Mary Balogh (8 page)

She nodded. She seemed satisfied with his answer.

She
was exquisitely beautiful, he thought. The portrait beside his bed no longer did her justice. And yet the bloom of youth was no longer there. She was a woman, more lovely than a mere girl.

“Well?” he said.

“I do not know if it can be prevented, Marcus,” she said. “She has her heart set on the match and I did not notice that anything I said made her feel even the slightest doubt about the wisdom of her course.”

“You failed?” he said.

“I told her at the start,” she said, “that I would no longer treat her as a child and make her decisions for her. I told her I would not forbid the betrothal, though you well might. But I also told her that I would do all in my power to persuade her that she would be making a big mistake in persisting.”

“You did not forbid the match?” he said, frowning.

“She is eighteen years old, Marcus,” she said. “I was a married lady at her age.”

“But can she not see how foolish it is to lose her head over almost the first man she has seen?” he asked. “She is eighteen, for God’s sake, Olivia. A child.”

“But she reminded me,” she said, “that all about her in London were the young girls of the
ton
, come to be presented and to find husbands. It is the way of the world. And she is right, Marcus.”

“You approve of the match, then?” He set one foot on a stone a little below the level of that on which she sat and rested one arm across his knee. “You think we should approve the betrothal?”

She looked troubled. “I don’t know,” she said. “All my instincts are against it. I cannot believe that she will be happy with Lord Francis. And I cannot believe that she can possibly know her own mind or realize that being in love is not always a sound basis for a marriage. But she turned the tables on me when I gave her those arguments.”

He looked at her while she plucked a carnation and held it to her nose.

“She says it is because of you and me,” she said, raising
her head to look at him. “She says we are opposed because our own marriage failed and we find it impossible to believe that hers will not. She listed other marriages that have not failed. In fact, ours is the only one that has, as far as she knows.”

He swallowed.

“Marcus,” she said, “could she be right? Are we being unduly pessismistic and overprotective? Would we feel the same way if nothing had happened and we had stayed together? Or would we feel rather pleased at the prospect of her marrying Rose and William’s youngest son? Despite his reputation, would we be pleased? He seems excessively fond of her. I don’t know the answer. I cannot put myself into the position of a normal, contentedly married woman to know how I would feel. I came here to try to think of the answer.”

He could not think of the answer, either. He looked down at her bowed head, at the smooth, almost blonde hair parted neatly down the middle and combed back from her face. And he watched her twirl the carnation and bury her nose in it.

If nothing had happened. If Lowry had not decided to get married in London and invited him and Livy to the wedding. If he had not appeared quite so eager to go because Lowry had been a particularly close friend of his at Oxford. If Sophia had not come down with the measles just the day before they were due to leave and Livy had not persuaded him, much against his will, to go alone because his heart had been so set upon it. If there had not been that stupid party for Lowry two nights before the wedding and all the interminable drinking.

If the rest of their university cronies had not laughed at him for being such a staid married man when he was still so young and had not dared him to come with them to a certain tavern of low repute. If he had not been so
drunk and so foolish, foolish, foolish. He had never afterward been able to remember either the girl’s name or what she had looked like. Only the fact that he had bedded her and hated it while he was doing it and hated himself after he had paid her and staggered out into the street and vomited into the gutter to the hearty amusement of those cronies who were still with him.

Foolish idiot of a young puppy. Having behaved so, he should have found some salve for his conscience and pushed the experience out of his mind. The girl had meant nothing to him and he knew that none of his friends would ever tell what he had done. He had known that he would never be tempted to do such a thing ever again.

But he had gone home and shut himself away from Livy for four days, puzzling her with his insistence that he needed to be with his books and catch up with what had happened on his property since he went away. And at night he had been unwell and too tired to make love to her. On the fourth night he had been too unwell to sleep in her bed. He had gone into his own little-used bedchamber.

“What is wrong, Marc?” she had asked him, coming quietly into his darkened room half an hour later as he stood staring out of the window.

“Nothing is wrong,” he had said. “Just this stomachache, Livy.”

“What happened in London?” she had asked.

“Nothing,” he had said. “A wedding. Parties. Too much eating and drinking, Livy. I’ll feel better soon.”

“Is there someone else?” She had whispered the question.

“No!”

He had almost yelled the word, turning to face her. It had been the time to cross the room and take her into his arms, kiss her, take her through to her own room
again, and make love to her. He could have forgotten once he had been inside her familiar and beloved body. And even if he could not have forgotten, he should never have told her. Never.

“There was a girl,” he had blurted. “A whore. Nobody, Livy. I cannot even remember her name or her looks. I was foxed and dared to it. It meant nothing. Nothing, Livy. It is you I love. Only you. You know that. She was no one. It will never happen again. I promise.”

Even in the darkness he had seen the horror and revulsion on her face. She had said nothing as they stood and stared at each other, his hand stretched out to her.

And then she had turned and fled. Both her bedchamber and dressing room doors were locked by the time he had gone staggering after her.

She had refused to forgive him. And she had kept on refusing until he had been forced to believe that she never would.

She set the carnation down on the stone beside her.

“You think I should have a talk with Sutton, then,” he said, “and find out what his intentions and prospects and plans are? You think I should give our consent if his answers are satisfactory, if it appears that he is in earnest and intends to be good to Sophia? Is that what you think I should do, Olivia?”

“I don’t know,” she said, looking up again. “We have to make the most important decision concerning her that we have made in her life, Marcus, and reason and good sense no longer seem good enough guidelines. What is the reasonable or sensible thing to do? Mama and Papa and your parents did not stop us from marrying when they saw that our hearts were set upon doing so.”

“No,” he said.

She spread her hands palm up on her lap and looked down at them. “Perhaps they should have,” she said.

“Yes.”

“But does that mean that we should stop Sophia?” she said. “Perhaps it will turn out to be a happy marriage.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Marcus,” she said, lifting her face to him, “what do you think? I would so like you to make this decision because you are her father. But I know that is not fair.”

“It strikes me,” he said, “that in six months’ time or a year or two years we will be going through this all over again, Olivia, if we say no this time. And I believe Sophia will always be too young and there will always be something wrong with the young man.”

“Yes.” She smiled ruefully.

“I think I had better hear what Sutton has to say for himself,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I will not make it easy for him,” he said.

She smiled. “I remember your saying that Papa was a veritable ogre,” she said. “Though he was normally the mildest of men.”

“You were seventeen,” he said, “and his only daughter.”

“Yes.”

“You will be prepared to live with this betrothal, then?” he asked.

“I suppose so,” she said. “Sophia said that they will want the banns read immediately, Marcus. They wish for a summer wedding at the village church.”

“Do they?” he asked. And he had the sudden memory of Olivia, her face raised to his, its expression tender and wondering and utterly vulnerable as the rector pronounced them man and wife. It was a memory all mixed up with organ music and the smell of flowers and the pealing of bells. “You would stay until after the wedding, then?”

The color deepened in her cheeks. “If there is a wedding,” she said. “Yes, if I may.”

“This is your home,” he said.

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Rushton is my home.”

“Are you happy, Olivia?” he asked and wished he had not turned the conversation to such a personal matter.

She did not answer for a moment. “Contented,” she said. “I have my home and my garden and my books and music. And the church and my charitable works and my friends.”

“Clarence?” he said. “Is he still your friend? I rarely see him in town.”

“He does not often go,” she said. “He prefers to remain in the country. Yes, he is still my friend, Marcus. So are a dozen other people and more.”

“I am glad,” he said. “You have never been willing to use the house in London, even when I have assured you that I would not be there.”

“No,” she said. “I am happier at home.”

“I always loved the place,” he said. “I am glad you are contented there.”

“Yes,” she said.

He straightened up and lowered his foot to the grass. “Are you coming back to the house with me?” he asked. “Or would you rather stay here a little longer?”

“I shall stay here,” she said.

He nodded and turned away. But her voice stopped him when he had his hand on the latch of the door.

“Marcus,” she said. He looked back over his shoulder. “I am glad that you have kept the garden.”

He smiled and let himself back out into the wood.

I kept it for you
, he wanted to tell her. But it would not have been strictly true. It was for himself that he had kept it. Because it reminded him of Livy and the perfection
of the life they had had for almost five years before he had destroyed it in one stroke by trying to prove to a crowd of drunken men who meant nothing whatsoever to him that he was a real man.

He closed the door quietly behind him.

S
HE HAD NOT PLAYED CHARADES FOR YEARS
,
THE
Countess of Clifton thought, laughing after a particularly energetic round and seating herself to catch her breath. She always attended every assembly and social gathering in the neighborhood of Rushton, but for years she had been considered a member of the older generation and had sat with them, merely observing the more energetic sports of the young.

But Sophia had insisted that she join in the game this evening and Mr. Hathaway had echoed her urgings. Marcus had left the drawing room soon after the gentlemen joined the ladies following dinner, taking Lord Francis with him. Sophia had been flushed and frenzied ever since.

A footman had come into the room and was speaking with the duke and duchess and then turned in Olivia’s direction. “His lordship requests the pleasure of your company in the library, ma’am,” he said quietly for her ears only and then looked about him for Sophia.

The countess smiled at the duke and duchess as all three of them made their way to the door.

“So we are to be put out of our misery, Olivia,” His Grace said. “Is it to be yes or no, eh?” He chuckled.

“The interview has certainly lasted long enough,” the
duchess said. “All of an hour. Have they been talking business all of that time, do you suppose?”

“And so, Olivia,” the duke said, as they all paused outside the library for another footman to open the doors for them, “we are to be rid of our last boy and you of your only girl all at the same time. We will have nothing to trouble our old age except the arrival of grandchildren.”

The earl was the only occupant of the library. He was standing with his back to the fireplace, his hands behind his back. He smiled at them.

“Well, Marcus,” the duke said, “did that scamp of a son of mine impress you sufficiently, or did you send him packing?”

“I have consented to his making his offer to Sophia,” the earl said. “I believe he is doing so at this very moment.”

“Splendid, splendid,” the duke said, rubbing his hands together while the duchess fumbled in a pocket for a handkerchief and the countess watched her husband. “And when are the nuptials to be? Before Christmas, I hope. There is no point in waiting around once the intention has been expressed, I always say.”

“In one month’s time,” the earl said. “Your son wishes to have the betrothal announced tonight, William, if Sophia will give her consent—and I don’t believe there can be much doubt that she will do so. He wants the first banns read on Sunday.”

The duchess shrieked and buried her face in her handkerchief.

“Here?” His Grace said. “Not in St. George’s like our other boys? Well, a quiet country wedding has its charm, I must admit. You and Olivia were married here, were you not, Marcus? A charming wedding, as I remember. So Francis is proving to be as impulsive as ever, is he, and insisting on no delay? Now don’t take on so, Rose.
No one has died. And, indeed, little Sophia may yet refuse him.”

“But how can we be ready in one month?” Her Grace wailed. “Olivia?”

“I am sure it can be done,” the countess said soothingly. “The invitations can be sent off tomorrow. They are the most urgent. Then we can sit down and plan everything else.”

“I think for this evening we might as well relax,” the earl said, “and await developments. Do have a seat, Rose. Olivia? And you, too, William. What can I offer you to drink?”

“This is quite like old times,” the duke said, beaming about him a few minutes later when they were all seated cozily, drinks in hand.

It was and it was not, Olivia thought. They were together, the four of them, talking and apparently relaxed, as they had often been in the past. But she was no longer seated beside her husband, their hands almost touching—they had never embarrassed their family or friends by showing open affection in public. He was sitting in a chair by the fireplace, she on the sofa beside the duchess. And she no longer felt quite part of the group. The three of them had continued the friendship over the fourteen years when she had been at Rushton.