by Mary Balogh
The notion of freedom of choice was often an illusion.
And then a thought struck him and he was surprised it had not occurred to him sooner.
“But I will be close by,” he said, lifting his head and turning to look at her. “I am going to be at Alvesley Park for the Earl and Countess of Redfield’s anniversary. Alvesley is only a few miles from Lindsey Hall. Did you know that?”
“Yes, I did,” she said. “I also knew of the party because Susanna and Peter are going there. I had not realized you were to be there too, though.”
“I will be able to see Lizzie,” he said. “I will be able to spend time with her.”
“Yes, if you wish,” she said, looking steadily back at him.
“If I wish?”
“Your family and friends may wonder at your interest in a mere charity girl from my school,” she said.
“A charity girl?” He frowned. “I will pay double your fee, Miss Martin, if Lizzie is willing to go to your school and is likely to be happy there.”
“I told the duchess that the girl I may take with me is a charity case recommended by Mr. Hatchard,” she said. “I take it you do not wish the truth to be known?”
He stared at her in some anger before turning his head away and closing his eyes. His mother and father, Wilma, Kit’s family, Bewcastle’s family—all would be offended if they discovered that his daughter was at Lindsey Hall while he was at nearby Alvesley. Not to mention Portia Hunt. Gentlemen just did not expose their illegitimate offspring to their very legitimate families and acquaintances.
“And so I must behave as if I am ashamed of the most precious person in my life?” he asked.
It was, of course, a rhetorical question. She did not answer it.
“I will see her there and spend time with her, regardless,” he added. “Yes, it is agreed, then, Miss Martin. Lizzie will go to Lindsey Hall—if she will say yes, of course, and you and she and Miss Thompson will decide among you whether she will then go on to school in Bath.”
“You are not, you know,” she said, “agreeing to her execution, Lord Attingsborough.”
He turned his head to look at her again and laughed softly but without humor.
“You must understand,” he said, “that my heart is breaking.”
Too late he heard the sentimental hyperbole of his words and wondered if they could possibly be true.
“I do,” she said. “Now, I must meet Lizzie again. I must have a talk with her and see if I can persuade her to come to Lindsey Hall to spend a few weeks of the summer with some other girls and me. I do not know for certain how she will answer, but I believe there is more to your daughter than you have been willing to recognize, Lord Attingsborough. You have been blinded by love.”
“A nice irony, that,” he said. “Tomorrow, then? In the afternoon? At the same time as usual?”
“Very well,” she said. “And I will, if I may, bring the dog with me. He is a friendly little thing, and she may like him.”
She was still sitting as before. With her face half in light, half in shadow she looked very appealing. It was hard to remember his first impression of her when she had stepped inside the visitors’ parlor at her school, looking stern and humorless.
“Thank you,” he said. He reached out and covered her hands with one of his own. “You are very generous.”
“And perhaps very foolish,” she said. “How on earth can I offer any sort of an education to someone who cannot see? I have never thought of myself as a wonder worker.”
He had no answer for her. But he curled his fingers about one of her hands and raised it to his lips.
“Even for what you have done and are prepared to do I thank you,” he said. “You have looked upon my daughter not just as an illegitimate child who has the additional disadvantage of being blind, but as a person worthy of a meaningful life. You have persuaded her to run and laugh and shout with glee just like any other child. Now you are prepared to give her a summer of fun that has surely always been beyond her wildest dreams—or mine.”
“I believe,” she said, “that if I were a Papist I would be eligible for sainthood, Lord Attingsborough.”
He loved her dry humor and chuckled softly.
“I believe the music has stopped,” he said, pausing for a moment to listen. “And it was the supper dance. May I escort you to the supper room and fill a plate for you?”
She took her time about answering. Her hand was still in his on his lap, he realized.
“We waltzed together,” she said, “and then left the ballroom together. Perhaps we would create the wrong impression if we sat at supper together too. Perhaps you ought to go and sit with Miss Hunt, Lord Attingsborough. I will remain here for a while. I am not hungry.”
To the devil with Miss Hunt, he almost said aloud. But he stopped himself in time. She had done absolutely nothing to deserve such open disrespect, and indeed it could be said that he had neglected her somewhat this evening. He had danced with her only once.
“You are afraid,” he said, “that people will think I am dallying with you?”
She turned her face, and he could see that she looked suddenly amused.
“I very much doubt anyone would think that,” she said. “But they might very well think that I am angling for you.”
“You belittle yourself,” he said.
“Have you looked at yourself in a glass lately?” she asked him.
“And have you?”
She smiled slowly.
“You are gallant,” she said, “and kind. I am not angling for you, you may be relieved to know.”
He raised her hand to his lips again and then, instead of releasing it, he laced their fingers together and rested their hands on the seat between them. She made no comment and did not try to snatch her hand away.
“If you are not hungry,” he said, “I will sit here with you until the dancing starts again. It is pleasant here.”
“Yes,” she said.
And they sat there for a long time just as they were, without speaking. Almost everyone else must have gone for supper, including the orchestra. Apart from a few stray voices coming from the direction of the balcony, they might have been all alone. The lamplight beamed across the small pond, outlining a few lily pads. A slight breeze caused the fronds of the willow tree to sway before them. The air was cool—and then perhaps a little more than just cool. He felt her shiver.
He released her hand and removed his evening coat—not an easy thing to do when it had been made fashionably form-fitting. He set it about her shoulders and kept his hand there, to hold it in place. With his other hand he took hers again.
Neither of them spoke a word. She made no objection to his arm about her shoulders or her hand in his. Beneath his touch she was neither stiff nor yielding.
He relaxed.
The extraordinary notion occurred to him—not for the first time—that perhaps he was falling ever so slightly in love with Miss Claudia Martin. But it was an absurd idea. He liked her. He respected her. He was grateful to her. There was even a touch of tenderness mingled in with the gratitude because she had shown so much kindness to Lizzie without demonstrating any moral outrage toward him for having begotten an illegitimate child.
He was comfortable with her.
Those feelings did not equate with love.
But there had been last evening.
If she had turned her head, perhaps he would have kissed her again. He was glad she did not—perhaps.
At last he could hear the orchestra tuning their instruments. And once again he thought about Miss Hunt, to whom he was honor-bound to make a marriage offer.
“The dancing will be resuming soon,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, and she got to her feet a moment before he did.
He struggled back into his coat. His valet would probably weep if he could see how his shirt wrinkled beneath it.
He offered his arm and she took it before they walked in the direction of the ballroom. He stopp
ed after they had climbed the steps to the balcony.
“I will come for you tomorrow, then?” he asked her. “At the same time?”
“Yes,” she said, lifting her eyes to his.
He could see them clearly in the light spilling from the ballroom. Wide and intelligent as always, they also looked something else now. Something he could not quite identify. They looked very deep, as if he could fall into them if he chose.
He nodded to her and indicated with one hand that she should precede him into the ballroom. He hung back for a moment or two after she had stepped inside. He hoped no one had noticed how long they had been together.
He would not willingly sully her reputation.
Or willingly humiliate Miss Hunt.
Lily Wyatt, Countess of Kilbourne, sat next to Lauren Butler, Viscountess Ravensberg, at supper, and the two of them engaged in a private conversation while the group with which they sat conversed more loudly with one another.
“Neville told me earlier,” Lily said, “that you have invited Miss Hunt to Alvesley for the anniversary celebrations.”
Lauren pulled a face. “Wilma brought her visiting,” she said, “and dropped hints so broad that even a person with no brain could not have failed to understand. And so I invited her. But it hardly signifies, does it? By then she and Joseph will surely be betrothed. It is no secret, is it, why Uncle Webster summoned him to Bath.”
“You do not like her either?” Lily asked.
“Oh, I do not,” Lauren admitted, “though I would be hard put to it to explain why. She is too—”
“Perfect?” Lily suggested, understanding that Lauren had not overheard Miss Hunt questioning her taste in inviting a mere schoolteacher to share the box at Vauxhall with her betters. “Wilma has been scolding Joseph for allowing her to walk with the Duke of McLeith last evening while he played the gallant to Miss Martin. She is afraid that they fancy each other.”
“Miss Hunt and the duke?” Lauren said, her eyes widening with incredulity. “Surely not. He seems an amiable man.”
“A comment that says volumes,” Lily said. “But I cannot help but share your feelings, Lauren. Miss Hunt reminds me of Wilma but worse. At least Wilma dotes on her boys. I cannot imagine Miss Hunt doting upon anyone, can you? I thought perhaps you and I could—”
But a light had come into Lauren’s eyes and she interrupted.
“Lily,” she said, “you are not plotting to play matchmaker—and matchbreaker, are you? Can I play too?”
“You could invite the duke to Alvesley as well,” Lily said.
“To a family celebration?” Lauren raised her eyebrows. “Would it not seem odd?”
“Use your ingenuity,” Lily suggested.
“Oh, dear, do I have any?” Lauren laughed. But then she brightened. “Christine told me earlier today that Miss Martin is going to Lindsey Hall for part of the summer—Christine’s sister is taking some girls from the school there for a holiday. The Duke of McLeith and Miss Martin grew up in the same house like brother and sister and have just found each other again after years and years of separation. He in particular is very delighted about it, and I daresay she is too. Perhaps I could suggest that he might like to be close to her for a few weeks of the summer before he returns to Scotland and she goes back to Bath.”
“Brilliant,” Lily said. “Oh, do it, Lauren, and then we will see what can be accomplished.”
“This is fiendish,” Lauren said. “And do you know what Susanna believes? She thinks Joseph might be a little sweet on Miss Martin. He has taken her driving several times and has spent time with her at several entertainments, including last evening at Vauxhall. They were waltzing together earlier. Where is he now, do you know? And where is she?”
“It is the most unlikely romance imaginable,” Lily said. But her eyes gleamed. “But oh, goodness, Lauren, she just might be perfect for him. No one else ever has been. Miss Hunt certainly is not.”
“Wilma would turn purple in the face,” Lauren added.
They grinned at each other, and Neville, Earl of Kilbourne, who was just out of earshot, pursed his lips and looked innocent.
13
Claudia and Susanna had just returned from a visit to Hookham’s library the following morning when the Duke of McLeith called at the house. He was admitted to the morning room, where Claudia was sitting alone, leafing through the book she had just borrowed. Susanna had gone up to the nursery to see Harry.
“Claudia,” he said, advancing across the room after the butler had announced him and the collie had rushed across the room to bark at him and then wag his tail. “Your dog?”
“I believe it is more a case of my being his person,” she said as he tickled him behind one ear. “Until I can find a good home for him, I am his.”
“Do you remember Horace?” he asked.
Horace! He was a spaniel she had adored as a child. He had followed her everywhere, like a floppy-eared shadow. She smiled as they both took a seat.
“Viscount and Viscountess Ravensberg spoke with me last evening before I left the ball,” he said. “They invited me to spend a few weeks at Alvesley Park before returning to Scotland. Apparently there is to be a large gathering there for the Earl and Countess of Redfield’s anniversary. I must confess I was surprised—I did not think I had a sufficient acquaintance with them to merit such a distinction. However, the viscountess explained that you were going to be staying at Lindsey Hall nearby and that I might be glad of a few weeks in which to enjoy your company again after so long.”
He paused and looked inquiringly at Claudia.
She clasped her hands in her lap and looked back at him without comment. Susanna and all her friends seemed charmed by the story he had told—which was quite true, though it was not by any means the whole truth. She had once loved him with all the ardor of her young heart. But though the days of their courtship had been innocent and decorous, their parting had been neither.
She had given her virginity to Charlie out on a deserted hilltop behind her father’s house.
He had sworn that he would come back for her at the earliest opportunity to make her his bride. He had sworn too, holding her tightly to him while they had both wept, that he would love her forever, that no man had ever loved as he loved. She had said much the same in return, of course.
“So,” he said, “what do you think? Shall I accept? We have had so little chance to talk since we met again, yet there is so much to say. There is so much reminiscing still to do and so much getting to know each other again. I believe I like the new Claudia every bit as much as I liked the old. But we had happy times together, did we not? No real brother and sister could have been more contented with each other’s company.”
She had carried anger inside her for such a long time that she sometimes thought it was gone, over with, forgotten. But some long-ago feelings ran so deep that they became part of one’s very being.
“We were not brother and sister, Charlie,” she said briskly, “and we certainly did not think of ourselves as such for the year or two before you went away. We were in love.” She kept her eyes on him as the dog settled across her feet and sighed with contentment.
“We were very young,” he said, his smile fading.
“There is a perception among the not-so-young,” she said, “that the young are incapable of loving, that their feelings are of no significance.”
“Young people lack the wisdom that age brings,” he said. “It was almost inevitable that we develop romantic feelings for each other, Claudia. We would have grown out of them. I had almost forgotten.”
She felt a deep rage—not for herself as she was now, but for the girl she had been. That girl had suffered inconsolably for years.
“We can laugh about it now,” he said.
He smiled. She did not.
“I am not laughing,” she said. “Why did you forget, Charlie? Because I meant so little to you? Because remembering was too uncomfortable for you? Because you felt guilty about that last
letter you wrote me?”
I am a duke now, Claudia. You must understand that that makes a great deal of difference.
…I am a duke…
“And have you forgotten also that we were actually lovers on one occasion?” she asked him.
A dull flush crept up his neck and into his cheeks. She willed herself not to flush too. But she would not look away from his eyes.
“That was unwise,” he said, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as if his neckcloth had suddenly become too tight. “It was unwise of your father to give us so much freedom. It was unwise of you when I was going away and there might have been consequences. And it was unwise of me—”
“Because,” she suggested when he hesitated, “there might have been consequences and they might have caused complications to your new life—as your final letter made very clear?”
I must not be seen to associate too closely with people who are beneath my notice. I am a duke now…
“I had not realized, Claudia,” he said with a sigh, “that you were bitter. I am sorry.”
“I left bitterness behind a long time ago,” she said, not sure that was strictly true. “But I cannot allow you to continue treating me with hearty delight as your long-lost sister, Charlie, without forcing you to remember what you have so conveniently forgotten.”
“It was not easy,” he said, sitting back in his chair and dropping his eyes from hers. “But I was just a boy, and suddenly I was faced with duties and responsibilities and a whole life and world I had never even dreamed of.”
She said nothing. She knew he spoke the truth, and yet…
And yet all that did not excuse the cruelty of his final rejection. And how could she tell herself that she had let go of the hurt and bitterness when she had hated, hated, hated all men with the title of duke since then?
“Sometimes,” he said, “I have wondered if it was all worth the sacrifices I was forced to make. My dream of a career in the law. You.”
Again she said nothing.
“I behaved badly,” he admitted at last, getting abruptly to his feet and crossing the room to look out the window. “Do you think I did not realize that? And do you think I did not suffer?”