Mary Balogh (58 page)

“I was willing to take you despite a sullied reputation,” he said. “And I am to be rejected in favor of London’s most notorious libertine? And you expect me to smile and wish you well, Mary?”

She had stiffened. “A sullied reputation?” she said.

“Everyone knew you were Clifton’s whore,” he said. “I was prepared to overlook that fact.”

“Perhaps you should not have done so,” she said quietly. “You cannot expect honorable behavior of a whore, can you?”

“Obviously not,” he said.

He looked up at the sky, drawing Mary’s eyes up, too. The clouds had moved fast, and the breeze was now steady on them and increasing into a wind. Lightning flashed even as they watched.

“There is no time to go back,” she said regretfully. “We will have to make a run for the house.”

“Yes,” he said grimly, and they hurried side by side, not touching, in the direction of the house.

They reached it in time, though it would not be long before the rain came down and the storm moved overhead, Mary guessed. She turned to her companion when they were inside the hall.

“I am afraid we should have turned back to the pavilion earlier, Simon,” she said. “Now you are stuck in the house alone with me and the servants and a broken engagement. I have managed things badly. I am so sorry.”

“For my part,” he said, “I have no intention of wasting the evening, Mary. I am returning to the pavilion.”

“But you will be soaked.” Her eyes widened.

“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “I believe there is still a little time before the rain begins in earnest. But better a soaking than remain here to an evening of boredom.”

She drew a deep breath. “So I am to be left all alone,” she said.

“As you said, there are plenty of servants.” His expression and voice were cold, and despite her fear of the storm, Mary was suddenly glad that she had had the courage to speak up. Life with this man would not have been easy, she saw. He did not like to have his will thwarted.

“Yes,” she said, “and so there are.”

But there were none in the hall, which seemed large and dark and frightening after the doors had closed behind the viscount and she was left alone. Most of them would be either at the pavilion or belowstairs enjoying some free time, with family and guests away.

Mary hurried up to her bedchamber and closed the door firmly behind her. She could always summon her maid, she told herself. She need not be entirely alone. But she was determined at least to try to remain alone. She was in a large, securely built mansion. She was quite safe. And it was time she conquered her fear.

She stood rigidly in the middle of the room, hands clasped firmly to her bosom, as lightning flashed outside the window. She counted slowly, waiting for the rumble of thunder that would follow.

I
T CAME ABOUT
much as he had expected it would. He would have been surprised if the day had passed without its happening. He danced with Anne and at the end of the set she smiled at him and linked her arm through his.

“What a warm evening,” she said. “Let us walk down by the lake, Edmond, shall we?”

He put up no resistance, even though he knew what was about to happen, just as if it were a play for which he had written the script. His father was sitting close to the door, talking with Sir Harold.

Lord Edmond smiled and gave her his arm. “That would be pleasant,” he said.

He watched with mingled amusement and despair as she pretended to notice her father-in-law for the first time as they were about to pass him.

“Father,” she said, delight in her voice, “how fortunate that you happen to be right here. I need a gentleman for my other arm. Do come for a stroll by the lake.”

His father looked as delighted by the prospect as he himself felt, Lord Edmond thought. But Anne, he was beginning to realize, must have been a manipulator all her life. A benevolent one, perhaps, but a manipulator nevertheless. Like puppets on a string, the two of them were soon wandering down to the lakeshore with Anne between them.

And of course—oh, of course—after a mere five minutes, despite the fact that it was such an oppressively warm evening, Anne shivered and felt the absence of her shawl and excused herself to go and fetch it. Both Edmond and his father knew that she would not return.

“I do believe she is right,” the duke said, squinting off to the west. “There is a cool breeze and those are rain clouds moving in. I hope this does not mean we are to be stranded here for the night. Eleanor would be delighted beyond words.”

And indeed all the signs were there, Lord Edmond had to admit when he looked, and thought about the heavy atmosphere of the evening and the freshening breeze. It was not just rain. There was a storm brewing. And despite his embarrassment at being left alone with his father, his thoughts leapt to Mary. There was a storm coming. She would be terrified. She had gone off walking with Goodrich and a few other couples. He hoped Goodrich would have more sense than he himself had had at Vauxhall and would bring her back to the pavilion before the storm started. He would not like to think
of her having to take shelter—especially with Goodrich, of all people—in one of the small follies.

“A storm,” he said. “Doris is to be proved right, it seems. She will let us all know of it, too, for the rest of tonight, and probably all day tomorrow.”

“Edmond,” his father said quietly, “I never stopped loving you, you know.”

Lord Edmond’s body went rigid. He continued to stare off to the west.

“But I have been quite unable to bring myself to talk to you in the past two days,” the duke said. “I know myself terribly at fault. I have known it all these years, but not seeing you has made it easier to suppress the guilt. I cannot recall what I said to you to make you run off. It must have been something dreadful.”

“You called me a murderer,” Lord Edmond said quietly.

“Ah.” There was a short silence. “Yes, I knew that. I just hoped it was not true. I lashed out at you from my pain and guilt. And then, when you left and everything else started to happen, I convinced myself that you must truly have been guilty. At least I convinced a part of myself.”

“It is old history,” Lord Edmond said. “It is best forgotten.”

“No.” His father sounded sad. “I have ruined your life, my boy. I have known it all these years, although perversely I have only railed against you and half believed my own condemnations. Too much time has passed. Too much wrong has been done. How can I ever ask forgiveness for the enormous wrongs I have done you? I am sorry, my boy. I will have to go away from here tomorrow and leave you to what I can only hope will be a happier future.”

Lord Edmond turned to look at him. “Tell me what
you said at the beginning of this conversation,” he said. “Say it again.”

“That I have never stopped loving you?” The duke looked into his son’s eyes. “You want my love, Edmond? After all I have done to you?”

“I want it.” Lord Edmond’s eyes were intense.

“I love you,” his father said. “You are my son. Can you ever forgive me?”

Lord Edmond swore. He stared at his father for a few moments, hesitated, and then drew him into a hug even more bruisingly hard than that he had exchanged with his brother the day before. For perhaps a minute both were oblivious of the people who strolled about them, and of Anne, who appeared briefly in the doorway of the pavilion and then disappeared again.

“You must come home,” the duke said at last. “You must come back home, my boy. You have been too long away.”

Lord Edmond smiled. “I am going home, Papa,” he said. “To Willow Court. I am in the process of learning what it means to be a landowner. But yes, I will come to stay with you and with Wally and Anne and my nephews and niece. Perhaps for Christmas.” He laughed. “Or perhaps you can all come to me. Is this really happening?”

The duke looked up at the sky. “It is indeed, my boy,” he said. “And the storm is about to happen, too. Those clouds are moving faster than I expected. Did you hear that thunder?”

They walked back to the pavilion, looking at each other in some wonder when they stepped inside to the brighter candlelight, and smiling rather self-consciously.

“I knew when Anne got you and Wallace together yesterday,” the duke said with a chuckle, “that my turn would come today. I have a gem of a daughter-in-law, Edmond. Perhaps I will have another eventually?”

“Perhaps,” Lord Edmond said evasively.

But they were separated at that moment when Lady Cathcart called to His Grace to make up a hand of cards while the younger people danced.

“It looks as if we might have a long night of it,” Lady Eleanor said to Lord Edmond. Predictably she looked thoroughly pleased by the possibility. “Doris is already circulating with the proud tidings that she has been right all along. Will the storm be bad, do you suppose?”

Lord Edmond looked about the room after she had wafted off to talk with someone else. The Ormsbys were dancing. They had gone walking with Mary and Goodrich. Stephanie had been one of the group, too, if he was not mistaken. She was sitting with her mama at the other side of the room. There was no sign of Mary or Goodrich. And he could hear rain against the long windows.

Damn Goodrich! He hoped at least that they were inside a folly and not sheltering beneath a tree. Surely they could not be that foolish.

And then he breathed a great sigh of relief. He caught sight of the viscount close to the doors, brushing raindrops from the sleeves of his coat. They had returned just in time, too. The rain outside was becoming a deluge, so that many of the guests stopped what they were doing in order to look toward the windows. There was a buzz of excitement at a flash of lightning.

Lord Edmond wondered if Mary would be frightened in the midst of a crowd. He looked for her. But she was nowhere in sight. He looked more carefully.

He strolled toward the viscount, who was laughing at something Mrs. Bigsby-Gore was saying. “Where is Mary?” he asked, interrupting their conversation without preamble.

“Lady Mornington?” The viscount looked at him haughtily. “Somewhere in the house, I would imagine.”

“The house?” Lord Edmond frowned. “The house as opposed to the pavilion? What is she doing there?”

“How would I know?” the viscount said. “I am here, as you see. And I imagine that Lady Mornington’s movements are none of your business anyway, Waite. Ma’am, will you dance?” He turned back to Mrs. Bigsby-Gore.

But Lord Edmond clamped a hand onto his arm. “Is she alone there?” he asked. “Did you leave her alone to return here?”

Lord Goodrich looked pointedly at the hand on his arm. “The house is full of servants,” he said.

“She is terrified of storms,” Lord Edmond said, his eyes narrowing. “With very good reason. You knew that.”

“Childish nonsense!” the viscount said. “If you would be so kind as to remove your hand from my arm, Waite, I can lead the lady into the dance.”

“You left her,” Lord Edmond said, his voice tight with fury, “knowing that.” He lifted his hand away from Lord Goodrich’s sleeve as if it had burned him. “Your own betrothed.”

“Lady Mornington is nothing to me,” the viscount said, and he turned away as thunder rumbled in the not-so-far distance.

Lord Edmond strode across the room, but a hand on his sleeve stayed him as he was about to open the door.

“Edmond?” his aunt said, laughing. “You cannot go out there, dear. I fear we are stuck here for many hours to come. Is it not dreadful?” She smiled cheerfully.

“I have to go back to the house,” he said. “Mary is there alone.”

“At the house?” She frowned. “But Lord Goodrich is here.”

“The bastard left her there alone, knowing her terror of storms,” he said.

“Oh!” She looked shocked, though not, apparently, at
his choice of words. She lifted her hand from his arm. “Go, then, Edmond. Go quickly, dear. And don’t try to come back.”

He was gone without another word, shutting the door firmly behind him. Lady Eleanor enjoyed a private smile at the closed door before turning back to her guests.

S
HE LICKED DRY LIPS WITH A DRY TONGUE AS SHE
paced. She glanced several times at the bell rope, one tug on which would bring her maid in just a few minutes. But she did not pull it. It was merely a matter of waiting out the storm, she told herself. Storms did not last forever, and usually they were directly overhead for no longer than a few minutes. And storms did not strike large stone mansions or harm the people safely lodged inside them.

She tried to remember how she had used to feel about storms as a child. But she could remember only Lawrence’s voice muttering more to himself than to her in their tent in Spain that someone was surely going to get it. And the terrified screaming of horses. And then … the rest of it.

She rubbed her hands against the sides of her dress. Moist palms. And a dry mouth. Lightning flashed and she counted only to eight before the thunder followed. She looked at the bell rope again.

And then she swung around toward the door, relief flooding her. Her maid had come without being summoned. Somehow she must have heard that her mistress was at home. The door opened after a quick tapping.

“Oh,” she said, and the relief was still there—and something else, too. “You look like a drowned rat.” She
laughed, the sound nervous and almost hysterical to her own ears.

“Hm,” he said. “You are supposed to gasp out something like ‘My hero!’ and rush into my arms.”

“Am I?” she said, and bit her lip and smiled at him a little uncertainly. “What are you doing here?”

“Dripping onto your carpet,” he said, looking down.

She swallowed. “Did you come because of me?” she asked.

“I seemed to recall that you are susceptible to seduction during thunderstorms,” he said. “Of course, I came because of you, Mary.”

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t use that voice. It is the one that comes with your mask.”

“Mask?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, Edmond,” she said, “do go and change. You will catch your death.”

But a particularly loud clap of thunder had her scurrying a few steps toward him before stopping. She licked her lips again.