Once more. Cord gripped Gillian’s shoulders. He forced himself to harden the gaze that bored into hers. “Gillian, you’ve just spouted the most arrant nonsense I’ve ever heard.”
In response to her shocked gasp, he slid his hands down her arms to her hands.
“For God’s sake, Gillian, one cannot force oneself to love where one’s heart is not enjoined. You could no more help
not
returning Kenneth’s love than you could help being born with gray eyes. In addition,” he continued in a milder tone, “though I must say I feel a sincere pity for Kenneth, for unrequited love is painful in the extreme, it is—well, one might almost say, ludicrous— for a man to attempt to change his character—his personality—even his life—to suit the expectations of another. Gillian, my dearest girl, you must put aside your guilt, for, if there is blame to be laid in Kenneth’s tragedy, it must be at his own door.”
She merely stared at him as though he were speaking in a foreign language. He tried again.
“You know,” he said slowly, “Kenneth’s situation was not unique. In the Peninsula, I knew many a fine young lad who had joined up to impress a young lady. Sometimes the stratagem worked beautifully, but in most cases it turned out to be a bad idea. Young Monkton, for example, cut quite a dash, and served honorably, all for the girl he left behind. He used to read parts of her letters aloud. She was most impressed with his shiny brass buttons and his shako and all the rest. However, four months after he arrived in Spain, he received a letter saying she was betrothed to the son of a neighboring squire. Apparently, a swain in hand was better than another fighting in a distant land. Poor Monkton moped about the camp like a miser bereft of his hoard. For some time we feared he might put a period to his existence. It was not long, however, before a pretty young senorita caught his eye—and a few weeks after that, he had difficulty recalling the name of the girl back home.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Cord,” snapped Gillian, “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but Kenneth was not like that. He wasn’t a shallow young chub—he was wise and good and steadfast.”
“So are many dogs, but one does not fall in love with one’s St. Bernard.”
Gillian jumped up from her seat on the boulder. “I thank you for your assessment of my behavior—and of Kenneth’s character. I cannot believe you would be so unfeeling. I had hoped you would understand, but you persist in applying your arrogant, masculine standards to a situation you obviously cannot understand.” She whirled and strode to where Falstaff munched placidly. “If you will excuse me, I have duties that require my attention.”
She awaited with obvious anger his necessary assistance in remounting. Cursing himself. Cord hastened to her side.
“Gillian, listen to me,” he growled. “I am truly sorry for what happened—to Kenneth, of course, but mostly to you. You have flayed yourself raw, blaming yourself for something that simply was not your fault. You have withdrawn yourself from life. You have no doubt proved yourself invaluable to your aunt and uncle, but in living with them here in the back of beyond, you have dug yourself a hole into which you plunged yourself and pulled it in after you. I cannot help but find your situation a tragic waste.”
He gazed at her, creating an anger in his own eyes to match her own. He knew that were he to reveal the pity that roiled within him, her attitude would soften. He realized, however, that this would allow her to fall back into her slough of self-inflicted despair.
“You are still a young woman, Gillian—young and beautiful and vibrant. You deserve a better fate than entombment with a man whose love you could not return.” His voice softened. “You deserve to live, my love. You deserve happiness and the right to forge your own path. Perhaps I was wrong in my perception of your feeling for me. I will not importune you to marry me, for I cannot make you love me—any more than Kenneth could. I can only urge you—with all the love I bear for you—to throw off the chains you have worn for so long. Come out of the long winter of your isolation from the world. It is spring, Gillian! A time for hope and renewal. You must—”
He stopped abruptly, aware that he was beginning to sound like a religious tract. He glanced at Gillian. She was not so much as looking at him. She had lifted her hands to the pommel of her saddle, and one knee was raised expectantly. It was as though she had not heard him. Resigned, he cupped his hand for her foot.
Once in the saddle, she wheeled about and cantered off. Cord, atop Zeus, followed. They did not speak on the journey back to the cottage.
By the time they arrived at their destination, Gillian was as exhausted as though she had spent two days on a forced march. She held herself rigid in her saddle, for she felt that at the slightest jar she might simply fly apart in great, jagged shards. Inside, she was a mass of whirling, conflicting emotions. Uppermost in her mind was Cord’s astonishing, appalling response to the words she had spoken. She had revealed a secret she had kept buried for four years. She had opened herself to him as she had not done to another living soul. She supposed that it was too much to expect any degree of understanding from him. In fact, she had expected anger—perhaps even denunciation—but his matter-of-fact attitude to what she had done was incomprehensible.
He thought her anguish absurd—unnecessary! He even put the blame on Kenneth! Impossible as it seemed. Cord was angry, not at her indefensible behavior, but at her attempts to deal with the responsibility for destroying another human being. True, Cord had made a career out of avoiding his own responsibilities, but she had thought him changed. Even so, her sin far outweighed a life spent in the pursuit of pleasure. Why could he not understand her anguish? Why could he not understand her reasons for rebuffing his declaration of love?
His declaration of love!
Gillian became abruptly aware that through her private hell, sizzling spurts of happiness had been surfacing for some moments—like bubbles through a stew from a fire beneath. She drew a long, shaking breath, and sent Cord a sidelong glance.
He loved her! He really loved her! He had offered her not the tawdry ribbons of a brief liaison, but the silken ties of a lifelong commitment. He wanted to marry her! She should be displeased that her efforts to dissuade him had been for naught, for she did not want him to love her, after all. He deserved a woman who could love him fully in return, and she was so terribly flawed that . . .
For a moment, she allowed herself to envision marriage to Cord. She imagined the children they could make together—the years spent in maturing together, sharing life’s joys and sorrows.
No. It could not be, and she might as well—
Her thoughts were abruptly shattered as she became aware they were approaching the cottage.
“What the devil—?” blurted Cord abruptly, and she followed his gaze to observe a large carriage pulled up before the front door. Even from this distance she could make out the crest emblazoned on its door.
“Oh, my God!” groaned Cord in increasing discomfiture. “They found me.”
Gillian whirled to face him. “Who? Who is it. Cord? What are—” She stopped abruptly as comprehension dawned. “Oh, no—don’t tell me. Is it—?”
“Yes,” replied Cord in a voice of deepest doom. “It’s my Aunt Binsted.”
Chapter Twenty
Cord swore at some length. At least Gillian assumed that’s what he was doing, for he kept the main theme of his remarks under his breath. “How do you suppose she found you?” she breathed.
Cord sighed gustily. “One would gather the gods are mightily peeved with me.”
“But what is she doing here? At the cottage?”
“I suppose—” began Cord, only to interrupt himself with an infuriated, “Oh, my God!”
The object of this new burst of fury became apparent as the front door was flung open and a small, but vocal group of persons catapulted themselves onto the drive.
“Cord!” cried the first of these. Cord’s Aunt Binsted, Gillian presumed.
Following her was a stout gentleman of florid complexion and behind him, a tall, slender young man whose raiment proclaimed him a Tulip of the first stare. Accompanying him was a willowy female, fluttering her hands in some distress. Bringing up the rear was a short, stocky man, dressed in a voluminous frieze coat, beneath which peeped a waistcoat of a rather virulent red.
Good God, thought Cord in growing fury. A Bow Street Runner?
The marchioness, appearing to have recovered her dignity, halted. Drawing herself up, she waited for her nephew to dismount and approach her.
It needed only this, thought Cord, to set the seal on one of the most wretched afternoons of his life. He had feared his aunt would catch up to him eventually, but why now? He desperately needed to continue his conversation with Gillian. He could not let her turn away from him in such anger. Now, with his family massing on the horizon, he would not likely get a moment alone with her for hours—if at all.
Wearily, Cord strode toward the little group. Lady Binsted, abandoning her temporary reticence, surged forward. “Cord!” she exclaimed again. “Your people at the manor told us you were here. You wretch! How could you do this? We feared you dead! You left us all in the most appalling bumble broth! And poor Corisande! And all the while you’ve been here in this snug little bolt-hole, whiling away your time with—” Here she sent a disdainful glance to Gillian, who had accepted Cord’s assistance in dismounting and now approached Lady Binsted with a friendly smile.
At this, however, she halted, dropping her outstretched hand. Cord knew an urge to grasp his relative and shake her till her elegant coiffure tumbled across that patrician nose. “Aunt,” he said frigidly, “allow me to present Miss Gillian Tate. She is—”
“Yes, I know.” The marchioness waved a petulant hand. “I have already met—Oh, here they are.”
She turned to acknowledge the presence of Sir Henry and Mrs. Ferris, who had by now come out to join the group in front of the house. Sir Henry stepped up to stand nose to nose with Cord.
“Cord, who the devil are these people? They claim to be related to you, but I never saw such a gaggle of bacon-brained jaw-me-deads. If you—”
At this point. Aunt Louisa intruded. “Yes, yes, we must sort this out, but may I suggest we return to the parlor? We can’t stand out her brangling like village wives at market.”
Wheeling about, she herded her recalcitrant guests back into the house, and, once having settled them in the parlor, she rang for tea, her panacea for any ill— physical, emotional, or social.
“Now then,” she continued when order was restored. She spoke to Cord. “Lady, er, Binsted and her husband—and the rest—appeared here about half an hour ago, demanding to know—if you would believe—where we were hiding you!”
This statement brought a fresh outburst from the marchioness, her husband, Wilfred and the Runner. Corisande, as she had since the beginning of this imbroglio, remained silent.
Cord raised a hand. “Will you all please be still for a moment?” He spoke quietly, but in a tone Gillian had never heard him use. Neither, apparently, had Lady Binsted, for she turned to her nephew with a look of surprise.
“Yes, of course. Cord,” responded Aunt Louisa. “You will wish to speak with your family in private.” She nudged her brother. “Henry and I will just—”
At her words, Gillian, too, made as though to leave the room, but Cord interrupted. “No, please. Stay here, if you would—Sir Henry and Aunt Louisa—and most especially, Gillian. You are almost my second family, and I would have you hear what I have to say. Now then,” he continued, his gaze encompassing the intruders, “first of all, I am aware I owe you”—he looked at Corisande—”all of you—an apology.”
“Apology!” snarled Wilfred. “You ought to be horsewhipped.”
Cord sent him a startled glance, but made no response. Instead, he turned again to Corisande, who flushed and dropped her gaze. He said then to Lady Binsted, “I am sorry you were put to the trouble of tracking me down here—or rather,” he said, staring for a moment at the Bow Street Runner, “hiring someone else to do so.”
“Hamish McSorley at yer service, yer lordship,” declared the Runner, stepping forward officiously.
“For,” said Cord, continuing as though the man had not spoken, “I plan to return to London within the next day or two.”
“ ‘The next day or two!’ “ screeched the marchioness. “Cord, you will pack your bags and come with us this instant. Your behavior has been intolerable, and I will not—”
She halted abruptly as her nephew bent on her a look of such chill virulence that she quailed.
“As I said,” he continued quietly after a moment, “I shall be returning to London, but merely long enough to close Cordray House.”
“ ‘Close Cordray House!’“ echoed Lady Binsted again, this time in a faint voice.
“Yes, for I plan to take up residence at The Park for the foreseeable future. There is much to be done there— matters I have neglected for too long.”
For once, his aunt was silenced, but Wilfred spoke up again.
“And you have nothing to say to Corisande?” he asked, his face pale.
Cord drew a deep breath. “Yes, I do.” He moved to Corisande, who stood to one side, pale but composed. “If I might have a word with you alone, my dear?”
He turned to lead her out of the parlor, but to his astonishment, she resisted his gesture.
“No,” she said calmly, adding a moment later in an apparent non sequitur, “there has been a change in your brother’s status.”
“What?” asked Cord blankly, echoed by Lady Binsted and the marquess.
“Yes,” declared Wilfred, smirking slightly. “You shall find my name on the next honors list.”
“What?” The question echoed around the room again, this time shaded with a marked astonishment.
“Yes, due to certain, er, delicate favors I have performed for the Regent, His Highness has seen fit to recommend me for a barony. In the future,” he added, the smirk more pronounced, “you may address me as Lord Culver. And,” he continued, his face becoming quite pink with satisfaction, “very soon, you may address Corisande as Lady Culver.”
As one, the group swiveled to face Corisande. They did not say, “What?” again, but the word swirled almost visibly in the air like a startled bird.