Dark Angel / Lord Carew's Bride (19 page)

Curiously, she did not really blame the Earl of Thornhill. Not really. He had protested his innocence and she had believed him. His kiss—if it could be called that—had been meant for the privacy of the darkness out on the balcony. It had been a kiss of friendship. Except that he had called her—Jennifer had tried all through a sleepless night not to remember what he had called her. But the words had spoken themselves over and over to her weary mind.

My love
, he had called her.

Yes, she needed to talk with Lionel. There was enormous relief in the discovery that the countess had not
had a change of heart since last evening but was still willing to face down the scandal and make light of what had happened. But it was not quite enough.

“Very well,” Lady Rushford said, getting to her feet. “For five minutes, dear. Kersey and I must leave soon so that we can all get ready to be seen in the park when everyone else is there. Lady Brill?” She left the room with Aunt Agatha.

Viscount Kersey stayed where he was and said nothing.

Jennifer forced herself to look at him. He was very pale. Very handsome. “There was nothing in it,” she said. “He explained to me that he did not do those dreadful things that everyone believes he did, and I believed him. That was all.”

His eyes met hers finally and she was reminded again of what Sam had always said of him. She shivered involuntarily. “What did he tell you?” he asked.

“That his stepmother was never his mistress,” she said, her cheeks hot. “That the child she had was not his.”

He gazed at her in silence for a few moments. “And you believed him,” he said. “You are incredibly naive.”

“My lord,” she said, moving steadily ahead into her greatest nightmare, “do you wish to continue with our betrothal? Would you prefer that I changed my answer now, before any announcement has been made?”

Again the brief silence, while Jennifer died a little inside. “It is too late for that,” he said. “The announcement is a mere formality. Everyone knows.”

“But if it were not too late,” she persisted, “you would prefer that I cried off?”

She thought he would never answer. Silence stretched between them. “The question is academic,” he said. “We are betrothed. If you cry off, I will not have you say that you did so at my request. My mother has her heart set on the match—as do my father and yours.”

“And you?” She was whispering.

“And I,” he said.

She searched his eyes. But they were blank. Cold. He did not love her. He would be quite happy if their betrothal came to an end. Except that he felt they had proceeded too far with it. And his parents and her father had their hearts set on it, as they had for five years.

And his heart was set on the match. So he said. But did he mean it? Could she bear it if he did not? Could she bear to be married to him, fearing as she now did that he was marrying for appearance’s sake and for his parents’ sake? Fearing as she now did that he did not love her?

But could she bear to lose him? To give him up entirely of her own will—against the will of everyone else concerned? She could teach him to love her. She could love him into loving her. She could show him that despite what had happened in the last days and weeks with the Earl of Thornhill, she was capable of loyalty and fidelity and devotion. It would not even take any effort on her part. It was what she wanted more than anything else in the world.

Before either of them could say anything else, Aunt Agatha and the Countess of Rushford were back in the
room and the countess was taking charge of the situation again with great energy and calm good sense. Her general air of placidity was quite deceptive, Jennifer was discovering. They were to drive in the park, the four of them, and show the fashionable world how ridiculous was any gossip that had been making the rounds during the course of the day.

“We will confound and disappoint all the tabbies,” she said with a laugh. “Oh, my dears, you look so very handsome together. Tomorrow night’s ball will be the greatest squeeze of the Season. The greatest success. And I am going to be the happiest mother in town.”

And so at the fashionable hour they were driving in the park. It was not so very difficult after all, Jennifer found. No one was so ill-bred as to cause any scene either by look or by word or by gesture. And playing a part gradually developed into living the part. She really was feeling happy. A crisis in her life was passing, thanks to the good advice of her future mother-in-law. And Lionel, sitting beside her, was smiling at others and smiling at her. And touching her hand. And once or twice raising it to his lips. There was warmth in his eyes again.

She had been very foolish. It had been all her fault. She was, as Lionel himself had said, incredibly naive. But finally she had learned her lesson. From now on there was only Lionel and what she owed him. If he was disappointed in her now, she would teach him to be proud of her. If he did not love her now, he would in future.

She turned her head and smiled at him, her heart in her eyes. He smiled back, his eyes roaming her face and
fixing themselves on her lips. He leaned a little toward her and then straightened up for good manners’ sake, his smile more rueful.

His mother, watching closely from the seat opposite, nodded her approval and turned her smile on the occupants of a landau that was passing.

T
HERE WAS AN ATMOSPHERE OF GAIETY AND and an air of expectancy among the forty guests who sat down to dinner at the Earl of Rushford’s table. Everyone knew what announcement was to be made at the end of it, but the knowing did not dampen enthusiasm. Neither did the near scandal of a few days before, which had blossomed gloriously for a few hours only to die down again, as so many would-be scandals did. Not that the dying was to be much lamented. There was always a new one eagerly waiting to take its place.

Samantha smiled, as everyone about her did, and conversed with Mr. Averleigh on her left, and even flirted with him a little. One quickly learned how to flirt in fashionable society, how to hide behind smiles and blushes and sparkling eyes and witty responses. How to draw compliments and admiration and then hold the gentleman concerned at arm’s length. Not that that always worked. She had had to refuse a marriage offer that very morning from Mr. Maxwell and was very much afraid that she might have hurt him. And Aunt Aggy had been puzzled and her uncle had been annoyed with her—both had approved his suit.

Samantha continued to smile—indeed, she redoubled her efforts—when the dreaded moment came and the Earl of Rushford got to his feet to make the announcement they had all been waiting for. She did not hear his actual words. But there was a swell of sound as many pretended surprise, and applause and laughter—and Lionel was on his feet and drawing Jenny to hers and kissing her hand. And the two of them were smiling radiantly into each other’s eyes and looking as if happily-ever-after were not a strong enough term to describe what their future was to be.

And yet, Samantha thought, withdrawing her eyes from them under the pretense of lifting her wineglass, Lionel did not love Jenny. And Jenny—well, Jenny did love him. But also she had been unduly upset over the incident with the Earl of Thornhill. And Samantha? Well, her feelings were immaterial. Except that she constantly felt wretched and could not at all concentrate on becoming especially fond of one gentleman from her flatteringly large group of admirers. And she was not even sure that Jenny was going to be happy. She herself could have borne it, she felt, if only she knew that the two of them loved each other. She would know then that her own feelings were quite wrong and must be put firmly behind her.

Well, she thought when Lady Rushford got to her feet finally to signal the ladies to leave the dining room, it was done now. Finally done. Now it was quite official and unalterable. Any faint and absurd hope that might have
lingered somewhere far back in her brain was now firmly dashed.

It was a relief. Yes, it really was.

She drew close to her cousin in the drawing room, no easy matter when it seemed that all the ladies, without exception, were trying to do the same thing. Jennifer saw her and turned with shining eyes to hug her tightly.

“Oh, Sam,” she said, “wish me happy.” She laughed. “Wish me what I already have in such abundance that I believe I may well burst with it.”

Samantha could not afterward remember what she said in reply. But she did wish it. Oh, she did. She wished Jenny all the happiness in the world. Her own feelings did not matter in the slightest.

I
T WAS MUCH LATER
in the evening. Jennifer was hot and flushed and footsore. But happier than she could remember being. Now, tonight, at last, the dreams she had had for five long years of what this Season would be like were coming true.

She was the focus of attention and admiration—not that these things were important in themselves, she knew. But every woman has some hidden vanity and enjoys attention, even when there is one single gentleman who holds her heart. The Earl of Rushford had danced with her and made it clear that he was pleased with her. Even Papa—wonder of wonders—had led her into a set.

And Lionel—oh, Lionel had danced with her twice, both waltzes, and had declared his intention of dancing
the final set with her. A man was to be excused the minor impropriety of dancing with his betrothed three times in one evening, he had said, his head bent close to hers, his eyes smiling warmly. And if the
ton
did not agree, well, then, the
ton
might go hang.

She had laughed with delight at his outrageous words.

And everyone was watching them. It was no vanity to believe that. It was true. Everyone could see that Lionel was looking at her as if he would devour her. And she did not care that they would see too that she adored him.

All doubts—if there had been any doubts—had been put to rest tonight. He had been angry and hurt yesterday. Understandably so. It had all been her fault. But now, tonight, he had put that anger aside and his true feelings for her were there for all to see—on his face and in his eyes.

He
had not come to the ball. It was no surprise—she was sure that Lionel and his father would have made sure that he did not come. But it was an enormous relief. She dreaded seeing him again. It was certainly wonderful that she did not have to do so tonight of all nights. Tonight she could no longer even hear his voice in her head. Tonight she was finally free of him.

The Earl of Rushford had been called from the ballroom a short while ago. Not that Jennifer particularly noticed, but then a footman came to ask Viscount Kersey to join his father in the library, and Lionel left her side after smiling regretfully at her and squeezing her hand.

He was gone through most of the next set, which Jennifer danced with Sir Albert Boyle. She found his company interesting since he told her with a smile that she must wish him happy as he wished her. He had recently become betrothed to Miss Rosalie Ogden. She always felt a special interest in Sir Albert because he was the first gentleman she and Sam had met in London. She hastily closed her mind to the other gentleman who had been with him in the park that day.

But despite her interest in Sir Albert, she was disappointed in the long absence of her betrothed. Even if they could not dance together all evening, she could at least gaze at him much of the time. He was dressed tonight in varying shades of light green to match the color of her own gown. Aunt Agatha had thought a pale color suitable for a young lady who was now officially betrothed. Jennifer smiled secretly to herself. She wondered if five years from now or ten she would still be restless when Lionel was out of her sight for longer than a few minutes.

And then he was there again, in the doorway with his father, his face as pale as his shirt, his smile completely gone, his expression severe. What had happened? Something clearly had. Bad news? Was that why first the earl and then he had been summoned from the ballroom? His father, she saw when she shifted her glance to him, was looking decidedly grim. The set was coming to an end, but she could not hurry toward them to ask what it was. It would not be seemly. She was forced to allow Sir Albert Boyle to escort her back to Aunt Agatha’s side
and to wait for Lionel to come to her. What was wrong? Oh, poor Lionel.

Whatever it was, he would be glad that the evening was almost at an end. There could be no more than one or two sets remaining.

Jennifer watched in some concern, fanning her hot face, as the Earl of Rushford, followed closely by his son, made his way toward the raised dais on which the orchestra sat, climbed onto it, and stood there, his arms raised for silence. He was holding a single sheet of paper in one hand. Lionel stood beside him, his expression stony, his eyes downcast.

A hush descended on the ballroom as the guests gradually became aware that their host was waiting to address them. Jennifer took one step forward but stopped again.

“It distresses me to make any announcement to destroy the mood of the evening and put an abrupt and early end to the festivities,” the earl said, his voice stern and clear. “But something disturbing has been brought to my attention this evening, and after consultation with my son and careful deliberation, I have decided that I have no choice but to speak out publicly and without delay.”

The hush in the ballroom became almost loud. Jennifer, for no reason she could fathom, felt her heart beat faster. She could hear it beating in her ears.

“This letter was delivered to the house an hour ago,” the earl said, holding the sheet of paper he held a little higher. “And one of my servants was bribed to deliver it
into the hands of one of my … guests. Fortunately, my servants are loyal. Both the letter and the bribe were put into my butler’s hands and then into mine.”

Whatever could it be, Jennifer thought in the murmuring that followed, that it had necessitated this public display? She started to fan herself, but she stopped when she realized that everyone about her was still.

“I will read this letter,” the earl said, “if you will indulge me for a few moments.” He held the sheet of paper up before him and read. “ ‘My love, Your ordeal is almost at an end, this farce of an evening that you felt obliged to suffer through. Tomorrow I will contrive to see you privately, as I have done many times before. I will hold you again and kiss you again and make love to you again. And we will make plans to steal away together so that we may kiss and love whenever we wish. Forgive my incaution in sending you this tonight, but I know you will be disappointed at not seeing me there. I have been advised to stay away after our almost open indiscretion of a few evenings ago. I will be sure that my messenger gives a large enough bribe that this will be placed in your own hands—and next to your heart after you have read it. Would that I could be there too. Until tomorrow, my love. Thornhill.’ ”