by Mary Balogh
Of course, it was all very different from the life he was accustomed to, and he was forced to endure the wincing sympathies and rowdy teasing of a number of his acquaintances, who could not fail to notice that he was living at Marshall House instead of in his usual bachelor rooms and that he was participating in the activities of the marriage mart and who, if the truth were told, were only too glad that it was not their turn to be thus occupied.
He danced with Emily at her come-out ball and with Caroline at her betrothal ball two weeks later. He took both sisters—and even Amy once or twice—shopping and walking and driving. He took his mother visiting and shopping and browsing at the library. He escorted them all to the theater and the opera. He even, for the love of God, escorted them to Almack’s one evening, that insipid bastion of upper-class exclusivity, where there was nothing to do but dance and eat stale bread and butter and drink weak lemonade and make himself agreeable to a veritable host of young female hopefuls and their mamas.
But their hopes, raised no doubt by the sight of someone so eligible in unaccustomed attendance at ton revelries, were entirely misplaced and no doubt they soon realized it. For even before he arrived back in London from Bath a dinner at the Marquess of Godsworthy’s town house on Berkeley Square, at which his family members were the guests of honor—and indeed the only guests, he was soon to discover—had already been arranged, as had a similar dinner and small soiree at Marshall House a few evenings later. And soon after his return—the very day after, in fact, when he paid a courtesy call on the Balderstons with his mother and sisters—arrangements were made for the two families to sit together in the Earl of Edgecombe’s box at the theater one evening within the week.
On each occasion—during both dinners, during the courtesy call, and at the theater—Lucius found himself seated beside Portia Hunt. They could not have seemed more like an established couple if they had already been betrothed.
She was indeed in good looks—very good looks. She had the sort of beauty that only improved with age. Her blond curls and blue eyes and perfect features and English rose complexion had made her merely exceedingly lovely as a girl. Now she was nothing short of beautiful—and added to that beauty were a poise and dignity that proclaimed her to be a lady of perfect breeding.
Everything about her was perfect, in fact. There was not a pimple or a mole or a squint or a fatal flaw in sight. And she was the sort of woman to whom duty was so instinctive that she would doubtless present her husband with an heir and a spare within two years of the nuptials before she even thought of the possibility of bearing daughters.
She would be the perfect wife, the perfect hostess, the perfect mother, the perfect viscountess, the perfect countess.
The word perfect definitely needed to be stricken from the English language.
Lucius bore it all with determinedly gritted teeth and stiff upper lip. He had made the fatal—and quite unexpected—mistake of falling in love, and the woman had snubbed and rejected him. On the whole it was a good thing. Although his grandfather had admired Frances Allard as a singer, he might have taken a dimmer view of accepting her as a candidate for the role of future Countess of Edgecombe—even though she was a lady with impeccable connections on her father’s side, at least.
From the moment he had left Bath—and a rather ghastly moment it had been too—Lucius had set the whole experience of falling in love and blurting out an impulsive marriage proposal behind him with a grim firmness of purpose.
He had made a promise at Christmas time, and by God he would keep it. And since he could not have the woman he had wanted, he would have Portia instead. He could not do better, after all—a thought he entertained with a slight grimace.
His mother was a fond parent and liked to see all of her children enjoy their particular moment in the sun. For the first two weeks after Lucius’s return to town that moment belonged to Emily as she prepared for her presentation to the queen and then her come-out ball. And for the next two weeks the moment was Caroline’s as Sir Henry Cobham finally came to the point and talked marriage settlements with Lucius and then made his offer to Caroline herself. And of course the occasion necessitated another ball at Marshall House in celebration of their betrothal.
Had Lucius offered for Portia Hunt within that month, he would have unfairly taken the focus of attention away from one of his sisters and his mother would have been upset.
At least, that was what he told himself—he was trying hard to give more of his time and attention and affection to his family than he had been in the habit of doing through the heedless years of his young manhood.
But to procrastinate indefinitely was not an option for him this spring. He had made his promise to his grandfather, and nothing remained but to make his formal offer and be done with it.
He would do it, he decided, the morning after Caroline’s ball. There was no further excuse for delay. Already his mother was making pointed remarks, and his grandfather was regarding him with twinkling eyes every time Portia’s name was mentioned—and it was mentioned with ominous frequency.
He dressed with care under Jeffreys’s expert ministrations and took himself off on foot to Berkeley Square—only to find after steeling himself to the ordeal that Lord Balderston was not at home. The ladies were, however, the butler informed him. Did Lord Sinclair wish to wait upon them?
Lord Sinclair did, he supposed, though he thought longingly of his male friends now fencing or sparring or looking over horseflesh at all the usual haunts—and not a one of them with a care in the world.
When he was shown into the morning room, however, he found that Portia was in there alone.
“Mama is still in her own apartments after the late night at Caroline’s ball,” she explained after he had made his bow to her.
It was understandable. It was somewhat surprising, in fact, that Portia herself was up and so neatly dressed and coifed that she was able to receive guests on a moment’s notice. There had not been a mother or sister in sight when he had left Marshall House.
Did she add early rising to her other virtues?
“Do you wish to send for her?” he asked, looking about the empty room. “Or for your maid?”
“Do not be foolish, Lucius,” she said with cool poise, indicating a chair while she seated herself gracefully and picked up her embroidery frame. “I am no green girl to be needing a chaperone in my own home while entertaining a longtime friend.”
They were on a first-name basis, having known each other for many years. Were they also friends?
“Lady Sinclair must be very gratified,” she said, “with one daughter married and another betrothed and Emily taking so well with the ton. And Amy will surely do as well next year if she can learn to curb her natural exuberance.”
Her needle flashed in and out of the cloth, producing a perfect peach-colored rose.
“I hope,” he said, “she will never learn that lesson, Portia. I like her well enough as she is.”
She looked up at him fleetingly.
“It was unfortunate,” she said, “that you took her walking in the park so late the afternoon before last. She ought not to have been seen by the fashionable crowd. And she ought not to have laughed with such unconsidered delight at something you said to her and so made herself conspicuous. Lord Rumford ogled her through his quizzing glass, and we all know his reputation.”
“When my sister is on my arm,” he said, “she is quite safe from the impertinences of rakes, Portia. And girls who are not yet out need fresh air and exercise just as desperately as young ladies who are.”
He was feeling irritated again, he thought. Dash it all, irritation was becoming almost habitual with him. Doubtless ninety-nine out of every one hundred ladies in London would agree with Portia.
Would Frances? He ruthlessly quelled the thought.
“Your fondness for your sisters is commendable,” Portia said. “But I am sure you would not wish to hurt Amy’s chances of taking well next year after her presentation.”
He stared at her blond curls and wondered if the years ahead were to be filled with such gentle reproofs for his every opinion and action. He would be willing to wager a fortune that they were. He would escape, he supposed, as most husbands did, by tramping about his lands, gun in hand and dog at heel, when in the country and by retreating to his clubs when in town.
“It was remarkably kind of you,” she continued, “to take her with you when you went to Bath. Her youthful presence must have been a great comfort to Lord Edgecombe.”
“I believe it was,” he said. “And I enjoyed it too.”
“But was it wise,” she asked him, “to allow her to attend a soiree?”
He raised his eyebrows, but she did not look up from her work.
“And an assembly at the Upper Rooms?” she continued. “Mama was shocked beyond words when Emily told us that, I do not mind telling you, Lucius.”
Her hair was parted neatly down the middle, he saw, though the parting extended for only a few inches above her brow before disappearing under her carefully arranged curls.
Not like someone else’s that he knew . . .
“At least,” she said, “you had the good sense to hire a schoolteacher to accompany her, but the woman really ought to have stopped her from dancing, Lucius.”
His eyes narrowed with fury, and he silently contemplated the pleasure it would give him to flatten even one of those perfect curls and throw the whole coiffure out of balance.
“Miss Allard was my grandfather’s particular guest,” he said. “Amy danced with my permission.”
“One can only hope,” she said, “that you have not done her irreparable harm, Lucius. I shall look forward to offering her guidance and countenance next year.”
As his wife and Amy’s sister-in-law, no doubt.
“Will you?” he said.
She looked up, and her needle remained suspended over her work.
“I have offended you,” she said. “You need not trouble yourself, Lucius. Ladies know better than gentlemen what is what and are quite prepared to restore and keep the proprieties while men go freely about their own business.”
“Of raking?” he said.
He looked for two spots of color in her cheeks, but he realized suddenly that Portia never blushed—or needed to, he supposed.
“I think we might maintain a silence on that subject, Lucius,” she said. “What gentlemen do in their own time is their business and of no concern whatsoever to well-bred ladies.”
Good Lord! Devil take it! Would her calm not be ruffled if he went raking through life from their wedding day to the day of his death? The answer, he suspected, was that indeed it would not.
“You came here this morning to call upon Papa?” she asked him.
“I did,” he admitted. “I will come back some other time.”
“Of course you will,” she said, looking steadily at him.
Did she have any feelings for him? he wondered. Any warm feelings? Did she really want to marry him? Him, that was, as opposed to just Viscount Sinclair, the future Earl of Edgecombe?
“Portia,” he said as she resumed stitching, “do you have the feeling that we are being thrown together at every turn this spring, whether we wish it or not?”
Her needle paused, but she did not look up.
“Of course,” she said. “But why should we not wish for it?”
His heart sank.
“You wish for a connection with me, then?” he said.
A connection—what a clanger of a euphemism!
“Of course,” she said.
“Of course?” He raised his eyebrows as she looked up.
“Men are so foolish.” For a moment the look she bent on him seemed almost maternal. “They avoid reality at every turn. But it cannot be avoided indefinitely, Lucius.”
“You wish to marry me, then?”
There—the word was out, and he could not recall it or pretend that they were talking of something else.
“Of course,” she said.
His heart had no farther to sink. It attempted the impossible anyway.
“Why?” he asked her.
“Why?” It was her turn to raise her eyebrows. She rested the hand holding the needle on top of her work and seemed to forget it for the moment. “I have to marry someone, Lucius, and you are my most eligible choice. You have to marry someone, and I am your most eligible choice.”
“Is it a good enough reason?” He frowned at her.
“Lucius,” she said, “it is the only reason.”
“Do you love me?” he asked her.
She looked almost shocked.
“What a foolish question,” she said. “People like you and me do not marry for such a vulgar reason as love, Lucius. We marry for position and fortune and superior bloodlines.”
“It all sounds horribly unromantic,” he said.
“You are the last person I would expect to speak of romance,” she said.
“Why?” he asked again.
“Forgive me,” she said, “but your reputation is not entirely unknown to me, sheltered though I have always been from vulgarity. You will no doubt wish to continue that life, which I very much doubt you would call romantic. And therefore you will not expect or even wish for romance with your wife. You need not worry. I neither expect nor wish for it either.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because romance is very foolish,” she said. “Because it is ungenteel. Because it is entirely imaginary. Because it is wishful thinking, usually on the woman’s part. Men are wiser and do not even believe in it. Neither do I.”
Until a few months ago, he thought, he would have agreed with her. Perhaps he still did. Romance had not really done him any good in the last few months, had it, beyond making him eternally irritated?
“What about passion?” he asked her. “Would you not expect that in your marriage?”
“I most certainly would not!” she said, openly shocked now. “The very idea, Lucius!”
He gazed gloomily at her as she returned her attention once more to her embroidery, her hand as steady as if they had been discussing the weather.
“Have I ever said or done anything to lead you to expect that I would offer for you?” he asked her.
He had, of course—very recently. He had just admitted to coming here this morning to call on her father.
“You have not needed to,” she said. “Lucius, I understand that you are reluctant and procrastinating. I understand that all men are the same way under similar circumstances. I understand too that eventually they all do what they must do, as will you. And the consequences will not be so very dreadful. There will be a home and a wife and a family where there were none before, and they are necessary components of a comfortable, genteel life. But in the main the man’s life does not change a great deal and does not need to. All the fear of leg shackles and parson’s mousetrap and those other foolish clichés men use are really quite without foundation.”
He wondered briefly if she was really cold to the very heart or if she was just unbelievably sheltered and innocent. Was there some man somewhere who could spark passion in her? He doubted it.
“You are determined to have me, then, are you, Portia?” he asked her. “There is nothing that would deter you?”
“I cannot imagine anything that would,” she said, “unless Mama and Papa withdrew their consent, of course. That is most unlikely, though.”
Heaven help him, he thought, he was a goner—as if he had not realized that before. He was here, for God’s sake, was he not?
Damn Frances. Damn her all to hell. She could have rescued him from this. He had asked her to marry him and told himself afterward that he would not have done so if he had stopped to think. But if she had taken a chance as he had and said yes, he would not have needed to think. He would have been too busy feeling—elation, passion, triumph.
Love.
But she had said no and so here he was, facing a life sentence as surely as his name was L
ucius Marshall. Without having done anything more than pay a morning call on a man who was not even at home, he had gone too far with Portia, it seemed, to withdraw.
But before the conversation could resume, the door opened to admit her mother, who was looking very smug indeed though she expressed chagrin that Lord Balderston had chosen that very morning to go early to his club when he always remained home until well after breakfast.
They conversed, the three of them, on a few inane topics that included the obligatory remarks on the weather and one another’s health until Lucius felt enough time had passed that he could decently make his escape.
What the devil was he about to get himself into? he asked himself as he strode off in the direction of Jackson’s, where he hoped to don the gloves and pound the stuffing out of someone or, better yet, have someone pound the stuffing out of him. Though there was nothing future about his predicament.
She was beautiful and refined and accomplished and perfect. She was also a woman he had never quite been able to bring himself to like—and their conversation this morning had done nothing to change that.
And yet he was as surely leg-shackled to her as if the banns had already been called. He had gone to see Balderston this morning, and both Lady Balderston and Portia knew it. There could be only one reason for such a visit. And he had promised to call again. Portia fully expected it of him.
I will come back some other time.
Of course you will.
And then he felt fury again.
At least you had the good sense to hire a schoolteacher to accompany her, but the woman really ought to have stopped her from dancing.
To hire a schoolteacher!
The woman!
Frances!
He clamped his teeth together and lengthened his stride. He could never quite decide whether the longing to throttle her was stronger than the hurt and humiliation of her rejection. Or the pain of knowing he would never see her again.
