by Mary Balogh
“Come and see the stables,” Estelle suggested, and she led the way from the room. Abigail and Bertrand followed her. Marcel did not move, and neither did Viola. The front door opened and closed.
They gazed at each other for several silent moments.
“Does it remind you?” he asked, nodding toward the window and the view beyond. “Even just faintly?”
“Of Devonshire?” she asked. “Yes. But we were alone there.”
“It was good,” he said. “Was it not?”
She turned her head to gaze out the window. “It was,” she said. “It was exactly what it was intended to be, Marcel—a brief escape from our lives. It was never intended to be converted into anything permanent. Neither you nor I wanted that. And it had run its course. You told me on the beach that my telling you I wanted to go home saved you from having to hurt me. You told me that you hated hurting your women.”
Good God! Had he really said that? But he knew he had. “Could I possibly have been so unmannerly?” he asked anyway.
“You were merely being honest,” she said. “I know you have other women, Marcel, and always have—and always will, I daresay. I had no illusions when I decided to run away with you. It was a temporary arrangement, and I was contented with that. I am not contented with . . . with this.”
“The always will part is unjust,” he said. “When I marry, Viola, it is for all time. Until death do us part.”
She turned her head away from the window to frown at him. “What happened?” she asked him.
He raised his eyebrows and felt a chill about his heart. He knew what she was asking.
“What happened with your marriage?” she explained. “With your wife. How did she die?”
He did not want to talk about this. He did not want to think about it. The air in the room suddenly felt too thin to breathe.
“She fell out of an upstairs window to the terrace below,” he said curtly. “She died instantly.” He swung about to face the window, though he was unaware now of the view beyond it. He willed her to go away, to follow the young people. But he could not hear her go. So he added the final detail. “I killed her.”
Silence. Except for the dull thudding in his ears of his own heartbeat. He wished he were sitting down. He wished he were alone. He wished he were dead too. He wished . . .
“You cannot possibly leave it at that,” she said from behind him, and he swung about again to glare at her, fury almost blinding him.
“Why not?” he asked her. “What happened is none of your damned business, Viola. Unless, that is, you think I may do the same thing to you when I grow tired of you or when you annoy me. Go away, or I may do it now.”
Her frown was back. “I am sorry,” she said. “I am so sorry to have ripped open such a deep wound. But you must tell me.”
“Why?” he asked. “You are determined not to marry me, it seems. And even if you change your mind, you have no business prying into my first marriage. I do not pry into yours.”
“How can I believe you killed her,” she asked, “when you did not hang or even spend time in prison?”
“It was ruled an accident,” he said. “A tragic accident. Leave it alone, Viola. I will not speak of it. Ever. As for now, you tired of me in Devonshire before I had quite tired of you. You did not want to be saved from scandal when we got back to the cottage. You would have preferred to brazen the situation out rather than betroth yourself to me. You have not changed your mind since then. You made that perfectly clear last night. So. Make the announcement today, tomorrow, whenever you choose. I will not try to stop you.”
It was one hell of a time to realize that his heart would be broken, that it probably already was. When had he suddenly acquired a heart? Perhaps she had not really meant her dismissal of him; perhaps she did not resent their betrothal as much as she said she did; perhaps . . .
Perhaps nothing. She had made herself perfectly clear.
He could only make an ass of himself by telling her now that he had not got over her at all, that he did not believe he ever would. He could only make a nuisance of himself by begging her to marry him anyway. Though he knew that for the sake of his children and her own he would keep pressing her to do just that.
Good God! He had just told her he killed Adeline. Which he had done.
“You will be glad,” she said. “You do not want to marry me, Marcel. It was never part of our plan. Very far from it.”
“A thousand miles from it,” he agreed. “But we are in the devil of a coil, Viola. My sister is arriving this afternoon, along with all your family. A big party is imminent. Our children appear to like one another.”
They both turned their heads to watch the three young people make their way back about the lake in the direction of the main house. Bertrand was in the middle, Estelle on one arm, Abigail on the other.
“So,” she said, “we take the easy way out and celebrate our betrothal here. And at Christmas we take the easy way out and celebrate our wedding. And then we face the rest of our lives.”
“You make it sound like a bleak prospect,” he said.
They looked at each other, and their eyes held.
“I cannot face another marriage that might be anything like my first nonmarriage, Marcel,” she said.
He winced inwardly but said nothing.
“And you—” she said, and circled the air with one hand, in search of words that would not come.
“And I am an incurable libertine,” he said.
“Well.” She frowned once more. “Aren’t you?”
“Except when I am married,” he said, “as I pointed out earlier. But I have not been married for a long, long time, and during that time I have indeed been a libertine. I daresay you are right, Viola. I daresay I am incurable.”
But he felt hurt. He wanted to beg and protest and justify. He wanted to . . .
She did not want him. She had enjoyed their idyll and had tired of it and wanted to go home. Just as he ought to have done.
Damn him for a fool for having sent his brother home in his carriage instead of going with him and forgetting the former Countess of Riverdale.
“I am going back to the house,” she told him.
“And like the gentleman I am I will escort you,” he said.
But they did not touch as they walked, or exchange another word. He was reminded of their walk back from the beach to the cottage in Devonshire. He ought to have grabbed her then before the cottage came in sight and had it out properly with her—the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, just as he wanted to do now.
But it would be unfair to her and humiliating to himself to pour out his love now and his commitment to fidelity and forever-after and love eternal and all that drivel. She had tired of him. She had never given the smallest hint that she loved him or wanted a future with him.
Humility attacked him like a hammer blow to the stomach.
She did not love him. She had told him that in so many words. He was going to have to allow her to go free, to extricate herself from this mess somehow. He could not do it himself. A gentleman did not repudiate a betrothal once he had committed to it. Or once he had invited her to his own home, and all her family and his were gathering to celebrate with his neighbors.
Good God! It was enough to make the hair stand up on the back of his neck.
The walk back to the house seemed interminable.
* * *
• • •
After she returned from the dower house with Marcel, Viola retreated to her room and wrestled with the temptation to leave, to send word that her carriage was to be before the doors within a half hour, to send word to Abigail that she must pack up her things without delay. She wanted to be gone. She wanted to forget.
Two months or so ago she had run from Bath—to escape from the suffocating love of her family. Two days after th
at she had run again—to escape from herself to the mindless pleasure of a love affair with a libertine. Much good it had all done her. It had brought her to this, to an entanglement far more complicated than anything she had known before.
For this time, of course, she could not run. Estelle had gone to a great deal of trouble to plan this house party and the betrothal party tomorrow evening. And she was bubbling over with excitement, a girl of seventeen who had lived a sheltered existence with her uncle and aunt but who had longed for her father’s presence in her life and now thought she was about to get it.
She could not run. Her mother was on the way here. Camille and Joel and the children were on the way. So were Michael and Mary. So were all the Westcotts, even her former mother-in-law. Even Anna, Humphrey’s legitimate daughter. And Wren, with whom she had struck up such a lovely and unexpected friendship back in the spring. Wren was pregnant, but she was coming anyway. Viola could not possibly not be here herself when they arrived.
And there was Marcel. He had accepted reality this morning, telling her that he would not stand in the way of her announcing that there was to be no betrothal. And only she could do that, of course. Honor dictated that the man could not.
And this morning he had told her how his wife died and had claimed that he killed her. She did not for a moment believe him, though she believed he did. What had happened? She ached to know, but she had no right to insist. They were not going to be married. She had felt in him this morning, however, an unbearable pain at the memories he had held close all these years and refused to share now.
What had happened?
She had ached to tell him she loved him, that when she had said down on the beach that she needed to go home, she had not meant that she was tired of their affair, that she had no feelings left for him. But she had not said it. He had not announced their betrothal because he loved her and wanted to marry her. She could be absolutely sure of that, having known him and his reputation for many years. He was not a settling man. He had told her he was glad he had not been forced to speak up first. He had told her he did not like to hurt his women.
His women.
Plural.
As she had always known. As she knew when she agreed to run away with him.
She could not run, then, but she could not stay either. She could not marry him, but she could not break the betrothal either. She could not love him, but she could not stop loving him either.
She stayed. Of course she did. And she prepared for the arrival of his sister and her own family. She drew about her the long-familiar mantle of the Countess of Riverdale and waited.
But what was she to do? She could not marry Marcel.
What was she to do?
* * *
• • •
Annemarie and William Cornish were first to arrive, early in the afternoon, bringing their two young children with them. Marcel and the twins met them on the terrace. Estelle hugged the children, aged seven and five, while Bertrand shook William’s hand and Marcel found himself being hugged tightly by his sister.
“I am so very happy that you are to remarry at last, Marc,” she said. “And not before time either. I have hardly stopped talking about it, have I, Will?”
Cornish exchanged a sober glance with his brother-in-law but said nothing.
As usual Annemarie filled the drawing room with her presence as soon as they stepped inside it. She hugged everyone gathered there, including Abigail and Viola, talking the whole while.
“I was just telling Marc how delighted I am,” she told Viola. “Marriage will be good for him. It is high time he settled down. Gracious, he is forty. Just imagine! And you will be able to bring Estelle out during the Season in London next spring, and your daughter will be good company for her. They will be stepsisters. It will be a dream come true, I am sure, for Estelle to have her own stepmother sponsoring her.”
William cleared his throat, and she looked at him inquiringly before wheeling about to smile at Jane. “I am perfectly sure you were willingly and selflessly prepared to take Estelle to London yourself, Jane. But I am sure that now you must be eager to resume your own interrupted life at last.”
“Well, it was interrupted, Annemarie,” Jane admitted, “quite suddenly and unexpectedly when our own children were no older than yours are now. But Charles and I would do it again and for twice as long if we had to. I was dearly fond of Adeline, and I am dearly fond of her children.”
Marcel had never really thought of the past seventeen years in terms of any sacrifice Jane and Charles Morrow had had to make. He had always recognized his need of them, but he had always seen it from his point of view. Never from theirs. He had resented their influence over his children even though he had chosen not to raise them himself. They had left behind a home of their own in order to move to Elm Court—theirs had been leased out until very recently by a retired admiral and his wife.
The thing was, though, he did not want to start looking at things from other people’s point of view. His own was quite bothersome enough.
And this was just the beginning. Viola’s own family, Kingsleys and Westcotts, would be here before the day was out. Not counting children, Estelle had informed him, there were to be seventeen of them. Seventeen. And that was in addition to Abigail and Viola herself.
He felt an almost overwhelming urge to leave. Just to walk out, get his carriage, or even just saddle a horse, and leave. His baggage and his valet could follow him. No explanations to anyone. No warnings. No goodbyes. He had done it before—more than once. Just a couple of months or so ago he would not have hesitated, or looked back, or suffered a qualm of conscience.
This time it just could not be done. For his daughter—and his son too—stood squarely in his way. He looked from one to the other of them as chatter continued around him—and felt an equal measure of resentment and aching love. Estelle was flushed and bubbling over with excitement now with the arrival of her uncle and aunt and the imminent appearance of the seventeen. He was not certain how many neighbors were expected to come to the party tomorrow evening. He had not asked. He did not want to know.
Why had she done it? Why the birthday party? Because she loved him? How was it possible? He was the most wretchedly bad father on the face of the earth. And why the betrothal party?
And Bertrand. Not quite eighteen. An awkward, often rebellious age, not quite a youth, not quite a man. Quietly backing his sister every step of the way. Courteously entertaining the woman he had caught with his father at that wretched cottage. Conversing now with his uncle and Ortt. Treating even his despicable father with unfailing courtesy.
No, he would not run. He was increasingly certain that he would never be able to run again. It was one of the most terrifying thoughts he had had in the past seventeen years. His eyes rested upon Viola as she spoke with Annemarie and Ellen Morrow. He wished this morning had not happened. Last night was bad enough, but now there seemed little doubt that this betrothal everyone was gathering to celebrate was about to be ended. He must continue to behave as if it were real, however, until it was not. And then? He would think about that when it happened.
Annemarie was explaining to Viola that their mother had been French and had insisted that all her children have French names. And Adeline had admired her mother-in-law so much that she had insisted upon giving her children French names too.
“My sister is Camille,” Abigail said. “I do not know why she has a French name.”
“I liked it,” Viola said, “just as I liked Abigail when you were born.”
“Here comes another carriage,” Bertrand said, turning from the window and looking across the room at his father.
And so it was continuing. And again there was the urge to leave the drawing room and turn left toward the back stairs, used mostly by the servants, instead of right toward the main staircase and the hall below. To run away. As he had done seventeen years ago
and had continued to do ever since.
Until now.
“It will be someone from your family,” he said to Viola. “Will you come down with Estelle and Bertrand and me? And Abigail too?”
These arrivals were Lord and Lady Molenor—she was a Westcott, former sister-in-law to Viola. But everyone else came hard upon their heels—the Earl and Countess of Riverdale; the Duke and Duchess of Netherby and their baby with Netherby’s half sister, Lady Jessica Archer, and the dowager duchess, the girl’s mother, also a former sister-in-law of Viola’s. Why did family relationships have to be so complicated? Then came Mrs. Kingsley, Viola’s mother, with Cunningham and his wife, Camille, Viola’s elder daughter, and their three children; Viola’s clergyman brother with his wife; Elizabeth, Lady Overfield, and her mother, Mrs. Westcott, Riverdale’s mother; and, as a grand finale, the Dowager Countess of Riverdale, Viola’s former mother-in-law, and her daughter, Lady Matilda Westcott. Seventeen of them, not counting the children. Not that Marcel counted off the seventeen. The number seemed more like seventy to him.
Seventeen further complications to what was going to have to happen before they all took their leave again. To what Viola was surely going to make happen—with his blessing. Why the devil had he behaved with such totally uncharacteristic chivalry outside that damned cottage in Devonshire and announced their betrothal?
The last two carriages had arrived almost simultaneously. Marcel offered his arm to the elderly dowager countess and led her slowly up the steps to the house while Bertrand and Abigail came behind with Mrs. Westcott, Riverdale’s mother. Estelle chatted merrily with Lady Overfield as though they were old friends, and Viola made soothing noises as Lady Matilda Westcott shared her fear that her mother had overtired herself.
How was Viola going to tell these family members that they had come all this way for nothing? And why had they done such an asinine thing when the wedding was supposed to be celebrated within two months?