A Regency Match (25 page)

“Yes, you were. Nevertheless, I found her to be such a taking little thing, didn't you?”

Marcus opened his mouth to respond and suddenly found himself at a loss. A sharp pain seemed to constrict his throat. He hastily turned back to the window and stared out at the lawn. He had a clear, almost hallucinatory recollection of the way she'd looked that morning when he'd watched her from this very spot, racing about with the children, her skirts raised to reveal a tantalizing bit of ankle. “Yes … I suppose one could say she was … taking,” he said at last, “although that detail has nothing whatever to do with the matter at hand. I'm sorry, Mama, if I disappoint you, but … I have no
right
to go after her … to tell her what to do or where to go. No right at all.”

“Yes, I see that, of course,” his mother said agreeably, seeming to take no note of his dejected air as he stared out at the lawn. She gathered up her skirts and rose. “I'll see you at dinner, then,” she said and left him to his musings.

He returned to his place at the desk and picked up her letter. A rereading left him with a stronger feeling of disgust than the first reading had given him. The maddening creature had been unable to maintain her equilibrium for more than two days. Running away like this for no good reason—the girl was a ninny! And she'd left behind nothing but this foolish, uncommunicative little note—in which there was not a
word
for
him
. As far as this farewell message was concerned, he might never had existed! Well, her machinations, dramatizings and explosions were no longer his problems. He was glad to see the last of her. He crumpled her note into a little ball and threw it in the wastebasket. Now he could forget her. As far as he was concerned, the disturbing little nuisance could go hang!

Marcus was not at his best that evening. His manner was curt and his smile, on the rare occasions when it appeared, was forced. He found the evening unspeakably dull and was glad when he finally was able to make his way to bed.

The next day, Lady Alicia took her leave. Her granddaughter's departure had hurt her. She no longer felt pleasure in socializing, even with her beloved Charlotte. Home and solitude were what she now craved. Though both she and Charlotte looked a little misty-eyed when they parted, Charlotte bravely maintained her smile, and Lady Alicia remained crisp and acerbic to the last.

Sir Walter and Isabel remained to wait for Bertie—he had their carriage. But they both felt that they, too, should be taking their leave. They sensed a slight, unspoken air of desolation about the place—as if the houseparty had gone on just a bit too long.

When Bertie finally returned, he seemed reluctant to talk about Sophy or the trip he'd made. Sophy had been deposited safely with her father and had sent them all her sincere regards and her regrets that she had not bid them goodbye in person. Marcus asked, with elaborate disinterest, if she had seemed happy. Bertie answered that he supposed so—although Lady Edgerton, Sophy's stepmother, was a veritable dragon, and he didn't see how
anyone
could be happy in her company for very long. That was all the news Bertie offered, and it did nothing to brighten Marcus's mood.

Sir Walter did not delay his family's departure after Bertie returned. He gave the boy barely enough time to pack, and then he and Isabel said their goodbyes. Bertie and Marcus shook hands affectionately, and Bertie earnestly requested that Marcus get in touch with him on his return to London. They departed in a dull drizzle. The houseparty seemed to be dwindling down to a rather depressing finale.

It was still drizzling later that evening when Iris requested an opportunity to talk to Marcus privately. He took her to the library and shut the door. “Is anything wrong, Iris?” he asked, pouring two glasses of Madeira.

“I wish you will sit down, Marcus, please,” she said in a rather sepulchral tone. “I don't care for any spirits at the moment.”

Marcus obediently sat down beside her on the sofa. “I hope you don't mind if
I
take a drink. This drizzle seems to have settled in my bones.”

“Yes, I've noticed that,” Iris said.

Marcus, about to raise the wineglass to his lips, stayed his hand. “Why? What do you mean?” he asked, puzzled.

“Only that your attitude has not been cheerful. I had not been aware, before, that you were so unsteady in your moods.”

“Unsteady? That word is a bit strong, isn't it?”

“Perhaps. But I think you'll agree that you had not previously been the sort of man who pokered up or fell into the dismals with no apparent provocation.”

“Do you find me that sort now?” Marcus felt a wave of irritation. Her remarks sounded very much like a scolding. But he was not a schoolboy and didn't enjoy being treated like one. A sarcastic retort leaped to his tongue, but he bit it back. Better to laugh this off, he told himself, than to launch into a quarrel. A quarrel was the last thing in the world he wanted at this point. So he smiled his most charming smile. “Poor Iris,” he said, patting her hand. “You see me at close range for the first time, and, in less than two weeks, the truth about me is revealed. The bloom is off the rose.”

“You think this is a subject for levity, my dear, but I'm afraid I find it a bit more serious than that,” she said, frowning.

“I cannot find it so. Perhaps the strain of entertaining house guests for so long is taking its toll on me—being on display has always put me in the dismals—but I don't think you need fear that I shall be a brittle-tempered spouse.”

Iris shook her head and said carefully, “I don't think you will be my spouse at all, Marcus. Please forgive me, but I think we should reconsider our troth. I think, after all, that we don't suit.”

“Don't
suit
? Iris, you must be joking! Or have I done something to offend you? Surely I've not been so moody that I've frightened you off! You cannot be so delicate that an occasional frown disconcerts you.”

Iris turned away in irritation. “You must not try to put
me
on the defensive, Marcus, for I am not the guilty party.”

“Then
I
must be the guilty one—but I scarcely think that a bit of moodiness is sufficient grounds for—”

“It's not the moodiness alone that brings me to this pass, I assure you. If you will look into your heart with your usual honesty, my dear, I'm sure you'll find sufficient cause for guilt.”

He dropped his eyes and drank his Madeira in a gulp. “I don't know what you mean,” he said stiffly. Then he smiled at her again. “I've often heard husbands complain that their wives accuse them of misdemeanors they won't name, but I didn't think you were the sort who—”

“I am not your wife. Therefore it is not my place to name what I think is your ‘misdemeanor'. I can only say that I've felt for many days that I am not … in the center of your … preoccupations …”

Marcus was struck with a pang of contrition. “Yes, you're right,” he said shamefacedly.” I
am
guilty of neglect of you. I never should have suggested that our betrothal be celebrated here. If I had permitted your mother to hold the ball she so dearly desired, I would not have had to play host and could have spent my time at your side as an affianced … er … lover should.”

“Perhaps, in those circumstances,” Iris said softly, her eyes lowered to her folded hands, “I would not have had the opportunity to notice that you've never been a lover at all.”

There was a protracted silence. Marcus stared at her in admiring dismay. She had a large measure of integrity and honesty that set her above the ordinary. How could he have permitted himself to hurt her so? Yet her intelligence made it difficult for him to reassure her or to ease her pain. She had evidently seen through his scrupulous politeness to the emptiness of his feelings. He had no idea what to do about the problem now. “I've told you that I'm not at ease in displaying my feelings,” he explained lamely.

“Yet I've seen you on
several
occasions show flashes of genuine warmth.”

“Have you?” he asked, grasping at the straw with relief. “Then you
know
how deeply I feel for you.”

“That warmth was not directed toward me.”

The simple directness of her statement left him powerless to speak. His mind whirled with protestations of innocence, with excuses and explanations, with pleadings of forgiveness, with all the things that a woman would expect on such an occasion. But her soft-spoken sincerity had disarmed him. He couldn't cheapen her forthrightness by defending himself with shoddy, wheedling lies. “I'm sorry,” he said miserably. “You deserve better …”

“Yes, I do.”

He turned to her earnestly and took her hand in his. “Will you give me the chance to make it up to you? I promise to try my utmost. Nothing will stand in the way—”

“No, Marcus,” she said gently, removing her fingers from his grasp. “I never wanted a
mariage de covenance
. That is all our marriage would be to you. I prefer to wait for a love-match. It is not too late for me to find one.”

There was not much that Marcus could find to say after this. No matter how sound his reasons for wishing to marry Iris had been, love had not been among them. And his Uncle Julian had been right about love—when one was possessed by it, all other reasons for marriage became pointless. He accepted, with a feeling of crushing guilt, the finality of her declaration that their betrothal was at an end. When she went to the door, he remained standing at the window, his head lowered in dejection.

“I won't tell Mama anything of this until we've returned to London,” Iris said before leaving, “so I hope you'll say nothing to anyone yet. Mama is sure to make a dreadful scene, and I would rather face it at home than here. I'll make the announcement to the newspapers as soon as Mama is told.”

He looked at her helplessly. “I wish you every happiness, my dear. You're a—”

She smiled at him wistfully.” Yes, I know. A great gun.”

So the calamitous houseparty came to an end. Lady Bethune, her sister, her sister's children and Iris piled into the Bethune coach the next day and left for home. Lady Bethune was effusive in her goodbyes to her hostess, repeatedly asking Charlotte to come to London as soon as possible so that the two mamas could discuss the wedding plans. Lady Wynwood smiled and nodded pleasantly to all suggestions, but when Lady Bethune reviewed the conversation later, she could remember no definite date or arrangement. “Lady Wynwood is certainly a vague sort of creature,” she remarked to her family disgustedly.

Dennis, who'd been enjoying the respite from Fanny's attention, now found himself being pursued again. With the house so thin of company, the girl had little else with which to amuse herself. But Dennis had no patience left to deal with the little minx. He packed his bags hurriedly, thanked his friend for a memorable rustication, jumped into his curricle and left for London, urging Marcus to follow as soon as possible. “Too much country life is bad for the brain,” he warned as his curricle disappeared around the bend of the drive, “so don't dally too long.”

The Carringtons were the next to take their departure. At the end of a fortnight precisely, their carriage appeared at the front door. When the baggage had been loaded and the children herded aboard, Fanny delivered herself of an emotional thank-you for a stay which she would “remember all the days of my life.” Then Mrs. Carrington kissed her hostess tearfully and followed her daughter into the coach. Mr. Carrington took off his spectacles, shook Marcus's hand firmly and said, “It was a most entertaining visit, my boy. Most entertaining. Can't remember a time when I've been so diverted.” With that, he climbed aboard and signaled for the coachman to start. But the carriage had no sooner begun to roll when the butler came hurrying down the steps with their forgotten dog in his arms. “
Wait
!” he shouted, chasing the lumbering equipage down the driveway.

“You've forgotten your little
Shooshi
!”

Mrs. Carrington screamed in horror, leaned dangerously out of the carriage window and grasped the almost-forgotten Shooshi in her arms. “Goodbye again!” she clarioned, waving the animal's paw in farewell as they disappeared from sight.

That left only Uncle Julian, but Marcus refused to permit him to leave. Now that he could relax, he wanted the company of the old fellow whom he was only now getting to know. Julian readily agreed to stay on. The two men spent the next few days in riding, playing chess and walking companionably through the woods. In the evenings, they sat with Charlotte on the terrace enjoying the balmy breezes and reminiscing about the family's past. Then, after Charlotte had gone to bed, they talked on late into the night, about everything from Napoleon's misguided strategy in Russia to Julian's youthful misadventures. It was the sort of quiet companionship that Marcus most enjoyed, and the two came to an affectionate intimacy they had never had before.

Although the old gentleman learned a great deal about his nephew during those times, Marcus did not talk about his betrothal at all. If the omission struck Julian as peculiar, the matter was explained by an item he found in the
Times
one morning at the end of June. “What's
this
?” he asked his nephew in surprise. “Can they have made a mistake?” He pointed to the place on the page and passed the paper to Marcus.

Marcus didn't really need to read it. “Yes, it's true. I've only been waiting for this to appear before I told you. She's jilted me, I'm afraid.”

“I see,” Julian said knowingly. “Have you told your mother?”

“Not yet.” He sighed. “I suppose I'd better do so now, before she hears about it from some gossipy neighbor.”

“Do you think the news will disappoint her?”

“I don't know. With Mama, it's hard to tell. I never knew whether or not she really
liked
Iris. Kept calling her Miss Bethany or some such misnomer.”