Someone To Love

by Mary Balogh

  “Lizzie.” Her mother had come to sit on the arm of her chair in order to rub a hand over her back.

  Alexander was frowning. Everyone else was looking variously dismayed and embarrassed. Anna clutched her hands in her lap. They were freezing. So was she. The Duke of Netherby got to his feet and strolled across the room to stand before her chair.

  “I have not compared your fortune and my own penny for penny, Anna,” he said. “It would, I suspect, be an arduous task. Edwin Goddard might enjoy it if I set him to it. I would hazard a guess, however, that I am wealthier than you by a penny or two at least. I have far more than I can spend in a lifetime, even if I live extravagantly to the age of one hundred or one hundred and ten. I could have no possible use for your fortune, and I have no desire whatsoever to get my hands on it. If I were to marry you, it would be because I would rather spend the rest of my life with you than not and because you had assured me that you would rather spend your life with me than not. You may consider the offer made since it would be a ghastly embarrassment to me and probably to everyone else if I were to drop to one knee before you now and declare undying devotion in the florid language that would doubtless be expected of me. You may be the Duchess of Netherby if you choose.”

  Anna’s eyes widened and remained fixed upon his—sleepy and keen both at once, as usual. He reached for his snuffbox but did not remove it from his pocket. And she felt a stabbing of such unexpected longing that the near pain of it engulfed her.

  “Avery!” Aunt Louise cried.

  “Oh!” Elizabeth said.

  Everybody else said something too, it seemed, but Anna heard not a word.

  “How—” she began.

  “—absurd?” he said softly. “If you will, my dear.”

  “But what a very splendid idea, Avery,” Anna’s grandmother said. “I am only amazed it has not occurred to me before now. And you are not even related to Anastasia by blood, as Alexander is.”

  “I had not thought you were the marrying sort, Avery,” Aunt Mildred said. “Indeed, I had thought perhaps—”

  “Millie!” Uncle Thomas said sharply, and she fell silent.

  The Duke of Netherby ignored them all. He looked steadily into Anna’s eyes. She wanted to ask him a million questions, though they could all be reduced to one.

  Why?

  “I want to go to Wensbury,” she heard herself say.

  “And go you shall,” he said softly. “I shall take you there. With an army of chaperones if you choose to go unwed. With me alone if you should marry me first.”

  Oh. He was serious. He was serious.

  But why?

  And why was she tempted? Why had that ache of longing settled into a dull throbbing low in her abdomen and down between her thighs?

  Wed. Unwed. Wed. Unwed. But they were not her only choices, were they? She could go alone to confront her grandparents. No one could stop her. She could go with Bertha for company and respectability and John for protection along with a coachman. Perhaps Elizabeth would go with her. They could go to Bath first, and Joel would accompany them the rest of the way—her own true and dear friend. She did not have to choose anyone.

  “I would wish to go wed,” she said so softly she was not even sure the words had passed her lips.

  “Then wed we will be,” he said.

  But why? And now the question needed to be asked of herself as well as of him. What had she said? What had she done? She scarcely knew him. He was like someone from another universe. He hid himself behind heavy eyelids and artificiality, and perhaps there was nothing at all of any value behind it all.

  Except that he had granted her a few glimpses beyond the mask. And he had waltzed with her—twice—and each time danced her into a brighter, happier world. He had kissed her once and aroused all the physical yearnings she had suppressed for so long that she had come almost to believe she would never be troubled by them again.

  They were to be wed? He had asked and she had said yes? For a moment she doubted the reality of it, but only for a moment, for they were not alone in the room. And there was noise, first a murmur and then a great eruption of sound. Everyone spoke at once again.

  “Avery! My dear boy!” his mother exclaimed.

  “Anastasia! This is beyond my fondest hopes.” The dowager countess, her grandmother, clasped her hands to her bosom.

  “Mama, allow me to hold the vinaigrette to your nose,” Aunt Matilda said.

  “I was never more surprised in my life. Or so delighted.” The duchess, Cousin Louise, beamed from one to the other of them.

  “How absolutely splendid! Cousin Avery and Anastasia,” Aunt Mildred said, casting a smile at Uncle Thomas.

  “Allow me to congratulate you, Anastasia, Netherby. I wish you great happiness.” Cousin Alexander actually looked hugely relieved.

  “Anna, Avery. Oh, I ought to have suspected. How blind I have been.” Elizabeth was laughing.

  “You are fortunate indeed, Anastasia,” Aunt Matilda said, “considering the fact that you have resisted more than half the advice we have offered in the past few weeks. You are to be the Duchess of Netherby! Allow me to fan your face, Mama.”

  “Well, this will be a disappointment for a few dozen gentlemen and a few dozen ladies,” Uncle Thomas, Lord Molenor commented drily.

  “We must gather here again tomorrow afternoon. We have a wedding to plan.” That was Aunt Louise, of course.

  “Why Wensbury? Where on earth is it?” Aunt Mildred asked.

  The Duke of Netherby had not looked away from Anna or she from him.

  “I shall call here tomorrow morning, Anna,” he said, “if you can fit me in between the reception of bouquets of flowers and marriage offers.”

  Alexander cleared his throat. “Tomorrow morning, Netherby?” he said.

  “Ah, that appointment.” The duke fingered the handle of his quizzing glass. “But it is early, Riverdale, far earlier than Anna would enjoy being called upon. I shall come after breakfast, Anna.”

  “Perhaps you will be . . . unable,” Alexander said.

  “But nothing will keep me from my affianced bride,” the duke said with a soulful sigh, and turned away from Anna at last. “Every hour between now and then will be an endless eternity. I shall take my leave. I have business to attend to. I believe I must have. Edwin Goddard will know.”

  And without even glancing at her again, he sauntered from the room, leaving Anna with the urge to laugh—or to weep. Or both.

  The room erupted into sound again. Anna heard only Aunt Mildred.

  “Where is Wensbury?” she asked. “I have never heard of it.”

  * * *

  She deserves to be married because she is everything in the world to one particular gentleman.

  Cousin Elizabeth’s words rang in Avery’s head as he walked down the street. Was it those words that had impelled him to make his offer? If so, what the devil did that say about him?

  . . . because she is everything in the world to one particular gentleman.

  Good God, he was a betrothed man.

  It was unlike him to act impulsively. And what a time to break a long habit. He had been half expecting that she would take pity upon Riverdale and offer her fortune and her hand to serve his need, though to do him justice, Riverdale had made quite clear his reluctance to take advantage of her. But the family might at any moment have persuaded them that marriage to each other was the best option for both. And Avery had felt—what? Annoyance? Anxiety? Panic?

  Panic?

  And he had found himself listening to Elizabeth’s plea against the marriage of Anna and her brother and then getting to his feet to reinforce it—by proposing to Anna himself.

  What the devil? Could he not simply have invited her out for a walk, as he had done on a previous occasion?

  She had said yes.

  At least
, she had not used that exact word. She had expressed the preference for being wed rather than unwed when she traveled to Wensbury to find her maternal grandparents. She had not actually said she wished to be wed to him, though, had she? But no, there was no hope to be grasped at there without being ridiculous about it. She had meant him.

  He ought to have known he was in danger when he set Edwin Goddard the task of finding the Reverend Snow and his wife. He ought to have known it when Edwin greeted him on his return home soon after noon today with the letter that had been delivered earlier and he, Avery, had taken only the time to change his clothes before heading off to South Audley Street so that she would not be kept ignorant for one minute longer than necessary. He ought to have known it when, after escorting Uxbury off the premises a couple of evenings ago following the magnificent setdown she had dealt him, he had given in to the overwhelming and quite unmannerly urge to cut in on Washburn and waltz with her himself. He ought to have known it when she wept over Harry. He ought to have . . .

  God damn it all to hell, he thought, coming to an abrupt halt on the pavement, he was in love with her.

  He acknowledged with a curt nod a couple of acquaintances who seemed to think he had stopped to chat with them and showed signs of slowing down to oblige him. He continued on his way, and they presumably continued on theirs.

  He tried to picture her as she had been that first day with her hideous Sunday best outfit and ugly shoes. And all he could see was the dignity with which she had explained her presence in his house and then sat in the rose salon, and the courage with which she had looked him over there even when she realized that he was scrutinizing her.

  She deserves to be married because she is everything in the world to one particular gentleman.

  God damn it and a million or so other profanities and blasphemies he would utter aloud if he were not on the public street where he might be overheard. Everything in the world, indeed. It was enough to make him want to vomit.

  Though it was just as well if he was in love with her, since he was doomed to marry her. He needed to marry in the foreseeable future anyway. It might as well be sooner rather than later. He had imagined, though, that when he finally got around to making his choice, the chosen one would be an acknowledged beauty, someone like Miss Edwards. He had danced with her once the evening before last and found himself wondering why he had so admired her just a few weeks ago. There was a certain softness to her face and figure that would almost certainly convert to plumpness and plainness within ten years, and he had wondered if she possessed enough character to make the inevitable changes of little importance.

  Even then, with such uncharitable thoughts, he might have guessed the truth.

  He had never been in love. He had never come close. He did not even know what the term meant. He was not off his food or off his sleep. He felt no urge to write a sonnet dedicated to her left eyebrow—or the right for that matter—and none whatsoever to sing a ballad of love lost below the window of her bedchamber in the dead of night. He did not feel lovelorn when he was out of her presence or lovestruck when he was in. He had not even suspected until a short while ago when it had popped into his head to offer to marry her himself and put the whole lot of them out of their misery.

  No one had been miserable.

  Yes, she had. She had made that impassioned little speech about feeling like an object, a commodity. She had described all the frenzy of male interest her appearance in society had aroused as though it were the worst possible insult that could happen to anyone. Most ladies would sacrifice a right arm for half the attention. To her it was a misery.

  He had offered her marriage to put her out of her misery. He did not care about anyone else’s.

  At least she would know he was not marrying her for her money.

  He climbed the steps to Archer House, rapped on the door, handed his hat and cane to his butler, and eyed the stairs, a frown between his brows. What he felt like doing was splitting a pile of bricks in two with the edge of his hand. But he had been taught long ago that he must never practice when he was feeling out of sorts. The arts he had learned were not an antidote to bad temper. What he ought to do was go up and have a word with Jessica. She would be less than delighted with his news, and it was not fair to expect his stepmother to break it to her.

  He never did anything because he ought to do it.

  Except this one thing, he thought with an inward sigh as he made his way up to the schoolroom.

  * * *

  Anna did not escape so easily from the drawing room. She sat there in near silence for the next hour or two—she had no idea how long—while everyone around her planned her wedding.

  She must be married at St. George’s Church on Hanover Square. Everyone was agreed upon that, not just because it was within a stone’s throw of Archer House, but because it was the church for fashionable weddings during the Season. Everyone must be invited, and everyone would attend, of course. Aunt Louise would borrow Avery’s Mr. Goddard again to draw up the list, which would not be difficult, since it would be essentially the same as the one for the ball two evenings ago—with the exception of Viscount Uxbury, of course. Mr. Goddard would write the invitations too. He had a neat, precise hand. The wedding breakfast would be held at Archer House, as was only proper. The banns must be called on the coming Sunday so that the wedding would not have to be delayed longer than one month. Madame Lavalle and her assistants would be brought back to Westcott House to make Anastasia’s wedding outfit and her bride clothes. Anna’s grandmother would take her to her own jeweler’s to see to it that she purchased jewelry suited to her current rank and future prospects.

  “Though of course there will be the Netherby jewels for you to wear on state and other formal occasions, Anastasia,” she added.

  “You will be supplanting me in the title, Anastasia,” Aunt Louise said, one hand over her heart, “and relegating me to the position of dowager. I am delighted. I really feared Avery might never marry. One can only hope that he will now proceed to do his duty and start to populate his nursery within the year.”

  Anna’s mind seemed not to be working clearly. Everyone seemed to have forgotten her declared wish to go to Wensbury to see her grandparents for herself and find out just what had happened all those years ago. Of course, her mother’s people would be deemed of no account by these aristocrats.

  The duke had said he would take her there. He had given her the choice of going wed or unwed, and she had chosen to be wed first. Then he had simply taken his leave and gone away. How absolutely typical of him to leave her to the mercy of her well-meaning family. Her wedding was going to be at least a month in the future. Yet she had longed to get away from a life that was overwhelming her. All she had succeeded in doing was making things worse. Far worse.

  The talk around her had progressed to betrothal announcements and betrothal parties.

  Why on earth had she agreed to marry the Duke of Netherby? Was she in love with him? But what did that mean—being in love? And he was surely the last man with whom she might be infatuated.

  At last everyone left, though Anna knew it was just a temporary reprieve. Elizabeth had gone downstairs to see her mother and brother on their way and was gone for a while.

  “Did I hurt Alex’s feelings?” Anna asked when she returned.

  “No,” Elizabeth assured her. “But he is afraid he has hurt yours. And he is afraid you accepted Avery’s offer without due consideration because you were upset.”

  Anna smiled ruefully.

  “I hope I did not hurt you by what I said,” Elizabeth added.

  “Oh, you most certainly did not,” Anna assured her. “Neither did Alex. I do not know quite why I accepted Avery’s offer, Lizzie—if you can call it that. I was taken totally by surprise. But—I do not believe I am sorry.”

  “He will not be an easy husband,” Elizabeth said, “but he will be a fascinatin
g one, I suspect.”

  “Yes,” Anna agreed. “He will certainly be far more gorgeous than I. But in a number of bird and animal species the males are more showy than the females. Did you know that?”

  They both laughed, but then Elizabeth bit her lower lip and Anna thought something was troubling her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I could tell after Avery had made his offer and then left that something was bothering Alex,” Elizabeth said. “He reminded Avery of an appointment tomorrow morning, if you will remember. And he did not participate in the general discussion afterward. I had it out of him just now when he walked a little way along the street with me after Mama was in the carriage. He begged me not to tell you, but how can I not? He asked only that I assure you tomorrow if Avery does not keep his appointment to call here that there is nothing personal in his absence, that he will surely come when he is able.”

  Anna looked at her inquiringly.

  Elizabeth bit her lip again before continuing. “Oh, Anna, Viscount Uxbury has challenged Avery to a duel. It is to be fought tomorrow morning. Alex is to be his second, but he is worried. Avery could not refuse the challenge. Gentlemen cannot, you know, without losing face and even honor, though it is very foolish. But Alex is afraid it will be a slaughter. He has sworn to stop it before Avery is . . . hurt too badly, but he is very much afraid he will be in no fit state to call on you here in the morning.”

  Anna felt as though all the blood had drained from her head. The air felt cold in her nostrils. There was a buzzing in her ears. “A duel?” she said. “A fight? To the death?”

  “Oh no,” Elizabeth said. “Alex will stop it before it comes to that.”

  “How can he stop the course of a bullet?” Anna jumped up from her chair. “How can he redirect a sword thrust? What are the weapons to be?”