The Proposal (31 page)

“It is a good question,” his friend said with a wry smile. “As a young man I was taught by all who had authority and influence over me that the two should never be mixed—not by someone of my social stature, anyway. Romance was for mistresses. Love, though it was never defined, was for wives. I loved Miriam, whatever that means. I enjoyed a few romances in the early years of our marriage, though I regret them now. I owed her better. If I were young now, Hugo, I believe I would look for love and romance and marriage all in the same place, and bedamned to any dire warning that the romance would grow thin and the love even thinner. I regret much in my life, but there is no point, is there? At this moment we are both in exactly the spot to which we have brought ourselves through our birth and our life experiences, through the myriad choices we have made along the way. The only thing over which we have any control whatsoever is the very next decision we make. But pardon me. You asked a question. I do not know the answer, I regret to say, and I suspect there
is
none. Each relationship is unique. You are in love with Lady Muir, are you?”

“I suppose so,” Hugo said.

“And she is in love with you.” It was a statement, not a question.

“It is hopeless,” Hugo said. “There is nothing but romance to recommend it.”

“That is not so,” the duke said. “There is more, Hugo. I know you rather well, and so I know much of what lies beneath the granite, almost morose shell with which you have cloaked yourself to the public view. I do not know Lady Muir well at all, but I sense something … Hmm. I find myself stuck for the appropriate word. I sense depths to her character that can match your own.
Substance
is perhaps the word for which my mind is reaching.”

“It is still hopeless,” Hugo said.

“Perhaps,” the duke agreed. “But those who are most obviously in love and well suited to each other often do not withstand the first test life throws their way. And life always does that sooner or later. Think of poor Flavian and his erstwhile betrothed as a case in point. When two people are
not
well suited and know it but are in love anyway, then perhaps they are better prepared to meet any obstacles in their path and to fight them with all the weapons at their disposal. They do not
expect
life to be easy, and of course it never is. They have a chance of making it through anyway. And all this is pure conjecture, Hugo. I really do not
know
.”

There was no one else to ask. Hugo knew what Flavian would say, and Ralph had no experience. He was not going to ask any of his cousins. They would want to know why he asked, and then
all
of them would know, and they would all be in raptures because Hugo was in love at last. And they would want to know who she was, and they would want to meet her, and it did not bear thinking of.

Besides, as George had said, no one could
tell
you about love or romance or what would happen if you married and the romance dwindled away. You could only find out for yourself. Or
not
find out.

You could face the challenge or you could turn away from it.

You could be a hero or a coward.

You could be a wise man or a fool.

A cautious man or a reckless one.

Were there
any
answers to
anything
in life?

Life was a bit like walking a thin, swaying, fraying tightrope over a deep chasm with jagged rocks and a few wild animals waiting at the bottom. It was that dangerous—and that exciting.

Arrgghh!

The day was perfect for a garden party. That was the first thing Hugo realized when he got out of bed in the morning and drew back the curtains at the window of his bedchamber. But for once the sunshine brought him no joy. Perhaps clouds would move in later. Perhaps by afternoon it would rain.

It would be too late by then, though, to cancel the garden party. It would probably be too late anyway, even if it had been raining buckets out there already. No doubt the hosts would have an alternate plan. They probably had a ballroom or two hidden away in their mansion just waiting to accommodate the crème de la crème of English society—as well as Constance and him. And they would all be sumptuously decorated to look like indoor gardens.

No, there was no avoiding it. Besides, Constance was so excited that she had declared last evening she doubted she would get a wink of sleep. And he had not seen Lady Muir for three whole days. Not since she went off home from George’s with the Portfreys and he had had to content himself with a mere brushing of his lips over the back of her gloved hand.

So much for a kiss a day. But then he was not really courting her, was he?

The afternoon was as perfect as the morning, and Constance must have slept last night after all since she was looking pretty and bright-eyed and was bouncing with energy today. The whole thing was not to be avoided. Hugo’s carriage was at the door five minutes early, and Hilda and Paul Crane, her betrothed, who arrived at almost the same moment, waved them on their way. They had come to take Fiona for a walk, her first outing in a long while.

Constance slipped a hand into Hugo’s as they drew near their destination.

“I am not nearly as frightened as I was when we were going to the Ravensberg ball,” she said. “I know people now, and they are really quite kind, are they not? And of course, no one will have eyes for me when I am with
you,
so I will not be self-conscious at all. Are you in love with Lady Muir?”

He raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat.

“That would be daft, wouldn’t it?” he said.

“No dafter than me falling in love with Mr. Hind or Mr. Rigby or Mr. Everly or any of the others,” she said.

“
Are
you in love with them?” he asked her. “Or any one of them?”

“No, of course not,” she said. “None of them
do
anything, Hugo. They live on money that is given them. Which is what I do, I suppose, but it is different for a woman, is it not? One expects a man to
work
for a living.”

“That is a very middle-class idea,” he said, smiling at her.

“It seems more
manly
to work,” she said.

He smiled to himself.

“Oh,” she said, “I cannot
wait
to see the gardens, and to see how everyone is dressed. Do you like my new bonnet? I know Grandpapa would say it is absurd, but there would be a twinkle in his eye when he said it. And Mr. Tucker would agree with him and shake his head in that way he has when he does not really mean what he says.”

“It is a sight to behold,” he said. “Quite splendid, in fact.”

And then they arrived.

The gardens surrounding the Brittling mansion in Richmond were about one tenth the size of the park at Crosslands. They were about a hundred times less barren. There were mown lawns and lush flower beds and trees that looked as if they had been picked up bodily and placed just so for maximum pictorial effect. There was a rose arbor and an orangery, a bandstand and a summerhouse, a grassy alley lined with trees as straight as soldiers, statuary, a fountain, a three-tiered terrace descending from the house with flowers in stone urns.

It ought to have looked hopelessly cluttered. There ought to have been no room left for people.

But it looked magnificent and made Hugo think with dissatisfaction about his own park. And with longing to be back there. Had the lambs all survived? Were all the crops in the ground? Were there weeds growing in his flower bed? Singular—flower
bed
.

Lady Muir had come with her family and was there before them. She came hurrying toward them as soon as they arrived, her hands outstretched to Constance.

“There you are,” she said, “and you did wear the rose bonnet rather than the straw one. I do think you made the right choice. This one has considerably more dash. I am going to introduce you to people you have not met before—at their request in most cases. You have a famous brother, you see, though they will want to pursue an acquaintance with you for your own sake after they have met you.”

Her glance moved to Hugo as she mentioned him, and the color deepened in her cheeks.

She matched the sky with her blue dress and yellow bonnet trimmed with cornflowers.

“Do come with us, Lord Trentham,” she said as she took Constance by the arm. “Otherwise you will stand here looking like a fish out of water and scowling at everyone who wishes to shake you by the hand.”

“Oh,” Constance said, looking in surprise from one to the other of them. “Are you not
afraid
to talk to Hugo like that?”

“I have it on the best authority,” Lady Muir said, “that he used to carry spiders gently outdoors when he was a boy instead of squashing them underfoot.”

“Oh.” Constance laughed. “He
still
does that. He did it yesterday when Mama screamed as a huge daddy longlegs scurried across the carpet. She wanted someone to step on it.”

Hugo walked about with them, his hands clasped at his back. What a ridiculous thing fame was, he thought as people actually bowed and scraped to him and gazed at him in an awe that often seemed to render them speechless. At
him,
Hugo Emes. There was nobody more ordinary. There was nobody who was more of a nobody.

And then he saw Frank Carstairs sitting in the rose arbor, a blanket about his knees, a cup and saucer in his hands, his discontented-looking wife at his side. And Carstairs saw him and curled his lip and looked pointedly away.

Carstairs had caused him a few disturbed nights in the past week. He had been a brave, earnest, hardworking lieutenant, respected by both his men and his fellow officers. He had been as poor as a church mouse, however, since his grandfather was reputed to have gambled away the family fortune
and
he was merely a younger son. Hence his need to win his promotion rather than purchase it.

Constance was soon borne away by a group of young persons of both genders. They were going to walk down to the river, which could be reached along a private path lined invitingly with flowers and trees.

“The river is at least a quarter of a mile away,” Lady Muir said to Hugo. “I think I will remain here. My ankle was a little swollen yesterday, and I had to keep my foot up. I sometimes forget that I am not quite normal.”

“Now I know,” Hugo said, “what it is about you that has been bothering me. You are abnormal. All is explained.”

She laughed.

“I am going to sit in the summerhouse,” she said. “But you must not feel obliged to keep me company.”

He offered her his arm.

They sat and talked for almost an hour, though they were not alone all that time. A number of her cousins came and went. Ralph put in a brief appearance. The Duke and Duchess of Bewcastle and the Marquess and Marchioness of Hallmere stopped by for an introduction. The marchioness was Bewcastle’s sister, and Bewcastle was Ravensberg’s neighbor in the country. It was all very dizzying trying to sort out who was who in the
ton
.

“How do you remember who is who?” Hugo asked when he and Lady Muir were alone again.

She laughed.

“The same way you remember who is who in your world, I suppose,” she said. “I have had a lifetime of practice. I am hungry—and thirsty. Shall we go up to the terrace?”

Hugo really did not want to go there even though the idea of having some tea was tempting. Carstairs had moved from the rose arbor and was sitting on the second terrace, not far from the food tables. However, staying here was not an option either, he suddenly realized. Grayson, Viscount Muir, had appeared as if from nowhere and was on his way toward them, though he had been stopped for the moment by a large matron beneath what appeared to be an even larger hat.

Hugo got to his feet and offered his arm.

“I shall try to remember,” he said, “to extend my little finger when I hold my teacup.”

“Ah,” she said, “you are an apt pupil. I am proud of you.”

And she laughed up at him as they crossed the lawn in the direction of the terraces.

“Gwen,” a voice called imperiously as they reached the foot of the lowest terrace.

She turned with eyebrows raised.

“Gwen,” Grayson said again. He was standing a short distance away—but far enough that he had to raise his voice slightly and make his words far from private. “I will do myself the honor of walking with you or escorting you to your brother’s side. I am surprised he will allow you to let that fellow hang on your sleeve. I will certainly not do so.”

They were surrounded suddenly by a little pool of silence—a pool that included a number of listening guests.

She had paled, Hugo saw.

“Thank you, Jason,” she said, her voice steady but slightly breathless, “but I choose my own companions.”

“Not when you are a member of my family,” he said, “even if only by marriage. I have the honor of my late cousin, your husband, to uphold, as well as the name of Grayson, which you still bear. This fellow is a coward and a fraud in addition to being riffraff. He is a disgrace to the British military.”

Hugo released her arm and clasped his hands behind him. He set his feet apart and held himself erect and silent as he gazed directly at his adversary, very aware that the pool of silence surrounding them had become more the size of a lake.

“Oh, I say,” someone said and was immediately shushed.

“What nonsense you speak,” Lady Muir said. “How dare you, Jason? How
dare
you?”

“Ask him how he survived the Forlorn Hope without a scratch,” Grayson said, “when almost three hundred men died and the few who did not were grievously wounded.
Ask
him. Not that he would answer truthfully.
This
is the truth. Captain Emes led from behind,
well
behind. He sent his men on the way to their deaths and followed only after they had made the breach that allowed the rest of the forces through. And then he ran up and claimed the victory. There were not many men left to contradict him.”

There were gasps to break the silence.