"I intend to, Your Grace."
Robert's speech was perfectly calm, and yet Cecily caught the undercurrent of misery beneath his politeness. She was almost afraid to meet his eyes, and when she did, she found what she had feared: their fathomless darkness made blacker by encroaching despair.
"It will be alright, Robert," she said softly. "We will be married, in Loxwell if not in Gretna Green. And how much nicer it will be to have a real wedding, surrounded by the love of our friends and family!"
"The choice was ever yours, Cecily," he said, bowing his head.
Guilt gnawed at her painfully. Her own sorrow at the thought of delaying her marriage was sharp and biting; the knowledge that she had hurt Robert, too, was almost too much to bear.
"You will come home with me?" asked the Duchess, barely breathing the words. Cecily pushed away her regret and nodded firmly.
"It is the right thing to do."
"Thank goodness for that!" said Jemima, getting to her feet abruptly. "Now, let's be off without any more delay. We left Loxwell Park before dinner, and I'm fit to die of starvation."
Cecily only wished that the hollow feeling in her own stomach was due to hunger. As they left the inn and the knowing eyes of the innkeeper's wife, she could hardly bear to look at Robert.
I have not betrayed him, she told herself. We will be married before long. It is better this way.
The set of his shoulders, the proud tilt of his head, the deep burr of his voice were as steady as they always were. Yet Cecily knew all too well that, as he rode beside her mother's carriage, he was concealing a private devastation which she alone had caused. She pressed her hand against the carriage window, wishing she could feel his hand through the cold glass. She had the benefit of knowing her mother's value. She was able to trust that all would yet be well.
Robert had only her word, and a hope that she had left hollow.
Chapter Twenty-Four
"So you see, Papa," said Cecily, fighting to stop her fingers from fiddling nervously with a strand of her hair, "this sorry business between our family and the Hartleys was not caused by any wrongdoing on anyone's part. It had its roots in love – true love."
The Duke's bushy eyebrows lowered as he looked from the portrait of Lady Letitia to the ring Cecily held towards him. Cecily, standing proud yet anxious before the imposing desk in her father's study, felt the way his stewards must when presenting him with figures from his estates which fell short of his expectations. Would she be praised for her efforts, or blamed for their result?
"Let me see that ring," said the Duke. He held it up to the light, examining it from every angle. "Good gracious!"
"Is something wrong?"
"I haven't set eyes on this since I was a boy. It was once one of the chief jewels of the Balfour family – customarily worn by the second son, as a sign of his father's love. It had been in our family for generations, before it was lost –"
"In Lord Thomas's carriage accident," Cecily finished for him. "But now we know, Papa, the ring was not lost at all, but given away – to Lady Letitia Hartley."
The Duke came around from his desk to examine the painting more closely. "I suppose the lady does appear to be wearing a ring with twin rubies," he allowed.
"Mr Clearwell assured me that the ring also bore the Balfour crest."
"I would not set much store by that man's word, Ceci. His reputation is among the worst in the county."
"That reputation is based on nothing more than the rumours started by your own grandfather," Cecily insisted. She turned to her mother, who had watched proceedings so far in silence. "Tell him, Mama!"
"You are better placed to persuade him than I am, my dear," said the Duchess. "You have met Mr Clearwell, and I have not. Though I will say that I, for one, believe every word of his story. It is so closely intertwined with events as we understand them, and is a much more convincing explanation than the accusations of kidnapping and wrongdoing that have been flying around all these years."
The Duke harrumphed and stroked his chin. "No, no, no!" he barked, causing both ladies to jump. "There is too much here that I do not yet understand. What has possessed you to put all this effort into resolving an argument that has existed since before you were born? And where exactly did you find the Balfour ring, when it has been missing for years?" He shook a stern finger in Cecily's direction. "You are up to something, young lady. Another one of your schemes! Well, I have made up my mind. I will not be so easily taken in as I once was. I demand the truth from you, Ceci, the whole and complete truth. Until I have it, there is no question of my reconsidering our relations with those cursed Hartleys."
"Do not speak ill of the name Hartley, Papa," said Cecily, drawing on all of her courage. "It is a name which I shortly intend to bear myself."
She had expected rage, confusion, disappointment – the Duke was well known for the violence of his temper, when he set it loose.
Cecily was amazed, therefore, to see her father's face creasing up not with fury but mirth. He let out a booming laugh. "A Hartley! My daughter, a Hartley! It's too much, Ceci, even for you – too much!"
"Do not laugh at me, Papa," she said, growing unsure of herself. "I am perfectly serious."
The Duke shook his head and dabbed at his streaming eyes. "You have doubtless seen the Earl or his brother passing through Loxton in one of their fine carriages and dreamed up a little infatuation for yourself! My girl, it is quite natural at your age. Young women are prone to this sort of silliness. All of my friends with daughters say the same."
The Duchess, noticing Cecily's embarrassment, spoke up sternly. "Your friends, who think themselves so wise, might do better to listen to their daughters, rather than laugh at them!"
"But, my dear," said the Duke, shoulders still shaking merrily. "It is the most absurd nonsense I have ever heard in my life! That my only daughter should imagine an attachment between herself and a – a – a Hartley! Which is it to be, Ceci? Whom should I greet as my new son? The older or the younger? The older, I hear, is the finest shot in England – and has had ample opportunity to prove himself on the duelling ground, through his dratted Hartley recklessness! Perhaps the younger one might suit you better. Has he a sweeter temperament?"
"I am for the Earl of Scarcliffe," said Cecily stiffly. "And I assure you, his temperament suits me exactly."
The Duke's laughter choked into silence. "Have a care, Ceci. The way you speak, it sounds almost as if you are actually acquainted with Lord Robert."
"We are very well acquainted," said Cecily primly. "We met some weeks ago, the night that I became lost in the forest and ended up at Scarcliffe Hall."
"You did what?"
"Lord Robert was good enough to take care of me, and from that day, our affection only grew. Papa, he has asked me to marry him, and I will do it with or without your permission."
The Duke's face had turned an unhealthy shade of magenta as she spoke. "Is this the way I raised you to behave? Spending the night in strange places without so much as a chaperone? Demanding to marry the first man who asks you?"
"Come now, Papa," said Cecily. "He is hardly the first. His proposal is simply the only one that I have thought worth considering."
"Do not think to distract me from the gravity of your behaviour!" shouted her father, the veins standing out in his neck. His former jollity only threw his anger into sharper relief. "You have betrayed our family! Thrown our good name in the mud!"
"Our family is just as guilty of wrongdoing as the Hartleys!" Cecily snapped back. "Your own grandfather ruined Lady Letitia in vengeance for Lord Thomas's death! You cannot deny it!"
"It was what they deserved –"
"Then I deserve ruination as much as she does," said Cecily, and held out her hand. "Please give me back the ring, Papa. I have made a gift of it to Robert, just as your uncle once gave it to Robert's great aunt. If you will not bless our marriage, I will simply wait until my twenty-first birthday. It is not so far away now. Less than a year, and
I shall put an end to this foolish rivalry with my own hand."
"You will be hard put to manage that, my girl, when you are kept locked away in this house!" The Duke passed a trembling hand over his forehead. Cecily realised that it was not anger so much as hurt which fuelled him. "My only daughter! My Cecily!"
"Papa, you will not lose me," said Cecily, taking a cautious step towards him. "Only think! Scarcliffe Hall is so close by! Think how different it would be if I should marry a gentleman from Yorkshire, or perhaps Cornwall! When I am Countess of Scarcliffe, we will see each other every day, if you so wish."
"I do not fear to lose you, my child," said the Duke, speaking more softly. "A father's greatest happiness is to see his daughter forging a life of her own. But him, Ceci – anyone but him, I beg you."
Cecily shook her head. "It is too late, Papa. It is done. We are in love."
The Duke looked at the ring he still held. He rubbed his thumb over its ruby-studded surface. "So many years of hatred," he murmured.
Cecily gently put her hand over his and took back the ring. "Soon they will all be ended."
The Duke looked at his wife, who gave him a serene nod. He turned back to Cecily, sighed, and placed a tender kiss on her forehead. "This Hartley – this Lord Robert – is he a better man than his reputation claims?"
"I believe his reputation is not so poor as you imagine it," said Cecily, biting down a smile. "There is not a man in the country who would not be tempted to flatter the Duke of Loxwell by dragging his enemy's name through the mud, after all."
"I hope you are right." The Duke sat down behind his desk, leaning both elbows on it heavily. "Until this day, Ceci, you have never given me cause to mistrust your judgement. I will go to the Marquess of Lilistone and present him with the evidence you have given me. It may yet be possible to heal the old wounds, after all."
"Oh! Papa! Do you really mean it?"
The Duke rubbed his forehead with a wry grimace. "There is nothing I would not do to ensure your happiness, Ceci."
Cecily kissed her father on both cheeks, leaving him red-faced and muttering something about these girls and their whims, and begging to be left in peace to gather his thoughts and write to the Marquess. The Duchess swept from the room with a gentle smile of satisfaction on her face, and Cecily followed. She slid the Balfour ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand, where it would be safe until she could give it to Robert.
It belonged to both of their families now, his as much as hers. Once the symbol of a doomed love, it would soon become the sign of hope, peace, and, above all things, reconciliation.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The following day, however, Robert found himself embroiled in an interview with his own father that was fated to produce much less happy results than that between Cecily and the Duke.
Robert had passed the two days since the aborted elopement in a state of frustrated misery. His father, confined to his chambers once more by a recurrence of the gout triggered by his exertions on the road to Loxwell Park, refused to see him. If Robert thought there was anything to be gained by it, he would have smashed down the old man's locked door and stormed in to confront him. But Cecily had asked him to wait while she reasoned with her own father, so wait he must.
"You are not accustomed to patience, my dear fellow," said Beaumont sympathetically, seeing how Robert chafed against his lack of action. "You do not have the temperament for it."
All the gentlemen at Scarcliffe Hall, saving of course the Marquess, had been brought up to speed with the situation. Robert had kept to himself only the painful fact that, for a few short hours, he and Cecily had been en route to Gretna Green. That wound was still too fresh to be spoken of.
He did not blame her for going home. If Hart, or his sister, had begged him to call off the elopement, he might have done the same. He knew that Cecily had her own dreams for the start of their married life which he was loth to cast aside. She wanted family, joy, happiness – white flowers and her own parish churchyard. Her mother's happy tears, her father's blessing.
Robert understood these needs, but he could not share them. All he wanted was Cecily.
He refused Beaumont, Northmere and Hart's entreaties to ride out with them and forget his sorrows in the summer weather. Knowing that every passing moment brought the news of the Duke's decision closer, he could not in good conscience leave the Hall.
It did not escape his notice that a note bearing the Balfour crest was delivered to his father the evening after Cecily returned to Loxwell Park. Nor did he fail to discover from his father's valet that the note had been cast immediately onto the fire, unread.
The absence of the ring on its chain around his neck was so tangible that it almost pained him. He had given it to Cecily to help her persuade her father; he had not thought that the loss of the token would pierce his heart with the fear of a still greater loss.
"I am not one to give in to imaginary terrors," he told himself, through gritted teeth, as he caught sight of his own pale face in the mirror.
When the morning after the burned note brought a carriage bearing Balfour livery to the door, Robert found it impossible to remain inactive.
"Father!" he shouted, pounding on the Marquess's locked door. "The Duke of Loxwell is here to see you, and I'll be hanged if you don't let him in!"
"That man is not to be allowed entrance to my house!" came the stubborn reply. Robert turned to Peters, the butler.
"Show the Duke into the drawing room," he commanded. "I will be with him presently."
Peters, looking unhappy, made no move.
"Show the Duke in!" Robert gritted out, trying to stop his fists from clenching. He was tempted to kick the door in and shake some sense into his father's proud head. "This is my house, not his – father is here as my guest, and I will not suffer him to snub a man I have chosen to welcome!"
"It is not your house yet!" the Marquess raged. "I am not dead, boy, much as you would wish it!"
"My lord," said Peters, "do not ask me to disobey the Marquess, I beg you. I – I fear for my position."
"Your position is under me," said Robert. Peters's mouth opened and shut again miserably. Robert regretted his insistence immediately. He knew he had put the man in an intolerable position.
Custom might make Robert the master of Scarcliffe Hall, but it – and everyone who dwelt within its walls – were legally under the power of his father.
"Don't worry, Peters," he said. "Please go outside and ask the Duke to wait, if he will."
When Peters was gone, Robert rapped again on his father's door, this time more softly. "Father, let us not shout at each other like growling beasts. Let me in, so that we may discuss this face-to-face."
There was a long pause. Robert thought at first that his father was simply ignoring him, but a moment's patience was rewarded by the sound of soft footsteps within the chamber, followed by the click of a key in the lock. His father's valet opened the door and let him in.
The Marquess was sitting on a heavily-stuffed sofa with his ailing leg propped up on a padded footstool. On the table at his side was a glass of port – exactly what Doctor Hawkins had recommended against. Robert set aside his tirade on the importance of following the Doctor's instructions for a later, calmer time.
"Father," he said, taking a seat opposite the Marquess, "it is no small thing to turn a Duke away at the door."
The Marquess scoffed. "When it comes to these Balfours, Robert, titles are irrelevant. They are low people, no matter how high society raises them. They behaviour and their temperaments are common. No, worse than common. They are disgraceful. Only a fool would trust a Balfour." He fixed Robert with a beady eye. "I trust that I have not raised a fool."
"I have been foolish," Robert sighed. "I have trusted your word for so many years without question. My eyes have been opened now. You know my intentions, father. You cannot call it foolish to make a good and honest woman my wife."
"Enough!" The Marquess seized his silver-topped
cane and pounded it against the floor. "You have been deceived, Robert! Shamefully deceived! It is not enough to say that your feelings for this chit of a girl are pure. The Balfours have simply insulted our family too much, over too many years. I can no more allow this Duke into my home than I can cut out my own heart. The damage of either action would be too deep. Do you see?"
"I do not see," said Robert coldly. "I only see that you are treating the Duke very ill, and it reflects badly upon you. I myself will go out to him, and offer him my most sincere apologies."
"You will do nothing of the sort!"
"You cannot stop me, father. Just as you cannot stop me from marrying Cecily. It is out of your hands now."
"Is that so?" asked the Marquess, eyes glinting cruelly. "Once again, boy, you talk as if you were already Marquess of Lilistone. Let me remind you that I am not yet in my grave, however much you would wish it."
"Now, now, father," drawled Hart, entering the room behind Robert. "Nobody has wished any ill upon you at all." He bent down to whisper into Robert's ear. "I have spoken to the Duke. He is more reasonable than I might have expected. He knows you have a formidable task here with father."
"Do not take your brother's part, Hart," the Marquess warned. "You will regret it."
Hart shrugged elegantly. "There are already so many things I regret. What's one more?"
"I will not have this insubordination," growled the Marquess. "Nor will I see my son and heir married to our enemy."
"With all due respect, father," said Robert, grateful for Hart's place at his side, "I do not see what you can do about it."
"What I can do? What I can do?" The Marquess laughed without a trace of mirth. "If I could disinherit you, Robert, I would do it without a moment's hesitation."
That was difficult to hear. Hart's hand landed on Robert's shoulder in solidarity. Robert shrugged it off, determined to let no trace of his inner feelings show.
The Earl's Secret Passion (Scandals of Scarcliffe Hall Book 1) Page 14
