A Certain Magic

by Mary Balogh

  “And yet,” she said, “it was your choice to start looking about you for a bride, Piers.”

  “Was it really?” he said. “I thought my mother had something to do with it. Though I suppose you are right. She has had little enough influence over me for the last twenty years or so, as she would be the first to tell you.”

  “You needed my help,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can stay close to me,” he said. “Come with me wherever I go with Miss Borden.”

  “Absolutely not!” she said, shocked. “What a totally insane suggestion, Piers. The very idea!”

  “Oh, not just you,” he said. “I realize that you have to trail along with your niece these days. I am not asking you to abandon her. Bring her along, too. It will seem quite natural for us to try to throw the girls together.”

  “Like an indulgent uncle and aunt?” she said. “Absolutely not.”

  “Well, then,” he said, “I will organize parties each time. Who is the orange-haired youth with your niece now? A prospective suitor? I shall invite him, too. And perhaps the giggly chit who was with you this afternoon. I can invite your nephew to accompany her. He is kicking his heels with nothing to do, is he not? Now, does that sound better?”

  “And I am to smile benevolently at all these happy couples?” she said. “Why did I not stay in Bath?”

  “No, no,” he said. “I will entertain you, of course, Allie.” Then he paused and frowned. “No, that is not right, is it? I will be accompanying Miss Borden. Oh, confound it, I would prefer to be with you. You are far more sensible.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “That is quite the most delightful compliment you could possibly pay a lady.”

  “That she is sensible?” he said, his eyebrows raised. He looked at her in some surprise. “And so it is, too. But I have offended you, haven’t I? I do assure you I did not mean to. Allie! I enjoy your company more than that of any other lady I have ever known. Pink has never been my favorite color, but you look very fine indeed in that particular shade, I must say.”

  She laughed suddenly. “Flatterer!” she said.

  “I shall invite the oily baronet to escort you, then, shall I?” he asked. “Or is there someone you prefer?”

  “I do not know anyone else,” she said. “And I have agreed to none of this, Piers.”

  “You will, though,” he said, taking one of her hands in his and patting it. “You are a good sport, Allie, and will not abandon me to my fate. And if Lansing must hang around you, as he surely will, it might as well by in my sight so that I can draw his cork if he tries harassing you.”

  “Oh, Piers,” she said, “I really do not want to be doing this, you know. And oh dear, the music is about to begin again.”

  “Make it easy on yourself,” he said, circling her wrist with his thumb and forefinger as he had done at the ball the night before. “Say yes.”

  “Ohhh—yes, then,” she said. “If I hesitate further, I will probably have you invading my sitting room again tonight and have all my servants resigning tomorrow morning.”

  “I could kiss you,” he said, getting to his feet and releasing her wrist, “but I won’t in so public a setting. Thank you, Allie.”

  “My pleasure, Piers,” she said, looking at him disapprovingly.

  He grinned and winked at her.

  ***

  Cassandra was dressed from head to toe in primrose yellow as she waited for Mr. Westhaven to come to Convey her to Richmond Park.

  “Just like a ray of sunshine,” her uncle said, beaming at her and rubbing his hands together. “And such a perfect day it is, too, Cass, after the gloom of the past three days. You don’t think that the emeralds would match the outfit?”

  “Young girls do not wear emeralds, brother, “ Lady Margam said quickly. “And such jewels are inappropriate for an afternoon outing, anyway.”

  “Are they, though?” he said cheerfully. “Well, you should know, Lucinda, having moved about with the nobs since your marriage to Margam. It’s a pity, though. I’ll wager none of those other chits possess such costly pieces.”

  Lady Margam had declined an invitation to join the excursion since she considered Miss Carpenter’s widowed aunt chaperon enough. But she had overseen her daughter’s preparations, knowing well her brother’s tendency to vulgarity. She had already shuddered and assured him that it would not be at all the thing to offer Mr. Westhaven money to take the members of his party out to tea.

  “He mentioned a picnic, anyway, brother,” she had said.

  “Things are coming along very nicely indeed,” Mr. Bosley said, continuing to rub his hands in satisfaction. “He is very attentive, Cass. You are following my instructions, are you? Smiling at him and talking to him, fighting your shyness?”

  “Yes, Uncle,” she said.

  “Mind you sit beside him in the carriage,” he said. “And take his arm as soon as he hands you down. Dazzle him, Cass. But be sure you stay with the rest of the party, mind.” He winked.

  “Cassandra would not dream of doing otherwise, brother,” Lady Margam assured him.

  And so a few minutes later, the girl was sitting in Mr. Westhaven’s barouche beside him, blushing becomingly when she found that her knees were almost touching those of an openly admiring Mr. Carpenter sitting opposite. She returned his greeting and that of Miss Marks beside him without raising her eyes. Her hand crept to Mr. Westhaven’s sleeve and returned quickly to her own lap. But he lifted it and drew it through his arm, and she darted him a grateful look from beneath her lashes.

  The barouche behind Mr. Westhaven’s was occupied by Sir Clayton Lansing, Mr. King, Alice, and Amanda. It was a perfect day for a walk and a picnic, they all agreed as the carriages took them beyond the city and out to the spacious park. Before the carriages drew to a halt they were fortunate to pass a herd of grazing deer, which set the girls to squealing with delight and the trigger fingers of some of the gentlemen to itching.

  Mr. Westhaven instructed his servants on the setting of the blankets and the disposing of the picnic baskets until they should be ready for tea. His guests in the meantime had begun to stroll across a lawn, exclaiming at the ancient oaks that lined it, relics of the medieval forests of England.

  “Well, devil take it,” he muttered to himself, amused, as he saw that one of the couples was Miss Borden and Jarvis Carpenter. The other was Amanda Carpenter and Mr. King. Sir Clayton Lansing was conversing politely with Alice and Miss Marks.

  “Ah,” he said, “it will be delightful to walk after the long drive. Tea will wait for an hour or so. Allie?” He offered her his arm.

  “That was rather wicked,” she said as they walked away, leaving Sir Clayton bowing to Miss Marks.

  “Not at all,” he said. “Your nephew thinks he has outmaneuvered me. Well, two can play at that game. And you will not deny that you prefer my company to that of the oily baronet, Allie, will you? But perhaps”— he patted her hand as it rested on his arm—”you had better not answer that question. I might find your reply mortifying. Does the infant not shine bright this afternoon?”

  “Very,” she said. “Jarvis is dazzled, certainly.”

  “This works well,” he said. “I could not have planned it better. Did you not enjoy Bosley’s courtesy in coming from the house, Allie, in order to shake everyone by the hand?”

  “I thought it a very pleasant gesture,” she said.

  “Ah,” he said. “That was because he admired your bonnet, Allie.”

  “And Amanda’s pelisse and Miss Marks’s parasol,” she said with a laugh. “But it was all kindly meant, Piers. You are not going to apologize for his vulgarity, are you, as Sir Glayton did as Mr. Bosley waved us on our way?”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “I would not do so now even if I had intended to,” he said. “No, no, Allie, Bosley was worth coming to London for. He is a quite priceless character. You must see to it that you have a free afternoon tomorrow, by the way. How is your sister-in-law?”

/>   “Wallowing in misery and spots,” she said. “She really is having a hard time of it, poor Phoebe. And why must I have a free afternoon, pray?”

  “I have had a royal summons from my mother,” he said. “To tea. She has heard you are in town and directed me to bring you. She must think I have enormous influence with you if she finds it unnecessary to send you a formal invitation. You will come?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you. I enjoyed seeing your mother last autumn in Bath. Your stepfather was taking the waters.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “The cure-all for a year of overeating.”

  “You are very unkind,” she said. “Sir Barry Neyland is a very amiable gentleman.”

  “Oh, agreed,” he said. “I did not imply that over indulging oneself at the table makes one an unpleasant character, you know. Only an overweight and somewhat unhealthy one. I shall come early for you and we will visit some of the galleries.”

  “Will we?” she said. “I will enjoy that.”

  “Yes,” he said, “and so will I. You cannot imagine the tedium of taking young ladies about, Allie. One must take them to the Tower to delight them with the animals or awe them with a sight of the crown jewels. Or else to Astley’s to see the horses perform. Never to a gallery. It is a pity it is not considered quite the thing for ladies to view the Elgin marbles. I would like to take you there.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I would like to see them.”

  “Because they are reputed to be magnificent sculptures or because so many of them depict naked men?” he asked, turning his head to look at her as he did so. “Allie, you are crimson.”

  “And you are no gentleman,” she said. “Piers, how dare you.”

  “Perhaps it is a good thing I cannot take you to see them after all,” he said. “Doubtless you would be scarlet down to your toes. No, don’t say it. Shall we catch up to your niece and her beau and make ourselves agreeable?”

  All eight of them came together for a few minutes and exchanged admiring comments on the scenery and the magnificent weather. Sir Clayton took Cassandra on his arm for the return stroll, while Alice walked with Mr. King, Henrietta Marks with Jarvis, and Amanda with Mr. Westhaven.

  A whole hour had passed by the time they returned to the carriages and the blankets, and by mutual consent they decided that it was teatime.

  Alice, observing the scene around her, was fascinated to note that the very shy Miss Borden quickly became the focus of almost everyone’s attention. Mr. King, it was true, directed all his gallantry to Amanda, to whom he had been paying determined court since the night of the Partiton ball. And Sir Clayton lavished Alice with compliments and loaded a plate with food for her.

  But Jarvis was plainly smitten with Cassandra and did his best to draw her into conversation. And Piers sat protectively close to her and focused all his attention on her as if to protect her from her own shyness. He looked a little amused, Alice thought. Indeed, he looked exactly as he had always looked with Harriet.

  The foolish man. Despite all his claims that he did not want to commit himself on this relationship, was history about to repeat itself? Would Miss Borden be his bride before the summer was out? It seemed very likely.

  Even Sir Clayton seemed to have eyes for no one but the girl during tea.

  What was it about her? Alice observed her very closely. Abnormally shy girls, however pretty, usually found themselves left to themselves. There was nothing particularly attractive about shyness. And this girl scarcely had the courage to lift her head or her eyes. She was, of course, very pretty with her masses of auburn ringlets, her flawless complexion, and her very shapely figure.

  Was the girl an actress? The idea grew on Alice as tea progressed. She scarcely looked up or spoke, of course, but she communicated quite well enough. A peep from beneath her lashes, a parting of the lips, an almost unobtrusive hand gesture, a slight leaning of the body—toward Piers: all brought an immediate response from one or all of the gentlemen.

  The girl positively oozed sensual appeal, Alice decided before tea was finished. And she felt foolish and guilty at the thought. Was she seeing something that simply was not there just because most of the lures seemed to be directed toward Piers? Was she jealous? It was a mortifying thought.

  Sir Clayton suggested that they walk in the rhododendron gardens after tea. Everyone was willing, the afternoon being still bright and warm. But Cassandra was turned to Mr. Westhaven, looking up at him briefly and thanking him for the tea. Sir Clayton turned to offer his arm to Alice.

  “My dear Mrs. Penhallow,” he said. “Pray, do me the honor.”

  She smiled and took his arm. They led the way among the blooms, admiring them and smelling them until she was aware after twenty minutes that there were only three couples proceeding along the walks between the tall bushes. Piers and Miss Borden were nowhere in sight.

  ***

  He supposed he could do a great deal worse, Mr. Westhaven thought as he took Miss Borden on his arm and followed the others to look at the rhododendrons. He would certainly be the envy of a large portion of the male population of London, Jarvis Carpenter, for example. And even Lansing, despite his continued fawning over Allie.

  What he should do was marry her without giving himself time to think about the matter. He did not believe she would be averse to the match, despite what she had said to him on that first evening at the theater. Indeed, she seemed to favor him even over the far younger Carpenter.

  He should offer for her, marry her, install her at Westhaven Park, get her with child, and then know that his main duty to this infernal new position of his was done. It would not be a bad marriage. She would doubtless be good to look at for years to come, and she would not interfere with his main pleasures: reading and riding and overseeing his lands when he was at home. Indeed, she seemed to be a girl who would be eager to please.

  “Oh,” she said now, “this reminds me of home. The lovely smells of home.” Her voice was filled with longing.

  “Does it?” he said. “Is it not strange how smell can evoke memories more than any other sense?”

  She was not unlike Harriet, except that Harriet had not been quite as shy. Indeed, she had liked to chatter on occasion, though she had been awed to silence by his mother, and by Web and Allie, though they had tried their best to set her at her ease. But there was a likeness—a similarity in size and form, a sweetness, a childlike innocence.

  Harriet had been very sweet. He had married her on a whim because he could not bear the thought of going home alone again. But he had grown fond of her. And he had felt all the responsibility of knowing that she was deeply in love with him.

  Poor Harriet.

  But did he want to repeat that sort of relationship? The necessity of conversing with his wife as he would with a child? The inability to share any of his inner self with her?

  The boredom?

  But did it matter? Was life that exciting anyway? At least if he married and had children, he would satisfy his mother and Lord Berringer. And himself, too. He thought he would rather enjoy having sons of his own. And daughters, too. Perhaps especially daughters.

  “Am I walking a little fast for you?” he asked the girl now, bending his head to hers as he noticed the gap between them and the others widening.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I am just enjoying the flowers so much.”

  And how could one not feel drawn to a child who admired flowers? he thought with a wave of inner amusement.

  Of course, there was always the other side of the coin, the side that had made him restless for days, ever since he had invited himself up to Allie’s sitting room after the Partiton ball. There was always the knowledge of what marriage should be in its ideal form.

  She had described it for him. A certain magic, she had called it. He could scoff at what she had said, and indeed he did. She had described perfection, and perfection is impossible to achieve in this life.

  Or so he would have thought if he had not himself been witness to
such a perfect marriage—Allie’s own. Being with them had always filled him with a yearning for a similar sort of love. He had tried to find it, but he had never come close.

  Perhaps he might have if he had not been preoccupied for so many years by his own infatuation with Allie. It had always seemed unfair to him that Web had confided his love for her when she was fifteen before he had thought to confide his own. He and Web had been like brothers. He had found himself unwilling to risk their friendship by competing for the same girl.

  Perhaps it was the knowledge that she was beyond him that had made his love of her such a lasting, painful thing. Her wedding day had been one of the most agonizing days of his life.

  He had continued to love her for several years—she was the reason he had married Harriet so precipitately and the reason he had been torn with such guilt on Harriet’s death—even though he knew that he could never have won her. Web would have won that contest if there had been one. For Web had been steady and kindly and a gentleman in every sense of the word. He had been worthy of Allie, if anyone could possibly be so.

  His own love had been sublimated into friendship. There was no point in blighting one’s whole life, he had persuaded himself eventually with unaccustomed good sense, over a woman who was as far beyond him as the sun and the moon.

  She was his dearest friend now. No more than that. But if he let himself think too deeply, he could still dream of finding someone like her, but someone he was worthy of, someone who could share his life with him as Allie has shared hers with Web.

  That was the other side of the coin. It was not worth turning the coin over to see. If he was to marry and have children, then he must choose a bride soon without being foolish enough to dream that perhaps at the age of six-and-thirty he would find that one woman who would suddenly be the meaning of his whole life.