‘I thought he only did that to women.’ Adeline knew Grant would surmise that she was so weak and malleable that she would gratefully accept anything he had to suggest, but she was determined to have some control over this. ‘Thank you, by the way. It was chivalrous of you to say what you did.’
‘I wasn’t being chivalrous.’
‘Nevertheless, I didn’t ask you to. In the view of conventional morality the loss of my virtue can only mark my downfall.’
He was frowning. ‘I take full responsibility for all of this.’
‘Why? You weren’t the one I was engaged to, and nor were you having an affair with Diana Waverley—well, you might have been, but that is beside the point and has absolutely nothing to do with me.’
‘Diana and I might have married once,’ he told her tersely, ‘but she married someone else instead.’
‘And now?’
‘Now we’re—friends—of a peculiar kind.’
Adeline tilted her head to one side and looked at him. Not for the first time did she wonder what their bitter argument had been about when he had stormed out on Diana at Westwood Hall. ‘By “peculiar” do you mean that now she is a widow she would like to be Mrs Leighton?’ The look he threw her told her this was exactly as it was. ‘And that is not what you want?’
‘No,’ he gritted. ‘I don’t give second chances.’ Grant looked at her coolly.
‘And how do you feel about her affair with Paul?’
‘I don’t feel anything. It won’t last. Diana soon tires of her lovers. But enough of her. It’s you and me we have to worry about.’
Adeline raised her eyebrows in question. ‘You and me?’
‘You have no need to worry about your future. It will be taken care of.’
‘Really?’ Adeline was quietly infuriated. It was as if she had no say in the matter. ‘Grant,’ she said, laughing lightly, ‘you’re not telling me that when you told my father you’d asked me to marry you that you actually meant it?’
‘I never say anything I don’t mean—and your father insists on it.’
Adeline felt an uneasy disquiet settling in. She could not believe what Grant was saying. He looked and sounded so cold, so dispassionate. ‘Does he, indeed?’
‘He has decided that our engagement will be announced when this unpleasantness has died down. We will be married following a decent interval of time.’
‘That’s a bit extreme.’ She gave him a quizzical look. ‘I’m sorry, but I seem to have missed something. I don’t recall you asking me to marry you, Grant.’
‘That’s because I haven’t.’
Adeline’s expression dared him to attempt control of herself. ‘Now, why do I feel this has happened to me before?’ she retorted, her voice heavy with sarcasm.
‘I apologise if that’s how it seems to you. My only regret is that it was my intoxication which led to this.’
‘And you are one of those men who has to do something noble in life?’
‘It’s not noble. We have no choice. You must see that.’
‘No, as a matter of fact I don’t.’
‘Well, we haven’t. I took that away when I announced to the world that I had asked you to be my wife.’
‘And I recall you saying I had not given you my answer. I simply cannot believe that you want to marry me—a woman you hardly know, a woman you have no personal regard or respect for.’
Shoving himself away from the tree and running an impatient hand through his dark hair, Grant began pacing to and fro in frustration. ‘How can you know that?’
‘Because last night you accused me of being little better than a harlot,’ she reminded him coldly.
He stopped and looked at her, his expression one of contrition. ‘I’m sorry if I implied that. But that was last night.’
‘And nothing has changed. To my mind all this talk about marriage and doing the honourable thing is wholly unnecessary. You are under no obligation to marry me.’
He stopped pacing and glared at her. ‘Dear God! I appreciate the wrong I have done you, and that compounds my obligation to marry you.’
No longer able to contain her temper, Adeline shot to her feet in angry indignation, her hands clenched by her sides. ‘And you assume in your arrogance that I am so pathetic, so desperate for a husband now Paul and I are no longer engaged, that I will accept you—me, plain, serious Adeline Osborne, who by all rights, as Paul so cruelly pointed out, should remain a spinster because no man unless he were blind would want me.’
‘I think you undervalue yourself.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. But what a weak-willed idiot I must seem to you. Despite all my diligent efforts throughout my life to be the model of propriety, I let a total stranger—a handsome, inebriated stranger—make wonderful love to me—a man who wouldn’t have given me a second glance had he been sober.’
‘Now you insult me. I am ashamed of what I did to you. I can’t blame you if you hate me for it completely, but it cannot be nearly as much as I hate myself.’ This was true. Grant did despise himself for what he’d done to her—and the mess she was in because of it—and for the unprecedented weakness that made him want to repeat the act. ‘Damnation, Adeline, can’t you see that I’m trying to do the right thing by you?’
Fury flared in Adeline’s eyes. ‘How dare you say that to me? Don’t you dare pity me, Grant Leighton.’
‘I don’t pity you. That’s the last thing I feel. But you must realise that because of this, and what Paul might disclose, you will become the subject of gossip, your reputation in ruins.’
‘And marrying you will shift the sentiment, I suppose, and find general favour?’ she mocked. ‘Given an interval of time I shall produce an heir for Oaklands and cause no further scandal—which will in turn bring redemption through association, all my transgressions forgotten.’
‘Something like that.’
Adeline drew back her shoulders and lifted her head, the action saying quite clearly that she knew her own mind. ‘Do you know, Grant, I don’t care a fig about any of that? What people think of me no longer matters. I’ve got a broad back. I can endure the slights and slurs. Besides, I certainly don’t see a husband as the solution to my problems. You’re not required to marry me. If I agree to this mockery of a marriage you will hate me for ever and I will be miserable for my entire life—as I would have been if I had married Paul—and no doubt longing for release in an early grave.’
‘Now you exaggerate.’ His biting tone carried anger and frustration.
‘I don’t think so,’ Adeline bit back. ‘My reputation is already besmirched, I agree—but do you know I don’t feel guilty or ruined? Yes, the future is an uncharted path, and will possibly be filled with censure, but for the first time in my life I feel completely at peace. When you came to my bed I knew what I wanted and I took it. If I don’t marry you nothing will change—at least not immediately. But given time any scandal will be forgotten.’
When realisation of what she was saying dawned on him, Grant stared at her in disbelief. ‘Are you saying you don’t want to marry me?’
‘Yes. I don’t want to be any man’s wife.’
Placing his hands on his hips, towering over her, he glared down into her defiant face. ‘You might at least show some gratitude. You are behaving as though I’ve suggested we commit murder. I’m offering to deliver you from a barren future—a way out—an answer to your dilemma.’
‘How do you know I want one? You did a noble thing by offering, but it was spur-of-the-moment—a moment of madness—an absurd compulsion. Once said, you couldn’t in all honour retract it, but I have no intention of holding you to it.’
The corner of his mouth twisted wryly in a gesture that was not quite a smile. ‘No? I’m surprised.’
‘Why? Because I melted in your arms like the naïve and silly woman that I am?’ She smiled. ‘You are persuasive, I grant you that, but I don’t know you and I don’t trust you.’
‘But you do want me,’ he said, with a
knowing light glinting in his eyes.
‘That’s beside the point, and has nothing to do with marriage. Men are the cause of my troubles—my father, Paul, and now you. As far as I am concerned men make excellent dancing partners, but beyond that are no use at all to me. In fact, the more I think about them the more depressed I become.’
‘Now you’re beginning to sound like Lettie.’
‘If I am then I consider it a compliment. Your sister talks a great deal of sense.’ She moved close to him, and suddenly he seemed enormous, his powerful body emanating heat, reminding her of what could be hers if she complied to his will and that of her father. But she would not back down. Meeting his gaze directly, she said, ‘Let’s stop all this nonsense, shall we? Be honest about it, Grant. You don’t want to marry me any more than I want to marry you.’
With his face only inches from hers, his eyes boring ruthlessly into hers, he ground out, ‘You’re absolutely right. I don’t.’
‘And you agree that the whole idea is absolutely ludicrous?’
‘Right.’
‘I’ve decided that I’d make an exceedingly poor wife, and on reaching that conclusion I consider it wise to avoid that particular state of affairs. That is my final resolve.’
Her rejection of his proposal put her beyond his tolerance, and his voice took on a deadly finality. ‘That’s extremely wise of you. I’d make an exceedingly bad husband.’
‘Good. I am glad we are in agreement. Then it’s settled. We won’t marry. Your duty, obligation to me—call it what you like—is now discharged.’ Stepping away from him, she raised her head haughtily. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I will go and tell my father.’
Grant stared after her, feeling bewildered, misused, furious with himself and with her, and seriously insulted—for what man who had just offered a respectable marriage proposal expected to be rejected? What was he to do? He supposed it had been rather arrogant of him to assume she would fall in with his plans—and her father’s—but damn it all, he was asking her to be his wife—a position he had never offered to any other woman. So it wasn’t conceited of him to expect her to accept. Was it?
In his anger he had tried to blame her for what had transpired at Westwood Hall. He shouldn’t have. She was proud, courageous and innocent. He knew damned well she wasn’t promiscuous, shameless or wanton, but he had implied that she was and then treated her as if she was, and she had endured it and let him kiss her again.
Furious self-disgust poured through him. Bullied by her father, taken for granted, treated as less than a second-class citizen by Paul Marlow, and then told that she would have to marry him, Grant, little wonder she’d had enough of men and wanted her independence.
But none of this lessened the fury that ran in his veins. By making their sordid night of passion common knowledge and then turning down his offer of marriage she had humiliated and shamed him voluntarily, and no one did that. He hoped that when she left Oaklands on the morrow he would never have to set eyes on her again.
With courage and determination, Adeline sought her father out in his room. When his voice barked out for her to enter, she set her teeth on edge, inwardly trembling but outwardly calm, and entered his presence. She knew that he would have plenty to say when she told him she would not marry Grant Leighton, and she was not disappointed. He broke out into such a fury of anger that Adeline thought he might actually strike her.
What had possessed her to behave so wantonly? Had she no morals, no grain of sense or the slightest feeling of gratitude for all he had done for her? And if Adeline thought she had heard the last of it, she was very much mistaken.
And so he ranted on.
Adeline merely stood and felt the fierce scolding beat her like a stick. And yet, despite her wretchedness, she could not help noticing his own suffering at knowing all he had hoped for for his only daughter had crumbled into dust. Curiously enough, Adeline felt sorry for him, and with some degree of self-control she was able to apologise. She begged him to forgive her, and to try to understand why she could not marry either Paul or Grant. She had behaved extremely foolishly, and would never again be so selfish as to forget all he had done for her.
Her sincerity was as evident as her determination to stand firm on her decision. When her father realised this and spoke to her, at last his voice had lost its anger. On a sigh, his shoulders slumped with dejection, he told her that they would leave Oaklands for Rosehill as planned the following morning, where they would discover how seriously this unfortunate incident would affect her future.
Later, when Adeline was preparing for dinner, she sat in front of the mirror and looked at the image staring back as if she were seeing herself for the first time. When she had left her father, for the first time in her life she had begun to feel alive—but when she stared at the face looking back at her now, she knew she was in danger of losing her fragile newfound courage.
Attired in a plain beige dress, which seemed to drain the colour from her face, expensive though it was, never had she felt so drab. It did absolutely nothing for her. The fashion was for pastel silks offset by contrasting ribbons, beading, fringing, tassels and lace, in a style of gown that gave more emphasis to the back of the flat-fronted skirt, with complex drapery over a bustle trimmed with pleats and flounces.
As she surveyed her reflection she was far from satisfied with what she saw. On a sigh, she turned away.
Answering a knock on the door, her maid Emma opened it to admit Lettie, who breezed in and swept across the carpet to where Adeline was sitting. She perched on the end of the dressing table.
‘Ooh, why the frown, Adeline? Why so pensive? Do you not like your gown?’
‘Since you ask, no, I do not. But it’s one of my best.’
Lettie was wearing a forget-me-not-blue taffeta with trailing skirts, and she looked radiant. ‘You, Adeline Osborne, need taking in hand very seriously.’
‘I do?’
‘Most definitely. A visit to the dressmaker is what I advise—and someone to arrange your hair into a more flattering style.’
Adeline had the miserable notion that Lettie was right. She cast a surreptitious glance at the fashionable woman. Did she dare ask for guidance from her? Yes, she did—and she was willing to listen to any suggestions that would improve her looks.
Reading Adeline’s mind, Lettie laughed softly. There was an ease in their communication, as if their friendship were natural. ‘I will look forward to accompanying you to the shops, if you like. You must come and stay with me in London. I should love it if you could. You would be such good company for me, and I could introduce you to all my friends—when we’re not visiting the fashion shops.’
‘And I always thought feminists dressed in practical, unadorned clothes. You certainly don’t look like a Suffragette.’ This was true, and it was a conflict these women faced between the desire to be feminine in appearance and decrying what this entailed.
‘I always try to make the best of myself, and I see no point in denying the side of my nature which adores finery. I enjoy wearing glamorous clothes, and refuse to be ashamed of the feeling—nor to agree that wearing nice clothes is only to please men. Not for one minute would I think of donning any kind of feminist version of sackcloth and ashes just to resemble a caricature of what a feminist is supposed to look like.’
‘And do people take you seriously—looking as attractive as you do?’
‘Some don’t—especially people in authority. I confess that to look attractive is both a weapon—which I use to excess when necessary—and a hindrance. To be feminine is to be thought frivolous and empty-headed, and in my case,’ she said, her eyes dancing with mischief, ‘more than possibly wicked.’
‘I suppose if I wanted to make a mark at all it would not be for my beauty but my individuality.’
Lettie’s expression became serious. ‘There’s no reason why you can’t have both, Adeline. But, you know, beauty isn’t everything.’
Adeline smiled ruefully. ‘Beautiful
women always say that.’
‘But you are a very attractive woman—Grant must think so, too, considering the intimacies you’ve shared. If there’s one thing Grant’s not, it’s blind.’
‘But we’re not—I mean…’ Adeline hesitated, knowing she was blushing to the roots of her hair and wondering who could have told Lettie. She didn’t know how to say this. ‘We—we aren’t sharing a bed,’ she managed to whisper, thankful that Emma had disappeared into the dressing room.
Lettie frowned in puzzlement. ‘But when I spoke to Paul as he was leaving—and he was most irate, I must say—he accused you of doing just that. And when he told me that Grant had asked you to marry him—well, I assumed you were—conducting an affair, I mean.’
‘Well, we’re not.’
‘Adeline, I’m not trying to pry, but I know there must be more to this than meets the eye.’
‘Oh, Lettie, I just don’t know what’s going on.’ Adeline briefly described the circumstances of her involvement with Grant, omitting—for her pride’s sake and Grant’s—the fact that Grant had been blind drunk at the time.
At the end of the tale Lettie stared at her with a combination of mirth and wonder. ‘Goodness!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s too delicious for words. The two of you—and under Diana Waverley’s roof at that. How intriguing. And are you going to marry Grant?’
‘No, I’m not going to marry him, Lettie. It was a mistake. We both agree about that. And what he said about having asked me wasn’t true. He thought he was doing the honourable thing, that’s all.’
‘Knowing my brother, he will be filled with remorse for what he did while you were engaged to Paul.’
‘He did ask me—after he said what he did in the conservatory—but I said no. I told him my future from now on is my own affair.’
‘I see. Loss of respectability can be unexpectedly liberating, you know—although I’m sorry to hear you turned Grant down. I would love to have you as a sister-in-law. But if you’re not in love with him then you did right to refuse him.’ Glancing at her obliquely, she said, ‘You’re not in love with him, are you, Adeline?’
Wicked Pleasures Page 10
