Tokens of Love

by Mary Balogh

  Rosamund felt herself flushing at the angry words. He was hurting her hand, and this time when she tugged it, he abruptly let it go.

  “The devil take you,” she said softly, “for being a young girl’s dream. Now Miss Peabody is starry-eyed over you, and while you don’t seem to care, you don’t reject her outright. Who knows what you plan for some future dark night when she’s feeling particularly desperate? You haven’t changed at all, have you?”

  John looked amazed at her words. “Can we leave other people out of this? If that girl has some infatuation for me, I can do no better than to let her grow out of it.”

  Rosamund was silent. From her observations tonight, she believed Minna was well on her way to a cure. So John had been wise, not cruel. She had nothing now to reproach him for.

  “Now can we stop cursing each other?” he asked.

  Rosamund’s shoulders sank as she let out a struggling breath. “I hope so.”

  He reached out to touch her cheek again. “I haven’t changed; you’re perfectly right. Ten years ago I fell in love with you. I came downstairs that Valentine’s morning to announce our marriage plans, and you were gone. Though I didn’t know it, I’ve been searching for you ever since.”

  “Hardly. You knew where I was.”

  “I wasn’t sure. And I came as soon as I could, didn’t I? A soldier isn’t at liberty in some things.”

  Rosamund was mightily confused. He said he loved her and wanted to marry her; she believed him. Her resolve was slipping fast, but she had to be honest with him. “John, you’re good enough to say you haven’t changed. Well, I have.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It isn’t only that I married and grew to love my husband. I went beyond you, beyond my girlish dreams into adulthood. I can’t go back. Not now, when I’ve come so far.”

  Her words died away.

  “Are you saying that you don’t love me? That you never really did?” John said.

  “I loved you to distraction,” cried Rosamund. “To my own great unhappiness. The only thing which could have made leaving England worse was leaving my heart there. And so I did, like the silly fool I am. Was.”

  “And my heart sailed with you.”

  “With hearts on separate sides of the world, perhaps it was inevitable that we should grow apart,” Rosamund said. “I didn’t lose myself pining for you. I found great happiness without you.”

  “Why do you say that as though it’s some dire confession? I’ve told you before that I’m glad for you. You were happily married, and you have a delightful child. Do you think I wished years of suffering on your head?”

  She remembered his blazing eyes when she first told him she had cared about her husband. “Well, yes.”

  “At one time I suppose I did,” John admitted, smiling. “But I got over that selfish notion.”

  Once more there was a silence, broken only by the dark garden sounds. At last John spoke into Rosamund’s ear. “Is there room in your heart for only one love, then?”

  She knew the answer to this; had always known it since she married Sam. “There is always enough room for love. The fond memory, the present feeling. It’s all love.”

  “You have a present feeling of love, do you? For anyone in particular?”

  She could only nod; her heart was too full for speech.

  “May I kiss you now?”

  “You’re asking? Why don’t you simply kiss me, as I did you at the Twelfth Night ball?”

  “Perhaps because this is Saint Valentine’s Eve, and I’m waiting for you to give the first kiss as you did on that night in Hampshire. I was so delighted by your boldness.”

  Feeling shy, Rosamund turned to face him and put her arms around him with trusting affection, as she had been longing to do for weeks. For years, really.

  “I liked kissing you when I thought I hated you,” she said after a while. “This is much better.”

  “And it’s only the beginning.” John grinned. “We can’t have this night, though. I insist upon being sure of you before I lose my virtue again.”

  “I don’t think a loss of virtue can happen twice,” Rosamund considered, eyes twinkling. “Though I’m not quite certain. Shall we test out the theory?”

  “Rosamund, you are a shameless creature.”

  “So Lady Tidbury has been fearing. I hate to tell her I’ve indeed succumbed to your blandishments.” Rosamund stroked John’s face, wondering how she could have held out against him for even a moment.

  She should have admitted on Twelfth Night that he was still the man for her.

  “Let her ladyship bury her disappointment in arranging a magnificent quick wedding breakfast for us. With a grand ball, if she so desires. We’ll be married as soon as I can arrange the license.”

  “Do you know, my son has been teasing me for a new papa. What if he thinks this is all for him?”

  “We’ll take that chance, my dear. Along with my nephew’s levity and any other little problems which may arise. We’re of an age not to let others direct our actions.”

  He gathered her closer into his arms for more kisses, more caresses. The night surrounded them like velvet.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, John. I heard Lady Tidbury’s clock strike midnight.”

  “Is that what it was? I thought it was my heart talking to me again.”

  “And what was your heart saying?” Rosamund decided she was quite comfortable with lovers’ talk after all. Indeed, she couldn’t get enough of it.

  John held her even closer. “I’m afraid my heart sounds remarkably like your parrot, my own.”

  “Like Babur? What do you mean?”

  “My poor heart knows only one word. Love. And it’s been shouting at me incessantly.” He kissed her softly at the base of her throat. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Rosamund. My love at last.”

  “And at first,” she whispered as she drew his face to hers.

  The London Swell

  by Carol Proctor

  Really, it was deuced odd, the fuss that was made about the business of courtship and marriage. One would think it was a terribly complicated sort of thing, when in actuality there could be nothing easier. Once you had decided that you needed a wife (or your parents had informed you that you did), all you had to do was to visit the London assemblies and routs and balls where young, unattached ladies literally flocked during the Season.

  Having done so, what could be simpler than to fix upon the loveliest and most charming of these young ladies and ask for her hand? And yet, from all the pother the subject seemed to stir up, you would think it was the most arduous and complicated task in the world. So ran the thoughts of Charles Henry Fitzhugh, the Viscount Hunsdon, on this chill day as he rather dreamily urged the big bay hunter over a wall.

  The truth of the matter was that Lord Hunsdon had rarely encountered any difficulties in his two-and-twenty years of life. As the only son of the second Earl of Wittenham, and blessed with a fortune as well as a title, he had found every path smoothed for him, every obstacle overcome. Well-meaning friends tried to explain to him how unusual it was for a gentleman to secure the affections of one of London’s reigning beauties with a single dance. He listened patiently, but their words were meaningless to him.

  “Stands to reason. You’ll never make him comprend hend you,” had unsympathetically commented Lord Brandville, three years senior to Hunsdon and one of his closest friends. “How should he? When Hunsdon threatens to catch a cold, I daresay Wittenham pays one of his tenants to have it for him.”

  It was a tribute to the extent of Hunsdon’s charm that Brandville spoke without undue bitterness. Inheriting little but a title and debt himself, Brandville was continually, as he himself put it, “in danger of being blown up at point nonplus.” Indeed, perhaps Hunsdon’s greatest gift was his disarming friendliness. Even those with most cause to resent him found it difficult to do so, at least in person. Miss Mariabella Fostwick’s disappointed suitors might have suggested duels at dawn to anoth
er rival who had cut them out with such efficiency. Instead, they accepted their loss more or less philosophically, relieving their feelings only by uttering imprecations against Hunsdon’s “usual plaguy good luck.”

  As Lord Brandville had suggested, though, the object of their curses could have no real idea of the singularity of his achievement, nor was he one to dwell overlong on such matters. His thoughts at the moment centered on Mariabella herself. What a handsome and distinguished girl she was. How well she would become the title, a point that had concerned his mother greatly. A brook presented itself and the hunter cleared it with ease, fortunately for its preoccupied rider.

  Of course, he was a little ahead of himself. Mariabella had not actually accepted his hand yet, though he had no doubt that she would. She had made that clear enough to him. It was a great pity that family illness had forced her to leave London while the Season was at its height. Still, it had given him time to tend to affairs and to consult his parents on the matter. And his friends Roger and Anne had assured him that Mariabella’s father was completely recovered by now.

  In one way the timing was fortunate. Since he had come here to Leicestershire in the month of January, a scheme had suggested itself to his mind. He would give himself and Manabella a few weeks to become reacquainted, then on St. Valentine’s Day ask her to be his wife. Hunsdon was an incurable romantic at heart.

  It was almost more than he could bear, to be so near to achieving his goal after all these months. Upon his arrival at Blakemore House, he had been tempted to change out of his driving clothes and to go call upon Mariabella immediately. The project had been abandoned when his hostess, Anne, had gently reminded him that he had arrived a day early and that Mariabella would not expect to see him before Thursday. He had attempted to argue with her, pointing out that he and Mariabella were soon to be affianced. He ventured to remark that in the same situation she herself would have welcomed Roger.

  “Yes, I would, but then I am not Mariabella.” She glanced up from her sewing for a moment and intercepted her husband’s gaze. A look passed between them and she bent her head to her task once more.

  Hunsdon waited for her to elaborate. She struggled for words for a moment.

  “She is… she is not given to impulse. I have often heard you say that it is one of her virtues.”

  It was true. His mother had explained to him what an undesirable quality impulsiveness would be in his future countess. He had prided himself on selecting a future mate so free from this lamentable trait. He tried not to look as dejected as he felt, but apparently he did not succeed, for now Roger laughed. He crossed the room to clap Hunsdon on the back.

  “Come, come. You’ve been patient all these months. Surely you can wait another two days.”

  Hunsdon smiled, though it was not without effort. “You’re right, of course.”

  Anne was smiling too, with some inexplicable relief.

  “It’s not as if you must remain inside. I have some pressing business to which I must attend, but you are welcome to take a horse out. There’s a chill wind, but the sun is shining and the ground’s not soft. Come to think of it, my hunter could use some exercise. You would be doing me a favor.”

  Anne laughed. “Yes, you would. Roger doesn’t trust any of the grooms with him. I daresay poor Aghadoe hasn’t been ridden all week.”

  ———

  It was an inspired suggestion. A punishing ride was just what he needed to relieve his pent-up emotions. And as Anne had prophesied, the horse seemed just as eager for the exercise as he. They set off at a gallop and he did not particularly notice which direction he took or how far he was riding. His mind was totally occupied by his concerns. Perhaps if he sent a note today, Mariabella might prepare herself to receive him tomorrow. After all, he had been expected to arrive then. Part of the reason he had decided to reach Blakemore early, before the rest of the house party, was so that he might have an opportunity to call upon Mariabella by himself. Anne was probably just being overcautious. Nothing should prevent him from seeing Mariabella tomorrow.

  He reached this happy conclusion just as the horse approached a blackthorn fence with a coppice a short distance beyond it. He heard a dog barking somewhere but thought nothing of it. He put the horse’s head at the fence and the animal responded with its usual eagerness. It wasn’t until its front hooves were leaving the ground that he realized that he had made a grave error. Something or someone was on the other side of that fence. There was a flash of fire and a startled cry and movement and he yanked the horse’s head to the right desperately, trying to avoid landing on the person beneath them. He was successful in changing the trajectory of their flight to some extent, but in so doing he had assured disaster for himself. Clearing the fence, he and his horse parted company in midair, each tumbling to his separate destination in the ditch on the other side.

  When he hit the ground, Hunsdon’s first thought was that Roger had been proved correct. It was not soft. He lay in a heap for a moment before his body decided to respond to the commands of his brain once more. He sat up in a cautious manner, and noticed that the horse was rising shakily on its legs. Good. Neither of them was dead. He rubbed his head gingerly. He had taken quite a knock. At least his arms seemed to be working. Now for his legs.

  He gathered them underneath him and was attempting to rise when a small, great-coated figure rushed over to him. Taking his arm, it helped to raise him to his feet.

  “It’s a rasper, isn’t it? What a fall you took! It’s lucky I saw you when I did or you might have landed on top of me. Spoiled my shot, too, but mum for that,” the husky little voice assured him magnanimously.

  He hardly knew how to reply to such a speech and instead regarded the youngster in some surprise. He had taken the urchin for a boy, but now he saw that from under the hem of the overlarge and well-worn coat emerged skirts over a scuffed pair of boots. He surveyed this apparition in some shock. Reposing at an awkward angle upon her head, a tired bonnet no longer contained an unruly mop of reddish-brown curls. The face underneath it was small, pale, and generous as to nose and mouth. The only attractive features were the large, wide-set blue eyes. A rather elegant fowling piece rested casually in the crook of one arm. It was impossible to draw any conclusions about the child or her situation. Her voice, despite her incoherent manner of speaking, had a well-bred tone, ruling out his first idea, that she was some sort of parish waif.

  She released his arm and began brushing herself off. “Had the wind knocked out of you?” she asked cheerfully, misinterpreting the reason for his silence. “I know that sensation. You’ll be better in a moment or two. Rob Roy I” she abruptly added with a bellow, for no apparent reason. He glanced about nervously. Did she really expect a tartan-clad figure to come leaping out of the woods?

  She seemed not at all dismayed by the lack of response to her call, but attempted to straighten her bonnet, only succeeding in making it tilt at a different angle upon her head. Seeing that he remained unmoving, she added brightly. “I’ll catch your horse for you.” She turned to where the animal, making the best of a bad situation, was cropping some dead grass. Of course, if she were of a good family, the child would hardly be ranging about unaccompanied, that is, she wouldn’t unless they were unaware of it, unless she had escaped… He blinked with the force of it as the idea hit him. Good Lord, that would explain why she dressed and behaved in such an eccentric manner. He wondered how long she had been thus. What a pity, and it was just a child, too.

  Finally coming out of his reverie, he would have stopped her, but taking his first step forward, he instead let out an exclamation of pain. It didn’t matter, however, for in a moment she had grasped the trailing rein and led the horse over to him. She glanced first at the horse, then back at him. Her eyes narrowed in caution. “This horse looks rather like Sir Roger’s bay hunter.”

  “It is. He lent it to me.” He held out his hands for the reins, but she still did not proffer them.

  “So you can speak. Sir Roger d
oes not allow anyone to ride his bay hunter. Rob Roy!“ She appended her remarks with another unexpected yell, causing Aghadoe to dance nervously backward.

  He should have been more ready this time, but he could not help giving a start. “So Lady Blakemore said. I suppose that since I am both his friend and his houseguest, he knew that the horse would be safe with me.” He tried to keep his tone of voice even and calm, and now he ventured a gentle smile—which he hoped might reassure her.

  She made a sound suspiciously like a snort. “Safe You are fortunate it didn’t break a leg. Galloping along in that heedless way, when you don’t even know the country hereabouts—you might easily both have been killed.”

  Hunsdon was unused to receiving such scathing criticism and he would not stand for it, even though she was mad. All his previously unexpressed anger returned to him in a rush. “Yes, we both might have been killed, thanks to you! What did you mean by crouching under the furze like that, where no one could see you? If I hadn’t acted quickly, you might have been the one who died!” It was perhaps bad policy to ask a deranged person to account for her actions, but Hunsdon was too angry to consider it.

  She grew pale with anger. “So I am not to be allowed to hunt upon my own land, for fear that some oafish stranger might attempt to put a period to my existence. Sir, I must inform you that you are on the grounds of Sherbrook and that I am Lady De Neresford!”

  Poor, poor child. His anger evaporated suddenly. Truly, he was an oaf to overlook her condition. Well, he must do his best to make amends now. He had better humor her. “I beg your pardon, your ladyship. I had no idea that I was trespassing upon your grounds. You are right. I was not paying attention to where I was going.”

  She softened visibly, and held the reins out to him in a gesture of forgiveness. “That is all right… since you are a friend of the Blakemores. Truly, I did not mean to lose my temper. It was an accident, after all. You could have no idea that it had taken me all afternoon to find a pheasant.”