by Candace Camp
On that particular day almost seven years ago, however, her father was smiling and pleased. “Well, Rachel,” he said cheerfully, “I imagine you have some idea why I’ve called you in here today.”
“I—I think so,” Rachel answered a little hesitantly. She would not have thought her father would have been this pleased about Anthony’s proposal. She knew nothing about his finances, of course, but he was a younger son of a younger son, his lineage perfectly respectable, of course, but without a title or any prospects for one, and not, she would have assumed, a man of such wealth as to make her father beam with pleasure.
“I’ll warrant you do,” Ravenscar went on in a hearty avuncular way. “Lord Westhampton is quite a catch. Not a duke, of course, like your sister…” He gave this little quip the chuckle he thought it deserved, and went on. “But still an excellent prospect. Title. Lands. Family dating back to one of William the Conqueror’s barons. Yes, I am quite pleased that Westhampton has taken such a fancy to you. Offering a very generous settlement, of course—haven’t worked out the details yet. Of course, he wants to ask you the question himself. But I think we all know what your answer will be, eh?”
“Lord—Lord Westhampton?” Rachel got out through suddenly bloodless lips. There was a strange roaring in her ears, and she thought for a dreadful moment that she might actually faint. “Lord Westhampton has asked for my hand?”
“Why, yes.” Her father cast her a look of surprise that quickly turned dark and suspicious. “Why? Were you thinking it was someone else? Have you given your affections to another?” His voice rose with each question until it was close to a shout.
“Nonsense,” Rachel heard her mother say smoothly, moving up to wrap a hand around her daughter’s arm. “Of course she has not given her affections anywhere. I am sure she was just surprised that a man of such consequence as Lord Westhampton had been so taken by her. Any young woman of proper modesty would be. He is quite a catch, as you said, especially for a mere slip of a girl.”
“Yes, no doubt you are right.” Ravenscar accepted her explanation easily, for he could not imagine his youngest daughter, the one with the least spirit of any of them, opposing him.
Rachel’s mother, fingers digging into Rachel’s arm, then told her husband that she and Rachel must decide exactly how to dress and act for Westhampton’s upcoming proposal, and she deftly steered her daughter out the door, leaving Lord Ravenscar to congratulate himself on landing yet another excellent son-in-law, an accomplishment that he was sure was in large part a reflection of his own consequence.
“Whatever are you thinking?” Lady Ravenscar snapped as she led her daughter down the hall and into the ladies’ sitting room, where she closed the door firmly after them. “You gave me quite a turn. I thought Ravenscar was going to explode. Is it really such a surprise to you? Westhampton has been haunting Cleybourne House all summer.”
“But—but he is a friend of the duke’s. I thought—”
Her mother let out an exasperated sigh. “And to think I imagined that you were handling him skillfully! Ah, well, it’s no harm done. No doubt he assumed you were merely becomingly modest and innocent. Men in love, fortunately, are great fools. Now…we need to plan. Doubtless he will be coming over this afternoon to speak to you, since Ravenscar has given his permission. We must decide what you shall wear. Perhaps Caroline will lend you her Lucy to put up your hair. You must look just so—beautiful, yet not as if you were anticipating his question.”
“But, Mama!” In her panic, Rachel reverted to her childhood name for this woman who was in general far too cool and reserved for a more affectionate name than Mother. “I cannot accept Lord Westhampton! I…”
Her mother stared at her in astonishment, and Rachel’s words faltered to a halt.
“Are you mad?” Lady Ravenscar’s voice was like the crack of a whip. “What do you mean, you cannot accept—” She drew in her breath sharply. “No! Was your father right? Have you given your affections elsewhere? My God, girl, what have you done!” Fear and fury mingled in her face. “Do not tell me you have let a man have his way with you!”
“No!” Rachel gasped, shocked. “How could you think that? I have never—he would never—”
“Good.” Lady Ravenscar relaxed a little. “Then it is nothing that cannot be put right. Who is this man? I cannot believe that I have not seen this happening.”
“It is Mr. Birkshaw. Anthony Birkshaw. And he has done nothing untoward. He has been all that is proper and correct. He would never have incurred gossip by dangling obviously after me.”
“Birkshaw!” Her mother’s first look of puzzlement changed quickly to one of horror. “Anthony Birkshaw! That penniless pup? He dared to try to engage your affections! Oh, Rachel, how could you have been so foolish? What have you said to him? Have you promised him—But, no—no one would regard a silly girl’s promise as binding when he had not had the courtesy or courage to speak to your father first.”
“He has not asked me to marry him,” Rachel assured her. “I tell you, Anthony—I mean, Mr. Birkshaw—has been all that is proper. We have made no promises, done nothing that anyone could construe as wrong. I swear it. But I—I love him, and I know that he returns my feelings. I thought today, when Father called us into the library, that it was he who had asked for my hand.”
Her mother looked at her with a touch of pity. “My dear girl, you cannot think that Ravenscar would have approved such a match, can you? Mr. Birkshaw could not hope to get his permission. He has no money. No prospects. His father is the third son of Lord Moreston. The family runs to males. A plague would have to hit for him to come into the title. And it is only a barony, anyway. I cannot imagine how the man could think he could aspire to the daughter of an earl.”
“I don’t think he thought much about my father’s title,” Rachel replied with rather more asperity than she was accustomed to using with her mother. “It was me he fell in love with.”
“Then all I can say is that he is a proper ninny and so are you.” Lady Ravenscar shook her head. “Well, you had better put such foolish thoughts out of your head—and with no time wasted, either. You have to accept Westhampton this afternoon—and with no unhappy looks, either, to give him second thoughts.”
Rachel’s heart turned in her chest. “But, Mother, how can I accept him? I don’t love him! I scarcely even know him! I—I love another man!”
“There is no reason for him to know that,” Lady Ravenscar retorted. “And it would be best if you got that thought out of your head instantly, as well. Your father would never let you waste yourself on Anthony Birkshaw. I can scarcely believe that you have been so foolish as to have given your heart to a—a pauper!”
“He is not a pauper!”
“Bah! You know nothing about the matter!” Her mother faced Rachel, her lovely face set in cold, adamant lines. “Do you think any of us married for love? That any of us knew our husbands before we became engaged? I can assure you that I did not, and neither did your sister.”
“But Caroline and Richard love each other.”
“Your sister was wise enough not to give her heart until she had given her hand,” Lady Ravenscar snapped. “I cannot believe that you are acting like this. You were always the most biddable of my children, the one I could count on to be reasonable. Obedient.” She paused and gathered her composure, then started again. “What did you think we were coming here for? For you to have a summer of parties and fun? Your father had to swallow his pride and accept a loan from Cleybourne to enable you to have this Season. You knew the reason for it. You knew what you were expected to do.”
“Yes, but—” Tears glittered in Rachel’s eyes. The dreamworld she had been living in this summer was crashing down around her ears. She could see now how foolish she had been, believing that the man she had fallen in love with would be an acceptable spouse in her parents’ eyes. She had let herself believe that her love and the brilliant match she must make would somehow turn out to be embodied in the same per
son. “I cannot!” she cried out in a low voice. “I cannot marry Lord Westhampton when I love someone else!”
“You can, and you will.” Lady Ravenscar’s voice was implacable. “I am sorry that you were so silly as to let your feelings be engaged. Obviously I was not careful enough. I did not see this foolish romance developing and nip it in the bud. For that, I apologize. But I will take care to correct that mistake now. I will tell Caroline to inform the butler that you are no longer home if Mr. Birkshaw calls.”
“No!” Pain stabbed through Rachel’s chest like a knife. “Mother, you cannot—”
Lady Ravenscar gave her a long, level look. “If I have to, I will tell Ravenscar, and he will send the young man on his way.”
“No!” The thought of her father railing at Anthony and barring him from their house filled her with even more fear. Her father was terrible in a temper; there was no telling what he might say to Anthony—or do to him. It would not surprise her if he took a cane to the young man.
“You will get over this infatuation,” her mother went on, her cool voice like a knife lacerating Rachel’s heart. “I know it must seem to you that your world is ending, but this feeling will pass, and soon. Young girls’ fancies always do. In a few weeks, after you have gotten involved in planning the wedding and choosing dresses for your trousseau, why, you will look back on this calf love and realize how absurd it was.”
“No,” Rachel said in a choked voice. “I will not.”
“You must try. Because I can assure you that you will not marry Mr. Birkshaw. You can turn down the best offer you could hope to receive if you insist, but you still will not marry Mr. Birkshaw. If you think about it, I am sure you will see why Birkshaw has not offered for you. He knows that he cannot: I imagine he barely has the money to support himself, let alone a wife. It is my best guess that he must marry money himself. Perhaps he was foolish enough to think that you had some.”
“It was not about money!” Rachel cried. “We love each other.”
“Well, it is a love without hope,” her mother said remorselessly. “Your father and I will never allow you to marry him. And if you are so foolish as to turn down Lord Westhampton because of this piece of lunacy, I can guarantee that you will regret it the rest of your life.”
Rachel could no longer hold back her tears. She began to sob, sinking into the nearest chair and covering her face with her hands. Her mother watched her with exasperation for a moment, then pulled a dainty handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to her daughter.
“Cry it out, then,” she said. “And when you are done, lie down with a cool rag over your eyes to keep the swelling down. You cannot meet Lord Westhampton this afternoon with puffy eyes.”
“I cannot marry him,” Rachel repeated through her tears. “It would kill me.”
“No. I assure you that it will not. You are not the first young girl to fancy herself desperately in love, and you certainly will not be the last. It never kills them. Of course, if you choose to turn down the prospect of being Lady Westhampton, of having a husband who adores you and will answer your every whim, of owning two of the most admired homes in the country and a limitless number of dresses and jewels—” Lady Ravenscar broke off with a sigh. “Well, we cannot make you accept him, though what your father will say about it, I dread to think. It will be a wonder if I can convince him not to pack us all up and go storming back to Darkwater in a rage, and, lord knows, that will be the end of all your hopes. But one may hope he will see reason. You are admired by other men—though none, of course, as fine a match as Lord Westhampton. There might be another chance for you to get a decent offer before the end of the Season, when we shall all have to return to the country to finish our lives in penury.”
Rachel thought with horror of continuing to stay here this Season, going to parties and trying to attract a husband, when all the while her heart would be breaking. “Mother, I cannot….”
“Then you plan to live the rest of your life a spinster? For you will have no more opportunities to meet marriageable men. We cannot afford a second Season for you, and I can assure you that your father will have no desire to do anything for you if you cross him in this.”
Rachel shuddered, thinking of her father’s ire. She had never been on the receiving end of one of his truly terrible rages. “Mother, please…”
“Child, I cannot help you. You have only two choices—do your duty to the family, accept Lord Westhampton and have a nice, satisfactory life, or refuse and remain with us until we die, and then I suppose you will have to live as a companion to your sister Caroline.
“I want you to lie down now. I’ll send the maid up with cucumber slices and a cool cloth for your eyes. And I want you think about what you are going to do. I want you to consider what will happen to us all if you do not marry Lord Westhampton. I want you to remember this Season and all we have done for you so that you could get a good offer and have a good life. Then decide whether you want to shame your family this way. Whether you are really willing to refuse to do what you are expected to do. What you have to do. I am sure you will come to the right decision about how to answer Lord Westhampton.”
* * *
Even now, Rachel thought, closing her eyes, she could feel the pain she had felt all those years ago, the numbed, emotionally battered state in which she had stumbled to her room and lain down on her bed. Exhausted with grief and plunged into despair, she had cried until she could cry no more, while the maid fussed and dried her tears and did her best to repair the damage her outburst had done to her face.
She had lain there and thought, as her mother had told her to do. She knew, bitterly, how foolish she had been, how much she had lived in a dreamworld. And she faced the void of her future, living immured in Darkwater, the object of her father’s displeasure, constantly reminded of what an undutiful daughter she was and how she had failed the family. She could not marry Anthony without her father’s permission, at least until she was twenty-one, and she knew that her mother was right—her father would not give her permission to marry Anthony, the man who had ruined her father’s plans for gaining a wealthy son-in-law. And she knew, too, with sinking despair, that her mother was right about the state of his finances. Lady Ravenscar always knew such things. Besides, it explained why, despite his love for her, he had not asked for her hand. He had known that he would not be acceptable to her father; probably he, too, must make a good match.
Her dream of love died that afternoon. She faced the world as it was, the world in which a daughter married as she ought, as her parents desired. She saw reality, in which love did not hold sway, but only cold, hard reason. Her whole being ached at the thought of joining that world. But in the end, she had risen and let her maid dress her in the afternoon dress her mother had chosen, had let Caroline’s Lucy do her hair up and hide the telltale redness around her eyes with just the barest touch of rice powder. Then she had gone downstairs and accepted Lord Westhampton’s proposal of marriage.
CHAPTER 3
Michael jerked awake. He lay still for a moment, drifting back to reality—sweating, heart pounding, hot blood racing. He had dreamed of Rachel. He could not remember the details of the dream, but the feeling was clear—the same mingling of excitement and pleasure, underlaid with sorrow, that was always there when he dreamed of his wife.
Being with Rachel was a different thing entirely. The same feelings were inside him, but amplified many times more and shot through with the thrum of nerves and uncertainty. In his dreams, at least he was able to talk to her without turning into a stiff priggish fool, as he did in real life. In dreams he was able to kiss and caress her to the point of thunderous, pulsating lust. The sorrow came as his mind swam back to the surface of consciousness and reality seeped in.
It was always worse after she had been here for a visit. Then the dreams would come frequently and with intensity. They tended to fade with her absence. It was easier to live without her, as he had discovered after they had been married for a year o
r so. Great as the joy was in being with her, the pain grew to an excruciating point, until he could no longer bear living with her, being with her every day, aching with love and passion for her, yet never fulfilled. Never truly being her husband. It was an almost unbearable thing, to love her as he did—and to know that she did not love him in return, that she never had and never would. To know, in fact, that since she had married him, she had lived her life in muted sorrow, aching, as he himself did, for someone she would never have. He knew how she felt; he wished with all his heart that he could take that sorrow from her. He also knew, worst of all, that it was he who had condemned her to that life.
With a sigh, Michael pushed aside the covers and got out of bed. The caress of the cool air on his overheated skin was pleasant, and he did not put on his dressing gown as he walked to his dresser and poured himself a glass of water from the carafe that stood there. He drank it thirstily, then strolled over to the window and pushed aside one edge of the heavy velvet drape to look out into the night.
His bedroom looked out upon the sweep of driveway and trees that led up to the front of the elegant house. Beyond lay the view of hills that typified the beautiful Lake District of his home. It was not daylight yet, but the dark was lightening, so that one could make out the dim shapes of trees and shrubs in the gray light. It would soon be dawn, he knew, when the light would turn golden, then burn away the mists. There was no point now in trying to go back to bed and sleep. He supposed that he should put on his dressing gown and slippers, and light a candle. Start his day.
