They stood still for a moment. All Anne could do was stare, rigid, as every trace of passion in her veins was abruptly flooded with ice.
Was Henry suggesting what she thought he was suggesting? That she be deliberately discovered in a compromising position with a notorious rake—a rake that she would have no choice but to marry, quickly and shamefully, with the entire ton united in gossip? Gossip that would taint, without a doubt, the spotless reputations of her sisters?
Her family would be finally, decisively ruined. Eustace, an inoffensive man who had never openly insulted her, would suffer a grievous insult to his dignity. And she, Anne Hereford, would be trapped in a union with a man who had gleefully imagined ruining her.
There was a difference between a private moment of passion, to be kept secret forever, and a sordid encounter meant to be publicly displayed. If Henry couldn’t see that, then she could not possibly continue… however much, deep down, she wanted to.
Suddenly cold, her thighs in danger of splintering on the greenhouse table, she pushed Henry away with a firmness that surprised her. As he stood with his hands raised, his face full of confusion, Anne stood abruptly.
‘Leave me.’ Her voice shook with anger. ‘Immediately.’
‘I… forgive me, but what have I done?’ Henry raised an eyebrow. ‘Or rather—what have I done incorrectly?’
‘How dare you suggest such a… such an arrangement? Have you forgotten the three innocent women I share blood with, whose conduct would be judged as harshly as my own?’ Anne held up her hand, silencing him before he could speak.’ Did you honestly think that I would ruin my own reputation, not to mention irrevocably mar the reputation of my sisters, in order to be released from a union I no longer find supportable?’ She clenched her fists, her rage fighting with the shame she felt building in her breast. ‘Did—did you really think I would marry you? A gentleman famed for his inconstancy, not to mention his lack of respect for the vows of wedlock?’
‘Well I—yes, but—but would that really be such a tremendously awful fate, compared to marrying the awful sop I saw staring at the Cartwright girl for half the night?’ Henry’s face stretched into an incredulous smile. ‘I would think being married to rake who is mad about you would be somewhat easier than—ow!’
He reeled back, shocked, as Anne slapped him square in the jaw. Frightened at what she had just done, but at the same time far too angry to apologise for it, she stood with folded arms and what she hoped was a disapproving expression.
‘I—I’ll have you remember that you kissed me, when I kissed you.’ Henry rubbed his jaw, his voice darkening. ‘With what felt like a high degree of agreeableness.’
‘Yes, I did kiss you. I kissed you because I cannot help but feel that my life as a married woman is going to be unsatisfying in the extreme—I’m sure you feel so very clever, speaking of Eustace in the way you do, but neither he nor I can choose with such tremendous freedom we can marry. Not all of us can be dukes.’ Anne looked witheringly at Henry, somewhat satisfied at the shame creeping into his eyes. ‘And kissing you was—was satisfying. As would be, no doubt, all of other things that rakes are accustomed to doing.’ She wiped away a tear, shocked at the crudeness of her words. ‘I believe I would have done all of them. By choice. A choice that you were going to deny me, by forcing me to marry you. So for your cruelty, and your callousness, and your foolishness… leave. At once.’
Henry shook his head, real anger in his face. ‘This is my greenhouse. I’ll stay here until dawn, if I feel like it.’
‘A fine idea.’ Anne turned to leave, her tone acid even as her heart sank. ‘Stay in your hothouse, you fragile flower.’
Agnes, true to her low expectations, was having an absolutely atrocious time. A Spring Ball was full of people, talk, and ostentatious displays of youth, not to prettiness and the silliness of one’s nature—things that Agnes had extreme difficulty expressing, not to mention a lack of inclination to do so.
Her traditional practice when confronted with a ball of any kind was to hide in an unsupervised corner, drinking watered-down champagne and refusing all offers of either conversation or dancing, until Anne came to gently but firmly pry her out of her self-imposed exile. In a most unusual turn of events, Agnes had managed to finish a second glass of champagne without being discovered—her hiding place, a plain stretch of corridor that ran parallel to the picture gallery, was clearly more secluded than she had imagined.
Or perhaps Anne was in some sort of trouble. Agnes knew she was of an anxious turn of mind, and tried her best to conduct her thoughts along a more reasonable path. But Anne was usually at least visible; Agnes peered into the ballroom through the half-opened door, watching the crowd, wondering why she couldn’t see her sister’s patient face.
She frowned as she saw Lord Wakely speaking to the Cartwright girl. That certainly wasn’t supposed to happen; she could see at least one heavily powdered grand-mama observing with suspicion. Then a faint, unusual sound from the gardens turned her attention to the large bay window, currently flooding the corridor with moonlight.
Anne! Agnes moved closer to the window, ready to tap at it—but as soon as she saw her sister’s face she moved away, shocked. She had never seen Anne so white; her eyes alive with anger, her hands held rigidly to the front of her dress as she made her way back to the ballroom. As Agnes watched, she paused; turning to look back at the dark garden path with clear, lingering regret.
She was coming from the direction of the glasshouses; the ones Anne and her friend Susan had shown her the previous autumn. Agnes, her empty glass of champagne entirely forgotten, rested her fingers against the window-ledge as she watched.
What on earth could have occurred? Anne had always been reserved; she had become much more so in recent months, as their father’s decline, but Agnes had never thought of her sister as having any kind of secret life. She leaned closer to the glass, in danger of pressing her head against it, watching hungrily of any kind of clue.
A figure was walking down the path. Agnes, her eyes widening, gasped.
It was Henry Colborne. Lydia had pointed her out to him when they had entered the ballroom; Agnes recognised his blonde hair, his high cheekbones. Henry Colborne, following her sister—with a face so full of sadness, so redolent with feeling, that Agnes felt a corresponding throb in her own chest.
Something had happened. Something that lay outside the realm of disaster; Anne had seemed distressed, but not profoundly panicked, and Henry’s reputation was of a good if hedonistic man. In the absence of something wicked, then—what remained?
Agnes’s lips pursed as she considered the various possibilities. This situation was far too complex, not to mention delicate, for her to puzzle out; she needed fresh perspectives. Which meant, unfortunately, entering the packed ballroom and attempting to find Lydia and Henrietta.
‘Ugh.’ She shook herself, trying to summon up the courage to face all those stares. In these moments, she was truly grateful for her sisters—especially when one sister, the rock of their family, seemed in danger of crumbling to dust.
The morning after the Spring Ball was traditionally a somewhat painful time, with those who had indulged the previous night finding the luminous bustle of the morning something akin to torture. In the cavernous breakfast room of the Longwater Estate, as chattering fleets of maidservants busily dusted and scraped away all evidence of the night’s extravagant merriment, such regretful misery was in abundant supply.
‘So.’ Andrew folded his arms, his eyelids fluttering with the effort of remaining awake. He leaned back in his chair, grimacing as a discarded slipper fell from the chandelier with a thud. ‘You have ruined it.’
‘I have ruined it. All of it. I have ruined everything so completely, so thoroughly, that a team of highly experienced experts in ruin would have trouble reaching my dizzying heights of self-ruination.’ Henry rested his head against a block of ice, wincing as the frigid water drenched his brow. ‘And then, to compound my ruin, I decided
to ruin today by drinking for the rest of the night.’
‘Yes. I believe everyone in Bath saw just how determined you were to drink your way through every barrel of brandy in your possession.’ Andrew picked up his cup of coffee, wincing as he drank a fortifying gulp. ‘I attempted to match you glass for glass, but found myself unable to keep up.’
‘Yes. I remember the first four or so glasses you shared with me, but a painful veil has been drawn over what came after.’ Henry turned to look at Andrew, the ice cold against his temple. ‘I also remember how closely you observed one Lydia Hereford as she made her way around the room.’
‘Only because I was shocked that a woman could speak for so long, and laugh for so long, without needing a single pause for reflection.’ Andrew’s tone was casual, but Henry saw what looked like a hint of a blush at the tops of his cheekbones. ‘I can’t say I observed such an exhausting scene with any great pleasure.’
‘Curious.’ Henry attempted to smile, stopping when his head throbbed in protest. ‘I rarely spend so much time looking at things that horrify me.’
‘I—we are not talking about me.’ Andrew took another sip of coffee, his eyes narrowing. ‘We are talking about you, and Anne Hereford, and your disastrous attempt to win her heart.’
‘Yes. It was a disaster. She called me a fragile flower.’ Henry closed his eyes, reliving the look of contempt on Anne’s face with an unpleasant shudder. ‘A disaster with no remedy. I will be forced to live here, mirrors covered, with occasional hunks of bread from Susan to sustain me for the rest of my days.’
‘Henry… are you being entirely serious?’ Andrew looked at him, his frown softening. ‘Not about the bread—Susan would forget to bring it, no doubt. Have you really decided that Anne Hereford is the woman you wish to share your life with?’
‘Andrew, it is not a decision. It is not even an impulse—I am well-aware of what an impulse feels like.’ Henry lifted his head from the ice block, sighing at the pain of warm air on his forehead. ‘It… it is a certainty.’
‘So we are speaking of love?’ Andrew spoke delicately. ‘The match would elevate her far more than you.’
Henry paused. He had danced around the word over previous days, setting up any number of obstacles as to its usage; too short an acquaintance, too sudden and immoderate a sentiment, too plain a family. Unfortunately, all he had to do was think of Anne Hereford’s face—think of her words, and her worries, and the feel of her body against his own—and said obstacles, so sturdy when he built them, would flutter away in the wind like paper butterflies.
‘Yes.’ He sighed again, more softly this time. ‘It is love. And speaking of the match is irrelevant, because I have ruined any chance of making it happen.’
‘Well.’ Andrew took a slow, reflective sip of his coffee. ‘You haven’t.’
Henry raised an eyebrow, immediately regretting it as pain lanced through his forehead. ‘I rather believe I have.’
‘No. You have decided that you have ruined everything, which conveniently releases you from having to do anything about it.’ Andrew set his coffee cup down. ‘Henry, you are like a brother to me. May I use a brother’s candour?’
‘I do not know.’ Henry felt the first stirrings of worry. ‘Are you going to use such candour to flatter me enormously?’
‘Absolutely not.’
The worry grew a little stronger. ‘… Do I have any choice in the matter?’
‘No.’ Andrew smiled. ‘But it’s the done thing to ask.’
‘How very considerate of you.’ Henry slumped back in his chair. ‘Have at it, then.’
‘From what you have revealed of your conversation with Miss Hereford, it appears that she told you very clearly what defects in your character require correction. Inconstancy, immoderate behaviour—these things are difficult to change, yes, but not impossible. By no means impossible.’ Andrew shrugged. ‘You could correct them.’
‘A fine idea, Andrew.’ Henry sighed wearily. ‘But after so many years of working towards rakehood, my character would be a blank slate.’
‘Perhaps. But blank slates are quickly written upon.’ Andrew leaned forward. ‘Have you ever wondered what you could be, Henry, if you weren’t so desperately busy trying to be who you think you are?’
Three weeks in Bath and its environs passed; three weeks that would have passed in the blink of an eye had they taken place in London. Alas, Anne Hereford was firmly rooted in Bath—and without the money for a carriage to the metropolis, she was forced to experience time at a slightly slower pace.
Said slower pace involved the usual annoyances; household management, more darning than was preferable, and a brief but exciting altercation with an escaped goose from the farm at the end of the road. The most irritating part, though, was the breakfast she shared with her sisters while her father still lay asleep.
Lydia, Henrietta and Agnes had been acting oddly. They kept looking at her; at first Anne had wondered if it were merely her own sense of guilt, but it soon became clear that her sisters had their own mysterious agenda. Said agenda seemed to become abundantly clear at breakfast-time, where the morning newspaper was read by Lydia in a manner that could only be described as theatrical.
‘Orphans.’ Lydia let the newspaper fall onto the breakfast table, the pages fluttering against Anne’s hand as she reached for the butter. ‘Now, it is orphans.’
‘Lydia.’ Anne took a deep breath, buttering her toast with extreme slowness even as her soul tugged her towards what was written on the page. ‘I cannot possibly imagine what I am meant to divine from that burst of words.’
‘You have become terribly dull over the last few weeks, Anne. Unable to imagine anything.’ Henrietta looked at her, a knowing smile on her face as she took a boiled egg from the dish. ‘Why, I think even the most unimaginative soul would be able to take the society stories of the past month, and piece them together into something approaching a narrative.’
‘The news that the Duke of Longwater has ceased drinking, no longer gambles, is regularly attending church… oh, and the sudden mania he has developed for throwing vast amounts of money at any widow’s association or workhouse that crosses his path. Why, there has been a breathless newspaper story almost every day.’ Lydia counted on her fingers while she spoke, as Anne forced down a dry bite of toast. ‘Goodness, I must be forgetting something—ah, yes! Two courtesans found ready to throw themselves into the Avon, after the very same Duke of Longwater informed them that he is giving up the pleasures of the flesh—’
‘Lydia, such subjects are not appropriate for the breakfast table. Or, indeed, any table.’ Anne looked daggers at Lydia, toast-crumbs sticking in her throat. How on earth her sister had managed to hit upon her heart’s most private pain, she could not possibly know. ‘And I do not see what any of this has to do with orphans.’
‘An orphanage, to be exact, large enough for every motherless child in Bath.’ Lydia took up the newspaper again, absent-mindedly sipping coffee as she read. ‘He is founding one. And he is naming it, in a wildly poetic burst that has charmed the ton, The Rose Bower.’
Anne’s eyes widened. ‘The Rose Bower?’
‘Yes.’ Lydia self-importantly rustled the newspaper. ‘Because, and I quote, he has recently discovered a passionate interest in the care and cultivation—’
‘—Of traditional rose varieties.’ Anne echoed the words as Lydia said them, her voice hollow in her throat.
This was the limit. The absolute limit. She had suffered this small stings for weeks; news of Henry’s sudden temperance, modesty, and now charity. She closed her eyes, trying desperately to collect herself, before gently setting down her slice of toast.
‘How wonderful.’ Her voice sounded icily remote, even to herself. ‘Everyone should be as charitable as they possibly can.’
A tense, disbelieving silence fell over the table. Several moments passed before Lydia, sighing with a force impolite enough to have her removed from all elegant establishments, threw down th
e newspaper with a snort of disgust.
‘Anne, enough! Will you stop? Agnes saw you coming out of the Longwater greenhouse on the night of the Spring Ball, you nit!’ She pointed a dramatic finger at Agnes, whose cheeks rapidly became the colour of a winter sunset. ‘Followed, after far too short a time, by the Duke of Longwater! The Duke of Longwater, who proceeded to spend the rest of the ball sneaking suffering glances in your direction!’
‘We three know everything.’ Henrietta shrugged, looking slyly at Anne. ‘Well. Not everything—we have had to imagine some of the particulars, but the essential facts of the matter are clear. Unless he attempted to force his attentions upon you, of course—if that is the case, then I have already made preparations for his destruction.’ She paled at the look in Anne’s eyes. ‘But only if that is the case. I’m sure nothing of the sort occurred.’
‘And you have been so terribly quiet these past weeks, full of errands that take you nowhere near the Longwater Estate, despite needing to go there every two days or so for months on end.’ Lydia threw up her hands, exasperated. ‘Did you really think we wouldn’t notice?’
‘—And you look so sad, Anne.’ Agnes spoke quietly, her cheeks aflame, but her voice was definite. ‘When you look out of the window, or sew. You look sadder than I have ever known you to be.’
‘How dare you all speak in such a manner.’ Anne rose to her feet. Her voice trembled; she gripped the tablecloth, aware that her hands were shaking. ‘How—how could you—’
This was the perfect time for a lecture. A stern, grave reminder to her sisters that there were correct and incorrect ways to behave, at a breakfast table as well as in a ballroom, and that indulging in such a foolish display of high spirits as this spoke of a grave lack of manners. She would begin speaking, full of harsh truths and warnings against moral laxity… yes, she would begin speaking again, as soon as tears stopped obscuring her vision.
Private Passions Page 55
