Elisabeth Kidd (14 page)

“I shan’t join you, then,” Dulcie said. “I like to dawdle.”

“Then you may go to the greenhouse and look if there is any more rosemary,” Georgina told her. “I have an idea.”

“I dare not ask what it is.”

“Oh, it is no secret. I only thought it would be fun to mix up a scent that reminds one of the baking and cooking that goes on for Christmas. I daresay the gentlemen like
those
fragrances well enough!”

Dulcie shook her head, and Sabina laughed as she and her cousin departed by the garden door. They were soon walking as briskly as Georgina could wish, for her legs were not nearly as long as Sabina’s, through the wood and up the rise behind it.

At the top of the rise, Georgina called a halt and said she simply must rest for five minutes. They sat down on the grass and talked about nothing for twenty minutes, during which Sabina began finally to feel as if her life was as happy as it had always been and that nothing had changed. She knew that it had, and when they returned to the Hall, there would be reminders everywhere that her days as a carefree girl were over, but she was glad she could call them up easily after all.

Glancing down the hillside, she saw Michael’s Bridge in the distance and thought about what she would say to Robert Ashton tomorrow. Even that did not depress her spirits, and at the end of the day, she was able to pass another comfortable night, from which she woke the next morning refreshed and confident of success.

* * * *

She rode out with a groom in attendance an hour before she needed to, in order to exercise both her horse and herself, but when she approached the appointed meeting place over a rise and saw Captain Ashton leaning on the gate to the bridge, his big white horse nibbling the grass nearby, she dismissed her groom. This worthy, accustomed to Lady Sabina’s predilection for roaming about the estate unescorted, departed without protest. Indeed, he had been surprised to be asked to accompany her in the first place, and exercised his mind on the return journey on the question of whether the lady intended him to report her meeting with a gentleman when he returned to the Hall, and if so, what reason she could possibly have for it. On the whole, he thought it safer to hold his tongue.

Sabina had taken the groom only because he chanced to be hanging about the stable with nothing to occupy his time, but having dismissed him, she thought no more about him. Indeed, she found herself growing oddly short of breath as she approached Captain Ashton who, lost in contemplation of the stream beneath the bridge, appeared not to hear her until she was reining her mare to a halt. Then he turned around, and for a moment she seemed to stop breathing altogether.

He really was as handsome as she remembered. Dressed informally in well-worn riding beeches, a corduroy coat, and a red kerchief knotted carelessly around his neck, he nevertheless presented a graceful picture. Sabina remembered her knight errant and tried not to smile; she did not think they wore riding breeches under their shining armor.

Their eyes met briefly before she dismounted, an exercise with which he did not assist her. She was disappointed not to feel his hand on hers again, even for so mundane a reason, but she dared to hope that he was as anxious about this encounter as she was.

Once on her feet, she looked at him again, searching for something familiar in his look. But there was nothing. His gaze was cool, as if he were deliberately keeping the warmth out of it, and when he spoke, his voice was carefully neutral, betraying no indication of his feelings at this moment.

“Lady Sabina.” He took her hand and shook it formally, letting it go almost at once. She stood up straighter and tried not to let the sigh of disappointment escape her lips.

“Captain Ashton. Thank you for—making yourself available.”

“How may I serve you, ma’am?”

“May we not walk as we speak, sir? I find I am still restless despite my ride.”

They set off along a path leading into a spinney. Sabina had deliberately chosen this bridge, as it crossed not the canal, but a tributary stream of the Avon, and there was no towpath along the water. It was, however, a pleasant, verdant spot, and she hoped this would help her cause rather than distract from what she had to say.

“I saw you at the fête the other day,” she said.

“I know.”

“You—and your friends—appeared to be enjoying yourselves hugely.”

He smiled slightly at that. “It is difficult not to enjoy oneself with men one has been through so much with—particularly when they are as fond of merriment as Nicky—Viscount Markham, that is—has always been.”

“I envy you that kind of friendship.”

He glanced sharply at her, and she wondered what had startled him about that remark. Could he possibly be less indifferent that he appeared? Could he care at least a little about her happiness?

“You and the other ladies seemed to be good friends also.”

“Dulcie is my sister-in-law and Georgina—the young woman in the blue stripes and ridiculous hat—a cousin, but yes, my family are my friends as well.”

She walked a little farther without speaking, swinging idly at branches along the path with her riding crop. He kept up easily with her long stride for a little way, then stopped, forcing her to halt also.

“What makes you restless, Sabina?” he asked in a different, but no more encouraging tone. She told herself that his use of her Christian name was at least not discouraging.

“I have a proposition to put to you, Captain—Robert. I hope you will consider it—dispassionately.”

“A proposition?”

“A proposal, let us say.”

“Pray present it.”

Gathering her courage, she resumed walking. He still did not touch her, but as they negotiated the narrow path, her skirt occasionally brushed his leg, and once or twice he stepped ahead of her to move a branch out of her way or point out a protruding root. She found this almost more distracting than physical contact, so that when they reached a small clearing in the middle of the spinney, she stopped and faced him.

“I daresay you have been apprised of the terms of my father’s will—that is, as they concern you.”

“I have.”

His responses were maddeningly brief and unadorned. She supposed he was waiting for her to state her proposition before he committed himself to any expression of greater interest.

“Naturally,” she said, attempting to get to the point but finding it nearly unapproachable, “I have been somewhat—anxious about the matter myself. You understand, it affects me more directly than it does you.”

“I would say it affects us both equally.”

“If they are carried out, certainly. If not, only I shall suffer.”

“Suffer? Surely not. I was not led to believe that you would be cast out penniless into the world should you refuse to marry me.”

“No, no—certainly not. But—well, I would lose a great deal of what I hold dear. I could manage on a fraction of the allowance I have been receiving—indeed, I am not at all profligate—but I should not enjoy the freedom I have had at Bromleigh Hall all my life. Until now.”

“The earl would not deny you access to your childhood home, would he?”

“The earl…? Oh, Fletcher. No, I suppose not, but it would not be the same. I could not continue living there as if I were a poor relation, and I would not be able to live at Carling, which would have been my second choice in any case. Indeed, I had fully expected to remove to Carling when my father recovered from his illness. Or did not, as it transpired.”

“And Carling is…?”

“A house which once belonged to my grandmother and would have been mine in the normal course of events. It is located near Swinford and thus not a great distance from home—that is, from Bromleigh Hall—so that I should be able to visit the family whenever I wished and still be my own mistress.”

She glanced up at him, but he continued to wait with polite interest for her to reveal her proposal.

“It is a lovely house, quite my favorite of all of father’s properties. You will agree, I’m sure, when—if—you care to visit it.” She felt herself babbling and stopped to take a deep, composing breath.

“I expect you are wondering where all this is leading.”

He smiled then, and for a moment she hoped that he did have some sympathy for the difficulty she was having in making any sort of appeal to him. She looked away from him, however, determined not to think of him as James Owen. If she did that, she would find herself begging, and her pride would never forgive her that.

“In short,” she said all in a rush, “I wish to propose an arrangement between us that will, I hope, benefit us both as well as fulfilling my father’s wishes.”

She paused for another breath. “I am proposing a marriage of convenience between us. We could be married quietly at Bromleigh Hall—or at Ashton Abbey, if you prefer—but after the ceremony we would each be free to live our own lives. Separately.”

She dared a glance at him, but his expression had scarcely changed. He was, however, not smiling.

“Suppose one of us wished to marry someone else?”

This possibility had never occurred to her. She had no intention of marrying herself, at least she had not until—but that possibility was no longer available—and she had supposed that he had no such interest either. She had certainly never heard that he had expressed an interest in any local girl.

Her imagination began to run wild. Good heavens, could he have become involved with some woman in Spain? She felt oddly disappointed at the possibility that he might prefer someone else, even if he could not have her.

“The expression on your face is a wonder to behold,” he said, a slight smile returning to his lips. “Let me disabuse you of the notion that I have any interest in marrying anyone else. But why should I marry you?”

She was taken aback. “Why? But—I thought you would be eager to mend the quarrel, as my father was.”

“I’m sorry, Sabina, that you father felt it necessary to use you as the means by which to resolve the differences between our families. I know he would not have done so had he known what the results would be.”

“How did you know that?”

“I suspect there is a great deal about your father that you did not know, but one thing is that he and I became friends—or nearly so—before he became ill. Unfortunately, I was obliged to return to Spain before we could further our acquaintance. But in Spain, my dear Sabina, I learned how supremely unimportant such things as that quarrel are. You, apparently, have not yet learned that lesson.”

“But don’t you understand what I have been saying? I am trying to resolve it.”

“You are eager to carry out your father’s wishes because you loved him. You would also very much like to live at Carling on an income that would keep you there in comfort without the indignity of having to accept an allowance from your brother. But I believe that you would prefer to do all that without giving any ground to the enemy.”

She could scarcely believe her ears. How did he know all
that
? He could not have learned it from her father. Had he been listening to gossip or pressing her friends for the intimate details of her life? But she had just told him that her only friends were her family. She did not understand.

“But where would the advantage be to me to marrying you, given that I do not give a fig about The Quarrel? As you rightly pointed out, only you would suffer by our not marrying. I am perfectly content in my single state and certainly have no reason to change it for a very
in
convenient marriage.”

“But I thought—I mean, I do not mean to deny you any profit from the venture. I would make over to you the income from Carling, and I daresay my brother—”

“I have always enjoyed an ample income, and my prize money from Spain is invested in the funds and doing very well. I don’t need money, and even if I did, as a business proposition, your offer is of little value.”

“Well, then—will nothing induce you to consider my offer?”

“I might be tempted.”

“By what? Oh, is it the appearance of such an unusual arrangement? I suppose—well, Carling is a large house. I would be able, perhaps… That is, if you wish to live under the same roof…”

“Have you no pride, Sabina?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No, perhaps you do not.” His eyes had finally lost that blank, carefully schooled expression. There was unmistakable anger in them now. “But I do have mine. I love you, Sabina. I have always loved you, and about that one thing I have no pride. But I will not marry you unless it is a true marriage—in mind, body, and soul. We could marry, and we could be happy, but only if we marry for love, Sabina, and for no other reason.”

He moved closer to her. She tried to back away, but his arms went around her and held her fast. “You remember love, don’t you, Sabina? It tastes like this….”

His mouth closed over hers then, and for a moment, she let herself remember, let herself feel the warmth stealing through her at his harsh, yet gentle kiss. But then he deepened the kiss, and she pulled roughly away.

“You deceived me!” she hissed. “What assurance do I have that you will not do so again?”

He stepped back and looked at her, angry again. “
I
deceived
you
? Have you told your family about your loss of memory, Miranda? Or are you too ashamed at your own deception?”

“I did not do it deliberately to deceive you!”

“And I did not act to hurt you. But it appears we have hurt each other. My apology was no doubt grossly inadequate, but I repeat it now. I’m sorry, Sabina. I wish I could take it all back. Nearly all.”

“You made me love you by deceiving me!”

“Yes. I’m sorry for that, too. But you did love me. Me, Sabina, not James Owen.”

She could feel herself on the verge of tears, and the pride he said she did not have would not let her show them to him. “No, not you,” she whispered, pain clutching her heart. “James Owen was another man, and we met in another time. That time is gone now, I see that.”

She began to run then, out of the spinney and down to the bridge where she had left her horse. She did not look back until she had mounted the mare and headed her on the road home.