Anne Barbour (30 page)

Yes! He dropped his reins suddenly, almost causing his curricle to run over a diminutive crossing sweep in his path. That was the something more he wanted of Hester! To spend the rest of his life with her—cherishing her—and sharing laughter and sorrows together through the twilight of their existence.

He almost laughed aloud. God help him, he had even come so far that he wanted to help her in her various causes. But he had ruined everything. He had shattered the tenuous rapport that had developed between them with his abortive assault on her virtue last night. Even without his display of moral degeneracy, however, and even supposing Hester had even felt anything for him, he had effectively destroyed any chance of a happy ending. He had cleverly pushed his beloved into a betrothal with another man, while managing to tumble into parson’s mousetrap himself—with a woman who did not care tuppence for him.

Lord, what a coil. Unable to face the condemnation he would surely find in Hester’s eyes, he turned his curricle back toward Bond Street, where he spent the rest of the morning in a punishing exercise at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon. He took luncheon with a group of friends at the nearby King’s Arms, the establishment owned by the ex-champion Thomas Cribb. Being one of the select few admitted to Cribb’s parlor, he stayed to put down a few heavy wets with his friends and other pets of the fancy. For all that he was aware of his surroundings, however, he might have spent his time staring at the four walls of a prison cell.

* * * *

“Why, Robert! I did not expect you quite so soon.” Hester, who had been in the act of descending the stairs when Robert’s knock sounded on the front door, opened the door herself, to Hobart’s vast disapproval. “Do come into the drawing room.”

She allowed none of the dismay she felt on beholding her swain’s rather grim countenance to show on her features as she led him back up the stairs. She had hoped that Barbara might have put in an appearance before now. Lord, what if she did not come? She had made no promises. At least Thorne was not about. She had no idea where he had taken himself off to at such an early hour this morning, but on the whole, was relieved that she had not found it necessary to see him.

The wrenching grief she had felt at what she could only consider his betrayal had phased into a deep, abiding sadness that she knew would be with her the rest of her life. She realized that he was not altogether to blame for his jaundiced view of women and how they should be treated. Beneath his cynical, libidinous exterior, she knew, lay a man of sensitivity and warmth, and perhaps someday he would find a woman who would lay the former to rest, allowing the latter to flourish. Unfortunately, she was apparently not that woman.

But neither was Lady Barbara Freemantle. Where the devil was she, anyway? fumed Hester as she distributed tea and biscuits to Robert. She raised her eyes to his.

“Robert, I know why you have come, and I must tell you again, that, while I appreciate your motive in asking for my hand, I must refuse you. If—

“I think I have come to agree with you, Hester.”

“If you cannot—What?” she asked in astonishment.

“I believe you may be right in your refusal to consider my proposal. I have no desire to force you into a union that would be repugnant to you, after all.”

“Oh, no! Not repugnant. That is, any woman would be proud—”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Robert somewhat impatiently. “I think we are agreed that we would both make sterling marriage partners—for someone else. Not that I have anyone specifically in mind,” he added hastily.

“Well, I do,” Hester retorted tartly. “Now, Robert, do not deny me,” she said as Robert frowned ominously.

“I am not denying you anything,” he said stiffly. “I am merely saying that the—the state of my affections—or lack of—is none of your affair.”

“Well, of course it isn’t. That’s not the point. What I wish to say—what is it, Hobart?” Hester almost screamed with annoyance as the butler entered the room after tapping discreetly for admittance.

“Lady Barbara Freemantle is here, miss. Shall I show her up?”

Hester and Robert leaped to their feet, each with vastly different expressions on their faces. Hester’s features lit with pleased anticipation, while Robert might just have been informed that the hangman from the Tower had stopped to see him on a matter of personal business. He turned to Hester, his eyes fairly starting from their sockets.

“Barbara? Here? I—I must be going.”

Hester grabbed his sleeve with both hands. “No, you don’t. Robert Carver, you are going to remain in this room and you are going to be as charming as you can hold together. Do you understand me?”

Robert made no response, but remained where he was, goggling at her in pained reproach. Hester released him and moved toward the door, just in time to greet Barbara as she entered.

“Lady Freemantle,” caroled Hester. “How lovely of you to call. See who else has come to visit.” She directed Barbara purposefully toward a seat near the tea table before hurrying over to pass a message of instruction to Hobart that no more visitors were to be admitted to the house.

“Tell ‘em we’ve all got leprosy,” she whispered urgently before sending the astonished gentleman about his duties, “and send up some more tea and another cup.”

After settling Robert and Barbara in their respective chairs, Hester babbled something inconsequential about the weather before addressing the matter at hand.

“I hope you will excuse me for a moment. There is something I must discuss with Lady Lavinia. Do enjoy your tea.”

Before Robert could grasp at her with both hands, as he gave every indication of doing, she whisked herself from the room. She hastened to her bedchamber, where she forced her attention to the manuscript awaiting her attention on the handsome oak desk.

She stayed there for the next hour, and it is to be admitted that she made little progress on the work in hand. Despite her best efforts, she found herself listening for a summons to the floor below. At length, she closed the door to her own chamber and firmly addressed herself to her task.

Thus she did not hear Thorne’s entrance into the house some minutes later, nor his step as he made his way upstairs. No one was on hand to prevent his opening the door to the drawing room, and so it was that the Earl of Bythorne was presented with a clear, unimpeded view of his betrothed, clasped passionately in the arms of the man who was supposedly on the verge of becoming engaged to the woman he himself loved to distraction.

Chapter Twenty-one

Since Hester was by no means engrossed in her manuscript, she had little difficulty in hearing Thorne’s thunderous “What the devil!” nor the subsequent agitated murmurings of two other voices. Hurrying from her bedchamber, she raced to the drawing room to behold Thorne and Robert and Barbara in a vociferous confrontation in the center of the chamber.

From the general melee, she was able to catch only a few phrases.

“Barbara, what is the meaning—?”

“Oh, Thorne, I am so sorry, but—”

“I make no apologies, my lord, for my—”

Unable to make herself heard above the din, she obtained the attention of the combatants by the simple expedient of picking up the tea tray and dropping it to the floor. In the resulting stunned silence, she surveyed the group briefly.

“Now, then, are you all willing to discuss the situation like rational adults?” She addressed Thorne, who seemed the most overset at the contretemps into which he had stumbled. “I know this has come to a shock to you, Thorne, but you must realize—”

Thorne surged toward her. “It appears you were right,” he snarled. “But then you always are, are you not?” He ignored her uplifted hand and swung to face Barbara, who still stood in the shelter of Robert’s arms.

“I see that I have been laboring under a misapprehension, my lady. What a good thing that my error was pointed out to me in time to avoid a social disaster.” He uttered a mirthless bark of laughter. “I think I am supposed to say here, ‘You may consider our betrothal at an end.’“ To Robert, he said merely, “May I offer you my congratulations, sir. While I may not applaud your methods, you have won the fair lady.” He turned once again to glare at Hester. “And now, if you will all excuse me...”

He strode from the room.

“Oh dear,” said Hester to the white-faced pair before her. “I suppose it is not to be wondered at that he would be a trifle, er, disturbed at this turn of events, but I’m sure he will recover momentarily. In the meantime . . .” She smiled questioningly.

“Oh yes!” cried Barbara, her cheeks glowing and her eyes sparkling like amethysts. “You may wish us happy, Hester.”

She turned to look up at Robert, who returned her gaze with one of affecting tenderness. He then grinned at Hester. “And we owe it to you.”

“Oh, yes, best of my friends,” added Barbara. “I—we— don’t know how to thank you. If it had not been for your intervention, I should never have practically flung myself on Robert just now and almost demanded that he listen to my apology for my behavior all those years ago.”

“Nor,” added Robert, “would I have come to realize that it was wholly pride that had kept us apart all these years.”

“I—I do feel badly about Thorne,” said Barbara hesitantly. “Although, I believe it is his pride that has been hurt.”

“Of course, it is,” replied Hester stoutly. “You will see. When he has had a chance to lick his wounds, he will come to realize that this is a very good thing, and his congratulations will be genuine.”

Privately, Hester quailed a little at the remembered expression on Thorne’s face. He had blamed her for the disintegration of his matrimonial plans—and he was perfectly correct in doing so. Surely, he would eventually come to realize the futility of a betrothal to a woman who was head-over-tail in love with someone else, but this would only mean that he must cast farther afield for a bride. Would he ever forgive her for meddling in his life?

She should be serenely happy in the knowledge that she had accomplished her purpose, and that two people who were meant for each other were finally together. Yes, she was pleased—but, happy was stretching it. The chill emptiness that had filled her since her ill-fated encounter with the earl the evening before was still with her, and she very much feared that it would never be wholly eradicated by the passage of time.

She looked up to discover that Barbara and Robert were preparing to depart.

“We must apprise my parents of the change in our situation,” said Barbara with a laugh.

“I expect I may be turned out on my ear,” added Robert, “but Barbara is of age now, and may do as she pleases.”

With Barbara’s assurance that his grace, the Duke of Weymouth would welcome wealthy, well-bred Robert Carver as a son-in-law ringing in her ears, Hester saw the happy couple out of the house and returned to her bedchamber to contemplate her future.

If only she could leave Bythorne House immediately— or, at least on the morrow. But she was pledged to that dratted lecture in Seven Dials the following week. She must stay until then. She supposed she could beg Gussie’s hospitality, but Gussie would require explanations, which Hester did not feel she could provide. Trevor Bentham was another option, but if she took up residence with him and his mother, even temporarily, he would surely take it as a signal to pursue his courtship of her.

No, assuming that Thorne did not drive her from his home with a fiery sword—which he was much too well-bred to do, Hester would have to remain in situ for another five days. It should be relatively simple to keep out of his lordship’s way. The family had no major social engagements during this period, so she and the earl would not be rubbing shoulders at a ball or a soiree. She would contrive to spend a great deal of time outside the house and take most of her meals in her room. The day after the lecture, she would bid Thorne a dignified farewell as she swept away from Bythorne House and out of his life.

Accomplishing her purpose was not as difficult as she might have assumed, for the earl seemed to go out of his way to make Hester’s game of least-in-sight a success. He, too, was out of the house a good deal, and when they encountered one another in a corridor, or on the stairs, he acknowledged her presence with the stiffest of bows before striding past, his gaze glued to the horizon.

This state of affairs lasted until Tuesday, the day before Hosier’s lecture. Late in the morning, as she sat in her bedchamber going over notes for her speech, a tap on the door heralded the entrance of an upstairs maid who bore a note from Thorne, requesting her presence in the library.

Suppressing a craven urge to declare herself indisposed, she paused only to glance in the mirror for a quick patting of her hair before descending the stairs.

She found Thorne pacing before a large secretary desk that reposed along one wall of the chamber. He halted abruptly as she entered and moved to seat her before the fire that crackled in the hearth—for, though it was June, the day was cloudy and chill.

“Hester,” he began with the air of a man who had prepared his words carefully, “thank you for coming down to speak to me.”

Hester
did not respond, but nodded warily.

“Hester,” Thorne said again, then stopped. “Oh, the devil!” he said at last. “The fact is that I owe you an apology—no, two apologies. I—my behavior was abominable the other night.”

“Yes, it was, rather,” Hester replied. Thorne grinned suddenly.

“You are not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“No.” Hester’s tone was judicious.

“I don’t know what got into me to treat you like—well, like a high-priced courtesan, not to put too fine a point on it. Look, Hester—” He flung himself into the chair next to hers. “You must know that I do not view you in that light. I have been striving for an explanation for my action, and the only thing I can come up with is that I am not used to dealing with women of quality.”

“ ‘Dealing,’ ”my lord?”

“Oh God. We are back to ‘my lord.’ Yes, ‘dealing,’ for that has been the basis of most of my relationships with women. I am not proud of the fact, but there it is.”