by Mary Balogh
Mortified, she lowered her eyes.
“Silence can be so eloquent,” he observed, and then added, “and past actions can be equally as eloquent of emotions that overwhelm everything else. Marianne, ever since I have known you, I have been envious of Brandon Forrester. No, perhaps envious isn’t the correct word. Jealous is more appropriate.”
She stared at him. “I cannot believe that.”
“It is true. He has always been close to you, always in your heart. He was there before me, there while I was betrothed to you, and, damn it, he’s there now as well.”
“But I’ve explained, he is like—”
“A brother. I know. Deuce take it, Marianne, he isn’t your brother, he’s a man who desires you and wants you to be his wife! He’s always wanted you. Just as I have always wanted you.”
She drew back a little. “You had me, sir. Your ring was on my finger, but you betrayed me with London’s most fashionable courtesan.”
“I didn’t.”
Her lips parted, and she searched his face disbe-lievingly. “Isn’t this a little late for protestations of innocence?”
“Perhaps it is, but until now I have always feared that Forrester would be the ultimate winner, and I allowed my male pride to get in the way. Besides, I’m not entirely innocent. I was jealous of Forrester’s place in your life, consumed with jealousy, in fact. I saw you with him one day, in the garden of your house in London. Your heads were together intimately, and I was convinced he’d succeeded in stealing you back.”
“Nothing could be further from the truth. I loved you, and only you.”
“Jealousy makes fools of us, Marianne. It certainly made a fool of me, and has continued to do so right up until this very moment. What I’m about to tell you should have been told in full the moment I knew what really happened. I could have told you in Lansdowne Passage, and at any time since then, but somehow I couldn’t.” He drew a long breath. “Elizabeth Lavery had been pursuing me for some time, and caught me at a moment when my wretchedness over Forrester was at its height. I was ripe for the plucking, and I also happened to be somewhat in my cups, having consoled myself with a decanter of cognac. I wanted her to seduce me, just as I thought you were being seduced by Forrester, but when it came to the point, all I could think of was you, and how much I loved you. It ended with me falling asleep in a chair, but when I awoke the next morning, my head fuddled with the effects of the cognac, I found myself in her bed, and I was led to believe that I’d more than proved myself.”
Marianne stared at him. He hadn’t been false to her?
He went on. “Do you remember Freddie Jameson?”
“Yes.”
“He was at Elizabeth’s house that night, as were several other acquaintances. At his instigation, they deemed it an amusing prank to carry me from the chair downstairs to Elizabeth’s bed upstairs, and then they all pretended I’d conducted myself with commendable passion. I had to believe them. I only discovered the truth when I bumped into Freddie again, in New York of all places. His confession resulted in him being confined to his bed for some time, as I certainly wasn’t pleased with what he’d had to say. Marianne, you are the woman in my life, the woman I wish to marry. You’ll never know how glad I was when I arrived here and found you beneath the same roof. I’d decided in Berkeley Square that day that I had to fight for you if I could, but there seemed such a gulf of mistrust and hostility between us that I really didn’t know how to go about winning you back again. I love you, Marianne, and I think now that you still love me. Now that you know I didn’t betray you with Elizabeth, and now that I know once and for all that Forrester isn’t your real love, can’t we begin again?”
An incredible joy was already flooding through her, and tears of gladness shone in her eyes. “I’ve never stopped loving you, Piers. I wanted to, but I simply couldn’t.”
His arm was around her waist, and her body yielded to him as he pulled her close. She raised her parted lips to meet his.
———
Mr. Pendeven, Jerry, and Chloe had abandoned all thought of the Aurora, and had adjourned to the drawing room, where Chloe was very improperly observing the proceedings on the riverbank through her father’s telescope. As the two distant figures came together in a passionate embrace, she gave a cry of triumph.
“Success at last! All my plotting and scheming has come to fruition!”
Mr. Pendeven gave a heartfelt sigh of relief. “Does that mean that Jerry and I can stop fibbing now?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.” Chloe was so pleased with herself that she ran to Jerry to hug him. “I knew they still loved each other, and only needed help!”
Jerry returned the hug. “You’re a clever girl,” he said.
She drew back. “There were times when I thought it would all fail. When Piers came back to England and asked you about Marianne, I thought all I had to do was bring them together, but she made it quite clear that she hadn’t forgiven or forgotten anything. That put me out, I can tell you, but when she went on to say she was actually considering marrying Brandon Forrester after all, I was hard put to keep going. However, I think I can flatter myself that I carried it all off to perfection.”
“You vain creature,” her father said. “You fibbed well, I grant you, but you received a great deal of judicious assistance from your nearest and dearest. Jerry and I were drummed into line whether we liked it or not.”
Chloe was a little repentant. “Did you mind very much?”
“Well, it isn’t exactly pleasing to have to play the cruel father, and I’m sure Jerry didn’t relish his role, either.” But Mr. Pendeven’s eyes were twinkling. “Still, if all’s well that ends well, no doubt it was worth it.”
Jerry grinned. “I’ve discovered one thing in all this, and that is that I make a very poor conspirator. Time and time again I seemed to flounder. Right in the beginning I got Maxwell’s name wrong, and yet I was supposed to know him well!”
Chloe gave him a cross look. “Yes, and you gave him the wrong address as well. I thought Marianne was going to query it all, but she didn’t. Jerry Frobisher, there were times when I despaired of you.”
“I know.”
She smiled then. “But you are very noble and gallant, and I still adore you.”
“I don’t know that I still adore you, you scheming minx,” he replied. “I am utterly dismayed at the ease with which all those falsehoods slipped from your tongue.”
“But it was all in a very good cause, and I promise faithfully never to fib to you, my dearest,” Chloe protested.
He glanced at her father. “Dare I believe her, sir?”
“At your peril, sir,” Mr. Pendeven replied, giving him a wink she did not see. The two men had never been at odds, but had liked each other from the outset. Their so-called differences had been Chloe’s invention, plucked from thin air for the benefit of the star-crossed lovers who had now been brought together on the riverbank.
Chloe pouted. “I think you are both being quite horrid to me,” she declared.
“Well, because of you, this February has been a very wearying month so far,” her father replied, shaking his head regretfully, again giving Jerry a wink.
This time, however, Chloe intercepted it. “You beasts!” she cried, but had to smile.
Mr. Pendeven went to a small table upon which stood a decanter of sherry and some glasses. “I know that this should be champagne, but it will have to do. We must toast the triumph of Chloe’s machinations.” He poured three glasses, and they each took one.
“What shall we say?” Jerry asked.
Chloe thought for a moment. “To Saint Valentine’s Day?” she suggested.
Her father shook his head. “No, I think we should salute our efforts this month. To February falsehoods.”
The glasses chinked. “To February falsehoods,” they all said together.
On the riverbank, Marianne and Piers were locked in each other’s arms, oblivious to the river and the cries of the excited seabirds overh
ead, and oblivious also to the fact that they had been pawns in Chloe’s quick-witted game of human chess. They were conscious only of each other and the love that had been thwarted for so long.
Piers’ face was flushed with desire as he drew back from Marianne. “I hardly dare believe that this is happening.”
“I feel the same,” she whispered, her eyes still shimmering with happy tears.
“Do you remember this day two years ago?”
“Of course.”
He took something from his pocket. “Your card is a little battered now, but I always have it with me just as I also still have the emerald comb.”
She took the card. It had been folded several times, and the lace was flattened and limp, but the colors were still bright, and the verse inside as clear as ever as she read it.
“Please say you’ll be my valentine,
Take my heart, and I’ll take thine.
I’ll love you forever, my sweetheart divine,
And so I beg you, be my valentine. ”
He put his hand tenderly to her cheek. “Are you my valentine now, Marianne?”
“I always have been.”
“And will you be my wife?”
She nodded, the tears wet on her cheeks. “Nothing would make me happier,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rushing of the river.
His thumb moved lovingly against her skin. “We’ve wasted so much time, my darling. I can’t bear the thought of waiting too much longer, but if we rush, there will be chitter-chatter.”
“Let them chitter-chatter, for I want to be rushed,” she replied, closing her eyes with a sigh as he kissed her again.
Mary Balogh won the Romantic Times award for Best New Regency Writer and its Reviewers’ Choice award for Best Regency Author in 1985 and 1989. She lives in Kipling, Saskatchewan, Canada. Her latest book is A Christmas Promise.
Sandra Heath, author of A Country Cotillion, is one of Signet’s most talented writers and the author of the highly popular A Christmas Courtship. She lives with her husband and daughter in Gloucester, England.
Carol Proctor was nominated for the Romantic Times Best New Regency Author award in 1990. She resides in Fort Worth, Texas. Carol’s most recent book is Theodora’s Dreadful Mistake.
Sheila Walsh, whose latest novel is The Arrogant Lord Alistair, lives with her husband in Southport, Lancashire, England, and is the mother of two daughters. After experimenting with short stories and plays, she completed her first Regency novel, The Golden Songbird, which won her an award from the Romantic Novelists’ Association in 1974.
Margaret Westhaven is the author of fourteen Regency novels. She lives in Oregon with her husband and young son. Her most recent novel is Four in Hand.
