Dark Angel / Lord Carew's Bride (41 page)

“It is a very modish bonnet, Francis,” Samantha said, twirling her parasol again, “and doubtless the envy of half the ladies in the park. She is, after all, drawing a great deal of attention her way, and what more could any lady ask for?” She was deeply grateful for the deliberate change of topic.

“It is a blatant ploy,” he said, all ennui again, “to have people look at the bonnet and not at the face beneath it. It is a pity she cannot wear it into ballrooms.”

“Francis,” Samantha said sharply, “you are wickedly unkind.”

“Not to you, my sweet,” he said, “except to object to your yellow gown, which makes the sunshine look dim—especially when one looks at the face and figure of the lady inside the gown.”

He heaped several more lavish compliments on her during the next minute or so, while Lord Hawthorne looked on in envy and Mr. Nicholson looked impatient to move off. And then they were indeed moving forward, until Lady Penniford and Lord Danton stopped in their barouche to ask Samantha how her aunt and her aunt’s friend did.

Samantha no longer looked about her to any distance. She was afraid to look. It took all the effort of her training and experience to keep smiling and conversing, to give Mr. Nicholson and everyone to whom they talked no inkling of the seething upheaval that was churning inside her.

She was home half an hour later, though it seemed ten times as long as that. She ran lightly upstairs, was relieved to find the drawing room empty, was even more relieved to receive no answer to her tap on the door of her aunt’s sitting room, and rushed on to her own rooms. Aunt Aggy must still be with Lady Sophia, who was making the most of her invalid state now that there were plenty of friends in town to visit her and sit with her.

Samantha kicked off her slippers in her dressing room and tossed her bonnet in the direction of the nearest chair. She peeled off her gloves and sent them flying after the bonnet. Then she hurried into her bedchamber and threw herself facedown across her bed.

He was back. She clutched fistfuls of the bedcover in both hands and held tight. She had seen him again. And he had seen her. And had acknowledged her. He had not been at all aghast. He had looked at her
appreciatively
. She had seen enough admiration in men’s eyes to have recognized it in his.

How dared he.

After what had happened.

He had been Jenny’s betrothed. Jenny had been besotted with him, ecstatic to be officially betrothed to him
after five years of loving him and having an unofficial understanding with him. Samantha had not particularly liked him. She had always thought that there was a coldness behind the undeniably handsome exterior. Until he had solicited her hand for a set at one ball, that was, and led her outside and down into the garden, presumably because he was upset that Jenny had just spent half an hour with Lord Thornhill. And he had kissed her.

She had been eighteen years old. It had been her first kiss. He had been the most handsome man of her experience. It had been an impossibly tempting combination. She had tumbled into love with him. And had been pained by it, and by his tragic claim to love her while he was bound to marry Jenny, and by guilt because Jenny had loved him so dearly and had been so very happy with her dreams of a future with him. He had suggested that
she
try to do something to end the betrothal, since honor forbade him to do so.

She had been so very naive. She had suppressed her uneasiness, her feeling that it was not very honorable to suggest that the woman he claimed to love do something to end his betrothal to her cousin and closest friend. She had been hopelessly in love, though at least she had not consented to do that for him. He had been forced to do it another way, forging an incriminating letter from Gabriel to Jenny and having the letter read publicly to a whole ballroomful of members of the
ton
. He had brought terrible ruin on Jenny and had forced Gabriel to rush her into a marriage that neither of them wanted—at the time.

Even then, poor, naive girl that she was—though she had not known then of the forgery—Samantha had believed that he would come to claim her. She had maneuvered a brief meeting with him in the hallway outside yet another ballroom—and he had laughed at her and assured her that she must have misunderstood what had been merely gallantry on his part. He had dared to look at her with amused sympathy.

That was the last time she had seen him—until this afternoon. His father had discovered the truth and had forced him to make it publicly known, so that Jenny’s reputation might be restored. And then his father had banished him.

She had hated him from that day to this. Hated him for the terrible thing he had done to Jenny, hated him for ruining her own first Season and for toying with the fragile emotions of an innocent and naive young girl. She had hated him for humiliating her so. And she had hated him as a genuinely evil man.

And yet she knew that there was a thin line between hatred and love. For six years she had hated him and feared—deeply feared—that perhaps she still loved him. For six years she had hoped fiercely that her feelings would never be put to the test, that he would never come home to England, that she would never see him again. For six years she had distrusted love, though she had seen signs about her that it could bring happiness. Jenny and Gabriel loved each other and were happy. Rosalie and Albert loved and were happy. But love for her was
something to be dreaded, something to be avoided at all costs.

Now she had seen him again, shining and beautiful like an angel, even though she knew that he had the heart of the devil. And her own heart had turned over inside her. She would see him again, she supposed. It was highly probable. And from the way he had looked at her, without withdrawing his eyes hastily and in some confusion, it seemed altogether possible that he would not avoid a direct meeting. They might meet again. He might speak to her.

She was terribly afraid. Afraid of the evil. Afraid that somehow he still had power over her.

She thought fleetingly of returning to Chalcote. Gabriel had said she might go there whenever she wished. Perhaps, she thought … perhaps Mr. Wade would still be at Highmoor. But she knew she would not go. Could not go. If he was back in England, this thing must be faced sooner or later. Better sooner than later. Perhaps it would not be as bad as she expected. Perhaps, if she could once meet him face-to-face, she would find that, after all, he was just a gentleman she did not like.

Perhaps if she stayed she could be freed at last.

She knew it was a forlorn hope.

I
T HAD BEEN WORTH
coming, he convinced himself, despite the fact that he had left Highmoor just at the time of year he usually enjoyed being there most of all. He liked to be there when the fields were being sown on his
farms. He liked working alongside his laborers. They had stopped looking at him askance, first because he was an aristocrat and was not expected to soil his hands with real dirt, and second because he was a cripple. They had accepted the fact that he was somewhat eccentric.

And he liked to supervise the work of preparing the park for its summer splendor. This year, more than most others, he had had plans for major renovations that would have taken all summer to effect.

Perhaps next year.

It was time he spent a few months of the spring in London, doing his duty as a member of the House of Lords. And it was pleasant to see faces he had not seen in years—male faces, almost exclusively—and to renew old acquaintances. He even ventured to White’s two or three times, though he had never been one to spend his days at a club. It was going to be good to have the chance to enjoy concerts and plays in plenty. It was good to spend some time at Jackson’s again to hone his skills, though it was more difficult to schedule times alone with the pugilist himself. And he was able to do some fencing again. He had tried it almost ten years ago now, out of sheer obstinacy, after his father had observed that that was one skill at least that he must never think of mastering. Balance on one’s feet was of paramount importance to the exercise, as was skill with one’s hands. He was naturally right-handed and had never achieved anything more than an awkward competency with his left. His handwriting looked from a distance like the scrawl of a spider.

But he had persisted and sometimes won bouts against less experienced swordsmen. Never against the best, of course, though he had once surprised one of them with an undeniable hit. But he was able to give even the best of them a run for their money.

It was something he enjoyed. Any conquest against his handicaps was a personal triumph.

No, it had not been a waste of his time to come to town. He did not call upon Samantha, however, though he considered doing so each day of his first week in town. Why not send in his card, after all, and pay a courtesy call on her? He even had cards made that omitted his title. But he never did call.

He saw her once on Bond Street, quite by accident. She was on the arm of a very tall, rather thin, very fashionably dressed gentleman. They were both laughing and looking very merry. The Marquess of Carew ducked into the doorway of a bootmaker’s shop and found that his heart was hammering against his ribs and his mind was contemplating murder. She did not see him.

He went home, feeling very foolish.

He caught sight of her another day, coming out of the library with another gentleman, more handsome though not quite as fashionable as the first. Again she was smiling and looking as if she held the sunshine inside herself and was allowing some of it to spill over. Again he managed to duck out of sight before she saw him.

He considered going back home on the evening of that day. But he had made the long journey only days
before, and the Season had not even started yet. He could not be so cowardly.

His arrival in town had been noted. A small but steady trickle of invitations had begun to arrive. He had been invited to Lady Rochester’s ball. Friends had told him that it was expected to be the first great squeeze of the Season. Would not everyone be surprised and even shocked if he were to turn up at a
ball!
Though he knew of many gentlemen and even a few ladies who attended balls without ever intending to dance at them. There were always rooms for cards and rooms for sitting and gossiping or for eating and drinking.

She would almost certainly be at the ball.

If it was a great squeeze, it would be possible for him to go there and see her without being seen. He would be able to see her dressed in all the finery of a
ton
ball. He would be able to watch her dance. Without himself being seen.

But he dismissed the thought. Those other two times, though he had hidden from sight, had been accidental encounters. He had not planned to see her. If he went to the ball deliberately to see her and hide from her, he would be in the nature of a spy, a peeping Tom, a stalker. It was not a pleasant notion.

No, if he went to the ball
… if?
Was he seriously considering it, then? If he went, it must be with the intention of letting her see him, of greeting her, of letting her know who he was. It would be better than calling on her at Lady Brill’s house. It would be a briefer meeting—he could not, after all, ask her to dance and ensure that he
would have her to himself for half an hour. It would be a more public meeting. It would be ideal.

And she should know who he was. Perhaps she had already forgotten him, but he felt guilty for having deceived her.

If she knew who he was and if he continued to appear at some of the
ton
events of the Season, perhaps they could continue their friendship. Perhaps occasionally he could call on her, take her for a drive, invite her to sit in his box at the theater with him.

Perhaps life need not be as bleak as he had thought for the last month and a half that it must be.

But would it be enough—even assuming she would be willing to continue the acquaintance? Would it not be better to have nothing of her than to have an occasional and casual friendship?

And what if his earlier fears were confirmed? What if she showed another type of interest in him once she knew his real identity? But it was a fear unworthy of him. It was not something she would do. He must trust his good opinion of her.

How would he be able to stand seeing her sparkle at other, more handsome gentlemen? How would he cope with the jealousy?

He would cope because he was a mature man, he thought, and because his eyes were open to reality. He would cope because he must.

Yes, he decided finally just the evening before the Rochester ball, when a couple of friends asked him teasingly if he had accepted his invitation. Yes, he was going
to go. He was going to see her. And he was going to let her see him.

“Yes, of course,” he said to a grinning Lord Gerson and an interested Duke of Bridgwater. “I would not miss it for worlds.”

Lord Gerson slapped the duke on the back and roared with laughter. “This I must see,” he said. “All the mamas with eligible hopefuls will fall off their chairs, Carew.”

“Now this is fascinating,” his grace said, raising his quizzing glass and having the gall to peer through it at the marquess. “One might almost imagine that there was one particular eligible hopeful, Hart, my dear chap.”

“This is rich.” Lord Gerson launched into renewed guffaws of mirth.

“I shall call here with my carriage?” his grace suggested. “We must go together, the three of us. Moral support and all that.”

“Yes,” the marquess said, quelling the ridiculous, schoolboyish panic. “Yes, do that, Bridge, will you?”

A
SQUEEZE IT WAS INDEED. THEY KNEW AS SOON as they approached Hanover Square that Lady Rochester’s ball must already be pronounced an unqualified success. They could not even get onto the square with the carriage, but must sit and wait a full twenty minutes while it crawled forward behind a long line of others. An equally long line soon formed behind them.

“Louisa will be very gratified,” Lady Brill said, uttering probably the understatement of the evening. Lady Rochester would be more than ecstatic.