by Edith Layton
“Which one has insulted you?” he asked, his eye on the oar in the water as they turned in a circle. “Which one traduced you? Or ignored you, perhaps?”
“No, neither one of you, and none of those things,” she admitted. “But you’re different. It’s as if you have another face here in London: faintly amused instead of really happy, disapproving instead of curious, and the rest of the time I can’t tell what you’re thinking. Truth to tell, my lord, you were like that when you first came to Sea Mews, and I didn’t like you then. Further truth,” she said, watching his eyes as he avoided hers. “I loved what you warmed up to become. Which you aren’t anymore. And now I don’t know if that was you. Or ever really you.”
He looked at her then, his expression unreadable. “You think, perhaps,” he said, “that I was more like my father and my great-grandfather then?”
“I suppose I did,” she said, looking away from his penetrating stare.
“Ah,” he said quietly. “Then it could be argued that you never found me attractive, but only the shadow of the men you wanted to love. I liked them too. But, yes, I’m not either of them.”
“I know that, now,” she said, leaning toward him. “So what I came to say is that I don’t know you anymore, and that perhaps you don’t really know me, and so maybe we’re rushing things. I’m not with child. You’re free. And so am I. I’m saying that it may be best if I leave London now, for a while, or forever. We’ll see.”
“You can’t. You’re ruined,” he said flatly. “I ruined you.”
“For what?” she cried, so agitated she began to stand up. She sank back when the boat rocked.
“Listen, my lord,” she said, gripping the sides of the little boat so hard her knuckles hurt. “I’m not ruined. Maybe if I were a London girl, I would be. We’re not so … provincial in the provinces. We’re more tolerant of human error, especially if one’s grandfather is influential and has money. I expect much the same is true in your Society.”
“It’s not,” Constantine said. “A fellow who ruins a lady is expected to marry her. If he doesn’t, she’s married off to a man who needs the money or influence. That’s not a happy life for her.”
“Or for her husband,” Lisabeth retorted. “I suppose the same might be said back home, but maybe not. We’re a smaller society, and a more closed one. I’d be gossiped about, but the blame would be put on you. You’d be considered a devious rake, and me, your victim. But what would you care? Sea Mews and its village are a long way from here. As for me? I’m not a virgin, but I’m still me. Ruined? How? I look the same, and think differently only in that now I know what to expect in the marriage bed. I can still read and write, cook and sew, dance and sing, be a good wife to some man one day, and with luck, maybe even be a mother too. There are lads at home who’ve known me forever and would still have me as a wife. How am I ‘ruined,’ then?”
“Here,” he said flatly, “you would be.”
“But I won’t be here much longer,” she argued. “And I don’t aspire to Society. You clearly do, and there’s the problem.” She put her head to the side, and studied him. “You’re such strange creatures, you London toffs. I heard once a lady’s married and has a child or two, she can be joyously ruined again and again, and her husband will look the other way, and so will Society.”
“Sometimes,” he admitted.
“And here too,” she persisted, “I hear a man can be married and have as many mistresses as he likes. He can have his own bedchamber, his own bed, and his own life too. Well, I tell you, sir, that he could not, not where I live, not without his wife reshaping his head for him if she has any spirit. And I do.”
She took a long breath, and looked at him directly. “You said you didn’t expect me to live in your pocket. I wouldn’t. But I wouldn’t let any husband of mine range free either. So what I came to say is that I don’t think we’d suit. Isn’t that what a lady is supposed to say when she rejects a gentleman? Oh, right, there’s more. I’m grateful and honored by your proposal, which you never really made the right way, I remind you. ‘I want to marry you’ is to the point, but not very romantic. But it wasn’t romance that impelled you.”
“How can you say that?” he asked.
She stared at him, and he looked away.
“But rest easy,” she said. “I’m not asking you to ask me again.” She lowered her gaze. “I’d only ask that you never tell Miss Winchester, or any other female, about me. I’ll never know, of course. But I’d rather keep thinking that you didn’t. We had a stroke of midsummer madness, I think,” she said. “I’m not holding you to it, nor will I set my whole future by a course I drifted into one fine summer’s day.”
He looked pained, but didn’t speak.
“The point is,” Lisabeth said, “she wants you back. And I think you might be better off with her.”
“And you?” he asked, looking at her directly. “Will you be better off?”
“Me? I’ve seen how you swim in your home waters, my lord. And they’re not mine. I think that if I try to net you and keep you for my own, you’d die, slowly, but surely like any sea creature a child takes home and keeps in a bucket of seawater. And if I tried to live in your life, I know I’d as surely suffocate, like any fish out of water.”
He said nothing. He only put the other oar in the water, and began rowing again. Lisabeth looked back to see the tiny figure of Miss Lovelace fading away. Then the boat went round a little bend, and Constantine steered toward the shore. Wordlessly, he brought the nose of the boat to touch the edge of a long lawn, where giant willows with long weeping branches touched the water. Constantine bent, uncoiled a long rope on the bottom of the boat, then lightly leaped out. He splashed through the water, disregarding the certain ruin to the high shine of his boots, and tied the rope to a nearby tree, mooring the boat. Then he returned, and held out a hand for Lisabeth.
She took his hand, and he lifted her in his arms, took a few steps, and let her down on the edge of the shore. They were blocked from sight of the lake and the shore as they stood under a huge willow, its streaming canopy of leaves forming a green tenting around them.
Then, finally, he spoke. “You’re certain?” he said.
And though she’d hoped against hope that he’d taken her here to woo her back, now, at last, she knew she’d done the right thing, for him, at least.
She nodded.
He stayed still, his hands on her shoulders, looking deep into her eyes. “Because of Miss Winchester? Because you’re afraid you’ll be shunned? I would not allow that, you know.”
“You can’t control that,” she said softly. “And you know it full well.”
“We wouldn’t have to live in London, or visit often, or at all,” he persisted.
“And you’d like that?” she said.
He stayed still, watching her closely. “I don’t want you to be unhappy,” he finally said.
“Life makes people unhappy sometimes,” she said. “And I know that in time I’d make you so. I don’t want that, and not because I’m a saint. An unhappy husband would be the very devil.”
“I’d never make you suffer for my actions,” he promised, his expression stark.
“Nor would I make you do so,” she said. “Don’t you see?”
His eyes searched hers. “You are sure?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She’d hoped against hope that he’d laugh at her, reassure her; tell her she was being foolish. But they both knew she wasn’t.
“I’ll never forget how we made love,” he said in a husky voice, reaching out to touch a loosened strand of her hair. “I’ll never forget you. I was a different man with you, for you, and I liked that man. But you’re right, try as I may, I can’t find him again. And I’ve tried. I won’t go back to Miss Winchester, never think that. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to forget you. But I can’t be the man you fell in love with, and believe me, I know you’d never have made love to me if you hadn’t. I’m sorry, Lisabeth. Sorrier
than you can know.”
She nodded again, and her smile quivered. “I’ll never go berrying again,” she whispered, “without the memory of you. I’m sorry too. But I know I’m doing the right thing now.”
He kissed her then. She knew he would. This time, their kiss was shocking in its intensity. She clung to him, molded herself against him, tasted the dark rich sweetness of his mouth, shivering as his hands traced her body. She could feel his arousal against her and it made her want to sink to the grass with him again.
But she was the one who ended it. Because she realized that if she didn’t, they’d be making love again.
“This,” she said, her face buried in his chest, “still works. This may be the only thing we have that still does, Constantine.”
He stroked her hair. “I know,” he said. “Lisabeth, maybe we can still try …”
She stepped back. “Love doesn’t try,” she said. “It is. What we have is attraction. Magnets have that. And how long would even that last if either of us bent to the other’s way of life? I’d hate your world here in London. I’d feel so constricted and mutinous I’d rebel and shame you. You’d perish of boredom at Sea Mews, or anywhere like it, and begin to feel cheated of the life you led before. Let’s remember what we had, what we might have done, and consider ourselves lucky.”
“Lucky?” he asked bitterly.
“Yes,” she said. “I think that love turned sour is worse than love remembered as one wild, memorable incident, even if it was a foolish one. Now please take me back. I don’t want to see Miss Lovelace swimming out to find us. She would, you know.”
He laughed, and so did she. But there was no merriment in it for either of them.
Chapter Twenty
“I still say it’s running away,” Miss Lovelace grumped.
“And I say it’s just a tactical retreat,” the captain argued.
“As if you ever retreated!” Miss Lovelace retorted.
“Aye, and I did, as any sane man would if he knew he was cornered. Hide a while and then spring out again. It’s a good maneuver.”
“But she’s not going to spring out again,” Miss Lovelace said. “She’s going to hide, all right, but never will she take up arms against him or those who want her gone. I know her!”
“And I am her,” Lisabeth said, sighing. “Have you two forgotten I’m here, sitting right next to you? Though I vow, if I had a horse, I’d get out and ride home by myself. In fact, I’m tempted to rent one at our first rest stop if you two don’t stop talking about me as if I couldn’t hear every word. I left him because I’d already lost him, if I ever had him. Because the truth is he himself doesn’t know who he is. I don’t want a husband who isn’t sure of wanting me. I certainly don’t want one who isn’t sure of himself. I’m a fighter, but that sort of man isn’t worth fighting for.”
The other two fell still. They sat in the carriage, Miss Lovelace at Lisabeth’s side, the captain opposite, and those two had been arguing for the last ten miles. Since they’d only gone ten miles out of London, Lisabeth had felt it was finally time for her to speak up.
“Aye, there’s that.” The captain sighed. “Poor lad was brought up stiff and proper, and no wonder his eyes lit up when he found out there was wild blood in his veins. Must have been everything he’d secretly dreamed about.”
“After he got over the first shock of it,” Lisabeth murmured.
“And secret dreams fulfilled don’t always bring happiness above the moment, that I can tell you,” Miss Lovelace said sadly.
“Aye,” the captain said.
“Did you want me to marry someone who regretted me, hid me away, or even if he didn’t, passed the rest of his life ruing the day he met me?” Lisabeth asked. “Not I. I’m to blame too, you know. I should never have believed the change in him, or trusted him so soon and so completely. There, I’ve said too much. Can we speak of something, anything, else?” She bent her head and sorted through her pockets.
The captain handed her his handkerchief. “No,” he said, “you were what we brought you up to be: honest with yourself and your feelings.”
“And I’m as much to blame,” Miss Lovelace said. “I forgot that there aren’t many honest maidens in England anymore, and for good reason, because there are fewer honest men.”
“That’s not true,” Lisabeth murmured.
“Maybe not,” Miss Lovelace agreed. “But there’s fewer honest gentlemen, that’s for certain.”
“He didn’t know which he was,” Lisabeth said. She raised her head. “Let’s be done with this, please. I acted rashly. I’m glad I have you two, because you didn’t insist I act even more rashly in order to save my reputation. Thank you.”
“Your reputation is still good with us, and still good at home,” the captain declared. “There’s many a lad who still pines for you, and no one I know who would blame a lass for falling for a handsome stranger with smooth and studied wiles.”
“Especially if he’s the image of old Captain Cunning,” Miss Lovelace said.
“He didn’t use smooth and studied wiles,” Lisabeth said, remembering who had started her seduction. She’d been honest with them about everything, but that still embarrassed her too much to speak of. Perhaps one day she could. That led her to another melancholy thought. “That’s over and done,” she said softly. “But surely, another man, a different man, any man that marries me, will always think I could have been more moral and will always hold it over me. Because I will not lie about my past.”
“Nor should you!” the captain shouted.
“Just let him say one word!” Miss Lovelace cried.
“The men at home aren’t that stupid. And I don’t care if you never wed,” the captain blurted. “Though I’d love to see great-grandchildren, I admit I’d miss you something terrible. You light up my house and my days. So if you do marry, I’d be better pleased if you married a good honest lad from home. I’m just as relieved that you left London for good. Tell the truth, I don’t think a lass can trust a man from there.”
“A gentleman from there,” Miss Lovelace said on a sniff.
“Truth is,” Lisabeth said, “I don’t think he knows what he is.”
They were quiet after that, and so Lisabeth could think about the man she was leaving. She didn’t know if he’d ever leave her heart, and she didn’t want him gone from her memory. She’d felt a connection to him as she’d felt for no other being. It might have been brought about by his resemblance to the dream men of her childhood, but certainly there was more to it than that. She wasn’t a fool. Surely she hadn’t just succumbed to her overwhelming desire for the face and the body of the man in the portrait? The real man had been beyond her imaginings. She’d fallen in love with a kindred soul, or so she’d thought. Someone wise and learned, with manners and morals and charm, yet with spirit enough to act foolishly sometimes, to play and to laugh, and yet be a man who knew right from wrong, and would never stray.
She ought to have known how impossible that was. She still didn’t blame him. She wished him joy with his Miss Winchester, or another female like her, the sort he’d surely eventually marry. But she knew, in her heart, that he, in his heart, would never be satisfied with a wife and a life like that. She knew she wasn’t the one, but she didn’t think he’d ever know what was right for him.
In that, she felt blessed. Because she was only one sad woman, and she’d wager he was and would always be two confused men from now on.
Lisabeth stared out the carriage window but closed her eyes and mind to everything but her new resolve. She was going home, sore at heart. But she wouldn’t sit and pine and wither to a disappointed old age. She’d wait her sorrow out, and then go find herself a man she could trust and desire, and then maybe, one day, love—if she could only forget Constantine. The feel of him, the taste of him, the ecstasy in his embrace, the laughter and the moments of pure foolishness she’d shared with him were too delicious to abandon for all time. So she decided she wouldn’t.
Sh
e resolved to keep a proper mourning period for the dream that had died, and then keep the memory of it someplace in her heart. But she’d never let it rule either her head or her heart again.
Then one day she’d be able to make a future for herself in reality, knowing it would never be as thrilling or bright as her dream. But, at least, at last, it would be something real and right.
“Miss Winchester,” Constantine said, bowing over the lady’s hand.
She greeted him in her salon. The slight smile on her lips was one of triumph. She shot a knowing glance to her mother, who sat in the room while morning callers visited, as was proper. But the only guest in the salon this morning was Lord Wylde. Miss Winchester’s mother had managed to hastily shuffle her daughter’s few lady friends out the moment she’d heard Lord Wylde had called and was waiting in the hall.
Miss Winchester had suffered since she’d last seen him. Her mother had shrieked when she’d heard of her daughter’s decision to let him go. Her father had been beyond fury. But the notice of the canceled engagement had been put into the paper when Lord Wylde hadn’t come back to plead for a reprieve.
“Are you mad?” her father had thundered when he’d heard the news. “Your good blood will wash out his bad. And this is the nineteenth century. Who the devil cares about yesterday? He’s one of the most eligible men in London town, and would be if his father had been a … cannibal!”
“Go see the slut who turned his head while he was gone,” her mother had advised her. “She’s no one, a country nobody, I’ve asked. Go see her, and let her know what damage she’s done—and what will be done to her if she stays with him. The ton will not accept her, and that will destroy him.”
“How can I forgive him?” Miss Winchester had moaned, her hand to her forehead, because she doubted she’d be asked to.
“Forget it. Every man has a moment of madness,” her father had commented, earning himself a sharp look from his wife.
Miss Winchester had definitely suffered. But now, here was Lord Wylde again, bowing over her hand. And gossip had it that the strange woman from the countryside had left town. “I’m pleased to see you again, my lord,” she said, with heartfelt sincerity.
