by Mary Balogh
She desperately wanted to believe him. But yet again she was painfully aware of her youth and his greater experience. She had been so totally, so blithely, unaware of his motives just a short while ago. She would not be so easily caught by her own naïveté again.
“I was glad to see you too,” she said. “But I thought that perhaps you would be angry with me.”
“Angry?” He tipped back her chin with one finger and gazed down at her. “When you have been the angel of my life?”
Ah, no. That was a little too extravagant, she thought.
“Have I been?” She sighed and burrowed her head against his shoulder again.
“Always, chérie,” he said. “My angel of beauty and grace, my angel of mercy and compassion, my angel of love.”
She sighed again and feathered light kisses along the underside of his jaw.
“Do you love me, then?” she asked him.
“I love you, ma chère,” he said, moving his head and speaking against her lips. “With every fiber of my being I love you.”
They kissed softly and warmly and then smiled into each other’s eyes.
“And you, mon amour?” he asked her. “Do you love me?”
She continued to smile.
“No,” she told him. “Actually I do not. Not even one little bit, Gervase. Tell me the rest of it. Will you be heartbroken when I leave?”
His eyes crinkled at the corners, and he looked genuinely, despicably amused.
“Of course, ma chère,” he said. “I daresay I will let my hair grow and go into a decline and expire, and you will come and weep over my grave and water the roses my mother will plant there with your tears. Or perhaps you will stand there and laugh in scorn and stamp out every blossom that blooms. Would you be so hard-hearted? Could you be?”
“Not at all,” she said, getting to her feet and brushing the creases from her dress before drawing her bonnet back on. “I would be totally indifferent. Someone would mention to me one day that you had died, and I would think a moment and then remark with a careless shrug that I had known you once. And then I would continue with what I was doing.”
He chuckled as he stood up. “You are developing into an accomplished liar,” he said. “But always and ever you are adorable. Shall we do the civilized thing and walk back to the house together even though I assume we have quarreled? But we must have a topic of conversation. The weather, perhaps? Ah, I have it. Let us speculate on what weather we may expect for tomorrow’s fete. Will it rain or will it shine, do you believe, chérie? And whatever will we do if it rains?”
She took his offered arm outside the summerhouse and proceeded along the avenue with him.
“You know very well,” she said, “that your mother has alternative plans for a rainy day.”
“Ah,” he said, “so much for that topic. It is your turn to choose one, chérie.”
FOR A WHILE DURING THE MORNING IT LOOKED AS if the countess’s alternate plans would have to be implemented. But by midday, not only had the threatened rain not materialized, but the clouds had moved off completely and the sun shone. The afternoon turned out to be pleasantly warm without being oppressively hot.
Everyone came to the Windrush fete from miles around. There were races, games of skill and strength, including an archery competition, and a cricket match on the lawns. There were boat races on the lake and then rides for the children with Aidan and Sir Harold at the oars. There were pony rides on the wide avenue between the lake and the summerhouse. There were tours of the ballroom—already decorated for the evening—and the portrait gallery for interested adults. And there was food and drink in abundance, to be consumed at small tables covered with crisp white cloths on the terrace or more informally on blankets out on the lawn or down by the lake.
Gervase mingled with his guests, making himself agreeable to even the humblest of them. So did Morgan, though mingling with the lower classes was something she was not accustomed to. She was reminded of the surprise she had felt last year when she went to Penhallow and discovered that Joshua, Marquess of Hallmere, actually treated all his servants and laborers and social inferiors as personal friends. She was reminded too of the long days and nights she had spent at Mrs. Clark’s, tending the wounded and understanding that class distinctions were just an accident of birth, that the soldiers who had come out of the slums of London, their English almost unintelligible to her, were as precious as any duke or marquess—or prince.
Morgan found that the women curtsied to her a great deal while the men bobbed their heads and pulled at their forelocks. Children stared, their eyes—and often their mouths—wide. But all of them smiled back when she smiled at them. And when she entered the archery contest, the other contestants—all men—actually cheered, and a large group of spectators, mostly women, gathered around to watch.
“I am horribly out of practice,” Morgan said as she bent the bow for her first shot. The target looked alarmingly small and far distant.
She did not distinguish herself though she had once been unbeatable at the sport—at least in the environs of Lindsey Hall. She did not disgrace herself either. Out of nine contestants, she placed third and won loud applause for herself in the process. She was flushed and bright-eyed as she moved away.
The three-legged race was about to begin, with seven pairs of children and one pair of adults—Gervase and Monique. They were cheered by the children and jeered by a few brave adults, who were also laughing good-naturedly.
Morgan laughed too after Joshua gave the signal to start and the adults shot into the lead and then fell with such a spectacularly awkward flailing of limbs and feminine shriek and male bellow that Morgan realized it was all deliberate. They staggered to their feet while the five surviving pairs of children bobbed past, then shot into the lead again, only to go through the same performance when they were within a yard of the finish line. Three pairs of children bobbed to victory and to a great deal of applause and laughter.
An arm came about Morgan’s shoulders, and Aidan hugged her briefly to his side.
“Happy?” he asked.
She nodded, smiling at him.
“I cannot get over how you have grown up,” he said. “Just yesterday, it seems, you were a girl. Now you are a woman and have fulfilled every promise of beauty you ever showed.”
“I hope you are as lavish in your compliments to Eve.” She laughed.
He nodded in the direction of Gervase, who was presenting prizes to the winners of the race and small coins to all the losers.
“You have made a good choice,” he said. “He is a good man.”
“Yes.” Morgan gazed at him, hatless and slightly disheveled, his face full of laughter and animation. “He is.”
“I was a little worried, I must confess,” he said, squeezing her shoulder. “We all were. That was why we agreed to come here—as moral support for you should you need it. I am glad you do not, but I am not sorry we came. You can be happy among these people, Morgan.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I can.”
“Uh-oh,” he said. “I see that Freyja is demonstrating to Davy how to throw the horseshoes. I wonder which of them intends to enter the competition. I had better go and see.”
It was later, after Morgan had taken Jonathan over to the ponies so that he could pet one of them and had then coaxed him to take a little ride while she held him, that the countess came upon her and linked an arm through hers.
“You have been so busy that you will have no dancing legs left for tonight, chérie,” she said. “Come and sit down on the terrace for a little while. How beautiful you look in primrose yellow. You look as fresh as the springtime.”
“You must be very pleased with the success of your fete, ma’am,” Morgan said. “Everyone appears to be having a wonderful time.”
“And it is all for you, chérie,” the countess reminded her. “For you and Gervase, in honor of your betrothal. It is easy to see that everyone loves him, as they always used to do and as I knew they would do a
gain. And everyone simply adores you. You must begin to call me Maman, rather than that oh-so-formal ma’am. Will you, ma petite?”
“Yes, Maman.” Morgan smiled at her as they sat at one of the tables and a footman hurried up to bring them tea and cakes.
Her revenge was going to be far more horrible than she had imagined when she first planned it, she realized. Doubtless she would be the one mainly blamed since she would be the one breaking the engagement—and she was the stranger. But there would be a great deal of humiliation for Gervase.
She just did not want to do it.
How foolishly impulsive she had been. It ought to have been enough to confront him there at Pickford House, to let him know that she knew, to force him to confess all to her. It ought to have been enough to force him down onto his knees to offer for her. There would have been enough triumph in looking scornfully down at him and saying no.
Except that he had fully expected that.
And except that, as she had told him, she had not yet been finished with him.
Was she now?
Would she ever be?
But there was no time to dwell upon her thoughts or her dilemma. There was the countess to converse with, and soon Freyja and Emma joined them as the guests began to drift away homeward.
THE BALLROOM LOOKED AND SMELLED LIKE A particularly luxurious garden, Gervase thought as he stepped inside it to look around and to consult with the orchestra, whose members were already seated on the dais at one end of the room, tuning their instruments. The flowers were all shades of purple and fuchsia and pink with lavish amounts of fern and other greenery.
The floral decorations were mostly Henrietta’s handiwork, he knew. She always had had an eye for color and design. Tonight she had outdone herself.
She had come to him this morning, early, even before breakfast, as he was returning from a walk. She had taken him by surprise by confessing her part in what had happened nine years ago. She had even offered to leave Windrush if he so desired, though she had not told him where she would go.
He had not been feeling kindly disposed toward her. But he had allowed himself to react from sheer instinct. He had crossed the room to her, caught her up in a tight hug that had clearly startled her, and told her not to be a goose, that it was time they put the past behind them and got on with their lives. And then he had grinned at her while she mopped at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Besides,” he had said, “Maman is determined to move to Cherry Cottage after my marriage. I daresay you will want to go there with her.”
“Yes, I will, Gervase,” she had said. “Thank you for your generosity.”
After his marriage.
Cherry Cottage was a small manor on the outskirts of the village that his father had leased to a retired army colonel, now deceased. His widow had moved away.
Henrietta had not offered any explanation of her motive in collaborating with Marianne to ensnare him, and he had not asked. He would not deny that the thought of the two of them as a couple shook him considerably, especially since they had caused him such enormous harm, but when all was said and done, what they were to each other was their business. It was certainly none of his.
His thoughts were distracted when the Bedwyns arrived in a body, both men in black with white linen, Freyja all in black, Eve in lavender. But in truth he had eyes only for Morgan, who looked magnificent in a gown of shimmering silver satin partly covered with a silver netted tunic. Silver chains were woven into her high-piled hair, and a silver locket half nestled into her décolletage. Her gloves and fan were white.
He was wearing the same silver, gray, and white clothes he had worn for the picnic in the Forest of Soignés. He had hesitated over the choice, since neither of them needed any reminder of that night. But it was a gamble he had decided to take. Dealing with the past certainly did not involve denying it. That would solve nothing.
He hoped—he desperately hoped—that they could deal with the past.
He bowed to her and took her hand to raise to his lips. She smiled brightly back at him while her family members looked on as well as his own, who were coming into the ballroom on the heels of the Bedwyns.
“Goodness,” Freyja said, “you two look very dashing together.”
The outside guests began to arrive very soon after that. Gervase greeted them in a receiving line with his mother and Morgan. Morgan had met them all before, but he was impressed at the way she remembered names and a few details about each. It was very obvious that everyone admired her greatly, not just because she was beautiful and not just because she was the sister of the Duke of Bewcastle, but because she was poised and gracious and charming.
Her revenge, he thought, was going to be colossal indeed.
If he could not talk her out of it, that was.
As his mother had predicted, the ballroom was pleasantly filled after everyone had arrived—including Marianne Bonner with her elderly aunt, Mrs. Jasper—but was by no means a grand squeeze. He opened the dancing with Morgan, performing a merry romp of a country dance with her. They both danced with a series of different partners after that and took supper at different tables. It was all very correct behavior, of course, but even by the strict rules of a London Season he was permitted to dance twice with the same partner. He had instructed the orchestra to play the one and only waltz of the evening after supper.
“Chérie?” He bowed over Morgan’s hand as she stood talking with a group of their neighbors. “You will waltz with me?”
She set her hand upon his sleeve without a word and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.
“You are wearing what you wore in the Forest of Soignés,” she said. “I thought then that you chose such pale colors because most of the other gentlemen would be wearing scarlet coats.”
“Exactly right, chérie,” he said. “Who would want to pale into insignificance at his own entertainment?”
“I am surprised you would wear the same clothes tonight,” she said.
“Are you?” he asked, dipping his head a little closer to hers as he drew her into his arms in anticipation of the opening bars of the music. “And are you surprised that I have asked you to waltz with me? The last time was at your sister’s ball in London—alone together in an anteroom. The time before was at my picnic—alone together for a few minutes before a hundred or more pairs of eyes. And before that at Viscount Cameron’s ball, where we met.”
“I hardly need to be reminded,” she said. “But I am glad I have been. It will make things easier tomorrow or the day after when Eve and Aidan and Freyja and Joshua leave here and I decide to go with them.”
The music began, and he led her slowly into the opening steps of the waltz.
“Will you, chérie?” he asked her, his eyes steady on hers. “Leave with them? Leave me? Never to see me again?”
“You know I will.” She tossed her head back but would not remove her eyes from his.
He pressed his hand more firmly to the back of her waist and swung her into a twirl, lengthening his steps as he did so.
She laughed with delight.
He had even told the orchestra leader what tunes to play. He could see suddenly from the arrested look in her eyes that she recognized the one playing now. It was the very tune to which they had waltzed that first time.
They danced in silence, not once removing their eyes from each other. He danced her in and out among other couples, slowly, faster, twirling and spinning until he could feel the smile on his own face and see the color rise in her cheeks and the sparkle deepen in her eyes.
It was only after the music was ended that they spoke again.
“You waltz so very well, Gervase,” she said, dropping her arms to her sides until the music would begin again. “As you do many other things well. You are an expert at flirtation and more than just flirtation. You swore that you would make me fall in love with you. That is what this is all about, I suppose. Just as it was that very first time. So that you may manipulate me, turn me
from my resolve, defeat me even if you must marry me in the process. I am only a little older chronologically than I was in Brussels at the Cameron ball, but I am years and years older in experience. Sometimes I really hate you.”
“Hatred is an improvement on yesterday’s indifference, ma chère,” he told her. “Has it occurred to you that I try to make you love me because I love you?”
She shook her head impatiently and lifted her hand to his shoulder again as the music resumed.
“I will be leaving with my brother and sister when they go,” she told him again.
The trouble was, he thought, that she very probably meant it. Her pride would not let her change her mind. Neither would her newfound maturity and caution. She had been very badly hurt. And he had very little to offer in self-defense. Some, it was true, but not much.
It was no defense that he loved her with every ounce of his being.
They did not speak again until the set was drawing to its end. There was one set of country dances left, but they could not, of course, dance it together.
“Chérie,” he said, “come walking with me after this is all over?”
“Tonight?” She looked up at him with raised eyebrows. “Where? Outside?”
“Outside.” He nodded.
“Why? So that you may seduce me?” She gazed haughtily at him. “Are you mad?”
“Only desperate, chérie,” he said. “I am running out of time, and I can see that you are determined to harden your heart and punish me by deserting me. Let us talk. Give me this one chance to change your mind. On my gentleman’s honor I swear not to lay one lascivious finger on you without your permission. Give me this chance.”
“On your gentleman’s honor?” she said softly, her eyebrows arched scornfully. “But there is no chance that I will change my mind.”
She frowned, and for one moment he glimpsed something in her eyes that gave him hope despite her words—some doubt, some vulnerability, some hint of misery.
