by Mary Balogh
Elation, yes, certainly.
And such a terrible despair that she bit her upper lip hard enough to draw blood.
EDWARD HAD FALLEN asleep late and woken up early. It was not a great combination, leaving him tired as it did. However, he had used the early morning hours to think a few things through and to make a few decisions, and he found himself facing the new day in a better frame of mind than he had been in yesterday.
For one thing he had made up his mind that he was going to forget about his antagonism toward Windrow. The man had behaved badly on the road to London, it was true, and Edward could not regret that he had called him to account for it. He would do the same if it happened again. But the man was no monster of depravity. He was something of a rake, that was all. At that inn he had mistaken Lady Angeline, not for a maid—there was really no way he could have done that since she had looked nothing like a servant—but for a woman traveler of careless enough behavior that perhaps she was also of loose morals. The bright, bold color of her dress had probably contributed to the impression. If she had taken him up on his offer of a shared meal and a shared chair, he doubtless would have pushed his advantage and tumbled her somewhere upstairs before going on his way.
But she would have had to be willing. He would not have forced her. Rakes were not necessarily rapists. They were very rarely so, in fact. They had no need to be. There were always enough willing women to give them satisfaction for a price—or sometimes even for no price but their own gratification.
When Windrow had realized his mistake, he had gone on his way after a careless apology and the suggestion of a threat to Edward in order to save face, all of which had appeared to amuse him. He would doubtless have enjoyed a bout of fisticuffs if his challenge had been accepted. He would certainly have enjoyed a tumble upstairs. But since neither had been forthcoming, he had probably forgotten the incident within the first few miles of his journey, as well as the two persons involved—until he encountered them again at the Tresham ball. Then he had chosen to behave with a certain impudent amusement at the colossal nature of the error he had made.
He had chosen to beg a set of dances from both Lady Angeline and Eunice. He had done the same thing at the Hicks ball. He had taken Eunice boating on the river at the Loverall garden party and would probably have taken Lady Angeline out too if he had not intervened and driven her away.
It was not admirable behavior. Neither was it dangerous. It had all been very public and very harmless.
And here he was a guest at a house party with Lady Angeline’s family, including his friend Tresham. His hostess was Lady Angeline’s chaperon. All the guests were highly respectable people. They even included a clergyman. Windrow had been invited because he was Lady Palmer’s neighbor and was in almost every way perfectly respectable.
It was true that he liked to flirt with Lady Angeline. But who did not? She seemed to attract men like moths to a flame. And it was true that Eunice appeared to have taken to heart what he had told her about Windrow and had, bless her heart, done all in her power to divert his attentions onto herself. He was not worried about Eunice. Windrow would have no lascivious intentions toward her. She was far too intelligent and sensible for his tastes. And though spending time with him must be tedious indeed for her, she was quite capable of extricating herself from his company whenever she wished.
Anyway, Edward was happy that she had been invited to this house party. He had feared a few times in the course of the Season that life must be rather dull for her. Dullness had not been an issue in the quiet, scholarly setting of Cambridge. In London it was more so. Lady Sanford did not take her to many ton entertainments, and even when she did, she made no effort to seek out young company for her. Although she seemed fond of Eunice, she did tend to treat her more like a companion than a young niece in need of friends and at least some form of amusement.
Edward made another decision during the early morning hours, as he lay on his back in bed, his hands laced behind his head. He was going to relax and let the house party unfold as it would. That meant ignoring Windrow, or at least ignoring him as a possible danger to Lady Angeline Dudley. It also meant making no deliberate effort to avoid Lady Angeline herself. For a whole month, if he was honest with himself, he had been irritated over the fact that he thought of her far more often than he thought of any of the six young ladies he had been halfheartedly courting. He had been irritated over the fact that he both disliked and disapproved of her and yet … did not.
His feelings toward other people were not usually ambivalent. With her they were. He needed to sort them out if he was ever to have any peace of mind again.
His family wanted him to resume courting her. So did Eunice. Eunice had even told him a month ago, the day after Lady Angeline refused his marriage offer, that he ought to consider the refusal merely the first act of a drama, that he should write the rest of the play.
Very well, then. Oh, he would not actively court her. But he would not avoid her either. He would let events unfold as they would. If he was fortunate, events would conspire to keep them apart. Though that, of course, would do nothing to help him sort out his feelings.
But Lord, he thought just before he got up to face the day, both Eunice and his female family members were about as wrong as they could possibly be. He and Lady Angeline Dudley were about as suited to each other as day is to night.
It was a poor comparison, of course. For night and day were two sides of the same coin. One could not exist without the other. They were the perfect balance of opposites, the perfect harmony of nature taking its course.
Night and day worked perfectly together, in fact.
Damnation!
Chapter 16
ANGELINE’S CHANCE CAME that same afternoon.
A number of the guests went out walking, since the sun was shining down from an unusually cloudless sky and all were agreed that the good weather was not to be missed despite a breeze that was brisk at times.
It was not a formal walk. Rosalie had explained the day before that she had deliberately refrained from trying to organize every minute of her guests’ stay. Most of them needed a rest from the hectic pace of the London scene, and at Hallings they must relax and amuse themselves in any way they wished, even if that merely meant nothing more strenuous than reading or chatting or dozing in the drawing room or conservatory.
Although they all started out more or less together, then, smaller groups of them went off in different directions soon afterward. The dowager countess confessed herself quite content to stroll in the formal garden and leave the more strenuous walking to the younger people. Mr. Briden commended her good sense and asked if he might join her. Tresham and Cousin Belinda turned determinedly east as soon as they were on the terrace when the rest of the group was already drifting west. Cousin Leonard and the Countess of Heyward bent their heads together in private conversation and walked across a wide lawn in no particular direction at all and at a speed that did a fair imitation of a tortoise. Mr. and Mrs. Lynd strode off arm in arm in the direction of a largish lake at the foot of a long, sloping lawn, taking the Reverend Martin with them. Viscount Overmyer and his wife were going into the village to look at the church, which had stained-glass windows worth looking at.
The Misses Briden were in a group that included Ferdinand, Sir Webster Jordan, the Earl of Heyward, and Lord Windrow. Angeline and Miss Goddard were also a part of it, and a chattering, merry, noisy group it was too. It also appeared to have the lake as its destination, though no one had actually said that was where they were going and no one seemed in any hurry to get there. Angeline might have enjoyed herself enormously if it had not been for her plan. But this was the perfect opportunity to put it into effect, though she had no clear idea of how exactly it was to be done. It must be done, though. They were already halfway through the first full day of their stay.
She linked her arm through Miss Goddard’s and walked more briskly with her for a few moments until they were ahead of the main group. B
ut first she slanted a smiling glance at Lord Windrow—and felt as if her heart were suddenly beating at twice its normal speed. Had that been too flirtatious a glance? Not flirtatious enough? Had he noticed? Had anyone else? Had Lord Heyward noticed? Oh, dear. She had never before ventured into the world of intrigue.
And perhaps her effort had all been for naught. It seemed that they strolled alone together forever while the merry voices of the larger group grew more distant by the second. But forever was actually no longer than a minute or so. Then the hoped-for voice spoke from close behind them.
“Ah, cruel fair ones,” Lord Windrow said on a sigh, “your burst of energy left behind four gentlemen to escort two ladies, a dismal ratio when one happens to be one of those men. At the same time, we were deprived of the company of surely the two loveliest ladies in the land. Perhaps you will accuse me of exaggerating, but if there are any lovelier, I have not yet seen them.”
“But now,” Miss Goddard said as he moved between them and offered an arm to each, “you have transferred the same dismal ratio of two to one to us, Lord Windrow.”
“Walking together as you were, then, two ladies with no gentlemen at all as an escort, was preferable to having at least one?” he asked. “You have wounded me to the heart, Miss Goddard. Indeed, I believe you have crushed that organ beyond repair.”
“Oh, what a bother,” Angeline said, removing her hand from his arm and coming to a sudden stop. “I have a stone in my shoe and will have to stop and remove it.”
“Allow me to be of service,” Lord Windrow said, turning to her, all concern, but she fluttered a hand in his direction.
“Oh, no, no, no,” she said. “I should be mortally embarrassed. It will take no more than a moment to do it myself. Do walk on, the two of you. I shall catch up in no time at all.”
He would have argued. He opened his mouth to do so, but Miss Goddard spoke first. Thank heaven she understood what was happening and had agreed to collaborate, Angeline thought.
“We certainly would not wish to embarrass you, Lady Angeline,” Miss Goddard said. “I know just how you feel. Come, Lord Windrow.”
And off they went. Angeline glanced back at the rest of the group and directly at the Earl of Heyward, who increased his pace and came directly toward her, just as she had planned.
“Oh, there is no need to be concerned,” she said when he drew close. “He was merely being silly again. Miss Goddard kindly went ahead with him. She is in absolutely no danger, I do assure you, though no doubt she will be relieved if you hurry to her rescue. It would be very good of you.”
“Lady Angeline,” he said while the rest of the group moved on past, chattering and laughing, “you were favoring your right foot when you stopped. Have you hurt yourself?”
“Oh, no, no,” she said. “I have a stone in my shoe, that is all. It will take me just a moment to remove it and catch up to the group. Do please hurry and rescue Miss Goddard.”
“As you quite correctly remarked,” he said, “she is in no danger whatsoever. And she does not suffer fools gladly. She will wait for the others to come up with them when she can endure Windrow’s conversation no longer. Allow me.”
And he went down on one knee before her, just as he had done when he proposed marriage to her, and held out one hand for her foot.
Oh, dear.
It was her right foot, was it not? Yes, he had just said so. She raised it and he edged off her shoe. And because she was in danger of losing her balance, she was forced to lean slightly toward him and rest her hand on his shoulder. Oh, such a firm, warm shoulder, a shoulder to depend upon. He turned over the shoe and shook it before setting it on the ground and brushing his hand across the sole of her stockinged foot.
“I could not see a stone,” he said, “or feel one.”
“Sometimes,” she said, “they are so small that they are virtually invisible to the eye, but they can be agony on the feet. I daresay you got it.”
And he fit the shoe back on her foot and stretched it over her heel. She wriggled her foot in it and set it down on the ground.
“It has gone,” she said. “Thank you.”
He stood up and looked into her eyes.
“Miss Goddard—” she said.
“She will not thank me for rushing up to her like an overanxious chaperon,” he said. “Shall we walk?”
She stared at him for a few moments. This was not the way she had planned it. Lord Windrow had acted just as he was supposed to. Why had Lord Heyward not?
He was offering his arm. His eyebrows were raised. Miss Goddard would be so very disappointed. But what was to be done? Nothing could be done at present. They would have to try again. Angeline took his arm and sighed inwardly. Why did his arm always seem steadier, more reliable than any other man’s? It was just an arm, after all.
They could have caught up with the group with the greatest ease. But Lord Heyward made no attempt to do so. Instead, he took a different direction entirely, taking Angeline with him.
“I wonder if there is a path up that hill beyond the trees,” he said. “I believe there must be, for there is a folly at the top of it—some sort of ruined tower. Do you see it?”
She followed the direction of his pointing arm. And she forgot instantly about her failed plan and about the group of young people making their merry way in the direction of the lake.
“Oh, I do,” she said. “Shall we find the way up to it? There must be a splendid view from up there.”
“If the climb will not be too much for you,” he said.
“I am not a wilting violet,” she told him.
“I did not believe so,” he said. “I have never yet seen a wilting violet tear across a meadow and straight up a tree.”
She glanced sidelong at him. Had Lord Heyward just made a joke? And about behavior he so despised?
“Of course,” he added, “I have never actually seen you do it either.”
He had made a joke.
“That is really too bad,” she said, “for I have no intention of performing an encore just for your benefit, you know.”
And there it was—that dimple in his cheek. And there went her stomach, doing a tumble toss, and she beamed her delight and laughed out loud. Oh, but she was over this. Long over it. Except that they were just two young people strolling in a private park during a house party and enjoying a summer afternoon. Why should they not joke and laugh together? It did not mean anything.
They found the path with no trouble at all once they had wound their way past the band of trees at the foot of the hill. They toiled up it without wasting breath talking. It was steep and rather overgrown with coarse grass. At one time it must have been used frequently—perhaps when Cousin Rosalie’s boys had been younger, before they all went off to school, or perhaps before Lord Palmer went on his diplomatic mission to Vienna. By the time they reached the top Angeline was quite out of breath, and she was sure her face must be horribly flushed and damp with perspiration. But Lord Heyward was panting too.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I ought to have asked myself if the climb would be too much for me.”
She smiled at him. Another joke.
“At least it will be all downhill on the way back,” she said. And because she was so warm, she untied the ribbons of her bonnet and let them flutter free. Her chin and neck immediately felt cooler.
But goodness. Oh, goodness. They were surrounded by nothing but view. Angeline turned completely about and saw house or park or village or farmland or countryside wherever she gazed.
“Oh, look,” she said unnecessarily, for of course he was already looking. What else could one do up here but stand and marvel?
“I will wager,” he said, “that the view is even more magnificent from up there.”
He was pointing at the tower.
“But no one would wager against you,” she said. “Besides, a lady never wagers. And I am a perfect lady now that I have made my come-out, remember?”
His eyes came to hers, and she
could see that he did remember. The first time he had almost smiled at her was during the first set of her come-out ball when she had told him that from then on, now that she was out, she would be a perfect lady and there would be no more incidents like being alone in an inn taproom or galloping and whooping along Rotten Row during a rain or dashing across an occupied bull’s meadow.
“I’ll race you to the top,” she said, grasping her skirt at the sides and dashing across the short distance to the tower.
It looked far larger and more imposing from up here. Angeline pushed open the studded wooden door and stepped inside—and instantly forgot the race to the battlements. The walls and the floor were a brightly colored, intricate mosaic of colored stones. Slit arrow windows let in sunlight and would at any time of day—they faced in all directions. There was a wooden bench all about the perimeter, made soft with red leather cushions, though the color was marred somewhat by a layer of dust. A wooden ladder staircase in the middle of the room led upward to a trapdoor.
“What a glorious retreat!” she exclaimed. “If I lived at Hallings, I would come up here every day. I would bring my books and my easel, and I would sit here and read and paint and dream.”
She had been alone a great deal at Acton over the years and had made a friend of the hills and woods where she had played with Tresham and Ferdinand as a child. She would have made a retreat out of Dove Cottage by the far lake in the park, since it was beautifully situated, but it was where her father had housed his mistress—one of them, anyway—and she could never erase the wound of that memory from her mind.
Lord Heyward was climbing the ladder and pushing at the trapdoor until it disappeared into space and fell back somewhere up there with a thud. Angeline climbed up after him and took his offered hand to step out onto the battlements. He closed the trapdoor behind them.
