by Mary Balogh
“For my own part,” he said, returning his attention to Miss Danford, “I think the custom of taking tea at the Rooms quite delightful. Bath is surely one of the loveliest places on earth and should be enjoyed as much as possible.”
“I agree with you entirely, sir,” she said. ‘Tea is always more enjoyable when taken in congenial company.”
She turned her attention to a gentleman who had approached to greet the ladies and exchange civilities before inviting Miss Pope to take a turn about the room with him.
“By all means,” Miss Danford said when her companion looked inquiringly at her. “That will be pleasant for you, Harriet.”
Miss Pope looked doubtfully at Frederick.
“I shall keep Miss Danford company until your return,” he said, “if I may be permitted to do so.”
Miss Danford smiled at him. “I would be grateful, sir,” she said.
“Grateful.” He gave her his full attention. “It is I who should be feeling the gratitude, ma’am. I admire your courage. You remain cheerful and serene despite an obvious and unfortunate affliction.” He resisted the urge to stoop down on his haunches beside her.
It seemed as if she had read his mind. “One disadvantage of always having to be seated,” she said, “is that I must often crane my neck in order to look up at someone standing beside me. Would you care to push my chair closer to that bench, sir, and seat yourself?”
It was encouraging. She obviously wanted to converse with him. He did as she asked, and they were able to talk without the inconvenience she had spoken of and without the usual presence of a third person. Her eyes were fine, he thought, except that he found himself wanting to draw back his head in order to be a few inches farther away from their very direct gaze.
“Are you finding the waters beneficial?” he asked.
“I find them relaxing,” she said. “I bathe in them but I do not drink them. Fortunately, I have no illness that might be cured in such a way. I believe I would have to be very ill indeed to drink a daily draft. Have you tried the water?”
He smiled deep into her eyes. “Once,” he said. “Once was enough. I am glad the baths are helping you. Are you happy in Bath?”
“As you remarked,” she said, “it is a beautiful place, and I have some agreeable acquaintances here. I came here several times with my father before his death.”
“I am sorry about that,” he said. “It must have been distressing for you.”
“Yes,” she said. “Are you enjoying being here, Mr. Sullivan?”
“A great deal more than I expected to,” he said. “I was intending to spend no more than a few days here. I thought I would look in on the city since I was in this part of the country. But now I find myself reluctant to leave.”
“Oh?” She was looking very directly at him. He had piqued her interest, he could see. “It is more beautiful than you expected?”
“Yes, I believe it is,” he said. “But it is people who make a place, I am sure you would agree. There are people here from whom I am reluctant to part.“ He let his eyes stray to her mouth before raising them again to her eyes. “I might even say—one person.”
“Oh.” Her lips formed the word though she made no sound.
“I have been touched by your quiet patience and by your cheerfulness and good sense,” he said. “I have been accustomed for several years to mingle with the young ladies of ton who flock to London for the Season. I have become almost immune to their charms. I have never met anyone like you, ma’am. Am I being impertinent? Am I speaking out of turn?”
He fixed his eyes on hers, very aware that Miss Pope and her escort were approaching. He willed them to take a second turn about the room. They obeyed his will, though he fancied that Miss Pope looked at him very intently as they passed.
“No,” Miss Danford said, her voice a mere whisper of sound.
He touched his fingers lightly to hers as they rested on the arm of her chair. “I have thought myself jaded and immune to the charms of women,” he said. “I have been unprepared for the intensity of my reaction to making your acquaintance, ma’am.”
“It was less than a week ago, sir,” she said. She was all dark eyes in a pale face.
“It could be an eternity,” he said. “I did not know that so much could happen within the span of one week. So much to the state of one’s heart, that is.”
“I am unable to walk,” she said. “I am unable to be out in the air as much I could wish.” Her eyes gazed deeply into his. “I have no claim to beauty.”
It was a point he must deal with carefully. “Is that what you have been told?” he asked. “Is that what your glass tells you? Sometimes when we look in a glass, we do so impersonally, seeing only what is on the surface. Sometimes beauty has little to do with surface appearances. I have known women who are acclaimed beauties but are quite unappealing because there is no character behind the beauty. You are not beautiful in that way, Miss Danford. Your beauty is all inner. It shines through your eyes.”
“Oh.” He watched her lips part. He watched her eyes dart to his own lips before looking into his again.
“Am I embarrassing you?” he asked. “Am I outraging you? I would not do so for the world. Perhaps you do not believe what I am saying, either about your beauty or about my feelings for you. I would not have believed the latter myself a week ago. I thought myself beyond falling in love.”
“Falling in love?” she asked him.
“I believe that is the appropriate term,” he said. He smiled slowly and deliberately. “A term over which I have always sneered.”
“Falling in love,” she said. “It is for very young people, sir. I am twenty-six years old.”
“My age,” he said. “Do you feel yourself beyond youth, then, ma’am? I have felt like a boy in the past week—eager, uncertain, gauche, and, yes, in love.”
She opened her mouth to speak and closed it again. “I find this hard to believe,” she said at last very quietly.
She must live a lonely life, he thought suddenly. She must have had her share of fortune hunters but very few genuine suitors, if any. Did she dream of loving? Of being loved? That was the trouble with him—he thought too much. It was what had happened with Jule, though in that case he could not say he was sorry that he had stopped to think. He felt guilty enough as it was.
Should he feel guilty now? Was he catering to a dream that he could not after all fulfill? But why could he not? If he married her, he would treat her well. He would give her affection. He would give her some of his time and attention. He was not trying to lure her into a dreadful marriage of total neglect.
“Believe it,” he said, leaning a little toward her and looking into her eyes with more genuine sympathy than he had expected to feel. “We are in a public place. It is neither the time nor the place for a formal declaration. But with your permission I would like to find that time and that place. Soon.”
Was he being too hasty? He had not come to the Pump Room that morning with the intention of going so far. But the opportunity had presented itself in the form of the gentleman who was strolling with Miss Pope. And Miss Danford seemed receptive.
“You have my permission, sir.”
She spoke so quietly that he was not sure at first that she had said the words. When he was sure, he felt elation and—panic. He felt rather as if he had taken an irrevocable step. Her words suggested that she understood him fully and was prepared to listen to a formal offer. Probably to accept it. Why would she be willing to listen if she had no intention of accepting?
He leaned back away from her again. Miss Pope and her escort were approaching. They would probably not take a third turn about the room.
“Tomorrow?” he asked. He shied away from the thought of today. He needed time in which to sort out his thoughts, though there was nothing really to sort out. He needed to marry wealth soon and now he had a better chance than he could have hoped for. “May I call on you tomorrow afternoon, ma’am?”
She hesitated fo
r a moment. “The next day, if you will, sir,” she said. “I am expecting a visitor from London tomorrow.”
“The day after tomorrow, then,” he said, getting to his feet and turning her chair to face the room so that she could watch the approach of her friend. “I shall live in fearful anxiety until then.”
He spoke nothing more than the truth. She was going to accept him, he thought. It could not be this easy, surely. And yet there was panic and terror. He looked down at her thin figure in the wheeled chair, at the pale face and the too-thick masses of dark hair beneath the pretty bonnet. It seemed altogether possible that she was to be his wife. He was going to tie himself to her for life merely because of an accumulation of debts that might be wiped out in one evening at the tables if luck was with him. A lifetime as set against one evening.
She looked up at him and smiled just before her companion joined them. “I shall look forward to it, Mr. Sullivan,” she said.
Chapter 2
Clara really did have a visitor the following day. He strode into the drawing room of the house she had rented on the Circus during the afternoon, following hard on the heels of the housekeeper.
“Clara, my dear,” he said, stretching out his hands to take hers as he crossed the room toward her. “I came as soon as I heard from your messenger.” He bent to kiss her cheek.
“Mr. Whitehead,” she said, smiling warmly up at him and returning the pressure of his hands. “I knew you would. I hope it was not a dreadful inconvenience.”
But they could say no more until the Misses Grover, twin sisters of indeterminate years, and Colonel and Mrs. Ruttledge took their leave after paying an afternoon call. Clara introduced the new arrival as Mr. Thomas Whitehead from London, a dear friend of her late papa’s.
Harriet saw the visitors to the front door. She looked back before leaving the room. “I shall be in my room if you need me, Clara,” she said. “I hope Mr. Whitehead will be able to talk some sense into you.”
“Ominous,” Mr. Whitehead said when the door had closed. He moved to a chair beside Clara’s and smiled at her. “What is this all about, my dear? Some trouble?”
“I hated to drag you all the way from London on such short notice,” she said. “You did not bring Mrs. Whitehead?”
He chuckled. “Miriam would need a week to get ready even for an emergency visit,” he said. “Actually, she is preparing to close the house for the rest of the summer. We are removing to Brighton. A week later and your messenger would not have found me at home. What is the problem?”
“Oh dear,” she said, “I am not sure it is a problem. Perhaps it is. I am considering marriage.”
He raised his eyebrows and took one of her thin hands in his. “But this is splendid news.” he said. “Miriam will be sorry indeed that she did not come. Who is the fortunate man?”
“He has not made an offer yet,” she said, “though I believe he is about to. The problem is that he is a fortune hunter. I think he is probably impecunious.”
Mr. Whitehead’s rather bushy eyebrows shot together. “Clara?” he said. “What is this? Are you in love with the fellow?”
“No,” she said. “But I think I am going marry him if he does indeed ask. Harriet is very vexed with me, as I am sure you could tell.”
Mr. Whitehead released her hand and sat back in his chair. “I think you had better tell me everything,” he said. “I assume that is why you summoned me here.”
She smiled. “I summoned you because since Papa’s passing I have thought of you almost as a second father,” she said. “As you have insisted. Actually, I need financial advice more than anything. When I marry, all my property and fortune will be my husband’s?”
“In the normal course of events, yes,” he said. “But it is possible for a marriage settlement to state otherwise.”
“Ah,” she said. “That is what I needed to know. You must explain it to me if you will. You helped me organize my affairs after Papa’s death. I do not know how I would have managed without you. You gave the practical assistance and Mrs. Whitehead and Harriet gave the emotional support I needed. You have helped me make wise investments. I trust you absolutely, you see.”
“I should think so too, Clara,” he said. “Your Papa was my colleague in India and my closest friend, after all. Now, who is this man? Anyone I know?”
“Mr. Frederick Sullivan,” she said. “Elder son of Lord Bellamy. Do you know him?”
“Sullivan?” He frowned. “There is no point in saying that I hope you are not serious, is there, Clara? You would not have summoned me from London if you were not. What do you know of him?”
“That he is handsome beyond belief,” she said, half smiling, “and charming. Oh, yes, and that he has conceived a violent passion for me.”
“Has he?” Mr. Whitehead got to his feet and stood staring broodingly down at her. “The rogue.”
Her smile became rueful. “Is it so impossible to believe?” she asked. But she held up a staying hand. “You are not expected to answer that question. Of course it is impossible. I have not been deceived for a moment.”
“And yet,” he said, “you are seriously considering marrying the scoundrel, Clara? This is most unlike you. What am I missing?”
“A great deal,” she said. “Is he a scoundrel, then, Mr. Whitehead? What do you know of him?”
“Bellamy is wealthy enough, by all accounts,” he said, “and generous enough. But Sullivan is wild, Clara. Totally irresponsible. He is a gambler and—yes, it must be said—he is a womanizer too. I believe he is still received in good company, but I have heard it said that men with eligible daughters keep them well beyond his reach. Now I can see the wisdom of their actions.”
“It is as I thought, then,” she said. “You have not told me anything I had not guessed for myself. So I will need a carefully drawn up marriage settlement, you see.”
“Clara.” He stood looking down at her for several silent moments before seating himself again. “Knowing the truth, you cannot seriously consider continuing with your plans, surely. You have realized for yourself the insincerity of his protestations of affection, and you have admitted that you do not love him. Or was that not the truth? Are your feelings engaged?”
“Not at all,” she said. “I am not blinded to anything that might lead me on into false expectations. I will not be disappointed because I do not expect a great deal. But I have not changed my mind.”
He stared at her, speechless.
“It is the human factor you have missed, you see,” she said. “I am still young enough and I am certainly wealthy enough to attract a husband. I cannot expect to win any man’s affections. There are too many factors against it. No, don’t try contradicting me. You would be kind to me, but I know the truth. Only my money can buy me a husband. It seems sordid and horribly unwise to you that I would allow such a thing to happen to me. But there is the human factor. I need a husband. I need marriage.”
“But not where there is no fondness,” he said, pleading with her, reaching for one of her hands again. “Not where there is no reasonable expectation of its developing, Clara. Don’t do something you will forever regret. And you will regret this, my dear.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But perhaps not. Or not as much as you fear. I believe that continuing as I am would eventually become insupportable to me.”
“Clara.” He patted her hand with his free one. “Come to live with Miriam and me. You would be a daughter to us and company for Miriam. You said no after your father’s passing. Say yes now. You do not need to live alone. You do not need to be lonely.”
“I am neither,” she said. “At least, not in the way you mean. Harriet is a dear friend and I have others. Although I like to go out whenever possible, I do not need to do so in order to have company, you know. This afternoon’s visits were by no means unusual. But if the offer is made tomorrow—he is to make a formal call during the afternoon—I shall accept.”
“But why Sullivan, Clara?” he asked. “We can find
you a better husband than he. Someone who would be attracted by your fortune, perhaps, but prepared to treat you kindly. Sullivan is a wastrel.”
“A handsome wastrel,” she said. “Perhaps I am willing to buy beauty, Mr. Whitehead. There is so little of it in my life.”
He released her hand once more. “I wish Miriam were here,” he said. “I have never had any skill at giving personal advice, Clara, only financial advice. But you do not sound like yourself at all. You have always been so sensible.”
She smiled. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “It is your expertise I need. You must advise me, if you will, on how I am to prevent my beautiful wastrel from making a beggar of me.”
And so the conversation turned finally to the marriage settlement that would be offered to Mr. Frederick Sullivan if indeed he did make the expected proposal the next day. Clara had always trusted the financial astuteness of her father’s dear friend—more lately her own—and she trusted him on this occasion. But on one point she was stubborn.
Her dowry must be large enough to pay Mr. Sullivan’s debts. That, after all, was doubtless why he was going to marry her. They did not know, of course, how large those debts were. Clara adamantly refused either to allow Mr. Sullivan to be asked or to allow inquiries to be made.
“I will not marry a man whom I have just humiliated,” she said, “or one on whom I have just spied.”
“But we have no other way of knowing, Clara,” he said.
“Are his debts likely to be higher than ten thousand pounds?” she asked.
He grimaced. “One would certainly hope not,” he said. “It is unlikely that even with such a man they are as high, Clara.”
“Then my dowry is to be twenty thousand pounds,” she said. She refused to be budged from her decision despite Mr. Whitehead’s repeated assertion that she was being foolishly overgenerous.
