Lord Humphrey (Sons of the Marquess Book 2)

by Mary Kingswood

  But it had to be done, so, taking a deep breath and then another, just to be sure, he entered the minstrels’ gallery.

  It was gloomy, the many lights from the hall below barely penetrating the heavily carved wooden screen. At first he could see nothing, but as his eyes adjusted to the reduced light, he caught a hint of green from the far end of the gallery.

  “Miss Blythe?” he said, as he made his way towards her.

  She was sitting on the bare wooden floor, her back to the wall, gloves and fan discarded. Her knees were drawn up, with her face resting on them. At the sound of his voice, her head shot up, and the sight of her tear-stained face tore at him in the most painful manner. His poor Hortensia! All he wanted to do was to sweep her into his arms and hug her tightly, kissing away all her grief. But somehow seven and twenty years of gentlemanly restraint held him in check.

  “Do you wish me to go away? Should you prefer to be alone?”

  She shook her head so decisively that he was heartened. Sitting down beside her, he stretched out his long legs and took her hand in his. Without gloves, the contact was extraordinarily intimate, the warmth of her fingers under his making it hard for him to speak. Yet she made no protest.

  With an effort, he said, “I am so very sorry. This evening must be difficult for you.” She nodded, not looking at him. “The fuss will die down, in time,” he went on. “It will be a great wonder for a while, as the word spreads of your little deception, but it will be forgotten eventually when some new scandal erupts.”

  “Oh, that. I do not regard that in the least,” she said, sounding surprised. “It is a relief to set it all behind me, and it will not change anything between Rosemary and Lord Kilbraith, so I cannot but be happy about it.”

  “Oh. Then perhaps it is the unwanted attention from suitors that distresses you?”

  “That is tedious, certainly, but I do not cry because I am suddenly popular.”

  “Then… why?”

  She looked him full in the face. “You said we would drink champagne together.”

  Pain washed through him. So that was why she was so upset! He had been so lost in his own misery, he had quite forgotten his promise. Stupid, stupid, stupid! How could he have been so thoughtless? “So I did! How unforgivable of me not to honour my promise. Miss Blythe, may I fetch you a glass of champagne?”

  She nodded, and he jumped up and rushed away to find a footman in the hall below. The man went off ponderously to find champagne, while Humphrey hopped from foot to foot in impatience. What if she were gone when he returned? She could take off in any of a dozen different directions, and he would never find her again in that great maze of a house. The footman returned bearing an opened bottle of champagne and two glasses on a tray. Humphrey almost snatched it from his hands and raced off. Had he asked for two glasses? He thought not, but Gaffney would understand the implication of a gentleman in a tearing hurry for champagne so late in the evening. Well, it was not quite that kind of assignation, for Miss Blythe was a lady through and through, but still, he supposed it was an assignation of a sort.

  She was still there. Thank God! She even gave him a tremulous smile, and had stretched her legs out in a more relaxed pose instead of huddling against the wall, all curled up in her anguish.

  He sat beside her and they sipped champagne together, and there was a pleasing rightness to it. It was not quite proper for them to be alone in this way, but they could hear the music of the dance, the stamp of feet and buzz of conversation, with an occasional burst of laughter, and it was almost as if they were in the great hall. Safely hidden away behind their screen, yet they were still part of the joyful festivities going on below.

  “Can you forgive me?” he said. “In all that has happened, my words went out of my head.”

  “It is of no consequence!” she cried. “There is nothing to forgive. It is entirely my own foolishness, because I was so worried about you last night, wondering how you were going on and what would happen to you in court. I did not understand just at first that Lord Carrbridge was to be the magistrate. And then you were late back and there was no opportunity to talk to you, or even to see you, so I did not know— And I so looked forward to it, the champagne, that is! Knowing it was all over and you were safely home again, you see. But it does not matter in the least, for here you are now. Did Mr Merton inform you of the other pieces that Charlie had taken?”

  She seldom chattered in quite that rattling way, but he guessed she was nervous and that was what made her talk more than usual.

  “He did, and I was able to retrieve them, although I had no more idea than you where they might have belonged. Such hideous things! I should certainly have remembered if I had ever seen them before. I gave them to Aunt Patience, telling her that I had no idea where they had come from, which was quite true. And she apologised for her maid sitting on my head, to which I replied that I had no memory of any such event, which is also true, although she thought it merely a polite form of words. Then she smacked my wrist with her fan and told me I was a naughty boy who ought to know better. So all ends well, except that I have to think of a way to return Merton’s five hundred pounds to him.”

  “He has not paid you!”

  “Indeed he has, for it was a debt of honour, and Merton is the most honourable of men. But I shall find a way to repay him. A couple of decent horses and a groom — that should do it. More champagne?”

  She agreed to it, and they sipped and chatted and it was as if there had never been any constraint between them. Her expression relaxed — not quite smiling, but composed, her tears quite fled. When the musicians struck up for the waltz, he remembered his plan from earlier in the evening.

  Jumping to his feet, he bowed to her. “Miss Blythe, may I have the very great honour of this dance?”

  Immediately her face changed, a mask of wariness descending. “I am not going down there!”

  “No, no! There is room enough here, if we are careful.”

  “The waltz?”

  “Do you object to it on principle?”

  “Oh no, but— I am not a very good dancer, Humphrey.”

  His heart lurched to hear her speak his name. “Neither am I. Shall we try anyway?” He held out his hand for her, and she grasped it without hesitation, allowing him to pull her to her feet. “We start side by side, like this.”

  “I know how it goes. I watched you practise with Rosemary, remember?”

  He did not, in fact, remember any such thing. Had she been there during Connie’s wet-weather lessons? If so, he had not noticed her. It was not until he had seen her ride Ganymede that he had become so attuned to her presence or absence in a room. It was hard to remember a time when he had not been helplessly in love with her, yet he had only known her a few short weeks. Such a brief time, yet now his life was incomplete without her.

  Slowly they moved in time to the music lilting up from the great hall below. Humphrey had to concentrate on his steps, for although it was not a complicated dance like the quadrille, her nearness and her ungloved hands resting in his turned his brain to blancmange. With each shift in the arms or spin around he was more out of his depth, like a boat that has broken its moorings and at any moment might be swept away downstream and out to sea. Yet he could not stop. When another change in position brought his arm around her waist, he was lost, pulling her tightly to him and burying his face in her hair. Ah, her soft hair, mercifully free of the dreadful cap. He could smell her perfume, feel the warmth of her hand in his, and the cool smoothness of silk beneath his other hand. But still they were dancing, swirling around with the music. Still restraint held him.

  Then she lifted her face to his, and he was entirely swept away. He leaned nearer, brushed his lips softly across her forehead, her cheeks, her closed eyes… As softly as a butterfly’s wing, his lips touched hers. Then again. And yet again. Each time he pulled away, the return was sweeter, less tentative, more ardent. She made a little sound, like a whimper, then her hand crept to his cheek, and arou
nd to the back of his head, pressing him closer to her. He closed his eyes and gave himself utterly to the moment, lost in bliss.

  It seemed like hours later when they finally came to themselves. To his astonishment, the waltz was still going on in the hall below, although faster now, punctuated by squeals. In the great hall, the dancers were spinning, spinning, all violent movement. In the minstrels’ gallery, the two dancers stood motionless, clinging together, gazing into each other’s eyes, dizzy with enchantment.

  She sighed, and he smiled, moving away from her just a fraction.

  At once there was a shift in her expressive face, and she tipped her head to one side. “Well?”

  He looked at her, puzzled.

  “Humphrey, you cannot do that and not say anything, you know.”

  “I… no?”

  “No!” she cried, wriggling free of his embrace and pushing him away. “If you kiss me that way, at least speak to me afterwards. Say something. Oh, you are hopeless!” She stamped her foot in frustration. “I suppose you still have some fustian in your mind about my reputation.”

  He knew what she wanted. A declaration of love, perhaps even an offer of marriage, and it was true, a passionate kiss could only be a prelude to something more. He could not walk away from her, not after that. Yet what could he say? The same difficulties still held sway in his mind. But he need not now assume indifference, for their kisses had swept away all pretence between them. He could at last be honest with her.

  “Hortensia…” She stilled at the use of her name. He cupped her face in his hands, and said gently, “I cannot speak yet. I cannot, and indeed it is your reputation which is at the forefront of my mind. So we must be patient for a while—”

  “How long?” she said breathlessly.

  “It would be best to wait a year—”

  “A year!”

  She spun away from him again, and rested her forehead on the wall. From the way her body shuddered he guessed she was crying again. Damnation, but this was hard on both of them.

  “Hush,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing the top of her head. “You must not cry. It will pass in no time—”

  “No!” she cried. “You cannot expect me to wait so long. I cannot! I will not!”

  “Hortensia…”

  She spun round to face him. “You do not know what you ask. When one has to wait, everything changes. I waited once before for a man to come back to me, but he never did.”

  “Who was he? Someone you met in India?”

  “Captain James Quayle, of the East India Company’s Madras Army.”

  “Miss Quayle’s father? He must have been a lot older than you.”

  “A few years. You remind me of him — he was big, too, and blond.” She reached up with one hand to run her fingers through Humphrey’s hair, and his breath was suddenly ragged. “One noticed when he entered a room. I fell very much in love with him when I was fourteen, and by the time I was sixteen he was in love with me, too. But I was too young to marry, he and my father both said. We must wait. So I waited, and he went away to do army things, and still I waited, while his letters became less and less frequent. And then he put himself in front of a bullet, idiotic man, and that was that. So you see why the idea of waiting holds no appeal for me. Waiting is just another way to say no.”

  “Not to me,” he said quietly. “I should never abandon you.”

  “You would not mean to,” she said bleakly. “Sometimes it happens anyway. Life is uncertain, Humphrey, and who knows what may happen in a year? We are all in God’s hands. And it seems to me that if a man says it is imperative to wait a year, perhaps he is not so keen anyway, for if two people are of age and there are no other obstacles, why should they wait?”

  “But there are other obstacles,” he said quietly. “Must I enumerate them? There is your lack of rank or connection to any family of consequence. There is your fortune, made by trade. And there is my status as a confirmed fortune hunter. Any one of these individually might be readily overcome, but now there is the matter of your concealed identity. For myself, I care nothing about it, but for others… like my brother…”

  “Lord Carrbridge? What has he to say to it? He cannot prevent you from marrying where you please. We are both of age, after all.”

  He took a long breath. This was so difficult. “Your reputation is… damaged, and Carrbridge feels that the family would also be damaged if… I do not believe it, myself, but it is important to him and I cannot… I cannot go against his wishes in this matter. He has supported me for years, and asked very little in return, so I owe him my loyalty. You must see that. He feels that if nothing precipitate is done to draw attention to ourselves, then the scandal will die down. If we are patient and discreet, and allow Connie to introduce you to the ton next season, then all may be well, and you will have London at your feet, as you deserve.”

  “But I do not want London at my feet,” she burst out. “I cannot imagine a worse fate than to be forced to endure London, and the season. Rosemary and I spent a month there, solely to replenish our wardrobes, and I could not wait to leave it.”

  “That is because you knew no one and moved only on the fringes of society,” he said. “London is very comfortable if one moves in the first circles. I cannot wait to take you to Almacks and Carlton House.”

  “Can you not understand?” she cried, one clenched fist thumping his chest in frustration. “I have not the least desire to go to Almacks or Carlton House. I should hate it! Even staying here has been torture to me — so much time sitting in drawing rooms and morning rooms, pretending to be engrossed in my stitchery, or exchanging mindless conversation on suitable topics. If you had not been kind to me and lent me Ganymede I should have run mad, I swear it. I do not care if I never go to Almacks!”

  “Easy to say, yet you do not know what you would be giving up.”

  “Humphrey, I am six and twenty years of age. I understand enough of the world and of myself to know what I want, and now I have the money to live my life as I choose. London holds no appeal for me. People everywhere live and die without ever setting foot in London, and enjoy contented, fulfilling lives. I intend to make my home here in Yorkshire, where I can ride on the moor every day and breathe clean air and not be caged. Lord Carrbridge is to sell Silsby Vale House to me, and it is my intention to live there with Mrs Andrews as my chaperon and—”

  “What?”

  “—companion, and if I have my way, then I shall never go to London again.”

  “Mrs Andrews? As chaperon? Do you know her history? She will not increase your consequence!”

  “I know all about her, and if you think I care about my consequence, you have not been listening to a word I have said.”

  “Hortensia…” He stopped, unable to grasp the magnitude of her rejection. It was not just him she abjured, but his family, his rank and his whole way of life. How could he marry a woman who rejected everything he was? He slid down the wall to sit, knees drawn up, head bowed.

  “Humphrey?” She plopped to the ground beside him in a froth of pale green silk. “Can you accept me as I am? Because this will never work if you cannot.”

  He lifted his head, not looking at her but comforted by her nearness. Surely there was a way past this? “I feel I do not know you at all,” he said, his voice choked with emotion.

  “I am not sure that I know you, either,” she said, wrapping her arms around one of his, and resting her cheek on his shoulder. “You appeared to me to be everything I have dreamed of — a man who was happy to step outside the bounds of propriety, who had the courage to be different. But you are no more than a fly caught in propriety’s web after all, afraid to take any chance. Afraid to defy your brother. Afraid to take a chance on me. Do you not want to risk it?”

  “I do not know what I want,” he said slowly. “I cannot see a way forward.”

  “What does your heart say?”

  But he could only shake his head and repeat, “I do not know.”
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  22: A Gamble

  They stayed for hours in the minstrels’ gallery, drinking champagne but not talking very much, not kissing, and both of them reluctant to leave, it seemed to him. But when the music had finally stopped and the great hall below them had emptied, the only sounds the chink of glasses and scrape of table legs as the servants righted the room, they could no longer avoid the parting. They kissed again, and then, separately, made their way to their rooms.

  Billings was dozing beside the fire, but he had waited up much later than this for Humphrey on his heavy gaming nights, so the valet was not reproachful. Humphrey silently suffered himself to be undressed and prepared for bed. Then, as soon as the door had closed behind Billings, Humphrey threw back the bed curtains and got up again. He shrugged into a robe, then sat himself in the window gazing unseeingly at the gardens, pondering his dilemma.

  It had seemed so simple. He had planned to say nothing to Hortensia, leaving the next day without declaring himself, for it would hardly be honourable to speak, knowing they would have to wait. They would meet again in the spring, when the season began, and then he would court her in good earnest. Or perhaps Connie might invite her for another visit before then. But now… everything was upside down. She would not go to London. She was not prepared to wait. She cared nothing for the good opinion of the ton. He could not but admire her spirit, but it was so foolish!

  Or was it…? His indecisive mind flip-flopped about. What if they were to marry anyway? What dreadful harm could come of it, except that the patronesses of Almacks might not send them vouchers? Would that be the end of the world? If he had been looking for a well-bred wife, then Almack’s would be the very place to meet one, but—

  The click of the door alerted him. Before he had time to wonder where his pistols were, or even to move, a face peeped round the door, framed in an abundance of unrestrained dark hair .