A Summer to Remember (11 page)

He tried to find a flaw in her argument. But really there was none. Of course if he agreed to her strange proposal the betrothal would be a real one for him. And perhaps—yes, perhaps he could redeem the honor he had lost in the past few weeks and persuade her after all during the summer to marry him. Perhaps he could persuade her that what he had to offer was slightly more appealing than a life alone. Women, even those with the means to live independent lives, had very little real freedom.

He did not love Lauren Edgeworth. He did not even
know
her, he admitted ruefully. But of one thing he had grown painfully aware during the past half hour or so. She was a very real person with very real feelings. And she was one for whom he felt a certain regard. And one to whom he owed a debt.

“Are you sure a large house party would be to your taste?” he asked her, sitting upright again.

For the first time she turned her head to look at him. “I believe it would suit me admirably,” she said. “I was brought up to be a countess, remember? I was brought up to expect to run Newbury Abbey one day, to be the lady of the manor. Going to Alvesley as the betrothed of the Earl of Redfield’s heir would be something I could contemplate with the greatest confidence and ease. You would not be disappointed in me.”

He frowned into her eyes. “But why would you do all this merely to convince your family to leave you to your chosen way of life?” he asked. “Pardon me, but you are no timid or easily dominated female, Miss Edgeworth. All you really need to do, surely, is tell them that you have made up your own mind about your future and they might as soon save their breath to cool their porridge as seek to change your mind.”

She looked away again—to the dark trees at the other side of the path, to the sky above, just visible through the branches of the trees.

“Your confession tonight confirmed me in all the bad things I have thought or been told about you,” she said. “For a while I could think of nothing but getting away from you and never seeing you again. But . . .”

For a while it seemed that she would not continue. He waited.

“My life has been quiet and decorous,” she said. “I have only recently realized that it is also dull. Its dullness suits me. It is what I know, what I am comfortable with, what I will live with quite contentedly for the rest of my life. But recently I have felt a craving to know just once what it would be like to have some sort of adventure. To . . . Ah, I do not know how to put the feeling into words. I think that spending a summer in your company, masquerading as your betrothed, would be rather . . . adventurous. This all sounds very lame put into words.”

But she was saying much more than the words themselves conveyed. She was, obviously, a woman who had never known joy, who had long ago repressed all her potential for spontaneity and happiness.

“What I would get out of this bargain,” she continued, “would be your promise, Lord Ravensberg, to give me a summer I would not forget for the rest of my life. Adventure and . . . well,
adventure
. It is what I want in exchange for extricating you from an unwanted marriage.”

He thought she was finished, but she held up a staying hand when he would have spoken. She was looking at her other hand again, spread palm-up in her lap.

“There was a morning,” she said. “At Newbury just a few days after my wedding—the wedding that never was. I was walking early and alone down toward the beach—three things I almost never do. When I was descending the hill into the valley leading to the beach, I grew aware of voices and laughter. It was Neville and Lily, bathing together in the pool at the foot of a waterfall there beside a little cottage Neville’s grandfather built for his wife. The door was open. They had spent the night there. They were . . . Well, I believe they were both unclothed. And they were . . . I think the only suitable word is
frolicking
. It was the moment when I realized that she had won in more ways than one. He was blissfully happy, you see. And I could never have done that. I could never have behaved with such total . . . abandon. At least, I do not believe I ever could. It was passion I witnessed for a mere few seconds before I ran away as fast as I could.”

She drew breath to continue but shook her head and stopped.

“Are you asking,” he said, “for a summer of passion as well as adventure?”

“Of course not.” She seemed more herself for a moment, straightening her spine and lifting her chin, looking shocked. “I just want to know what—what it feels like to throw off some of the shackles that bind me. Just fleetingly. I am not a person made for wild, passionate emotions. Or for vivid happiness. I just want a summer to remember. Can you give it to me? If so, I will come to Alvesley with you.”

Good Lord! He sat back on the seat and looked at her averted face. She was a far more complex person than he had ever dreamed. A wounded person. One who for some reason he did not understand had never been whole, and never free. Even if she had married Kilbourne, he suspected, she would have lived a half existence hidden behind her mask of perfect gentility. What exactly was she asking of him? To bring her out from the shadows in which she had dwelled all her life? To teach her spontaneity and passion and laughter? Joy? So that she could then abandon him and proceed with the lonely spinster existence that was all that remained of her dreams?

Did he want to take on such a challenge and responsibility? What if he could not do it? Worse, what if he could? But a good challenge had always been the breath of life to him. And if he agreed to this bizarre proposal, he would, of course, go into it full tilt, determined to win her as his wife. She loved Kilbourne—always had, always would. He was not looking for love. But could he . . . bring her out into the light?

“I can give you a summer to remember,” he said.

She turned her head sharply in his direction. “You agree, then?”

He nodded. “I agree.”

It was the precise moment at which the first fireworks exploded with a series of loud cracks. Even within the shaded grove where they sat they could see the night sky suddenly lit up with great arcing rays of dazzling color.

7

L
auren was on her way to Alvesley Park. The long journey into Hampshire must be almost over, in fact, she thought. The afternoon was well advanced.

More than two weeks had passed since the evening at Vauxhall when all this madness had begun. And madness it surely was. At the time she had imagined—if she had stopped to think at all—that she would simply ride off with Viscount Ravensberg on their masquerade, that they would proceed the very next day to Alvesley and her summer of adventure.

It had not turned out that way.
Of course
it had not. Even before she had tossed and turned her way through a sleepless night after the Merklingers had conveyed her home, she had realized that what she had agreed to—no, what she had suggested—was not just a carefree fling for the two of them but a huge lie that was to involve a large number of people. Common sense and a regard for propriety almost prevailed at that point. She almost dashed off a note to Lord Ravensberg, canceling all their plans.

Almost
. But she had gone down to breakfast first, and Elizabeth had asked her about the evening at Vauxhall.

“It was very enjoyable,” she had replied—and after a moment’s hesitation, “Elizabeth, he asked me to marry him and I said yes.”

Elizabeth had risen hurriedly to her feet despite her bulk and hugged Lauren and laughed with delight and assured her that she had made a wise choice despite anything that Aunt Sadie and her ilk might say to the contrary.

“You have chosen to go with your heart after all, Lauren,” she had said. “I am so very proud of you and happy for you.”

Lord Ravensberg had called only an hour or so later to speak with the Duke of Portfrey, though he was not in any way Lauren’s guardian. It was a visit Lauren had not expected him to make, but one that Elizabeth had commented upon with approval.

Suddenly it had seemed out of the question simply to ride off for Alvesley with her betrothed. How could
she,
Lauren Edgeworth, have thought for a single moment that it might be possible? Suddenly everything had become very formal and correct.

Announcements had had to be made—to Lord Ravensberg’s family to expect her, to her grandfather in Yorkshire, to her family at Newbury Abbey, to her relatives in London, to the
ton
at large.

The betrothal—the
fake
betrothal—had become alarmingly real and no carefree adventure at all. Uncle Webster had rumbled with displeasure and called the viscount—in his absence—an impudent puppy. Aunt Sadie had called for the hartshorn, and Wilma had volubly declared herself speechless. Joseph had looked faintly amused but had offered no comment beyond a wish for Lauren’s happiness. The Duke of Portfrey had given it as his opinion that Lord Ravensberg’s notorious exploits amounted to nothing more than a sowing of wild oats. His military record told its own impressive story, he had added. He and Elizabeth had hosted a grand family dinner in celebration of the event the day before Lord Ravensberg left for Alvesley to break the news to his parents and two days before the announcement appeared in all the morning papers.

It had been impossible to come to Alvesley alone or with only a maid for company, of course, even though the journey could be made in one day. And impossible too to make the journey with Lord Ravensberg’s escort. Such behavior simply would not be proper—they were not wed. Elizabeth was within a month of her confinement and quite unable to travel. Lauren would not even ask Aunt Sadie to accompany her.

It was Aunt Clara, the Dowager Countess of Kilbourne, who was doing that. And Gwendoline, the widowed Lady Muir. They had come all the way from Dorsetshire to London in order to cry over her and laugh over her and hug her until her ribs felt bruised—and to accompany her to Alvesley at the invitation of the Countess of Redfield.

All was very formal, very proper.

Lauren felt weighed down by the hugeness of the lie she had set in motion. She had not told even Gwen the truth. And there had been no word from Lord Ravensberg to tell her how well—or how ill—his announcement had been received at Alvesley. Only the letter of formal invitation from his mother.

“Ah,” Aunt Clara said now, waking from a doze that had kept the two younger women silent and had left Lauren alone with her thoughts and her conscience, “this must be it. I will not be sorry to see the journey at an end, I must say.”

The carriage—the Duke of Portfrey’s, complete with all the pomp of ducal crest and splendidly liveried coachman, postilions, and outriders—had just passed through a small village and was slowing to turn between massive wrought-iron gates, which a porter was throwing wide. He stood aside, glanced up into the carriage, and dipped his head, pulling respectfully on his forelock.

“Oh, Lauren.” Gwen leaned forward to squeeze her cousin’s knee. “This looks very impressive indeed. You must be bursting with excitement. You have not seen Lord Ravensberg for almost two weeks.”

“I am eager to make the young man’s acquaintance,” Aunt Clara said. “Despite Sadie’s disapproval and Wilma’s foolish vapors, I am prepared to like him. Elizabeth does, and she is invariably sensible in her assessment of character. And he has won
your
regard, Lauren. That must override any possible doubt I might feel.”

Lauren curved her lips into a smile—they felt remarkably stiff. She did not want to be doing this—deceiving the two people who were dearest to her in the world, deceiving the Earl of Redfield and his family, bowling along through a shaded, heavily wooded park toward a charade of her own making. But of course it was too late now
not
to be doing it.

How could she have made that irresponsible suggestion at Vauxhall? What on earth had possessed her? She was
never
impulsive. And she did not even
like
Lord Ravensberg. Did she? Certainly she did not approve of him. His dancing eyes and his frequent laughter suggested altogether too careless an attitude to life. He positively delighted in doing and saying outrageous things that were simply not gentlemanly. At this precise moment, she thought with some alarm, she could not even remember exactly what he looked like.

Suddenly the carriage interior was flooded with sunlight again. Lauren moved her head closer to the window beside her and gazed ahead. They had drawn clear of the forest and were approaching a river, which they were going to cross via a roofed Palladian bridge. To her far left she could see that the river emptied its waters into a lake, which was just visible among the trees. Beyond the bridge, well-kept lawns sloped upward to the classical elegance of a large, gray stone mansion. The lawns were dotted with ancient trees. On the lake side of the house were stables and a carriage house.

“Oh,” she said, and Gwen pressed her face to the window too, turning her head to look backward.

“Splendid,” Aunt Clara said. She was looking through the opposite window. “That must be a rose arbor beside the house with flower parterres below it.”

Then Gwen was patting Lauren’s knee again and smiling, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

“I am so
happy
for you!” she exclaimed. “I
knew
that sooner or later you were bound to meet the man who was created just for you. Are you
very
deep in love with him?”

But Lauren only half heard. The carriage had turned past the stables, and its wheels were crunching over a wide graveled terrace toward the steep flight of marble steps leading up beyond massive fluted pillars to the mansion’s great double doors, which stood open. There were people on the steps—two, three, no, four of them. And at the foot of the steps, dashing and elegant in a form-fitting coat of blue superfine over tight gray pantaloons and shiny, tasseled Hessian boots, a sunny smile on his face . . .

“Ah, yes,” Lauren said, though whether in answer to Gwen’s question or her own foolish fear that she would not recognize him, no one thought to ask—least of all Lauren herself.

Kit had been restless all day. He had ridden for hours, alone, across country, following no particular route, trying to kill the hours until she could reasonably be expected. Then, back at the house, he had paced in and out of front-facing rooms, peering out through the windows long before the carriage could possibly roll into sight unless it had left London in the middle of the night. He had even walked briskly down to the lodge shortly after luncheon to chat with the porter for a while.

He wished this whole thing were not happening. He wished, now that it was too late to do things differently, that he had simply written to his father earlier in the spring with a firm refusal to have any marriage arranged for him. He should have refused even to come home until he felt more ready to do so. He should not even have sold out last year. He could be with the armies now, doing what he did best. He should have written to his father . . .

But the trouble was that he was Ravensberg. He was the heir. And as the heir he had responsibilities, which he had shirked for almost two years even though he
had
ended his career. It was his duty to be at home, to make his peace with his father, to learn what the future Earl of Redfield needed to know, to take a wife, to father sons—yes, preferably plural.

But was he fulfilling those duties even now? With a sham engagement? And a homecoming that would have been difficult even under the best of circumstances? His father had been predictably furious when, after the first awkward exchange of greetings following his arrival, he had made his announcement. The situation, he had then discovered, was far worse than he had realized. A marriage settlement had been discussed and fully agreed upon by his father and the Duke of Bewcastle, Freyja’s brother. They had even signed a contract. It had apparently not occurred to either of them that it might be advisable to consult the wishes of the prospective bride and groom first.

Kit doubted that Freyja’s wishes had been consulted.

His mother had been dismayed and then tearful. The tight hug with which she had greeted him had not been repeated since. Even his grandmother had shaken her head at him with unspoken reproof. She was unable to say a great deal, having suffered an apoplexy five years before from which she had never quite recovered all her faculties. She still treated him with affection, but he knew that he had disappointed her.

And Sydnam—well, he and his younger brother, who had shaken hands awkwardly and without making full eye contact on Kit’s arrival, had had a nasty falling out that same night and now scarcely spoke to each other. Kit had found him in the steward’s office after everyone else had retired to bed, writing laboriously in a ledger with his left hand.

“So this is where you disappeared to after dinner,” Kit had said. “Why here, Syd?”

“Parkin retired before Christmas last year,” Sydnam had explained, looking at the worn leather cover of the ledger rather than at his brother. “I asked Father if I could take his place as steward of Alvesley.”

“As steward?” Kit had frowned. “
You,
Syd?”

“It suits me very well,” his brother had told him.

Kit had assumed that Syd was living a life of enforced idleness here without his right arm and with only his left eye out of which to see and with no possible way of doing what he had been created to do. They had exchanged no letters in three years. He had assumed that Syd could not write any, and he had written none of his own because . . . well, because there had been nothing to say.

“How are you?” he had asked.

“Well.” The single word had been spoken abruptly, defiantly. “I am perfectly well, thank you.”

“Are you?”

Sydnam had opened the top left-hand drawer of the desk and placed the ledger inside it. “Perfectly well.”

They had been unusually close when they were younger, despite the six-year gap in their ages. He had been Syd’s hero, and in his turn he had adored his young brother, who had possessed all the qualities of character that he lacked—steadiness, sweetness, patience, vision, dedication.

“Why did you tell me to leave?” Kit had blurted suddenly. “Why did you join the chorus?”

Sydnam had not had to ask what he was talking about. After their father had banished Kit three years before, Syd had got up from his sick bed and come down to the hall, looking like a ghost and a skeleton combined, clad only in his nightshirt, his valet and a footman hovering anxiously in the background. But instead of offering the expected sympathy, he had told Kit to leave, to go, not to come back. There had been no word of farewell, no word of forgiveness . . .

“You were destroying all of us,” Sydnam had said in answer to his questions. “Yourself most of all. You had to go. I thought you might defy Father. I thought you might go after Jerome again and kill him. I told you to go because I wanted you gone.”

Kit had crossed the room to the window, from which the curtains were drawn back. But he had been able to see nothing outside—only his own reflection thrown back at him, and Syd’s, still seated at the desk.

“You did blame me, then,” he had said.