Allison Lane (24 page)

“It sounds worse than the assemblies at Raven’s Rook,” said Elizabeth.

“I would not be surprised.  But Society dares not complain.  One must have permission from the patronesses to attend.  If they don’t like your breeding or your manners, you will not receive a voucher.  The tiniest hint of scandal or even the perception of an insult will get that voucher revoked.  And they do not believe in second chances.  I know of no one who has succeeded in getting a voucher reinstated.”

“They sound like tyrants,” said Elizabeth, suppressing her delight when Cecilia flinched at the description.

“They are.  And they enjoy wielding their power.  Everyone must adhere to their rules.  The Duke of Wellington was refused entrance one night because he was not wearing knee-smalls.  And more than one person has been turned away for arriving after the doors were closed.”

“And their power extends far beyond Almack’s,” added Mr. Randolph.  “Many a girl has been denied vouchers because she dared to waltz before receiving permission from a patroness.  Miss Ungerwood destroyed her come-out by waltzing at a country assembly, where she was spotted by one of the high sticklers.”

“Then the best way to secure my place in Society is to become a patroness,” decided Cecilia.

Symington laughed.  “Such childish conceit.  Do you honestly believe that they will expand their little group?  Your innocence is shocking, my dear.  They will never dilute their power.  Nor would they consider passing it on to someone so young.”

Elizabeth decided that they had given Cecilia enough to think about for the evening.  “Have you any idea when your secretary will return, my lord?” she asked Symington.

“It would depend upon the weather,” he replied.  “Two weeks at the very least.”

That led, quite naturally, to everyone’s guesses on how long the wet weather would last.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Elizabeth pulled out a book describing Switzerland and settled down to read.  Wind battered the library windows, proving that yet another storm was moving in. 

Shivering, she shifted closer to the fire.  The library was impossible to heat properly, but her grandfather had always insisted that fires burn in all three fireplaces to at least keep the chill off.  It was an order Fosdale had never countermanded, which meant he probably didn’t know of it.  He never entered this room, and the servants rarely volunteered information.  Now that she knew the value of her books, she was grateful that the damp had been held at bay.

The first blast of rain slammed against the house.  Sighing, she rose to check her repairs.  The putty was holding.  No water seeped around the window frame.

Resuming her seat, she tried to lose herself in a description of mountains that sounded taller and far more rugged than those surrounding Ravenswood.  The wild grandeur would make an ideal setting for one of Cecilia’s stories, but perhaps she could use it as well.  She had come across a fell-walker last summer who had been fascinated by the different sorts of rocks he found in the hills.  Switzerland would likely interest such a fellow.

She turned her imagination loose, conjuring other characters and listing all the reasons they might be traveling abroad.  But she couldn’t concentrate.  Images of Mr. Randolph kept intruding.

He knew about her writing. 

Her greatest fear since she had penned her first book five years earlier had been that someone would discover her secrets, making it impossible to achieve independence.  Now that fear had come to pass.

But he did not condemn you. 

She frowned.  It was true that he had praised her work even before he had connected it to her.  And he was the only person at Ravenswood who seemed to understand her.  Could she trust him to remain silent?

Of course you can.

She nodded.  Revealing her secret would force her into marriage by destroying her other options, something he had vowed more than once to avoid.  But beyond that, he was a man who loved books, a man who had read widely and appreciated knowledge.  So he did not consider writing novels to be either sinful or scandalous.  Yet he was close enough to the aristocracy to understand that others would.  Most members of her class distrusted a broad education, especially in women.  Earning a living was even worse.

What would Society say about her other dreams? 

Plenty, and none of it supportive.  Even Mr. Randolph did not wholly approve of her plans – she nearly choked on the understatement, for despite his soothing words, his eyes had held shock.  He might even consider her a candidate for Bedlam.  Yet he had not only refused to expose her, he had handed her the key to success.  Though it meant selling the library she loved, she could live comfortably even if she never wrote another word. 

So why were doubts suddenly assailing her?

She had lain awake half the night trying to plan her next step.  But problems she had never considered suddenly loomed large.  Staying in this valley would put her in the position of playing maiden aunt to Cecilia’s children – assuming the girl married Sir Lewis – and leave her at the mercy of her parents’ ire.  Both images made her cringe.  She could live with Aunt Constance, but the woman would likely die before many more years had passed, exposing her to Uncle Jason’s disapproval, for he despised girls who left home for any reason but marriage.

So she would have to live in a place where she knew no one.  And risk them shunning you for being different, added a voice.  You would be much better off with Mr. Randolph.

Never!  She straightened in shock.  Where had that idea come from?  And why?

“Does it do nothing but rain in Cumberland?” asked Mr. Randolph, pulling her out of her thoughts.

“Be grateful it is not colder, or we would be buried in snow by now.”  She watched him peruse the titles, unable to ignore how his pantaloons clung to his thighs and how his jacket stretched across his shoulders when he pulled a book from a high shelf, then returned it.  “Was there something particular you wished to read?”

“Not really.  Your grandfather amassed an interesting collection.”

“Once he returned from France, he never traveled beyond Carlisle.  But his interest in other places and other times remained, so he used books to explore them.”  Her eyes strayed to the volume in her lap.  Not only would she lose her own books, leaving would also remove access to hundreds of others.  Where would she research places and ideas for her novels?

“So he traveled the world through other eyes.”  He joined her on the settee.

“It is better than knowing nothing at all.”

“But not nearly as interesting as seeing new places for yourself.  No matter how evenhanded a reporter tries to be, his prejudices will inevitably skew his opinions.  If he dislikes quaint country villages, his descriptions will make them sound boringly unappealing.  If he prefers open vistas, then reports of forested mountains will suffer.”

“Surely writers try to be fair when they are describing real places.  Unlike the novels I write, their works are supposed to be truthful.”

“It depends on the writer.  If you were to write an account of your travels, you would find something good to say about every place you visited.”

She stared at him, surprised by his perspicacity.

“That is the kind of woman you are, Elizabeth.  And many writers feel the same way.  But there are others who believe that only their opinion matters.  I am sure you have met such people.”

“Major Henessey,” she replied instantly, naming a retired officer who lived near Sir Lewis.  “He considers himself the ultimate authority on everything, so he never admits a fault and will argue against any ideas but his own, even those that are equally good.”

“Exactly.  So if he set out to write a book about Cumberland, could you trust him to portray it accurately?”

“Probably not, but that has no bearing on this discussion.  I cannot visit places for myself, so I must glean what I can from the accounts of others.”

“But you could travel, if you chose to,” he said softly.

“Hardly.  That is one restriction that I will never overcome.”

“Lady Hester Stanhope has done so for some years now.”

“But I am not Lady Hester.  Even if I had her wealth, I would not try to cope with inns and transportation and finding adequate translators in countries where I did not speak the language.”

“So the ability to travel must weigh in favor of marriage.”  He smiled, sending goose bumps skittering down her arms.

She ignored them, stifling a groan at yet another mention of marriage.  His determination hadn’t waned after all, though she had mistakenly thought so after his revelation about her library.

But he was not deterred.  “I can offer you experiences you would never find on your own.  You needn’t fear that I would take advantage of my position to dominate you, for I respect you too much to try.”

Randolph knew he should give her more time, but that commodity was growing short.  And yesterday’s discussion seemed to have done some good.  The shadows under her eyes hinted at a sleepless night.  Was she finally facing the loneliness she would endure if she held to her course?

She bit her lip for more than a minute before responding.

“I have learned that when an offer sounds too good to be true, it generally is.  You paint a pretty picture with your words – freedom, noninterference in my work, travel, and more – but what would you derive from such an arrangement?  A gentleman would never accept so lasting a commitment without expecting some benefit.”

“Companionship,” he said carefully.  “I do not enjoy the press of London, but neither do I enjoy solitude.  You are an intelligent woman who shares many of my interests and offers stimulating conversation.  I can relax completely with you, for you already know the worst about me and accept it.”

“Your fear.”  She nodded.

“I doubt if you can comprehend how much that means to me.  No one who has not been brutalized in an attempt to rid him of a childish fear can understand the stigma attached to the adult who harbors it.”  He sighed.  “And I really would like to travel, but have hesitated to do so alone.”

She was staring, as he had known she would.  “And how has a duke’s book expert and distant cousin amassed the means to travel?  Or the leisure to do so?”

“The relationship is not as distant as I implied,” he admitted, choosing his words with care. 

“I suspected as much.”

He raised his brows.

“You are so at home with command, I wondered if you were Symington’s heir, who I understand is currently a distant cousin.”

“Something like that.”  He managed to keep a straight face, though her knowledge of his family tree was a shock.  He had not even thought of that third cousin when he embarked on this deception.  “I knew you were remarkably observant.  But I wanted to give you a free choice in deciding your future, without your father’s pressure or interference.  My knowledge of rare books is well-known.  Whitfield calls on my expertise frequently, as does the British Museum.  And he did send me here to authenticate the Chaucer.”

“So what do you do the rest of the time?” she asked suspiciously.

“We discussed my father’s estate, which I will one day inherit and must supervise now that he cannot do so himself.  In addition, I own a small estate nearby and have sufficient funds to be considered wealthy by some.  You need not fear the future if you become my wife.”

“Dear God!”  She blanched.  “Whatever you do, don’t mention that to Fosdale.  He would drag us off to Scotland in a trice if he suspected your situation.  The only reason he is not pressing harder is because he considers you negligible.  And he is concentrating on attaching Symington at the moment.”

“I am aware of that.”  He suppressed a grimace, for this conversation was becoming trickier with every exchange.  “But I have no intention of falling in with his wishes.  I would wed you, yes.  But by choice.  You are of age, so any agreements we reach need involve only the two of us.  If Fosdale makes demands, I will remind him that ladies traditionally bring dowries into their marriages.”

She laughed.  “I am tempted to accept you, just to see his face when you confront him.”  The smile died.  “Almost.”

“Do not decide yet,” he begged, stifling disappointment – though her words raised hope that he would ultimately win her.  “But as you consider my offer, think about everything we have discussed.  I promise, on my honor as a gentleman, that I will never coerce you into a life you abhor nor deny any request without offering reasons that you are welcome to debate, for I believe that marriage should be a partnership.  Your writing is a part of you that I would never suppress.  I can offer a comfortable life with opportunities you will not find elsewhere.  And I beg you to think seriously about your ideas of marriage.  Just as Major Henessey imposes his views on those around him, you have allowed your parents’ unhappiness to skew your image of all relationships.”

“You mentioned that before,” she reminded him.  “I will consider it, and I will consider your offer.  In return, I would ask that you accept my answer this time.”

Pain knifed his heart.  Would she ever return his love?

Her eyes hardened at his hesitation. 

He must agree unless he wished to hear another refusal.  So he nodded, praying that he would not have to renege on the implied promise.  “I will leave you to your thoughts, my lady,” he said formally, placing a lingering kiss on her hand before striding away.

* * * *

Elizabeth touched the back of her hand.  It remained warm from his lips.  He was unlike any man she had ever met, which was reason enough to seriously consider his offer, she admitted with a sigh.  Could he possibly be right?

She stared out at the rain.

How could she tell?  She mentally listed every couple she knew.  Her parents’ marriage was by far the worst, though few aristocratic couples treated each other as more than casual acquaintances.  On the other hand, people rarely revealed their true feelings in public.  Even her mother seemed perfectly content when judged by her demeanor around other people.

It was an important point, she admitted.  Society frowned on any display of genuine emotion.  And Mr. Randolph was right.  She was skewing her perceptions.  Because her mother’s bland expression hid bitter unhappiness, she had assumed that all facades covered distress.  But they actually hid a variety of feelings, including happiness and contentment.