Allison Lane

by A Bird in Hand

  The first blast of rain slammed against the house. Sighing, she rose to check her repairs. The putty was holding. No water seeped around the window frame.

  Resuming her seat, she tried to lose herself in a description of mountains that sounded taller and far more rugged than those surrounding Ravenswood. The wild grandeur would make an ideal setting for one of Cecilia’s stories, but perhaps she could use it as well. She had come across a fell-walker last summer who had been fascinated by the different sorts of rocks he found in the hills. Switzerland would likely interest such a fellow.

  She turned her imagination loose, conjuring other characters and listing all the reasons they might be traveling abroad. But she couldn’t concentrate. Images of Mr. Randolph kept intruding.

  He knew about her writing.

  Her greatest fear since she had penned her first book five years earlier had been that someone would discover her secrets, making it impossible to achieve independence. Now that fear had come to pass.

  But he did not condemn you.

  She frowned. It was true that he had praised her work even before he had connected it to her. And he was the only person at Ravenswood who seemed to understand her. Could she trust him to remain silent?

  Of course you can.

  She nodded. Revealing her secret would force her into marriage by destroying her other options, something he had vowed more than once to avoid. But beyond that, he was a man who loved books, a man who had read widely and appreciated knowledge. So he did not consider writing novels to be either sinful or scandalous. Yet he was close enough to the aristocracy to understand that others would. Most members of her class distrusted a broad education, especially in women. Earning a living was even worse.

  What would Society say about her other dreams?

  Plenty, and none of it supportive. Even Mr. Randolph did not wholly approve of her plans – she nearly choked on the understatement, for despite his soothing words, his eyes had held shock. He might even consider her a candidate for Bedlam. Yet he had not only refused to expose her, he had handed her the key to success. Though it meant selling the library she loved, she could live comfortably even if she never wrote another word.

  So why were doubts suddenly assailing her?

  She had lain awake half the night trying to plan her next step. But problems she had never considered suddenly loomed large. Staying in this valley would put her in the position of playing maiden aunt to Cecilia’s children – assuming the girl married Sir Lewis – and leave her at the mercy of her parents’ ire. Both images made her cringe. She could live with Aunt Constance, but the woman would likely die before many more years had passed, exposing her to Uncle Jason’s disapproval, for he despised girls who left home for any reason but marriage.

  So she would have to live in a place where she knew no one. And risk them shunning you for being different, added a voice. You would be much better off with Mr. Randolph.

  Never! She straightened in shock. Where had that idea come from? And why?

  “Does it do nothing but rain in Cumberland?” asked Mr. Randolph, pulling her out of her thoughts.

  “Be grateful it is not colder, or we would be buried in snow by now.” She watched him peruse the titles, unable to ignore how his pantaloons clung to his thighs and how his jacket stretched across his shoulders when he pulled a book from a high shelf, then returned it. “Was there something particular you wished to read?”

  “Not really. Your grandfather amassed an interesting collection.”

  “Once he returned from France, he never traveled beyond Carlisle. But his interest in other places and other times remained, so he used books to explore them.” Her eyes strayed to the volume in her lap. Not only would she lose her own books, leaving would also remove access to hundreds of others. Where would she research places and ideas for her novels?

  “So he traveled the world through other eyes.” He joined her on the settee.

  “It is better than knowing nothing at all.”

  “But not nearly as interesting as seeing new places for yourself. No matter how evenhanded a reporter tries to be, his prejudices will inevitably skew his opinions. If he dislikes quaint country villages, his descriptions will make them sound boringly unappealing. If he prefers open vistas, then reports of forested mountains will suffer.”

  “Surely writers try to be fair when they are describing real places. Unlike the novels I write, their works are supposed to be truthful.”

  “It depends on the writer. If you were to write an account of your travels, you would find something good to say about every place you visited.”

  She stared at him, surprised by his perspicacity.

  “That is the kind of woman you are, Elizabeth. And many writers feel the same way. But there are others who believe that only their opinion matters. I am sure you have met such people.”

  “Major Henessey,” she replied instantly, naming a retired officer who lived near Sir Lewis. “He considers himself the ultimate authority on everything, so he never admits a fault and will argue against any ideas but his own, even those that are equally good.”

  “Exactly. So if he set out to write a book about Cumberland, could you trust him to portray it accurately?”

  “Probably not, but that has no bearing on this discussion. I cannot visit places for myself, so I must glean what I can from the accounts of others.”

  “But you could travel, if you chose to,” he said softly.

  “Hardly. That is one restriction that I will never overcome.”

  “Lady Hester Stanhope has done so for some years now.”

  “But I am not Lady Hester. Even if I had her wealth, I would not try to cope with inns and transportation and finding adequate translators in countries where I did not speak the language.”

  “So the ability to travel must weigh in favor of marriage.” He smiled, sending goose bumps skittering down her arms.

  She ignored them, stifling a groan at yet another mention of marriage. His determination hadn’t waned after all, though she had mistakenly thought so after his revelation about her library.

  But he was not deterred. “I can offer you experiences you would never find on your own. You needn’t fear that I would take advantage of my position to dominate you, for I respect you too much to try.”

  Randolph knew he should give her more time, but that commodity was growing short. And yesterday’s discussion seemed to have done some good. The shadows under her eyes hinted at a sleepless night. Was she finally facing the loneliness she would endure if she held to her course?

  She bit her lip for more than a minute before responding.

  “I have learned that when an offer sounds too good to be true, it generally is. You paint a pretty picture with your words – freedom, noninterference in my work, travel, and more – but what would you derive from such an arrangement? A gentleman would never accept so lasting a commitment without expecting some benefit.”

  “Companionship,” he said carefully. “I do not enjoy the press of London, but neither do I enjoy solitude. You are an intelligent woman who shares many of my interests and offers stimulating conversation. I can relax completely with you, for you already know the worst about me and accept it.”

  “Your fear.” She nodded.

  “I doubt if you can comprehend how much that means to me. No one who has not been brutalized in an attempt to rid him of a childish fear can understand the stigma attached to the adult who harbors it.” He sighed. “And I really would like to travel, but have hesitated to do so alone.”

  She was staring, as he had known she would. “And how has a duke’s book expert and distant cousin amassed the means to travel? Or the leisure to do so?”

  “The relationship is not as distant as I implied,” he admitted, choosing his words with care.

  “I suspected as much.”

  He raised his brows.

  “You are so at home with command, I wondered if you were Symington’s heir, who I understand is currently a dis
tant cousin.”

  “Something like that.” He managed to keep a straight face, though her knowledge of his family tree was a shock. He had not even thought of that third cousin when he embarked on this deception. “I knew you were remarkably observant. But I wanted to give you a free choice in deciding your future, without your father’s pressure or interference. My knowledge of rare books is well-known. Whitfield calls on my expertise frequently, as does the British Museum. And he did send me here to authenticate the Chaucer.”

  “So what do you do the rest of the time?” she asked suspiciously.

  “We discussed my father’s estate, which I will one day inherit and must supervise now that he cannot do so himself. In addition, I own a small estate nearby and have sufficient funds to be considered wealthy by some. You need not fear the future if you become my wife.”

  “Dear God!” She blanched. “Whatever you do, don’t mention that to Fosdale. He would drag us off to Scotland in a trice if he suspected your situation. The only reason he is not pressing harder is because he considers you negligible. And he is concentrating on attaching Symington at the moment.”

  “I am aware of that.” He suppressed a grimace, for this conversation was becoming trickier with every exchange. “But I have no intention of falling in with his wishes. I would wed you, yes. But by choice. You are of age, so any agreements we reach need involve only the two of us. If Fosdale makes demands, I will remind him that ladies traditionally bring dowries into their marriages.”

  She laughed. “I am tempted to accept you, just to see his face when you confront him.” The smile died. “Almost.”

  “Do not decide yet,” he begged, stifling disappointment – though her words raised hope that he would ultimately win her. “But as you consider my offer, think about everything we have discussed. I promise, on my honor as a gentleman, that I will never coerce you into a life you abhor nor deny any request without offering reasons that you are welcome to debate, for I believe that marriage should be a partnership. Your writing is a part of you that I would never suppress. I can offer a comfortable life with opportunities you will not find elsewhere. And I beg you to think seriously about your ideas of marriage. Just as Major Henessey imposes his views on those around him, you have allowed your parents’ unhappiness to skew your image of all relationships.”

  “You mentioned that before,” she reminded him. “I will consider it, and I will consider your offer. In return, I would ask that you accept my answer this time.”

  Pain knifed his heart. Would she ever return his love?

  Her eyes hardened at his hesitation.

  He must agree unless he wished to hear another refusal. So he nodded, praying that he would not have to renege on the implied promise. “I will leave you to your thoughts, my lady,” he said formally, placing a lingering kiss on her hand before striding away.

  * * * *

  Elizabeth touched the back of her hand. It remained warm from his lips. He was unlike any man she had ever met, which was reason enough to seriously consider his offer, she admitted with a sigh. Could he possibly be right?

  She stared out at the rain.

  How could she tell? She mentally listed every couple she knew. Her parents’ marriage was by far the worst, though few aristocratic couples treated each other as more than casual acquaintances. On the other hand, people rarely revealed their true feelings in public. Even her mother seemed perfectly content when judged by her demeanor around other people.

  It was an important point, she admitted. Society frowned on any display of genuine emotion. And Mr. Randolph was right. She was skewing her perceptions. Because her mother’s bland expression hid bitter unhappiness, she had assumed that all facades covered distress. But they actually hid a variety of feelings, including happiness and contentment.

  Thus she could not use public demeanor as a clue to truth.

  A stronger gust of wind rattled the windows, as if berating her for having been so stupid to begin with.

  So how could she judge people if they hid behind masks?

  She couldn’t. But you did know one happy couple, that pesky voice reminded her. Sir Lewis’s parents had been deeply in love, a fact she recognized because she had so often visited Little House – his younger sister had been a close childhood friend. More than once, she had come upon the Mitchells embracing – in empty rooms, in the maze, in the stable… Yet their public demeanor had been no different from her own parents’, whose private behavior bordered on abusive. After the baronet’s death, Lady Mitchell had moved to Carlisle to escape the daily reminders of what she had lost.

  Yet even admitting that some marriages worked left her with questions. A husband had a legal right to make all decisions, to discipline his wife in any way he chose, to ignore any suggestions she might make. Her earnings would belong to him. She would have no claim to the money beyond what he chose to give her. Even if she bought property before marriage – assuming anyone would sell it to a female – the title would revert to him the moment she wed.

  There was no way to protect herself from abuse. Regardless of how honest Mr. Randolph was being today, he could change his mind in the future, and she would have no recourse.

  So the decision came down to Mr. Randolph’s character and to the question she had asked more than once. Was he a man who would treat her fairly, or was he hiding behind geniality to force her into marriage? Her suspicions might seem odd, for she offered nothing a gentleman usually coveted – fortune, connections, beauty. But this case was tangled in honor.

  Honor was a malleable concept for gentlemen. It could force a man into deeds he found abhorrent or it could defend disreputable conduct.

  Honor demanded that vows between gentlemen took precedence over promises to others. Thus settling gaming debts was more urgent than paying the butcher, even if the butcher teetered on the brink of bankruptcy and the holder of the vowels was as rich as Golden Ball.

  Honor ostracized a gentleman who cheated another at cards while turning a blind eye on a man who ignored his marriage vows, thus cheating his wife, or who wagered away dowries and inheritances, thus cheating his children.

  Honor required a gentleman to marry any lady he dishonored, however inadvertent or insignificant the compromise. Yet honor then ignored any mistreatment he meted out afterward.

  So honor dictated behavior, but in the end, it protected only gentlemen. Women and anyone from the lower classes didn’t count. And no matter how much he tried to dress it up, Mr. Randolph’s proposal arose from honor. He had spent the night with her – never mind that he was unconscious the entire time – therefore, he must wed her. All his talk of companionship and mutual interests sought only to convince her that life would be all right.

  And it might well be, she admitted. If he had been honest, then they did share many interests, especially a craving for knowledge. But just how honest had he been? She had already caught him playing fast and loose with his background.

  And there were other concerns. He had made no mention of setting up a nursery or what that entailed. A landowner who was heir to another estate would need a son. And he was close to the Whitfield line as well.

  She frowned. Again he had hedged, for he had glossed over just how close he was.

  But that did not matter. Had he left out the subject of intimacy because she was an innocent maiden, or was he avoiding it because he found her unprepossessing appearance off-putting enough that he was unwilling to make any promises?

  It was an important point, for if he rued marrying an antidote, let alone sharing a bed with one, then the future looked grim. Sooner or later he would resent his entrapment and take that resentment out on her.

  She hoped his silence rose from delicacy, for she found him quite likable.

  Be honest, demanded her conscience.

  All right, she found him more than likable. Far more than likable. He might lack the size and intimidating masculinity that Symington radiated, but she had always been uncomfortable around blatantly vi
rile gentlemen. Mr. Randolph did not intimidate her. He was pleasing to look at, stimulating to talk to, and his touch raised an amazing amount of warmth.

  Again, she felt his lips pressing against her hand. His fingers were long and elegant, conveying gentleness. She would have no fears with him. His caress would be excit—

  She was actually considering marriage, she realized in shock. Tension gripped her arms, spreading to engulf her entire body. But it was a good tension, a welcome tension that hinted at something more. She needed to see him, to touch him, to decide if he would welcome her into his heart and home or merely tolerate her. The question was assuming a burgeoning importance.

  Abandoning the library, she went in search of him.

  “Have you decided already?” he asked when she found him in the morning room.

  “No.” Only then did she realize how difficult it would be to ask her question, for it not only bared her own insecurities but begged him to lie. But it was too late to back down, and the answer was vital if she was to make a wise decision.

  Watching the rain flatten the emerging daffodils on the grounds outside made it easier to talk.

  “You spoke of wanting companionship,” she finally said, noting his reflection in the window glass. He seemed tense. “But you did not mention an heir. I presume you will expect one.”

  His eyes widened. “Of course. I want a complete marriage, Elizabeth. If you consider intimacy distasteful, then we need to discuss the problem before this goes any further.”

  “It’s not that,” she protested.

  He gently turned her until he could see into her eyes. His own remained inscrutable.

  She shivered.

  “Then what troubles you?” One finger stroked the side of her neck.