Mary Balogh (54 page)

It seemed unreal. How could they be sitting there, the three of them, conversing together politely about nothing
of any importance when they had parted fifteen years before with a bitterness that had completely broken close family ties? And yet that was exactly what they were doing.

Was that that, then? he thought when his aunt rose to announce that it was time to retire to their rooms to change for dinner. Had Dick’s death and his mother’s and the fifteen years since been of so little significance that the past half-hour had erased all the unpleasantness, all the suffering, all the guilt? Was there nothing of any more importance to be said and settled? There was a feeling of anticlimax to succeed the utter panic that had seized him on his return from Canterbury, when he had looked to the top of the steps and seen them standing there with his aunt.

And then, too, there was another strange feeling of emptiness, of something not quite completed, when Anne left the room with Mary and both disappeared in the direction of their bedchambers. He stood looking after them for a moment before hurrying off to his own room to avoid having to walk there with his father and brother, who were coming out of the room after him.

Nothing was finished at all. Nothing was settled. He and his father and brother were polite strangers. And Mary? What had been happening with Mary in the past couple of hours? He had worked hard in two days to give her enough of a disgust of him that she would quell any attraction that she felt toward him. And yet as soon as he had seen that danger to all the protective armor he had built up around himself in fifteen years, that threat, he had forgotten everything except his selfish and overpowering need of her.

Even his love for her could not redeem him, then. Selfishness, it seemed, was ingrained in him, and he had just put her in a difficult situation indeed. “My friend,” he had told his father, setting an arm about her waist.

And he did not believe that he had the heart to spend another evening and another day tomorrow making her hate him all over again.

He just did not have the heart. He was too selfish. His love for her obviously was not a great enough force.

S
O WHERE WAS SHE NOW
? M
ARY WONDERED
. H
ER
hatred for Lord Edmond had wavered, as had her resolve to leave Rundle Park without further delay. Far worse, she was somehow deeply involved with him now, aware not only of the fact that she loved him but also of the fact that he needed her.

She could not forget the way in which he had dragged her off with him, not even aware of what he was doing, and of how he had held her as if she had been the only firm and solid thing left in his world. And of how he had kissed her, not with the coarse suggestiveness of his embrace in Canterbury Cathedral, but with warm need. And of how he had clung to her hand for a long, long time, even taking her in to the momentous first meeting with his father and brother. And of how he had introduced her as his friend.

His friend! Surely she was anything and everything but that. And yet somehow, in the course of just a few hours, they had become friends. Mary frowned at the thought. Was it possible? Was there any way in which she and Lord Edmond Waite could be friends? And yet they were.

And now Simon was angry with her—and justifiably so, she had to admit. She was his betrothed. They were
in the drawing room, with several of the other guests, awaiting the call to dinner.

“I was shamed, Mary,” he said, “left standing there like that while you rushed off for a walk with Waite. How must it have looked to everyone else?”

“No one knows we are betrothed,” she reminded him.

“But everyone must realize that we have an understanding,” he said. “It is in the poorest taste to give another man your private time. And what on earth could you have been doing to have been gone so long?”

“I told you,” she said. “He was shocked to see his family after such a long period of separation. He needed to recover himself before meeting them. And then he wished to present me to them.”

“Why?” He frowned. “They are staying, are they not? We will all be presented to His Grace and the earl and countess in time. Why did you need a special introduction? Is there something you are not telling me, Mary?”

She felt annoyed until she remembered again that he had a right to ask such questions.

“I am sorry, Simon,” she said. “I suppose that in some way Lord Edmond thinks of me as a friend.”

“A friend?” he said, his brows drawing together. “A friend, Mary? He has strange notions of friendship. I don’t like it. I want you to stay away from him, do you hear me? And I want no more of this calling me off when I am dealing with him, just because you fear there will be a scene. Sooner or later there is going to have to be a scene, or the people here will believe that I do not know how to protect my own.”

“Simon,” she said, setting a hand on his arm, but Doris Shelbourne and Mr. Bigsby-Gore approached them at that moment.

“A wonderful day,” Mr. Bigsby-Gore said. “A most impressive cathedral, would you not agree, Lady Mornington? I had not seen it before, strange as it may seem.”

Mary took gratefully to the new topic of conversation.

A few minutes later Lady Eleanor entered the room on the arm of her brother, the Earl and Countess of Welwyn behind them. There was a buzz of renewed animation as the other guests were presented to the new arrivals.

“Lord Edmond resembles his father,” Doris said quietly to Mary. “Is it true that they have not met since Lord Edmond killed his brother? The meeting today must be very awkward for His Grace. Have they met yet, do you think?”

“I would have to say that it is very decent of His Grace to be willing to stay at the same house as Lord Edmond,” the viscount said, “considering the life of dissipation he has led since the killing.”

“Perhaps we should not judge without knowing the whole of the inside story,” Mary said, and won for herself a cold stare from her betrothed.

Lady Welwyn smiled when she saw Mary, and slipped her hand from her husband’s arm. “Lady Mornington,” she said, “how pleasant to see a familiar face, though I met you only an hour or so ago. I am afraid that we have kept so much to the north of England since my marriage that I know almost no one from the south. This is something of an ordeal.”

Mary smiled. “But I am so glad that you have come,” she said.

“For Edmond’s sake?” Anne said. “It is high time that old matter was cleared up, as I am sure you would agree. Are you the Lady Mornington who is famous for her literary salons in London?”

“Am I famous?” Mary said. “But, yes, my habit of inviting literary or political figures to my weekly entertainments has attracted many regular visitors.”

“My friend Lydia Grainger has spoken of you,” Anne
said. “How fortunate you are to live in town. Sometimes I pine for it, though I must not complain. The country is wonderful for the children, and we have many close friendships with our neighbors. And Wallace takes me to Harrogate for several weeks almost every year.”

Mary warmed to Lord Edmond’s sister-in-law.

Lord Edmond was late for dinner. He came wandering into the dining room when everyone was already seated and the footmen were bringing on the first course.

“So sorry, Aunt,” he said, waving a careless, lace-bedecked hand in the direction of Lady Eleanor. “My valet could not seem to get my hair to look quite disheveled enough. It was looking too unfashionably tidy.”

His words won a titter from Stephanie and some laughter from the gentlemen. The duke’s lips thinned, Mary noticed, glancing hastily in his direction, and the earl frowned and looked down at his plate. She could have shaken Lord Edmond. If he wished to make a good impression on his father and brother, could he not at least have been on time for the first meal he was to share with them? And did he have to make such a foolishly foppish excuse for being late?

But of course, she thought, forcing herself to relax and turning to make conversation with the gentleman on her left, it had all been quite deliberate on his part. Just as so much of his behavior was deliberately designed to give people an unfavorable impression of him.

He was, she realized fully at last, a man who wore a mask. And she realized, too, perhaps, why she loved him against all reason. She had seen behind the mask.

She looked curiously at him as he took the empty chair between Mrs. Wiggins and Mrs. Ormsby. He looked along the table at her as he did so and winked.

He winked!
Heavens
, Mary thought,
whatever next?
But a quickly darted look across the table assured her
that the viscount was deep in conversation with Lady Cathcart and had not noticed.

L
ORD
E
DMOND WAS
out early the following morning, riding alone as was his custom. He would have been on his way home now, he thought with some regret, if it had not been for the totally unexpected arrival of his father the afternoon before. And yet, he had to admit, perhaps it was for the best, after all. He had always had the feeling that he could not expect to go through the rest of his life without meeting his family again. Now the dread meeting was over, and really, apart from the inevitable embarrassment, it had not been so very bad.

They had met and been polite to one another. They had spent an evening, first in the same dining room, and then in the same drawing room, and been polite to one another. There was one day to his aunt’s birthday, two to the end of this country visit. If they were all careful—and polite—those days could be lived through without any major confrontation, and forever after they would not all live in dread of being brought face-to-face with one another.

And as for Mary—well, there were two days during which he could avoid her as much as possible and be polite to her when he could not avoid her company. It could not be that difficult a time to get through if he set his mind to it.

As luck would have it, there were two ladies walking in the formal gardens as he made his way back from the stables, and one of them was his sister-in-law. He somehow never expected to encounter ladies until close to noon at the earliest. She saw him, raised a hand in greeting, said something to Lady Cathcart, and made her way toward him. Well, at least, he thought, neither Wallace
nor his father was in sight. And he had liked Anne the day before.

“Good morning,” she said, smiling at him. “Have you been riding? I wish I had known. I would have come with you. Or do you prefer to ride alone?”

“I would have been happy to have your company,” he said politely. “Do you always rise early?”

“Oh, always,” she said, laughing. “I’m a creature of the country, not the city, Edmond. I am so glad your aunt arranged this little surprise. I have wanted to meet you since long before my wedding.”

“The black sheep?” he said. “The skeleton in the closet? The prodigal who did not come home?”

“The missing part of Wallace’s family,” she said. “The member rarely spoken of but always missed.” She laughed. “I have always said that Nigel is like his grandfather, and everyone has always been quick to agree. But he is far more like his uncle. So like that I cannot help but laugh when I look at you.”

“Nigel?” he said.

She clucked her tongue. “The estrangement has been almost total, has it not?” she said. “And quite foolish. Nigel is our older son. He is eleven years old. And then there are Ninian, nine, and Laura, six. They are here with us. You must meet them. You are their only uncle on their father’s side.”

Lord Edmond looked somewhat uncomfortable. “I did know that Wallace had children,” he said. “I am afraid I have never had a great deal to do with children.”

“It is not obligatory in order to get along well with them,” she said with a laugh. “We all were children ourselves, after all.”

“Not I,” he said.

“You always had your head in a book, did you not?” she said, looking closely at him. “I have learned some
things about you over the years, you see, from chance remarks that have been made. You did not play a great deal.”

“I have made up for it since,” he said. “I have done nothing but play since I reached my majority.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “You do not need to look at me with that deliberately cynical look, Edmond. The fame of your reputation has reached us in the north of England, believe me. Each detail is like a knife wound to Wallace and your father.”

He shrugged. “Each one convincing them that I am incorrigible?” he said. “Well, I am, Anne. You are not about to try to find redeeming features in me, are you? Females have a tiresome tendency to do that.”

“Oh, dear,” she said, “one would hate to aspire to the mediocrity of being a typical female. What I meant was that each detail of your … your wildness, I suppose I must call it, reminds them of their own guilt, though they would not admit to that even if the Inquisition were let loose on them, of course. I hope the three of you do not mean to be polite to one another for two days. That would be a dreadful anticlimax.”

“It is just what I have been hoping for,” he said. “Would you prefer that I was rude to them, Anne? I can be dreadfully uncivil when I want to be. And dreadfully annoying, too. I have cultivated the art with great care.”

“Like insisting on having disheveled hair before appearing at dinner,” she said.

“Oh, that was real enough,” he said. “You do not know how lowering it would be for a London gentleman to appear unfashionable, Anne.”

She laughed. “Your aunt has said that this is to be a free day,” she said. “Everyone may arrange his own entertainment. Wallace and I are to take the children for a picnic with your father. Will you come with Mary?”

“With Mary?” he said.

“I like her,” she said. “Do you notice how we are on a first-name basis already? And if she is your friend, Edmond, I cannot think you quite beyond hope. She is a very sensible and interesting lady. So it will be a waste of your time trying to shock me or make me frown on you. I shall merely laugh. Will you come?”

“I think you have the wrong connection,” he said. “It is Mary and Goodrich, Anne.”