The Proposal (6 page)

She came toward the sofa and would have set the tray down on the table beside Gwen if Lord Trentham had not taken it from her hands first.

“I’ll see to that, Imogen,” he said.

“George guessed that you would consider it quite improper to be in a room alone with a strange gentleman, Lady Muir,” the lady said, “even if he
did
rescue you and carry you back to the house. I have been designated as your chaperon.”

Her voice was cool rather than cold.

“This is Imogen, Lady Barclay,” Lord Trentham said, “who never seems to consider it improper to stay at Penderris with six gentlemen and no chaperon.”

“I would entrust my life to any of the six or all of them combined,” Lady Barclay said, inclining her head courteously to Gwen. “Indeed, I have already done so. You are looking embarrassed. You need not. How did you hurt your ankle?”

She poured three cups of tea as Gwen described what had happened. This, then, she thought, was the lady who had been with her husband when his torturers had killed him. Gwen had an inkling of the torments she must have lived through every minute of every day since. She must forever be asking herself if there was anything she might have done to prevent such a disaster. Just as Gwen forever asked it of
herself
with regard to Vernon’s death.

“I feel very foolish,” she said in conclusion.

“Of course you do,” Lady Barclay said. “But it could have happened to any of us, you know. We are always up and down to the beach, and that slope is quite treacherous enough even without the shifting stones.”

Gwen glanced at Lord Trentham, who was silently sipping his tea, his dark eyes resting on her.

He was, she thought in some surprise and with a little shiver of awareness, a terribly attractive man. He ought not to be. He was too large to be either elegant or graceful. His hair was too short to soften the harshness of his features or the hard line of his jaw. His mouth was too straight and hard-set to be sensuous. His eyes were too dark and too penetrating to make a woman want to fall into them. There was nothing to suggest charm or humor or any warmth of personality.

And yet …

And yet there was an aura about him of almost overpowering physicality. Of masculinity.

It would be an absolutely
wonderful
experience,
she thought,
to go to bed with him.

It was a thought that shocked her to the roots of her being. In the seven years since Vernon’s death she had shrunk away from the merest thought of another courtship and marriage. And she had never in her life thought of any man in any other connection.

Did this unexpected and rather ridiculous attraction have anything to do with the equally unexpected wave of loneliness she had felt down on the beach just before she met him?

She made conversation with Lady Barclay while these strange thoughts buzzed about in her head. But really it was difficult to concentrate fully upon either words or thought. Pain, as she remembered now from the time when she broke her leg, could never confine itself to the injured part of one’s body but throbbed instead all through it until one did not know quite what to do with oneself.

Lord Trentham got to his feet as soon as she had finished her cup of tea, took an unused linen napkin off the tea tray, and crossed to a sideboard, where he must have found a jug of cold water among the liquor decanters. He came back with a wet napkin from which most of the water had been squeezed, spread it over Gwen’s forehead, and held it in place there with one hand. She rested the back of her head against the cushion again and closed her eyes.

The coolness, even the pressure of his hand, felt very good.

Where was the insensitive brute she had judged him to be?

“I have been hoping to distract her with conversation,” Lady Barclay said. “She is as pale as a ghost, poor thing. But she has uttered not a moan of complaint. She has my admiration.”

“Jones is certainly dragging his feet,” Lord Trentham said.

“He will come as soon as he is able,” Lady Barclay said. “He always does, Hugo. And there is no better doctor in the world.”

“Lady Muir has suffered a previous injury to the same leg,” Lord Trentham said. “I daresay it hurts like a thousand devils.”

They were talking of her as if she were not there to speak for herself, Gwen thought. But for the moment she did not care. For the moment she was distancing herself as far from the pain as she could get.

And there was warmth in their voices, she noticed. As if they were fond of each other. Almost as if they were genuinely concerned for her.

Even so, she
wished
the physician would come soon so that she could ask the Duke of Stanbrook again for a carriage to take her to Vera’s.

Oh, how she hated to be beholden to anyone.

Chapter 3

When Flavian returned with the doctor, he brought Mrs. Parkinson too. It was that lady who hurried into the drawing room first. She curtsied low to Imogen and Hugo and assured them that His Grace was kindness itself, that
they
were kindness itself, that she would be grateful to Lord Ponsonby for the rest of her days for bringing her word of her dearest friend’s accident so promptly and insisting upon bringing her here in His Grace’s carriage despite the fact that she would have been happy to walk ten times the distance if it had been necessary.

“I would walk five—nay, even ten—miles for dear Lady Muir’s sake,” she assured them, “even if it
was
careless of her to wander onto His Grace’s land when I had specifically warned her to be careful to avoid giving offense to such an illustrious peer of the realm. His Grace would have been quite justified if he had chosen to refuse her admittance to Penderris, though I daresay he hesitated to do so when he learned she is
Lady
Muir. I suppose it is
that
fact I have to thank for my invitation to ride in the carriage, for such a distinction has never been offered me before, you know, despite the fact that Mr. Parkinson was the younger brother of Sir Roger Parkinson and was fourth in line to the title himself after his brother’s three sons.”

It was only after she had delivered herself of this remarkable speech, looking from Hugo to Imogen as she did so, that the lady turned toward her friend, her hands clasped to her bosom.

Hugo and Imogen exchanged a poker-faced glance in which volumes were spoken. Flavian had come to stand silently just inside the door, looking openly bored.

“Gwen!” Mrs. Parkinson cried. “Oh, my poor dear Gwen,
what
have you done to yourself? I was beside myself with worry when you did not return from your walk within the hour. I feared the worst and blamed myself most bitterly for having felt too low in spirits to accompany you. What would I have done if you had met with a fatal accident? What would I have said to the Earl of Kilbourne, your dear brother? It was really too, too naughty of you to cause me such panic. All of which I felt, of course, because I love you so dearly.”

“I twisted my ankle, that is all, Vera,” Lady Muir explained. “But unfortunately, it is impossible for me to walk, at least for the present. I hope not to have to impose upon the duke’s hospitality for much longer, however. I trust he will be kind enough to allow the carriage to return to the village with the two of us once the doctor has looked at my ankle and bound it up.”

Mrs. Parkinson regarded her friend with open horror and uttered a slight shriek as she clasped her hands even more tightly to her bosom.

“You must not even
think
of being removed,” she said. “Oh, my poor Gwen, you will do your leg irreparable damage if you attempt anything so reckless. You already have that unfortunate limp from a previous accident, and I daresay it has deterred other gentlemen from paying you court since dear Lord Muir’s passing. You simply must not risk becoming entirely lame. His Grace, I am assured, will join me in urging you to remain here until your ankle is quite healed. You must not worry that I will neglect you. I shall walk over daily to bear you company. You are my dearest friend in the world, after all. I am sure this lady and this gentleman as well as Viscount Ponsonby will also urge you to stay.”

She smiled graciously in turn upon Imogen and Hugo, and Flavian, sounding even more bored than he habitually did, introduced them.

Mrs. Parkinson was probably close to Lady Muir in age, Hugo guessed, though time had dealt less kindly with her. Whereas Lady Muir was still beautiful even though she was probably past the age of thirty, any claim to good looks Mrs. Parkinson might once have had was long past. She also carried too much weight upon her frame, and most of it had settled quite unbecomingly beneath her chin and about her bosom and hips. Her brown hair had lost any youthful luster it might once have had.

Lady Muir opened her mouth to speak. She was clearly dismayed at the suggestion that she remain at Penderris. She was prevented from expressing her sentiments, however, when the door opened again to admit George and Dr. Jones, the physician he had enticed from London years ago when he opened his home to the six of them, and others whose stay had been of shorter duration. The doctor had remained ever since to tend the poor who could not pay his fee, as well as the richer folk who could.

“Here is Dr. Jones, Lady Muir,” George said. “He is the most skilled of physicians, I do assure you. You may feel confident in entrusting yourself to his care. Imogen, would you be so good as to remain here with Lady Muir? The rest of us will withdraw to the library. Mrs. Parkinson, may I offer you tea and cakes there? It was good of you to come with Flavian and the doctor at such short notice.”

“It is I who ought to remain with Lady Muir,” Mrs. Parkinson said, nevertheless allowing herself to be ushered toward the door. “However, my nerves are stretched thin, Your Grace, after tending my poor dear husband for so long. Dr. Jones will tell you that they have come very near to breaking altogether since his passing. I do not know
how
I am going to be able to give dear Lady Muir the care she is going to need in my home, though I am more than eager, as you may imagine, to have her removed there. I feel responsible for what has happened. If I had been with her, as I would have been if I had not been feeling so low in spirits this morning, then I would have kept her a decent distance from Penderris. I am vexed that she trespassed, though I suppose it was more careless than deliberate on her part.”

George had closed the drawing room doors by this point and was making his way downstairs with Mrs. Parkinson on his arm. Hugo and Flavian were following along behind them.

“It will be my pleasure to have Lady Muir remain here, ma’am, until she can walk again,” George said. “And the doctor has already confirmed that you are worn down after your devoted attention to your husband during his long illness.”

“That is very obliging of him, I am sure,” Mrs. Parkinson said. “I shall come every day to visit Lady Muir, of course.”

“I am delighted to hear it ma’am,” George said, nodding to a footman to open the library doors. “My carriage will be at your disposal.”

Flavian and Hugo exchanged glances, and the former cocked one eyebrow.
Shall we sneak off while we may?
the look seemed to ask.

Hugo pursed his lips. It was tempting. But he followed George and his guest into the library, and Flavian shrugged and came behind him.

“I
do
regret this imposition upon your hospitality, Your Grace,” Mrs. Parkinson assured George. “But it is not in my nature to abandon a friend when she is in need. And so I will accept your kind offer of a carriage each day even though I would be delighted to
walk
here. I will be absolutely no bother to you or your guests while I
am
here. It is
Lady Muir
I will be visiting. I shall certainly not expect tea each day.”

A maid had just come into the room and was setting down a tray on the large oak desk by the window.

It was hardly surprising, Hugo thought, that Mrs. Parkinson cultivated the friendship of Lady Muir. She was, after all, the widow of a lord and the sister of an earl, and Mrs. Parkinson was obsequious to a fault. It was less clear why Lady Muir was
her
friend. She had struck Hugo as being decidedly haughty and high in the instep. He had not warmed to her despite her undeniable beauty. Though she
had
laughed at her own predicament after she demanded to be set down and he obliged her. And then she had asked to be carried after all.
But
she had once lost her unborn child through the incredible recklessness of her own behavior and the carelessness of her husband’s. She was the sort of upper-class woman he most despised. She seemed totally wrapped up in self. And yet she was Mrs. Parkinson’s friend. Perhaps she enjoyed being worshipped and adored.

Poor George was being left to bear all the burden of conversation alone since he, Hugo, was standing in morose silence wishing that he had not stopped earlier to climb to that ledge on the cliff but had come straight back to the house. And Flavian was over by one of the bookshelves, leafing through a book and looking disdainful. Flavian always portrayed disdain exceedingly well. He never even needed to speak a word.

This was grossly unfair to George.

“You have known Lady Muir for a long time, Mrs. Parkinson?” Hugo asked.

“Oh, my lord,” she said, setting down her teacup and saucer in order to clasp her hands to her bosom again, “we have known each other
forever
. We made our come-out together in London when we were mere girls, you know. We made our curtsy to the queen on the very same day and danced at each other’s come-out ball afterward. People were good enough to call us the two most dazzlingly pretty young ladies on the marriage mart that year, though I daresay they were merely being kind to me. Though I did have more than my fair share of beaux, it is true. More than Gwen, in fact, though I suppose that was in part due to the fact that she took one look at Lord Muir and decided that his title and fortune were worth setting her cap at. I might have married a marquess or a viscount myself had I chosen, or any one of a number of barons. But I fell deeply in love with Mr. Parkinson and never regretted for a single moment relinquishing the dazzling life I might have had with a titled gentleman and ten thousand or more a year. There is nothing more important in life than romantic love, even when its object is the mere younger brother of a baronet.”