Learning to Waltz (18 page)

Yet he was reasonably sure she liked him very well. And without a doubt, he could offer her a life far better than the one she lived now. He cared very much what became of Julian, and as for Julian’s mother—he was appalled at the thought of leaving Whately and never seeing her again. The prospect of marriage seemed more and more satisfying. It would take him a lifetime to understand her, no doubt, and he could think of no way he would rather spend it.

At the risk of sounding like the pompous Mr. Collins from
Pride and Prejudice
, perhaps he should not be discouraged by Deborah’s rebuff. There was no question of her subscribing to
that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man
, but it was possible that some reflection might effect a change in her feelings. He was far from sanguine, however.

Alberta tapped on his door when she returned from the ball. She heard nothing and had turned to go when he called out his permission to enter.

“Come.” It sounded reluctant at best.

He flicked a glance her way but said nothing. He sat in his shirtsleeves in a wing chair by the fire, a mostly empty decanter at his elbow. She’d seldom seen him more than a bit merry with drink; he was considerably beyond that, she judged, and did not look merry at all.

“I’m surprised you’re not asleep. You left the ball hours ago.”

He just grunted. She would get no confidences from him tonight. She had her suspicions. Mrs. Moore had not come to the ball, and Evan’s impatient attention to the doorway had not escaped Alberta’s notice.

“Are you feeling faint, my dear?”

He looked up at her under lowered brows. “No, why?”

“As far as I’m aware, the only ailment brandy can cure is faintness.” She marched out again, leaving him to his brown study.

Theo was undressing in their bedchamber, yawning—as balls went, this one had been pretty dull. They had danced one waltz together, and then Theo had retreated to the card room while Alberta occupied herself with observing the antics of Lady Blythe’s “rabble”—and of Blythe herself, who seemed set on making herself conspicuous. She romped like a hoyden through the country dances, and waltzed with vigor when she could. Captain Westwood was not one to restrain himself or to encourage restraint in others, and since those two had danced most of the night together,
most
improperly, there had been ample opportunity to observe their horseplay.

Evan had avoided her entirely.

Blythe’s interactions with the local populace were marked by lofty disdain, so that Alberta and others of the Manor party found themselves leaning over backward to compensate for Blythe’s snobbishness. How Lady Honora had turned out so quiet and modest was anyone’s guess; perhaps she had determined to distance herself as far as possible from her sister’s behavior.

If Evan saw fit to court Honora now—but it seemed she would make a match of it with Frank Latimer. As things were going, Alberta would not be surprised to hear an announcement from
that
quarter before the house party broke up.

Theo listened with some interest to Alberta’s description of her brother’s present state and her conjectures as to its cause, but disclaimed all responsibility in getting to the bottom of the matter. “He’s nearly thirty, my dear. Surely he deserves his privacy without his sister sticking her curious nose where it’s not wanted—or his brother-in-law, either. If his
affaire
has gone awry, well, that’s what you wanted, is it not?”

“I suppose. It seems incredible that she would reject him.”

Theo cleared his throat. “You are in the habit of thinking Evan to be honorable in all things—well, we all are—but it is just possible, my dear, that what he offered her was not marriage. We know precious little of his dealings with women, after all. And if that should be the case, a rejection certainly speaks well of her morals.”

Alberta grunted, frowning. She was busy taking the pins out of her hair.

“I’ve not met the woman, of course,” Theo continued, “but judging from what I’ve heard, she sounds a good, serious choice for Evan. She would settle him down. I like her.”

“That’s neither here nor there, Theo. It would be a gross
mésalliance
.”

He shrugged and pulled out a pin she had missed. “We would have to check further into her background, of course. But I’ve not heard anyone cast aspersions on her breeding.”

“Hmmph. But it’s not your family, after all. Why should you care who he marries?”

Theo cried pax at that. It was all speculation, it was past three o’clock, and it was true, he did not care very much. One thing was sure: given a choice for sister between Lady Blythe and a
mésalliance
, he would choose the
mésalliance
nine times out of ten.

Deborah could not sleep, could not even persuade her eyes to close. Instead of lying dreamily, reliving and reveling in the pleasure they had shared, she turned over and back again, got up and prowled the room, returned to the bed, and fumed some more.

She’d thought to hold this night in memory, a warm interlude in a cold lifetime: the night she learned to waltz, to ask for pleasure and give it in return. But he had spoiled it. The sheets were infused with the smell of what they’d done. She pummeled the pillow, buried her face in it, but his scent lingered.

Marry him? He must be crazy, for all that he seemed so sane. She spent some time trying—realistically, now, without interference from that silly girl in dress-up clothes—to picture herself in his home as his wife. Always the picture degenerated into unhappiness for them both.

She would be inept as a hostess and hopeless at managing a large household, intimidated by butler and footmen and lady’s maid and omnipotent housekeeper. She had no wit and no conversation, and Evan would be ashamed to take her into society—and being the man he was, ashamed to leave her behind. Surely he would consider the future, as she was doing, and see how ludicrous it was.

She was astonished to see him walk into her parlor the next morning. Had she not been rude enough to him last night?

It was still early, perhaps half past eight. Molly must have let him in the kitchen door, confound the girl. Julian jumped up from his lessons to greet “Mr. Haffield” as he would greet his favorite person in all the world—as no doubt he was, at least this morning.

She had already scolded her son more than once, probably undeservedly. In quite his usual manner, Evan squatted down to talk to the child, laughing at Julian’s description of their battle with a rat at sunrise. But he looked as though he’d had little more sleep than she had. She was glad in some way she was not proud of.

He stood up and rested a hand on her son’s shoulder. “I’ve left Lookout in the yard. Perhaps you might beg a carrot from Molly and go keep him company for a few minutes?”

They were alone, the last place Deborah wanted to be. She remained standing by the table and did not offer him a seat. To her relief, he did not approach her but stood ill at ease, pulling his gloves through his hands as though he wasn’t sure how to begin.

It would be an apology, she decided; he wanted her to know he was withdrawing his offer.

“Deborah, I-I took you by surprise last night. It took me by surprise as well, I’ll admit that; you know it already. Perhaps the thoughtlessness of it offended you, and I cannot blame you for that. I suppose a proposal of marriage should be pondered and planned, not blurted out like—like I did.”

He wandered restlessly toward the table and gazed down at the paper where Julian had been practicing his alphabet. “In any event, I have now pondered the night through, and I have realized there is nothing I want more.”

Deborah’s eyes flew to meet his for the first time since his arrival. They must clearly show her stupefaction—how in God’s name could a rational man reach such a conclusion?

She turned away to the window. “You’re wrong,” she said.

A couple of quick strides brought him close behind her, but he did not touch her. “Deborah, this life you’re living, you and Julian—I want so much more for you. I can give you a nice home, a fine library. We can go to concerts and the theatre. We can travel if you’d like. And Julian can have a family, the education he deserves to have, a pony of his own. You don’t have to be alone.” He spoke earnestly, even passionately.

How she wished she could allow herself to be tempted.

Her own voice was quiet and hard. “That sounds like pity speaking. Your family would certainly not approve of you marrying for pity.”

“It’s not pity!” he cried. Then, more quietly, “Perhaps it is, if pity is the desire to help someone. But only in part. I want to share my life with you; I don’t want to leave you behind.”

“You must.” A silence.

“Why?”

She took her courage in her hands and turned to face him. “It’s quite impossible, Evan, surely you must see that. It could never work.”

“Why?” he repeated. “Is it that you don’t like me well enough?”

Too much
, her mind screamed, to condemn you to the marriage I see. Her eyes dropped to his cravat. She quelled the urge to smooth his coat, to touch him one more time. “No, not well enough.”

A short pause, and then he bowed abruptly. “I’m sorry to have been a nuisance. Good day, Mrs. Moore.”

He was gone.

She stood stock-still until her lungs demanded air, but in drawing that shaky breath, her knees gave out and she crumpled to the floor. Her best hope for happiness had walked out, and she had allowed it. No, she had flung it as one might hurl a fearsome night creature, a bat, perhaps, that attacked in the darkness.

She stayed, her hands clenched tightly round the stiles of a chair, until she became aware of the pain. She would
not
cry. There was this whole day to get through, and then another, and all the weeks and years of days to come. Tears would help her not at all.

By the time Julian returned to the parlor, she had regained a semblance of composure. She cut short his effusions over the horse, and the man, and the shiny new guinea he’d been given, and put him back to work at his letters.

She worked her way around the room with dust rag and polishing cloth. Whatever disappointment or resentment Evan might feel now, he would soon be offering paeans to whatever power had been watching over him this day.

In her fierce performance of chores that would keep her from thinking, she knocked the miniature of Aunt Matilda to the floor, breaking the glass. She could not bring herself to care, was almost glad to have the additional work to do. She pulled the remaining shards from the frame and stuck the picture away in a drawer, swept the glittery fragments from the floor, and brushed the past from her hands.

Evan returned Lookout to the stable and headed toward a set of French doors that led from the gardens into the drawing room. It should be deserted at this hour, and he dearly wanted solitude. But rounding the corner of the house, he was waylaid by Amanda, just finishing some instructions to one of the workmen. She fell in beside him.

“Some of us are going for a ride after breakfast, but it looks as though you’ve been out already. Well, it’s a glorious morning to start off the year.”