Someone to Wed

by Mary Balogh

  Her thoughts were all over the place this morning, she thought, bringing them back to the breakfast table. Would she go to tea at Brambledean Court? Could she? Those were the questions she needed to answer, though really they were one. As Countess of Riverdale, he had told her, she would not be able to remain a hermit. He would not allow it. And that was something that needed careful consideration, both the hermit part and the not-allowing part. It was a long time since she had been forced to do anything she did not want to do. She had almost forgotten that according to law, both civil and ecclesiastical, men had total command over their women, wives and children alike. She had not considered that when she decided to purchase a husband.

  Purchase—it sounded horrible. But that was precisely what she was trying to do. She wanted to wed. She had longings and needs and yearnings that were a churning mix of the physical and emotional. Sometimes she could not sleep at night for the ache of something nameless that hummed through her body and her mind and seemed to settle most heavily about her heart. She had only one asset, however, with which to induce any man to marry her, and that was her money. Fortunately she had plenty of that. She was not much interested in using it to buy worldly goods. She had all she needed. She would use it, then, she had decided, to purchase what she did want, and she had set about making as wise a purchase as she could with no experience whatsoever in such matters. Now she had to ask herself a new question. In giving her person to a husband along with her money, would she be surrendering all her freedom too?

  Were most men tyrants by nature? More to the point, was he, the Earl of Riverdale? It would be very easy to be beguiled by his looks. Not that she was beguiled by them. Quite the contrary, in fact. She had not wanted an obviously handsome man, not when she looked the way she did. It would be too horribly intimidating. The earl was more than good looking, though, more than handsome. He was perfection. But that was on the outside. What about on the inside? Was he a petty tyrant who would take her money and tuck her away somewhere out of sight and out of mind? But no. He had said just the opposite, and that was the whole trouble. He would not allow her to be a hermit.

  I am occasionally told that I am the proverbial tall, dark, handsome man of fairy tales. It can be a burden. What had he meant by that—a burden?

  Wren tossed her napkin onto the table and got to her feet. There was work awaiting her in her uncle’s study, now hers. There were papers and reports from the glassworks, and since she was now the owner in more than just name, they demanded her immediate attention. She would decide later about the invitation. Perhaps she would simply send a polite refusal and retain her freedom and her money and her aches and longings and yearnings and disturbed nights and all the rest of her familiar life. There was some virtue in familiarity.

  And perhaps, just perhaps, she would go.

  . . . if you have the courage . . .

  She looked almost vengefully down at the card beside her plate before snatching it up and taking it with her to the study.

  • • •

  It seemed a little embarrassing to Alexander as a single gentleman without either his mother or his sister in residence to act as his hostess that he was entertaining a group of his neighbors at an afternoon tea, of all things. However, if he was to give the guest of honor, so to speak, a chance to attend, he must consider both her single state and the distance she must travel, and an evening event would not be practical.

  A number of his neighbors from the village and its immediate vicinity had already entertained him and had shown a flattering delight that he had come here and a cautious hope that he would make it his principal residence. The men had probed his interest in farming and horses and hunting and shooting and fishing. The ladies had been more interested in his views on parties and fetes and picnics and assemblies. The mothers had asked questions obviously designed to discover just how single he was, and their daughters had blushed and tittered and fluttered. He had found it all surprisingly heartwarming, considering the dreariness of Brambledean itself, and it really was time that he returned their hospitality with some of his own. A tea party was as good as anything, even if Miss Heyden did not come.

  He had explained to those whom he had invited, a deliberate twinkle in his eye, that he wished them to see his drawing room in all its faded splendor so that in a few years’ time, after he had done some renovations, they would be able to marvel at the transformation. The house was indeed faded and shabby, though it was not in quite as bad a condition as he had feared when he first knew he had been encumbered with it. The staff had been small when he came here and was still not much larger, but the butler and housekeeper, Mr. and Mrs. Dearing, husband and wife, had kept every room clean despite the Holland covers that had shrouded the furniture in the main rooms. Every surface that could gleam did so, and every faded curtain and piece of upholstery was at least dust free. There were a few structural issues—some crumbling chimneys, some damaged areas of the roof, some water seepage in the cellars, among other things, and the equipment in the kitchens was antiquated. The stables and paddocks were looking sad. Ivy had been allowed to run riot over walls.

  A whole pile of money needed to be poured into the place before it could become the stately home it was meant to be, and a great deal needed to be done to make the park a worthy setting for such a grand edifice, but both could wait—and must despite the fact that they would offer employment to a large number of people who were currently unemployed or underemployed. There were more important things to be done first. The farms were not prospering, either in cultivated land or in livestock or in buildings and equipment. Those who were employed to work them were suffering as a result. Their homes were hardly better than hovels and their wages had not been raised in ten years or more—when they had been paid at all, that was. Their children were poorly clothed and uneducated. Their wives tended to look haggard.

  There were more than enough problems here to overwhelm him, but he had cast them all aside for one afternoon in order to host a tea party—which might, just possibly, lead to an ultimate solution to those very problems. That faint hope would come to nothing, of course, if Miss Heyden failed to come. But he was really not sure he wanted her to.

  He had not warmed to her on the occasion of his visit to Withington House, and it was not because of her looks. He had found her whole manner cold and . . . strange. Her veil and the shadowed part of the room in which she had sat without once getting to her feet had had him thinking a little hilariously of witches and witches’ dens. And her marriage proposal had offended him. It had seemed all wrong, even outrageous. He had asked himself again on the long drive home in his curricle, of course, if he found it so because it was she who had offered, not he. Why would it be fine for him to make a proposal based almost entirely upon monetary considerations but was not for her? The admission that he was applying a double standard had done nothing to endear her more to him, however. She just did not seem feminine to him, whatever the devil that meant.

  How wealthy was she, anyway? Very wealthy, according to her, but very was not a precise word, was it? He hated the fact that it mattered, that he might overlook all his misgivings about her personally if the money was sufficient. He hated what that fact suggested about him. He hoped she would not come. But a brief note arrived the day before the tea, accepting his invitation.

  She was one of the last to arrive. There were eleven people already in the drawing room apart from Alexander himself, a few of them seated, most of them still on their feet, frankly looking around the room or out through the windows, all warmly cheerful and animated and happy to be there. One young lady had just executed a pirouette in the middle of the floor, her hands clasped to her bosom, and declared that the room would be perfect for an informal dance if only Lord Riverdale would consider using it as such. Her mother was just reproving her, but with a laughing look cast Alexander’s way, when Dearing announced the twelfth guest, and Miss Heyden stepped past him and stood just
inside the doorway. Alexander strode toward her, his hand outstretched, a smile on his face.

  He had still been half hoping she would not come.

  She was remarkably tall for a woman—only a couple of inches shorter than his own six foot one—and willowy and slender. She was doing nothing to minimize her height, as tall women tended to do. She held herself very erect and kept her chin high. She was dressed with simple elegance in a lavender high-waisted dress and a small-brimmed silver-gray bonnet with matching facial veil. A few of the other ladies had retained their bonnets too, so hers did not look totally out of place. The veil did, however. Her face was visible through it, but not the birthmark. She looked haughty and cold and remote, and it seemed to Alexander that the temperature of the room dropped a few degrees. Even her hand when she set it in the one he held out toward her—slender and long fingered—was chilly.

  “How do you do, Lord Riverdale?” she said in that low voice he remembered with its very precise diction.

  “I am delighted you came, Miss Heyden,” he lied. “Do you know any of my neighbors?” He was fully aware that she did not—he had been careful not to invite either Sweeney or Richman. “Allow me to introduce you.”

  Conversation in the room had all but hushed. That was partly understandable, of course. A new face was always of great interest to people who spent the bulk of their lives in the country with the same few friends and neighbors. Even more intriguing, though, was a face that ought to be at least partly familiar, since she lived no farther than eight miles or so away but was in fact not familiar at all. Of course, no one was seeing a new face even now. She did not raise the veil as Alexander took her about the room, introducing her to everyone as they went. He watched all his neighbors being polite to her but leaning back from her an almost imperceptible half inch or so, clearly disturbed by the anonymity of her appearance and the aloof arrogance of her manner despite the fact that she repeated their names and had a polite word for each of them.

  There was something . . . other about her, Alexander thought. He could think of no more definite a word.

  His neighbors resumed their hearty, good-humored conversation over the next hour and a half, during which time they were joined by the remaining three guests. Clearly they were all gratified to have been invited and were happy to see the inside of his home, to judge for themselves how shabby it was, to see him in his own proper milieu. They had come to please and be pleased, to be amiable, to make a friend of him. Brambledean Court and the Earl of Riverdale were, after all, at the heart of their neighborhood, and his arrival here had raised their hope of a more vivid, more elevating social life than they had enjoyed for years, or a whole lifetime in many cases. They sat or stood and moved about freely while partaking of the feast Mrs. Mathers, Alexander’s cook, had produced with great enthusiasm and ingenuity with her ancient equipment.

  Miss Heyden sat in their midst the whole while. At first, she was with the vicar and his wife and a retired army colonel and his wife. Then others took their place, clearly curious about her and kind enough not to leave her isolated. She did not move from the chair to which he had directed her after introducing her to everyone. She was not unsociable. She spoke when spoken to and listened with a certain poise and grace. She sipped her tea beneath her veil but ate nothing.

  It was hard, Alexander discovered, not to be aware of her at every moment. It would be unkind to say that she was the one discordant note in an otherwise warm and harmonious party. She was not. But everyone who approached her somehow became overhearty in her presence, and no one stayed beside her for longer than a few minutes. It would have been inaccurate to describe her manner as cold. It was not. She was neither taciturn nor supercilious nor anything else a guest ought not to be. She was just . . . other. And it was the veil. Surely it was the veil. It all felt a bit like being at a party one of the guests had mistaken for a masquerade, and no one liked to tell her she had been mistaken. Everyone seemed a little embarrassed. Everyone made a point of not noticing the shrouded face.

  One of his tenant farmers and his wife were the first to take their leave. It was the signal for everyone else, though most people seemed flatteringly reluctant to go.

  “I took the liberty,” Alexander said when Miss Heyden too got to her feet, “of having your carriage sent back to Withington, Miss Heyden. I shall do myself the honor of escorting you home in mine.”

  She looked steadily at him through the veil before sitting again without a word of reply and clasping her hands loosely in her lap.

  Alexander shook hands with all his departing guests, a long, slow process as each wished to thank him profusely for the invitation and the tea. Some asked him to pass on their compliments to the cook. A few hoped, as they had on previous occasions, that he would be remaining in the country and that they would see much more of him. One or two asked about Mrs. Westcott, his mother, and about Lady Overfield, his sister. One tenant farmer thought the weather they had been having so far this spring boded well for the year’s crops, while another, overhearing him, argued that a dry, warm spring often presaged a wet, cold summer and a poor harvest. The young lady who had performed a pirouette earlier repeated her hint that his lordship’s drawing room would be quite divine for an informal dance. Her mother again told her to mind her manners. But finally they had all left and Alexander gave the order to have his carriage brought around.

  Miss Heyden rose to her feet again when they were alone. “You dismissed my carriage without consulting me, Lord Riverdale,” she said. It was a clear reproof.

  He wished he had not done so. He would have been quite happy to see her on her way with the hope that he would never see her again. He would have liked her better, perhaps, if she had stamped her foot and thrown a tantrum. But her annoyance was perfectly controlled. He set his hands behind him and gazed steadily back at her. Good God, she was tall. He was unaccustomed to looking almost straight across into a woman’s eyes—or what could be seen of her eyes through her veil.

  “Miss Heyden,” he said, “the last time we met you asked me to marry you. Do you not feel we ought to get to know each other somewhat better before deciding if it is what we both want? Unless, perhaps, you have already decided and wish to withdraw your offer. If that is indeed so, I shall send a maid to accompany you and an extra footman to sit up with my coachman.”

  “I have not changed my mind,” she said. “You are considering my proposal, then?”

  “Considering it, yes,” he said reluctantly. “I would be a fool not to. But I am sure neither one of us wishes to marry in haste only to repent at leisure, as the old saying goes. Shall we?” He gestured toward the doors. “I believe I heard the carriage drawing up a moment ago.”

  She came toward him and he opened one of the doors for her to pass through. As he followed her, he considered offering his arm but decided against it. It was a breach of gentlemanly manners unlike him, but there was something about her . . . It was as if she were surrounded by an invisible wall of ice. Though that was unfair. There was nothing definably icy in her demeanor. It was just . . . other. He had still not thought of the word for which his mind sought—if there was such a word.

  He wondered suddenly if this tea had been her first social event ever. It seemed incredible when she was almost thirty. But . . . perhaps she really had been a total recluse until today. Perhaps all afternoon she had been terrified and holding herself together by pure force of will. He had challenged her to have the courage to come. Perhaps she had shown more courage than he could possibly imagine.

  Perhaps she was that desperate to marry. Though desperate was an unkind word. Eager, then. Perhaps her wish to find someone to wed—to use her own phrase—took precedence over all else. The possibility made her seem more human and perhaps even a little more likable.

  He offered a hand to help her into his carriage and was a bit surprised when she took it.

  • • •

  He had
sent Maude home with her carriage. Perhaps as her presumptive betrothed he had not felt the necessity of observing the proprieties. Was he her presumptive betrothed? He had done and said nothing during that ghastly tea to suggest any such thing. There had been no hint to his neighbors, several of whom had been acquainted with her aunt and uncle and had commiserated with her on her loss and expressed pleasure at meeting her. None had really seemed delighted, though. But perhaps that was her fault. Undoubtedly it was, in fact.

  It had been by far the worst afternoon of her life—since the age of ten anyway. She settled on the seat of Lord Riverdale’s carriage, made room for him beside her, and longed for her own conveyance. She had been waiting for what seemed like forever but was actually less than two hours for the ordeal to be over so that she might collapse into it and close her eyes and feel the comfort of Maude’s presence beside her. She could not do this. She simply could not. He was too male and too handsome and the world was too vast a place and too full of people.

  She wanted to curl up into a ball, either on the seat or on the floor. She did not know how she was going to keep panic at bay for . . . How long did it take to travel eight miles? She could not think clearly.

  “Will you lift your veil?” he asked her as the carriage moved away from the front doors.

  Did he not understand? What she needed was an extra veil to throw over the first—to throw over the whole of herself. She wanted desperately to be alone. But there was no point in directing her anger against him. She was the one who had set this nightmare in motion. Was she going to draw back now? She had made the decision and had planned her course with cool deliberation. She raised her hands and lifted the veil back over the brim of her bonnet. But she turned her head slightly toward the window on her left side as she did so.