Anne Barbour (29 page)

“Oh, no. We are talking about the permanent relationship between a man and a woman here, and I cannot accept the idea of entering into such a union without love.”

Thorne gazed at her for a long moment. Her brown eyes seemed very large as she stared solemnly at him, and he knew an aching urge to draw her to him and gently, very gently, kiss the concern from them. The thought made him giddy.

Actually, he had been feeling light-headed all day, like a man suffering from a debilitating illness. He should be supremely satisfied with himself. He had secured the hand in marriage of the most beautiful woman in London, one who would make him the most perfect of wives. Very shortly, his ward, that pretty little albatross who had been a weight around his neck for so long, would be someone else’s responsibility, and Hester, of whose existence he had been unaware just a few short weeks ago, would be out of his life.

He would miss her, there was no question of that. Perhaps, after she and Robert had been married for a while, she would be more amenable to seeing him—every now and then. Yes, that would be just the thing. Nothing terribly illicit, just some of her sparkling conversation on an occasional basis. And—every now and then, he would take her hair down from its pins and—  He shook himself. Handsomely over the bricks, my lad, he thought morosely. The realization swept over him suddenly that as a result of his actions that day, he had lost Hester for good.

But then, she had never been his, had she?

And why did that thought send a shaft of such poignant regret shooting through him that he almost cried aloud with it? Lord, watching Chloe and young Wery billing and cooing all night must have affected him more than he thought. Hester Blayne was merely a woman, after all. Admittedly, she was a superior specimen of her sex, but it was not to be thought that she would remain in his mind after she left for any longer than it took to see her out the front door.

Still, he reminded himself, she was a toothsome specimen, as well, and it seemed a shame not to avail himself of her charms, demure though they might be.

Summoning his most winsome smile, he once more took her hand in his. “I think you would soon find,” he murmured, “that such a union would have definite compensations.” With his other hand, he stroked the shining silk of her hair and began to draw her toward him.

She made no resistance, but as his head bent over hers, she lifted hers abruptly. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm, but colder than a moor in winter.

“I cannot believe what you are about, my lord earl. May I remind you that you are newly betrothed? That should have some significance, do you not think?”

She stared at him for a moment with a look of such contempt that Thorne fell back in astonished shame. She said nothing more, but swinging about, she ascended the stairs, leaving him to stare after her, white-faced with shock.

Chapter Twenty

The next morning, another visitor appeared on the doorstep of Weymouth House at an unfashionably early hour, and this time the door, while opened courteously, was not quite flung wide.

“I’m afraid,” said Blickster at his most austere, “that the family is not yet receiving.”

“No,” replied Hester serenely, “I suppose they are not. I should imagine Lady Barbara is awake, however. Please announce me to her, for I think she will wish to see me.”

In this, Hester admitted to herself, she was no doubt being a bit sanguine. She was probably the last person in London whom Barbara wished to face this morning, but Hester had little doubt that her ladyship would abandon the fastness of her bedchamber quickly enough when she was apprised of Hester’s presence in her drawing room.

Such proved to be the case, and in a few minutes, the two sat opposite each other in the drawing room over steaming cups of tea. Barbara’s aspect was not welcoming.

“To what do I owe the privilege of this visit, Miss Blayne?” she asked, and Hester fancied she could hear shards of ice tinkling.

“Oh, Barbara, you know very well why I am here, and please do not look at me in that odious fashion. You must know that Robert and I were not engaged in—in anything remotely improper the other night.”

“If you imagine, Miss Blayne, that your hoydenish behavior is of the least interest to me—

“Now, see here,” snapped Hester, beginning to be nettled. “I have come here to see what I can do to help you out of the absurd situation you have tumbled into, and—”

“That
I
have tumbled into! Well, of all the—”

“Yes.
You have allowed yourself to become betrothed to a man for whom you feel only the mildest affection, allowing the man you truly love—and who loves you—to simply dangle in the wind.”

At this, Barbara’s face crumpled. “Oh, Hester, how can you say that?” she cried brokenly, tears welling in her celestial blue eyes. “It was you Robert was embracing at that wretched party, and you to whom he proposed marriage.”

“Yes, he did, you goose, but only because of his wretched sense of honor. He is no more desirous of marrying me than he is of being transported to a penal colony, and I have no intention of accepting him, so there is no harm done there.”

“Oh, is there not?” Barbara’s tone was bitter.

“No, for all you need to do is to inform Thorne that you were mistaken in your sentiments. There has been nothing signed yet, has there?”

“N-no, but—”

“Good,” said Hester briskly. “After that, you must go to Robert and straighten out the silly misunderstanding that has kept you apart all these years.”

“Go to Robert!” gasped Barbara. “Are you mud? Not only would I not dream of so lowering myself, but he would most likely laugh in my face were I to do so.”

“Good heavens, have you learned nothing? Don’t you think it is time you had done with pride? Besides, I hardly think that Robert will laugh at you.” She leaned forward and grasped one of Barbara’s hands in both of hers. “Don’t you see? This is your last chance to regain the happiness that you lost so long ago. There has been no announcement, and no marriage settlements agreed on. There is still time, but precious little of it.”

“Oh, Hester, do you really think—? But it was all so many years ago. We are not the same people we were in our youth.”

“You may be right, but you should at least have the chance to find out. Now listen,” she began carefully.

“Robert intends to visit me today, so here is what I think you must do . . .”

At the end of another fifteen minutes and a great deal of persuasion, Hester left the house tolerably satisfied that she had done all that was humanly possible toward the reuniting of two sundered hearts.

She only wished, she reflected dismally, that she could do something about her own troubles. How could Thorne have treated her so contemptuously last night? She had tried to ease the pain of her unrequited love for him with the thought that she’d at least found a friend, but his behavior had effectively extinguished even that spark of warmth. She grimaced, sickened by the memory of the lickerish smile that had lain like smut on his lips as he caressed her. He had reduced their relationship to something tawdry and unclean. He could not have more openly declared his intention to tumble her like a street slattern. She shivered and almost gasped with the grief and a sense of betrayal that seemed to permeate her being.

How very fortunate for her that within a fortnight or so she would have left Bythorne House. With any luck, she need never see the earl again as long as either of them lived. In the meantime, she would make every effort to simply stay out of his way—and out of reach of his compulsively groping hands. From the expression on his face when she had left him last night, however, she rather thought she had no more to fear on that score.

In this, Hester was eminently correct. At that moment, the gentleman in question sat slumped in a large leather chair in White’s, contemplating his iniquities. What in God’s name had possessed him to treat Hester in such a fashion? He would not have approached a Covent Garden nun so contemptibly. He took a long pull from the brandy at his side. He had come to enjoy a special relationship with Hester, a peculiarly satisfying friendship. Why had he sought more? And in a manner guaranteed to destroy that relationship?

He sighed. It was true. He had come to want more than friendship from her. The few brief moments of intimacy he had shared with her had only fueled his desire to plumb the depths of the passion he had sensed within her. Yes, he wanted to bed her. Yet—somehow, he wanted even more than that. But what more could there be than that ultimate intimacy?

Not that he was liable to find out. If Hester ever so much as wished him good morning again, he would be much surprised. Another thought struck him.

Would last night’s assault on her virtue provide the impetus for her to accept Robert Carver’s offer? If that were the case, perhaps one good thing would have come of his appalling blunder.

Oh Lord, as long as he was in a mood for self-examination, he might as well admit he did not wish Hester to marry Carver. It would be the greatest mismatch of the century, after all. Hester needed an entirely different sort of man. One who could curb some of her more outrageous starts without breaking her spirit. One, for that matter, who could tell the difference between an outrageous start and a cause to which she had truly given her heart.

On the other hand, he must admit that there was something of the dog-in-the-manger in his maunderings. He could not have Hester on his terms, so he was pettishly determined that no other man would have her on any terms at all. For God’s sake, why did Hester’s choice of a mate—or non-choice, as the case might be—make any difference to him at all? He had already determined that he would miss her when she was gone, but it would be a fleeting pang, surely.

It was more than he could—

“Lord Bythorne!”

So deep was his abstraction that the voice at Thorne’s elbow caused him to start violently, splashing brandy over his coat and down his trouser leg.

“Good day, sir,” said Robert Carver, drawing out his own handkerchief to assist in the mopping up. “I am happy to find you here.”

Thorne merely grunted and gestured him to a nearby chair.

“You are out and about early,” remarked Robert.

“I might say the same of you.” Thorne replaced his handkerchief and drained what was left of the brandy.

“Yes. Well, I awoke early and could not get back to sleep.” Robert leaned back in his chair for a moment, steepling his fingers before him as he gazed intently at Thorne.

“Is there something I can do for you, Carver?” asked Thorne at last.

“Er, no—that is—” Robert seemed to come to a decision. “As you know, I promised Hester that I would call on her again today to renew my suit.”

“Yes, so I recall.”

“Since I spoke to her yesterday, however, I have begun to believe she is right in refusing me.”

“What!” Thorne rose abruptly, looming over his companion. “Of all the contemptible—

Robert, unmoved by Thorne’s violent reaction, merely lifted his hand in a proprietary gesture. Thorne sat down again, but remained in a position of rigid watchfulness.

“The thing is, I cannot help but agree with her reasons for not wishing to marry me,” said Robert. Thorne started forward once more.

“But you seemed sincere in your offer.”

“I was. I am. I am prepared to go forward with the wedding, but I can certainly appreciate Hester’s reluctance. I cannot pretend that I love her—nor does she love me.”

“Love!” Thorne fairly spat the word and Robert smiled faintly.

“I know the concept is unfashionable in the extreme. I do not speak of the emotion prated about with such facility in the Minerva Press romances, but I do believe in the existence of a certain bond between a man and a woman that transcends all others, and that bond is necessary for a good marriage. I am not putting this well,” he admitted as Thorne shifted irritably in his chair. “Have you never known a woman with whom you felt alive only in her presence? And somehow incomplete when you were not with her? A woman whose welfare and happiness became of supreme importance to you? Someone whom you would give up your life to protect? And, not at the least, someone whom you cannot envision living the rest of your life without.”

As though ashamed of such an unmanly burst of sentiment, Robert rose abruptly. “I do apologize, my—Thorne. I do not generally expound my private philosophies so publicly. I shall leave you now. Perhaps I shall see you later in the day.”

He bowed awkwardly and turned on his heel. In a moment he was gone.

Thorne made no acknowledgment either of his statement or of his subsequent departure, but stared before him in blank astonishment as the universe rearranged itself about him. No, of course he had never felt that way about anyone. Not until he had met Hester Blayne. Was that what had come to him with her entrance into his life? Was that what had virtually destroyed his interest in other women? Did the ache in his soul that now seemed to consume him have a name? Was it truly love that he felt for Hester?

Dear God, how could that be? The knowledge had been firmly instilled within him many years ago that marriage was a convenient facade, behind which one could pursue one’s own pleasure. Love was simply a sugarcoated concept, invented for the purpose of luring prey into that sanctioned union—or, perhaps, into a liaison not quite so licit.

He had developed the tidy little theory that the only relationship a man could possibly want with a woman was one of bodily pleasure. He never allowed his feeling for a female to go beyond the boundary of a few transitory moments of sexual release.

Lord, he had reduced every relationship he had ever known to one of base, animal lust. And he had tried to do the same thing with Hester. Something in him had told him that here was a special woman—a person, but he could not listen to his heart. It had, he realized, become almost a necessity that he transform what was between them to something ignoble and ugly.

And he had succeeded beautifully.

It was many minutes before he dragged himself to his feet, feeling he had aged a hundred years in the hour since he had entered his club. On the drive home, he pondered further the blinding epiphany that had overcome him within those profane portals. Robert had said something about not being able to envision life without that certain woman.