Sheri Cobb South (22 page)

“Embarrassing for you, I am sure, but since Amanda and dear Peregrine are so very happy together, I hardly see why—”

“There is more,” confessed Margaret. “Mr. Fanshawe asked me to marry him.”

“Margaret!” breathed Aunt Hattie, wreathed in smiles. “Oh, my love—”

Margaret hung her head. “I refused him.”

“Refused?”
echoed her aunt, stricken. “But
why?
You may well tell me I should mind my own business, but it always seemed to me that you had a marked partiality for him.”

“Surely you must see that ‘partiality,’ or the lack of it, has nothing to say to the matter! How could I in good conscience have accepted a proposal from a man with an income of no more than thirty-five pounds per annum—an income paid, I might add, out of my own father’s estate?”

Shaking her head sadly, Aunt Hattie made a little clicking sound with her tongue, putting her niece forcibly in mind of the plump hens that scratched about the stable yard. “It all sounds very logical, my dear, but I cannot think it wise. In my experience, love comes in short enough supply that one can ill afford to throw it away. But now that he is a duke, surely you can have no objections to him?”

“I fear it is too late for that. I made it quite plain that I would not listen to his proposal, and if that were not enough, my conduct toward him in London was such as surely must have given him a disgust of me.”

“Disgust? My dear Margaret, what did you do?”

“I—I seem to have given him the cut direct.”

Aunt Hattie fell back in her chair with a moan and fumbled for her smelling salts.

“So you see,” Margaret concluded, “it is unlikely that he will offer for me again.”

* * * *

Unlikelihood notwithstanding, Margaret still found herself, in the long and lonely days that followed, gazing out the window at the Palladian house on the hill and searching for some indication that the new duke had taken up residence there. She knew this to be an exercise in futility, for why should he pursue her into the country when he had all London at his ducal feet? And yet, in spite of this unassailable logic, her frequent walks inevitably led to the shell of the old priory, from which vantage point the best view of the more modern structure might be obtained.
It might have been yours,
her heart silently accused. She might have lived the rest of her life within those spacious, elegantly appointed rooms, entertaining the local ladies to tea by day, and presiding over lavish dinner parties at night. More importantly,
he
might have been hers, filling her days with violin music, while as for the nights. . . .

Her imagination shied away from thoughts wholly inappropriate to gently bred unmarried ladies. She wrested her mind firmly back to the present, and was surprised to find long shadows striping the ground with purple and gold. The darkness fell earlier now, as the mild days of autumn began their yearly surrender to the bleak winter. If she stayed out too late, Aunt Hattie would worry. She carefully picked her way back through the crumbled stones, suddenly eager to be free of the ancient ruins. This was indeed a haunted place, but she had no fear of long-departed monks or abbots. No, it was another sort of specter, very much alive, who haunted her thoughts and disturbed her dreams.

So constant was his presence in her thoughts that, when she came within sight of Darrington House and saw standing in the drive a sleek black carriage bearing a crest on its panel, she felt as if all the misery of the last week had been but a prelude to this moment. With pounding heart, she resisted the urge to run the rest of the way to the house, forcing herself instead to walk sedately up the drive.

No sooner had she stepped onto the porch than the front door was flung open by an agitated Tilly. “Oh, Miss Margaret, thank heaven you’ve come! There’s a fine gentleman come all the way from London to see you!”

“Thank you, Tilly,” Margaret replied, feigning a composure she was far from feeling. “You may tell him I shall be with him directly.”

She waited until the maid had taken herself off to deliver the message, then turned to the mirror and began raking frantic fingers through her wind-ravaged tresses. The one time she went outside without a bonnet, and now this! She pinched quite unnecessary color into cheeks already rosy from exertion and suppressed emotion, then clasping her hands tightly together, joined her guest in the drawing room.

She blinked at the sight of the gentleman who rose at her entrance. This was no golden-haired duke, but a vaguely familiar young man whose curled and pomaded locks and excruciatingly fashionable attire suggested an inclination toward dandyism.

“Your servant, Miss Darrington,” said this individual, bowing from the waist.

The sound of his voice had the happy effect of allowing her to fix him in her memory. This was the earl of Torrington, with whom she had made desperate conversation in an attempt to avoid the duke of Montford’s all too disturbing presence. Certainly gratitude demanded that his lordship be given a warmer greeting than he had thus far received.

“My lord, how—how very good to see you,” she said, hastening to offer her hand. “But I had thought you fixed in Town. Tell me, what brings you to Montford?”

In fact, Torrington was beginning to wonder that very thing himself. When in London, it had been very well to contemplate marriage with an elegantly gowned and coiffed Unknown; now, however, he found himself confronted with a country lass whose faded gown and sturdy shoes (to say nothing of her ruddy cheeks and windblown hair) suggested that she had been occupied outdoors without so much as a bonnet. His fastidious soul recoiled from the very suggestion. He could not entirely approve of the outdoors even on the mildest of days; the sun wreaked such havoc with one’s complexion. A charitable fellow by nature, he allowed that Miss Darrington’s transgressions might be excused by ignorance; he even admitted that there was a certain appeal in the prospect of molding a country mouse into a fashionable countess. Alas, the brief time he had spent in Miss Darrington’s company had given him the impression that, far from being moldable, she was more likely to prove a frighteningly competent young woman who knew her own mind. For the first time since his conversation with James, he began to wonder if he was being a bit hasty.

But one could hardly admit as much to a young lady for whose sake he had made the journey from London for the express purpose of proposing marriage. So he took her proffered hand—she was not wearing gloves, he noted with some consternation—and raised it to his lips, saying, “Can you doubt it? I came to see you.”

Margaret smiled. “Very prettily said, my lord. Do sit down! Shall I ring for tea?”

“No, no,” he said hastily, quaking inwardly at the prospect of going down on one knee while simultaneously juggling a cup and saucer of boiling hot liquid. “I ate at the posting-house—the Pig and Whistle.”

“Then you are spending the night in Montford,” deduced Margaret, who had supposed her guest to be merely paying a courtesy call on his way to some other place. “Do you anticipate a long stay?”

Torrington, settling himself on one end of the sofa, merely shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Just wanted to get out of London for a spell. Veritable desert without you, and all that, don’t you know.”

Margaret raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Now,
that
I beg leave to doubt, given your wide acquaintance amongst the
ton.
” She knew she should not, but she could no more stop herself asking than she could stop her heart beating. “Tell me, how goes our mutual friend, the duke of Montford?”

“Oh, swimmingly,” Lord Torrington assured her blithely. “Expect his engagement to be announced any day now—might be betrothed by this time, for all I know.”

Margaret’s hand went instinctively to her bosom, as if to clutch at the knife that had just been plunged into her heart. “Miss—Miss Prescott is very beautiful,” she said, noting with detached surprise how very calm her voice sounded, when inwardly she wanted to sob and wail.

Torrington might not have noticed if she had done so, for by this time the earl had seen his opening and was determined to follow through with his proposal before he lost his nerve entirely.

“Got me thinking about my own bachelor state,” he continued. “High time I settled down, set up my nursery—ensured the succession and all that, don’t you know.”

Margaret, concentrating on taking deep, steadying breaths, made no reply.

“Well?” prompted the earl, slipping off the sofa and onto one knee. “What do you say? Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Margaret, lost in a waking nightmare in which she was obliged to dine at Montford Priory, during which meal James and his blushing bride made sheep’s eyes at one another down the length of the dinner table, was wrested back to the present so abruptly that she was left gasping for breath, much like a swimmer who has remained too long under water. “I—I beg your pardon?”

“Asking you to marry me—be my countess, and all that.”

“I—I hardly know what to say,” stammered Margaret, dazed by this unexpected turn of events. She had dreamed of a brilliant marriage for her sister; she never once considered that she might make one herself.

“Just say ‘yes,’ ” suggested the earl.

It was as simple as that. As the Countess of Torrington, she would have wealth and position for herself and financial security for her family. It was all she had ever wanted. Granted, his veneer of fashionable affectation made it difficult to know precisely what sort of man the earl was, but she knew him to be good-natured, and although he was far from astute, she did not think him entirely lacking in intelligence. She was sure he would make a kind and generous husband. Any woman would be mad to refuse such an advantageous match. And yet, somehow, it was no longer enough.

“I fear that is the one thing I can never say, my lord.”

“Too soon—rushed my fences,” acknowledged Torrington, nodding in sympathy. “Take some time—think about it.”

“You are most generous, but it would be wrong of me to encourage you to hope. I am deeply aware of the honor you do me, my lord, but I cannot marry you.”

“I see,” said the earl, rising from his kneeling position and carefully brushing the creases from the knees of his breeches. “Someone else, perhaps?”

“Yes, that is it,” agreed Margaret, grateful for his ready understanding. “You deserve better than a wife whose heart belongs to another.”

“Anyone I know? What I mean to say is, if there’s anything I can do—”

“Thank you, but no. It all happened before I came to London, you see.” She smiled sadly. “His name was Mr. Fanshawe.”

Chapter 16

Upon his return to London, Lord Torrington presented himself at the front door of the duke of Montford’s town house only to be informed by the butler that his Grace was not seeing visitors.

“He’ll see me,” the earl predicted with the ease of long acquaintance.

Brushing past the butler unmindful of that individual’s protests, he followed the sound of violin music up the stairs and down the corridor to the study. Finding the door locked, he rapped sharply upon it with the brass head of his ebony walking stick. When no one opened the door, he pounded upon it with his fists.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” came a muffled voice from within.

A moment later, the knob rattled and the door swung open. It was indeed James, but no one who had seen the elegant young duke at Almack’s would have recognized him in the haggard individual who held the doorknob in one hand and a battered violin in the other. His creased and disheveled clothing bore all the appearance of having been slept in, and his unknotted cravat hung loosely about his neck. His hair was uncombed, and his chin sported several days’ growth of blond beard.

“Torry!” he exclaimed, his bloodshot eyes blazing to life. “Gad, man, what’s taken you so long?”

“Had to chase my chosen bride into the wilds of Surrey. Dash it, old thing, how long since you’ve shaved?”

“Never mind that! Did she—am I to wish you happy?”

Torrington shook his head. “ ‘Fraid not. Turned me down flat.”

“She
turned you down?”
echoed James, afraid to hope.

“Flat,” repeated the earl. “Said she couldn’t marry where she didn’t love.”

“Miss Darrington
said that? Not—you are quite sure—not Miss
Amanda
Darrington?”

“No, no. Miss Margaret Darrington, ‘pon rep. Said she loved another, and would marry no one else. You wouldn’t know him—fellow by the name of Fanshawe.”

“Fanshawe? Did you say
Fanshawe?”
Casting his violin aside, James brushed past the earl and mounted the steps to the second floor two at a time. “Good God, I’m ravenous! Why hasn’t my staff given me anything to eat? Doggett?
Doggett!
Ah, there you are! My razor, if you please, and pack my bags for an extended journey. Sorry to abandon you, Torry, but I must away to Montford to claim my inheritance and my bride—although not necessarily in that order.”

“But I thought you were to marry the Prescott chit,” protested Torrington, standing at the foot of the stairs. “And what about this Fanshawe fellow?”

James, having already reached the landing and made the turn, leaned over the railing. “
I
am Mr. Fanshawe!”

“Dash it all, my lad,” expostulated the bewildered earl, “I thought your family name was Weatherly!”

* * * *

“Are you quite sure you will not come with me, Margaret?” asked Aunt Hattie as she tied the ribbons of her bonnet. “I am sure such an intelligent creature as you are would be a valuable addition to the Ladies’ Missionary Aid Society.”

Margaret, curled up on the window seat with a book, looked up from the printed page and shook her head. “Thank you, Aunt Hattie, but I should prefer to remain quietly at home.” Seeing her aunt was still not convinced, she managed a wan smile. “I assure you, I will not expire of a broken heart in your absence.”

“No, for hearts are not so cooperative, are they?” the older woman observed ruefully. “Still, I wonder if it is quite good for you to spend so very much time alone.”