Mary Balogh (47 page)

He thought of an escapade that had got him and Peter into some trouble many years ago—one that the poker-faced Doris would not find quite proper—and began to tell it. To hell with the woman, he thought. If she expected vulgarity from him, then he was more than willing to oblige her.

Goodrich had entered the room and was standing beside Mary, their shoulders almost touching. He was smiling at her possessively. He looked almost as if he
might set an arm about her shoulders at any moment. If he tried it, Lord Edmond thought, he would have to go about for the rest of his life minus one arm. And catching the drift of his thoughts, he redoubled his efforts to make the telling of his story quite as outrageous as he could. Peter and Andrew were already chuckling. Doris had not cracked a smile.

Devil take it, Lord Edmond thought as that arm came briefly about Mary’s waist to turn her to greet a couple who were approaching them. Hell and damnation! Was he to be subjected to this for a week? He muttered something to his companions and strolled across the room.

“Ah, Mary,” he said in his haughtiest manner, quite rudely ignoring the viscount and the couple with whom they were speaking, and not at all caring about the impression he was making. “So you have come to rusticate, have you?”

“I would hardly call spending a week in the country at a party with more than twenty other guests rusticating, my lord,” she said, turning toward him so that his rudeness to the other three would not seem quite so obvious.

“Would you not?” he said. “What would you call it, then? A great yawn? It keeps you from your books and your poets and your politicians. It must seem like a massive waste of time.”

“Heavens!” she said. “What a strange impression you must have of me. Life has more to offer than just books and intellectual conversation, my lord. And more than idle amusement, too. Life has an infinite variety of experiences to offer, and I like to sample all of them.”

“All?” He widened his eyes and looked down deliberately at her mouth.

“Very well, then,” she said, flushing. “Many. Words should be chosen with care, as you have just implied.”

“I wish you had meant the
all
,” he said, his eyes caressing her.

“You are trying to put me to the blush, my lord,” she said calmly.

“And succeeding,” he said. “Did you cry, Mary?”

“Cry?” She looked at him inquiringly.

He smiled at her arctically. “My only regret,” he said, “was that I could not follow you invisibly into the house. But I will wager that you cried. Women cannot resist a broken heart, I have found, especially when they think themselves the breaker.”

“You did not mean a word of what you said, then?” she asked.

He raised his eyebrows. “Did you think I did?” he asked. “Poor Mary. If I was to endure the mortification of a rejection, I felt justified in meting out a little punishment in return. I succeeded, did I?”

“You flatter yourself,” she said. “It has been obvious to me from the beginning of our acquaintance that you are quite incapable of experiencing any of the finer feelings, not to mention love. Your charade would not have convinced an imbecile.”

“Mary of the acid setdowns,” he said, his head to one side. Her fine gray eyes lent her whole face beauty when they were flashing with indignation, he thought. “You really must give me lessons one of these days.”

“You forget,” she said, “that we are to have no future dealings at all, that you have a promise to keep. I believe this gathering is large enough that we can keep from having to exchange any future words, my lord.”

“At which point I am to crawl abjectly back into my corner, I suppose,” he said. “Mary, Mary, when will you learn that a libertine and a rogue is without honor? I needed to be in the country for a few weeks. Tedious business to attend to and all that. I have scarcely stopped yawning since I left town. Did you really think that I was keeping my promise to you?”

“Yes, I did,” she said. “It was one small thing—one very small thing—for which to respect you.”

He shook his head. “And with that short speech you expect to blackmail me?” he asked. “I don’t want your respect, Mary, remember? I don’t care a damn for your respect.” He lowered his voice. “I want your body. And the campaign is about to resume, my dear. Remember that I have the added incentive of knowing that you also wanted mine on the return from Richmond. Very badly, as I recall.”

“It seems, then,” she said, “that I am a better actor than you, my lord. I convinced you?”

He grinned suddenly. “That was unworthy of you, Mary,” he said. “It was not even a good try. You have merely made yourself look remarkably foolish.”

She blushed and had no answer, he was interested to note.

“Why the letter?” she asked. “Why the warning, if you were planning to be so unscrupulous?”

“Ah,” he said. “I know something of human nature, Mary. I thought the letter would pique your curiosity. I thought you would not be able to resist casting your eyes on a man sick with love for you. And behold you here. And behold me, your lovesick swain.”

“You are despicable,” she said. “If you will excuse me, my lord, there are other people I should be talking to.”

As if on cue, the Viscount Goodrich, having managed to finish his conversation with the other couple, drew Mary’s arm protectively through his and nodded stiffly to Lord Edmond.

“Waite,” he said.

“You had better hang on to her,” Lord Edmond said conversationally. “I had plans for ravishing her in the middle of my aunt’s drawing room, Goodrich.”

“Such sentiments, flippant as they are, are not for a
lady’s ears,” the viscount said. “And I can imagine what your plans are, Waite. Forget them. Mary has me to protect her, and I will do so, though I would much regret any public unpleasantness during the festivities for your aunt’s birthday.”

“But you would not regret private unpleasantness?” Lord Edmond pursed his lips and considered for a moment. “Neither would I. It can be arranged anytime you so choose, Goodrich.”

“Please.” Mary’s voice was quiet, but Lord Edmond knew, though she showed no outward sign, that she was furious. “Enough of this. There will be no wrangling over me and no fighting. Are you two schoolboys to be coming to fisticuffs over nothing at all? And am I a youthful beauty to be fought over? Lord Edmond, you are doing this deliberately, and it will not succeed. Simon, escort me across to the tea tray, if you please.”

Lord Edmond watched them go. Her back was very straight. Her hips swayed pleasingly, though without any conscious provocativeness, beneath the loose folds of her muslin dress.

He wondered what on earth had possessed him. Some demon quite beyond his control. He had not planned any of the things he had said to her. And everything had been a pack of lies.

Good Lord, he thought, the wise thing for him to do was to pack his bags and return to Willow Court as fast as horse could gallop. Otherwise there was no knowing to what dishonorable depths he would fall with regard to Mary or what asinine sort of duel he would end up fighting with Goodrich. He might even find himself telling Mary about the plump mistress and the brood of bastards, and despising himself for the rest of his life.

“Ah, Edmond,” his aunt said, linking an arm through his. “I did not wish to interrupt you while you were renewing your acquaintance with Mary, but now that you
are alone again, you really must meet the Reverend Samuel Ormsby and his wife—she was Phillip’s cousin, you may remember. Samuel believes you and he were at Oxford together for a while.”

“Oh, Lord,” he said.

“Precisely, dear,” she said. “I am surprised that he has recognized you.”

Instead of rushing from the room to pack his bags, Lord Edmond allowed himself to be led toward the gentleman in the clerical garb, who was beginning to look somewhat familiar.

Oh, Lord. It was like something out of another lifetime. Out of another era. Another universe.

“T
HE AIR FEELS
good,” Mary said, closing her eyes and breathing it in with the scent of flowers. “There is the suggestion of evening coolness already.”

She was strolling in the formal gardens with Lord Goodrich, tea being over and most of the guests having dispersed to their rooms.

“I knew he was Lady Eleanor’s nephew,” he said. “I suppose it should have struck me as a possibility that he would be a guest here, too. But I would have expected her to show better taste than to invite him with decent people. I would not have brought you here if I had known, Mary, I do assure you. I am sorry.”

“But you did not bring me here,” she pointed out. “We each accepted our separate invitations. I think perhaps it would be better, Simon, if you did not show such open antagonism to him. It goads him on into being more outrageous than he would otherwise be, I believe.”

“I will be antagonistic to anyone who treats you with anything less than the proper respect,” he said.

She smiled at him.

“No,” he said, “the best way we can handle this,
Mary, is to become betrothed without further ado. He will not argue with a fiance’s rights, believe me.”

“It is a rather strange reason to become betrothed,” she said.

He stopped walking and took both her hands in his. “Have I given the wrong impression?” he said. “You know otherwise, Mary. You know that I have chosen you as the woman I want beside me as my wife for the rest of my days. And I believe you are ready to accept my suit now, are you not? I have felt it in the past few weeks. Why not make it official now, when there is a good reason?”

“But it is Lady Eleanor’s birthday celebration,” she said. “We must not try to take some of the attention from her, Simon.”

He squeezed her hands. “Somewhere in those words I found reassurance,” he said. “Do I take it that you were not saying no but only that the timing is poor?”

She thought. “Yes,” she said, “I think that is what I was saying.”

“You will marry me, then?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I think so.”

“Think?” he said.

She drew a deep breath. “I believe I must have been unmarried for too long,” she said. “The thought of taking such a step, of voluntarily giving up my freedom again, frankly terrifies me, Simon.”

“Then we will not rush into marriage,” he said. “I shall give you time to accustom yourself to the idea. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” she said after a small hesitation. “But, Simon, I don’t believe we should say anything this week.”

“Only if Waite proves troublesome,” he said. “If he does, Mary, you must allow me to tell him in no uncertain terms that you are affianced to me and that any insults
to you, however slight, will be answerable to me. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” she said again after another hesitation. “But I think it would be better to ignore him, Simon. He thrives on the sort of attention you give him.”

He squeezed her hands once more. “Leave such matters to me,” he said. “Relax and enjoy the party.”

“Yes.” She smiled at him.

“We are betrothed, then,” he said, looking at her in some satisfaction. “I am happy about it, Mary.”

“And I,” she said.

He bent his head and kissed her chastely on the lips.

M
ARY FELT HAPPY FOR THE REST OF THE DAY AND
for most of the following morning. Everything she had hoped would be accomplished during the week at Rundle Park seemed to have been accomplished during the first day.

She was to be married. She was to be the Viscountess Goodrich, and her main home was to be a country estate. There she would live out a life of security and contentment with a man she liked and respected. She was only thirty years old. There would be children—two perhaps, even three. She would like to have a son, though of course Simon already had his heir. And a daughter, too. She would like at least one of each.

She was glad that he had asked again and that she had had the courage to say yes. And she was a little sorry during the evening that she had asked for their betrothal to be kept a secret during the week. She wanted to tell everyone. She was fairly bursting with excitement.

And that other had been accomplished, too. She had seen Lord Edmond Waite again and the spell was broken. All the unwilling feelings of attraction and regret had fled, and as she had hoped, she could see him again for what he was. He was an unprincipled scoundrel.

She was so glad she had come and had not refused her invitation, knowing that he would be there, too. It was
true that he had declared himself to be in pursuit of her again, but she did not care about that. Once he knew that she was betrothed to Simon, he would have no choice but to leave her alone. Besides, she would put up with the nuisance of his attentions now that her greatest dread had been put to rest—that she was falling in love with him.

He made no effort to seek her company during the evening, being seated at quite the opposite end of the table from her at dinner and contenting himself with a few amused glances across the drawing room at her afterward as she and a few other ladies played the pianoforte and sang. He directed his attentions to Stephanie Wiggins, the shy young daughter of one of Lady Eleanor’s friends. He did so, Mary suspected, only because the girl’s mother was looking on with almost open alarm.

And the following morning, when Sir Harold led several of the guests on a ride to a distant hill, from which there was a pleasing prospect of the surrounding countryside, Lord Edmond expressed a preference for billiards. Mary rode at the viscount’s side with a feeling of enormous relief. Those words at tea the previous afternoon must have been spoken merely to tease her. It seemed that he was going to be civil after all.

It was a beautiful day, as nearly every day for the past three weeks had been. They would have to pay for such a glorious summer, Doris Shelbourne said gloomily. Doubtless they would have an early winter. Mary smiled to herself. She had learned during the brief years of her marriage that the moment of happiness had to be seized. Certainly troubles were ahead—they always were, just as more happiness was ahead. But why cloud the joy of the happy times with a fear of the unhappy?

“I cannot imagine a lovelier day or more pleasant surroundings,” she said, turning her head to smile at the viscount.