Dark Angel / Lord Carew's Bride (46 page)

How could she even fear that she still loved him? But if it was not love, what was it that bound her to him despite the horror she felt at being so bound?

“You are very quiet, Miss Newman,” he said at last, bringing her attention back to the conversation. “Do you find me impossible to forgive? I could hardly blame you if you do.”

Good manners dictated that she give him the answer he wanted. But she felt again the fury that had rescued her the evening before. He was playing with them, manipulating them. For what reason, she did not know. Perhaps for simple amusement.

Or perhaps he was sincere.

“Perhaps not impossible, my lord,” she said carefully.

He got to his feet. “It is time I took my leave,” he said, bowing to them again. He looked at Samantha. “I shall study to win your forgiveness before the Season is out, Miss Newman.”

It had been
Samantha
the evening before, when Aunt
Aggy had not been within hearing distance, she remembered. She nodded her head curtly.

“Would you do me the honor of walking to the door with me?” he asked.

Samantha’s eyes flew to her aunt. But Lady Brill merely raised her eyebrows and shrugged almost imperceptibly. Samantha was no girl, and he had not asked for a private visit with her, after all.

She preceded him from the room but took his offered arm to walk downstairs. Although it was higher above her own, it was not so very different from Mr. Wade’s arm, she thought. It did not feel any stronger or any more firmly muscled despite the overall splendor of his physique.

“I know how difficult you find it to forgive me,” he said quietly. “You have more to forgive me for than Lady Brill, and more than she knows of. But I will win your trust.”

Perhaps he was sincere. How did one know if a man was sincere? She had not known this man for six years. It was a long time.

“I loved you even then,” he said. “But it was hopeless. You too would have been ruined in the scandal, and I would have died sooner than ruin you. I still would. I never forgot you. I came home because I could no longer live without … Well, I do not want to sound like a bad melodrama.”

But he did. How did one know if a man was sincere? Perhaps the way he remembered—or distorted—the past was a key. He had
not
loved her. And the scandal had
not yet touched him when he had spurned her. If he would have died rather than ruin her, would he not have died rather than viciously humiliate and hurt her?

She did not know what his game was. But game it was.

“I came home, you know,” he said, “because it is time I took a countess. And I wanted an English countess. An English rose—one more beautiful than any other.” He took her hand from his arm and raised it to his lips without removing his eyes from hers. “Will you drive with me in the park tomorrow afternoon?”

“I have a prior appointment,” she said.

“Tell me the man’s name,” he said, “so that I may slap a glove in his face.” His eyes were burning into hers again.

He
was
still a snake. This was too polished a performance to be real. And not a pleasant performance.

“He is a man I like and admire,” she said. “I would drive with him any day he asked, my lord. He is also a man I trust.”

He sighed and released her hand. “And you do not trust me,” he said. “I cannot blame you. But that will change. My honor on it.”

She almost laughed and asked him the obvious question—
What honor?
But she could feel no amusement, and she did not want to prolong their conversation.

He made her an elegant bow and took his leave.

Aunt Aggy was still in her sitting room.

“Well,” she said when Samantha returned there. “I
have never seen such a transformation in my life. He has become a thoroughly amiable young man.”

“Are you sure, Aunt?” Samantha asked her. “It was not all artifice? He was not laughing at us?”

“But to what purpose?” Her aunt’s eyebrows shot up again. “It must have been extremely difficult, Samantha, for him to come here and say what he did. I honor his courage.”

“He wanted me to drive with him tomorrow,” Samantha said. “I was very glad that I am to drive with Francis.”

“I believe,” Lady Brill said, smiling archly, “he is smitten with you, Samantha. And it would hardly be surprising. You are as lovely now as when you made your come-out. Lovelier. You have a self-assurance now that is quite becoming.”

Samantha did not feel self-assured. Not any longer. Not now that he had come back.

“He was very complimentary,” she said. “But I could not think him sincere, Aunt.”

Lady Brill clucked her tongue. “I begin to despair of ever persuading you to step up to the altar with a presentable gentleman,” she said. “But we must not stand here arguing. Poor Sophie will be despairing of our coming.”

“Will you mind a great deal if I stay at home?” Samantha asked. She smiled. “The two of you can have a more comfortable coze if I am not there, anyway.”

“What utter nonsense,” her aunt said, but she made no attempt to persuade Samantha to accompany her after all.

It was a relief to be alone again, Samantha thought, retiring to her own room and sitting down at her escritoire to write a letter to Jenny. But no matter how many times she dipped her quill pen in the inkwell, she could not make a start on the letter beyond writing “My dear Jenny.”

What would Jenny and Gabriel say if they were in town this year and knew what had happened in the last two days? She could almost imagine their horror. Imagining it helped. It helped her see that renewing an acquaintance with Lionel just would not do. They would not be fooled, as Aunt Aggy had been fooled, into thinking that he truly regretted the past. If he did regret it, surely he would pay her the courtesy of remaining out of her life.

She was four-and-twenty years old, she reminded herself. She prided herself on her maturity and her worldly wisdom. After six years of being “out,” she believed she knew a great deal about human nature in general and about gentlemen in particular. For several years she had felt very much in charge of her own life and emotions.

Was she to revert now to the naiveté of her eighteen-year-old self? She had been able to excuse her own gullibility then because she had known no better. She had been in search of love and marriage and had known nothing about either. Would she ever be able to excuse herself for making the same mistake now?

What if he was sincere? But even if he was, it would be
unpardonable to have anything to do with him. What would Jenny and Gabriel think?

She found herself drawing geometric patterns with her pen below the “My dear Jenny” on the page.

He was going to remain in London for the Season. Of that she had little doubt. And he was going to pursue her for that time. For what reason she did not know. Perhaps—there was a slim chance—he was sincere. Or perhaps it merely amused him to discover whether he could do to her again what he had done six years ago.

She was not sure she would be able to endure it.

Part of her was still foolishly fascinated by him, as she had admitted to herself before his visit. Part of her had never been able to let him go and get on with her life. She had thought she had done so. But if she had, why had she never been able to love any other man? Why had she never been able to marry?

He had a hold on her emotions that she neither welcomed nor understood. She could only admit it.

She set her pen down when there was a tap on her door.

“Come in,” she called.

It was the butler again, bearing another card on his tray. Surely he had not come back, she thought. Surely he had not waited until Aunt Aggy left and then returned. She would not put such subterfuge past him. But she certainly would not receive him. The very idea!

She looked down at the card and then picked it up and closed her eyes as she brought her hand unconsciously to her lips.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“I put him in the salon downstairs, miss,” the butler said. “He said only if it was not too much trouble to you.”

Samantha got to her feet. She was smiling.

“It is no trouble at all,” she said, and she brushed past him in the doorway and went running lightly down the stairs. She did not wait for him to come after her to open the door to the salon. She opened it herself and rushed inside with quite undignified eagerness. Her smile had widened.

“You came,” she said, closing the door behind her and leaning back against it. “I wanted so badly last evening to ask when I would see you again, but it seemed presumptuous, and I had said and done so much else that was presumptuous before we said good night. I hope I did not give you a great disgust of me.”

His eyes glowed as he smiled at her and she felt her first real happiness of the day.

“I came,” he said.

H
E HAD ALMOST TALKED HIMSELF OUT OF COMING. In the gloomy light of a rainy day the events of last evening had seemed unreal. But the only alternative to coming was to go home, back to Highmoor, and know that he would never see her again. It was an alternative he could not contemplate.

All the way here his stomach had been tied in knots. He had tried to think of excuses for giving his coachman instructions to take a different direction. It was rather late in the afternoon. She would doubtless be from home. She would have other visitors. He should have written asking permission to call. But he had come, and his coachman had knocked on the door, and he had handed his card to Lady Brill’s butler and asked if it might be taken to Miss Newman and if he might see her—but only if it was no trouble to her to see him.

The butler had looked with well-bred condescension on a babbling Mr. Hartley Wade.

He had paced the small salon with its heavy, rather old-fashioned furniture, wondering if it was too late to escape, hoping that she would send back some excuse not to see him.

And yet the moment the door burst open again and
she hurried inside, closed the door and leaned back against it, and delivered her opening speech far faster and more breathlessly than she usually spoke, his nervousness and uncertainty fled. She was smiling. Her eyes were shining. And he listened to the words she spoke.

The miracle really had happened.

“I came,” he said.

She laughed. “But you have avoided admitting that I gave you a disgust of me,” she said. “I am so ashamed. If I had told Aunt Aggy how I behaved last night, she would have had a fit of the vapors. Do please forgive me.”

“I wish you would not apologize,” he said. “I was not disgusted.” She looked delightfully pretty in sprigged muslin, he thought. She looked like a girl. Though perhaps that was no great compliment. She had all the allure and fascination of a woman.

“You are kind.” Her smile softened. “As always. I am sorry my aunt is from home. But I will ring for tea here if you do not feel it would be too improper a tête-à-tête. We did not care about that at Highmoor, though, did we?”

“I’ll not stay long,” he said, quelling the temptation to be drawn into a mere social half hour, chatting about inconsequential matters. “Please don’t bother with tea.”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed.

“I came to ask you something,” he said. “I suppose I should lead up to it by gradual degrees, but I do not know how. I would rather just ask and hear your reply.”

“I am intrigued,” she said. She was still leaning back
against the door, he noticed, her hands behind her, probably holding the door handle. “But I do hope the question is not that I will drive in the park with you tomorrow afternoon. If so, you will be the third to ask and I accepted the first. But I will be sorry if that is what you want. Perhaps—”

“I wondered,” he said, “if you would marry me.”

Her smile disappeared and she stared at him mutely, her eyes huge, her lips slightly parted.

It had been a disastrous way to ask. Baldly abrupt. Totally lacking in grace or courtliness. He wished he could withdraw the words and try again.

“I could try it on one knee,” he said, smiling, “but I am afraid you might have to help haul me back to my feet again.”

She did not smile. “What?” she said, her voice and her face bewildered.

He swallowed. It was too soon. He should have spent some time courting her first. Or perhaps he had been totally mistaken. But it was too late to retreat now.

“I would like to marry you,” he said. “If you wish to marry me, that is. I know I am not much—” No, he must not apologize for his lack of stature and looks, for his deformed hand and foot. He was as he was. And she had told him she loved him. He had believed her.

Her eyes had focused on him again. “Don’t belittle yourself,” she said quietly, having obviously completed his sentence for herself. “You are wonderful just the way you are. Far more wonderful than any other man of my acquaintance.”

They stared at each other, their eyes roaming each other’s face, no real awkwardness between them.

“I thought never to marry,” she said. “I have not given it serious consideration for a long time.”

“Someone hurt you,” he said gently. It hurt him to know that another man had hurt her—obviously very badly. “But life is not all pain. I would never hurt you. You would be quite safe with me.” They were not the romantic words he had dreamed of saying and had tried to rehearse, but they were the words needed by the moment.

“I know I would,” she said softly. “I always feel wonderfully safe and—and happy when I am with you. Do you with me? I—”

“Yes,” he said. “Always.”

She set her head back against the door and looked at him. “I would not have dreamed of feeling this tempted,” she said.

“But only tempted?” He felt as if he were holding his breath. “Would you like time to consider?”

“Yes,” she said. And then very quickly, she changed her mind. “No. I do not need time. Time only confuses the mind. I will marry you.”

Despite his hopes and his dreams and even his expectations, he was stunned. He stared at her, not sure that he had heard right. But she was coming toward him, and she reached out both her hands when she was close.

“Thank you,” she said, and there were tears shining in her eyes. “Oh, thank you.”