A Certain Magic (18 page)

“It is not because of last evening?” the girl asked. She peeped up at him briefly then. “Not because I chased after that poor little kitten and you were forced to shelter from the storm with me? Mama scolded me roundly for such an indiscretion.”

He stepped forward and took one of her hands. “No, of course it is not because of that,” he lied. “You must have known before that that I had a partiality for you.” 

“Oh,” she said. “It is just that I have always been determined, you see, to marry someone I loved. Uncle wants me to marry you because you are rich and are to be Lord Berringer one day. But that does not matter to me. I care to marry only a gentleman who loves me.” 

“Well, then,” he said, raising her hand to his lips, “I can see no bar to our marriage at all, Miss Borden, unless you do not love me.” 

She raised her eyes full to his. Large, innocent eyes. Except that his own eyes were ho longer blind. She wanted his very soul, it seemed. Well, she would have it. He had no more use for it himself. 

“For of course I love you,” he said, kissing her again. 

“Oh,” she said, making a little rosebud of her mouth and continuing to gaze, rapt, into his eyes.

He bent his head and kissed her. And kept his lips on hers when her own pressed sweetly against them. 

He smiled at her. “And will you keep me in suspense?” he asked. “Am I to be accepted or rejected?”

“Oh, I will marry you, sir,” she said and blushed prettily.

“Splendid!” he said. “We shall make the wedding soon, shall we, so that we may remove to Westhaven Park for the summer?”

“Oh,” she said, “I do not think we should waste the rest of the Season, sir, when Mama has gone to so much trouble to bring me here and when Uncle has spent so much money on ball gowns and all the rest. And I have heard that Brighton is lovely in the summer.”

“Have you?” he said. “I believe your mama will disapprove of my being alone with you any longer, Miss Borden. Perhaps we can discuss our future plans at another time. Would you care to call on my mother with me this afternoon?”

“Oh,” she said, “on such a lovely day, sir? It would be a pity to sit indoors when the sun is shining. I would far prefer to drive in the park.”

“Then the park it will be,” he said, bowing.

He wished, ten minutes later, as he drove away in his curricle, that he had brought a horse instead. He would have taken it into Hyde Park and galloped until its legs collapsed under it. On second thought, perhaps it was as well that he had not ridden. He had never been one for cruelty to animals.

So, he was an engaged man. Engaged to marry a very young girl who had learned somehow during her eighteen years how to get exactly what she wanted out of life. A girl who had picked her man and won him over the course of a few weeks despite his own reluctance. A girl who now intended to use her new status and his wealth to enjoy all that life in high society could offer.

A girl he did not love and now feared that he could not even like. A girl with whom he was going to have to take a very firm hand from his wedding day on if he did not wish to be ruled for the rest of his life. She was to be his wife, mistress of Westhaven Park, mother of his children. She was to be his life’s companion.

He slowed his curricle when a carter he narrowly missed scowled at him and a round lady tending a vegetable stall shook her fist and favored him with the full extent of her profane vocabulary.

He dined at White’s in splendid isolation, owing to the scowls he directed at anyone who looked as if he might be approaching. And he walked afterward for miles, he knew not where. It was two o’clock when he arrived in Cavendish Square again. But this time he did not stand outside, gazing up at the windows. He knocked on the door.

But of course, it was as he had fully expected it to be. She had left an hour before, her servant told him. And now belatedly, as he walked away, he realized that he should have called on her that morning even before going to Bosley’s. He had owed her a call, awkward and painful as it would have been to both of them.

But he had forced her to get through the morning somehow alone. He had forced her to leave without a word of apology, without a word to assure her that what had happened had not been intentional seduction, that he respected her still, more than any other woman he knew, that it had all been his fault.

Or was it as well that cowardice had kept him away? Was it self-indulgence—yet again—to wish that he had seen her just one more time? Was it better for her that he had failed to put even more turmoil into her morning than there must already have been?

It was time to walk home and change and get himself ready to take his betrothed driving in the park.

***

Alice rose early, even earlier than usual, though she had slept deeply through the night. She had several things to do before setting out on the journey home after luncheon. She had last-minute instructions to give to the servants who would remain in London and to her maid, who would accompany her. She had some shopping to do. And, of course, she had to call at Portman Square to take her leave of Bruce and Phoebe and their family. 

There was plenty to keep her busy, both mind and body. And she would not stay at home since she did not expect Piers to call yet knew that if she stayed, her eyes would be straying to the window and her ears listening for a knock on the door every minute—as they had done all through breakfast.

He would not come. Of course. He had other, more important matters to settle that morning. Besides, what was there to say? There was nothing at all.

She went shopping alone, and did not expect to see Piers anywhere on Oxford Street. Yet her stomach lurched every time she saw a tall, slim gentleman until she looked into his face and knew him to be a stranger.

It was a relief to arrive at Portman Square. Amanda was tearful at the thought of seeing her go, and even Mary hugged her and kissed her and told her that the two afternoons she had spent with Aunt Alice and Mr. Westhaven had been the most wonderful of her stay in London.

“Why does he call you Allie, Aunt Alice?” she asked.

“Because Uncle Web used to call me that,” she said. “Have you forgotten?”

“I like it,” the girl said. “May I call you Aunt Allie?”

And yet it was Piers who had first called her that, when she was fourteen and she had fallen in love with him with a girl’s fierce passion.

“Allie of the braids,” he had said outside church one Sunday, lightly tugging one of them. “Don’t you ever sit on them by mistake?” And he had winked at her and moved on—to flirt with the eighteen-year-old Miss Roath, she could remember clearly. She had hated Miss Roath all that summer.

Even Richard and Jarvis seemed sorry to see her go. Bruce lamented the fact that she had not arrived sooner, when they had really needed her.

“I came as soon as I had your letter,” she said. “And I think I was able to do something to cheer the children.”

“It is a miracle they did not take a chill from being taken out so soon after their illness, though,” Bruce said. 

“They did not,” Alice said briskly, “so you must not provoke yourself, Bruce.”

 “I do not know how I am to entertain Mary now that you are going, I am sure, Alice,” Phoebe said.

“She has a nurse,” Alice said. “And Jarvis is remarkably goodnatured. I am sure he will agree to take her into the park occasionally or somewhere else amusing if you ask him, Phoebe. ”

“Well, I don’t know, I am sure,” her sister-in-law said. “What happened last night, Alice? Shocking goings-on, according to Amanda.”

“The storm came on suddenly,” Alice said. “Piers and Miss Borden were caught in the gardens and had to wait for it to pass before they could make a dash for the carriage.”

“I daresay he had it all planned,” Bruce said. “He never was quite respectable. “

“I daresay he will be offering for her, then,” Phoebe said. “Though I suppose he would have anyway. He has been paying her marked attention.”

“Yes,” Alice said. 

“The girl’s connection with trade is unfortunate,” Phoebe said, “but of course her father was a baron. Mr. Westhaven might have done better for sure, but I suppose there will be a good dowry.”

“I daresay you are right,” Alice said.  

“It is a pity in a way,” Phoebe said. “I thought at one time that he fancied Amanda, but I daresay he thought her not good enough for him. He was always dreadfully high in the instep.” 

“I would not have given him Amanda anyway,” Bruce said. “Ramshackle fellow. I never knew why Webster allowed him to be forever at Chandlos, Alice. Felt sorry for him, no doubt.”

“Piers and Web were like brothers,” Alice said quietly.

“Well, then,” he said, “he might have had more respect for your good name, Alice, Papa having been who he was. I have not liked your association with him since you have been in town. It is a good thing you are returning to Bath, I believe.”

“Yes.” she said, rising from her chair. “I am looking forward to being at home again.”

“Though what you find to do there I do not know,” Bruce said. “And why pay to keep a house going for one person, Alice, when you could be with us and keeping yourself busy? Well, never let it be said that I did not offer you a brother’s care.”

“No,” she said, crossing the room to him and kissing him on the cheek, “I will never let that be said, Bruce.”

“You really ought not to be traveling with just a maid, Alice,” Phoebe said. “What if you were attacked by highwaymen?”

“Then I suppose I would lose Web’s diamonds and the coins in my purse,” she said. “Don’t worry about me, Phoebe. You have enough to worry about with Amanda’s come-out.”

“Yes,” Phoebe said, turning her cheek for Alice’s kiss, “you do not know what it is to be a mother, Alice. You have been very fortunate.”

“Yes,” Alice said, patting her sister-in-law’s arm and turning to take her leave.

She could have been on her way to Bath a half hour or more before she was, she thought later, relaxing back in the seat of her carriage, a tearful Penelope at her side—there was a young groom in the house in London who would have to be found a position in Bath, Alice had begun to realize. She might have had at least a half hour longer of daylight for their travels that day. But she had sat longer than necessary over her luncheon, and then she had found it necessary to have her hair completely redone, though it was still tidy from the morning.

Well, she thought, dosing her eyes, it was over now. There would be no more expecting him and not expecting him now. She would be able to gain control of herself and her life once more. She would be able to impose peace on herself again.

Except that there would never again be Piers or any hope that their friendship would bring them together again, even if only for brief days. For there was no more friendship and never would be again. She had had to make an instant decision when he had asked her if he might make love to her—not that he had put the request into words, of course. She had had to decide between one glorious night of love and a lifetime of friendship.

She had chosen the night of love.

And had been granted it. Oh, far more wonderfully than she had ever expected. She had never suspected—through nine years of a close and affectionate marriage she had never once suspected—that there could be such passion, such intense and shattering joy.

She had chosen her night of love and had lived through it. And now she must live through the rest of a lifetime without the friendship that had meant more to her than anything else in her life, though she had rarely seen him after Web’s death.

Did she regret her decision? She had not yet given herself time to think fully, though she felt already a vast and frightening emptiness yawning ahead. Life was going to be dreadful indeed without Piers, especially after she had read the notice of his betrothal in the London papers. She would spend the rest of her life wondering about him, wondering if his marriage was bringing him any contentment, wondering if there were any children and how many and what genders.

She would wonder if he ever thought of her, ever blamed himself for coming to her for comfort and allowing her to give it. She would wonder if he ever suspected that it was her own need that had driven her to say yes to his question. 

Oh, yes, she would regret her decision for a lifetime.

And yet for a lifetime she would have her night of love to remember. Piers kissing her as she had never been kissed, unclothing her in the candlelight, touching her with his mouth and his palms and his fingertips in places and in ways she had never been touched. Piers looking deeply into her eyes, unembarrassed by the intimacy they shared. Piers inside her, stroking her pain until it became an agony and then an ecstasy.

Piers holding her to him, rocking her against him, asking her to forgive him if she ever could.

Forgive him for giving her ecstasy?

She would never regret what had happened. She would never blame him. He had not come there to seduce her and had not done anything to her that was against her will. And she would never blame herself, either. She should do so, she knew. She had allowed a man into her house and into her bed the night before, and given him far more of herself than she had ever given her husband. What she had done would have been unthinkable to her just the day before. She should feel guilt and shame.

But she did not and she would not. She loved Piers, always had loved him and always would. He had needed her the night before—though doubtlessly today he felt both guilt and embarrassment—and she had given him all she had to give. She would not feel guilty for that.

Somehow she would live with the pain of the loss of his friendship. She had learned to live with losing Web, and in many ways that had been worse because he had been half of her daily life for nine years. She would learn to live with this loss, too. She could not say that she regretted having married Web just because the pain of his death was almost unbearable for a long time. In a similar way she would not say that she regretted sleeping with Piers just because there was pain to be dealt with again.

Life was worth the pain. The joys were worth the pain.