‘And now, Marianne, there is someone very special I would like to introduce to you,’ said Luke. ‘Marianne – Miss Travis – may I present Mademoiselle Fancheau – Nicole.’
‘How do you do?’ The polite words, calmly uttered, cost Marianne every ounce of self control.
Although they sounded completely unnatural to her own ears, apparently they sounded perfectly all right to everyone else, because Nicole smiled prettily and said, ‘Enchanted,’ whilst Luke looked on with pride.
‘Nicole is –’ he began.
But he was interrupted by Jem Cosgrove’s cry of relief. ‘Marianne! There you are! Quick, or we shall miss the start.’
Jem, Marianne’s first partner for the evening, hurried into the hall looking harassed, and almost before Marianne had excused herself, he had whisked her into the ballroom and begun determinedly to dance.
As she caught sight of herself in one of the gilded mirrors that lined the ballroom, Marianne was relieved that he had done so. There were lines of strain around her mouth, and she felt that another minute of being polite to Nicole would have been more than she would have been able to stand. But now she could at least begin to recover herself. The steps of the dance were reassuring, the music soothing, and her strain began to gradually lessen. Now that she had been introduced to Nicole she would not have to speak to the young Frenchwoman again, she reasoned with herself. She need only avoid Nicole and Luke for the rest of the evening and all would be well.
Although that still did not explain Luke’s attentive manner.
Could it be, she wondered . . . but no. That was just wishful thinking. She had seen the look of love on his face when he had embraced Nicole, and Henri had seen it, too. “Young love, it is beautiful,” he had said. She must not make too much of Luke’s manner, which was most probably just the jubilant air of a man in love.
By the time the dance was over, she had recovered much of her composure, and a glass of punch gave her the strength she needed to move on to the next dance. Fortunately the ball was a formal one, and as she had deliberately filled in her card before the ball had begun she would not be forced to dance with Luke. Knowing him to be in love with Nicole, that would have been something she would have been unable to bear.
During the course of the evening she danced with almost every eligible young man in the neighbourhood, as well as many of the elderly gentlemen, and then with Jem again. She was about to dance with Lance Gutheridge when she saw him reeling towards the card room and realised with a sudden sinking feeling that the young fool had had too much to drink. Which left her standing at the edge of the dancefloor without a partner, and with Luke striding across the room towards her.
With an impoliteness born of desperation, she seized Jem, who happened to be passing by, and cajoled him into taking her onto the floor. It was highly irregular - she should not be dancing more than twice with any young man - but she had no choice. She could not bear to dance with Luke. To hear him speaking of Nicole, to listen to him telling her how happy he was – no, it was impossible.
She saw Luke’s look of frustration, but he could do nothing about it and fell back as the music began.
Marianne tried to look as though she was enjoying herself. She smiled and made an effort to entertain Jem with her conversation, but all the time she was afraid of what would happen when the dance was over. There had been a determined look on Luke’s face that told her she would not be able to avoid him for ever.
As the dance drew to an end she was relieved to see that Luke had been buttonholed by the Comte. She herself had had no opportunity as yet to speak to her godfather. She had wanted to greet him, for the Comte was her godfather as her own Papa was godfather to Adèle, but she had generously held back so that Adèle could have her parents to herself for a while. Once she had the opportunity, though, she meant to hug him and hold him and hear all about his perils in getting out of France, just as she wanted to talk to Marie-Anne.
But for now that would have to wait. The Comte was busy with Luke, and Marie-Anne was still chattering lovingly to Adèle.
Marianne, however, felt she could face no more company for a little while. Overcome by heat and fatigue, she decided to slip out of the ballroom. The musicians were tuning their instruments and she knew she would have a few minutes to catch her breath before the next dance began. The hall was cool, but it was also full of guests who were milling about with glasses in their hands, and Marianne felt a need for solitude. Her exertions to appear lively and at ease had taken their toll. She made for the library and slipped inside, glad to find herself alone.
She walked over to the bookshelves and began idly running her fingers along the spines of the well-loved books. But after a minute or two she began to be aware that there was someone in the next room. The library adjoined her father’s study, and the inter-connecting door between the two rooms was not properly closed. Not wanting to overhear a private conversation, she moved towards the door, meaning to close it fully, when her attention was caught by one of the voices. It belonged to her godfather, the Comte. A minute later she heard Luke’s voice. She stood, frozen, too surprised to move. Their conversation was becoming heated.
‘You must marry her,’ the Comte was saying. ‘By your own admission you ’ave compromised ’er -’
‘The circumstances were difficult,’ Luke was responding reasonably. ‘The situation made it impossible for us to have a chaperon –’
‘That is no excuse. If ’er father were ’ere ’ would tell you so ’imself. As ’e is not, I regard myself as taking ’is place. You must marry ’er. Your own conscience must tell you so.’
‘I’m not going to marry a woman I don’t love,’ growled Luke. ‘Particularly when I am in love with another.’
‘Pah! You must give ’er up. You must do the honourable thing.’
Marianne could bear it no longer. Her frozenness having left her, she crept back from the door. She had been intending to close it, but she feared she could not do so without drawing attention to herself, and in light of what she had just unwillingly overheard she could not face being discovered: her godfather, telling Luke he must marry her because he had compromised her. She could not bear it. Thank God Luke had refused. If he had proposed to her out of love it would have fulfilled her most precious desires, but if he proposed to her out of duty, because he had compromised her on board ship – she could not bear to even think about it.
She went over to the library door, but the sound of conversation from the hall outside made her loath to leave the room. She had privacy and solitude in the library, and just at the moment she needed them. She could take a few minutes to master her emotions before going back out into company.
After a little while she felt she could face her father’s guests again. She was about to return to the ballroom when the door opened abruptly and to her horror, standing framed in the doorway, was Luke.
‘So this is where you are hiding,’ he said with a smile.
‘Lord . . . Lord Ravensford,’ she said, trying to keep her voice even.
‘Lord Ravensford?’ he asked softly, coming into the room. ‘Marianne, we have gone far beyond that.’
‘Don’t . . . ’ she said, stepping back as he approached her. Surely he had not given in? she wondered, confused by his manner. Surely he did not now intend to propose?
‘Don’t what?’ he asked in surprise.
‘Don’t come any nearer.’
He halted, puzzled. ‘Why not?’
‘Because . . . ’
‘Yes?’
‘Because it would not be wise.’
‘Wise?’ He gave a wolfish smile and took a step towards her. ‘When have we ever been wise?’ The old, familiar seductive tone was back in his voice. He took her hands and kissed them, and with the greatest of efforts Marianne wrenched them away.
‘Don’t,’ she almost shouted at him.
He frowned. ‘Marianne . . . ’
‘No, Luke . . . Lord Ravensford . . . don’t.’
She took a shuddering breath to gather her thoughts and steady her nerve. If he proposed to her now she would break down, she knew she would. And so she said the first thing she could think of that would prevent it, at the same time leaving him to marry his real love - free to marry Nicole.
‘Did . . . did you not wonder why I danced with Jem Cosgrove three times this evening?’ she asked.
He gave a wry smile. ‘I can’t say I was counting.’
‘There . . . there is a reason.’ She hurried on before he had time to speak. ‘It is not permissible for a young lady to dance more than twice with the same gentleman, but you see, there is a reason for it. Jem has asked me to marry him. ’
‘Old news,’ said Luke with a predatory smile.
Marianne shook her head. ‘I mean he has asked me again, this evening,’ she lied. ‘And . . . I said “yes”.’
‘You said . . . what?’ The last word came out half amused, half incredulous. ‘Marianne, you can’t be serious. No, it must be a joke. Marry Jem Cosgrove? Throw away all your life and vitality on a bumbling creature like Jem – and no, don’t upbraid me for saying it. I know he is a good young man; decent; honourable; and I admire him for it. But he is not the husband for you, and you know it. You are teasing me . . . unless you have had too much to drink?’ he asked with a smile. ‘The punch is rather overpowering.’
‘Certainly not,’ she retorted, wishing he would not make it so difficult for her, and wondering why indeed he wanted to. She had expected him to be delighted at this way out of his predicament. ‘I fail to see why it is so impossible that I should marry Jem,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘He is, as you say, decent and honourable. He also comes from a well-established family, and would make any young lady a good husband.’
‘Dear God, you’re serious. What has happened?’
‘Luke?’ a musical voice came from the open doorway. ‘It is nearly time for us to go into supper, mon cousin.’
Marianne was about to turn away when she caught Nicole’s final words. ‘Mon . . . cousin?’
‘Yes, of course, mon cousin,’ said Luke in surprise. ‘You speak French, Marianne, you know what mon cousin means . . . ‘ His voice tailed away as he realised the implication of her words. ‘But that’s not what you thought, is it?’ he asked incredulously. ‘Dear Lord, you didn’t think Nicole was my cousin, you thought . . . what exactly did you think?’ he asked, his eyes becoming hard.
‘I thought . . . ’ She looked at him perplexedly, finding it too much to take in.
Nicole, all but forgotten by the doorway, realised that she had stumbled into an intimate conversation, and murmured, ‘I will wait for you in the ballroom,’ and discreetly left the room, closing the door behind her.
‘Yes?’ he demanded, his eyes kindling. ‘Just what the hell did you think?’
‘You have no right to speak to me like that,’ she said, her emotions a confused mix of relief, surprise, elation, and resentment, together with a whirl of other emotions that she could not begin to separate or understand.
‘I have every right.’ He was across the room in two strides, holding her by the arms, his eyes boring down into her own. ‘After all we have shared, you tell me I have no right to be angry when you think I presented you to my mistress?’
‘I never said that,’ she returned, pulling herself free and facing him, her own eyes kindling. ‘I never even thought it.’
‘Then what did you think?’ he demanded.
‘I saw your face, Luke,’ she said. ‘When I rode over to the Manor, when we were meant to be taking tea with you, I saw Nicole walk into the room, I saw you get up to greet her, I saw you hold her, I saw your face. I saw love in your face.’
‘You thought I was in love with her?’ he said, aghast.
‘What else could I think?’ she demanded.
‘You thought that when I took you in my arms over the last few weeks I was in love with someone else?’
‘Why not?’ she demanded, driven on the defensive. ‘You are anything but a gentleman. You told me so yourself.’
‘By God, Marianne, I may not be a gentleman, but I’m not a cur! I don’t go around seducing gently-reared young ladies for my own perverted amusement. What do you take me for?’ he demanded, his own hurt driving his anger.
‘I never thought that. You’re putting words into my mouth again!’
‘Then what did you think?’
‘I thought you were in love with her, but believed her to be dead. And then when she came back into your life . . . when you discovered that she had not gone to the guillotine, that she was safe . . . it was as Henri said, I couldn’t -’
‘Henri? What has he to do with all this?’
‘He was with me when I saw you. He told me he knew I had feelings for you, but that young love was a beautiful thing and that I couldn’t spoil your happiness. He said you thought you had lost Nicole to the guillotine -’
‘And you really think I would have abandoned her, if I had been in love with her? That I would have forgotten her because I thought she had gone to the guillotine? That I wouldn’t have gone over to France and found out for sure? That I would have been content to think that the woman I was in love with might be dead, and therefore I might as well forget her and move on to the next? My God, Marianne, what do you think I am?’ he demanded, his eyes filled with hurt.
‘You’re twisting things,’ she declared. ‘I thought -’
‘You thought I had so little loyalty in me that I would forget a woman I was in love with, who may or may not be dead, inside of three months, and make love to someone else – and then go back to the first, with never a word to the second, when I discovered quite by chance that she was still alive. Dear God, Marianne, it’s lucky I didn’t have a chance to ask you to marry me. With so little trust and understanding between us our marriage would have been a disaster.’
She was about to make a hot reply when the door opened and the drunken Lance Gutheridge wandered into the room. He stood by the doorway, clutching the knob for support, and looked at them with unfocused eyes.
‘Shouldn’t be here,’ he said in slurred speech. ‘Should be going into supper. Looking for you, Miss Travis. And you, too, Ravensford. You’ve been missed.’
‘Pull yourself together, man. You’re drunk,’ said Luke in disgust.
‘May be drunk, but at least I’m not having a lover’s quarrel at the top of my voice. Surprised the whole house hasn’t heard.’
‘This lover’s quarrel, as you refer to it, is at an end,’ said Luke bitingly. And without so much as one last look at Marianne he strode from the room.
‘Miss Travis?’ enquired Mr Gutheridge with a hiccup. ‘Time for supper. I’m to escort you in.’
Marianne, already seething with a deep sense of injustice, did not want to deal with her escort’s drunkenness, but unless she wanted to risk him making a scene she had no choice but to accompany him. Once seated at the supper table she knew he would not cause her any problems. She would be able to converse with her neighbours and leave the drunken Mr Gutheridge to the expert management of her father.
As she walked with him into the supper room, doing her best to keep him upright so that he should not disgrace himself, she was still a prey to a turbulent mix of emotions. How could Luke have said such things? she asked herself angrily. The joy she had felt when she had discovered that he was not in love with Nicole – although the discovery left her perplexed as to the meaning of the conversation she had unwillingly overheard between Luke and her godfather – had given way to a sense of deep injustice. How could he have left the room before she had had a chance to defend herself? The fact that Mr Gutheridge had interrupted them was no excuse. He had accused her of a lack of trust, and had then walked out before she had had a chance to speak. If he had ever told her that he loved her it would have been different. Then he would have had a right to be angry; then he would have had a right to accuse her of a lack of trust. But not as things stood. Not when he had never told her he loved
her. And he had not even told her now. Despite everything they had shared, no word of love had ever passed his lips. Even when he had been about to propose to her, she recalled, he had said nothing of love. How then could he blame her for having accepted the evidence of her own eyes? Especially when she thought of Henri's misleading words. And when she thought of the fact that Luke had done nothing in the intervening time to explain matters to her.
She felt a twinge of guilt as she realised that it was not fair of her to blame him for not having used the intervening time to explain. He had been looking for Adèle’s parents, and finding them.
Even so, to blame her so unjustly for her natural fears and anxieties and, after she had witnessed the unmistakeable look of love on his face when he held Nicole, to label them a lack of trust . . . it was something she found very hard to forgive.
She had by now entered the supper room. The tables gleamed with damask cloths; the crystal sparkled; the silver shone. But despite the brilliance of the scene she was aware of only one thing: Luke’s brooding presence at the other end of the table.
She tried hard to keep her mind on other things. She reminded herself that Tom and Trudie’s arms had been aching from polishing all the silver, and that Henri had put all his ingenuity into devising a sumptuous meal. She told herself this was Kit and Adèle’s evening, and that, no matter what her feelings, she must not show her distress. But no matter how lively the conversation around her, no matter how imaginative the soup or how succulent the rib of beef, she could think of nothing but Luke, and the estrangement that had grown up between them.
But there was nothing she could do about it. She could only laugh and smile, and pretend to be light-hearted and at ease, whilst all the while her smile was fixed and her stomach was tied in knots.
Chapter Thirteen
Marianne rose early. Despite the fact that she had only gone to bed six hours before she was not tired; rather she was filled with a restless energy that would not let her sleep. She had passed a troubled night. Spells of dozing had alternated with long periods of wakefulness, and whether waking or sleeping she had been plagued with memories of the perplexing conversation she had overheard between her godfather and Luke. What had been the meaning of it? she asked herself for what seemed like the hundredth time.
Anything But a Gentleman Page 19
