Tangled (11 page)

And now David could be hers. She felt breathless suddenly, as if she had been running hard. It was wrong to

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be attracted to a man's body. The physical did not matter. It was unimportant in life. She had heard that so many times at church and from her parents and her governess when she was growing up that it was deeply ingrained in her very being. Besides, she knew from experience that the physical side of love was not even pleasant for a woman.

It was a duty. It was the price a woman paid for a home and a place of her own in the social order. And for companionship and love and that feeling of oneness with the beloved. And for children if only one could bear them to term. It had been such a small price to pay for Julian. A few minutes of discomfort each night in exchange for long days of his love and for what she had hoped would be a lifetime of companionship.

"Rebecca," David said, breaking the silence, "I would be unhappy at Stedwell, thinking of you pining away alone here. I want us both to have a new life. The roses will be dying soon, won't they? Soon it will be autumn and then winter. But spring will come again. It always does. When the roses bloom again, you could be mistress of your own home. You could have a new and meaningful life. You could have something to replace the grief and the emptiness. For Julian's sake I want to give you security and a chance at least for contentment.''

"For Julian's sake?" she said. "Is that what this is all about, then, David?"

"And for mine," he said. "I need you."

That was what did it finally, that repeated assertion that he needed her. It was so long since she had been needed, since she had felt that her existence mattered to at least one other person. Julian's all too few letters from Malta and Varna had been filled with love and longing, but he had not needed her enough to send for her. That was unfair, of course. He had denied himself and insisted she stay at home because she had just miscarried and had not fully recovered either her health or her spirits before he left. But she had searched his letters for need, for some sign that he could not live without her, just as she could not live without him. She would have gone at a moment's notice.

And since Julian's death? Louisa had needed her, at

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least financially, for a while. But no longer. The earl had been kind to her. But he did not need her. No one had needed her for a long time.

"David—" she said.

But he would not let her finish. He took one of her hands in his and squeezed it tightly. "Rebecca," he said, "I need you. I need you to say yes more than you can possibly realize." Just as if he knew what argument would finally tell with her.

She looked up into his eyes. They gazed back intently and—anxiously? He really did want to marry her, she realized. And she thought of how it must be for him to be home in England again, alive and safe after the horrors of one of the worst wars in English history. She thought of how eager he must be to put it all behind him and start the new life he had decided upon. A new life in which he would undoubtedly need a woman's help. She could understand his impatience, his unwillingness to look about him for the uncertain advent of love. And for the moment she gave in to the temptation to block from her mind the knowledge that he should cultivate patience, that he should give himself the time to choose with greater care.

He needed a wife. And he needed one now. He had chosen her because he knew her and felt a certain degree of affection for her. And because of Julian. But most of all because he needed her.

"You need not fear that I will pine for him or talk of him or even think of him," she said. "When I become your wife, David, you will have all of me. As it should be. As it must be in marriage." She was not sure if she was offering the impossible.

"When?"
he said. "Are you saying yes?"

She nodded.

He squeezed her hand a little more tightly. "I'll see the vicar this afternoon," he said, "and have him begin calling the banns next Sunday.''

"Yes," she said. "I'll see the dressmaker and have new clothes made.

It would be disrespectful to you to wear even half-mourning after our marriage.'' She looked down at her hand when he released it and drew off her wedding ring, teasing it slowly over the knuckle it had

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not passed since Julian has put it there on their wedding day. She dropped the ring into the pocket of her dress, aware of David's eyes on her. Her hand felt suddenly and appallingly naked. Her finger was white and dented where the ring had been.

"Thank you, Rebecca," he said quietly.

She smiled fleetingly at him. He was a serious and stern man, as his father had always been. As her father had been too. Though there had been that strange wild-ness in David too—all the more disturbing because it never seemed quite to fit his outer aspect. It almost seemed that he must be two people. She could not quite picture him with Flora. ... He would not be easy to live with. He was her betrothed, she thought suddenly. In less than a month's time, once the banns had been called, he would be her husband. She felt panic claw at her stomach. What had she done? David? David of all people?

But she would not retract. Her word had been given. He needed her, and heaven knew she needed him too, or the life he could offer her anyway.

He was going to be her husband.

"I'll leave you to your thoughts and your book," he said gravely, handing it to her and getting to his feet. "You would like to be alone, wouldn't you?"

It was an unanswerable question. "Thank you," she said, taking the book.

"I'll see you at luncheon," he said. "Shall we tell my father and Louisa together then?"

Her stomach lurched. It would be real, irrevocable, once someone else knew. "Yes," she said. "You announce it, please, David."

"Until later, then," he said.

When he was gone, she lifted the book with both hands against her mouth and closed her eyes. She could not stop herself from remembering that when Julian had proposed marriage to her and she had accepted, he had whooped with delight and very improperly lifted her off her feet and twirled her about until they were laughing and dizzy. And then he had kissed her. . . .

******************************************************************

"I would like a word with you, David," the earl said when he rose from the luncheon table.

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The two men had said very little during the past ten minutes, since David had announced that Rebecca was to marry him and remove to Stedwell with him in one month's time. Louisa had scarcely stopped talking—and sparkling with excitement. She was talking animatedly about bride-clothes to Rebecca when the earl got to his feet. And then she flushed and scrambled to hers.

"I am so sorry, William," she said. "I forgot myself."

"David would probably not believe that you are normally very quiet, my dear," the earl said.

"Have I been talking too much?" Her flush deepened. "So many happy things have been happening in the last few days. David's coming home and my discovery that he is not an ogre after all; my visit to the doctor and his confirmation of my hopes; and now Rebecca betrothed— to David. Why isn't everyone prattling?" She laughed.

"David?" the earl said.

The countess laughed again. "It takes a woman to appreciate a wedding," she said. "Rebecca, do come to my room and I shall have tea brought up." She linked her arm through Rebecca's.

The earl's manner was not so festive. He crossed to the window of the library a few minutes later as David closed the door behind them, and stood looking out, his hands clasped at his back.

"David," he said, "have you considered carefully?"

"About my marriage?" David said. "Yes, Papa. Very carefully.''

"Why are you doing this?" the earl asked. "Is it for Julian's sake?"

With his father at least he did not have to dissemble— or not entirely so anyway. Yes, it was for Julian's sake. Or at least for the sake of what he had done to Julian. But the reason was simpler than that—and far more complicated. And that at least he could admit to his father.

"I love her," he said.

The earl turned from the window, his eyes hard. "Oh, yes," he said.

"I know that, David. I've always known that. She was intended for you, you know. That was the reason for all those visits as the two of you were growing

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up. But she chose Julian instead. Marrying her now is the last thing you should be doing."

"Because she chose him rather than me?" David asked. He had not known that Rebecca had been meant for him. It was a new and rather painful realization.

"Yes, because of that," the earl said. "And because of the reason she did, David. She was besotted with him. She has not even begun to recover from his loss yet. She is unhappy and lonely and upset now because of Louisa's condition."

"Then I will soothe her unhappiness and loneliness," David said,

"and give her a child of her own."

The earl frowned. "You do not know much about life, David," he said, "for all your years and your experiences as a soldier. Your love and concern are not going to make her forget Julian. They will only make her feel resentful. She will come to hate you."

Perhaps he did know more about life than his father thought. He knew the risk that he ran. He had already felt all the fears that his father was voicing. But his father did not know the other reasons for his marriage. It was something he had to do even if she did come to hate him eventually. He had to care for her, look after her, keep her safe. He had to somehow make up for letting her marry Julian in the first place and for taking Julian away from her in the end.

"I want her," he said. "I need her."

His father passed a hand over his eyes. "My son," he said, "I wanted you to be happy. All I have ever wanted for you is happiness."

"I'll be happy, Papa," David said. "I
am
happy. Rebecca is going to marry me."

"And so they lived happily ever after," his father said wearily. "I loved Julian as a son, David, and always treated him as one—or so I thought. But perhaps I deceived myself in believing that. I always loved you more. And your life was ever blighted by him. Now it seems that he is reaching out even beyond the grave to cloud your happiness. You will not be happy with Rebecca."

"I thought you loved her too," David said quietly.

"I do," the earl said, "and will continue to do so after

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she is your wife, David. She is a good woman and the soul of honor. If she has agreed to marry you, then I know she will do her best to make you a good wife. But I am not sure that her best will be good enough. Not for you, my son. You need more than she can give."

"I have told her that I do not expect her love," David said. "I have told her that I understand about Julian. I know she will always love him."

"Then you are a fool," the earl said, seating himself heavily in the chair behind the desk, "or an innocent. You will never step free of his shadow, will you? The stronger dragged down by the weaker?''

David stared at his father.

"Did you think me so very blind and so very stupid?" the earl asked. "Did you not realize that I always knew, my son? Knew that nine out of every ten thrashings I gave you as a boy were given to the wrong son? I suppose we both loved him unwisely and too well. You shielded him from my wrath because he was not my son as you were, and I punished you instead of him to show him that I loved him no less than I loved you. And now this, David. You would marry the widow who should have been your wife because she is lonely and heartbroken— because of Julian."

David could think of nothing to say.

"Well." The earl got to his feet again. "There is nothing to be done about it now, is there? Your offer has been made and accepted.

Honor must take you to the altar now. I will hope for your happiness, my son. And I will pray for it fervently.''

"Thank you," David said.

"Brandy?" the earl asked, setting out two glasses on a sideboard before picking up the decanter. ' T will have to hope, I suppose, that there will be no Julian to be playmate to my new son or daughter.

And yet I loved him, David. One would have had to try very hard not to love Julian. He always meant well. He was just weaker than you.

We both felt the need to protect him."

"Yes," David said.

"He died well?" the earl asked. "The story you told Rebecca was at least close to the truth?''

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David drew a slow breath. "He died well, Papa," he said.

The earl nodded and handed him his glass. "I notice that you have not answered my second question," he said. "But we will let it rest.

And what about Richard Ellis? You have seen him since your return home?''

"Yesterday," David said. "He seems to be a sturdy and happy little lad."

"He looks not unlike you," the earl said, sitting down again and looking keenly at his son. "Except for his eyes."

"Yes," David said.

"You will continue to provide for your
son?"
the earl asked, putting a little extra emphasis on the last word.

"Of course," David said. "He will go away to a good school when he is older, as I assured Flora yesterday, and I will see to it that he is prepared for decent employment. ''

"Yes," the earl said. "I would not expect you to forget your obligations, David, even after your marriage and after the birth perhaps of legitimate offspring."

"I will not forget," David said.

The earl nodded. "Louisa is going to take this wedding right out of your hands," he said. "She is ecstatic, as you doubtless realized at luncheon. There will be guests galore and flowers and decorated carriages and wedding breakfasts and numerous atrocities I cannot even dream of at the moment. The mind winces away from the very prospect. But she is to be humored, David." He frowned rather ferociously as if he expected to have to deal with stiff opposition. "Do you understand me? She is to be allowed to do all that is proper for you and Rebecca."