by Mary Balogh
The embrace had happened of itself.
“Well, chérie,” he said. “Here we are.”
She came toward him and stood a mere two feet away, her eyes lifted steadily to his. Had he expected timidity? Blushes?
“If you are about to drop to one knee and make a picturesque scene of this,” she told him, “you may as well not bother, Lord Rosthorn. I want to know what happened nine years ago.”
Ah. Had Bewcastle told her, then—his version at least? It was altogether likely. What surer way was there to persuade her to reject his suit?
“There was an indiscretion with a lady, chérie,” he said. “I would tell you that it is nothing to worry your pretty little head over if I thought I could get away with it.” He smiled at her.
But she was not to be amused by that old joke.
“Answer me one question first,” she said. “Did you ravish her?”
Yes, of course, Bewcastle had been busy. Gervase turned back toward the fireplace.
“You want the simple answer?” he asked her. “I will give it, then. It is no. No, I did not.”
“I suppose,” she said, her voice trembling slightly, “I want more than the simple answer, Lord Rosthorn. If it was not ravishment, what was it, then? You were caught with the lady in hopelessly compromising circumstances. She accused you of forcing her. She refused your marriage offer. She retired permanently from society. I do know the facts of what happened, you see. I want you to explain to me how you could not have been guilty.”
He sighed and clasped his hands at his back. She now knew the worst, which was just as well. He did not really wish to marry her, did he? And it certainly would not be in her best interests to marry him. He had achieved what he had set out to do . . . and truth to tell, the victory was hollow. Revenge was a foolish, immature motive for any action. It never solved anything but merely deepened hatreds. Bewcastle had been a victim too. He sometimes forgot that.
He was aware though he did not turn that Lady Morgan had crossed the room away from him until she stood behind the desk, gazing out the window.
“I had known the lady for a long time,” he told her. “She was occasionally a neighbor of ours and a friend of my sisters and cousin. I suppose I was even a little infatuated with her after we grew up—she was rather lovely. But I never seriously considered wooing her. I was too young. Besides, I was a friend of Bewcastle’s—at least, I moved on the outer perimeter of his set, hoping to be admitted to the inner circle one day—and he began to pay court to her himself when Marianne made her come-out.”
“I never knew until today,” she said, “that Wulf had ever even considered marriage. I suppose he must have loved her.”
“Her father was a marquess,” Gervase said. “It would, of course, have been a splendid match for his daughter. He promoted it aggressively. Their betrothal was to be announced during a grand ball he hosted in the middle of the Season.”
“None of us ever knew about it,” she said.
When he half turned his head, he could see that she had sat down on the chair Bewcastle had vacated a short while ago.
“There was one problem, though,” Gervase said. “She did not wish to wed him. But he was a powerful man and so was her father. The marquess had overridden all her objections and threatened all sorts of dire consequences if she did not behave as she ought when Bewcastle paid her court, and if she did not accept when he offered her marriage.”
“How do you know this?” Her eyes met his across the room, wide with what might be anger.
“She told me,” he said. “She danced with me that evening and then, in the middle of the set, she drew me away from the ballroom, telling me that she must talk with me. She took me up to her private sitting room and poured out her heart to me. She was quite distraught. She told me her betrothal was to be announced after supper and then her marriage to the duke would be inescapable. She told me she would rather die. She begged me to help her.”
“What did you say?” Her nostrils flared and she set both hands flat on the desk.
“What could I say?” He shrugged. “I am not even sure I remember my exact response. I advised her to go immediately to both her father and Bewcastle, I suppose, to tell them quite firmly that she would not go through with the marriage. I do recall offering to go and have a word with Bewcastle myself even though I was hardly a close enough friend of his to presume to do this. The next thing I remember is waking up with a start when the door to her bedchamber crashed open and Bewcastle came thundering in, followed closely by her father and mine.”
“Her bedchamber?”
“I was lying on the bed,” he said, “in a thoroughly, shockingly disordered state of dishabille. So was Marianne. The bedcovers were tossed about as if a violent orgy had just been in progress over and under them. Marianne was weeping hysterically. I believe I was blinking like a bewildered moon calf.”
He had turned back to the fireplace and could not tell if she believed him or not. It was a pretty incredible tale, admittedly. That was why no one had believed him at the time—not that he had defended himself immediately. He had been paralyzed by shock and by his infernal code of gentlemanly honor. A gentleman just did not openly contradict a lady.
“Was it something that had happened by mutual consent?” he asked of the fireplace with a low laugh. “Or was it ravishment? I believe that at the time Marianne was too hysterical to give any coherent answer to the bellowed demands of her father, and I was not saying. I was too aware of the shocked, horrified stare of my father and the cold scrutiny of Bewcastle.”
“Which was it?” Lady Morgan asked sharply.
“I am firmly of the opinion,” he said, “that it was neither. I had not had a great deal to drink, but even if I had I would not have completely forgotten such an event, would I? Besides, if I had imbibed that much I daresay I would have been incapacitated even if I had felt amorously inclined. I suppose I was drugged.”
“By Marianne?”
He shrugged. “One does not accuse a lady of such a thing,” he said. “Or of lying when she finally got around to claiming that I had taken her by force. But if she did drug me, it was a spectacularly effective plan. There was, of course, no announcement that night or anytime after that night.”
He raised one arm to rest on the mantelpiece above his head. A strange marriage proposal, this. But then he supposed that he had been half expecting it. It was something of a relief to have it out in the open between them.
“All this would explain very well,” she said, getting to her feet and coming around the desk toward him again, “why Wulfric would hate you, Lord Rosthorn. But he says that you hate him? Did he believe you had done it out of hatred for him rather than love for her?”
He laughed softly and turned to look at her. Poor girl—she had been only a child when it had all happened. She ought not to have been dragged into it at this late date. Would he ever forgive himself? He doubted it.
“It really was like an atrocious melodrama, that scene,” he said. “Bewcastle left the room while the Marquess of Paysley was still blustering at his daughter and threatening to kill me, and while my father was assuring him that I would pay him a formal visit in the morning to make my own marriage offer. I left the room on Bewcastle’s heels, intent upon explaining the situation to him without calling Marianne a liar to her face, but he hurried downstairs ahead of me and Henrietta delayed me at the bottom. She was pale-faced and very nearly distraught and wanted to know what had happened. By the time I caught up with Bewcastle again he was in the hall, about to leave the house. He was surrounded by a number of our mutual friends, and of course there were numerous servants present and perhaps a few other guests too. I was beside myself with bewilderment and anger and mortification. I struck a pose and nobly invited Bewcastle to call me out if he wanted satisfaction.”
“You fought a duel?” Her eyes widened again.
“He looked at me,” Gervase said with another chuckle, “as only Bewcastle can, as if I were a l
ittle lower on the chain of life than the worm. He had his quizzing glass to his eye. He told me that he made it a rule to duel only with gentlemen. He added that he would take a horse whip to my hide if he saw me anytime soon after that night. And then he left and everyone else stayed—and stared accusingly at me.”
She gazed mutely at him for several moments.
“And then your father banished you,” she said. “Did you refuse to offer marriage to Marianne, then?”
“I was not given the chance,” he said. “Neither was she given the chance to refuse me. My father came to me the next morning while I was still in my dressing room. He had an open letter in his hand and a look of thunder on his brow like nothing I had ever seen there before—even the previous night. It was from Paysley, demanding the return of the brooch I had taken from Marianne’s bedchamber the night before. It was a priceless heirloom, it seemed, rarely taken out of the family safe, but given her to wear for what had been expected to be the occasion of her betrothal announcement.”
“No.” She frowned. “This of all else is ridiculous. You would have done no such thing.”
“Thank you, chérie.” He smiled at her. “But I had seen it. It was on the floor when I was about to leave the bedchamber. Bewcastle almost stepped on it. He stooped and picked it up and set it on a table—and then I followed him out. I told my father so the next morning and persuaded him to let me go to Bewcastle so that he might confirm my innocence. He was not at Bedwyn House. I found him at White’s, surrounded by basically the same group of mutual friends as the night before. I blurted out my request for all to hear, and he raised his glass to his eye again and asked if anyone knew the impudent puppy standing in the doorway. After that he ignored me and I slunk away—I was a very young and foolish man in those days, chérie. My father wrote to him, but he sent back only a very curt reply claiming that he knew nothing of any brooch. And so, you see, my disgrace was compounded. I stood accused and condemned as a ravisher of innocence and as a dastardly thief. My father did what he felt he had to do.”
She stared at him for a very long time.
“I believe you,” she said at last. “I believe Wulfric too. He saw and heard what seemed incontrovertible proof of your guilt, though it does seem spiteful of him to have refused to give you the alibi you needed over the matter of the brooch. I suppose he thought to punish you for what you had done to him. But I believe you were innocent.”
“Thank you, chérie.”
She did not resist when he possessed himself of one of her hands and raised it to his lips. She was the only one ever to have believed him. He felt strangely close to tears. She was also the very one he had betrayed.
“And so,” he said, “we return to the reason for my visit here this morning.”
“I would rather you did not ask the question,” she said.
“Would you, chérie?” he asked her. “You do not wish to marry me?”
“We ought not to consider marriage when the offer has been forced upon you and the answer upon me,” she said. “We ought not to let society dictate to us what we do with all the rest of our lives. It is absurd.”
“But perhaps,” he said, “society and I agree on this one issue.”
“It has all been too hasty,” she said with a frown. “Too much has happened within the past couple of months. You have been my friend, even though on one occasion we both allowed more to happen between us than we ought to have allowed. I feel an affection for you, Lord Rosthorn, and it seems to me that perhaps you return the feeling. But I want more of marriage.”
“Love?” He smiled ruefully at her.
“I want to go home to Lindsey Hall for the summer,” she said without pursuing the topic further. “I believe you want to return to Windrush to resume the life of which you were robbed nine years ago. We should both do what we wish, unencumbered by a commitment we may regret.”
He was to be set free? Where was the elation he ought to be feeling?
“And next spring?” he said. “We will meet again?”
“Perhaps,” she said. “Perhaps not. The future must be allowed to unfold in its own way. I thank you for coming, Lord Rosthorn, but I beg you not to ask your question. I could not bear to say no, you see, when I like you so well, but I would be compelled to do so nonetheless.”
“Chérie.” He still had her hand in his. He raised it to his lips again and held it there. He tightened his hold on it as he closed his eyes. “You break my heart.”
And the foolish thing was that he felt as if he spoke the truth.
There was a light tap on the library door before either of them could say more, and it opened to reveal Lady Aidan Bedwyn, looking both apologetic and embarrassed.
“I do apologize,” she said. “Wulfric was determined to come back in here since you have been alone together for longer than he thinks appropriate. I persuaded him to allow me to come instead. I shall sit in the farthest corner with a book and become both deaf and blind. Please ignore my presence.”
Lady Morgan had withdrawn her hand.
“There is no need, Eve,” she said. “Lord Rosthorn is leaving.”
Lady Aidan looked at him inquiringly. “He will not come to the drawing room for refreshments?” she asked.
He bowed. “No, ma’am, I thank you,” he said. “I must leave.”
“Oh,” she said, “I am so sorry.”
“You need not be,” Lady Morgan assured her. “We part on amicable terms, Eve. Lord Rosthorn and I are friends.”
There was nothing to do then but bow to the two of them again and take his leave. As he drove his curricle out of the square a few minutes later, a free man again, Gervase doubted he had felt more wretched in years.
CHAPTER XVI
NOBODY SO MUCH AS MENTIONED THE NAME of the Earl of Rosthorn. It was as if he had never called, as if he had never been expected to come with an offer of marriage.
Everyone was determinedly cheerful. Eve and Aidan were planning to return home within a few days. They wanted Morgan to accompany them.
“We may go to the Lake District for a few weeks,” Eve added. “We were going to go last year if you will recall, Morgan, but we went to Cornwall instead when it seemed that Joshua was in need of our support. This year we will try again. We would love to have you accompany us, would we not, Aidan?”
“The children would be delighted too, Morgan,” he told her.
Freyja and Joshua came during the afternoon. Somehow they must have learned that there was no betrothal.
“We are going home the very moment the parliamentary session is over,” Freyja said. “No physician here has had any success in persuading me that I suffer from morning sickness or any of the other delights that would surely accompany my condition if I were a properly genteel lady. Besides, we both long for Penhallow—and there will be Chastity’s wedding to organize. Come with us, Morg? You can do more of that painting you longed to do there last year.”
“Do agree, Morgan,” Joshua added with a grin. “Perhaps you will have a restraining influence on my wife, who will otherwise be climbing cliffs and rowing fishing boats and otherwise sending me into a daily fit of mortal anxiety. It must be remembered that we are both in a delicate way these days.”
Wulfric announced his intention of returning to Lindsey Hall as soon as the session was over.
“Now that you are out, Morgan,” he said, “you will be able to make and receive calls and relieve me of some of my social burdens—unless you decide to go to the Lake District or Cornwall for the summer instead, of course.”
None of which social burdens had ever seemed to bother him before, Morgan thought.
“It would seem,” she said, “that I have so many choices I will find myself paralyzed by indecision.”
But all the plans for involving her in busy activity were future ones, she noticed. There was absolutely no mention of morning rides in Hyde Park or shopping expeditions on Oxford Street or Bond Street or visits to the library or any of a number of other acti
vities that would have been quite unexceptionable even in her mourning state.
She was, of course, in absolute disgrace. Not only had she behaved badly in Brussels and with a vulgar disregard for her name and rank—to quote Aunt Rochester—here in London, but now she had also refused to make amends in the only socially acceptable manner. She had refused to marry the Earl of Rosthorn.
Why had she done so?
It was a question that nagged at her for the whole of the rest of the day. She believed that she loved him. After hearing his account of what had happened nine years ago and realizing the terrible injustice under which he had been living for nine years, she had been even more sure of her feelings.
Why had she refused, then?
Had she expected him to be more persuasive, to assure her much more forcefully of his love for her? But she did not play games like that.
Perhaps she had been right, she thought, after excusing herself early from an evening with her family in the drawing room. She allowed her maid to prepare her for bed and then sat in the window seat in her bedchamber, as she had during the morning, her arms wrapped about her raised legs.
Perhaps she had been right to do what she had done. There had been altogether too much turmoil in her life this spring. How could she make a rational decision about something as momentous as marriage? And perhaps she did not really love him. Perhaps it was only friendship and gratitude after all—and sympathy.
She could hardly remember that encounter in his rooms in Brussels. It had been wild and passionate and shocking—and intensely satisfying at the time. And even now her insides performed strange somersaults at the memory that she had been with him in that way. But had that been love? It really had not been, had it? She had needed comfort and he had given it—because they were friends and perhaps a little dearer to each other than friends.
