Anne Barbour (27 page)

“So, you see,” she finished, “it was all perfectly innocent.”

At the beginning of her monologue, Thorne had adopted an attitude of benevolent understanding—the
pater familias
who, though adamant in his determination to fulfill his duties, was prepared to listen. However, by the time she had finished, his aspect had undergone an unpleasant transformation. His face bore a thunderous scowl, and his eyes had narrowed to glittering slits.

“You were trying to arrange a meeting between Barbara and Carver?” he asked very softly in a tone of chilled steel.

“Well, er, yes,” Hester faltered. It had not occurred to her until this moment that the last person in the world who might understand her altruistic desire to bring two sundered hearts together was the man who himself expected to engage in a relationship with one of those hearts. “I do not suppose you are aware of their prior attachment, but—”

“No, I was not.”

“But, now that you are, I am sure you understand that they belong together.”

“No, I am afraid I do not.”

Thorne still spoke in a tone of iced silk, but he rose abruptly to stand before Hester.

“Good God!” The phrase exploded from him. “How could you serve me such a turn? Barbara and Carver? A prior attachment? I never heard such drivel in my life. May I remind you that my ultimate betrothal to her has been an understood fact for years?”

“Well—yes, but—”

“May I also remind you that Barbara has never given the slightest indication that my suit is anything but welcome to her.”

“Yes, I know that, too, but, Thorne, it is also my understanding that—that your heart is not, er, involved, and—

“What the devil would you know about my heart?” snarled Thorne.

Hester whitened and stepped back abruptly. At the sight of the startled mortification in her eyes, something snapped within him.

“The state of my affections is of absolutely no concern to you,” he said scathingly. “Do you understand that? However, allow me to inform you that, although I may eschew your maudlin, romantical notions of love, it is my intention to make Barbara my wife—and I would appreciate it if you would simply keep your meddlesome, busy fingers out of my life. Do I make myself clear?”

For an instant, Hester could not speak. Her hand flew to her throat as though she might stay the tears that gathered there, and her body suddenly seemed turned to lead. With a choked sound, she whirled and stumbled from the room, leaving Thorne to stare after her.

She did not stop until she had reached the haven of her bedchamber. Here, she lowered herself very carefully into a small chair near the fireplace as though at the slightest jar she might break into a thousand jagged pieces.

How could she have been so mistaken in Thorne’s feelings for Barbara? He might say he did not believe in the concept of love, but his outburst just now had proved otherwise. He—why, he was obviously in a perfect rage of jealously over the notion that Barbara might prefer Robert to himself. The thought tolled like a great bell within her, echoing in the emptiness that filled her. Dear God, she had never known that love could hurt so.

What was she to do now? Thorne had warned her not to interfere any farther in his life, but what about Barbara?

The idea of doing any further disservice to Thorne was not to be borne, but could she let him marry Barbara, knowing that the lady loved someone else? Perhaps Barbara would come to the conclusion on her own that she could not wed Thorne. She would certainly not do so while her beloved was ostensibly betrothed to someone else, so it would seem that the first order of business was to release Robert Carver from the results of his moment of folly.

It was many minutes, however, before she arose from the little chair to make herself presentable for Robert’s impending visit.

Downstairs, Thorne set out from the house in a black mood. It was unfashionably early to pay a social call, but he felt an unsettling urgency to do something about his situation. Issuing a curt command to his tiger, he mounted his waiting curricle and set out for Weymouth House, the town home of the Duke and Duchess of Weymouth and their daughter. Lady Barbara Freemantle.

Thorne was aware that the butler who answered the door would have informed any other caller at this hour that his grace and family were not yet receiving, however, the door was flung wide to admit the Earl of Bythorne. Thorne had decided earlier to speak to Barbara before making his official request for her hand to her father. Thus, in a very few minutes, he faced the lady in her drawing room.

He was startled at her aspect, for it was apparent she had not slept well the night before. The shadows beneath her eyes stood out like bruises against the pallor of her face. She greeted him with her lovely smile, however.

“Thorne! I could hardly believe Blickster when he told me you were here. Whatever are you doing out and about at the crack of dawn?”

Thorne glanced at his watch. “I will agree that ten in the morning is unconscionably early, my dear, but hardly the crack of dawn. It is merely an indication of the import of my visit.”

Barbara lifted her brows questioningly. Thorne led her to a settee by the window and drawing her by his side, seated himself.

“Tell me,” said Barbara. “How—how is Hester this morning?”

“When I left her,” he replied stiffly, “she seemed in excellent spirits.”

Barbara’s fingers twisted in the fringe of her shawl. “I noticed that when you left Halburton House last night, Ro—Mr. Carver accompanied you.”

“That is true. He wished,” continued Thorne, feeling somewhat harassed, “to assure Hester that his proposal earlier was genuine and to assure himself that she had accepted it.”

“And did she?” Barbara’s voice was a whispered scratch.

“Well—no, not right away. But he will be attending Hester later in the morning, and I believe,” he concluded mendaciously, “that she will accept him.”

“Ah.”

“Well, she has no choice in the matter, does she? She was thoroughly compromised last night.”

Barbara looked away. “Yes, undoubtedly. I—I was surprised to see them so. I had no idea there was such a degree of affection between them.”

“Yes. Er, no.” Thorne was beginning to feel as though he were creeping through a minefield. “It is obvious that they hold each other in esteem. In addition, as Gussie has pointed out several times. Carver is the perfect
parti
for Hester—and she seems the perfect mate for him. They share the same interests, and—”

Barbara lifted a hand. “Yes, yes, I know,” she said brokenly. “I’m sure I’m very happy for them.”

“Quite.” Thorne took her hand, prepared to get down to the matter at hand. “Barbara,” he began, sliding into the speech he had prepared on the short journey from Bythorne House. He was surprised to discover that he was perspiring profusely and that the words that had flowed so trippingly over his tongue earlier now seemed glued there. “Barbara,” he said again. “You—you must be aware of the affection with which I have regarded you for a number of years.”

Barbara said nothing, but nodded hesitantly and eyed him warily.

“I fact, I think I am not overstating the case when I say that you and I have enjoyed an, er, special relationship.”

Barbara nodded again.

Thorne plunged on, a hint of desperation overtaking him. “Look, Barbara,” he said abandoning the prepared text. “We’ve teetered on the brink of betrothal for donkey’s years, and we’re neither of us getting any younger.”

At Barbara’s affronted gasp, he rose abruptly. “Devil take it, you know what I mean.” Taking a deep breath, he sat down again and took her hand in his. “I seem to be making a mull of this, my dear, but you must be aware of my feeling for you. And now—at long last—I’m asking you to marry me if you’ll have me.”

There, he’d said it. He smiled into Barbara’s eyes and was a little dismayed to discover that, instead of returning it in blushing acceptance, she had turned even whiter and had dropped her gaze to her lap.

“Barbara?” he prompted. “Do you—?”

“Yes,” she said suddenly with a little gasp. “Yes, I will marry you, Thorne.”

He leaned forward to press his mouth on lips that were cold and set.

“You have made me the happiest man in London, my dear.”

She looked directly at him. “Have I?”

Searching inside himself, he discovered that, no, he was not happy. He had known that he would not be sent into alt by her acceptance, for he had expected it, but surely he should feel more than this—this hollow chill that seemed to fill him.

“Of course you have,” he said briskly. “We shall deal very well with each other, Barbara, you’ll see.” He rose to his feet. “Is your father at home? I’d best do the pretty before I leave—make it all right and tight.”

“Yes,” said Barbara in a low tone. “He is in his study. Oh, Thorne!” she exclaimed suddenly. “We are doing the right thing, are we not?”

God, what a selfish boor he’d been. Or course Barbara would be experiencing something of a
crise de nerfs
at a time like this, and he’d been acting as though he were concluding a mildly challenging business deal. Placing an arm around her, he drew her to him and dropped a kiss on her hair.

“Of course, we are, sweetheart. You’re a pearl beyond price, and any man would be fortunate to claim you as his bride. I promise I’ll do my best to make you happy.”

Again, he did not feel as though his words were those of a man who has just attained his dream of bliss, but it was the best he could do. He released her and bowed himself from the room.

It was more than an hour later, however, before he left Weymouth House. After bearding Barbara’s father in the ducal den, he was rewarded with a gratifyingly prompt acceptance of his suit. The duke, while not precisely clasping Thorne to his bosom, declared himself pleased at the proposed union, his words of acquiescence containing only the merest hint of, “What took you so long?”

After that, the duke sent for the duchess to apprise her of the glad news, and the couple accompanied Thorne back to the drawing room, where the rest of the family, including his oldest son and heir, two more daughters, and a younger son home on leave from the army, were summoned to add their voices in congratulating the happy couple.

When Thorne returned home later, the house was silent. Hobart informed him that Lady Lavinia and Miss Chloe had departed moments before on a shopping expedition, and Miss Hester was closeted in the blue saloon with Mr. Carver.

Thorne pricked up his ears at this intelligence, but after a moment’s thought decided against joining the couple. His presence would no doubt be decidedly
de trop
. However, on passing the doorway to the blue saloon, he heard voices through the door that could only be described as acrimonious. Pausing for a moment, he knocked peremptorily and entered.

Hester stood before the fireplace, her face flushed and her demeanor tense. Robert Carver stood near her. His face, too, was noticeably strained, although he bore no other signs of perturbation. They both swung about as the door opened.

“I trust I do not intrude?” asked Thorne.

“Not at all,” responded Hester. Robert’s lips tightened.

“I was having a private conversation with Miss Blayne,” he said.

“Ah,” said Thorne. “In that case, do forgive me.” He began to back out from the room.

“Oh, don’t be silly.” Hester’s voice was high with exasperation. “Robert, Thorne was privy to all that happened last night. All this polite backing and filling is quite useless.” She moved toward Thorne. “Robert has been kind enough to repeat his proposal, and I have been trying to tell him it is all quite unnecessary and that I have no intention of marrying him.”

“Well, if you’re expecting me to second those sentiments,” remarked Thorne, strolling farther into the room, “you’re backing the wrong pony. As I was just saying to Barbara, you have no real choice in the matter.”

At the sound of Barbara’s name, both Hester and Robert responded noticeably. Hester appeared startled, while Robert took a step forward, his hand lifted in an unconscious gesture.

“You—you have seen Lady Barbara this morning?” asked Robert after a moment.

“You have been discussing my situation with Barbara?” asked Hester at almost the same moment.

“Yes, to both questions,” replied Thorne with a spurious air of cool self-possession. Of Robert’s obvious distress, he had taken little note, but he found himself almost tingling with an awareness of the tension that fairly radiated from Hester. Without quite knowing why, his breath became attenuated as he uttered his next words. “You may, by the by, wish me happy.”

Hester’s hand went to her throat, as it had earlier that day. “Oh!” she breathed, “You have offered for her?”

“Oh God!” The exclamation, quickly stifled, burst from Robert as though forced by a blow to his chest. Thorne stared at him before turning back to Hester.

“Yes. I expect the news will appear in The Morning Post in a day or two.”

A sense of unreality descended on Thorne, as though he were observing the scene from a great way off. He, Hester, and Carver, all seemed players mouthing lines written for them, in a drama that would come to an end at any moment, leaving him to make his way back to the normality of life as he had known it. The life of uncomplicated hedonism he had known before he met Hester Blayne.

Hester licked her lips. “Of course, I wish you happy— my lord. When will the glad event take place?”

“We have not set a date as yet,” replied Thorne smoothly. “When f left Weymouth House, Barbara and her mother were speaking of sometime early next spring.”

Hester nodded. Robert moved forward jerkily and extended his hand.

“I, too, wish to offer my felicitations, my lord.”

Thorne expressed his appreciation in a suitable manner. Then, crossing his arms, he bestowed a measured stare on Hester.

“Now, Miss Blayne, let us direct our attention to setting a date for your own nuptials.”

Chapter Nineteen

Hester stared at him for a long moment. She felt that her knees would no longer hold her up. Oddly, other than this trembling deep within her, she was remarkably calm. The news that Thorne had proposed to Barbara should not have come as a shock, even though she had hoped to prevent it. It was, however, as she had heard sometimes happened to victims of a gunshot. She knew she had been critically wounded, yet she felt nothing. Never mind, she thought. The pain would come.