Cheryl Holt (37 page)

It was all so absurd. In Spain, he’d merely tried to save his sorry hide, and those of the soldiers who’d been trapped with
him. He felt himself to be an impostor, that he was the last fellow on earth who should be lauded for courage, but he wasn’t so foolish that he would spurn the unanticipated boon.

His new estate was small, but it encompassed many acres of productive farmland, and would provide a steady income. With the stroke of a pen, his penury had been solved, yet he couldn’t find any joy in his windfall.

He stepped out onto the verandah and leaned on the balustrade, inhaling the fresh night air and gazing up at the stars. Behind him, the orchestra played a waltz, and dancers chattered merrily as they whirled around.

If Anne could see him, what would she think? He was so bored, but when he’d been sequestered with her, he’d been champing at the bit, enthusiastic about reestablishing himself in London. Why? Where was the lure? What attraction had been greater than the pleasure and contentment he’d achieved with her?

He endeavored to remember what had been so vital, what had spurred his rush to the city. This had always been his life. These people—with their soirees, suppers, and receptions—had formed the boundaries of his existence, but now that he’d immersed himself, everything seemed so frivolous, so pointless.

Had he changed that much? Or was his dissatisfaction due to the fact that he’d nearly perished? Perhaps his brush with death had altered his perception of what mattered. He craved more than parties, superficial discourse, and shallow associations, and he deemed it a fine thing that he’d received his barony. It meant he would serve in Parliament, where he would be able to help those who were less fortunate.

What would Anne say? How would she regard his resurrection?

He sighed. It was ridiculous to moon over her, but he couldn’t get her out of his head. Their split had been so
abrupt, and so permanent, that it felt as if she’d died.

You could go visit her,
a voice chided, cajoling him to do what he oughtn’t.

She’d been adamant that their separation be immediate and total, and even though he knew a clean break was for the best, he’d repeatedly begun to write her, eager to inquire as to how she was doing, but he’d never finished any of the letters. She’d demanded that he leave her alone, but he couldn’t quit pondering her, couldn’t shake the impression that she was in trouble and calling out to him, that he should check on her welfare, which was ludicrous.

Anne was the most independent, self-reliant woman he’d ever met. She didn’t need him!

Meandering along, he kept to the shadows. The patio was lined with open windows, and at one of them, two females were arguing. He halted, intrigued to discern that it was Felicity and her mother, Barbara.

He’d decided to marry Felicity. There wasn’t any reason not to. She had an impeccable ancestry, and he was fond of her. If he wasn’t especially thrilled with some of her character traits, his opinion didn’t signify. He was thirty years old, and it was high time he settled down.

As he caught himself ruminating over how intensely passionate he’d been about Anne, on how differently he viewed Felicity, he cringed. He had to stop comparing them! Felicity had her own charms, her own appeal, and if he continued equating her with Anne, he’d drive himself crazy.

Felicity would be a worthy wife, and she would merit his devotion and esteem.

Though he was curious about their heated discussion, he’d planned to move on, when his name was injected into the ardent debate.

“What would you do?” Barbara was asking. “Would you embarrass Stephen? Would you shame his family and ours? Is that the sort of person I raised you to be?”

“No, but Mother, how can I proceed? It would be so wrong, so unfair to him. I don’t love him.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to, so early in your relationship. True affection comes with familiarity. It’s built up through acquaintance, habit, and routine. You’ll have many years to fall in
love
.”

“But you know how I feel about Robert.”

Robert?
Stephen stiffened, listening more closely.
Who the hell was Robert?

“Yes,” Barbara chided, “you’ve been boorishly consistent in extolling your cousin’s virtues.”

Stephen had a flash of memory, of a nondescript, blond sycophant, with an ingratiating nature that set Stephen’s nerves on end. He was a violin player or some such talent, and adept at composing music, though Stephen couldn’t describe much more about him.

She adored that sniveling, odd man?

Or half a man.
The crude thought blasted by. He wasn’t certain that Robert was attracted to women. He was very effeminate, and Stephen had pegged him a gay blade, but who knew?

On learning that she was enamored with her tepid beau, he should have been insulted, should probably have ranted and raved. Wasn’t that what a proper fiancé would do? Shouldn’t he sense something? Affront? Indignity? Hurt? At the very least, shouldn’t his pride be dented?

In all actuality, he experienced very little emotion, save an enormous amount of relief. If her heart was elsewhere engaged, he could cut her loose. He didn’t need her money anymore, and he was sure her struggling artist needed it very much.

Unencumbered, released from obligation, he’d be free. Free to go wherever he wanted, to do whatever he wanted. Free to . . . to . . . marry Anne . . .

The scandalous concept leapt into his consciousness,
wedging so dramatically that it all but bowled him over.

When he’d been with her, he’d convinced himself that their worlds were impossible to merge. But perceived from afar, the obstacles that had been paramount a month prior had vanished with the realities of his new situation.

The gilt had worn off London, and if he never came to town again, he wouldn’t consider it much of a loss.

The estate bestowed on him was a few hours’ ride from Bristol Manor in one direction, and a few hours to Anne’s farm in the other. They were smart people. They could find a way to be together.

Inside, Barbara had risen. “I’m going to the ballroom,” she told her distraught daughter. “You will remain here, until you’ve calmed. I won’t have Stephen noticing your upset.”

“Yes, Mother.” At the subtle reminder that she’d have to spend the entire night smiling by his side, she looked as if she’d bitten into a rotten egg.

“I suggest you use the solitude to reflect upon your duty.” Barbara strolled to the door. “When you return for the banquet, I demand that you have your attitude adjusted.”

She exited and, irked and disconcerted, he brooded. So . . . he was Felicity’s
duty,
was he? That comment, more than any other, resolved his dilemma. He wasn’t about to progress to matrimony when the notion was so distasteful to her. Though he hadn’t been excited about wedding her, he’d assumed that she was ecstatic. She always acted so optimistic and cheerful, when her conduct had obviously been a facade. If the prospect of being his wife was so abhorrent, he’d never force her into it.

With both of them pining away for someone else, what kind of union would they have? He didn’t want a bride who was infatuated with another. Talk about a recipe for disaster!

He could split with Felicity, and before dawn, he could be traveling to Anne’s, and suddenly, he was desperate to be
off. The urgency that had been prodding at him started to prick like a burr under the saddle.

Would she be happy to see him? Would she welcome him with open arms, or would she laugh at his whimsy and send him packing?

He had to discover whether their connection had been as ardent as his recollection. Was it genuine? Or had it been an illusion created by the peculiarities of their circumstances?

An eagerness in his step, he raced into the house, so that he could liberate Felicity—and himself.

Felicity perched on the edge of the sofa, determined not to wrinkle her gown, a transgression which would further infuriate her mother.

Why couldn’t she make the woman understand? With how confused and forlorn she’d been, she’d finally broken down and confessed her predicament, but instead of evincing any sympathy, her mother had railed as to Felicity’s immaturity and foolishness, which had only left Felicity more bewildered. What was the benefit of being an heiress if she couldn’t have her heart’s desire?

Yes, she’d once been flattered by the idea of marrying Stephen, but she’d been so young when they’d begun courting, and in the interim, so much trauma had occurred.

Oh, she was so miserable!

Leaning forward, she rested her head in her hands, when the door’s hinges creaked, and she stifled a groan, hoping it wasn’t Robert. He’d insist that she repeat the conversation she’d had with Barbara, and every time she had to tell him how she couldn’t alter her destiny, he became more depressed. He had a virtuoso’s temperament, and his sensibilities were too delicate to weather such protracted torment.

“Felicity,” a male voice murmured.

Stephen! Gad! What next!
The accursed mansion had eighty-four rooms. Couldn’t she have any privacy?

She vaulted to her feet, her composure firmly in place. No matter what, she couldn’t let him detect how desolate she was. He—of all people—didn’t deserve to suffer because of her capricious constitution.

“Hello, my dear, Captain. I was about to come locate you.” She walked toward him, trusting he couldn’t discern her fatigue, her agitation. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Very much,” he replied.

“Good.”

She halted. He was gaping at her strangely, and she was swamped by a wave of unease. What was he contemplating? He couldn’t know about Robert! If he mentioned her cousin, she’d perish from mortification!

“I’m glad you’re alone,” he asserted. “I must speak with you.”

As he locked the door and shut the window, her discomfiture increased. “It appears to be serious.”

“It is.”

He blushed, and she couldn’t credit what she was witnessing. What had he done? In her disordered state, she couldn’t tolerate any emotional upheaval. Why couldn’t the blasted oaf be silent? They weren’t married yet. She shouldn’t have to be his confidante!

“Well . . .?”

“This is so embarrassing.”

“Just say it.”

“I’ve been considering our engagement.”

She gulped. “You have?”

“Yes, and I’ve been wondering . . . that is . . .” He gulped, too. “Ooh, this is much more difficult than I’d imagined it would be.”

“What is it?” she barked, weary of the suspense.

“So much has transpired since we were first betrothed. I’ve changed, and you’ve changed, too, I think.”

“We have.” At what was he hinting? Why couldn’t he spit
it out? “But we’ve stumbled through! And we’ll succeed!”

“That’s just it. You see”—he cleared his throat, fussed with his cravat—“I no longer wish to
succeed
. Not with you, anyway.” He winced. “I’m sorry. Was I too harsh in blurting it out?”

Too
harsh
? Her pulse pounded. “I expect I’ll survive.” She glared, concluding that if he dropped dead in the next second, she wouldn’t mourn. “Are you breaking it off?”

“I guess I am.”

“Why?”

“I’ve met someone else.”

“What do you mean by someone
else
?”

He blushed a deeper shade of red. “I’m in love.”

She was a tad slow on deciphering his precise message, and when it dawned, she was furious, though she couldn’t figure out why. Hadn’t she been yearning for a miracle like this to materialize? Wasn’t this the answer to her prayers? Yet,
he
was tossing her over.
He
wanted to be free. After the indignity and abuse she’d endured from him the prior year, how the notion galled!

“You’re in . . . in love?”

“I apologize. I didn’t intend for it to happen. It just did.”

“Is it anyone with whom I’m acquainted?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Who is it?” She couldn’t explain why it signified. This was her reprieve, her deliverance. Why concern herself with the woman’s identity? She’d been rescued! She should be dancing in the streets.

“I was introduced to her when I was recovering.”

A niggling memory plagued her, of the poised, beautiful widow, Mrs. Smythe, and the truth jumped out at her.

Mrs. Smythe had made a positive impression, had been autonomous in a fashion that had fascinated Felicity. She’d often pondered what it would be like to carry on so anonymously, to
do whatever she pleased without the entire world going into a collective swoon.

On that last, poignant day, when she and Eleanor had retrieved Stephen and fetched him to London, Mrs. Smythe hadn’t stopped by to make her farewells or to accept their accolades. At the time, her behavior had been rude, but with the excitement of their journey, Felicity hadn’t thought about it again.

Why . . . she’d been too busy stealing Felicity’s fiancé to mind her manners!

“Is it the proprietress of the spa?”

“It is.”

What an insult! The bounder had chosen a female with no antecedents. A nothing and nobody who had no money or assets to offer as a dowry, who mixed tonics and brewed soups. Who . . . who
worked
for a living.

“Will you marry her?”

“If she’ll have me.”

Could there be any question? An individual as modest and common as Mrs. Smythe would grab at the chance.

“Is there some doubt?”

He smiled, cherishing a fond reminiscence, which had Felicity stewing. “She doesn’t feel I’m much of a catch.”

Why was he aware of Mrs. Smythe’s opinion? Had he proposed before severing his commitment to herself? How discourteous! How disrespectful! How absolutely crass!

He was spurning her for a female who was so far below her station and situation! What traits did the sainted Mrs. Smythe possess that she, Felicity, didn’t?

She was almost enraged enough to ask, when she recalled Robert. She could now have Robert, and she wouldn’t have to hurt Stephen in the process. He would never have to know that she’d strayed. They could split amicably, and after a few months, she would announce her betrothal to her cousin, and
it would seem perfectly normal. No brows would be raised.