The Match of the Century

by Cathy Maxwell

  She looked to the sound, then back at Ben. Her eyes shone in the moonlight but gave away none of her thoughts. “We are here, Father.”

  A beat later, Fyclan Morris came into the shadows of the arbor. He’d aged quite a bit since Ben had last seen him. Fyclan had been a witness as Ben had been marshaled toward a waiting coach and so had begun his military career. He had no complaint against Morris. If Ben had a beloved daughter of whom he expected great things, he would have done more than watch the randy bugger be hustled out of the country.

  Morris did not glance at Ben. “Your mother requests your return to the ballroom. There are some people she desires you to meet. Baynton may also come looking for you.”

  Ben expected her to leave him. He stood, his arms at his side, feeling useless. Once again, his brother won the girl without even having to be present. It must be good to be a duke—

  “Tell Mother I will return momentarily,” Elin said, surprising Ben. “Lord Benedict and I are putting our heads together over a special treat for the duke. There is no other time to discuss our ideas.”

  “I don’t believe you should be out here alone with him,” her father answered.

  “No, perhaps I shouldn’t . . . but I am. Please, Father, I need this moment. Mother will understand.”

  Under the flickering light of a yellow paper lantern, Ben could see Morris’s indecision. Mother will understand.

  To Ben’s surprise, Morris backed down. “I shall wait for you on the terrace.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Morris walked away, leaning heavily on his walking stick.

  “Gout,” Elin said, as if anticipating Ben’s question. “He suffers terribly from it. Mother and I worry about him. He throws himself into his business interests with all of his being and doesn’t take time for his health.”

  She’d moved so that now she stood in the lantern’s light. Her father could see her from his vantage point. Actually, anyone could see her and possibly believe after the haste they had left the ballroom that there might be truth to her story of planning a “something special” for Baynton.

  “Such a sweet bride thing to do,” he murmured, his jealousy making his speak aloud.

  “Is that it? Is that what you wished to say to me?” She shook her head as if he’d played her for a fool. “I should go inside—”

  “Mouse, wait—”

  She cut him off. “I detest that nickname.”

  He knew that and yet, she had never protested too hard when he’d used it. Sometimes she’d even referred to herself by the name.

  And suddenly, what he wanted to say, rolled right out of him. “Don’t marry Gavin.”

  Elin stiffened, then slowly faced him. Her expression was unreadable, and Ben found himself holding his breath, waiting for her reaction, knowing what it must be.

  “I was always meant for him.”

  “Yes.” Ben knew that.

  There was a beat of silence.

  If he said more, he would feel exposed, naked. He was now completely sober.

  For the first time, he realized that the military had actually been a place for him to hide. It had provided a shelter from these things called feelings that he’d thought he’d mastered. He’d been fooling himself.

  At just seventeen, he’d been a callow lad, awkwardly wanting to change what had been a friendship to something dangerously more. At four-and-twenty, he was learning that, when it came to Elin, he still didn’t know how to proceed. And he wasn’t such a fool as to believe they were the same people they had been eight years ago.

  “Why should I not marry him?” she demanded.

  Because I want you.

  Such a statement was too bold, but he spoke the truth as he said, “Because you will always be second place. You will be an afterthought. He’s like our father. He lives to be busy and important.”

  “He is important.”

  The strains of the music could be heard out here. It reminded him of how little time he had to plead his case. It reminded her that she was expected inside.

  “Father is waiting for me,” Elin said. “I must go.”

  Ben stepped into her path.

  “Elin—?” He broke off, tightening his jaw as he realized he was no poet. Emotions were risky, especially when he wasn’t certain of what he wanted to say.

  “Do you hate your brother so much?”

  “I don’t hate him.”

  “No, you just want to see him humiliated on the night our betrothal is announced. Or is it me you despise? Do you believe I remained the same trusting, gullible girl you took advantage of? I understand you are disappointed about losing your place in the military but I will not let you use me to strike back at Gavin. Besides, he’s right. Your place is here. You have a responsibility to your family. Or must it always be your way?”

  Her distrust caught him unaware. “I did not bring you out here to discuss this.”

  “No, I brought you out here to say that.” Her hands had balled into fists as if she wished to strike him again. “You and I made a mistake years ago. We were both young—but do you know, Ben, I believed you cared for me. I thought I mattered to you—”

  “You do.”

  “So that is why you left?”

  “Wait, it wasn’t my choice. My father informed me I was leaving.”

  She dismissed his claim with a toss of her curls. “And so you didn’t consider sending word to me?”

  “I was seventeen—”

  “Or write in eight years?”

  “And say what?” he snapped back. “ ‘Don’t marry my brother?’ You can see how that has gone over here.”

  She made a small moue of fury. “What a fool I was! I mourned your leaving. I was at a loss without your friendship, and I was afraid, Ben, afraid of what could happen—but it didn’t. As mother said, it meant nothing.”

  “Elin—”

  She held up a hand to ward him back. “Don’t. Don’t make excuses. Don’t come near me. And don’t believe for a second that I will allow you to be familiar with me. We will keep up pretenses. We’ll proceed as if we mean nothing to each other beyond the superficial. I will be your brother’s wife and a duchess, and all will be good. But I will never let you close to me again, so don’t even try. And that is what I came out here to say.”

  Elin started to walk away. Ben reached for her. He needed for her to listen. He’d been drunk when he came out here. He’d squandered the opportunity to plead his case. He was a fool, but he loved her.

  Ben dropped his arms, stunned by the direction of his thoughts.

  Loved her?

  That couldn’t be possible. They hadn’t seen each other in years. Yes, they had been friends, but love was something Ben had never imagined.

  He couldn’t love Elin. Why, he shouldn’t. She acted as if she hated him—and she was well on her way back to the house and out of his life.

  Nor did he want to live according to the terms she had just described. He’d once treasured Elin’s friendship. He couldn’t let her believe that he’d brought her out here for no other reason than to hurt his brother.

  Whether he loved her or not—and he needed to do a great deal of thinking before he accepted that idea—he did not want her to believe the worst of him.

  He used his longer legs to fall into step behind her. She did not acknowledge him. Oh, yes, with that set of her shoulders, she would make a brilliant duchess.

  “Listen to me,” he said to those stiff shoulders. “You must listen. How long have you been out here? Has Gavin even noticed you are missing? Or is he surrounded by ‘important’ people who require all of his attention? Yes, he is a busy man, but is that what you want? A man who thinks his wife is just another task on his ducal list of ‘expecteds.’ Be careful, Elin. Gavin has been taught there is nothing more important that the legacy of Baynton. People don’t matter. Certainly not his brother, and it stands to follow, not even his wife.”

  Elin whirled on him. “You are so bitter. Before you warn m
e about Gavin, you might be wise to see to yourself.” Her words were like lashes. They stripped him bare.

  “Yes, I am bitter. I’m the one who lost you.”

  He didn’t know who was more surprised by what he admitted—Elin? Or himself?

  “Ben, you never had me,” she said sadly.

  “Yes, I did,” he answered, daring her to claim different. It was all there in front of him now. He’d not been able to understand back then because they had both been too young. He’d known Elin better than any other person in his life.

  He loved her, and in the space of moments, the word no longer frightened him. In a way he could not understand, he believed she loved him in return. Or had.

  Was this the whisky talking? Did it matter? It all made sense to him.

  Of course, there was a strong possibility that the events of years ago might have destroyed any feeling she held for him, except she was out here. She was talking to him. That must mean she cared.

  All Ben wanted was an opportunity, even a tiny one, to redeem himself. It was not too late to save both of them.

  “Ben,” she started, her voice gentle as if she wanted to deny him once more.

  “No, Elin, listen to me. We have time. There is a chance—”

  Before he could say more, he was interrupted by the sound of a man desperately shouting her name.

  She turned, glancing at the terrace, her gaze searching. “Father?”

  Fyclan Morris had said he would wait on the terrace, but it was another man who hurried toward them. In the light of paper lanterns, Ben had trouble recognizing him until he grew closer. When Elin said, “Robbie, is something wrong?” Ben remembered her cousin Robbie Morris, who served as her father’s secretary.

  He was a slender man of middling height with reddish blond hair and sharp features. He might even be referred to as handsome although right now, Ben could have wished him to the devil. He was not done with his conversation with Elin.

  “Your mother. She needs you. Come,” Morris said as he took her hand and began pulling her to the house.

  “What is it?” she asked, moving with him. “Where is Father?”

  “He is already inside.” Morris took her arm. “She collapsed, Elin. She fell to the floor.”

  “Is she all right?”

  Morris lowered his voice to murmur something, and Elin’s feet took flight. She reached the terrace and dashed to the door

  Ben began walking quickly toward the house, toward her.

  Years ago, his father had bullied him into leaving Elin. Fyclan had been there as well. They had known what the two of them had done—

  Ben forbid the thought. He hadn’t done anything to Elin that was not right and very much wanted between them. They had been young, too young, and naïve—but he now knew he’d loved her. He’d always loved her. What had happened between them, bumbling, silly, awkward—well, it had been the actions of youth.

  He was wiser now and much older. However, his feelings were ever true. He needed to tell Elin, to set aside masculine pride and the wretched weight of family honor and be honest. He had to finish the conversation that had been interrupted.

  Ben was running now, a premonition growing inside him with each step. “They” were going to separate them again. Whatever had happened to her mother would change everything. Elin would not come back to him, not unless he reached her before they did.

  Years ago, he’d been wrong to have let them force him away from her. He would not allow it now.

  He reached the door. The footman wasn’t paying attention to his door duties. Instead, he craned his neck, trying to see what was happening on the far side of the room where everyone was gathered.

  The musicians had stopped their playing. Women were crying. Men appeared grave as they comforted them.

  As Ben flung open the door to charge past the startled footman, he heard Elin scream.

  And he knew he was too late.

  There were many questions and much confusion the night Elin’s mother died.

  The doctors told Elin and her father that Jenny had been gone before she’d hit the floor that night. “Her heart stopped,” seemed to be the only explanation. Those who heard it would murmur that Jennifer Morris’s time had come, and there was nothing to be done when God sent His angels.

  Elin hated such talk. There were other condolences. Few people said simply they were sorry for her loss. That statement she could respect.

  The thought that her mother was needed in heaven more than she’d been wanted on earth made Elin wanted to roar with rage. However, she didn’t. She was too inconsolable.

  As was her father.

  From the moment Elin had come upon her mother’s prone figure on the floor, she and her father stood side by side but were lost to each other. It was almost as if Jenny had been the bridge between them, and now that she was gone, they were both too shocked to lean on each other.

  Elin also learned that Ben had been wrong in his accusations against his brother. In the days following her mother’s death, Gavin was more than generous with his time. He had lost a parent. He understood. For the first week, he was always by Elin’s side although she made for poor company. She was drowning in grief.

  Jenny’s death would delay the marriage once again. When her father apologized, Gavin assured him that if anyone understood, he did.

  “We’ll start again after this is past,” he told Fyclan. “We will announce the betrothal then.”

  Of course, the duke couldn’t stay with her all the time. After the first week, responsibilities took him away. He was an important man.

  Her father, too, threw himself into his business dealings. He and Elin couldn’t sit alone together for very long. It was too difficult for them both. They reminded each other of what they had lost.

  Elin had seen Ben at the funeral, where her mother was buried with as much pomp as her father could buy for her. Ben had looked terrible. He appeared weighed down with concerns as if he had been the one to lose a loved one. He tried to talk to her, but Elin was not ready for him yet. If she had not been out in the rose arbor with him, she would have been by her mother’s side, and who knows? Could she have prevented Jenny’s death?

  Guilt was a rogue emotion. Elin didn’t really know why she felt guilty. She could form a list of all the times she had not been the most dutiful of daughters. She should have eaten more of the supper her mother had had Cook prepare for her that night. She should have been more excited about marrying the duke.

  Indeed, the marriage was the one thing her mother had desired for her. Jenny wanted Elin’s portrait hanging on walls of Baynton’s estates. She had envisioned it, dreamed it, and made Elin see it.

  Marrying Baynton was the sole fitting tribute to her mother’s memory.

  But Elin was in mourning. The wedding need wait at least a year out of respect to her mother’s memory. She wished she could hear her mother call her “sweet bee” once more or feel her warm, loving touch.

  Over time, Elin did learn that Gavin and Ben had argued. They said Ben seemed to have disappeared from London. “Run off without a word to anyone” is what they said and “tsked” their thoughts.

  In truth, Ben had tried to see her before he quit the city. He’d left his card. He’d called several times, but Elin was not receiving visitors, especially him.

  However, Ben was not one to be ignored. He had sent her a rose, a rare white one. A single bloom.

  Peace, he had written on the card. An apology of sorts and one that had infuriated her and brought tears to her eyes at the same time. She’d been trying so hard to keep her emotions contained. Her mother would expect her to be strong. Jenny had not admired “weepy” women.

  And once again, without even being present, Ben proved he could threaten Elin’s fragile hold on herself.

  Peace. Her whole world had been upended with her mother’s death, and she didn’t know if it would ever be right again.

  Nor did she understand why, out of all the flowers that had
been sent and all the cards, she took the rose and Ben’s one, heartfelt wish and pressed them between the pages of her journal.

  Invitation

  Gavin Thornhill

  Alexander Whitridge,

  Duke of Baynton

  will marry

  Miss Elin Tarleton Morris

  Tuesday, 5 November, 1811.

  The Dowager Duchess of Baynton

  and Mr. Fyclan Morris

  request the honor of your presence at the wedding breakfast at 2 p.m.

  R.S.V.P. Menheim House

  Chapter Four

  October 1811

  Elin wasn’t ready to return to London.

  There were too many reminders of her mother there—her favorite amusements, the shops, the friends who met Elin with long faces and eyes melting with pity.

  Her father sought out those people’s company. Elin could not. Her grief was still too private. Too consuming.

  In truth, in the past many months, she and her father had grown even more distant from each other. They had never been close—the way Elin had been with her mother—but this was something deeper. Perhaps Elin reminded him too much of the wife he’d lost. He’d given his wife a funeral the likes of which London had never seen. It had been a tribute for the love of his life, but now, he seemed adrift. He compensated by working more hours on his business interests than he ever had before and often took his meals at his club.

  This had left Elin rambling around their large London home. In truth, she wasn’t accustomed to talking to her father. She knew he cared for her; however, her mother had been the one to communicate between the two of them. She’d planned their outings and had encouraged their closeness. Without her, they acted like polite strangers.

  As soon as Elin was able, she’d returned to Heartwood. The country was where she belonged. It was also easy to pretend her mother was still alive and living happily in London. Life could go on the way it had before the ill-fated betrothal ball.

  Except that it was a lie.

  At the end of the first year of mourning, Elin realized she couldn’t hide from the truth. Her mother was gone and, in many ways, so was her father. He rarely wrote and had not come to Heartwood even for hunting, for while he no longer rode, in the past he’d often hosted large parties.