Unforgiven (The Horsemen Trilogy) (7 page)

It had been a time to be very careful indeed. He was a man dancing with a neighbor from whose family his own had been estranged for several generations. Their families had been
newly reconciled by the efforts of its new head, her betrothed. It was a set the Earl of Haverford should have danced with careful attention to what would appear correct.

What had he done instead? He appeared to have lost twenty minutes or so of his life. It was rather a ridiculous notion. He had not lost those minutes. But he had been caught up in a magic, an exhilaration, a
romance
that had seemed alarmingly beyond his control. After the first stumbling steps, she had proved herself to be an accomplished and graceful partner, one who fit into his hold as if she had been made to fit there.

If he had thought at all during those twenty minutes, it had been to remember her as a girl—as a young woman, after he had become aware of her. It had been her delight to escape from chaperones and maids set to watching after her safety. And when she had escaped, the resulting freedom had been total. Shoes and stockings had frequently gone flying; hairpins had been stuffed into a pocket and hair shaken loose. Ah, that hair: thick and shining and almost as black as coal. She had run and twirled and climbed and laughed, and more than once she had allowed him to kiss her.

She had become that girl again—that girl who had dazzled and enslaved him—as they danced. He was alarmed at how totally he had lost touch with reality during those twenty minutes. And even when he pulled himself back to reality, he had ended up offending her by being unpardonably impertinent. She had been quite right to use that word.

“May I fill a plate for you?” he asked as he led her through to the anteroom, which was fortunately not overcrowded with people.

“No, thank you.” She removed her arm from his. “A drink
will be sufficient.” She went to stand near a closed side door while he crossed to one of the punch bowls and filled two glasses without waiting for a footman to serve him.

He must converse with her on some trivial topic for a few minutes, he thought as he made his way back toward her, and then return her to Baillie and her own group of friends. He would then forget her presence at his ball. But one of his young cousins, who with a group of other young people was talking rather too loudly and laughing rather too heartily, chose that particular moment to call across the room to him.

“I say, Haverford,” he called, “have you seen where she is standing?”

There were a few feminine giggles, some hearty male laughter.

“Of course he has seen,” another distant cousin said just as loudly. “Why do you think he is hurrying?”

“To it, man,” a third voice said and the laughter resumed.

Moira looked with raised eyebrows at the group while Kenneth’s eyes looked up and found the inevitable sprig of mistletoe in the middle of the doorframe, directly above her head. Alerted, she also looked up and saw it—and blushed hotly and would have moved away if he had not been standing directly in her path, his arms open to either side, a glass in each hand.

Since he had kissed every female in the house during the past two days, it would appear strange indeed to his delighted young relatives and a few older ones who were also in the room if he did not do the gallant thing on this occasion too. He leaned forward, lowering his head only a little, and touched her lips with his. Hers were trembling uncontrollably. By sheer instinct he parted his
own over them to steady them. He lifted his head after enough time had elapsed that he would not be accused of trying to escape with a mere peck but before he could be accused of taking liberties that even mistletoe would not excuse.

“The conventions must be observed,” he said, looking into Moira Hayes’s wide, shocked eyes, shielding them with his body from the view of their cheering, applauding audience. “If you must stand there, ma’am, then you must suffer the consequences.”

He handed her one of the glasses. But her hand, when she reached for it, was trembling. She returned it to her side and looked up at him.

“I am not thirsty after all,” she said.

“Steady, Moira,” he said. “It is Christmas, and I have some relatives who derive enormous amusement from other people’s embarrassment. I have spent two whole days doing nothing but kiss aunts and cousins and any other lady who is unfortunate enough to alight under one of these abominations when I am within striking distance. The relatives laugh and cheer and applaud every time. One wonders what they will do for entertainment once the holiday is over and the mistletoe comes down. Doubtless something will crop up. They seem almost alarmingly easy to please. One is left questioning the state of their intellect.”

He talked until the startled look went from her eyes. She recovered herself rather quickly and took the glass from his hand when he offered it again. She drank determinedly from it.

“I came tonight because Sir Edwin was set on it,” she said. “But he is planning to return home tomorrow and to stay there until he comes back for our wedding in the spring. I hope that
between now and then you will not feel obliged to continue the connection with Penwith.”

“I imagine,” he said, “that my great-grandfather sentenced yours because he did not wish to have his own connection with the trade exposed. I imagine that guilt and the contempt of those in the know was almost as great a punishment to him as transportation was to his victim. Is my family still to feel the guilt and yours to feel the shame?”

“You know very well,” she said scornfully, “that what is between your family and mine now, my lord, has nothing whatsoever to do with that old feud. Perhaps an eight-year absence has helped you to trivialize and even forget what—”

But she broke off abruptly, smiled brightly, and sipped from her glass again. Kenneth looked over his shoulder to find Sir Edwin Baillie approaching.

“I cannot find words to describe the full extent of my gratification at such a marked degree of civility, my lord,” he said. “To single out my affianced bride by leading her into a set at the Dunbarton ball when there are so many other distinguished ladies who might be so honored is a gesture of true neighborliness. To lead her to the refreshment table afterward is a mark, if I may make so bold as to suggest it, of sincere friendship. This is a felicitous start to the new amity between Dunbarton Hall and Penwith Manor.”

And doubtless, Kenneth thought, the man would have gone into raptures and counted it as a compliment to himself if he had seen the Earl of Haverford kiss his betrothed beneath the mistletoe. He inclined his head.

But having delivered himself of this speech, Sir Edwin
proceeded to look decidedly anxious. “Word has it,” he said, “that it is beginning to snow outside, my lord. Your servants have confirmed the fact though they assure me that the fall is light.”

“And we are safe and warm inside, sir,” Kenneth said with a smile. “But I should be seeing to my guests in the ballroom. Please do join Miss Hayes with a glass of punch.”

Sir Edwin felt obliged to express effusive thanks, but he was not prepared to drop the matter of the snow. It appeared that he was fearful it would fall thickly enough during the night to prevent his leaving for home on the morrow. And with his mother dangerously ill—Miss Hayes, he added, might object that his sister’s letter, which had arrived just this morning, had made no such assertion, but his lordship must pardon him for having sufficient knowledge of his sisters, especially of Christobel, the eldest, to be able to read between the lines of a letter as well as on them. Had his mother not been quite seriously indisposed, then Christobel would not have mentioned her health at all. Had his mother not been dangerously ill, then she would have written herself to assure her son that he might enjoy the felicity of his betrothed’s company—he bowed to Moira—without having to spare any anxious thoughts for her or for his sisters.

“And yet, sir,” Kenneth said soothingly, “your mother and your sister surely understand your concerns and would have summoned you if matters were so serious.”

But Sir Edwin, though profuse in his thanks for his lordship’s concern, was not to be consoled. There was a certain intuition about the heart, it seemed, when the health of loved ones was in peril. His lordship had a mother and a sister and even the special
felicity of a nephew and niece and must know of what Sir Edwin spoke. He had a favor to ask of his lordship and was emboldened to request it only because his lordship had already shown that he was a true neighbor and friend.

Kenneth raised his eyebrows and wondered if he would be able to bear to live only three miles from this man for the rest of his life.

“I must return home without delay,” Sir Edwin said. “I would consider it an unpardonable dereliction of my duty as a son if I delayed one moment longer. It matters little that I do not have either my valet or my bags with me. It matters only that I return to the bosom of my family before it is too late to clasp my mother in my arms once more. I would ask, my lord, that you provide a carriage and the escort of a maid to convey my betrothed, Miss Hayes, home to Penwith Manor at the end of the evening.”

Moira Hayes rushed into speech. “I shall return home with you now, Sir Edwin,” she said. “I am sure that under the circumstances, the Earl of Haverford will excuse us for leaving early.”

“It would distress me to leave you here without my escort, Miss Hayes, were it not for the fact that you are in the home of a neighbor and friend,” he said, “and surrounded by other neighbors and friends. I would not delay my journey even by the time it would take my carriage to travel to Penwith Manor. I am afraid in my heart that the snow will impede travel before many more hours have passed.”

“Then I shall come with you to your home,” she said, “and his lordship will send word to Mama.”

But Sir Edwin, despite his deep gratitude—and he would
make so bold as to assert that he spoke for his mother and his sisters too—for Miss Hayes’s concern over her future mother-in-law, was not so lost to all propriety as to assent to her making such a long journey alone with him.

“I shall, of course, see to it that Miss Hayes is escorted home when the ball is over,” Kenneth said.

For which assurance he was forced to stand listening to a lengthy speech of gratitude from Sir Edwin, who declared that he had not one moment to spare. Though he did afterward spare several more moments in escorting his betrothed into the ballroom to where her particular friend, Mrs. Lincoln, was standing in a group with her husband and several other people.

Kenneth saw him on his way less than half an hour later and assured him yet again that he would see to it that Miss Hayes was delivered home safe and sound. The snow was coming down no more heavily than it had earlier in the day, he noticed. There was no need to alert his outside guests to any need to return home before they found it impossible to do so. The chances were good that the snow would stop altogether within the hour.

M
OIRA
almost enjoyed the ball after Sir Edwin Baillie had taken his leave. She felt guilty admitting to herself that it was more comfortable being with her neighbors and friends without him, but it was nevertheless true. And now that the waltz with the Earl of Haverford was behind her, she no longer had to feel the tension of knowing that there was that yet to face. She danced with gentlemen she had known for years or else sat and talked with their wives and daughters. It was easy enough to avoid both the countess and Viscountess Ainsleigh since they were quite as determined to avoid her.

She would have enjoyed herself completely, she felt, if it were not for the embarrassment of knowing that at the end of the evening she must be beholden to the earl, that he was going to have to call out his own carriage in order to send her home. She tried at first
to think of a neighbor who would be willing to offer her carriage room, but there was no one who would not have to go considerably out of his way in order to take her along the valley to Penwith. Everyone else except her was going either to Tawmouth or to somewhere on this side of the valley or to somewhere on the other side. And the only road to the other side of the valley went through the village. There was no alternative, it seemed, but to impose upon a man to whom she wished to owe no debt.

But it was to be even worse than she expected—far worse. In the great pleasure of the evening with its restoration of the old tradition of the Dunbarton ball, no one had noticed that the snow was coming down in earnest outside. It was after supper and only an hour before midnight, and Miss Pitt was beginning to comment on the lateness of the hour to listeners who did not particularly wish to hear it when the Earl of Haverford was seen to confer with Mr. Meeson and Mr. Penallen and those gentlemen conferred with others and word reached the ladies that the snow was settling and it would be wise for them to leave without further delay.

Miss Pitt commented that the hour was quite late enough, anyway, and that none on them wished to outstay their welcome and perhaps persuade his lordship not to repeat the ball next year. Everyone, now that there was no choice in the matter, cheerfully agreed with her.

Moira watched with growing embarrassment as her neighbors and friends left the ballroom and only the houseguests remained. Most of them, although she had been presented to them at the start of the evening, seemed like strangers to her, though two elderly ladies were obliging enough to engage her in
conversation. She did not know if she should leave the room, too, and go in search of the earl, who was probably downstairs taking his leave of his guests. Perhaps he had forgotten about her. Perhaps she should have gone with Harriet. She could have stayed the night at her friend’s house and walked home in the morning. She wished she had thought of doing that now that it was perhaps too late. For a moment her eyes met those of the countess, who looked rather surprised and somewhat disdainful. Moira looked away hastily, got to her feet, and excused herself.

She met the earl on the landing outside the ballroom. He was coming up from downstairs. Everyone had left, then. It really was too late to make her suggestion to Harriet. She felt decidedly uncomfortable.

“I am sorry to have put you to this trouble, my lord,” she said. “Is the carriage ready? There is really no need to send a maid with me, you know. I shall be quite safe alone in the carriage.”

“I should have acted sooner,” he said. “But I hated to spoil everyone’s enjoyment before it became necessary. It is hard to judge the weather from the house here.” The hollow and the woodland of the park surrounding Dunbarton Hall offered considerable shelter from sea winds. “I walked up to the road and I am afraid conditions are not good. The road to Tawmouth should be perfectly safe for the next hour or so at least, but I fear that the steeper road down to Penwith might be quite dangerous for a carriage. I would not risk your safety. You will remain here tonight as my guest. Tomorrow we will see how we may best get you home.”

“Absolutely not, my lord,” she said, her eyes widening in alarm. “If it is too dangerous for a carriage and horses, then I
shall walk. I am perfectly well accustomed to walking. Three miles is no distance at all.”

“But tonight you will stay here,” he said. “I must insist upon it. I will hear no further arguments, Moira.”

She guessed that he was not used to hearing further argument when he used that tone of voice and bore that chilling look. She guessed that as a cavalry officer he had never suffered from discipline problems among his men. But she was not one of his men.

“I have no wish to stay here,” she said. “I wish to go home. Besides, my mother will be worried if I do not return.”

“I have sent a groom to inform Lady Hayes that you will be remaining here for the night,” he said.

“Oh.” She raised her eyebrows. “It is perfectly safe for a groom to walk to Penwith but not for me to do so?”

“Try not to be tiresome, Moira,” he said.

Her nostrils flared. “I do not remember, my lord,” she said, her tone as icy as his, “granting you permission to use my given name.”

“Try not to be tiresome,
Miss Hayes
,” he said. He offered his arm to her and made her a half bow. “Allow me to return you to the ballroom. Our numbers are depleted, but my guess is that the festivities will continue for an hour or so yet. I shall have you shown to a room later and will make sure that you have everything you need there.”

She felt trapped and utterly uncomfortable. If she really must stay at Dunbarton, then she would a hundred times rather be shown to that room immediately than have to return to a roomful of virtual strangers, almost all of whom were related to him in some way. But saying so would have been to reveal her discomfort
to him. She would not do so for worlds. She set her arm along the top of his.

He danced with her again. It was not a waltz, she was thankful to find, but only a vigorous country dance. Even so, she was mortified that his relatives should see him distinguish her for such an unnecessary favor. He had danced with no other lady more than once—even Miss Wishart, who had been in his company several times between sets. She felt the strength of his hands in hers as he twirled her down the set and wished he were not so tall or so obviously strong. She felt diminished, vanquished. She felt like a helpless woman. She
was
a helpless woman. She was being forced into marrying someone she could not even like because she was a woman and quite unable to support herself and her mother. But she did not need further reminders from the Earl of Haverford of all people. It was his fault and Sir Edwin’s—
men!
—that she was in this predicament.

He would have escorted her to join a group of youngish people when the set was ended, but she drew her arm from his.

“I shall sit with your aunts,” she said, indicating the two ladies who had been kind to her earlier. They were deep in conversation with each other.

“Very well,” he said, bowing to her and making no attempt to accompany her.

She was glad of it. She felt as conspicuous as the proverbial sore thumb and quite as uncomfortable. Drat Sir Edwin Baillie and his fussy concern for his mother’s health, she thought. He had had no right to leave her alone here. But the realization that even if he had stayed, they might not have been able to return to
Penwith that night had her feeling sudden gratitude that he was not there. She dreaded to think of the speech he would have felt obliged to deliver if the Earl of Haverford had offered his hospitality to both of them.

She did not wish to break into the conversation the two ladies were so obviously enjoying. Perhaps they had been glad to see her go, glad to be alone together so that they could discuss whatever it was that was engrossing their attention. She turned direction and slipped into the refreshment room. It was deserted now so soon after supper, though there were still two footmen there and still punch in the bowls. She shook her head when one of the servants made to pick up a glass and a ladle, and stood close to the door, looking out of the window onto a white world beyond. Even in the darkness she could see the snow. What if it continued to fall all night? What if she was unable to go home tomorrow? The very thought made her squirm with discomfort.

And then, above the hum of conversation in the ballroom, she heard two distinct voices. Their owners must be standing close to the anteroom door.

“I have given directions for a room to be made up for her,” the Earl of Haverford said. “You will not need to exert yourself in any way, Mama.”

“She should have been sent to Tawmouth in one of the carriages,” the countess’s voice said. “She has acquaintances enough there. I do not like having her beneath my roof, Kenneth.”

“Pardon me.” The earl’s voice was suddenly both chilly and haughty. “Miss Hayes is to spend the night beneath
my
roof, Mama. She will be accorded all the proper courtesies here.”

“Kenneth—” It was Viscountess Ainsleigh’s voice this time, sounding breathless as if she had just rushed up to him. “Why is Moira Hayes still at the ball? Am I to understand—”

But the sound of her voice was suddenly cut off by the click of a closing door. One of the footmen on duty at the punch bowls smiled apologetically at Moira when she turned her head.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” he said, “but there was a nasty draft. I shall be pleased to open the door for you when you wish to leave.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking away from his acutely embarrassed face.
When you wish to leave
. She wanted to leave now. It was insufferable that she was being forced to stay where she was hated. And they did hate her, she thought, Lady Haverford and Helen. Because she was a member of the family they had always thought of as the enemy. More specifically, because she was Sean Hayes’s sister. She wondered fleetingly if they had known about her and Kenneth, if he had ever told them anything about her. He had said once that he loved her, but he had never said more than that. It had been hopeless, of course, even before Sean. . . .

It did not matter now, Moira thought, putting the memories firmly from her and leaning forward to rest her forehead against the glass of the window. Nothing mattered now except the present. Sean was dead and Helen was married to a man her parents had approved of. She herself was soon to marry Sir Edwin Baillie, and Kenneth—well, she did not care what became of the Earl of Haverford. She could only hope that he would not settle permanently at Dunbarton, though he probably would if he married the very pretty Miss Wishart.

She sighed. How could she possibly have landed herself in this
predicament? Though none of it was her fault, she reminded herself. She had not even wanted to attend the ball. She had not chosen to be left here while her betrothed tried to outrun a snowstorm. And she certainly had not invited herself to stay here when it became obvious that the roads were becoming difficult.

The road down to Penwith would perhaps be dangerous for a carriage, he had said. He would not allow her to walk home. He had sent a groom, presumably on foot, to inform her mother that she would spend the night at Dunbarton. Her head snapped up suddenly.
He would not allow her to walk home?
It was merely his lordly command that kept her from doing so. There was no other reason in the world why she should not. He did not have to call out his carriage and horses for her to walk home, after all. She had all the equipment needed: legs and feet. And she was not afraid of a little snow or a little cold or of a three-mile walk in darkness.

She smiled at the footman as he opened the door. She strolled about the perimeter of the ballroom, resisting the urge to stride across it in open defiance of its owner. She guessed that he was quite capable of restraining her by force if he knew of her intent. She left the ballroom quietly. Anyone seeing her go, she thought, would assume she was going to the ladies’ withdrawing room. She
did
go there in order to retrieve her cloak and gloves. She was glad she had worn her warmest outdoor clothes despite the fact that Sir Edwin had loaded the carriage down with blankets and hot bricks. And she was glad he had even insisted that she wear her half boots for the journey when she had been intending to wear only her dancing slippers.

She carried the garments downstairs with her and was relieved
to find that she passed no one on the way. She dressed calmly and purposefully in the hall, turned to the footman on duty there, handed him a generous vail as he opened the door for her, looking dubious as he did so, and bade him a cheerful good night as she stepped outside.

It was not at all bad, she thought at first. There was snow on the ground and more coming down, but the night was not particularly cold or particularly dark. She strode out of the shelter of the courtyard to the slightly lesser shelter of the driveway and revised her opinion only a little. She set off along the driveway, which sloped gradually upward until it joined the road along the top of the valley.

The wind and blowing snow hit her with full force as she stepped out of the hollow and beyond the range of the park’s woodland. For a moment she was alarmed at the realization that there was an actual storm raging and considered turning back. She was chilly already despite her warm clothes. But she could not bear to go back and have her foolishness exposed. Besides, she could be home in a little more than an hour if she moved briskly.