He rose with her. ‘Can you tell me why? Why is love not enough?’
‘Because I love you, too. Love is everything, Sutton. I couldn’t bear it if I lost yours. I love you enough to give you up, to know that it is selfish to keep you for myself. The world will never let us be happy.’ She might never be happy again anyway. She could physically feel her heart breaking as she spoke.
‘You mean that?’ Resignation and shock registered on his handsome face—perhaps, she hoped, signs that he finally understood the battle was lost. ‘Where will you go? What will you do?’
‘I don’t know.’ Elidh rubbed her palms on her skirts. ‘We’ll manage somehow. We always do,’ she said with more confidence than she felt. She was sounding more and more like her father. She was understanding him better these days. She’d misjudged him.
Sutton reached into his pocket. ‘Will you take some money?’ He passed her a folded packet of bills. She pushed it back. She would probably regret being stubborn about it, but she wouldn’t take his pity, not when she was the one hurting him.
‘No. It wouldn’t be right. Sutton, I’m sorry.’ Sorry for so much.
‘Don’t be. I’m not. I’m not sorry about the ruse. I wouldn’t have met you otherwise. I’m only sorry that you won’t come back with me and finish the story of us.’
He should be hating her, not absolving her. It only made the hurt worse. It was her turn to ask questions, to give herself an epilogue to this ill-fated romance. ‘What will you do? Who will you choose?’ Who would end the story in her place?
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t think I’d have to choose.’ He paused. ‘Elidh, if you won’t come back with me, perhaps you will come on your own. It’s not too late yet, Elidh.’ He bent and kissed her cheek and then he walked past her, out of the room. Out of her life. This time for good. Elidh laid her head down on the wood table and sobbed.
* * *
All the candles had burned down. The room was full dark and still she sat. Unmoving. Unthinking, her head buried in her arms. At some point, Rosie came and sat beside her, her cool, motherly hand smoothing back her hair. ‘Come, child, let’s get you to bed. Everything will look better in the morning.’
Elidh lifted her head. ‘He asked me to go back with him. He wants to marry me.’ Her. Not the Principessa with her fine clothes and perfectly coiffed hair. Elidh Easton, who had nothing to offer him but her heart. The only thing he wanted from her was the one thing she’d denied him tonight. She’d given him penitence and apology, abject honesty when she’d poured out her story. But when he’d asked for her heart, she’d not given it. She’d wanted to protect him. Or was it herself she wanted to protect? Was she too afraid to face the last hurdles? Fear was a great immobiliser. ‘Was I wrong, Rosie?’
‘Only you can decide that,’ Rosie answered quietly.
A new fear engulfed Elidh. Had she thrown away happiness out of fright, not once now, but twice? To love boldly she had to live boldly. Only she hadn’t. She had nothing to lose and nowhere to go, yet she’d chosen to risk nothing tonight. She’d chosen to stay with nothing. Apparently, she preferred the status quo of the known to an uncertain outcome.
But Sutton had risked everything, knowing that he’d lose some of that amorphous ‘everything’ from the outset in the hopes of getting more in return than what he was giving up—the fortune, social avenues, influence, power. Yet he was willing to trade those things for her, she was worth more to him than anything the fortune and influence could give him. Because Sutton Keynes, scientist, camel dairy owner and lover of horses, believed love never failed, even though he knew empirically that it did. It was why he hated the house party, hated being trotted out like a fatted calf, a stud for hire, a placeholder for a fortune. Whatever one wanted to call it. There was no love there. It was a fancied-up business transaction trimmed in satins and silks and Sutton wanted no part of it. He couldn’t find love there. But he’d found it with her and she’d turned him away.
‘Rosie...’ Elidh’s voice trembled ‘...I think I’ve made a mistake.’ A grave mistake. Love hadn’t failed, but she had. She’d condemned each of them to a dismal future: Sutton with his money and loveless marriage to a woman he’d never wanted, and herself to the misery of endless poverty.
‘Nothing that can’t be fixed in the morning light, my dear.’ Rosie smiled reassuringly. ‘There is still time.’ That’s what Sutton had said. Precious little of it, though.
‘I’m going to need a ball gown, Rosie.’ He’d come after her. Now, she would go after him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Love never failed. Sutton clung to that simple thought as the hours of the day slid by, his grip on that hope growing more tenuous as the hours passed. Elidh would come. Some way, somehow, she would come. Nine miles was not an insurmountable distance. She would change her mind and she would come. She would see that her concerns didn’t matter, that love was enough, that he would not come to hate her.
He started to look for her at noon, his pulse speeding when a puff of dust formed at the end of the drive, announcing the arrival of a carriage, only to find it was his own carriage bringing Mr Barnes, the solicitor, from the station. Mr Barnes had insisted on the heavily cushioned barouche—for the sake of his old bones, the solicitor claimed, gingerly stepping down from the carriage. ‘Can’t be jostling these joints of mine over country lanes in just any contraption. I’m bound to break something and at my age, that could be fatal.’ Barnes patted his valise. ‘I have all your papers right here. Everything will be shipshape tonight.’
* * *
Towards the late afternoon more carriages arrived. Hartswood took on a festive atmosphere as people disgorged from their vehicles for the al fresco supper and the ball to follow. All the talk of the last weeks was coming to a head tonight and everyone wanted to be on hand for his announcement, for the close of the fairy tale. Sutton greeted them all—it gave him an excuse to keep an eye on the drive, to see Elidh’s arrival the moment she was here. But Elidh didn’t come. There was only carriage after carriage disgorging a flurry of maids with dress boxes and pretty girls everywhere. None of them was Elidh.
Supper on the back lawn was a beautiful affair with lanterns and white canopies, the well-trained Hartswood staff moving effortlessly among the guests, serving a light summer repast and pouring chilled white wine from France into crystal glasses.
‘Gorgeous evening, Keynes.’ Wharton came by his table to shake his hand, no doubt feeling expansive thanks to the wine and the erroneous belief that his daughter, Ellen, might be named as Sutton’s bride tonight. Sutton had spent the morning entertaining each of the four front runners individually as a way of passing the time. And perhaps, his rational side asserted, creating a backup plan. If love failed, if Elidh didn’t come, he needed the next best thing. There were toasts and more greetings. Then dinner was over. Guests went to change into ball gowns, men went to drink his port and play billiards for an hour. His mother whisked him away to one more receiving line as dusk fell. More guests arrived, those who couldn’t make it for dinner but who definitely wanted to be on hand for the big announcement London had waited two weeks to hear.
The receiving line was a special torture, hope rising anew with each face, only to be disappointed. There’d be a flash of colour, a movement out of the corner of his eye that triggered a memory of Elidh. He’d turn and his heart would falter again. ‘She’s not coming,’ his mother whispered as the line began to ebb at last. In the ballroom, the orchestra was tuned up.
‘She’ll come,’ Sutton said staunchly. But even he was running out of reasons to believe that. It was nearly full dark. Travel at night for someone without the right equipage was impossible and unsafe. Elidh couldn’t go tramping through the roads and lanes of Suffolk on foot. If she wasn’t here now, the chances of her being here at all were slim. He had to accept that. No, he did not have to accept that. Acceptance was resignation and
admittance of defeat, of failure. Love never failed. There was no logic to back it up with, but he had to believe up until the very last minute. He had to, although his convictions were not ironclad. It was taking all his courage to screw his waning convictions to that sticking point. Past experience was against him, the clock was against him, logic was against him.
‘It’s time for the opening waltz,’ his mother instructed. ‘The girls wanted to draw straws.’ He’d been fully reduced to a thing, something to be divided up like a prize. ‘Lady Imogen won,’ his mother continued. ‘Fine choice, though. People will think she’s the front runner anyway because of her father’s rank.’ She was trying to be encouraging.
Imogen it would be. He would be and yourself-ed to death by the end of the dance. But, thinking positively, he’d have dancing with her out of the way for the evening. He had to think optimistically. This was just one more thing to get through before Elidh arrived.
He danced with Imogen, with Isabelle, with Eliza Fenworth just to keep her away from Bax, who was prowling the sidelines with a gloating smile on his face as if the Hartswood ballroom had become his personal devil’s playground. Who knew how many girls Bax would attempt to seduce in the garden tonight? Attempt was the key word, though. Sutton had instructed his footmen to keep a close eye on Bax. He’d also instructed a footman to keep an eye on the front drive and alert him immediately if there were any late arrivals. As a result, Sutton’s gaze drifted rather frequently to the ballroom entrance, hoping to see the footman with news. But there was no footman, no news and no Elidh. Fairy tales weren’t supposed to end like this, with the triumph of reality. In the real world, daughters of poor playwrights didn’t marry gentlemen.
The excitement in the ballroom ratcheted up with each passing hour. Every pair of eyes was on him, watching who he danced with, fans flapping furiously as women gossiped and speculated behind them. His cousin came to gloat. ‘You can stop looking at the ballroom door. She’s not coming.’ Bax downed a flute of champagne in a single swallow and set it on a passing tray.
Sutton flipped open his pocket watch, a gift from his father on his eighteenth birthday. ‘Half-past eleven, right on cue, Cousin.’ He steeled himself against his cousin’s poison. He’d expected some last-minute effort from Bax and here it was.
‘My father really stuck it to both of us, didn’t he?’ Bax posited casually. Anyone looking at them would think them friendly with one another, a final drink between cousins before the big announcement and congratulations unless one knew what Bax stood to lose momentarily. Sutton said nothing, refusing to be baited in the hopes Bax might decide against saying anything further. But neither luck nor hope, it seemed, had seen fit to grace him tonight. Bax continued. ‘His money is a curse. Neither of us win tonight. If you marry, I lose a fortune. But if you marry, you give up the hope of finding love, something that apparently matters to you, after all, for what little it’s brought you.’ He laughed. ‘I don’t understand you, Cuz. You have thirty of England’s finest virgins at your disposal, every last one of them wiling to spread their legs for you, and a fortune at your fingertips in enticement for taking their offer, and yet you hesitate.’
‘Watch your language while you’re in my home,’ Sutton growled. After the emotions of the last two weeks, his patience was on thin rations. It would take little provocation to brawl in his own ballroom tonight.
Bax shrugged an insincere apology. ‘But perhaps I overestimate your sentiments where love is concerned? Perhaps you’ve tired of love once more. You’ve the worst luck with women, Cuz. First, Anabeth Morely throws you over for a duke’s heir and now your heart’s been claimed by a fraud and a liar. Maybe you are better off with one of those white-gowned virgins over there, after all. Yet you persist in staring at the door. Are you hoping your liar will come waltzing in? What man wants a woman who’s cheated him? Who will cost him a fortune?’
‘Are you finished?’ Sutton feigned boredom over his cousin’s conjecture. He didn’t want to spend these last minutes talking with Bax.
‘Yes. I only want to say she’s not coming.’ Bax swiped another glass of champagne with smug confidence. ‘Then again, perhaps it’s best. How would you choose? Love or money? My father created quite the dilemma for you. I believe that was the very same dilemma your mother faced, was it not? Still, you’d think if she really loved you, though, she’d be here. Maybe she’s the smart one. She’s decided love isn’t worth it. Or maybe without the fortune, she’s decided you’re not worth it.’ He gave a mocking bow. ‘Money is the only thing that matters in the end, Sutton. Always.’ No. Bax was wrong there. Elidh loved him. Too much, it seemed. Love was working against him, there, but Bax would never understand that. Money. Love. Neither mattered at the moment. The only thing that did matter was that Elidh wasn’t there.
* * *
At a quarter to midnight the footmen began to circulate with the champagne for the toast. Mr Barnes took up his august station at the foot of the dais, his valise by his side. Like an executioner with his tools, Sutton thought, the dais looming like a scaffold. He was going to his death, Elidh his only chance at a pardon.
The only consolation was that soon all this would be over. The decision made, the guests gone and he could get back to his horses and his camels. His mother would plan the wedding. He would just show up. That would become the theme for his life. His mother and his wife would plan things—balls, suppers, parties—and he would show up. That was all he’d need to do. The rest of the time he could be in his dairy, remembering what had been and dreaming of what could have been if Elidh had come. If Elidh had believed.
That was what galled him most. She didn’t believe he could make it right for her, for them. That he could and would face down anyone who challenged their marriage, challenged her place beside him. That she thought loving him meant giving him up, protecting him, and he’d been unable to convince her otherwise.
His mother arrived at his arm. ‘Are you ready? After this dance, you can make the announcement. Have you decided?’ She was all bright smiles tonight. Too bright. ‘I am sorry she didn’t come, my son.’ He waited for her to follow it up with a platitude like ‘it was for the best.’ But she didn’t. His mother was too smart for that. Whether or not she agreed with his choice, she supported him.
‘When you chose Father instead of Uncle Leland, was it a difficult decision?’ Sutton asked. ‘Uncle was the older son, the one with the better prospects at the time. He had everything to offer a bride.’
His mother’s smile softened. ‘No, it wasn’t difficult at all. Those things didn’t matter. When I was with your father, there was a sense of rightness, that I belonged with him, in a way that could never be duplicated or replaced by Leland or anyone else’s money. When you’re with the right one, you just know.’
Yes. You did. But how did you convince that person it was enough? And when did you quit trying? The orchestra stopped. His mother squeezed his arm, in affection, in support, perhaps in regret that it had come to this. Sutton took a glass of champagne and mounted the dais. He looked out over the crowd as they turned to face him, giving him their breathless attention. To the right of the dais, the four front runners gathered, a pretty bouquet of pastel-gowned flowers, giggling nervously, supporting each other with false modesty. Near the dais, Bax stood ready to gloat at his demise. Bax might be losing a fortune, but he’d not lost sight of the price that loss extracted from his cousin. He’d take perverse joy in that. Sutton supposed Bax, like himself, might also be holding out hope until the last minute. Perhaps Bax hoped he might decline the fortune and marriage altogether. He wouldn’t, of course. He wouldn’t lose both Elidh and a chance to do some good, a chance to curtail evil. The battle between he and Bax would continue.
Sutton tapped his glass for attention and the remainder of conversation in the ballroom died. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the final night of our summer house party,’ he began. ‘Three weeks ago, Mr Barne
s came to me with the contents of my uncle’s will, which put this house party in motion and has led to the reason we are all gathered here tonight. In order to claim my uncle’s fortune, I must choose a bride. You have all been very generous in helping me.’ The crowd laughed. ‘I appreciate everyone who has given of their time and efforts away from London to assist in that pursuit.’ He took time to pay tribute to as many people as he could, acknowledging as many of the girls as possible. If everyone had their moment of fame, it would soften the blow of not being selected. If he could keep them laughing, it would delay the inevitable. Midnight neared. He could not stall any longer.
He looked at the girls. Not Isabelle. She was too catty. Not Imogen. Too shy, too young. He could not live with another enquiry of ‘and yourself?’ He’d turn it into a drinking game within a week of marriage and end up a drunkard. Not Eliza Fenworth—he had great hopes for her happiness with the violin-maker he’d written to. He would not take that from her. That left Miss Ellen Hines, Wharton’s girl, whose only flaw was to have been out for three Seasons, to be too quiet, too mediocre to garner remark. She was neither above nor below reproach. Wharton would be pleased. But Sutton hated the idea that Wharton might think the choice was because of his bullying. Wharton had tried to bribe his mother. When that had failed, Wharton had tried to threaten him.
Outside the ballroom there was commotion, movement, strident voices, a flash of a brilliant blue skirt on the stairs, something full and frothy, the shade of forget-me-nots. Sutton’s heart leapt as it had so many times already that evening. He raised his voice. He had to buy whoever was out there some time—time to get inside the room, time for him to see who it was. Just in case.
‘We wanted to create a fairy tale these last weeks and I think we’ve succeeded admirably.’ In the hall, the clock began to chime.
Tempted By His Secret Cinderella (Allied At The Altar Book 3) Page 21
