Edith Layton (12 page)

He must have remembered that. “I’ll be back,” he
said. “Never doubt it. I’m a man of my word. I live by it. And I will live. I promise.”

After their journey back to London, Rafe and Drum sat in Rafe’s study and shared a glass, a toast to Rafe’s future.

“She’s a fine woman. You do better than you know, I think,” Drum said as he put down his glass, “but not better than you deserve. I’ll leave you now. We can meet for dinner or luncheon or whatever you wish. Just send me word. If not, I’ll see you on the trip back to Tidbury—unless you need me before that?”

“Thank you,” Rafe said. “I can’t ask more. I’m sorry I took up so much of your time as it is. I’m sure you had more important things to do.”

“Actually,” Drum said with a faint smile, “I had not.”

Rafe looked at him curiously. “I’ve known you these many years. I just realized that the more I think I know about you, the less I really do. You’re a secretive fellow for all your outgoing ways. No wonder you were such a good agent for His Majesty. Your comings and goings were always a mystery to me—and why you remain my friend, even more of one.”

Drum laughed. “Why? You say you’re a simple man, Rafe, but you always find yourself in the midst of the most interesting situations. Beyond that? You’re a good friend and a true one, and a man of rare good sense. As for things you don’t know—I’d
list how valuable you are to your friends as foremost among them. I’ll stop giving you reasons now because I’ve got too many things to do and can’t spend hours listing them. Give you good day, my friend. I’ll be here at the appointed hour.”

Rafe saw him out. He went back into his study to write notes. First the letter to his family. He’d already written to tell them of the coming wedding, but now he needed to take care of the specifics. Brenna’s mama had written to invite them to stay with her. But now he could let them know he could arrange for rooms at the inn if they preferred.

He got a sniff of his sleeve as he picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. A bath, definitely, a bath after all his hard riding. First, though, a note for Peck, due home any hour. Because he might not be there when Peck got back, and didn’t want the old fellow shocked to bits by all the new staff that had invaded the house. After his bath, Rafe decided, he’d have to be off to a jeweler to get Bren a bride present, and a ring. Then a trip to his tailor for a suit of clothes to suit a new groom.

Then dinner. And early to bed, at last. Because he had dozens of other errands to run before he was ready to ride back to Tidbury. As well as decisions to make. Would they come here after their honeymoon, or go to his parents’ estate, or to his own country estate? Speaking of honeymoons…there was none arranged. Where to go? Not abroad; they’d discussed that. They were both weary of foreign travel and sea voyages for a while.

She’d left the decision to him. Harrogate? Too
stodgy. Perhaps Bath? Bren would like that. Or maybe the Lake District? No, autumn was drawing in; it would be too cold…But then he’d have to warm her, wouldn’t he? Rafe mused, with a smile. The Lake District sounded fine to him. He’d have to find a booking agent.

Rafe was walking down Bond Street, almost sauntering. He was pleased with the ruby and diamond necklace he’d got Bren, thinking how it would suit that long white neck, that ebony hair, when he heard his name called. He looked up. And stopped still.

“Lud!” a familiar voice filled with teasing laughter exclaimed, “I didn’t think you’d cut me dead, sir. But you almost did. I was shocked—until I realized you wouldn’t have noticed a wild horse charging at you. Good afternoon, Lord Dalton,” Annabelle said, dipping a pretty curtsy. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you anywhere lately.”

He stared at her. She was hard to look at, she shone so brightly in the sunlight. She was literally dazzling in her perfection today. All in white, she wore a silvery shawl over her gown; a matching bonnet was decorated with a large and showy white blossom over one ear. It suited her dark curls; they feathered around her forehead, showing her alabaster skin and prettily blushed cheeks, making her eyes bluer. Those eyes were regarding him with fond amusement.

“I’ve been out of London,” he said haltingly. “But I didn’t think you’d notice, or care.”

“Oh, notice, certainly,” she laughed, “but care? That’s not for a lady to say to a gentleman. I was just remarking on your absence the other day, wasn’t I, Marie?” she asked the maidservant who stood next to her. “I’m delighted to have almost literally run into you, my lord,” she added teasingly. “It will save me sending you an invitation. I’m having a grand soiree at my house, a ball, in point of fact. It’s in three weeks, but I wanted to make sure you’ll be there.”

Rafe frowned. She was charming, she was friendly. Why? Was it some kind of revenge she’d got up for him? It couldn’t be anything else. He didn’t like such games; in any event, he couldn’t play one now. He’d lost her; he’d resolved to live with it. If he didn’t look at her too long, he could. He bowed. “I thank you, my lady, but I won’t be able to attend. I’ll be getting married, or at least on my honeymoon by then.”

All the laughter left her face, along with the light in it. The faint color drained from her cheeks. Her eyes widened; she swayed on her feet. Rafe sprang forward and seized her, holding her upright. She was tiny, he realized as he held her close, fragile and small boned; it was her personality that made her appear more substantial. And she was still redolent of roses, as he remembered.

Her maid fluttered ineffectively. Annabelle’s eyes were closed; she took deep but ragged breaths. Rafe looked around, wondering if he’d have to carry her somewhere to recover. Passersby were stopping and staring at them. He felt her body grow rigid under his hands. He let go of her instantly, afraid his blun
dering attempt at comfort might cause her more harm. He stepped back. She stood on her own and stared at him, her eyes enormous.

Her head went up. “Your pardon,” she said in a shaky voice, “but I’m surprised. It is not the habit of gentlemen to court one woman while engaged to another. At least, I thought it wasn’t.”

“I wasn’t engaged when I was in London,” he said. And then, bluntly, because he couldn’t find the words to frame it, he added, “And you said you never wanted to see me again.”

She frowned.

“That day I last called,” he said, “you said you didn’t want to see me then, nor ‘tomorrow or tomorrow or tomorrow.’”

She frowned in incomprehension.

“Your butler told me.” He waited for her answer.

She didn’t have one. But she had to speak. Through the corners of her eyes she could see well-dressed passersby looking at her. Everyone could see her disgrace, everyone could watch her being discarded now, Annabelle thought in horror. She clasped her hands, trying to collect herself, thinking as fast as she could with her mind all awhirl.

Had she said that? she thought, aghast. Had she actually quoted Shakespeare to say such a rude thing to a gentleman whose only sin was in having to leave Town? She’d refused to admit him that day, she remembered. But she’d merely wanted to punish him for that nonsense with that slut, and that old, gossipy Baron Barlow was there listening, positively salivating at the scent of gossip and she…

Now she remembered,
and felt a cold chill. Her stomach twisted, her cheeks grew hot.
She had said that.

But she’d been angry with him then. She did that kind of thing when she was vexed. She’d forgotten it a minute after it was done. She always begged forgiveness for her rash behavior once time passed. She would have this time too—when she saw him again. Then she’d have remembered the incident, if not the exact wording of it. She would have run into him again, at a party, the theater, in the street, as now, and explained, apologized, laughed him out of any resentment of it. But he’d been gone almost a month and she hadn’t had a chance.

She’d missed him. Missed his straightforward speaking, his odd sense of humor, his utter devotion to her too. She couldn’t tell him that. She damned the moment she’d told her butler to tell him the other. She didn’t love him. But now she’d never know if she could. She was alone again, abandoned again, deserted for another woman again—and by him! By her second choice. This plain, blunt, simple man who had adored her. And no longer did.

Annabelle felt easy tears rush to her eyes. She grew angry so she wouldn’t give in to self-pity and let the tears flow.
How dare he?
She didn’t know why she’d even entertained his suit, she thought—though she knew, and grew angrier because of it. She felt sick and guilty and furious with herself and him. He’d dealt her a terrible blow. She struck back.

“‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow’?” she forced herself to ask quizzically. “My word! I’m hardly so poetic.”

“But your butler said—”

“And you believed him?” she asked, widening her eyes.

Now it was he who stood shocked. “You didn’t?”

“Oh, my dear sir,” she laughed, her hand on her heart, “would I want anyone to think I’m a bluestocking? It’s that rascally butler of ours, depend on it. His every off night is spent at a playhouse. Such a dramatic fellow—the post arrives and he announces it like a war! No wonder you jumped to such a conclusion. I wondered where you’d got to. Now I understand. Too late, I see. Oh!” Her smile faded. “How rude of me. Who is the lady you’ve turned to—I mean, the lady you’ve honored with your attentions—if I may ask?”

“I am to marry Miss Ford,” he said coldly, his face expressionless. Some strong emotion was behind his words. He gave her a jerky bow. “So I’ll have to miss your soiree. Good afternoon, my lady.”

She watched him walk away. He stalked down the street, his long stride as distinctive as that ridiculous copper-colored hair. Her anger was already turning to guilt. She wanted to call him back, to explain. She raised a gloved hand—and lowered it. She couldn’t. Because it was a terrible thing to have said to him, however she came to it, and besides, it was too late. And she’d had enough pain.

“My goodness!” she remarked to her maid in a high, artificial voice. “What a scrap of gossip, to be sure. He’s marrying the creature. What a clever piece she must be.”

I
nstinct took Rafe home. He couldn’t watch his step or notice his direction; his heart and mind were in turmoil. He walked past his footman and butler and wordlessly went straight to his study, closed the door behind him, and sat at his desk with his head in his hands.

She hadn’t rejected him.

But he was committed.

She’d been hurt by him. She’d cared for him, after all. She’d almost fainted when she’d heard his news. He remembered how she’d felt in his arms, so light and delicate, warm and womanly. She’d been as close to him as he’d dreamed she’d someday be. But never how he’d hoped it would be. He felt like he’d stepped on something small and fragile. He’d only wanted to protect her. But he’d wounded her.

He felt as though he suffered a wound himself.
His stomach churned; it was hollow and cold. He felt like a fool and a villain. It was only justice. He’d hurt her, twice. The first time when she’d seen another woman, a strange half-dressed woman, looking so at home in his house. The second time just now, when he’d told her he’d chosen that other woman as his wife. He’d lost Annabelle twice too. Once by stupidly believing an exaggeration on the part of a servant. Again when he’d acted on it. He closed his eyes, but saw only the same truth. He couldn’t make it up to her because now he was pledged elsewhere.

To Brenna.

Rafe thought of inky hair and perfume that set his senses reeling. Of a sweet face and a melodious voice. Of laughter, and longing, about what he’d promised and what he needed. And then, as always, foremost, about other people’s needs, which always must come before his own.

What was it he’d said not so long ago? An honorable man didn’t fool with a woman and then break it off when another more desirable female swam into view? He’d spoken too soon about something he didn’t understand. Because here was a situation in which he’d done that, all unknowing, and whatever he did now, someone would be hurt. Whatever he did do, he couldn’t compound his error by repeating it.

He tried to reason coldly and clearly, as he had other times when his life had been at stake. Even if she hadn’t so crassly dismissed him, Annabelle had been by no means his. He knew that very well. He lacked the looks and charm she’d sought in a husband before. She had dozens of suitors to heal her
heart—a heart that might never have been given into his care. Brenna had no suitor but him. She had a family he respected. He genuinely liked her; she seemed to like him. She was a strong-minded woman; he doubted he’d have been able to persuade her if her emotions hadn’t been even a little involved. And when she brought those emotions into play, she made his head spin.

He’d given his word
.

He raised his head at last and knew what he must do. He’d known from the first. All the rest was rationale. He was a man of his word, and that word, once given, was his bond. That was that, and there it was. There was little sense in dwelling on it; there was time enough for regrets.

It was over; it was time to begin. He couldn’t grieve. Or at least, he refused to. He would go on with it; he’d make the best of it. There really was nothing else he could do. He pinched the bridge of his nose and absently reached for the stack of messages on his desk, a pile that had grown tall during his absence from London. Work was always his solace and his weapon against despair. He unfolded the top letter, the last delivered, and scanned it, his mind half on the words and half on his decision. He read it. Once. And then again, as his mind and eyes focused.

He crumpled the paper in one hard fist. Then he laid it on the desktop and smoothed it, so he could read it again.

Rafe’s fists and stomach knotted. Another of his mama’s many fleeting ailments that beset her when she didn’t care to stir herself. Or another charade of one. It hardly mattered. His father, as always, sounded as amused as annoyed with it. They were not coming, in any event. Not coming to their own son’s wedding. He tried to excuse it. It was, after all, late notice. It was far.
It was their own son’s wedding
. He grimaced, wondering how he’d explain it to Brenna and her family and how they’d feel about it, so that he wouldn’t concentrate on his own feelings.

Those feelings were disappointment, pain, and the old sour ache of helpless regret. Nothing new, he thought as he reached for the next letter and raised it as if it weighed a ton, nothing new in any of this, actually.

Outriders rode the gentlemen’s two horses behind their coach; the gentlemen’s valets rode up with the coachman. Rafe and Drum sat inside. An unusual, uneasy silence lay between the two friends. For once, it was Drum whose fingers were tapping, who sat straight as a ramrod, whose whole lean frame
seemed to thrum with unexpressed energy. Rafe sat looking out the window.

“Out with it,” Rafe finally said to the reflection in the window. He turned his head to look at his friend straight on. “You haven’t said three words together since we left London. That’s not like you. We haven’t spoken since we parted company over a week past. I know you’ve been out and about the town. You must have had some adventures, and you can easily talk the knot off a log when you’ve a notion. You don’t. Why?”

Drum looked even more uneasy. Rafe remembered, for the first time in a very long time, that he was the older by a few years. It had never been noticeable. Drum had been sent ahead in school, but fit in with the older boys because his intelligence as well as his worldly cynicism had been marked even at that early age. That long, lean face and lanky frame had helped make him seem an equal. But now he looked young and strangely vulnerable. His face was stripped of the usual calm, ironic amusement with which he viewed the world.

“All right,” Drum finally said. “I heard something in Town.” He spoke quickly, watching Rafe closely. “It surprised me. More, for the first time in a long time, I was shocked. I discount gossip or at least half of it. Still, I can’t help feeling the half I allowed might be true—if only because I heard it from so many sources. And it’s bad. We’re on our way to your wedding to Brenna Ford. Yet I heard you were seen embracing Lady Annabelle in public, in plain daylight, on Bond Street, just the other day.”

Rafe frowned. Then laughed, harshly. “Aye, it’s true.”

Drum cocked his head. “No, that’s not the whole of it, is it?”

“No,” Rafe said, “not half. It’s worse than that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, but I will,” Rafe said.

“I’ve always attributed the highest, most honorable standards to you,” Drum added, his eyes nakedly troubled now. “It’s not fair to burden another man with your own conscience, I know. But I’ve always seen you as a man of absolute morality and rare judgment. Before God, Rafe, I can’t see you as an adulterer, a cheat or liar. You may not have lain with the lady while promised to another, but this is very bad, even so.”

“So it would seem,” Rafe said. “But bad as it is, it’s not what it seems.”

Drum let out a breath. Rafe could see the expression in that long face lighten. “Yes, of course. Care to tell me?”

“Simple, too simple,” Rafe said. “I met her in the street. Rather, she roused me from my thoughts by greeting me as though she’d never turned me away in the first place. That surprised me. She twitted me for not having called on her, then immediately asked me to some ball she was going to hold at her house. She was all teasing, dimples and light. I was off balance. I couldn’t understand her change of heart. I didn’t believe it either. I thought it was some cruelty to pay me back for the gossip about Bren. So I just
told her straight off that I couldn’t come because I was to be married that week. She was shocked.”

“I can imagine,” Drum drawled.

“No, more than that, by God, Drum, she was going to faint. Went white as a sheet and lost her balance. I sprang to her assistance. I had to hold her upright.” He paused. “Likely that’s what was seen. I grant, it may have looked otherwise—no, damme! It couldn’t! What sort of an oaf would grab a female in the street and snatch her up in an embrace?”

“An ardent lover,” Drum said. “A man half out of his mind with love and thwarted lust.”

“No!” Rafe said, his eyes widening.

“Yes, I’m afraid they’re saying that,” Drum said sympathetically, “And I fear, I do most sincerely fear, that it’s the lady herself who’s doing most of the saying.”

“To save face,” Rafe said dully, nodding. “It does make sense.”

“It’s damnable, Rafe,” Drum said angrily. “She may well have been looking to gild her own reputation, but she had no right to make mincemeat of yours.”

“No,” Rafe said, shaking his head, “I’m to blame. I misread everything. She’s young, she’s unworldly, she’s used to getting her way. Then she didn’t—spectacularly, when she lost Damon to Gilly. I pursued her without much hope. I sheared off when it seemed I was right about how she couldn’t possibly want me. Now I have to believe she was actually considering my suit.”

Rafe paused, his face still, but his old friend could
recognize emotions under that calm surface; he saw pity and grief intermingled in those stark blue eyes.

“Can you imagine how she must have felt when I bluntly told her I was lost to her too?” Rafe asked helplessly. “Don’t blame her. I don’t. I think she’s had enough of disappointment. So she spread a tale about me to save face. What of it? She acted in haste and regrets at her leisure.”

“And you?” Drum asked quietly. “Shall you do the same?”

Rafe’s head went up. He fixed Drum with a killing stare. Then his shoulders relaxed. “No,” he said, “never think it. I’m going to marry Brenna. And that’s what will be. I don’t look back.”

“It’s not too late,” Drum said. “Don’t compound a mistake. If your heart’s in Annabelle’s pocket, don’t give your hand to Brenna Ford. That way, two—no, three—of you will repent at leisure.”

“So knowledgeable about love, are you?” Rafe asked with unusual sarcasm.

“No, to the contrary. I know nothing of it except what I’ve seen. But I’ve seen more tragedies come of it than joy. Which is why I’m presumptuous enough to ask you to consider it carefully.”

“I have. I am. I did. I said I’d marry Brenna. I will. Now,” Rafe said, rising and thumping on the carriage roof with his fist, “this riding like a gent is fine, but not for me. I’m going out to ride. I’ll take Blaze over now and give him real exercise. Myself as well. And you?”

“Oh. Yes, it’s a fine day,” Drum said, because he knew Rafe well, and knew the conversation was
over, even if the questions hadn’t been answered. He wouldn’t ask more because he didn’t know if he really wanted those answers now. Or even if there were any real answers at all.

Brenna’s mama looked at the gown Brenna was trying on for her trousseau. It was rosy as sunrise, with white sleeves. It fit perfectly, made Brenna’s skin glow, setting off her ink black hair beautifully. “Wonderful,” she told her daughter in satisfaction. “That’s the last of them. Now we have everything but the groom.”

She heard her own words in the silence that followed them.

“But what about the flowers?” she hastily added. “From the garden, the wood, or the hothouse, do you think? Asters? Gardenias? Or roses? Roses, I think, don’t you? The weather’s so mild I think we can count on lovely roses even this late.”

“And we can count on Rafe,” Brenna said firmly. “He said he’d be here, and he will be. Mama, don’t worry. He’s a very good man. He’ll be here, and this wedding will be. I think it really will be third time lucky for me. Because I’m older than I was with poor Thomas. And I care for Rafe in so many ways that I didn’t for Spencer. This time I know my mind, my heart, and even my body.”

“Brenna!” her mama said.

Brenna grinned. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I forgot you don’t know about such things.”

Her mama laughed. “It’s only that I always forget
it’s time you did, my dear.” She wore a smile, but her gaze was serious and searching. She hesitated. Brenna breathed a small, sad sigh. With all they’d discussed, there was one subject they hadn’t touched on since Thomas died. Mama, like everyone else she knew, probably wondered how far she and Thomas had gone to pledge their so obvious love for each other. There was nothing she could or would say about it now, as then. Her memories of Tom were her own.

But her mama surprised her. She took her hands. “It’s not a betrayal, Brenna. What you and Rafe will share is part of marriage. You deserve to enjoy that part of it. Tom would have thought so too. Rafe’s a good man. I like him, Eric swears by him, your father’s thrilled. But the fact that you desire him—
that
makes me happy. Desire and the fulfillment of it is a very good thing in marriage. More than that. It can bring you two together heart and mind, and heal many a foolish argument or silly mistake. It’s a solace and a comfort in times of trouble, as well as being such a source of joy. I’m sorry for women who have to do without it, and so glad you’ve found it with Rafe.”

“Well, no, I haven’t found all of it—not yet,” Brenna said. “But don’t worry, it’s a thing I look forward to.”

“Good!”

“Mama!” Brenna said, pretending shock to make her mother blush.

But it made her happy too. In fact, she thought after her mama left the room, it was a thing she
found difficult not to think about. Rafe wasn’t the most handsome man she’d ever seen. His face, when all was said, was as simple and straightforward as he was. He had even features, strong white teeth, and clear blue eyes, but there was nothing to make maidens sigh in it. He made her sigh, though. His body was strong and straight, well muscled and lean; he dressed it for function, in clean, neat clothing. Everything about him was economical. His conversation too. He was a man’s man.
And this lucky woman’s man,
she thought.

In spite of what she’d told her mama, she sometimes had a hard time believing in that luck. There were times since he’d left, in the nights, and on the days when she went to the village and saw all the speculative looks she got, when she wondered if he really was coming back. Or if Fate or some bizarre twist of Fortune would keep her groom from her at the last, as had happened to her before.