her cane against it.

  It was a horrifying glimpse into the future.

  She seated herself and picked up the teapot.

  “I have not accepted the Earl of Sheringford’s marriage offer,” she said as the door closed behind the footman and Vanessa came to distribute the teacups. “Neither have I rejected it.”

  She set the teapot down and looked up. They were all waiting for an explanation. The atmosphere was tense again.

  “He must be married before the Marquess of Claverbrook’s eightieth birthday, which is in a little less than two weeks’ time,” she said. “If he is not, he will lose his childhood home and the income he has always derived from it. He will be forced to seek employment until his grandfather dies, which may be shortly in the future or a long time away—it is impossible to know. He will not lose his home if he marries even one day before the birthday. With a special license it can be done almost at a moment’s notice.”

  “But you are not—” Katherine began.

  “I have told Lord Sheringford,” Margaret said, “that it is possible I will marry him in two weeks’ time, but that it is equally possible I will not. I informed him that it is up to him in the meanwhile to woo me, to convince me that marriage to him is what I want for the rest of my life. It was extremely risky for him to accept the challenge, but he did. If I say no, it will be too late for him to find someone else.”

  “No one would have him, anyway,” Stephen said, lowering himself into the nearest chair, “especially after last night and this morning.”

  “I am not so sure of that, Stephen,” Elliott said. “His future prospects are dazzling enough to tempt any father with some ambition, few scruples, and a marriageable daughter. And Woodbine Park itself is a not inconsiderable property.”

  “But why?” Katherine asked, gazing at Margaret. “Why would you even consider such a marriage, Meg? You must realize as well as we do that apart from a little embarrassment, your reputation will not suffer any real damage if you simply say no. Why did you even see him today when Stephen was very willing to turn him away on your behalf?”

  They were questions they all wanted answered, though she had answered some of them this morning. Not one of them had touched their tea. Vanessa had not even handed around the plate of cakes.

  “I behaved badly last evening,” Margaret said. “I wanted Crispin to know that I was not eagerly waiting for him to pay attention to me and perhaps even pay court to me. And I was annoyed—no, angered—when he came to rescue me from the earl’s wicked clutches after talking with Nessie and Elliott. As if he were my keeper. As if I needed his protection. As if I had not been forced to protect myself and my brother and sisters in all the years after he went off to join his regiment. And so I said something very rash and very foolish. I told him that the Earl of Sheringford was my betrothed. None of what happened for the rest of the evening or today has been his fault. Indeed, he has been the soul of honor.”

  “Except that by your own admission he is desperate for a bride,” Stephen said. “And you also told us last evening that he suggested what you said to Dew. You appear to have played right into his hands, Meg.”

  She felt humiliated at the confession she had just made about Crispin. She had never spoken to anyone of her relationship with him or her terrible heartache and resentment after his betrayal. She had kept it all strictly to herself.

  Had she really just come perilously close to admitting to the Earl of Sheringford that they had been lovers before Crispin went off to join his regiment?

  “I believe,” she said, “I owed Lord Sheringford the courtesy of receiving him this afternoon.”

  “And the courtesy of marrying him?” Elliott asked. “He will be very persuasive during the next two weeks, Margaret. You may depend upon that. His livelihood hangs upon your saying yes. And he must be extraordinarily good at persuasion. Not so very long ago he talked a married lady into ruining herself and running off with him.”

  “Though to be fair, Elliott,” Katherine said, “it ought to be said that no one has ever accused him of taking Mrs. Turner against her will. I daresay she was at least partly to blame.”

  “If he can be persuasive enough,” Margaret said quietly, picking up her own saucer and carrying her cup to her lips with hands that were almost steady, “I will marry him. If he cannot, then I will not. It is as simple as that. The decision will be mine.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “Perhaps,” Stephen said, “we should all take the man to our collective bosom and encourage the match with all the enthusiasm we can muster. Otherwise Meg will marry him to spite us—and will end up spiting herself in the process. You were always the most stubborn person I knew, Meg. If any of us ever wanted to do something and you said no, then no it was no matter
how much we might beg and plead.”

  The accusation stung.

  “I was responsible for you all,” she said. “I stood in place of both parents to you even though I was ridiculously young myself. You will never know the burden that was, Stephen—to do the job as well as I was able and even better than that. Failure was out of the question. And none of you have turned out so very badly.”

  “Take Hal, love,” Jasper said to Katherine, and he handed over the baby’s limp sleeping form before getting to his feet and coming to sit on the arm of Margaret’s chair and take one of her hands in both his own. “You did a superlative job, Meg. You proved dependable in that monumental task, and I for one would trust you with my life. More than that, I would trust you with my son’s life if the need ever arose. Sherry was a friend of mine before he ran off with Mrs. Turner. He was no wilder than any of the rest of us—which is not saying a great deal, it is true. He did what he did for reasons of his own. Perhaps he will tell you what they were one of these days. But you must make your own decision concerning him, and I for one will trust you to make the right decision. Right for you, that is, and not just for your family. It is time you took your life back into your own hands and lived it for yourself.”

  He handed her a large linen handkerchief, and only then did she realize that she had been crying even before he left his place. She took it and spread it over her eyes, mortified. She had never been a watering pot. She had perfected the art long ago of repressing all her deepest feelings so that other people would be able to rely upon her as steady and dependable.

  “Oh, Meg,” Vanessa said, “of course we all trust you. It is just that we all love you so very dearly and want your happiness more than we could possibly want almost anything else in the world.”

  “Meg.” Stephen’s voice was filled with misery. “I did not mean a word. I am so sorry. Forgive me. It is just that you are more than a sister to me. I was the youngest. I hardly remember our mother. My memories even of our father are dim. You were my mother, and a wonderful one you were too. You were the Rock of Gibraltar. I will never forget what I owe you. I certainly do not owe you spite and bad temper.”

  Elliott cleared his throat.

  “Sheringford will be treated with the proper courtesy this evening, Margaret,” he said. “You may be assured of that.”

  She dried her eyes and blew her nose and felt very foolish.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Cook will be mortally offended if we send back the cake plate untouched.”

  “I thought,” Jasper said, “no one would ever think of offering it and that I was doomed to return home hungry.”

  He picked up the plate and handed it around himself.

  He had called her sexually appealing, Margaret remembered suddenly—the Earl of Sheringford, that was.

  What shockingly outrageous words!

  Sexually appealing.

  A treacherous part of her mind told her that it was perhaps the most delicious compliment anyone had ever paid her.

  What a shocking admission!

  And there was something about him. He was not handsome. He was not even good-looking. But he was…

  Interesting.

  Fascinating.

  Totally inadequate words. But properly brought up ladies did not have the vocabulary to describe such men.

  Doubtless it was the fascination of the forbidden. He was a self-confessed jilt and wife-stealer. He scorned to use either lies or wiles or charm despite his desperate need to attract a bride. Perhaps she was simply curious to know how such a man could have persuaded a respectably married lady to give up everything—including her character and reputation—in order to elope with him.

  He was very much not the sort of man she would have expected to find fascinating. And that was a fascination in itself.

  Sherry.

  It was a name suited to a happy, active, carefree young man.

  What had he been like before? What had he been like during? What was he like now—apart from a man who looked neither happy nor carefree?

  She had two weeks in which to satisfy her curiosity and get to know him. Two weeks during which to understand her fascination with him and get over it—or convert it into a lifetime commitment.

  Margaret shivered, but fortunately no one noticed. They were all taking cakes so that the cook would not be offended, and talking with determined cheerfulness.

  Duncan arrived slightly late at the theater so that he would not have to hover outside Moreland’s box looking conspicuous while he waited for the duke’s party to arrive. It was a ruse that accomplished nothing, though, for being late meant that he had to make an entrance into a box where everyone else was already seated. And it had to be done in full view of an audience that was also seated and assuaging its boredom before the play began by observing and commenting upon each new last-minute arrival.

  He might as well have been the lead actor making his entrance upon the stage. He did not doubt that every eye in the theater was fixed upon him. He did not look to see, but he did not need to. There was a changed quality to the sound of voices that told him he was the focus of all attention.

  It was unnerving, to say the least.

  This, he thought, had been deliberate, not to mention sadistic. Margaret Huxtable was testing his mettle. Perhaps she was testing her own as well, for she was going to be as much on public display this evening as he was. Of course, to be fair, she had not invited him to arrive late. But he saw immediately that she had taken a seat at the front of the box and had kept one chair empty beside her. She could not have chosen a chair at the back so that she—and he—could duck down behind her relatives if she chose?

  Every head in the box turned his way. Moreland looked haughty, Merton looked grim—nothing new there—Monty was grinning, his lady opened her fan and merely looked, the duchess smiled broadly with what appeared to be a genuine attempt at warmth, and Miss Huxtable coolly raised her eyebrows.

  “Ah, Lord Sheringford,” she said, and, like her sister, she opened her fan.

  He bowed, and she proceeded to introduce him to her sisters, both of whom were beauties, though the duchess perhaps possessed more warm charm than actual good looks.

  “Do come and sit beside me,” Miss Huxtable said, and he made his way to her side and seated himself. He could hardly feel more conspicuous, he thought, if he had decided to come here without a stitch of clothing.

  He took Miss Huxtable’s free hand as he seated himself and raised it to his lips.

  “Bravo,” he said softly, for her ears only. “This was quite deliberate, was it not?”

  She did not pretend ignorance of his meaning. She smiled at him as she recovered her hand.

  “Let us see how much you want me, Lord Sheringford,” she said. “And let the ton see it.”

  She leaned a little toward him as she spoke, still smiling. No one else heard the words.

  At this precise moment—or any other moment for that matter—he wanted her only because the alternative was unthinkable.

  “You are looking astonishingly lovely,” he said quite honestly. “But since you always do, I will not belabor the point. You are fortunate enough to have the sort of beauty that will survive into middle age and even into old age and only very gradually mutate into handsomeness.”

  “You certainly know how to turn a woman’s head, my lord,” she said, fanning her face vigorously. “I am quite in love with you already. Is that your intent?”

  The words were not spoken with either venom or sarcasm. They were spoken with humor. She was laughing at him, but not with any apparent spite. Maybe she was not just a cold fish, after all. He must be thankful for small mercies.

  He almost smiled back, but scores of eyes were boring into him from all directions, near and far, and if he did not look back into those eyes soon, he would not do it at all, and some infernal gossip writer would take note of the fact and discern his discomfort and interpret it as shame.

  He would not enjoy that—chiefly bec
ause he did not feel ashamed. Never had and never would.

  He had had the forethought to arm himself with a quizzing glass before leaving the house—a fashion accessory he did not normally affect. Indeed, Smith had had to go searching around in numerous drawers before finding one. He lifted it to his eye now and looked slowly about the theater—up at the tiered boxes, down to the pit, which was occupied almost exclusively by gentlemen, one or two of whom waved cheerfully up at him.

  A few people looked boldly back at him from the boxes. Far more, though, turned away and pretended to be quite unaware of his very existence.

  “You ought to be warned,” Miss Huxtable said at just the moment when the warning became unnecessary, “that Mrs. Pennethorne is seated in a box almost directly opposite and above us. Elliott has identified the gentleman beside her as Mr. Pennethorne and the gentleman directly behind her as Mr. Turner, her brother.”

  Laura’s husband, no less.

  They were all looking back at him, Duncan saw as he lowered his glass and made a slight inclination of the head in their direction. Good God, no wonder there had been such a buzz when he stepped into Moreland’s box. Caroline had not changed in any noticeable way in five years. She was looking as sweetly pretty and delicate as ever. Norman was surely larger in girth, but he looked as prosy a bore as he had ever looked. And he still liked to risk the health of his eyeballs with the height and sharpness of the points of his starched shirt collar. Randolph Turner was looking as if someone had drained all the blood from his handsome blond head.

  Was he wondering, perhaps, if the ton would expect him to slap a glove in Lord Sheringford’s face and proceed to put a bullet between his eyes from twenty paces on some chilly dawn heath? That would be enough to send all his blood pooling in his feet.

  None of the three of them acknowledged his nod.

  Then the buzz of conversation changed subtly. The play was about to begin.