Chapter 7

It was something of a relief to be approaching Brookfield, country home of the Marquess of Gilmore, at last. The Earl of Wetherby looked with some interest at the large, imposing stone gateposts with the iron gates and the square stone lodge beside it. An elm-lined driveway stretched beyond. The house was not yet in sight.

It was a relief—the point of no return, at last. Not that there had ever been any returning, not since the previous spring when he had met Annabelle again and given in to his mother’s persuasions and to his own acceptance of the fact that he really must settle down soon and marry and start a family. But for almost a month, since his return from Price’s hunting box, in fact, his mind had been considering all sorts of devious schemes for escape, all of them dishonorable in the extreme.

Well, there was no going back now. The porter was swinging back the gates so that the carriage might proceed along the driveway and was smiling and bowing and touching his forelock.

“Do you remember it, Justin?” his mother asked from the seat beside him. “It is all of nine years since you were here last. It has not changed, has it?”

“I have not forgotten,” the earl said. “I was twenty years old at the time, Mama. I came on the visit with you, if you recall, because Papa was indisposed.”

Lady Wetherby sighed. “He never did recover,” she said. “But let us not think morbid thoughts on such an occasion, Annabelle was a very pretty child. Do you remember?” 

“Yes,” he said. “And I recall my horror when you and Lady Gilmore conceived the notion that an alliance between our two families would be a desirable future goal.”

“Well,” she said, laughing and patting his hand, “and so it was, too. And you must admit that it is all turning out well, Justin. She is a remarkably pretty young lady and very nicely behaved, too.”

“Yes,” he said, “she is.”

“And so,” she said, “after nine years Eugenia and I move one step closer to realizing our dream. When are you planning to make your formal offer to the girl, Justin? And I do hope you press for a spring wedding in London. You know my thoughts on that.”

Yes, he did. It was strange how one became one’s family’s property more than one’s own person once one had expressed the merest interest in marrying, he thought. If there was still the faintest possibility of escape on his own account—though there was not—he was certainly tied hand and foot by the knowledge of his mother’s happiness for him and the knowledge that Marion, the younger of his two sisters, was also to attend this house party, mainly to witness the happy moment of her brother’s betrothal. His mother, of course, visited her close friend the marchioness with some frequency.

Sometimes one felt very out of control of one’s own destiny.

“I shall have to speak with Lord March,” he said. “I’m sure we can arrange everything to everyone’s mutual satisfaction.”

To everyone’s satisfaction, yes. His own included. He was very thankful that the moment had come, the point of no return. Perhaps after this day he would no longer dream of being free again, free to set out in search of... He pushed the thought ruthlessly from his mind—again. The house had come into view around a bend in the driveway.

Yes, he remembered it. It was a large Palladian mansion of yellow-brown stone, fronted by extensive formal gardens and a marble fountain. It was the place where he had spent an unspeakably dreary month nine years before, his only companions being his mother, the marquess and marchioness, and Annabelle Milford, their nine-year-old granddaughter, who had been spending a few weeks with them. He had been expected by a doting mother and the marchioness to converse with the child and entertain her—at a time in his life when his interest in women had run almost exclusively to buxom barmaids.

And now she was eighteen years old and he was returning to make his offer to her. And it was not, indeed, a bad match. He had been quite taken with her the previous spring. If he had not been, all of his mother’s persuasions could not have made him offer for her.

“Ah,” the countess said, peering through the carriage window as it rounded the formal gardens and approached the main doors across a cobbled courtyard, “we have been seen. There is a reception committee.”

That was another thing, Wetherby thought, looking through the window at the six people gathered on the steps outside the house and in the courtyard below it. He was quite well acquainted with most of the members of Annabelle’s family. It would not be easy to cry off even if he wished to do so—and of course he was not seriously considering any such thing.

The Marquess and Marchioness of Gilmore did not leave their estate very often, and when they did, it was to go to Bath rather than London. Lord Wetherby had not seen them for nine years. Even so, they looked familiar, both tall and slim and of proud bearing. Both had thick, silver-white hair; the marquess had the addition of a large mustache. Both were warm and gracious in manner. The earl had rarely known a couple who seemed so well suited to each other.

Viscount March was with them, as were Lady Newton, the marquess’s niece, Lord Carver, his grandson by his elder daughter, and Lord Beresford, his great-nephew and heir.

Lord March helped Lady Wetherby descend from the carriage and bowed over her hand. The other gentlemen bowed to her too, and the marchioness and Lady Newton took her into their care.

“Laura, my dear,” Lady Newton said, “you must be hagged. I do hate carriage travel, don’t you? Every time I make a journey I swear it will be my last. I shall take root in my town house, I always say, and anyone who wishes to see me may come there. But I daresay I will never do it. Uncle issues a royal summons to attend a family do, and I come running—or bouncing along in a carriage, to be more accurate.”

“Do come and have some tea, Laura,” the marchioness said, kissing her friend on the cheek. “The housekeeper can show you to your room afterward.”

“That sounds quite delightful, Eugenia,” the countess said. “And, yes, Claudette, it is good to be on firm ground again. Though Justin always keeps a well-sprung carriage.”

The earl shook hands with the marquess and Lord March and kissed the marchioness on the cheek before she disappeared inside the house with his mother.

“Your sister and her husband arrived an hour ago,” the marquess said. “So you are the young sprig who had to kick his heels here all those years ago while my wife and your mama were laying plans for your future. You have grown up. I would hardly have recognized you.” He chuckled and stroked his white mustache.

“We arrived only half an hour ago, Wetherby,” Lord March said. “The ladies are still upstairs. But you will meet them at tea. You will be wanting to freshen up before then.” 

“Joshua and Ferdinand will see you to your room,” the marquess said. “It’s good to have you here, Wetherby. I hope we can make your stay a pleasant one.”

The earl bowed and made a suitable reply.

“Well, Justin,” Joshua Ridley, Lord Beresford, said, grinning and extending his right hand as the two older men moved away. “You have come as the proverbial lamb to the slaughter, have you?”

The earl shook his head. “I am approaching my thirtieth birthday,” he said. “It’s time, Josh. How old are you? Twenty-six? Seven? And heir to a marquess and to this?” He gestured toward the house and the land about it. “Your time will come soon enough and then we will see how broadly you grin.”

Ferdinand Handsforth, Lord Carver, laughed rather more loudly than the joke seemed to merit. “He has you there, Josh, you must admit,” he said. “You tell him, Wetherby. Josh always likes to have the last word.”

“You won’t be immune, either, Ferdie, my lad,” Lord Beresford said, “being the grandson of a marquess and a baron since your father’s passing. Not that Ferdie will have to be coerced, of course, Justin. Even at the grand age of twenty-four he is a bachelor much against his will. But what woman would ever have him with that carrot top?”

“Oh, I say,” Lord Carver said as the other two had a good laugh at his expense. “A low blow, Josh. It tempts one to make remarks about your limp.”

Lord Beresford grinned. “Acquired at Waterloo in service of my country, Ferdie,” he said. “The ladies find it quite irresistible. You will have to try again. Here is your room, Justin. You will doubtless be delighted to have one final half-hour of quiet and privacy. The place is fairly crawling with family members—most of them ours and only a few of your own.”

“You are surrounded by us,” Lord Carver said cheerfully. “We are making it impossible for you to cry off, you see, Wetherby.”

“Ah,” the earl said, “I see. But what if I am here entirely by personal inclination?”

“It would not be surprising,” Lord Beresford said, grinning and slapping him on the back. “Annabelle is a pretty young thing. And talking of pretty young things, she has brought her aunt with her. Very fetching indeed, Justin. Too bad you won’t be able to compete with me for her favors.” He winked.

The earl found himself smiling as he closed the door of his bedchamber behind him. Henri, his valet, was already busy in his dressing room, he could see. It was good to be among friends again. Good to have plenty of people with whom to distract his mind.

He was looking forward to seeing Annabelle again, to getting to know her better in the relaxed atmosphere of a country home. He was going to make every effort to develop a friendship with her and a fondness for her over the next two weeks. Finally the past was permanently and irrevocably behind him. This was his present and his future. He was going to start it with a willingness and an eagerness to make a happy life for both himself and Annabelle.

There was no sense in brooding. He was going to stop doing it that very day. He strode across the bedchamber to the dressing room to see what clothes Henri had set out for him to change into.

Lana and Annabelle had already gone downstairs to tea without her, Rosamund discovered in some annoyance when she knocked on their doors. It was all the fault of the maid who had been sent to help her. She had told the girl that she did not like her hair styled elaborately, but the maid had made of it a marvelous creation, anyway. Rosamund had ordered her take it down and start all over again.

And now she was going to have to make a grand entrance all alone. Bother, she thought. It was so long since she had been at Brookfield and met all the family members that she felt almost shy. It was very silly, since she was not by nature a shy person. But having spent nine years in the confined neighborhood of Leonard’s home in Lincolnshire, she had grown staid, she supposed. On their arrival she had seen only the marquess and marchioness. And she had glimpsed two young gentlemen from a distance, but she had not been able to identify them.

Oh, well, she thought, squaring her shoulders and making for the staircase, she could not cower in her room for the rest of the day. And she did know most of these people, after all, and had always liked them. The only ones she did not know were the Earl of Wetherby and his family members. But then their attention would be focused all on Annabelle, anyway. She was not going to start giving in to shyness at her advanced age.

Fortunately, when she stepped inside the drawing room, she was immediately taken to the ample bosom of Lady Newton and had to make no effort at all to break into a group.

“Rosamund,” Lady Newton said, hugging her and kissing her on the cheek, “how very fine you look, my dear. I hope you had not too unpleasant a journey. I was so very sorry to hear of the passing of your husband.”

“Thank you,” Rosamund said. “Goodness,” She looked at the two young ladies with Lady Newton. “Eva and Pamela? But you were just children the last time I saw you. Of course, I must have been only fifteen or sixteen myself.” She looked around for the eldest Newton sister. “Is Valerie here?”

“With her betrothed,” Lady Newton said, indicating her eldest daughter, who was sitting behind the tea tray across the room, a thin young man at her side.

“I must pay my respects to her,” Rosamund said.

But a touch on her arm delayed her and she found herself looking up into the long, narrow, heavy-browed face of the Reverend Tobias Strangelove, great-nephew of the marchioness. The first thing she noticed was that he was quite as abnormally tall as she remembered and that he had grown a great deal balder.

“Lady Hunter?” he said, and he took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. “May I say how gratified I am that you have seen fit to grace my great-uncle’s house party with your lovely presence?”

“Toby,” she said, “how lovely to see you again. But you are the Reverend Strangelove now, aren’t you? Perhaps I should call you by your title or Tobias at the very least.” She smiled.

“I do usually deplore familiarity to men of the cloth,” he said, “since a person addressing a clergyman is really addressing the Church with all its solemn traditions. Indeed, it could even be said that he is addressing the almighty, since clergymen are his representatives on earth. But on your lips, my dear Lady Hunter, Toby sounds quite unexceptionable.”

No, Toby had not changed one little bit apart from the hair. “Then you must call me Rosamund, as you used to do,” she said lightly.

“It would be too presumptuous, you being the respectable widow of a respected baronet, Lady Hunter,” he said. “But I will treasure in my heart your great condescension in offering such a mark of friendship and personal favor. Have you met his lordship?”

“The Earl of Wetherby?” she said. “No, never. Is he here?”

“He is conversing with your dear niece,” the Reverend Strangelove said. “A very elegant and amiable gentleman, as I am sure you will agree. It is a tribute to your brother’s good sense and diplomatic skills that he has been netted for Annabelle.”

“Yes,” Rosamund said, gazing in some curiosity across the room to where the earl stood, his back to her, talking with Annabelle and Lana. Yes, he was extremely elegant in a blue coat that looked as if it had been molded to his frame. And a broad-shouldered and muscular frame it was, too, she thought, though his waist and hips were slender enough. His pantaloons did nothing to hide well-muscled legs. His Hessian boots looked shiny enough to serve as mirrors. His hair was thick and fair and wavy.

He reminded her ... Oh, he reminded her. But she pushed the thought from her mind. She must not begin seeing him in every young and well-favored gentleman she would ever meet.

“If you will take my arm, Lady Hunter,” the Reverend Strangelove said, “I will do myself the honor of presenting you to his lordship.”

Rosamund would have preferred to be presented by someone who would not deliver a long and involved and formal speech as he did so, but she was curious to meet Annabelle’s suitor. She placed her hand on the sleeve that was extended to her.

The Reverend Strangelove cleared his throat when they came up behind the earl. “Lana?” he said, bowing to her from the waist. “Annabelle?” He bowed again. “I had the pleasure of greeting you several minutes ago when you came downstairs, and I satisfied myself on that occasion that you felt refreshed after your journey, having spent a quiet half-hour abovestairs. Your sister-in-law, Lana, and your aunt, Annabelle, has now joined the company, and I have taken upon myself the honor of presenting her to his lordship.” He bowed to the earl.

He continued at great length. But Rosamund heard not a word. The Earl of Wetherby had turned his head as soon as Toby cleared his throat, his blue eyes smiling with warm courtesy. And their eyes had met.

How long did Toby drone on? Did they stare at each other for the whole of that time? Did their smiles remain frozen to their faces, or did they fade? Rosamund could never afterward answer any of those questions.

Toby stopped talking finally.

“Mrs. Hunter,” the earl said, making her an elegant bow.

“My lord,” she said, curtsying.

“Ah, I did say,” the Reverend Strangelove said, “though it may have been lost in the noise of convivial conversation going on about us in the rest of the room, Lady Hunter, my lord. Lady Hunter is the widow of Sir Leonard Hunter of Lincolnshire.”

“Lady Hunter,” the earl said. “I beg your pardon, ma’am.”

“I hope you did not mind us coming down ahead of you, Rosa,” Lady March said, “but Dennis brought word that Lord and Lady Wetherby had arrived.”

“Not at all,” Rosamund said.

“Rosamund.” Beatrice Handsforth, Lady Carver, Lana’s elder sister, laid a hand on Rosamund’s arm and peered around into her face. “It is you. Goodness, how you have grown up. You were a mere girl the last time I saw you— the year before your marriage, I believe. Ferdie told me you had come with Dennis and Lana. Do come and talk to Christobel—my daughter, you remember? Ferdie’s sister?

But of course you must remember—you were quite like one of the family for several years. She is all grown up now too and about to take the ton by storm as soon as the Season begins. But you do not have a cup of tea, dear. How remiss someone has been. I shall take Rosamund to the tea tray, Lana.”

Rosamund allowed herself to be borne off by Lana’s sister without a backward glance. She fought to regain control, to find some semblance of normalcy in the scene about her. It was not real. It could not be real. She would wake up soon. Or else she had mistaken. She had only imagined that it was he. She had been struck with the similarity as soon as she had seen his back, and so her imagination had transformed his face, too.

A very foolish thought. A ridiculous thought, she realized when she glanced hastily back over her shoulder and met a pair of familiar blue eyes before jerking her head back again.

He had said he was to be betrothed in one month’s time. Oh God, he had said it. Why had she not made the connection? But why should she have? Only the most bizarre of coincidences could have arranged this turn of events.

She needed air. She needed it now before she disgraced herself and fell to the floor in a swoon.

“Here we are,” Lady Carver said. “Valerie will pour for you, won’t you, Valerie, dear? Do you two recognize each other? You were both just girls when you used to be such friends.”

“Rosamund,” Valerie Newton said, “I thought it was you when I saw you talking to Mama and the girls a few minutes ago. How lovely it is to see you again.”

No, she would not disgrace herself. She certainly would not. How unspeakably embarrassing that would be—everyone fussing over her and he knowing very well what had caused her swoon. No, she would not.

“Hello, Valerie,” Rosamund said. “I hear you are engaged.” She smiled brightly and determinedly.

The Earl of Wetherby continued, to talk with Annabelle and Lady March. He continued to smile. He exchanged kisses with his sister Marion when she crossed the room to his side, and pleasantries with Lord Sitwell, his brother-in-law.

He did all that was right and proper by sheer instinct. He could never afterward remember what he had said or what had been said to him.

She was there—in that very room. For a month he had called himself all kinds of a fool for letting her go without finding out where he might communicate with her. For a month he had wondered if he would ever set eyes on her again, wondered if she would ever come to London or if they would ever be at one of the spas at the same time.

For a month he had told himself and told himself that it was better so. And just an hour before he had put her finally behind him, Firmly in his past, to remain there forever. And yet here she was, at the same house party, in the same room as he. And that was not even the whole of it. She was Anna-belle’s aunt. The Dennis she had spoken of, the brother with whom she had quarreled before leaving his carriage, was Lord March, Annabelle’s father. If he had gone with her that morning to find him, he would have discovered the truth.

God! He glanced across the room, half-expecting to find that he had mistaken the matter, that in reality she was a woman who merely resembled Rosamund. But when his eyes met hers for one painful moment, he knew the absurdity of that hope.

“I think we can slip away to the library and have that talk you asked for, Wetherby,” Lord March said after what seemed like interminable minutes or hours of being sociable. He had laid a hand on the earl’s shoulder.

Wetherby followed him thankfully from the room, though Rosamund had left a few minutes before. But the library was not empty, he found with surprise. Lady March was there as well as the marquess and marchioness.

“We will have the poor young man blushing and stammering and shaking in his shoes,” the marchioness said, directing him to a seat. “If you wish, Lord Wetherby—may I call you Justin? —Lana and I will leave without more ado. But we are all such interested parties, you see, and we all wish to have our say in your plans.”

The earl smiled. “Please, don’t leave,” he said. “I shall try my best to hold my own even against such odds.” 

The marchioness laughed. “Do offer Justin some brandy, William,” she said to her husband. “He looks just like a young man who is about to lose his freedom.”

“I hope that is a quite accurate description, ma’am,” he said. He looked at Lord March. “I had your approval of my suit last year, sir. I assume that you have not changed your mind?”

God, he thought, looking at his future father-in-law, just a month before he had spent two full days and three nights with the man’s sister. He had made love to her—how many times? And now he was renewing his request for the daughter.

“Absolutely not,” Lord March said. “And Annabelle is looking forward to renewing her acquaintance with you.” 

“But how could she not?” the marchioness said. “She met you several times last spring, Justin? I don’t wonder at all that she has been looking forward with pleasure to meeting you again here.”

The marquess coughed.

“Oh, William,” she said, “you know I am an incurable romantic. Why else would I have married you?”

The marquess chuckled.

“My reason for asking to speak with you, sir,” Lord Wetherby said, turning back to Lord March, “was to ask if I may speak with Annabelle without delay. Or would you prefer that I waited?”

“I can’t see any reason for delay,” Lord March said, “since word seems to be out anyway and everyone is expecting the betrothal.”

“It seems that my dear wife thought my seventieth birthday a momentous enough occasion to invite all these people here,” Lord Gilmore said. “There is to be a grand ball for the occasion one week from today. It would be a grand idea to announce the betrothal on the same evening.”

“What a splendid idea, William,” the marchioness said. “Are you in love with my granddaughter, Justin?”

Lord Wetherby looked at them all in some discomfort. “I have not had a very lengthy acquaintance with her,” he said. “I would hope that we can develop an affection for each other.”

“Naturally,” Lord March said.

“But it is as I thought,” Lady Gilmore said. “Justin and Annabelle have had no chance to grow comfortable with each other. They met when she was just a child and he a very young man—you did look rather comical together on that occasion, Justin, dear, and I know that you wished your mama and me at the very bottom of the ocean. And then they met under all the formality of a London Season last year. They need time to get to know each other.”

“But the announcement should be made, Mama,” Lady March said. “Lord Wetherby has accompanied his mother here expressly for that purpose.”

“Well, of course the announcement will be made, Lana,” her mother said. “On Papa's birthday, as he has suggested. But I would suggest that the offer be made on that day, too, so that it will not be a stammering affair, but an agreement between two young people who have had a week to grow comfortable with each other. What do you say, Justin?” She smiled at him.

“I am agreeable to whatever is suggested, ma’am,” he said.

Lord March coughed. “You understand, of course, Wetherby,” he said, “that though Lana and I are delighted at the prospect of the match and Annabelle seems pleased by it, we have left the final decision to her. It would be a great embarrassment if she refuses you, but we will not try to force her.”

“I certainly would expect nothing else,” Lord Wetherby said. “I will hope that during the coming week I can make myself irresistible to your daughter.”

He could also make himself very resistible, he thought, temptation flashing into his mind. He had not thought there was any real question of Annabelle’s refusing him.

“But of course,” Lady March said hastily, “she is very ready to accept you, my lord.”

“She would be a very strange young lady if she were not,” Lady Gilmore said with a smile. “All the other young ladies in London will doubtless go into mourning.”

They all laughed. The earl wondered idly what Rosamund had told her brother and sister-in-law about those days of the snowstorm. Doubtless she had not mentioned Justin Halliday—they would have known the name. He wondered what March would do if he knew that the man he had accepted for Annabelle had spent those days—and nights— tumbling his sister, and the weeks since dreaming of her.

“That would seem to be satisfactory to everyone, then,” Lord March said. “You will speak with Annabelle on my father-in-law’s birthday, then, Wetherby, and he will announce your betrothal during the ball in the evening?” Lord Wetherby raised his glass. “Agreed,” he said. The marchioness clasped her hands to her bosom. “How splendid,” she said. “I do love romance and betrothals and weddings. Who else can we match during these two weeks?” Lord Gilmore laughed and set an arm about her shoulders. “No one,” he said. “Everyone is either married already or is related to everyone else.”

“Oh, the situation is not quite so desperate,” she said. “Toby and Robin are the grandsons of my stepbrother and so only remotely connected to our other relatives. It is high time Joshua started to think of marriage. He is your heir, William. I have always thought I should try to match him with Christobel since she is the daughter of our elder girl and only his second cousin. But I cannot quite think her capable of coping with his wit. And then of course there is Lady Hunter, who is unrelated to anyone except Dennis, and is very eligible and quite lovely. It really should be possible to find her a husband.”

“Perhaps she would prefer to choose her own, Eugenia,” the marquess said with a chuckle. “A remarkably handsome young lady, by the way, Dennis.”

“Yes,” Lord March said. “As stubborn as she ever was, though. Tobias is interested in her, but when I mentioned the fact on our way home from Lincolnshire, she was so irate that she got out of the carriage and I did not see her for three days. I thought she was lost in a snowstorm.”

The marchioness laughed merrily. “I don’t blame the girl at all,” she said. “Tobias, Dennis! I am dearly fond of the boy and proud of him too, but he is no lady’s dream of romance, you know.”

“But it really was not funny, Mama,” Lady March said. “Unspeakable things might have happened to Rosa during those three days. I am very glad I did not know of it until she was safely found again.”

Unspeakable things, the earl thought. That was precisely what had happened to Rosamund Hunter—Lady Hunter. She had not mentioned the fact that her husband was a baronet. But then he had not been quite open about his identity, either. Would that he had been. If only they had known right from the start, they could doubtless have guarded against what had happened.

“Little Rosamund,” the marquess said with a chuckle. “She was always into mischief when she was here, if I remember correctly. Usually egged on by Joshua, am I not right, Eugenia? With Tobias making lengthy excuses for her when she was in trouble with you, Dennis.”

Lord March laughed too. “The trouble was,” he said, “that by the time Tobias came to the end of his speech, I had usually forgotten the reason for my wrath.”

“We will be boring you,” Lady March said to the earl. “And you will be thinking my sister-in-law very lacking in conduct. I do assure you she is the dearest girl. You will be wanting to have some rest before dinner.”

She got to her feet and they all followed suit.

So the Reverend Strangelove was the new suitor her brother had picked out for her, Lord Wetherby thought as he ascended the stairs to his room. And he had been her champion in times past. As Josh had been her fellow conspirator.

It was not at all difficult to imagine Rosamund involved in all sorts of mischief as a girl. He doubted she had changed a great deal.

He had flashing memories of her trudging along a road already covered with snow, shivering, her teeth chattering, too stubborn to turn back to meet her brother. And of her helpless with laughter as he pelted her with snowballs, her own flying quite wide of the mark nine times out of ten. And of her frowning with chagrin when she realized that she would not be able to lift the head of her snowman onto its shoulders. And of her lying full-length in the snow, quite unselfconsciously making a snow angel.

And he had a vivid image of her standing in front of the fire in her bedchamber, all but lost in the folds of Mrs. Reeves’ flannel nightgown, rigid with terror, but telling him that she did not want him to go away. She wanted him to make love to her.

He stood against the inside of his closed bedchamber door, his eyes tightly closed, his teeth clamped together.

Damnation! He had arrived with such firm resolve and such high hopes for putting behind him what could not be recaptured. He had been so determined to get on with the rest of his life and to make of it as positive and as pleasant an experience as he possibly could.

Hell and damnation!

What the devil was he going to do?