Unforgiven (The Horsemen Trilogy) (10 page)

And then, when the roads did clear, a letter arrived with the first post informing her, in Sir Edwin’s usual flowery manner, that his mother was indeed very ill and that his great anxiety for her health was eased only by the assurance he was confident of feeling that Miss Hayes was kind enough to suffer a similar anxiety for her future mother-in-law. His sisters were similarly reassured.

It was clearly not the time to write her letter, Moira decided. It would be cruel to do so just now. She would wait a week or two until his mother was in better health. She knew that she was being cowardly, that she was making excuses, that no time would be a
good time for such an announcement. The realization of her own cowardice only made her feel more ill, though it could not goad her into action. She seemed paralyzed by a massive lethargy.

The events of that night seemed unreal and nightmarish in retrospect, but she knew perfectly well that they had really happened. She was the one entirely to blame. It would have helped, she thought ruefully, if she could have heaped some of the blame upon him, but she could not do so. He had offered the hospitality of his home, despite the disapproval of his mother and sister, and she had spurned it. He had come out after her into the storm, purely out of concern for her safety, risking his own. When he had found her, he had done everything in his power to ensure her survival. She might have thought that the idea of
not
surviving a cold night was absurd if she had not experienced that particular night for herself.

He had not
wanted
to be intimate with her. He had been very practical and dispassionate about the whole thing. He had been merely keeping her—and himself—warm. She could burn with embarrassment and shame at the memory, especially over the fact that she had enjoyed what happened. She had done so on his instructions, of course, but since when had she done anything merely because he had suggested it? She even had a suspicion, which she tried to deny to herself, that she had enjoyed it
because it had happened with Kenneth
. She could not quite imagine that with Sir Edwin . . . She shook off the thought with some horror at herself.

No, she could not blame Kenneth. He had even been prepared afterward to marry her. She hated not being able to blame him or despise him or fault him in any way at all.

She did not take a chill from the night’s adventures, but she felt quite ill, nevertheless. There was no one to confide in. The loneliness was perhaps worst of all, and it was compounded by two facts: the weather remained chilly and the snow was slow to melt. When it began to do so and turned to slush, going out was even more difficult. Taking a carriage into Tawmouth was out of the question. Normally, she would have scorned to remain at home just because of a little slush and would have walked to the village, but this week she felt too ill, too lethargic to do so. And there was that other fact that kept her away from Tawmouth and the homes of her friends and neighbors too. She was terrified of running into Kenneth—into the Earl of Haverford somewhere. She would never again be able to look him in the eye. How could she possibly do so without remembering . . . Even the thought of it could bring a hot flush to her cheeks.

She despised her cowardice.

And she hated him for causing it.

“Perhaps we should stay at home, Moira,” Lady Hayes suggested on the day of the assembly in Tawmouth. They had both planned to attend the New Year’s ball as they did every year. They had both looked forward to it with some eagerness. “You have still not recovered from that long walk from Dunbarton, and I daresay you are missing Sir Edwin, though we are both agreed that his conversation is sometimes a trial to the patience. I still believe we should summon Mr. Ryder and get him to have a look at you.” Mr. Ryder was a physician who had retired from a fashionable practice in London in order to set up a smaller one in Tawmouth three years before.

“I do not need a physician, Mama,” Moira said. “But I do need the assembly. We both do. The weather has kept us cooped up here for the best part of a week and has plunged us both into the dismals. An evening of dancing and conversing with our neighbors will be just the thing.” It would, too. She could not bear the thought of staying at home any longer. And the New Year assembly was one of her mother’s favorite occasions of the year. If Moira stayed at home, then her mother would stay too. It would be most unfair.

“Well, if you are quite sure, dear,” Lady Hayes said, sounding quite noticeably cheered. “I am rather eager, I will not hesitate to confess, to discover from Mrs. Trevellas if her daughter-in-law’s confinement has been brought to a happy conclusion yet. It is her first, you know.”

And so they went to the assembly in the evening. The assemblies were not grand affairs when judged by Dunbarton standards. The rooms were plainly decorated and the music was provided by Miss Pitt on the pianoforte, sometimes with the accompaniment of Mr. Ryder on the violin. One very seldom saw any new faces at the assemblies and the program was quite predictable, as was the food served at supper. One did not approach the Tawmouth assemblies in anticipation of any great excitement, but it was pleasant to be in company with all one’s neighbors at once and to be able to dance. It was always a good way to begin a new year.

Moira felt quite comfortable about going to the assembly. The cook at Penwith had heard from the butcher’s boy, who had heard from the butcher’s wife, who had heard from one of the servants at Dunbarton that the guests there had begun to leave. Those who remained would doubtless be entertained royally to their
own New Year celebrations. A mere village assembly would be quite beneath the notice of the Earl of Haverford and any other member of the Woodfall family. None of them had ever attended a ball in Tawmouth.

She sat beside Harriet Lincoln after seeing her mother settled between Mrs. Trevellas and Mrs. Finley-Evans, and proceeded happily with the business of catching up on the week’s news. The Meesons’ eldest son danced the opening set with her and Mr. Lincoln the second. She shook off the gloom of the preceding week and the dreadful burden that still hung over her, the knowledge that soon—tomorrow—she must write her letter to Sir Edwin. She would think of it tomorrow. Tomorrow was not only a new day, after all, but a new year. Tonight she would simply enjoy herself.

And then, just after she had seated herself beside Harriet again, there was a stir about the doors, which had opened to admit new arrivals. Both she and Harriet looked up in some curiosity. Everyone who had been expected had already arrived. Moira felt a dreadful premonition even before her mind started to work properly or her brain accepted the message her eyes had sent it.

“Well, this is a very pleasant surprise,” Harriet said quietly while the whole room seemed to buzz with increased animation. “More young people to make those already in attendance ecstatic. And Viscount Ainsleigh and his wife. And the earl himself, Moira. How very gratifying. Will they find one of our humble assemblies to their taste, do you suppose?”

“I do not know,” Moira said lamely. She looked at him aghast, and felt her mouth go dry and her stomach turn queasy. He looked
tall, elegant, handsome, aristocratic—remote. He looked like a stranger from a world far above hers.
And he had been inside her body
.

“He is quite sinfully handsome,” Harriet murmured, unfurling her fan and waving it in front of her face, even though the room was not overwarm. The new arrivals were being made much of by a self-appointed welcoming committee. There was a great deal of hearty laughter. “More handsome than I expected, though I had been warned.” Harriet had come to Tawmouth only six years before on her marriage to Mr. Lincoln. “Do you not admire his looks exceedingly, Moira? Will he marry Miss Wishart, do you think? He has been paying her marked attention since she came to Dunbarton with her mama and papa. It was quite noticeable at the Christmas ball. And he was showing her the shops and the harbor two days ago—with his mama and hers as chaperones, of course. They make a quite handsome couple, do they not?”

“Yes,” Moira said.

Harriet looked at her sharply and laid a hand on her arm. “Oh, poor Moira,” she said. “It must be quite distressing to see young love when you are being forced by circumstances into a marriage that is less than palatable to you. You will pardon my plain speaking, but friends speak plainly to each other.”

Moira frowned. “I have never said—” she began.

“I know you have not,” Harriet said quickly, squeezing her arm. “And I ought not to have mentioned it. Sir Edwin Baillie, I am sure, has his good qualities. It will be an eminently respectable marriage for you. And if one is to be quite truthful and perfectly
spiteful
, one might remark that Miss Wishart is too young for our
earl and will doubtless bore him to death within a month. There, that should make you feel better.” She laughed.

Moira forced a smile. And then her eyes met the Earl of Haverford’s across the room. It was a dreadful moment, quite as bad as she might have imagined. He regarded her coldly, unsmilingly, and for her part she could not seem to withdraw her gaze even though that queasiness gripped her stomach again and she could feel the blood draining from her head. Her breath felt cold in her nostrils. She felt that she was about to faint.

He looked away, said something to Miss Wishart, and smiled at her.

Self-contempt saved Moira from ignominy. The sight of a man had almost made her faint? The sight of
Kenneth
? Never! Never on this earth. She found herself doing what Harriet had done a minute or two before. She spread her fan and cooled her face with it. She suddenly felt as hot as she had felt cold a few moments before.

K
ENNETH’S
young relatives were in remarkably high spirits. The young ladies giggled; the young gentlemen talked rather too loudly and laughed rather too heartily. Ainsleigh, the self-proclaimed elder statesman of the group, had undertaken to chaperone the youngsters with his wife. Both were clearly prepared to enjoy the evening and the company of people Helen had known during her youth. Juliana Wishart was sweet and shy and smiling. The people of Tawmouth and its surrounding properties seemed genuinely delighted to have their numbers so unexpectedly augmented—especially by so many young people, Mr. Penallen assured them, smacking his hands together and rubbing them as if he washed them. And of course they were
especially
honored to have the Earl of Haverford in their midst for their humble assembly, the Reverend Finley-Evans was hasty to add.

Kenneth inclined his head graciously to the people who had gathered about to greet them, but only half heard the impromptu speeches of welcome. His heart was thumping uncomfortably against his rib cage and made him short of breath. He felt far more nervous than he would have expected. Indeed, he had not considered nervousness as a possibility—he associated nervousness with the imminence of battle. His palms felt clammy. He knew almost immediately that she really was at the assembly—he saw Lady Hayes sitting close by, beside Mrs. Trevellas.

And then he saw Moira Hayes herself across the room, and his eyes met and held hers. Her deep blue dress was far more demure than the one she had worn to his ball. Her hair was dressed more severely. She looked like a perfectly genteel member of this particular society. She blended into her world just as if she had never stood watch on the clifftop in the dead of night, pointing a pistol at his heart, while below her on the beach, smugglers plied their trade. Just as if she had never lain in the hermit’s hut on the hill and traded her virginity for survival. Just as if she had never thumbed her nose at convention by refusing to take the consequences of that night’s deeds.

She held her chin high and would not look away from him. If he held her gaze any longer, he knew, people would begin to notice and remark upon it. She was pale. Even across the room and in candlelight she looked noticeably pale. He looked away and down at Juliana Wishart. He forced himself to smile at her.

“Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?” he asked.

She smiled her acquiescence and he wondered why he had not
fallen in love with her. He had not been blind to the looks of wistful admiration some of his young cousins had directed at her. But of course none of them had even tried to engage her interest. She was perceived as being his property. Poor Juliana—she might have had a more enjoyable Christmas if his mother and hers had been less meddlesome.

It was a minuet, the music played on the pianoforte rather more slowly than it was intended to be played. He was able to converse a little, and did so to distract his mind from the sight of Moira Hayes dancing with Deverall, one of the wealthier landowners from the other side of the valley. Kenneth kept his eyes on Juliana.

“You will be spending the Season in town?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I believe Papa intends to take us there, my lord.”

“You will take the
ton
by storm,” he said, smiling kindly at her. “You will be the envy of every other young lady. You will have all the gentlemen falling over their feet in a race with one another to pay their respects to you.” He had finally verbalized in his mind his feelings for her. They were avuncular.

She blushed and smiled. “Thank you,” she said.

He might as well make clear to her what she must already suspect, he decided. “I have no doubt,” he said, “that before the Season ends one of those fortunate gentlemen will have won both your hand and your heart. He is to be envied.”

He could see from her eyes that she understood. She looked—grateful? “Thank you,” she said again.

He suspected something suddenly. “Has he already been identified?” he asked. “Is there already someone special?”

“My lord—” Her blush deepened and she looked anxiously about her for a moment. But her mother was not present to dictate to her how to speak and how to behave.

“There is someone,” he said. “I suspected it. I should force his name from you and challenge him to pistols at dawn.” He spoke with a twinkle in his eye so that she would know that he teased—and also that he was not nursing a broken heart. “I will wish you joy instead. And the approval of your parents.”

“Thank you.” Her voice came on a whisper and for the first time she smiled at him with unaffected charm. She laughed and the sound was delightful. “Thank you, my lord.”

And that, he thought with enormous relief and perhaps a little twinge of guilt, was that. Moira Hayes was dancing with her usual grace and with a look of bright animation on her face. Not once during the whole set did she glance his way. Not once did he glance her way. He wondered if she was as aware of him as he was of her. He did not like the feeling at all. And he had no intention whatsoever of nursing it all evening.

When the minuet was finished and Ainsleigh had solicited Miss Wishart’s hand for the next set—Helen was talking with a group of ladies from Tawmouth—Kenneth strode determinedly across the room and made his bow to Moira Hayes and Mrs. Lincoln. The latter had watched his coming with a smile of gratified surprise. Moira had talked to her, pretending that she had not noticed his approach. She had willed him to change direction, he knew. He exchanged a few civilities with Mrs. Lincoln before turning his eyes on Moira.

“Sets are forming for the quadrille,” he said. “Will you honor me by partnering me, Miss Hayes?”

For a silent and awkward moment he thought she was going to refuse. He was aware of Mrs. Lincoln turning her head sharply to look in some surprise at her friend. But she did not refuse. “Thank you,” she said, sounding perfectly composed. She got to her feet and set her hand on his.

“You look unwell,” he said as they took their places in the set. Her face really was pale. There were faint shadows beneath her eyes. “Did you take a chill?”

“No,” she said. He half expected that her eyes would not quite meet his at this oblique reference to their night together, but she looked directly at him. “And I am quite well, thank you.”

He had annoyed her, he could see, by singling her out and asking her first, ahead of all the other ladies of Tawmouth, to dance with him. He had annoyed her by asking her to dance at all. “Smile,” he commanded her quietly.

She smiled.

He watched her as they danced. There was very little opportunity for conversation, and they did not avail themselves of even what little there was. When she smiled, she showed one of her best assets, her white and even teeth. They had always looked startlingly attractive with her very dark hair and eyes. This was the woman who had lain with him less than a week before, he thought—and the thought seemed unreal to him—the woman who had lain beneath him, warming to his intimate touch. They had been anything but passionate encounters, and yet heat had
flared in her both times. She had not known what to do with it and he had not taught her, but it had been there.

He had been right, he thought, to be afraid to touch her. There really was a great deal of latent passion in the very respectable Miss Moira Hayes. She had not changed a great deal in eight years, despite outer appearances. Now, more than ever, he feared it. And yet he did not quite understand his own fear. He had come here to talk to her, to confront her, to assert himself. But perhaps that was the problem. He felt not quite in control in his dealings with Moira. And the knowledge irritated him and disturbed him. He was not accustomed to having his will thwarted.

Supper was announced at the end of the set, before he could return his partner to her seat beside her friend. He had not realized that it was the supper dance for which he had solicited her hand. But then, of course, his party had arrived rather late, and country assemblies often ended early by London standards. He looked at Moira with raised eyebrows and offered his arm.

“Shall we?” he said.

Her lips thinned. “I would rather not,” she said.

“But you will.” He bent his head closer to hers, his irritation further aggravated. Would she make a fool of him and make herself appear ill-mannered? “People are watching.”

She set her arm along his.

He would take advantage of this very opportune moment, he thought. If they must sit and eat together, then they would really talk. They would settle something between them, something more satisfactory than the nonsettlement of the morning after the ball. Most of the square tables in the supper room were set for four. Two
tables beneath the windows were set for two. He led her toward one of them and seated her. He left her there in order to fill two plates. Someone had poured the tea by the time he returned.

“I have not heard during the week,” he said, not wasting even a moment on small talk, “of your broken engagement.”

“Have you not?” she said.

He waited for more, but she said nothing.

“You are not going to marry the poor devil, are you?” he asked.

“No, I am not.” There were bright spots of color in her cheeks, and her eyes sparked for a moment until she remembered where she was and forced her expression to blandness again. “Credit me with some sense of decency, my lord. May we now discuss the weather?”

“No, we may not,” he said curtly. “We will discuss the necessity of our marrying.”

“Why?” she asked. “You have no wish to marry me, and I have no wish to marry you. Why is it necessary that we do something so abhorrent to both of us?”

“Because, Moira,” he said, and he deliberately refrained from mincing his words, “I have been inside your body, where only a husband has any right to be. Because I left my seed there and it might even now be bearing fruit. Because even apart from that possibility, it is the proper and the honorable thing to do.”

“And propriety and honor,” she said, “are of more importance than inclination? Either mine or your own?”

“Why is the prospect of marrying me so repulsive to you?” he asked, goaded. “You were prepared to marry Baillie, who is an ass by even the kindest estimation.”

Her nostrils flared. “I will thank you to watch your language
in my presence, my lord,” she said. “And the answer should be perfectly obvious to you. Sir Edwin Baillie is not responsible for my brother’s death.”

He sucked in his breath. “You blame me for Sean’s death?” he asked her.

“He would not have been at the Battle of Toulouse if you had not betrayed him,” she said. “And if you had not at the same time betrayed me.”

“
I
betrayed
you
?” He would have liked to reach across the table, take her by the shoulders, and shake her. But he was forced to remember where he was. Besides, the question of who had betrayed whom was not the main point at issue. “No, I suppose I must concede that he would not have been there. He might have been hanging from a rope long before the Battle of Toulouse. Or he might now be living at the other side of the world, chained to a gang of other convicts like himself. At the very best he might have been living somewhere in poverty and disgrace with my sister—and in wretched unhappiness, I do assure you. Such a life would not have suited your brother. I did what had to be done.”

“Who made you God?” she asked bitterly.

He sighed and picked up his teacup. “We have strayed from the point,” he said. “The point is that we have been together, Moira, that we have had carnal knowledge of each other. Our motives for doing so, our feelings for each other, are of no significance at all now. The point is that we must take the consequences.”

“As a criminal must take the consequences for his crimes,” she
said quietly. “You make marriage sound so very
inviting
, Kenneth. To tell you the truth, I would rather marry anyone on earth than you—and that includes Sir Edwin Baillie. I would rather remain a spinster for life—which is what I will do. I would rather live in destitution—which might be only a slight exaggeration of what will in fact happen to me. I would rather kill myself. Is there anything else I can add to convince you that you can take your sense of honor and toss it into the sea?”

He would have liked to retaliate in kind. He was furiously angry—at her defiance, at her accusations, at her scorn of him.
I would rather kill myself
. Her instinct for survival had been somewhat stronger when put to the test a few nights ago. She had not chosen death then. He would like to have flung that fact in her face. But he did not have quite the freedom she had to show his scorn of her. He raised his eyebrows and regarded her coolly. “No,” he said. “I believe you have been more than adequately eloquent on the subject. You will, of course, have to eat humble pie if you discover that you are increasing.”

Her eyes wavered from his for only a moment. “I would rather live with the disgrace,” she said.

“But I would not allow it,” he said. “No child of mine will ever be a bastard, Moira. If the situation arises, it will be pointless to try to set your will against mine. You will not win.” And on that point at least she would not shift him.