Lois Menzel (15 page)

He tried to recall moment by moment what had transpired. He knew his original intent was to let his hands feel her features so that he could in some sense “see” her. Yet somewhere in the midst of that “seeing,” his general interest had become very personal. The softness of her hair and the faint scent of lavender that rose from her drove other thoughts from his mind. When he felt her parted lips and quickened breathing, he forgot who he was and who she was and followed the instinct that demanded a kiss.

Now he knew he had done irreparable harm. Her reaction showed that clearly enough. He had driven a wedge between them, into the very heart of the strong bond of friendship they had formed over the past weeks.

After sitting for some moments in confused thought, Celia rose and hurried back into the maze. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was face Wexford again, but she knew she could not leave him alone. She also knew she could not explain to the servants why she had deserted him. She must go herself.

Not at all convinced she could even find the arbor again, or that he would still be there if she did, she hurried down the paths. She tried reversing the pattern—east or left—but it did not work. Finally, by sheer good fortune, she rounded a corner and the arbor stood before her. Wexford sat exactly where she had left him; her knitting lay on the ground near his feet.

He must have heard her coming, for when she stopped he looked in her direction, but he did not speak.

In her most formal voice, one that made his heart sink, she said, “I have come to lead you from the maze, but you must promise me first that there will be no repetition of . . . that you will not . .
.”

He nodded and stood. “I promise. But Celia, we must talk about this. You must let me apologize.”

She walked nearer and collected her knitting. As she took his arm and turned him toward the path, she said, “I do not want to talk about it. I do not even want to think about it. And I do not think there is any apology you could make that I would find acceptable.”

Seeing that she was even more angry than he feared, he said, “I was hoping to plead insanity, for I, too, could think of no other excuse you might believe.”

At each new path Celia consulted the sun, turning west or right as the opportunities presented themselves. She was making the best speed she dared leading a blind man with a pronounced limp.

Without pausing in her businesslike march through the maze, she replied, “To be fair, I must take some responsibility. My mother taught me better, and I have not heeded her lessons as I should. I know I should never be alone in a secluded place with a man not related. My behavior in coming here alone with you no doubt led you to believe you could take liberties—”

“What utter rubbish! Don’t you dare mouth such nonsense to me. You are my brother’s intended wife, and there was
nothing
inappropriate in your behavior. The fault was mine, all mine, and I take full responsibility.” Then, with a sincerity in his voice that she almost believed, he said, “You must know, Celia, that I would never do anything to hurt you.”

“But that is just the problem, don’t you see? You already have.”

Knowing this to be the indisputable truth, he remained silent for the balance of their walk back to the house. When she left him at the foot of the stairs, he wanted to shout after her, ask her if she intended to tell Tony what had happened. But he did not, for he knew that whatever she decided to do, he had no power to influence her.

Celia joined the other ladies in the sitting room briefly to say she had been walking with Wexford but now had the headache and would like to retire for a few hours to her room.

“It is all that dancing till the small hours,” Lady Aylesbury offered. “Puts a person off their rhythm, and sometimes it takes a few days to feel just so again.”

Lady Walsh added, “And if you are not feeling better by dinnertime, Celia, don’t feel you must come down. Cook can send up a tray whenever you like.”

Thanking them for their kindness, Celia retreated to the safety of her room. She knew she needed time, considerable time, to digest what had happened and decide what, if anything, she could do about it.

Her first question was why. Why had he kissed her? Despite his words to the contrary, she still felt she carried some part of the blame. She had, after all, invited him to feel her hair, even laughingly permitted his further exploration. She had
not,
however, invited the kiss . . . or had she? Perhaps she should have pulled away sooner, after he touched her eyes, or before he touched her lips, before her breath grew shallow and painful and her senses dull.

She could find no answers. It had happened. It could not be undone. If it had been any other man, perhaps she could have shrugged it off as a whim of passion, a momentary temptation. A man stealing a kiss was surely nothing new. But this man was Tony’s brother. She had trusted him. Now she no longer felt she could.

This thinking brought her to her second question. Should she tell Tony what Wexford had done? She knew she would hurt them both if she did. But she also knew that her relationship with Wexford must now change. How could she explain this change to Tony without telling him the reason for it?

She knew she could no longer go to the book room and sit alone with Wexford as she had in the past. But what explanation could she give Tony for not going? And she knew that in the future, after she and Tony were wed, it would be uncomfortable to meet Wexford when they would know what had passed between them while Tony would remain in ignorance.

She could not see a solution, and her anger burned at Wexford for placing her in this situation. What right had he had to take her rosy world and turn it gray?

The afternoon faded to evening, and Celia still kept to her room. Tony spoke with her briefly after dinner, and she was grateful for the opportunity to tell him how much she had enjoyed the party.

“I feel guilty about not coming down this evening,” she said.

“Don’t. You are not the only deserter. Lady Matlock retired directly after dinner claiming fatigue, Ursula never came tonight, and John has gone off to Robert’s room.”

“Did you see Ursula at all today?” she asked. “I am still worried about her.”

“No, I have not seen her, but I’m sure she is fine. No doubt she will be over tomorrow at the regular time to collect you.”

Admitting that he was undoubtedly right, Celia said good night, and Tony went off to the billiards room where Trevor Farr and Lord Matlock awaited him. Celia rang for Wylie and prepared for bed, wishing that there was someone, anyone in whom she could confide. She had always felt that Tony would be a wonderful confidant. Then, the first time she needed him, the subject was one she could not share.

While Celia sat and worried alone, John Hardy had taken a bottle of brandy to his cousin’s bedchamber. The two men settled comfortably near the fire, the bottle on a table between them. John was only a year younger than Wexford. Possessed of similar temperaments and sharing similar interests, they had always been close. They spoke of politics and acquaintances; they remembered lost friends. And though neither was the type to share amorous exploits, John seemed of a mind to do so tonight. Like Celia, he had spent much time with his own thoughts. Now he felt he needed to consult a friend.

“I made a fool of myself at your mother’s little gathering last night.”

Wexford replied ruefully, “It must be something in the air.”

“Why do you say that?”

Wexford brushed the question aside. “Never mind, it’s not important. What foolish thing did you do?”

“I kissed Ursula Browne.”

At Wexford’s immediate frown, John replied, “I know you warned me off her years ago. I thought then it was because you knew she cared for Tony. Idiot that I am, I thought that now Tony is spoken for, she might look my way.”

“I did not warn you off because of Tony. I don’t believe that Ursula has any romantic interest in him.”

John frowned, regarding his cousin intently. “Then it is you she is in love with.”

Wexford looked even more startled at this pronouncement. “No. She is not. She cares for us both, it’s true, but not in the way you mean.”

“I am not sure I agree with you, but of one thing I am certain. She has no time for me, and never has had.”

“Can you blame her? You ruffle her feathers at every opportunity!”

“And she gives as good as she gets,” John fired back.

Wexford had to agree. “You are right. No doubt you would suit perfectly.”

“Why did you warn me off two years ago?”

“Because there are things about Ursula that you don’t know.”

“Such as?”

“I am not at liberty to say. Let me say only that even if she did return your regard, there would be obstacles—serious obstacles.”

“You are sounding very mysterious.”

“I don’t mean to. I only want you to know that I did not interfere initially for any frivolous reason. I was concerned for your well-being, and for Ursula’s, too.”

“You know her as well as anyone,” John continued. “Would she enumerate these ‘obstacles’ you speak of, if I forced the issue?”

“I cannot answer that. I don’t know how she feels about you.”

“Nor do I.”

“Did she say anything when you kissed her?” Wexford asked.

“Only that she would not be one of my flirts.”

“Is that what you want her to be?”

John scowled at his cousin and said sarcastically, “What high regard you hold me in, to be sure. I wish you could see my face . . . No! I am not interested in Miss Browne as my latest flirt.”

“Then, perhaps, the first thing you should do is explain the precise role you wish her to fill, so that there can be no misunderstanding as to your intentions.”

They spoke no more of Ursula that evening, but John sought his bed some hours later in a contemplative mood. His cousin had given him much to think on.

After John had left him, Wexford retired to bed but had trouble sleeping. He thought it unfortunate that John’s fancy should have settled upon Ursula, but he knew better than most how difficult it was to predict to whom one would be attracted.

During the hours that had passed since he had kissed Celia, he had admitted to himself that he was enchanted by her. And he also knew that those feelings, newborn and strong, must be buried forever, both for the love he bore his brother and for the future harmony of his family.

Celia spent a restless night. Much of the time she sat up, trying to make sense of her impossible situation. Sometimes she napped, only to wake again feeling unsettled and unrested. She had many conflicting emotions, and she did not know which ones were real, which ones she could trust. She went back to the beginning and relived her moments with Tony. She reviewed again in her memory her conversations with Wexford.

Try as she might, she could not put Wexford’s kiss from her mind. Tony’s kisses had always excited her; Wexford’s kiss had turned her world wrong side up. With very little effort she could recall the way he held her, the way his mouth had felt pressed hungrily to hers. At one point, waking from sleep, she actually felt she was in his arms. She wanted him to go on kissing her, never to stop.

In the harshness of the dawn, she felt she must be what the world considered a wanton woman. To desire two men simultaneously must be a sin.

She thought finally she had come face-to-face with love—with that one word that encompassed so much that poets had struggled for centuries to define it.

She knew now that it was indefinable because it was different for everyone. She loved Tony. But if she loved Tony, why was she so strongly drawn to Wexford? She had to admit she
was
drawn to him, although she could not understand why, for Tony was everything a woman could ask for in a man.

She dressed very early, without summoning Wylie, in a simple blue morning gown. Then she wrote a short note, folded it, and went quietly down the hall to slip it under Tony’s door. She asked him to join her in the drawing room as soon as possible, for she needed to speak with him in private.

She then went to the drawing room, where she knew she would be undisturbed this early in the day. A footman in the hallway opened the door for her and stopped to stir the bed of banked coals and add a few logs before he left her alone. She sat near the hearth, watching the fire spring to life.

She rose when Tony entered, and he came to take her hands as he asked, “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not quite an hour.”

“I only saw your note a few minutes ago. Why did you not knock, or send someone for me?”

“It’s all right. I did not mind waiting.”

He regarded her tired face with concern and led her to a sofa near the warmth of the fire. After adding more logs, he sat beside her. “You look very tired,” he said. “Are you not sleeping well?”

“I hardly slept at all last night.”

“Are you ill? Shall I send for the doctor?”

“No, Tony. I am not ill. I am troubled. That is why I need to talk with you.”

“What is it? What is troubling you?”

She took a deep breath and let it out but still did not speak. He remained silent, deep concern evident in his face.

“I do not know how to say this,” she began. “I don’t think there is a proper way, or an easy way, or any way to do it without hurting you.”

He took both her hands in his, holding them in a warm reassuring clasp. “Please, tell me.”

“I cannot . . . I cannot marry you.” As she watched his brows draw together in disbelief, she hurried on. “It is not that I don’t love you. I do. But I think the problem is that I am not
in love
with you, and I don’t know how to make myself be, or even if it is possible.”

Trying to take in this confused speech, he said, “Is this what has been on your mind, yesterday and last night?”

When she nodded, he put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. He did not speak, and Celia, too, remained silent. After some time had passed, he asked, “Are you quite sure?”

When she only nodded mutely, he tipped her face up with his hand to make her look at him. “You should have come to me when you first had doubts, instead of making yourself sick with worry.”