Simply Perfect (29 page)

As they emerged from the trees to walk toward the far end of the lake, she looked back to where she had lain last night with Joseph—and she could see him farther off, standing at the water's edge with Lizzie. By a great effort of will, she brought her mind back to what they had been talking about.

“Charlie,” she said, “Lizzie was conceived more than twelve years ago, when the Marquess of Attingsborough was very young and long before he met Miss Hunt. Why would she feel threatened by Lizzie's existence?”

“But it is not her existence, Claudia,” he said. “It is the fact that now Miss Hunt and a large number of other people—soon to be everyone of any significance—
know
of her. It is just not the thing. A gentleman keeps these things to himself. I know the expectations of society—I had to learn them when I was eighteen. You cannot be expected to know. You have lived a far more sheltered life.”

“Charlie,” she said, suddenly arrested by a thought, “do
you
have children other than Charles?”

“Claudia!”
He was obviously embarrassed. “That is
not
a question a lady asks a gentleman.”

“You
do,
” she said. “You do have others. Don't you?”

“I will not answer that,” he said. “Really, Claudia, you always spoke your mind far more freely than you ought. It is one thing I always admired about you—and still do. But there are bounds—”

“You have
children
!” she said. “Do you love them and care for them?”

He laughed suddenly and shook his head ruefully.

“You are impossible!” he told her. “I am a gentleman, Claudia. I do what a gentleman must do.”

The poor dead duchess, Claudia thought. For, unlike Lizzie, Charlie's illegitimate children must have been begotten when he was already married. How many were there? she wondered. And what sort of lives did they lead? But she could not ask. It was something some sort of gentleman's code of honor forbade him to speak of with a lady.

“This has all rather spoiled the atmosphere I hoped to create this morning,” he said with a sigh. “The anniversary is today, Claudia. Tomorrow or the next day at the latest I must leave. I am well aware that I am the only guest at Alvesley who does not have some claim to be family. I do not know when I will see you again.”

“We must write to each other,” she said.

“You know that is not good enough for me,” he told her.

She turned her head to look more fully at him. They were friends again, were they not? She had determinedly let go of the hurt of the past and allowed herself to like him again, even though there were things about him she did not particularly approve of. Surely he was not still—

“Claudia,” he said, “I want you to marry me. I love you, and I think you are fonder of me than you will admit. Tell me now that you will marry me, and tonight's ball will seem like heaven. I will not have an announcement made there, I suppose, since it is in honor of the Redfields and besides, neither of us has any close bond with the family. But we will be able to let it be known informally. I will be the happiest of men. That is a horrible cliché, I know, but it would be true nonetheless. What do you say?”

She had nothing to say for several moments. She had been taken completely by surprise—again. What had obviously been a deepening romance to him had been merely a growing friendship to her. And today of all days she was not ready to cope with this.

“Charlie,” she said eventually, “I do not love you.”

There was a lengthy, uncomfortable silence. They had almost stopped walking. There was a boat pushing out from the bank some distance away, she saw—the Marquess of Attingsborough with Lizzie. She was smitten with a memory of his rowing her on the River Thames during Mrs. Corbette-Hythe's garden party. But she must not let her thoughts wander. She looked back at Charlie.

“You have said the one thing,” he told her, “against which I have no argument. You loved me once, Claudia. You
made
love with me. Do you not remember?”

She closed her eyes briefly. Actually she could not remember much apart from the inexpert fumblings and the pain and the happy conviction afterward that now they belonged together for all time.

“It was a long time ago,” she said gently. “We are different people now, Charlie. I am fond of you, but—”

“Damn your fondness,” he said, and smiled ruefully at her. “And damn you. And now accept my humblest apologies for using such atrocious language in your hearing.”

“But not for the atrocious sentiments?”

“No,” he said, “not for those. My punishment is to be lifelong, then, is it?”

“Oh, Charlie,” she said, “this is not punishment. I forgave you when you asked. But—”

“Marry me anyway,” he said, “and to the devil with love. You
do
love me anyway. I am sure of it.”

“As a friend,” she said.

“Ouch!” He frowned. “Think about it. Think long and hard. And I'll ask again this evening. After that I will not pester you. Promise me you will think and try to change your mind?”

She sighed and shook her head.

“I will not change my mind between now and tonight,” she said. “It is too late for us, Charlie.”

“Think hard about it anyway,” he said. “I will ask again tonight. Dance the opening set with me.”

“Very well,” she said.

A silence fell between them.

“I wish,” he said, “I had known at eighteen what I know now—that there are some things on which one does not compromise. We had better walk back to the house, I suppose. I have made an idiot of myself, have I not? You cannot see anything more than a friend in me. It is not enough. Maybe by tonight you will have changed your mind. Though it will not happen just because I want it, I daresay.”

And yet, she thought as she walked beside him, if they had not met in London this year, he quite probably would not have spared her another thought all the rest of his life.

She could see that Lizzie was trailing her hand in the water—as
she
had done in the Thames not long ago. And then she heard the sound of distant laughter—his and Lizzie's mingled.

She felt more lonely than she had felt for a long, long time. There seemed to be a dark and bottomless pit right inside her.

         

Portia Hunt had no relatives at Alvesley Park. She did not have any particular friends there, either, apart from Wilma. And now Joseph had gone off to Lindsey Hall for the morning.

Joseph's relatives were not unkind. Although all except his immediate family disapproved of her as a choice for his bride, they felt genuine sympathy for her. She had had an unpleasant shock during the picnic, even if she
had
largely brought it upon herself. It was understandable that she had felt somewhat humiliated. And clearly there had been some great upset later in the afternoon and again late in the evening after Joseph returned from escorting Miss Martin home. Somehow the betrothal had survived, though—Wilma had informed them all of that.

Susanna and Anne had informed Lauren and Gwen and Lily that it was a great shame because Claudia Martin was in love with Joseph—and he with her, they dared say. It was with
her
he had gone searching for Lizzie, was it not? And it was
she
he had asked to come to the house to watch Lizzie while he spoke with his father and Miss Hunt. And it was he who had taken her back to Lindsey Hall though Kit had offered to escort her. He had not come back immediately, either.

But they were kind ladies. Although there were all sorts of things they might have been doing in preparation for the grand anniversary ball in the evening, they invited Miss Hunt to go walking with them—and Wilma too. They strolled along the wilderness walk beyond the formal garden and the little bridge. Lily asked Miss Hunt about her wedding plans, and she launched into a discussion of a subject that was obviously dear to her heart.

“How lovely,” Susanna said with a sigh as they passed the turnoff to the steep path that would have taken them to the top of the hill, and kept on along level ground instead, “to be so in love and planning a wedding.”

“Oh,” Portia said, “I would not dream of being so vulgar, Lady Whitleaf, as to imagine myself
in love
. A lady chooses her husband with far more good sense and judgment.”

“Indeed,” Wilma said, “one would not wish to find oneself married to a miller or a banker or a schoolmaster merely because one
loved
him, would one?”

Susanna looked at Anne, and Lauren looked at Gwen, and Lily smiled.

“I think what is best,” she said, “is to marry a man with a title and wealth and property and good looks and charm and character—and to be head over ears in love with him too. Provided he felt the same way, of course.”

They all laughed except Portia. Even Wilma tittered. Tiresome and stuffy as the family all found the Earl of Sutton, it was also no secret among them that he and Wilma were partial to each other.

“What is
best,
” Portia said, “is to be in control of one's emotions at all times.”

They turned back in the direction of the house rather sooner than they might have done. Although the sky was still blue and cloudless and the tree branches overhead not so thick that they blocked out all the sunlight, a chill seemed to have settled on the air.

The Duke of McLeith was standing on the small bridge, his arms draped over the wooden rail on one side, gazing down into the water. He straightened up and smiled when he saw the ladies come toward him.

“You are back from Lindsey Hall already?” Susanna asked redundantly. “Did you see Claudia?”

“I did.” He looked mournful. “She is, it seems, a dedicated teacher and a confirmed spinster.”

Susanna exchanged a glance with Anne.

“I think,” Wilma said, “she ought to be grateful for your condescension in taking notice of her, your grace.”

“Ah,” he said, “but we grew up together, Lady Sutton. She always had a mind of her own. If she had been a man, she would have succeeded at whatever she set her hand to. Even as a woman, she has been remarkably successful. I am proud of her. But I am a little—”

“A little—?” Gwen prompted.

“Melancholy,” he said.

“Did Joseph return with you?” Lauren asked.

“He did not,” the duke said. “He took his d—He went boating with someone. I chose not to wait for him.”

“He is incorrigible!” Wilma said crossly. “He was fortunate indeed yesterday that Miss Hunt was generous enough to forgive him for saying what was really quite unforgivable in my estimation, even if he
is
my brother. But he is tempting fate today. He ought to have returned
immediately
.”

“Well,” Lauren said briskly, “I really must return to the house. There must be a thousand and one things to be done before this evening. Gwen, you and Lily were going to help me with the floral arrangements.”

“Harry will be needing to be fed soon,” Susanna said.

“And I promised to go and watch Sydnam and David paint,” Anne said. “Megan will be waiting to go with me.”

“Wilma,” Lauren said, “your parties are always in the very best of good taste. Do come with us and give your opinion on the decorations in the ballroom and the arrangement of the tables in the supper room, will you?”

She paused and looked at Portia.

“Miss Hunt,” she said, “perhaps you will keep his grace company for a while? He will think we are deserting him so soon after coming upon him.”

“Not at all, Lady Ravensberg,” he assured her. “But I have been told, Miss Hunt, that the view from the top of the hill over there is well worth the rather steep climb. Would you care to come with me to see?”

“I would be delighted,” she told him.

“Joseph will be
very
fortunate,” Wilma said after they had moved out of earshot, “if the Duke of McLeith does not steal Miss Hunt from right beneath his nose. And who could blame him? Or her? I never thought to be ashamed of my own brother, but
really
…”

“I have been more than a little annoyed with him myself,” Gwen said, linking her arm through Wilma's. “Keeping such a secret from us, indeed, just as if we were all stern judges instead of
family
.
And
I am annoyed with Neville. He knew all along, did he not, Lily?”

“He did,” Lily said, “but he did not tell even me. One must admire his loyalty, Gwen. But I wish we had known sooner. Lizzie is a very sweet child, is she not?”

“She looks like Joseph,” Lauren said. “She is going to be a beauty.”

“She is
blind,
” Wilma protested.

“I have a feeling,” Anne said, “that she is not going to allow that fact to be an affliction to her. Now that everyone knows about her, it is going to be very interesting to watch her development.”

Wilma held her peace.

They all went about their various tasks when they reached the house and left the comforting of Miss Hunt to the Duke of McLeith.

22

“What on earth did I do to deserve such a tumultuous summer?
” Claudia asked.

It was a rhetorical question, but Eleanor attempted an answer anyway.

“You decided to go to London,” she said, “and I encouraged you. I even urged you to stay for longer than you had originally planned.”

“Mr. Hatchard was evasive about Edna's and Flora's employers,” Claudia said. “Susanna persuaded Frances to sing and invited me to stay for the concert. She sent the Marquess of Attingsborough to escort me to London because he was in Bath at the time—and he happened to have a daughter he wished to place at the school. Charlie chose this particular spring to leave Scotland for the first time in years. And you just happen to be the sister of the Duchess of Bewcastle and accepted an invitation to bring the charity girls here and so I have been tripping over Bedwyns at every turn since I left Bath. And…and…and so the list goes on. How do we ever discover the root cause of any effect, Eleanor? Do we trace it back to Adam and Eve?
They
were a pair to cause any imaginable catastrophe.”

“No, no, Claudia.” Eleanor came to stand behind her at the dressing table in her bedchamber. “You will pull your hair out by the roots if you drag it back so severely. Here.” She took the brush from Claudia's hand and loosened the knot at her neck so that her hair fell more softly over her head. She fussed a little over the knot itself. “That is better. Now you look far more as if you are going to a ball. I do like that green muslin. It is very elegant. You showed it to me in Bath, but I have not seen it on you until tonight.”

“
Why
am I going to the ball?” Claudia asked. “Why are you not the one going and I the one staying?”

“Because,” Eleanor said, her eyes twinkling as they met Claudia's in the mirror, “you are the one those women insulted yesterday, and it is important to Lady Redfield and her daughter-in-law that you make an appearance. And because you have never hidden from a challenge. Because you have promised to dance the opening set with the Duke of McLeith even if you
did
make it clear to him this morning that you will not marry him, poor man. Because someone has to stay with the girls, and it is generally known and accepted that I
never
attend balls or other lavish entertainments.”

“You have made your point,” Claudia said dryly, getting to her feet. “And also I attend such entertainments because I sometimes consider them
obligations
—unlike some persons who will remain nameless.”

“And you will go,” Eleanor said, “because it may be the last time you see him.”

Claudia looked sharply at her.
“Him?”

Eleanor picked up Claudia's paisley shawl from the bed and held it out to her.

“I have misunderstood all summer,” she said. “I thought it was the Duke of McLeith, but I was wrong. I am sorry. I really am. Everyone is.”

“Everyone?”

“Christine,” Eleanor said. “Eve, Morgan, Freyja…”

“Lady Hallmere?”

Was it really possible that all these people
knew
? But as she took the shawl from Eleanor, Claudia knew that indeed they must. They had all guessed. How absolutely
appalling
.

“I cannot go,” she said. “I will send down some excuse. Eleanor, go and tell—”

“Of course you will go,” Eleanor said. “You are Claudia Martin.”

Yes, she was. And Claudia Martin was not the sort to hide in a dark corner, her head buried beneath a cushion, just because she was embarrassed and humiliated and brokenhearted and any number of other ugly, negative things if she only stopped to think what they were.

She straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, pressed her lips together, and regarded her friend with a martial gleam in her eye.

“Heaven help anyone who gets in your way tonight,” Eleanor said, laughing and stepping forward to hug her. “Go and show those two shrews that a headmistress from Bath is not to be cowed by genteel spite.”

“Tomorrow I return to Bath,” Claudia said. “Tomorrow I return to sanity and my own familiar world. Tomorrow I take up the rest of my life where I left it off when I stepped into the Marquess of Attingsborough's carriage one morning a thousand or so years ago. But tonight, Eleanor…Well,
tonight
.”

She laughed despite herself.

She led the way from the room with firm strides. All she needed, she thought ruefully, was a shield in one hand and a spear in the other—and a horned helmet on her head.

         

There had been a grand dinner to precede the ball. It had been a joyful, festive occasion for the family and houseguests. Speeches had been delivered and toasts drunk. The Earl and Countess of Redfield had looked both pleased and happy.

Joseph would have led Portia straight into the ballroom afterward since that was where most of the houseguests were gathering, and the outside guests were beginning to arrive. But she needed to return to her room to have her maid make some adjustments to her hair and to fetch her fan, and so Joseph wandered into the ballroom alone.

He mingled with the other guests. It was not really difficult to be sociable and genial, to look as if he were enjoying himself—it all came as naturally to him as breathing.

The Earl and Countess of Redfield, to everyone's delight, danced the opening set with their guests, a slow and stately and old-fashioned quadrille.

Portia was punishing him, Joseph thought when the set began, by being late and stranding him on the sidelines. He had, of course, elicited the opening set with her. He went and talked with his mother and Aunt Clara and a couple of Kit's aunts. He soon had them laughing.

Claudia was not dancing either. He had tried to stay far away from her since her arrival with the party from Lindsey Hall. He had not, though, been able to keep his mind off her. And now that he was standing in one place, talking and listening, he could not keep his eyes from her either.

She looked very severe even though she was wearing the prettier of her evening gowns. She was standing alone, watching the dancing. It amazed him that he had not seen through her disguise the moment he first set eyes on her in Bath. For that very upright, disciplined body was warm and supple and passion-filled, and that face with its regular, stern features and intelligent gray eyes was beautiful.
She
was beautiful.

Just last night, about this time…

He deliberately shifted position so that he stood with his back to her. And he looked toward the ballroom doors. There was still no sign of Portia.

He danced the next set with Gwen, who liked to dance despite her limp, and was pleased to see that Claudia was dancing with Rosthorn. When the set was over, he took Gwen to join a group that included Lauren and the Whitleafs. He commended Lauren on the festive appearance of the ballroom and on the early success of the evening. Should he have a maid sent up to Portia's room, he wondered, to make sure she had not eaten something that disagreed with her or met with some accident? It was strange indeed that she would miss a whole hour of the ball.

But before he could make up his mind to take action, he felt a light touch on his shoulder and turned to find one of the footmen bowing to him and holding out a folded piece of paper.

“I was asked to deliver this to you, my lord,” he said, “after the second set.”

“Thank you,” Joseph said, taking it.

A reply to his note to Claudia, was it?

He excused himself, turned away from the group, broke the seal, and opened the single sheet. It was from Portia—his eyes moved down to her signature first. He sincerely hoped she was
not
ill. His mind was already moving ahead to the summoning of a physician—without disrupting the ball, it was to be hoped.

“Lord Attingsborough,” he read, “it is with regret that I must inform you that upon mature reflection I find I cannot and will not endure the insult of a bastard daughter flaunted before me by my own affianced husband. I also have no wish to remain longer in a home in which only the Duke of Anburey and Lord and Lady Sutton were properly shocked by your vulgarity and prepared to take you to task for it. I will therefore be leaving before the ball begins. I am going with the Duke of McLeith, who has obliged me by offering to take me to Scotland to marry me. I will not flatter you by declaring myself to be your obedient servant.”

And then her signature.

He folded the paper.

Claudia, he noticed at a glance, was doing exactly the same thing some distance away.

“Anything wrong, Joseph?” Lauren asked, setting a hand on his arm.

“No, nothing,” he said, turning his head to smile at her. “Portia has gone, that is all. She has eloped with McLeith.”

Which was an odd way of answering her question, he realized even as he spoke. But his head was buzzing.

“Excuse me?” he said even as her eyes widened and her mouth formed into an O.

He hurried from the ballroom and took the stairs two at a time up to the next floor. He knocked on Portia's door and, when there was no answer, opened it cautiously. It was in darkness, but even in just the dim light of the moon from outside it was clear to him that she really was gone. Nothing adorned the top of either the dressing table or the table beside the bed. The wardrobe was empty.

Foolish woman, he thought. Foolish woman! Elopement was not the way to go. In the eyes of the world she would have broken off her engagement to him in order to run off to Scotland with another man. She would be beyond the social pale. She would be ostracized. Portia of all people—so very proper and correct in all her dealings with society.

And McLeith!

Should he go after them? But they had at least an hour's head start, probably longer. And what was the point, even if he caught up with them? They were both mature adults. Perhaps she would find some measure of happiness with McLeith. She would, after all, be married to a duke immediately instead of having to wait for the death of his father. And she would presumably live in Scotland, where perhaps the social stigma of having eloped would not attach so strongly to her.

But foolish Portia, he thought, standing at the window looking out onto a darkened lawn. She might have broken off her engagement and returned to her parents and then announced her forthcoming marriage to McLeith. It was unlike her to be rashly impulsive.

He liked her the better for it.

Claudia's letter, he assumed, had been from McLeith.

He allowed his thoughts to dwell on her unchecked for the first time since his return to Alvesley last night.

He hardly dared believe in his freedom. Even now he might go back down to the ballroom to find Portia there, come to her senses and come back to Alvesley and him.

There was only one way of finding out, he supposed.

         

At first Claudia had been rather relieved when Charlie did not appear to claim the opening set she had promised him. She really did not want this morning's question renewed. But then, after the set had begun, she felt somewhat annoyed. A gentleman she had met at the picnic yesterday had solicited her hand, and she had rejected him with the explanation that she had already promised the set.

It felt a little humiliating to be forced to stand alone watching everyone else below the age of fifty dancing. And perhaps that gentleman would think she had lied and simply did not wish to dance with him.

Charlie really ought not to have put her in such an awkward position. It was not courteous, and she would tell him so when he finally came. Of course, the thought did cross her mind that perhaps he was punishing her for her rejection of his proposal this morning. But he had asked her for the set
after
she had said a very firm no.

She danced the next set—a vigorous country dance—with the Earl of Rosthorn and had just joined Anne and Sydnam afterward when someone tapped her lightly on the shoulder. It was a footman, who had brought her a note. From Charlie? From
Joseph
? Charlie had still not put in an appearance.

“Excuse me,” she said, turning away slightly for some privacy and then breaking the seal and unfolding the letter.

It was from Charlie. She ignored a very slight feeling of disappointment.

“My dearest Claudia,” he had written, “it seems rather just to me that I should suffer now as perhaps you suffered eighteen years ago. For while I suffered then too, I was essentially the rejecter, as you are now. And it feels wretched to love yet be rejected. I will not wait for your answer this evening. You have already given it and I would not distress you by forcing you to repeat it. Miss Hunt is unhappy too. She feels, quite rightly, that she has been badly used here. We have been able to offer each other some comfort today. And perhaps we will be able to continue to do so for a lifetime. By the time you read this, we ought to be well on our way to Scotland, where we will marry without delay. She will, I believe, be a conscientious wife and duchess, and I will be a dutiful husband. I wish you well, Claudia. You will always be to me the sister I never had, the friend who made my growing years happy ones, and the lover who might have been had fate not intervened. Forgive me if you will for failing to keep my promise to dance with you this evening. Your humble, obedient servant, McLeith (Charlie).”