by Mary Balogh
“Lady Morgan,” he said earnestly, “tomorrow I will be gone to join my regiment. I beg that you will grant me the favor of one kiss before I leave.”
She might perhaps have drawn the line at that since she had no wish to be kissed by Captain Lord Gordon, but he did not wait for an answer. He drew her almost roughly into his arms, lowered his head, and kissed her hard. His lips pressed urgently, closed and hot and dry, against her own, bruising the flesh inside against her teeth.
Such behavior would normally have drawn a blistering set-down and a ringing slap across the cheek from Morgan. But not tonight. Tonight, at this moment, she was on the verge of tears, all her gaiety dissipated. She grasped the stiff fabric of his coat at the point where the sleeves met the shoulders and kissed him back with all the tenderness she felt for all the men who might die tomorrow or the next day in the stupid, deadly male game of war.
She was terribly aware of his warmth, his aliveness, his eager youth.
“Lady Morgan,” he said with hot intensity when he released her mouth, “permit me, I beg you, to have the honor of fighting for you when the battle comes, to know that you wait for me, that you care for me.”
He was asking for some promise, for something that of course she could not give. But how could she say a firm no, silly as his words would have sounded to her under ordinary circumstances? These circumstances were by no means ordinary.
“Of course I care,” she told him, gazing earnestly at him. “Oh, of course I do.”
“Permit me to know,” he begged her, grasping her right hand with both his own and pressing it to his heart, “that you will grieve for me if I die, that you will mourn me and wear black for me for the rest of your life, that there will never be another man for you. Permit me to know this.”
“Of course I would grieve,” she said, beginning to feel uncomfortable. “But please do not talk of dying.”
He drew her to him again, his arms even more fierce this time. But before he could lower his head to hers, someone grasped the handle of the door from the other side and pulled it closed. Their private little nook was private no longer. He released his hold on her.
“We must return to the ballroom,” she said. “Your mama will be wondering where I am.”
He drew her arm through his, set his free hand over hers, and squeezed it hard.
“Thank you,” he told her as he led her back to the ballroom. “You have made me the happiest of men, Lady Morgan.”
He believed, she thought, shocked and dismayed, that they now had an understanding, that they were just one step away from a betrothal. But she would not—could not—disabuse him. There would be time enough to do that when he came back from battle.
If he came back.
The noise in the ballroom, though as loud as before, had a different quality to it even though they had been gone for only a few minutes. There were already noticeably fewer uniforms present. Most of the officers who remained were not dancing, though the orchestra was still playing the set of waltzes. They were either in serious-looking groups or were taking their leave of family and friends.
“We have been ordered to leave now, without delay,” Major Franks explained, catching Lord Gordon by the sleeve. He smiled and inclined his head to Morgan. “Nothing to worry your pretty head about, my lady. We will be back to waltz with the ladies again within the week.”
Morgan heard a ringing sound that could not be coming from the orchestra or anywhere outside her own head. The air she inhaled felt suddenly cold in her nostrils. But she pulled herself together with a determined effort. This was not the time to indulge in her first ever fit of the vapors. She had wanted to come to Brussels, to be a part of history, to be in the thick of the action. She had wanted to know all about it firsthand.
Now that knowledge was almost overwhelming. She wondered if future generations would learn about the Richmond ball and wonder how military men and their women and families could have danced and made merry on the eve of such disaster.
“You must go to your mama immediately,” she said briskly to Lord Gordon, noting the chalklike paleness of his face.
AMAZINGLY, THE BALL CONTINUED DESPITE THE FACT that the Duke of Wellington did not stay long and had apparently admitted that they were off to war the next day, and despite the fact that the officers began to slip away to rejoin their regiments until very few remained.
Gervase saw Lady Morgan Bedwyn off on her own at one side of the ballroom, not dancing and not with her chaperon either. She was fanning her face and looking almost as pale as her gown. Her earlier smile and sparkle had deserted her. After a moment’s hesitation he made his way toward her and offered her his arm without a word.
“Oh, Lord Rosthorn,” she said after looking up at him with blank eyes for a moment. She tucked one slim hand through his arm. “I thought Lady Caddick and Rosamond would need to be alone together for a little while. They are in a great deal of distress.”
“Permit me to escort you to the refreshment room and procure you a glass of something to drink,” he suggested.
“Lemonade would be good,” she said. “No, water. Water would be better.”
He could smell violets again. Her hair was dotted with pearls. Small pearls had been sewn into the fabric of her gown, about the low neckline and at the hems of her short sleeves and skirt. She looked exquisitely lovely—and uncharacteristically fragile.
“Will they all be killed, do you suppose?” she asked.
“No,” he said gently.
“It was a foolish question,” she said. “Some of them will be killed. Many of them.”
“Yes.”
“I suppose my brother Aidan was called to battle like this a dozen times or more,” she said. “I am glad now that I was never there, though being at home in ignorance and imagining the worst can be almost as bad. I thought I wanted to be here for this, even needed to be here. It promises to be a truly historic event, does it not? If Napoléon Bonaparte wins the battle, his comeback will be spoken of with awe for generations to come. If he loses, the Duke of Wellington’s fame may well live through the ages.”
He wove a careful path around other guests and led her to the refreshment room, where he fetched her a large glass of water. There were a number of other guests there, all men, gathered together in urgent conversational groups. He took her through into a small anteroom, where a few tables had been set up with chairs ranged around them. There was no one else in there, and of course it was improper to have her alone thus, without her chaperon’s knowledge and consent. But propriety—or its absence—was the furthest thing from his mind tonight. She needed sympathetic company, he thought. She looked badly shaken. He seated her at a table, set the glass before her, and took the chair opposite hers.
“And does Captain Lord Gordon mean as much to you as Lord Aidan Bedwyn, your brother?” he asked.
She looked directly at him but did not admonish him for impertinence as she had on a previous occasion.
“He is a young man with vitality and dreams and hopes,” she said, her dark eyes luminous. “He is dear to his family—and to himself. And yet he is caught up in this madness that humanity seems prey to. He kissed me before he left and begged me to wait for him and to grieve for him if he dies.”
“Ah,” he said. He wondered if she would awake tomorrow to the embarrassing memory of having confided something so intimate to a gentleman who was little more than a stranger to her. But then it was unlikely she would sleep tonight.
“How could I possibly have said no?” she asked him. “It would have been selfish, mean, cruel.”
“Did you wish to say no?” he asked her. He had often wondered if she felt an affection for the boy. He was unworthy of her—a conceited young stripling who showed no sign of growing up into a mature man.
“Such questions ought not to be either asked or answered on a night like this,” she said. “Emotion rules tonight. But the choice of a spouse is a serious business, is it not?”
“Is it?” he
asked softly. It was something he had not thought about, for years, at least.
“Marriage is for life,” she said. “I have always been determined not to choose hastily and not to allow my hand to be forced. It is very easy to fall in love, I believe. It is a highly emotional state. I am not so sure it is as easy to love.”
“Love does not involve the emotions, then?” he asked her with a smile.
“It is not ruled by them,” she told him. “Love is liking and companionship and respect and trust. Love does not dominate or try to possess. Love thrives only in a commitment to pure, mutual freedom. That is why marriage is so tricky. There are the marriage ceremony and the marriage vows and the necessity for fidelity—all of them suggestive of restraints, even imprisonment. Men talk of life sentences and leg shackles in connection with marriage, do they not? But marriage ought to be just the opposite—two people agreeing to set each other free.”
“Many married gentlemen with their mistresses and married ladies with their cicisbeos would applaud your opinion, chérie,” he said.
But she looked at him gravely. “You have not understood,” she said. “Anyone who does not intend to keep sacred vows should not make them. Married couples should set each other free to live and learn and find personal fulfillment. They are not two sides of a coin or two halves of a soul. They are two precious individual souls who have joined their freedoms to make something more glorious, more challenging, of their lives.”
He was not sure whether to think her foolishly idealistic or wisely mystical. But he was fascinated by her. He had not expected that they would have a conversation like this tonight of all nights.
“You wish to love the man you will marry in this grand way, then, chérie?” he asked her.
“Yes.” She looked directly at him again. “I do not need to marry for money or position, Lord Rosthorn, or even for security. I would rather wait another five or ten years—or even forever—than marry the wrong man. Though I would hope the wait is not forever.”
Would the typical very young lady make much of a distinction between being in love and loving? he wondered. Would many ladies of any age state categorically that love and possessiveness could not exist together? He had not even made that leap of understanding himself. She was right, though, was she not? Would there be so many unhappy marriages if there were no such distinctions?
“It is a tradition with my family,” she explained, “that love be the guiding force of our marriages. Our men are not expected to employ mistresses after they are wed.” Her direct gaze did not waver. “They are expected to love their wives and remain true to them. The expectation applies to Bedwyn women too.”
He smiled. “And are any of your brothers and sisters married?” he asked. She had mentioned a sister-in-law once, he seemed to recall.
“Three,” she said.
“The Duke of Bewcastle is one of them?” he asked. He had not heard of Bewcastle’s marrying. But how would he have heard it? He was not up-to-date on all British news and gossip despite these weeks he had spent in Brussels becoming reacquainted with several old friends and acquaintances.
“No.” She shook her head. “Aidan is married and so are Rannulf and Freyja—all last year.”
“And they were all love matches?” he asked.
“They are now,” she said with conviction. “Rannulf and Judith have a new son.”
Had Bewcastle loved Marianne? Gervase wondered suddenly. Had he been prepared to love her all his life? To remain faithful to her? He doubted it. It had always seemed to him that Bewcastle was incapable of love.
“And you do not love young Gordon as you would wish to love a husband?” he asked her. “And yet you did not say no to him tonight?”
“I did not quite say yes either,” she told him, “but I doubt he noticed. I will have to say a firm no when he returns.”
“He will be disappointed,” he said.
“He would be more so,” she told him, “if I married him. I do not believe I would be an easy woman to live with, Lord Rosthorn, even if I loved with all my heart. Captain Gordon does not love me. He loves the idea of me—a duke’s daughter who has just made her come-out and is very wealthy. There is nothing else.”
She was doing herself a gross injustice, he thought. But she looked up at him suddenly, her eyes stricken.
“He may die,” she said. “How stupid all this is, Lord Rosthorn. Stupid and deadly serious. How could I have sent him away with the truth ringing in his ears? I allowed him to believe that I feel as he does, that I will wait for him, grieve for him for the rest of my life if he does not return. And perhaps I will too. Who knows?”
Her eyes filled with sudden tears.
He reached across the table and set one hand over hers. She turned her own beneath it and clasped his hand tightly while she dashed at her tears with her free hand.
“I do not want this to be happening,” she said fiercely. “Any of it. Can no one understand that war solves nothing? There will always be war, always in the name of freedom and peace. How can there be freedom when men die senselessly? How can there be peace when men have to fight to attain it? Humanity will always run in pursuit of those two desirable states and never ever find them.” She looked at him with flushed cheeks and passionate gaze.
Two couples entered the room, took one look at them—and at their clasped hands—and backed out with muffled apologies. Lady Morgan appeared not even to notice.
“I daresay,” he said, “Caddick will take you away from Brussels in the morning. Within a week or so you will be back in England with your family and life will seem less tumultuous again.”
“It will not,” she said. “Please do not patronize me, Lord Rosthorn—not you of all people. I would rather stay here. I would rather know. I would rather suffer with everyone else. But even if the Earl of Caddick does not insist that we all leave, Alleyne will. He has been in Antwerp, but he will return tomorrow. He told me before he left that he would insist I leave then if the situation had not improved. It has worsened.” She sighed. “What will you do, Lord Rosthorn?”
“Stay here,” he said. “I am not a military man, but perhaps there will be some way in which I can make myself useful.”
“That is what I would like to do,” she said. “I would like to make myself useful. You cannot imagine how helpless one feels as a woman in a situation like this—or in a thousand other circumstances, for that matter. But I daresay I will be leaving here tomorrow.”
“I am on the Rue de Brabant,” he said, and he gave her the house name. “If by any chance you have need of me, will you send for me?”
She half smiled at him.
“Because I am too weak to manage on my own? But it is a kind offer and I thank you for it.” She looked down at their clasped hands, seemed to notice the connection for the first time, and slid her hand away to rest in her lap. “I believe I have been prattling. I tend to do that when I feel passionately about an issue. I feel passionate about war. It would seem strange, then, would it not, that I felt constrained to come here to Brussels even though my brother did not wish to give his consent? We ought not to be here alone, ought we? But nothing is as it should be tonight. Will you escort me back to Lady Caddick?”
He stood and offered his arm.
“The wars will be over,” he said, “at least for a while. And your dream of love will surely come true in time, chérie. You will be happy again.”
She laughed softly. “Is that a promise, Lord Rosthorn?”
“Ah, but dreams cannot be captured with promises,” he said. “Like water, they elude our grasp. But water is the staff of life. I believe your dream will come true if only because you will not compromise on it and let it go too lightly.”
She laughed again. “I have not even asked you about your dreams,” she said. “How unmannerly of me!”
“I am far too old for them,” he said as he led her back into the ballroom, sparsely populated now.
It was perfectly true. He had dreamed powerf
ul dreams as a very young man, and he had fully expected that most of them would come to fulfillment. But his youth had come to a premature end nine years ago. He had lived firmly within the realm of reality since then.
“But you must have dreams,” she told him, “or life loses its focus, its passion, its very meaning.”
Was that what had happened to his life? he wondered.
Lady Caddick was on her feet, watching their approach with an air of distraction.
“Ah, there you are, Lady Morgan,” she said. “We are ready to go home.”
Lady Rosamond Havelock at her side looked as if she had been weeping. She cast herself into Lady Morgan’s arms, and they hugged each other tightly.
CHAPTER VI
ON THE MORNING AFTER THE DUKE OF Richmond’s ball, there was a general exodus from Brussels to Antwerp of those foreigners not connected with the military. By midday the roads were clogged with them and with their carriages and horses and baggage carts.
The Caddicks and Morgan were not among them. Rosamond had awoken with one of her infrequent but crippling migraine headaches. It was indeed more than a headache—it half blinded her, caused nausea and numbness down her left side, and made light and even the slightest sound or movement quite intolerable to her. Despite all the danger of remaining in Brussels and despite the urgings of her husband, who had never suffered from migraines as she herself had and therefore could not imagine how totally incapacitating they were, Lady Caddick remained adamant. Rosamond must remain where she was—quietly shut up in her bedchamber—until the worst of the indisposition was over. Sometimes these bouts lasted for three, four, even five days.
Lord Caddick offered to find someone willing to chaperon Morgan and take her to safety, but she assured him that Alleyne would be back from Antwerp soon and would make suitable arrangements for her himself.
