She slipped her hand through Felicity’s arm and hurried them out into the garden. She didn’t know why her jaw clenched and her shoulders felt so weighed down, but no doubt it was due in some way to Lord Withinghall.
The next day, which marked a week since the carriage accident that had stranded Lord Withinghall at Glyncove Abbey, Nicholas came into the sitting room where Leorah was chatting and laughing with Felicity and Elizabeth.
“Leorah, may I trouble you to come and meet with me and a gentleman who has lately arrived?” He appeared quite serious. “I believe it is a somewhat delicate matter.”
Leorah stood, understanding that he wanted her to come alone. “Shall I be away from Felicity and Elizabeth very long?”
“Not long, I think.”
Leorah and her friends exchanged curious glances before Leorah turned and followed Nicholas out into the corridor.
“Who is here?” Leorah whispered.
“It is Lord Withinghall’s rector,” Nicholas said softly, “a Mr. Tilney. I believe he wants to speak with you and Withinghall about the rumors surrounding your carriage accident.”
“Of all the ridiculous things . . .”
“We will listen to what he has to say, then send him on his way and make up our own minds about the matter.” Nicholas didn’t look particularly worried, but the entire thing was terribly vexing. To think of all the ridiculous gossips who had nothing better to do than blather about innocent people.
Leorah entered the drawing room and stopped. Lord Withinghall was sitting on the couch, his broken leg wrapped to double the size, propped up on pillows and stretched out straight in front of him. Nearby, against the wall, was a strange-looking wheeled chair.
The usual pleasantries were exchanged and introductions made. Mr. Tilney was an older man with deep wrinkles, and though his hairline had receded a bit, he had a copious amount of black hair streaked with white. His expression of lowered brows and pinched lips was severe, and he fixed her with such a gravely intense gaze of his dark eyes, he made Leorah feel like an exotic animal in a cage being examined by a zoologist.
Lord Withinghall, looking even more cross than usual—perhaps his leg was paining him after venturing downstairs—prompted the rector by saying, “Now that we are all gathered, perhaps you can inform us of the business of your errand.”
Nicholas, Julia, Lord Withinghall, and Mr. Tilney were the only ones in the room, and they all seemed to watch her sit down, as if they were holding their breath until she chose a seat near Julia.
Leorah’s mother was not there as she was in bed with a bad headache.
“Of course. I shall come to the point, if I may, without ceremony.” Mr. Tilney’s voice was deep and sonorous, and he spoke slowly, as if to lend his words more weight. “Although I do wish to say that I regret that I must bring to you such grave tidings. I have known Lord Withinghall since he was a child, and I believe he is being wrongly treated in this instance. By whom, it is not yet clear.”
He seemed to avoid looking at Leorah. What was he insinuating? Her cheeks began to flush, and she sat up straight, knowing she would not wait for either her brother or Lord Withinghall to defend her. She would defend herself against any and all unjust accusations. She was not a fainting, fearful, mousy girl to be insulted by anyone, even visiting clergy.
She coerced herself to listen carefully to every word.
“It has been reported to me . . . by more than one reliable source . . . that Lord Withinghall’s carriage overturned, and he spent the night with an unmarried lady, reportedly Miss Leorah Langdon.”
“That is completely false.” Leorah couldn’t stop herself from blurting out.
“It was reported thus in the Morning Herald,” he went on in his sermonizing voice, fixing his eyes on Leorah again, “and anything reported in the Morning Herald is thought by the majority of England to be unequivocally true.”
“We did not spend the night together,” Lord Withinghall spoke up, his voice brittle. His jaw seemed set in stone, except for a slight twitch.
“It was said that when the two gentlemen, one a clergyman, the other a member of the House of Commons, came upon you, it was night and you were lying together on the bottom of the carriage.”
Leorah’s cheeks flamed hotter. It was vicious and scandalous, but how could they refute it?
“There was no wrongdoing at all. Good God, man, my leg was broken clean in two. I could not even stand and could hardly move.”
“Lord Withinghall,” Mr. Tilney said, looking even graver, if that were possible, “you must know that I believe you. I have the utmost respect for you. No one could know better than I the spotless character you possess, the Christian piety and charity you exhibit and have exhibited since you inherited your father’s title. Even at such a young age, your maturity and your chasteness was beyond anything I’ve seen. That is why I believe you cannot be guilty of any wrongdoing. You must also know that I would never spread malicious gossip such as this. I simply seek to know the truth, and I shall defend you in any way that I can. But I do request the favor of knowing the absolute truth in the situation, for whether or not any misconduct took place, I believe this young lady’s reputation is now ruined, and it will not be easily recovered.”
Leorah opened her mouth but looked first at her brother. She wasn’t sure she’d ever before seen that particular expression on his face.
“Miss Langdon did nothing wrong,” Lord Withinghall said evenly. He seemed to be avoiding looking at her. “She had a broken arm from a fall from her horse, and I was merely taking her home.” He spoke in a clear, articulate manner. “It was raining outside, and yes, night fell as we waited to be rescued. My poor coachman lay dead on the road, a man who had served my family since my grandfather’s time.” He seemed to unclench his teeth as he added quietly, “But I don’t suppose any of that will matter to the gossipmongers.”
What? Was he giving up? The horrible sinking feeling in her stomach, however, gave proof to the fact; she knew he was right. There was nothing they could do to defend their reputations. People would think they had done something improper.
Leorah’s chance of marrying at all now seemed nonexistent.
Edward avoided looking at Leorah Langdon as the dire news was laid before them. Their reputations had been forever tainted by the accident that had killed Pugh and caused his leg injury. No one would care that their injuries—his broken leg and her broken wrist—made it extremely unlikely that any serious misconduct could have taken place. It was enough that they had been alone together. At night. For hours.
He searched his mind for a possible way out, for a solution to this problem. Perhaps if he could prove that someone had sabotaged his carriage and purposely caused it to break apart . . . but that wouldn’t be enough. He’d have to also prove who had sabotaged it. And even then, he wasn’t sure that would make enough difference to save Miss Langdon’s reputation.
Of all the ironic things that could happen, to think that he could be the means of ruining her reputation, the girl he had called a “reckless hoyden,” whom he had vowed to avoid.
And yet, if she hadn’t been out recklessly riding her horse alone, a horse with far too much spirit for a young lady, so far from home . . .
His thoughts and attention were arrested by the sound of a question and all eyes on him.
“Excuse me, I didn’t hear.”
The long-winded Tilney looked slightly annoyed at having to repeat himself. “I said, do you deny that you and Miss Langdon were lying on the floor of the carriage together, after dark, alone?”
He glanced at Leorah. She seemed to be holding her breath, her lips parted. Was she hoping he would lie and say that they had not? If they both vehemently denied it, they might be believed. But then again, they might seem the guiltier by defending themselves against two eyewitnesses.
“We were actually on the roof of the carriage, which had turned upside down. But I cannot deny that we were alone and lying down. I can only assert that
we were both injured and that nothing happened between us.”
The room was silent. They all knew what this meant. For Lord Withinghall, it could mean a slight setback in his political career, though it might pass over without serious consequences. His enemies, however, would forever consider his claims of individual and personal credibility and righteousness besmirched.
Besides that, what would Miss Hannah More say? No doubt she would be horrified and think him a sinner and hypocrite.
But worst of all was that he was now responsible for this young woman’s fall from society’s grace. As an unmarried girl, she would be forever tainted in the eyes of polite society. Her chances of marrying would be greatly diminished. People would always remember that she had “spent the night with Lord Withinghall in his carriage.” And he no longer believed that proposing to Miss Norbury in the Langdons’ home would be enough to save Miss Langdon’s reputation.
As a man who took his responsibilities seriously, there was only one thing to be done. His cheeks burned at what he was about to do, a heavy feeling in his gut. But he also felt an odd resignation, an unexplained peace, as he took a deep breath and cleared his throat.
“It was an unfortunate accident, and neither Miss Langdon nor I am to blame. Be that as it may, as one who fears God more than man, I want to do the right thing in regard to Miss Langdon’s reputation, to repair what has been damaged. I know of but one way to repair it, and that is to ask you, Miss Langdon, to do me the honor of accepting my proposal of marriage.”
He surprised himself. Even though he had told himself, more than once, that she was dangerous, because of her attitudes and behavior, resigning himself to marrying her did not fill him with the dire feelings he might have expected.
He finally made eye contact with her from where he sat on the sofa with his leg propped up.
Her eyes grew wide. But not with joy or even surprise. No, that expression on her face was a distinct look of horror. Her cheeks turned pink, and her perfectly formed lips opened wider before emitting the sound of air rushing out. She closed her mouth and held her injured wrist close to her middle.
“I suppose I should be grateful,” she said slowly, “for this grand gesture of magnanimity, but I must tell you that your proposal is unnecessary.”
Unnecessary? What was he to say to that? An uneasy silence settled over the room.
“What I mean to say is, I know you are doing the gentlemanly thing by proposing marriage to me.” She spoke quickly, now clutching her hand over her chest. “But I do not wish to marry someone only to save my reputation. And I do not wish you to marry me out of obligation or necessity.”
Her cheeks were flushed, which gave her a becoming air of modesty. She truly was beautiful. Still, he couldn’t believe she would persist in saying no.
“Miss Langdon, you are a gentleman’s daughter, the sister of a great friend, and from a most respectable family. I repeat my wishes that you would accept my marriage proposal.” Perhaps he should say something about being fond of her, or of being attached to her, but there was still a part of him that rebelled at the thought of marrying such a reckless girl.
Suddenly, she got that defiant look in her eye that he’d seen many times before. She would throw politeness to the winds, and not only he, but the others in the room as well, were about to hear exactly what she thought of his proposal.
He was no longer at all certain he would succeed in convincing her that she must marry him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
How dare he make such a proposal to her? Did he think she would leap at the chance to marry him, to enter into a loveless marriage? He didn’t even like her and could only cite her family connections and saving her reputation as his reasons for wanting to marry her.
“Lord Withinghall . . .” She paused a moment, knowing she should express a sense of honor at being the object of his proposal, but indeed, she felt none. She should say polite nonsense, the usual pleasant lies, but she utterly refused to play the hypocrite.
“Lord Withinghall,” she began again, “I appreciate your deep sense of duty and decorum that forces you to ask for my hand, but I must refuse your offer. You do not love or esteem me, and I myself have formed no attachment to you. Therefore, an alliance between us is . . .”
Repugnant.
Abhorrent.
“Impossible.”
“You do understand that your reputation is at stake,” Lord Withinghall said with all seriousness.
His words, if anything, increased her determination to refuse him. And yet, a distinct gentleness—one might almost call it tenderness—pervaded his voice. Why did it stir up strange feelings inside her? She had thought Lord Withinghall incapable of anything but cold insensitivity—like her father.
She was probably imagining it.
“The gossipmongers will not allow you to escape this incident unscathed,” he went on, his eye fixed on hers. “Your name and mine will be forever linked.”
“I will not be coerced into marrying someone who does not love me. Thank you for your offer of marriage and for trying to save my reputation, but my answer is no. I do not wish to be maligned, but I also do not believe that marriage to you is my only option. I will not be frightened into making such an important decision simply because idle people have nothing better to do than gossip.”
And besides all that, being married to Lord Withinghall would be a living nightmare! Married to someone who disapproved of her, who believed her to be a hoyden, reckless, and without proper restraint? Such an alliance would be in every way insupportable! The very thought of living with a man who despised her, who would treat her coldly and without affection, made her close her eyes momentarily as she forced herself to control the shudder that threatened to overtake her.
Julia placed a gentle hand on Leorah’s arm, reminding her to try to calm her breathing.
When no one had spoken for several moments, Mr. Tilney said, “Are we to believe that no is your final word on the subject? Will you not give up your unfeminine independence to marry this respectable man, commendable in every way, a viscount of considerable wealth and influence?”
Condemnation was etched in the tone of his voice, in the choice of his words, and in the wrinkles in his forehead and deep creases surrounding the drooping corners of his mouth.
“You are correct, Mr. Tilney.” She lifted her chin, feeling her courage rise at the undeserved rebuke.
“Very well.” He stared at her from beneath sagging, bullfrog eyes. “I shall not speak of this affair, as far as I am able. If I am pressed, I shall say that neither of you were to blame, nor was there any wrongdoing at all. However, I do not imagine it will satisfy those who wish to believe the worst about a viscount and Member of Parliament, but I shall do what I can to stem the flood of slander that is already underway.” He frowned, as though angry at the insurmountable task before him.
Leorah fixed her eyes on the disapproving clergyman. “I am sure the viscount would have been extremely fortunate to have captured me for his wife, but I am also afraid the two of us have not had sufficient opportunity to form an attachment, and therefore it is not to be. But he shall recover tolerably from it in good time, and I shall recover even more quickly from the loss of those gossipmongers who, being complete hypocrites, shall shun me from their company. And now if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have other guests.”
With that, Leorah gently pulled away from Julia’s light hand on her arm and stood. Lord Withinghall’s face seemed carved from stone, and the others watched her in silence.
One glance at her brother made her stomach sink. He was not, as she had hoped he might be, hiding an amused grin. Instead, he looked quite grave.
“Lord Withinghall asked you to marry him?” Felicity Mayson stared, the tea biscuit forgotten halfway to her lips.
Elizabeth Mayson’s teacup slipped from her hand to the floor, rolling and spilling tea on the carpet.
Leorah reached for another cup to replace it. “He was practically forced
to ask me, as a gentleman.” Leorah blinked slowly, affecting an air of unconcern to hide the fact that her heart was still thumping hard against her ribs at the prospect of becoming the curmudgeonly viscount’s wife.
“And you told him no! But he’s Lord Withinghall—a viscount!”
Elizabeth’s lips were bloodless, and she swayed in her chair. Felicity grabbed a fan from a nearby table and began fanning the girl’s face, sending stray hairs flying about her head.
“Leorah, I don’t think you can say he was forced to ask you to marry him.” Felicity hovered over her sister. “Most men, I dare say, would not have done that. Unless, of course, they were after your twenty thousand pounds, and we both know Lord Withinghall has no need of your money.” Felicity lowered her voice. “Do you think he might be in love with you?”
Elizabeth’s eyes fluttered, and she let out a tiny gasp.
Felicity fanned faster. “Don’t mind Elizabeth.” Felicity frowned slightly and shook her head. “She gets overcome at the least little thing.”
“I do not,” Elizabeth protested weakly, but she remained slumped against the back of the sofa. “It’s only the thought of you . . . saying no to Lord Withinghall. He’s so frightening.”
“Oh, nonsense. He’s nothing of the kind,” Leorah said. She held out a new cup of tea and told Elizabeth, “Drink this. It will help.”
Elizabeth took the cup in trembling hands and drank a sip.
Leorah took a sip of her tea and a bite of biscuit as she sat across from Felicity, who was still fanning Elizabeth.
“Won’t it be even more awkward now, seeing him every day, after you refused his offer of marriage?”
“I have no notion that he ever expected me to accept him,” Leorah said, although she knew her reasoning was not sound. An offer of marriage, especially with witnesses, was legally binding. She could have accepted him only for his position, his title, and his money, as most women would have done, and Lord Withinghall knew this as well as anyone. So why would he have risked her saying yes? Why had he done it?
A Viscount's Proposal (The Regency Spies of London Book 2) Page 10
