Someone To Love

by Mary Balogh

  Can you tell that my head is in a hopeless jumble? What I ought to do is crumple up these sheets of paper and dash them to the floor and jump on them. But I have not told you all yet. He is to come this morning, presumably to discuss the wedding, which the rest of the family arranged down to the finest detail after he left. He did, you know—leave, that is. After he had made his offer and I had accepted, he just went away. One could search the world for the next century and not find anyone else half so strange. Read on if you are not already convinced!

  Elizabeth told me last night that he had been challenged to a duel by Viscount Uxbury, that horrid nobleman who treated poor Camille so shabbily. I will not go into detail on how it came about, but the duel was set for dawn this morning in Hyde Park. Cousin Alexander was his second (it was through him that Elizabeth found out) and expected it to be a slaughter. I do not doubt everyone else who heard about it did too. Ladies may not interfere in any way in a duel. It is a gentleman’s thing, all about honor and such nonsense. I could not make any sort of appeal to either one of them and of course I could not attend. But I did, and Elizabeth came with me.

  Hyde Park is enormous, but fortunately we found the spot quite easily even though it was still almost dark when we got there, clad in dark cloaks and looking furtive, like Macbeth’s witches. There was a huge crowd there, and even though they were not making a great deal of noise, there was quite enough to lead us in the right direction. Besides, there were horses stamping and snorting all around them. It was a miracle we were not seen. I believe there would have been dreadful consequences if we had been, though I have not pushed Elizabeth into describing just what they might have been. I might have found myself consigned to teaching in an orphanage schoolroom for the rest of my life! As it was, we got behind the trunk of a stout oak and I climbed up to lie along a branch. I have never done anything like it before in my life. I was terrified. I was probably eight feet off the ground and felt as though I were half a mile up.

  I do not know how I am to describe what happened. The Duke of Netherby and Cousin Alexander were the last to arrive apart from a few stragglers. My heart was thumping against the branch, and it had nothing to do with how high I was. I was waiting for the pistols or the swords to be produced. And Viscount Uxbury looked so very large and menacing. But there were no weapons. They had decided, it seemed, to fight it out with their fists, though that is not right either, since the duke did not use his fists at all. And, Joel, he stripped right down to his breeches—I blush to write the words. He even removed his boots and stockings, and then he looked so small, so inadequate to what was facing him, that there was not the faintest hope in my poor bosom. And yet he looked lithe and perfect too and incredibly beautiful. Oh dear. I wish I had not written that last sentence, but even if I erase it with half an ocean of ink you will be able to read what I wrote. Let it stand, then. He is terribly beautiful, Joel.

  When the fight was announced and he walked out onto the grass to meet the viscount, I fully believed in what Alexander had predicted. And when the viscount threw the first two punches, I almost died. But I would not hide my face against the branch for I felt largely responsible, you see. I was nasty to Lord Uxbury at the ball and then Avery escorted him out—yet he was the one to be challenged. I suppose it is not the thing to challenge a woman to a duel.

  Joel, his arms moved so fast I did not even really see them. But he pushed those deadly fists aside as if they were no more than gnats, and he kept doing it even when Lord Uxbury moved in for the kill with a whole series of punches, any one of which would surely have killed Avery if it had found its mark. But he moved his feet and his body and his arms with such agility that he deflected or avoided them all, and then he spun about and lifted one leg to an impossible angle and slapped his foot against the side of the viscount’s head—although it was well above the level of his own—and the viscount went down with a crash. I still do not know quite how Avery did that, even though he did it again a little later with the other foot against the other side of the viscount’s head.

  Lord Uxbury, as well as everyone else, had clearly expected an early and easy victory. By then, though, he was clearly rattled. He had taunted Avery from the start, calling him ridiculous and silly names, but then, after he had been hit on the side of the head for the second time, he lost his temper and said some really nasty and shameful things, which I will not repeat, about Camille and Abigail and me too. I wish I were more adept with words to describe what happened then even before my name was fully out of Lord Uxbury’s mouth. I have never seen anything like it in my life. I have never even heard of any such thing. He left the ground, Joel—Avery, I mean—and half turned in the air before planting his feet one at a time beneath the viscount’s chin and kicking out and then landing on his feet. Viscount Uxbury was not on his feet by that time, however. He crashed backward and just lay there. He was still prone on the ground when Elizabeth and I left, but he was not dead, for which fact I was very grateful, much as I dislike and despise him.

  Alexander came to the house later as he had promised Elizabeth he would to whisper privately to her—he did not realize that I knew about the duel and he certainly did not suspect that we were there—that Avery had won the fight and Lord Uxbury had been carried home, dazed and unable to stand on his own feet.

  The Duke of Netherby is a terribly dangerous man, Joel. I have always suspected it but have been a bit puzzled about it. For he is on the small side, and he is indolent, and he dresses more flamboyantly than anyone else and has affectations, most notably his snuffboxes and his quizzing glasses, which change with every outfit. But he is dangerous. And I am betrothed to him. I believe the banns are to be read this coming Sunday and the wedding is to be one month hence. I think I am a little frightened, which is absurd of me, I know. He would not hurt me. Indeed, he would not hurt anyone, I sense, unless severely provoked, as he was this morning. But when he is provoked . . .

  Oh, I must finish. My letters are getting longer and longer. I often look back to that day when you and I were talking in the schoolroom and Bertha brought me the letter from Mr. Brumford. If I had known then what I know now, would I have set fire to the letter and watched it burn? But he would have sent another, I daresay.

  Thank you for all the other news in your letter. I do read everything you write over and over, you know. Every word is precious to me. If you cannot find a way to meet my sisters to find out how they are for me, do not worry about it. It is not your responsibility. But I do appreciate the fact that you are trying. I shall seal this and hand it to the butler without further delay, for he is supposed to come this morning—my betrothed, that is—and I do not know when that will be or how I shall look at him and not be afraid of the strangeness of him.

  Is he from another world? And yet I am not really afraid. He is interesting—and what an inadequate word that is. I believe my life would seem dull if I were never to see him again.

  Just as life seems a little dull without you. Know that I think about you daily and remain, as I always will,

  Your dearest friend,

  Anna Snow

  Otherwise known as Lady Anastasia Westcott

  Soon to be (oh goodness!) the Duchess of Netherby

  The letter was almost too fat to fold. But Anna did it somehow and sealed it, noted that Elizabeth’s head was still bent over the letter she was writing at the table by the drawing room window, and pulled on the bell rope. John came in answer to the summons and Anna handed him the letter, asking that it be given to the butler to send out today.

  “Oh, it’s to Mr. Cunningham, is it?” John said, looking at it. “If you had not already sealed it, Miss Snow, I would have had you give him my regards. I always liked him as an art teacher. He knew just what help and encouragement to offer without ever telling us what to paint or how to do it. And he never said anything was rubbish. Neither did you. I was lucky in my teachers.”

  “Thank you, John,” Anna
said, noting that Elizabeth had lifted her head and was smiling with genuine amusement. “I shall pass on your regards to Joel next time.”

  “I do like your Bertha and your John,” Elizabeth said after he had left. “They are quite refreshing.”

  “I believe John is the despair of Mr. Lifford,” Anna said.

  “But he is such a very handsome lad,” Elizabeth said, a twinkle in her eye.

  Anna seated herself in the armchair beside the fireplace. She did not pick up her book. What was the point? She knew she would not be able to read a word. How long would he be? Would he come at all?

  How had he done that? He must have been six or seven feet in the air, and he had remained there while he kicked out with both feet, just as though the laws of nature did not apply to him. She would never have believed it if she had not seen it with her own eyes. And how had he been able to anticipate every blow that had rained down upon him and been able to defend himself against each one? Nobody could be that fast of either eye or arm—yet he was.

  He did not have either a broad chest or bulging muscles. Yet everything about him, she had seen after he had stripped down, had been taut and perfect. Everything about him was in proportion to everything else. She had always thought him beautiful. This morning she had seen the full extent of that beauty and it had awed her even as she had been terrified for his safety.

  She remembered suddenly his foolish claim to have felled Viscount Uxbury with three fingertips. He had not been speaking foolishly after all, she supposed. It had really happened.

  He was a dangerous man indeed.

  There was the sound of a carriage and horses from the street, and Elizabeth looked up from her letter.

  “It is Avery,” she said, “in a barouche. That is unusual for him. He goes almost everywhere on foot. Oh goodness, I feel almost afraid of him. Anna, are you quite sure you wish to marry him?”

  “Yes,” Anna said, suddenly breathless. “I am sure, Lizzie.”

  The sound of the door knocker came from below.

  Eighteen

  Avery was later arriving at Westcott House than he had intended, but his errands had been delayed by the earliness of the hour. It seemed that people did not begin work at the crack of dawn or even soon after. However, here he was now, wondering, as he often did when he was about to see Anna, if a certain spell that appeared to have been cast over him would have been dispelled since the last time and he would see her as the perfectly ordinary young woman she surely was. Under the circumstances, it would be just as well if that was not about to happen.

  John the Friendly Footman entertained him as they climbed the stairs by informing him that Miss Snow would be happy to see him as she had just finished writing a long letter to his erstwhile art teacher in Bath and was probably at loose ends—the footman’s own words—as Lady Overfield had not yet finished hers. John thought, though, that Lady Overfield was writing more than one letter and that accounted for the fact that she was still at it. It did not matter, though, it seemed, as the post would not be picked up until one o’clock and she would surely be finished by then.

  Avery thought about how servants in other houses effaced themselves into virtual invisibility and thereby deprived employers and guests of a great deal of wit and wisdom and good cheer.

  “His Grace, the Duke of Netherby,” John announced, all prideful formality after he had tapped on the drawing room door and flung it open—and then he ruined the effect by grinning at Avery.

  Anna was sitting by the fireplace, all prim and pretty in sprigged muslin. Elizabeth was seated at a table by the window, surrounded by paper and inkpot and blotter and quill pens. But she was getting to her feet and smiling.

  “Avery,” she said as he bowed to her. “Anna has been expecting you. I have just finished my letters and will take them down to set on the tray to go out with today’s post. Then there are one or two things I need to do in my room.”

  He turned to open the door for her, and she came very close to winking at him.

  “I shall not be gone for too, too long,” she said. “I take my responsibility as Anna’s chaperone very seriously, you know.”

  He closed the door behind her and went to stand before Anna’s chair. She had not said anything yet beyond a murmured greeting. She was looking a little pale, perhaps a little tense, with her feet planted side by side on the floor, her hands clasped in her lap, her posture very correct even though that chair had surely been made to be lounged in. He had heard all about the plans for their wedding from his stepmother, and when he had called on Edwin Goddard this morning to see if there was anything in the post that needed his personal attention—fortunately there had not been—he had known without even asking that his secretary was just waiting for the word before springing into action. Between the two of them, with a little encouragement from other assorted Westcotts, the duchess and Goddard would doubtless produce a wedding to end all weddings. The duchess had even made a passing mention of St. Paul’s Cathedral, paving the way, perhaps, for a definite suggestion within the next day or two.

  By now, of course, Goddard was no longer waiting for the word. He had been assigned another task.

  Typically, although she was clearly not at ease, his betrothed was looking directly and steadily at him.

  He leaned forward to set his hands on the arms of her chair and brought his mouth to hers. She was not an experienced kisser, and that was something of an understatement. Her lips remained closed and still, though there was nothing shrinking or reluctant about them. He parted his own lips, moved them lightly over hers, licking them until they parted, and curled his tongue behind them. She moved then. He sensed her hands unclenching and felt them light against his chest and then curling over his shoulders. He pressed his tongue past her teeth and into her mouth. She drew breath sharply—through her mouth—and gripped his shoulders. He drew the tip of his tongue along the roof of her mouth, and she sucked on it.

  She could give lessons to courtesans, he thought as he withdrew his tongue and lifted his head. She smelled faintly of lavender water. He straightened up.

  “Go and fetch your bonnet,” he said. “Knock on Elizabeth’s door and get her to bring hers too if she does not have other plans for the rest of the morning. If she does, we will have to take Bertha instead.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked him. “Will I need to change?”

  “You will not need to change,” he assured her. “I am going to take you to an insignificant church on an insignificant street. Neither has any architectural feature to be remarked upon, and as far as I know nothing of any great historical significance has ever happened there.”

  She smiled slowly at him. “Then why are we going there?” she asked.

  “To be married,” he said.

  She cocked her head to one side while the smile was replaced by a look of puzzlement. “To be married,” she repeated. “In an insignificant church on an insignificant street. Grandmama and my aunts will not like it. They have their hearts set upon St. George’s or even St. Paul’s, which is very grand indeed. I have seen it from the outside.”

  He drew a folded paper from an inside pocket of his coat, opened it, and handed it to her. She looked down at it, read it, and frowned.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “A special license,” he told her. “It permits us to marry in a church of our own choosing by a clergyman of our choosing and on a day suited to us.”

  She looked up at him, the frown still on her face, the license dangling from one hand. “We are going to be married now?” she asked him. “This morning?”

  “The thing is, you see, Anna,” he said, “that when you said you wished to be wed, it was for the express purpose of making it possible to travel to the village of Wensbury without any lengthy delay and without having to take with you a whole arsenal of female companions to make my presence in the entourage respectable.
A grand wedding would delay our departure by at least a month.”

  “For the express purpose—?” Her frown had not gone away. “But marriage is forever.”

  “Oh, not really,” he assured her. “Only until one of us dies.”

  Her eyes widened. “I do not want you to die,” she said.

  “Perhaps you will go first,” he said, “though I rather think I hope not. I would probably have grown accustomed to you by then and would miss you.”

  For a moment she looked horrified, and then she laughed, a sound of genuine glee.

  “Avery,” she said, “you are quite impossible and quite outrageous. We cannot marry today.”

  “Why not?” he asked her.

  She stared at him for a few moments. “I am not—dressed,” she said.

  “I beg to inform you that you are,” he said. “I would be blushing horribly if you were not.”

  “I—” She appeared to be tongue-tied before laughing again. “Avery!”

  He took his snuffbox from his pocket, opened it with a flick of his thumb, examined the blend, closed the box, and put it away.

  “A question,” he said. “Do you want the ton wedding, Anna? It will be very splendid indeed. Everyone will be there, perhaps even Prinny himself—the Prince of Wales, that is, the Regent. We are both very grand persons, and our wedding will be the Event of the Season—that is Event with a capital E, I would have you understand. It might be a bit overwhelming, though it would, I suppose, be the ultimate dream of girls growing up in an orphanage.”

  “No,” she said. “You are not a prince. That would be the ultimate dream. And a glass coach.”

  He regarded her with appreciation.

  “Do you want the wedding, Anna?” he asked again. “The one your relatives are busy planning?”

  She shook her head and closed her eyes briefly. “I grow sick at the very thought,” she said. “I have grown so weary of . . . grandness, yet it will only grow worse.”