“Oh, Malcolm.” Her heart went out to him. He was so clever, so able, so cunning, and yet so blind to himself. How could she not love those secret, tender parts of him, which had somehow survived so many years of neglect? “You have it backwards. Power doesn’t satisfy. Not the way love can.” She gently released his hands. “You are the one who isn’t truly happy. Another vote in the Commons won’t help you. Why should one more pocket borough fix what all the others have not? The fact is, Malcolm, that you are lonely. So terribly lonely that you’d even cling to a man like Sir Roderick, because he’s all you have.”
He was staring at her with his handsome jaw slack and his face as red as if she’d slapped him. “That’s ridiculous.”
“You won’t ever be the Lion Duke,” she said. “Trying won’t make you happy. But I’m afraid you’ll never be able to stop.”
He rubbed a hand over his chin, where once again, the morning’s shave had not been enough to quell the light dusting of stubble. “You really won’t marry me,” he said. A statement, not a question.
“No.”
The word hung in the air between them for a second, heavy with regrets and unspoken sorrow, until a rowdy cheer from the dining room window above them chased it away.
“You had better return to your guests.” Malcolm straightened out his shoulders, tugging at his coat with business-like precision. Something had dimmed behind his eyes. There was nothing in them now of either hope or remorse. “I am sorry to have called you away.”
“Not at all. It’s better to make things clear. Now we both know where we stand.”
“In that case…” He adjusted his hat, cocking it rakishly low, and shot her a final glance that she thought, perhaps, was genuine. “I should not have lied to you. I will never do it again.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“Nevertheless.” He paused, fingers flexing, and then gave her a brisk nod. “Good day, my lady.”
“Good day.”
Selina stood in the garden for several minutes after he had departed, one hand pressed to her chest, until her heartbeat finally slowed.
She loved him. No more question about it. How strange, after so many years of running from it, that love should finally catch her in such an unexpected way. With a man she had so long thought had nothing to tempt her.
A little sob escaped her lips, quiet and pitiful, and she swallowed down the next and forced herself to be calm.
She had forgotten how much love could hurt her. How wonderful it was, even amid the pain. She was gladder than ever that she knew it could be survived, and eventually put aside.
She glanced at her own reflection in the window of the inn, and she found her face pale, as she expected, but otherwise much as it always was. The changes were barely noticeable. Proud lips, soft eyes – now showing the slightest hint of pain. The bloom beginning, at last, to fade. The face of a maiden aunt, a loving sister. Not a wife.
And that was what she had wanted, wasn’t it? She would remain unwed. Malcolm would get his election. And the wounds they had inflicted on each other, deep though they were, would eventually heal.
She gathered up her skirts and went back into the inn.
16
Daisy was well into her confinement, with the baby due any day. Though Aunt Ursula had recovered enough to make the journey back to their London home, she, too, was suffering under enforced rest. Selina had more than enough to occupy herself with seeing that both her beloved relatives were kept in good spirits. Whenever she felt the slightest pang of regret, or heard a ring at the doorbell and felt her heart leap into her throat, or woke in the night from a tormented dream in which Malcolm fell to his knees in the garden of the Twynham inn and swore he’d renounce his title for love of her, she turned her mind to her family. As she always had. And if she found less satisfaction in it than she had before, she hid it well.
George and Anthea visited often. Alexander grew so distracted by the thought of Daisy’s approaching labour that he had to be forced out of the door to attend to his work. Isobel composed a new piece on the harp and received an invitation from Georgiana Whitby to stay with her family in their seaside country home over the summer.
“Of course you may go,” said Selina, forgetting, as she too often did, that she was not solely responsible for Isobel’s activities.
Isobel laid the letter from Georgiana back on the writing desk, looking at Selina with a slight frown. “I will not go, of course, if you will be lonely.”
“Lonely? Nothing of the sort! I will have so much to do while Daisy is preoccupied with the baby. And there will be Aunt Ursula to think of. We must take better care of her in future. She will not accept that she has grown frail.”
Isobel bit her lip. “Mrs Whitby has also invited Aunt Ursula to accompany me.”
“But that is wonderful! The sea air will do her a world of good.”
“Selina…” Isobel pushed aside her writing equipment and rested her chin on her hand, clearly struggling to find the right words for what she wanted to say. “I think I will not go.”
“Why on earth not? Have you fallen out with Georgiana?”
“Not at all. She is the perfect friend. I simply feel that…” She smiled, though it only made her look more anxious. “We sisters ought to stick together, you know.”
Selina shook her head, returning to her needlework. The little cap she was making for the baby was very nearly finished. A sweet confection of white cotton, with yellow ducks embroidered along the brim. “Isobel, don’t tell me you are worried about leaving me. I will be with Alex and Daisy. And I will be so thrilled to hear of all your adventures with Georgiana.”
“Alex and Daisy did not see you dance with the Duke of Caversham,” said Isobel.
Selina’s fingers fumbled the needle. She set her work down. It would not do to stab her finger. “What has the Duke of Caversham to do with anything?”
“Well, I cannot help but notice that he has never called here, though he returned to London some time ago. And the days of voting at Twynham begin tomorrow, and you have not spoken of the election once.”
“There is nothing to say about the Twynham election.” She lifted her eyes to Isobel’s, willing herself not to betray anything more. “Or about the Duke of Caversham.”
“I know what it is to be disappointed, Selina.” Isobel looked down at her hands, face wracked with an old pain. “I know what it is to expect a proposal that never arrives. So I am here for you, as long as you need me, and I will not leave you. Not until I am quite satisfied that you are happy again.”
Selina rose to her feet and went to put her arms around her sister as she sat at the writing desk. She held Isobel close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “My sweet girl,” she said. “Let me set your mind at rest. I have not been disappointed in Caversham. At least, not in the way you suppose.” She lifted Isobel’s chin, managing to find a little relish in the secret she was about to impart. “The duke has proposed. And I have turned him down.”
Isobel’s eyes widened. “Selina! You haven’t!”
“I most certainly have. Isobel, you and I are both extremely lucky. We do not need to marry to secure our future. We are the Balfour heiresses, after all! We have no need to cast ourselves at the feet of those who do not love us.”
Now Isobel was truly astonished. “Don’t tell me the duke doesn’t love you. Oh, Selina, how could he not?”
Selina stroked Isobel’s hair fondly. “I think he loved what I might do for him. He was very much in love with the power the Balfour name would add to his. No, I believe he was quite passionate about my prospects as a political hostess.”
Isobel gave an unladylike snort. “If that were the case, he has missed your finest qualities. You are the dearest and best person in the world.”
“And I know my own value.” Selina let Isobel go, pleased to see that her sister’s anxieties were eased. “So, I will not marry the duke, and I do not regret it. Write to Georgiana. Tell her you will gladly go
to Whitby Manor.”
As Isobel busied herself with her letter, Selina left her needlework abandoned on the armchair and drifted across the room to the window.
There, looking out into her brother’s well-tended garden, she allowed herself a single ragged sigh.
“A toast!” called a red-faced young gentleman, a recent addition to the private club on St James’s Street, and as drunk on his own social advancement as he was on the wine. “A toast, to the Duke of Caversham and Sir Roderick March!”
“Hear, hear!” cried every voice in the room. Glasses were raised, spirits of various colours sloshed about and gulped down in greedy measures.
There was one voice missing from the general approbation, of course, and that was Lord Louis’s. Malcolm had not seen him at the club since the night he had discovered Sir Roderick’s misdeeds.
A cause of some regret, but not, alas, the one which troubled him most.
He accepted the praise with a gracious smile. Praise he had not technically earned, as the Twynham election would not conclude until later that day. But praise which was deserved, nonetheless, because the election would be his.
Once the pleasantries were accepted, he withdrew to his preferred chair in a quiet corner of the club. It had never been his usual haunt before, but he had developed a taste for solitude of late.
If he was cursed to be lonely, as Selina seemed to think, he might as well embrace it.
This time, however, his self-imposed isolation did not last long. The last man in the world he expected to see invited himself to sit down in the opposite chair.
Malcolm glared, but the Earl of Streatham was not as susceptible to ducal wrath as most. He cocked a boot up on his knee and raised his glass to Malcolm. “You certainly seem sure of success at Twynham, Caversham.”
“I am.”
George grinned. “I hope it was worth it.”
Malcolm cut his eyes to the man who might, in a different life, have been his brother-in-law. Lucky that he was not, because lately, whenever Malcolm saw his smug face, he had an irresistible desire to punch it. Not exactly the fraternal comradery Selina would have expected. “You are a newcomer to politics, Streatham. Perhaps, someday, you will understand the satisfaction of a game well played.”
“I am surprised you are not there to watch your victory unfold.”
Malcolm could no longer stand the sight of Sir Roderick. The thought of watching him revel in the fruits of his own corruption was distinctly unappealing. Malcolm had put an end to the bribery, true enough, but the rumours that the Duke of Caversham would generously reward Sir Roderick’s supporters still persisted. What a world they lived in, where the hope of a duke’s favour outweighed all the genius and passion a man like Forrester possessed. He understood Selina’s disgust.
And yet, power was power. And Roderick, though deeply disappointing, was still his man. “It hardly befits my position to go traipsing about over the country watching every petty by-election my men contest.”
“Lady Selina doesn’t think it beneath her, though by all accounts her man is sure to lose. She is waiting to hear the results in a Twynham inn, with my wife.”
Malcolm would rather die before ever setting foot in that wretched inn again. The memory of the last time he had left it, hat pulled low over his face to hide his eyes and all hopes dashed forever, was too painful to dwell on.
A little of that pain must have showed on his face, for George leaned closer, and dropped his insouciant grin. “Caversham, I hate to become one of those old married men who are continually giving out unwanted advice. But the thought has occurred. If there did happen to be something more important than the Twynham election, it might do you good to forget the politics and go after it.” Malcolm glared, and George shrugged apologetically. “I have a habit of noticing things. Lately, you have not been the man you were at Lady Aldershot’s. A perceptive fellow might even say you were unhappy. Forgive me if I’m wrong.”
Malcolm realised there was little point in denying it. He felt a strange sense of relief. Streatham was not the man he would have chosen to confide in, but, now that Malcolm came to think about it, the people in whom he could confide were vanishingly few.
Non-existent, some might say.
“I fear there’s little I can do about it now,” he said. The bitterness in his voice surprised even him. George frowned.
“You know, I thought at first that you were meddling with Selina simply to gain the upper hand at Twynham.”
“Meddling,” Malcolm repeated, letting a little of his anger flare. “One does not meddle with a woman like her.”
“Is she aware of that fact?” George leaned back in his chair, throwing up his hands. “Really, Caversham, you’re making this dreadfully complicated. Why don’t you simply propose, and put yourself out of your misery?”
Malcolm felt almost hysterical. There was nothing funny about any of it, but he wanted to laugh so desperately that he could hardly contain himself. “Streatham,” he said, “I have asked that girl to marry me so many times I’ve lost count. I proposed to her last week, in Twynham. I proposed to her at Lady Sturgeon’s musicale. I wrote her a letter declaring my intentions, which she returned unread. I proposed to her the night of the Austrian ambassador’s ball. And, before that, I must have proposed to her at least ten or fifteen times, over the years, and for my troubles I’ve seen champagne tossed into flowerpots and been on the end of more withering remarks than you can imagine. There comes a point when a man has to accept his fate. She’s made it perfectly clear.” He remembered what she’d said, that night at the ambassador’s ball, when everything had been golden and glorious as the champagne she’d thrown away, and she had still been the most radiant jewel in the room. “No dukes need apply.”
“Ah.” George’s face creased in sympathy. “Do you think you might somehow be doing it wrong?” He held up a hand, shaking his head quickly. “No, no. Forgive me. Well, that settles it. I am sorry I brought it up.” He pushed himself to his feet, but hesitated. “There was something else I wanted to say, but… Well, I don’t suppose it will be any good to you. And you won’t like to hear it.”
Malcolm cocked an eyebrow. “Does anything about what I have just told you imply that I am not used to hearing things I don’t like?” He gestured to the seat. “Sit back down and spit it out.”
George pulled the chair a little closer, glancing around to ensure they were not overheard. “It concerns the voters at Twynham.”
Malcolm groaned aloud. “The voters of Twynham can collectively jump off a cliff, for all I care!”
George’s voice was low and urgent. “It seems that there are several of them who have falsified their credentials.” He reached into his inner jacket pocket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. “I have here a list of names of those who are ineligible to vote.”
Malcolm stared at him. “How on earth did a man like you come by a thing like that?”
George said nothing, but merely handed him the folded paper. Malcolm took it but did not look at it.
“You weren’t hiding from anyone in the Whitbys’ secret corridor, were you,” he said. “You were listening in. Just as we were.”
George nodded, once. “The Crown has an interest in such things, of course,” he said.
George Bonneville, the charming but lazy Earl of Streatham, a spy. Well, well.
Malcolm unfolded the paper, though he suspected he already knew what he would find.
There were twenty names on the list. One or two were expected to vote for Mr Forrester. The majority, of course, were pledged to Sir Roderick.
“Who else knows about this?” asked Malcolm.
“So far, only you, me, and a few select men who will never reveal it. My… employers… are happy enough to let matters take their course, in this case. But since I discovered the deception, so might anyone else. A duke, perhaps. A duke with something to gain by winning the election… or losing it.”
Malcolm shook his head. “It’s too late f
or that, Streatham. There’s nothing in it for me if Forrester wins.” An image sprung to his mind. The image of Sir Roderick, red-nosed and triumphant, shaking the hands of the men who had just cast their false ballots.
Sir Roderick, slumbering through the speeches in Parliament.
And, on the other hand, Selina, passionate and pink cheeked as she told the voters of Twynham why Mr Forrester was the right man for them.
“Though I suppose,” he added, running his eyes over the list of names once more, “it might be better for Twynham if Forrester took the seat. It might be better for the country.”
“I never took you for a great proponent of democracy, Caversham.”
“I never was before.” Malcolm pocketed the paper and got to his feet. “Thank you, Streatham. I’m afraid I must take my leave.”
George checked his pocket watch. “Yes. You’ve a couple of hours before matters are concluded in Twynham. Time enough, in a fast carriage.” He glanced out of the window. “Though the weather doesn’t favour you.”
Malcolm followed his gaze. The skies were grey, the clouds impenetrable. The threat of rain hung heavy in the air.
He smiled grimly. “It rarely does.”
17
Selina had expected the days of voting in Twynham to be arduous, but they proved even worse than she had predicted. She had not accounted for the shadow Malcolm had cast on her own spirits, nor the discouraging prospect of certain loss for Mr Forrester. The first was a private woe; the latter was shared by all his supporters. But she rallied to the challenge as she always did, feigning smiles she did not feel and spending hours outside the Town Hall entreating the voters.
Now, with only hours to go until the results were announced, Anthea had finally persuaded her and their chief campaigners to take a little luncheon in Twynham’s finest inn. Excepting Mrs Forrester’s reddened eyes, no one would have guessed they were facing defeat. Mr Forrester was regaling the gathering with anecdotes of his time as a student, drawing humour from even the driest situations and making Selina gladder than ever that she had chosen to support him. For her own part, Selina was determined to seem cheerful, though she could not feel it.
No Dukes Need Apply (The Impossible Balfours Book 4) Page 14
