by Mary Balogh
For those few moments, impossibilities seemed possible. But passion did not have the power to drown out reality for very long.
“Ferdinand,” she said, drawing back her head, though she kept her arms about him, “I cannot be your mistress.”
“No, you dashed well cannot,” he agreed. “The position is no longer open. It was all wrong anyway. I was not made to have mistresses. I cannot bed a woman and carry on with the rest of my life as if she did not exist. I want you to marry me.”
“Because I am the daughter of the Earl of Bamber?” she asked, her hands slipping to his shoulders.
He clucked his tongue. “Illegitimate daughter. You forgot that juicy detail,” he said scornfully. “No, of course not for that reason. I asked you once before, long before I knew who your father was. I want to marry you, that is all. I miss you.”
He had not said he loved her, but he did not need to. It was there in the way he looked at her, in the way he held her, in the words he spoke. Viola knew a few moments of intense temptation. For she knew that with one word—-yes— she could turn her whole life around. He loved her. He wanted to marry her. She could tell him everything—he already knew the worst about her. She had no doubt that he could and would pay off all of Clarence Wilding's debts and so free her family from the threat of ruin. She herself would be freed forever from the power of Daniel Kirby and a life of prostitution.
But she loved him. He could not marry her without sacrificing everything that was dear to him—his family his position in society, his friends. He might think now that he did not care—he always had that reckless, dangerous eagerness to take up any challenge—the more outrageous, the better. But this was a challenge he could not win. He would be unhappy for most of the rest of his life. And therefore, so would she.
“Ferdinand,” she said, and she retreated behind the contemptuous half smile that was second nature to her whenever she needed to protect herself from hurt, “I refused to marry you because I have no wish to marry you or any man. Why should I, when I can have any man I please whenever I please and still retain my freedom? I never did agree to become your mistress. I slept with you the night we arrived in London because you seemed to want it so badly. And it was pleasant, I must admit. But you really do not know yet—forgive me—how to please a woman in bed. I would become restless within a week or two if I stayed with you. I have been feeling restless at Pinewood for some time. You did me a favor by coming there and forcing me into doing what I have been wanting to do—resuming my career, that is. I find the life exciting.”
“Don't do that.” He was gripping her arms hard enough to leave bruises. He was also glaring into her eyes, his own suddenly very black. “Goddamn you, Viola. Don't you trust me? If you loved me, you would. I thought perhaps you did love me.”
“Oh, Ferdinand.” She smiled and spoke softly. “How foolish of you.”
He swung away from her and picked up his hat and his cane from a chair inside the door.
“You could have trusted me, you know.” He looked back at her when his hand was on the doorknob. “If he has some sort of power over you, you could have told me so. Dudley men know how to protect their women. But I can't force you, can I? And I can't make you love me if you don't. Good day to you.”
The door was closing behind him as she reached out one arm toward him. She clapped her hand over her mouth so that she would not call after him. The ache in her throat was almost too painful to bear.
He did know who Daniel Kirby was.
You could have trusted me…you could have told me so. Dudley men know how to protect their women.
She did not know where he lived. She would not know where to find him if she changed her mind.
Thank God she did not know. Temptation was beyond her reach.
21
Ferdinand had still not quite adjusted his mind to thinking of his brother as a family man. But when Tresham's butler led him all the way up to the nursery of Dudley House and announced him, he walked in to find Tresham actually down on the floor building a precarious-looking castle out of wooden blocks with his three-year-old while the baby lay on a blanket beside them—out of range of falling masonry-kicking his legs and waving his arms. Their nurse was nowhere in sight. Neither was Jane.
The arrival of an uncle was more appealing, at least for a few minutes, it seemed, than the castle. Nicholas came hurtling across the room, and Ferdinand scooped him up and tossed him at the ceiling.
“Hello, old sport,” he said as he caught the shrieking child. “By gad, I almost missed you. You weigh a ton.”
“Again!”
Ferdinand tossed him again, made a great to-do about staggering and roaring with alarm as he caught the boy, and then set him down before bending to tickle the baby's stomach.
“Where is Jane?” he asked.
“Calling on Lady Webb—her godmother,” Tresham explained, in case Ferdinand had forgotten. “Angie went with her and so I did not. About the only common sense our sister has ever shown is her attachment to Jane. This notion that during the Season it is bad ton for husbands and wives to be seen anywhere together, or at least to remain together for longer than two minutes after their arrival at any entertainment, is damnably irritating, Ferdinand. I am taking my duchess back home to Acton at the earliest opportunity.”
This was what his brother had become? Ferdinand thought, looking at him in some fascination. A man who spent much of his time with his children and grumbled when his wife was not with him? After four years, Tresham was still not fretting against his leg shackle?
“I need some information,” Ferdinand said with deliberate casualness. “I thought you might know.”
“Well, the devil!” his brother exclaimed as the castle suddenly came crashing down. “Was that my fault, Nick? Or was it yours? Did you poke it with your finger again? You did, you rascal.” He caught his giggling son before he could escape and wrestled with him on the floor.
Ferdinand watched with some wistfulness.
“Now.” Tresham got to his feet and brushed at his clothes, even though he looked as immaculate as ever. “What is it, Ferdinand?”
“You know Kirby, I suppose,” Ferdinand said. “Do you know where I might find him? Where he lives, I mean?”
His brother paused midbrush and looked up in obvious surprise. “Kirby?” he said. “Good God, Ferdinand, if it is a woman you want, there are far more direct—”
“Did he manage Lilian Talbot's career?” Ferdinand asked.
The duke looked sharply at him. “Pick up the blocks and put them away, Nick,” he said, “before Nurse comes back.” He glanced at the baby, who appeared contented enough, before crossing the room to stand facing the window. Ferdinand joined him there.
“They were talking together this morning,” Ferdinand said. “Kirby and Viola Thornhill, that is. And then her mother told me that he is helping her daughter find a governess's position, as he did once before. She seemed to believe it too.”
“I assume, then,” Tresham said, his hand closing about the handle of his quizzing glass, though he did not raise it to his eye, “that your question about his being her former manager was rhetorical?”
“I need to find him,” Ferdinand said. “I need to ask him none too gently what hold he has over her.”
“Has it occurred to you,” his brother asked, “that she might have contacted him because she wishes to return to work?”
“Yes,” Ferdinand said curtly. He gazed down at his brother's crested town carriage, which had drawn to a stop outside the front doors. His sister and his sister-in-law were descending from it. “But that is not the way it is. She knows Pinewood is hers, but she will not go back there. She was happy there, Tresham. You should have seen her the first time I did, organizing a sack race on the village green, flushed and laughing, her hair in a plait down her back, a bunch of daisies here.” He gestured to a point above his left ear. “She was happy, dammit. And now she insists she does not love me.” It was a non sequitur tha
t he did not even notice.
“My dear Ferdinand—” His brother sounded genuinely concerned.
“She is lying,” Ferdinand said. “Devil take it, Tresham, she is lying.”
But their conversation was cut short by the opening of the nursery door and the appearance of Jane and Angeline. For a few minutes there was a great deal of noise and confusion as the children were picked up and hugged and Nicholas prattled loudly to his mother and his aunt about building a castle as tall as the sky and Uncle Ferdie throwing him up so high that he almost dropped him—and the baby set up a loud wailing. Fortunately, the children's nurse arrived on the scene to rescue the adults, and they were able to retreat to the drawing room for tea.
“Well, Ferdie,” Angeline asked as soon as they were settled there, “have you found her yet?”
“Miss Thornhill?” he said warily. He was not sure how willing Heyward would be to have Angie fed information about one of London's most notorious courtesans. “Yes. At the White Horse Inn. Her uncle owns it. Her mother and half-sisters live there too.”
“How splendid,” she said. “Are they dreadfully vulgar?”
“Not at all,” he said stiffly. “Thornhill is actually a gentleman by birth. So was Wilding—Miss Thornhill's stepfather.”
“Clarence Wilding?” Tresham said. “I remember him. Got himself killed in some brawl, if I remember correctly.”
“But a gentleman nonetheless,” Ferdinand said, realizing even as he spoke that he was on the defensive, just as Mrs. Wilding had been earlier. “Miss Thornhill is the natural daughter of the late Earl of Bamber.”
Tresham raised his eyebrows. Angeline looked ecstatic.
“Oh, Ferdinand,” Jane said, “that would explain why she was at Pinewood Manor. Now I am more glad than ever that you have given it back to her.”
“An earl's daughter!” Angeline exclaimed. “How utterly splendid. It will be quite unexceptionable for you to marry her, Ferdie. The very highest sticklers may frown upon natural sons and daughters, but perfectly respectable people marry them all the time. And Miss Thornhill was recognized by her father before he died. He gave her property—I am sure he meant to do it even if he forgot to say so in his will, and now that you have given it back to her, no one will be any the wiser anyway. She will be known simply as Miss Thornhill of Pinewood—until she becomes Lady Ferdinand Dudley, of course. Jane, we must waste no more ti—”
“Angie!” Ferdinand said sharply. “Her illegitimacy is not the worst charge the ton would level against her. Not that I would care the snap of two fingers, and I would defend her honor against anyone who chose to argue the point. But you would care. At least you would by the time Heyward had finished with you.”
“Pooh!” she said. “Heyward does not rule me. Besides, he would not be so stuffy.”
“Ferdinand.” Jane leaned forward in her chair. “You are fond of her, are you not? Are you going to marry her? We will never disown you if you do. Will we, Jocelyn?”
“Will we not?” he asked, looking at her with one of his black stares.
Her eyes sparked. It had always fascinated Ferdinand to see that not only was Jane uncowed by that look, which could cause even the strongest man to quake in his boots, but that it provoked her into giving as good as she got. Perhaps, he had concluded long ago, that was why Tresham had married her.
“You claim to be a Dudley and yet ask such a question?” she cried. “I will not disown Ferdinand, even if you do. And I will not disown Miss Thornhill either if he should choose to marry her. She cannot help her birth. And who knows why she chose the career she did? Women become courtesans and mistresses and…and whores for a number of reasons. But it is never from personal choice. No woman would freely choose such degradation. If Miss Thornhill has won Ferdinand's respect and admiration and love, then she is worthy of recognition by his family. She will have my recognition, if no one else's.”
“Indeed, my love!” Tresham said softly before turning his eyes on his brother. “So there you have it, Ferdinand. We are Dudleys. And if society tells us that something is impossible, then of course we have been provoked into proving that we do not care that much for society's good opinion.” He snapped his thumb and middle finger with a satisfyingly loud crack.
“Bravo, Tresh!” Angeline said. “The White Horse Inn, did you say, Ferdie? Jane, we must call on Mrs. Wilding and Miss Thornhill there. I cannot wait to see her, can you? She must be extremely beautiful, to have caught Ferdie's eye. Heyward says he has never been in the petticoat line, which of course he ought not to have said in my hearing, but I persuaded him years ago that I am no delicate bloom and will not faint away at the merest provocation. What we will do, Jane, is invite them here for some grand reception to introduce them to society. Ferdie can announce his betroth—”
“Angie!” Ferdinand was on his feet. “Take a damper, will you? She won't marry me.”
For a rare moment she was speechless. She stared at him, her mouth still open. But she recovered quickly.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because she does not want to,” he said. “Because she would prefer to retain her freedom and live her own life. Because she does not care for me. Because she does not love me.” He ran the fingers of one hand through his hair. “Deuce take it, I cannot believe I am discussing my personal life with my family.”
“Is she going back to Pinewood, then?” Jane asked.
“No,” he said. “She dashed well won't do that either. She is going back to her old way of life, if you must know. There! End of discussion. For all time. I will take my leave now. Thank you for tea, Jane.” He had not touched a drop of it.
“Angeline.” Jane spoke to their sister-in-law, but she was looking at Ferdinand. “I like your idea. We will call at the White Horse Inn tomorrow morning. I think we ought not to delay any longer than that. Don't forbid me to go, Jocelyn. I would simply defy you.”
“My love,” he said, his voice deceptively meek, “I cannot have it said that I am one of those sad men who cannot control their own wives. I issue commands only when I have a reasonable expectation that they will be obeyed.”
Ferdinand heard no more. He had left the room and closed the door behind him. But he had not had an answer to the question he had come to ask, he thought as he ran down the stairs.
He would just have to find Kirby himself. It should not be impossibly difficult. He just hoped Kirby would be reluctant to talk. He hoped the man would need considerable persuasion, in fact.
Viola was in the small office of the White Horse Inn the next morning bringing the account books up to date, making sure that the columns of figures balanced. She had dressed in one of her plainest morning gowns, one she had left behind at the inn years ago. It was not particularly out of fashion, simply because it had never been in fashion. She had had Hannah dress her hair in a tight coronet of braids.
She wanted to feel, at least for the rest of this week, as if she were nothing more than her uncle's secretary and bookkeeper. She did not want to look either ahead or back. She kept her mind ruthlessly focused on the figures before her.
Yet the mind is a strange thing. It can concentrate on a mechanical task while at the same time wandering in the most undisciplined way.
To her meeting with Daniel Kirby.
To the upsetting confrontation with Ferdinand.
To all that had happened afterward.
Her mother had come back to the sitting room soon after he had left. So had Maria and Claire and Uncle Wesley. They had all been beaming expectantly.
“Well?” her mother had asked.
“He brought me the deed of Pinewood,” she had told them, indicating the papers on the table. “He has had ownership transferred to me. It was always more mine than his, he said.”
“That is all?” her mother had asked, clearly disappointed.
“Oh, Viola,” Maria had said, “he is so handsome.”
“He offered me marriage,” Viola had told them. “I refused.”
“Mama,” Viola had said at last, “I do not love him.”
“Love? Love?” Her mother's voice had risen. “You refuse a lord, the son of a duke, when you might marry him and be secure for life? When you might do something for your sisters? How can you be so selfish?”
“How can you not love him,” Maria had wailed, “when he is so gorgeous?”
“Hush, Maria!” Claire had said sternly. “Mama, do dry your eyes and let me bring you some tea.”
“Oh,” their mother had said after blowing her nose, “I am the selfish one. Forgive me, Viola. You always sent us money from your governess's salary. You were kind to us.”
“And since then too, Rosamond,” Uncle Wesley had said. He had continued despite Viola's shake of the head. “I am not the one who has been paying Benjamin's school fees, you know. Viola has. And other things too that you have thought came from me. It is time you knew. You do not have to marry any wealthy aristocrat you do not even like, niece. And you do not have to go out as a governess again either if you do not want to. The inn will support my sister and her children just as it would have supported Alice and our children if she had lived.”
They had all ended up in tears, except Uncle Wesley, who had slipped off back downstairs. No one had mentioned Ferdinand again—except Hannah, who had still been in Viola's room when she returned there.
“Well?” she had asked. “Did he come to take you back to that house? Or has he come to his senses and offered you something better?”
“Something better, Hannah,” Viola had told her. “He has given me Pinewood. Perhaps one day, when Mr. Kirby can make no more money out of me and decides that the debt is paid off, we will go back there, you and I. Everyone needs some hope. Lord Ferdinand Dudley has given it to me.”
