The reluctant cavalier (17 page)

"Never mind, Miss Smith. I know I am not at all dashing. And let us forget you saw me working in the garden, and pretend it was only a rough farmer you saw in passing."

She cast an apologetic and grateful glance at him. "Thank you, Mr. Wentworth, you are very kind." She impulsively took his hand and pressed it. "And a good friend. I would be pleased if you would call me Annabella if... if you do not mind."

He was certain she offered this familiarity to him to make up for her faux pas, and his hurt pride made him inclined to refuse it. But he knew she would be just as hurt at his refusal, and he could not bear that. He smiled and brought her hand to his lips. "I am honored—Miss Annabella," he said. "You may call me by my Christian name as well... although I never did care for it much. But it will sound better to me when
you
say it."

She looked up at him, and he received his reward: Her eyes were full of warm gratitude, her soft lips parted in a hesitant smile. She was so close to him that the scent of her perfume—lilacs—came to him and lured him to move closer to her. He stared at her, overwhelmed by the sudden urge to kiss her and hold her close in his arms.

Silence fell between them, and the only sound in the garden was that of the breeze through the trees. She did not move away, but stared at him in return, and her expression changed to an odd, puzzled wonder.

"Ohhh ... I did not think ..." she whispered.

The sound of her voice broke the silence and broke the trance that had come over him. He released her hand and tried to gather his thoughts together.

"And—and why did you think it might not be the Duke of Stratton?" he asked abruptly.

Annabella looked startled, and a little dazed, as if she had just wakened from a deep sleep.

"What—oh! Oh, well, he is too tall, though he does bear a very slight resemblance to your family. Then, too, I recognized him easily, for he wore no costume, but a mask and domino. His character is wholly different from the Cavalier's, I am certain. While I am sure the Cavalier is a man of honor, he is clearly impetuous, and the Duke of Stratton is not impetuous. Indeed, there is no other man I know with such a spotless reputation for correct behavior as the duke." The tone of her voice became flat at the end, and Parsifal looked at her questioningly.

"Then why did it occur to you that he might be the Cavalier?"

Annabella looked away from him, and her shoulders rose a little, as if resisting some burden laid upon them. "He has asked for my hand in marriage. Perhaps he wished to impress me in some manner—I do not know. But I am sure it is not he; he would never wreck a country dance to be at my side." She smiled briefly. "No, he would never do anything so improper as that."

Marriage. The duke had asked her to marry him. A wave of despair overcame Parsifal—how could he compete with the Duke of Stratton? He swallowed his despair and took in a deep breath.

"My felicitations, Miss Smith." He was glad his voice sounded steady, even congratulatory.

Annabella looked at him, her expression startled.

"Felicita—Oh, goodness, no, we are not betrothed! Not yet, at any rate. I... I could not give him an answer. But my parents expect me to ... to ..." She sat down on the stone bench again, her hands coming up to cover her mouth. "What am I to do?" Her hands fell to her lap, and she clutched her skirts tightly in her fists.

"Do you not wish to marry him?" Parsifal said the words carefully, struggling against the hope that rose in him.

"No—I do not know." She gazed at him, her eyes miserable. "I should, for it is what my parents want—they have told me that I cannot wish for a more virtuous and well-situated man than the duke. I know they are right. But though I have felt a fondness for a few gentlemen in the past, I cannot feel it for the duke! Indeed—" She gave a short, despairing laugh and gazed at him pleadingly. "I think I may have fallen in love with—with someone else, someone of whom they may not approve." She laid a hand on his arm, an imploring gesture. "Do you think my parents are right, and my feelings will change if the duke and I married?"

He wanted to tell her to ignore her parents' advice, to refuse the duke's proposal of marriage. He wanted to tell her that she would be unhappy with the duke, that he would be a monster to her and treat her badly and that she should run from him. But he knew no such thing of the Duke of Stratton, and to tell her to disobey her parents in this case would be dishonorable in the extreme. Indeed, if the Duke of Stratton loved her as much as he, Parsifal, did, then it'd be best if she married the duke, for the duke could give her so much more than himself, the second son of an earl. No, surely no one could love Annabella as much—it was an impossibility, for he hurt with it, thinking of her possible marriage to someone else.

It was no use thinking of it. Even if he advised her to refuse the duke, she had still fallen in love with another man. She would choose between the duke and that other man; if she considered him, Parsifal, at all, it would certainly be as her last choice.

"I am afraid I do not know if your feelings will change," he replied honestly. "I only know that my love—that is, were I deeply in love with someone—would not change." He paused, firmly tamping down the sadness that came to him as he said these words. "That is all anyone can say of emotions—what they, themselves, would feel. It is very difficult to say what course another person's love will take." He took her hand in his and rubbed the palm of her hand with his thumb, wanting to comfort her, and allowing himself some comfort in the sensation of the warmth of her hand in his.

"But perhaps because the duke is a virtuous man, I should come to love him eventually?" She did not take her hand from his, but leaned closer to him instead. She seemed not to mind that he sat close to her, and he was glad. He had that, at least.

Parsifal gave her a wry smile. "Virtue does not necessarily attract love, I am afraid. My brother is not virtuous at all, but it does not stop ladies from falling in love with him. I suppose a good man might have someone love him... someday."

"But what should I do? I have gone about with the duke for a month now, and my feelings have not become any warmer toward him. But I should not refuse yet another gentleman's offer of marriage—my parents have been lenient with me so many times already. They only wish the best for me—and see what has happened to my mother because of my selfishness! How can I refuse?"

"You could not know—"

"If I had agreed to wed one of my suitors, Sir Quentin would not have tried to compromise me or hurt my mother. You cannot deny that."

Parsifal looked at how she pressed her lips together tightly, with a stubborn tilt to her chin, and felt it would be useless to argue the point.

"Has the—the other gentleman not spoken to your parents?"

Annabella looked down at her lap. "I do not think he has thought of me as a prospective wife. I do not know what he thinks of me."

Then he is a fool,
thought Parsifal,
and does not deserve you.
He clenched his teeth, wondering who the gentleman might be, and wanting to smash the man's nose if he ever saw him. "He has not tried anything ... untoward has he?" It was a blunt, awkward question, but he could not help himself.

Annabella's gaze rose to his, her eyes opened wide. "Oh, no! He has always been very gentlemanly, and so kind to me! But I am certain he is always so to everyone, and there is nothing remarkable in his attentions."

Worse and worse. Parsifal almost groaned. The man was gentlemanly and good also, and hardly someone against whom he could advise, much less from whom he could protect Annabella.

"Perhaps he will come to know you better, Miss-— Annabella," was all he could say. "Then, surely, he will come to care for you as you deserve and will make his affection known."

"Do you truly think so ... Parsifal?"

Her voice was sweet and gentle, her blue eyes wide and beautiful. His mouth felt dry, and he swallowed. He did not know how it could be, but the sound of his name on her lips did not grate on his ear as it did when he heard it from everyone else. He wanted to seize her,
now,
and kiss her lips to see if they tasted as sweet as they looked.

He could not. She was a guest in his house, and she was alone with him, and his duty was to protect her from Sir Quentin, not use her for his own pleasure, especially since she was as good as betrothed to the Duke of Stratton.

"Of course he would," Parsifal said, his voice abrupt and harsh, even to his own ears. He rose from the bench. "Any man would. He'd be a fool, else." He almost stepped away from her, wanting desperately to be away from Annabella and the despairing thoughts that came to him now that he knew about the duke's proposal of marriage and her parents' plans for her. But he remembered that she wanted to see the gardens, and that his true duty in being with her was to protect her. He turned and held out his hand to her. "Would you like to see the rest of the gardens?"

She looked at him gravely for a moment, in silence. Then she smiled a smile of warm sweetness and took his hand.

"Yes," she said. "I would like that very much."

Annabella sat at the window seat of her room, looking out at the walled gardens beyond the stables. She could not see over the top of the walls from where she was, for the gardens were upon a little rise and their walls were too high, even from her vantage point. She wondered if Parsifal was in one of them, working. She clutched at the skirts of her dress, wrinkling them badly, but she did not care. Wrinkles were trivial things compared to her confused and troubled feelings.

It had come upon her gradually, then burst upon her like the sun coming from behind the clouds on a rainy day. She had known it there in the garden with Mr. Parsifal Wentworth as she looked into his hazel eyes that held such warmth and kindness, as he held her hands with such strength and comfort in his own.

She had fallen quite deeply in love with him.

It was clear, now, when it had all started. She had formed a liking for him at the Bowerlands' card party, for he was comely in his somewhat shabby and weather-worn way, and he had smiled at her with a sweetness she had never seen in a man before. Then he had squeezed her hand slightly when they entered the drawing room again, as if aware of her reluctance to encounter company again, and her heart had warmed to him for his understanding. But his kindness and generosity the night of her mother's attack had strengthened her feelings, for he had been a solid, comforting presence, and the thought had come to her more than once that she would have liked to have laid her head upon his chest and felt his arms around her—just for the comfort she would feel when she was so frightened, she had thought at the time, and had dismissed the images from her mind.

But the aura of solidity and subtle strength that came from him kept luring her to think of him, time and time again. He was never vain or arrogant, as many of the men in London were. Indeed, he was overly modest, never putting himself forward in an attempt to be seen at an advantage. It was why she had thought the growing warmth she had been feeling for him was a sisterly one, the warmth of a friend for a friend.

But then she had seen him without his shirt on, and while she had not been as shocked as she should be—she was honest enough about that at least—she found she could not think of Parsifal in a brotherly way at all after that.

And then he had offered the exchange of his Christian name in return for hers, and had said it as if it had been a vow from his heart. She had looked into his eyes and had seen a deep hunger in him, as if he desired her and wanted to kiss her—and it had not frightened her, as it had when she had seen this from other men. Indeed, when he had held her hand in the garden, gently stroking her hand to give her comfort, she
had
felt comforted .. . and oddly breathless. She had wanted him to kiss her quite desperately, and she blushed to think of it, even now.

The chiming of the clock on the mantelpiece made her rise and ring for the maid, for it was time for supper and she needed to change her dress. She did not want to go down to supper, but wanted to be alone with her thoughts ... but she knew she should not stay away. Many of the guests from the masquerade had stayed for a few days, and she knew she should not avoid them, despite her mother's injury. The Duke of Stratton would be there, for he had been a guest at the masquerade, too. She did not want to see him, especially now that she knew she loved Parsifal, and not the duke.

She must refuse the duke, of course ... but it would not be easy. What excuse could she give? Yes, she had fallen in love with Parsifal... but he had not claimed her hand, or even told her what he felt for her. What could she say to the duke or her parents? "Oh, yes, I must refuse the eminently eligible Duke of Stratton, for I have fallen in love with a man who might not wish me for his wife, or if he does, will not come forward"?

She wished she had not told Parsifal of the duke's proposal of marriage. Now, as a man of honor, Parsifal would be inclined to stay away from her, and she did not want this at all. He had spoken of how his feelings would never change—if he loved, that is. Could she hope that he had come to love her, not just desire her? She remembered how he had spoken harshly of the man she had fallen in love with—not knowing it was he, Parsifal, she had spoken of—and how he had said the man would be a fool who did not care for her after coming to know her.

He cared for her—oh, she hoped he did! But she could not see how Parsifal could, in honor, propose to her or declare his love until he knew the duke released all claim on her. If she explained her feelings to the duke, perhaps he would understand. Surely, he could not wish to wed her when her heart belonged to another man? Annabella thought of the duke, his cool smile, his almost emotionless eyes. She was, suddenly, not so sure. He was also known to be a man used to getting what he wished and used to much deference to his rank.

The maid entered, and Annabella chose a gown of white gauze with a satin slip and apple green piping along the low-cut bodice. The dress was long and trailed behind her in a slight train. It was the latest style from Paris, and she had asked for it especially when she had sent a servant to bring her and her mother's clothes to Wentworth Abbey. She wondered if Parsifal would think her attractive in it and would be inclined, if they found themselves alone, to kiss her.