by Mary Balogh
“Give me that chance anyway,” he asked her.
The music had stopped and the other couples were leaving the floor. Soon—in a very few moments—they would be conspicuous if they stayed where they were. And he knew that if she did not speak during those few moments it would be too late for him. He would have lost her.
“Very well,” she said. “But it is pointless.”
He smiled at her and drew her hand through his arm.
CHAPTER XXII
THIS WAS SO POINTLESS, MORGAN THOUGHT. The day had been an agony to her for the very reason that it had seemed so successful to everyone else. It had been a glorious celebration of her betrothal to Gervase.
It was a betrothal she must break the day after tomorrow when Freyja and Aidan were to leave Windrush. She must harden her heart against all arguments to the contrary. Yet she had agreed to give him this private time in order that he might try to persuade her to change her mind. And it was the middle of a cool, star-filled night when they had just waltzed together and she was raw with emotion.
She was almost sure she knew where he was taking her too, though she would not ask. She would not say a word until he did, and he seemed content with silence while they walked. She had expected that he would stroll on the lawns with her or perhaps take her down by the lake or maybe to the summerhouse, where they would be out of sight from windows in the house. Though secrecy was not necessary. He had announced that they were going out for a walk, and Aidan, though he had given them both a hard look, had remarked that it was unexceptionable for a betrothed couple to say good night to each other away from the prying eyes of their families.
Why had she changed into a serviceable day dress, which was covered up with a warm cloak, if she expected that this was to be just a very brief conversation in which he would attempt to use his charm to persuade her to stay and she would simply say no?
She was afraid of her own self-deceptions, her own weaknesses.
He had brought a lantern with him—an affectation while they were on open ground lit by moon and stars. But of course it was a great help along parts of the wilderness walk, when the sky was almost hidden above a canopy of tree branches. He held her by the elbow to steady her over the uneven ground. Apart from that, he seemed content not to touch her at all.
By the time they reached the grotto after scrambling up one slope and down another in darkness apart from light afforded by the lantern, Morgan was feeling very angry indeed—not so much against him as against herself. Did she not know him by now? Did she not know that he was pitting the power of his charm against the strength of her will?
Or was he? Had he changed since Brussels? But would she be a fool simply to forget what he had done to her there—particularly after Waterloo? It broke her heart to remember that week of tenderness, when he had seemed her dearest friend and had even become her lover. It had all been deception, all of it. She could not simply forget now.
She turned to face him as he extinguished the lantern light—it was no longer needed, since the moon was beaming down upon them and glimmering in a band across the water of the river.
“I suppose,” she said, realizing as she did so that she was standing on almost the exact spot where she had lain with him just a few days before, “you think these surroundings romantic enough that I will be seduced away from common sense and rational choice?”
The surroundings were romantic too—horribly so. Moonlight was sparkling off the stream of water arcing out of the cherub’s vase.
“I was wrong, then, chérie?” he asked her with an exaggerated sigh. “It is not going to be that easy?”
It was the sigh that did it. Could he never take anything seriously? Was he so sure of her? Or did he really not care at all?
“It is not going to be possible,” she cried, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “Do you not understand that, Gervase? You are handsome and charming and attractive. Of course you are. I would be foolish to deny it. It was those facts that made me fall in love with you in Brussels, even though I knew you were also a flirt and a rake. It was those facts that led me into such an indiscretion at Freyja’s ball and that led me into lying with you here a few days ago. But I know too the cynicism, the hatred, the cold calculation, of which you are capable. I know myself to have been your victim—right up to Freyja’s ball—perhaps right up to the present moment. How can I believe you when you say you love me, that you really wish to marry me? How can I believe anything you say to me? How can I ever trust you again? We might as well go back to the house without further ado and get some sleep. I am going away when my family leaves here. I am going to leave you and forget about you.”
He had gone to stand against the stone wall to one side of the grotto entrance. His arms were crossed over his chest.
“Chérie,” he said softly, “you agreed to give me one last chance to persuade you not to leave me, not to break my heart.”
Even now, she thought, he could be teasing her. How could she break his heart? Could he possibly love her that deeply? She was afraid to believe. She was afraid to hope.
She hated being only eighteen. She hated it.
“Very well,” she said, gazing at him with all the hauteur she could muster. “Talk away. But you will be wasting your breath.”
She turned and moved off a little way, stepping among the flowers, and set one hand upon a cold stone wing of the cherub.
“I cannot deny my guilt, chérie,” he said. “Although it was your beauty that first drew my attention, it was your identity that led me to seek an acquaintance with you. I meant mischief, and I caused mischief. I used you quite coldly and quite callously to annoy your brother.”
It still hurt to remember that picnic in the forest and to know that it had not been a mere outrageous, extravagant act of flirtation on his part but a calculated outpouring of hatred.
“But I liked you,” he said, “and began to realize—too late—that you were more than just his sister. I ought not to have involved you in something that concerned just him and me. But I make no excuses here. I am guilty and I am deeply ashamed.”
She stretched out one hand and held it for a moment in the stream of water coming from the vase. But it was cold. She drew back her hand and tucked it inside the folds of her cloak, drying it against her skirt as she did so. She tried to think of mundane things—what she would wear on the journey home, whether or not she would take her new painting supplies with her, whether she would go to Leicestershire or Oxfordshire or Cornwall—or whether she would simply go to Lindsey Hall and spend the summer with Wulfric.
“When I saw you at the Duke of Richmond’s ball,” he said, “I stayed away from you, chérie, until I saw you standing alone after the officers had all left. You looked upset and forlorn. You looked in need of comforting. And so I went to comfort you if I could. I went because you were you, not because you were his sister. I did not even think of that fact.”
“It was too late by then,” she said, bowing her head and closing her eyes.
“And then,” he said, “a few days later I saw you at the Namur Gates long after I assumed you were gone, dirty and disheveled and flushed and beautiful as you leaned over and tended a private soldier who had had half his leg blown away. From that moment on, from then until we landed together at Harwich, you were Morgan Bedwyn to me, and I came to like you and admire and respect you and even to love you, though I do not believe I fully recognized that last sentiment until later. You were not the Duke of Bewcastle’s sister in those days, chérie. You were yourself—and without my even realizing it, you became the focus of my whole world, the love of my heart. When you came to me in my rooms that evening, I ought not to have allowed our embrace to go so far, but I loved you and could think of no other way to take you into myself, to take away your pain. I did not even realize it was love I felt until later, but it was. I am guilty of what went before, mon amour, but not of anything that happened during those days. I was your friend and ultimately your lover.”
“You lie!” she cried. “You are lying to me. Don’t do this, Gervase. Don’t do it. I can’t bear it. And what about Freyja’s ball? If you loved me after Waterloo, if you were sorry for the way you had used me, why did you do as you did there? I cannot trust anything you say. I cannot trust you.”
She was crying then in noisy, agonized gasps and fumbled for a handkerchief with shaking hands. She hated watering-pots. She had never been one.
He kept his arms crossed over his chest. “I wish I could say I was as innocent then as I was in Brussels after Waterloo,” he said. “I cannot, though. I went to London to offer for you, but I will not pretend that it was only my love for you that occupied my mind when I faced Bewcastle in his library at Bedwyn House—I am not sure that even then I recognized that it was love I felt. I wanted to see his rage and enjoy it. And then afterward I could think only of ways by which I could force him to allow me to pay my addresses to you. It was only when it was much, much too late that I understood my true reason—not so much that I wanted to hurt him as that I could not bear to lose you. It happened in that small room at your sister’s ball, when I had meant simply to waltz with you but found myself kissing you. It was then that I understood and knew in a flash that I must get you out of there before scandal erupted. But even as I raised my head I was aware of Bewcastle standing in the doorway and of other guests strolling past or simply standing, staring. And so it was too late to find an honorable way of wooing and winning you.”
Morgan bowed her head and lifted both hands to cover her face.
“And so,” he said, “I come to the end of the only defense I can make—a poor one at best. I cannot ask you to forgive me, chérie—that would be too easy and too glib. I do not deserve forgiveness. I can only assure you—again too easy and too glib, I am afraid—that I love you with all my heart and would spend my life loving you and being your friend if I could. Only you can decide if you will forgive me. Or if you will trust me.”
She walked to the bank of the river and a few yards along it, away from the willow and the cherub. The landscape darkened suddenly, and she looked up to see that a small cloud had covered the moon. But even as she gazed upward it moved off and her face was bathed in moonlight.
She had told him that he must forgive his father or forever be burdened by the darkness of his hatred.
She had told him that he must forgive Marianne and Henrietta or forever be bowed down by the terrible hurt they had caused him.
She knew that he must forgive Wulfric—just as she knew that Wulfric must now forgive Marianne.
Hatred, grudges were a deadly poison to the soul.
She must forgive Gervase, then. But was forgiveness enough? Could she trust him?
But one could not always be without trust. What immeasurable harm one would do to oneself if one viewed every person in one’s life with cynical suspicion. And she was, she knew, in danger of becoming such a person. She had been hopelessly naive until very recently. Was she now to allow herself to swing to the opposite extreme? Was she to guard herself against future hurt—and in the process also deny herself present and future happiness?
Those final days in Brussels had been real.
He had liked and admired and respected her. He had searched for Alleyne for her sake. He had made love to her because he had wanted to share her pain and bring her comfort. He had been her friend. And her lover.
It had all been real.
When she turned to look back, he was standing exactly where she had left him.
She had sworn to herself that she would not be weak.
But was being intractable its own form of weakness?
She walked back toward him, still not sure what she would say. And so she said nothing. She walked right against him until she could set her face in the intricate folds of his neckcloth and feel the warm, solid strength of his body and his thighs against her own.
After a few moments she felt one of his arms come lightly about her while the fingers of his other hand stroked the back of her head through her hair. A few moments after that she felt his cheek come to rest against the top of her head.
“I am sorry, Morgan,” he said. “Ah, the inadequacy of words. I am so very, very sorry, ma chère.”
“If you had not seen me at the Cameron ball and discovered that I was Wulfric’s sister,” she said without lifting her face, “we would never have met, Gervase. And I would have hated that.”
He turned his head and kissed the top of her head.
“I do trust you,” she said. “I really do.”
He kissed her—softly and warmly—and she kissed him back with all the yearning of someone who had steeled herself to reject what she loved and who had discovered that the sacrifice was not necessary after all. And then he hugged her very tightly before letting her go. He stepped away from the grotto wall, took both her hands in his, and went down on one knee on the grass.
“Morgan.” He gazed up at her. “I love you for everything you are and will become. I admire you as a woman and as a person. I treasure you as a friend and companion. I love your intelligence and your artistic vision and your insights into life and spirit. I adore you as a lover. I would nurture your freedom for a lifetime if you will have me. And I would offer all that is the essence of my true self in return. Will you honor me by marrying me?”
It was terribly theatrical—and marvelously, soul-shatteringly romantic. He had said nothing about possession, nothing about not being able to live without her, nothing that would bind her except the marriage commitment itself. And love, whose bonds could only ever be freedom if it was real love.
“Yes,” she said.
Perhaps she ought to have said more. Perhaps she ought to have said something to match what he had said to her. But her chest and throat were sore with unshed tears, and somehow the one word encompassed everything there was to be said anyway.
Yes, she would be his friend. Yes, she would be his lover. Yes, she would be his wife. Together they would seek companionship and physical union and joy—and together they would nurture and cherish each other’s uniqueness and freedom.
He got to his feet, wrapped his arms about her waist, lifted her off the ground, and spun her about, tipping back his head and baying at the moon as he did so. She tipped back her own head and laughed.
It was a cleansing, heart-deep laugh that restored to her the treasure of her youth. Though he stopped it soon enough with a kiss.
“I hope you brought something with you to light the lantern again,” she said after a while. “The night is getting cloudy. It is going to be very dark on the wilderness walk.”
“That settles it, then,” he said. “We will solve the problem by not walking it until daylight, chérie.”
“It is cold,” she protested.
“But not for long,” he told her. “Lovemaking is warm business, and I do intend to make love to you—probably for most of what remains of the night. But though I had very little hope this morning, you see, I did not quite despair either. And so I prepared for what I hoped would be the ending of our private talk together—if I could persuade you into it. I brought some blankets very early this morning, before anyone was up, and put them inside the grotto. They are there now.”
She opened her mouth to speak, outraged by his presumption. But he waggled his eyebrows at her and then looked sheepish, and she found herself laughing again and wrapping her arms about his neck.
“This,” she said, “is probably not what Aidan had in mind when he permitted me to come out here to say good night to you.”
“Now there,” he told her, “I would wager you are wrong. He would have had to be stupid not to guess my intent, and I do not believe Lord Aidan Bedwyn is stupid.”
It was a startling idea to Morgan. Were betrothed couples really allowed such freedom?
But Gervase was already retrieving a pile of neatly folded blankets
from the grotto and spreading one of them on the grass. And then he was waggling his eyebrows at her again and opening his arms to her.
It was a cool, almost chilly night, and they did use the blankets, though only for brief spells while they caught their breath and allowed the world to slow to its regular speed on its axis again, as Gervase put it. For the rest of the night, until dawn grayed the eastern sky and even a little beyond that, they made hot, vigorous, joyful love and would have been warm even floating in Arctic waters on an iceberg—also according to Gervase.
They crept back into the house not long before the servants were up. Morgan heard them just before she fell asleep.
CHAPTER XXIII
MORGAN WAS THE FIRST ONE DOWNSTAIRS. She ought not to have started dressing so early. It was ridiculous really to imagine that dressing was going to take so much longer than usual merely because this was her wedding day. But perhaps she had not imagined any such thing. She had simply not been able to wait any longer. She was so excited and so nervous that she thought she might vomit if she dwelled upon the significance of the occasion.
She ought to have remained in her dressing room. She could remember how last year, when Freyja had wed Joshua, they had all crowded into her dressing room to comment on her appearance, to wish her joy, to hug her before leaving for the church so that they might be decently seated in the pews before she arrived with Wulfric.
But here she was downstairs, alone except for a silent footman who forgot himself for a moment when he first saw her and half smiled at her. The great hall of Lindsey Hall, which had been preserved as a medieval banqueting hall, had always been one of her favorite places in the world. She ran her hands over the smooth old wood of the great table as she walked around it, and gazed at the old banners and coats of arms and weapons hanging on the walls.
The enormity of what was happening hit her like a blow to the stomach. After this morning, Lindsey Hall would no longer be home. It would be Wulfric’s home, but not hers. She would never again be Morgan Bedwyn after this morning. She would come here in future only as a guest—as Lady Morgan Ashford, Countess of Rosthorn. She shivered and wondered for a moment if she really was going to vomit. It did not help, she supposed, that she was very probably with child. Certainly her courses, which should have come two weeks ago, still showed no sign of coming at all.
