Tangled (10 page)

"You were like brothers," she said. "I could not marry my dead husband's brother."

"But we were not brothers," he said.

"David," she said. "I couldn't. Please, I couldn't."

He had to leave it. She was neither crying nor distraught. Rebecca was far too disciplined a person to show much open emotion in public. He knew that her behavior on the night of his return home was not typical of her. But he could see from her eyes now that she could be pushed no farther. She would not have him. At least at the moment she would not. Perhaps tomorrow he would try again, after she had had time to consider what they had talked about today.

But he did not think she would have him. Some other man eventually perhaps. But never him.

And so none of the burden of his guilt could ever be lifted from his shoulders. He would never be able to do anything to help and protect the woman whose husband and lover he had killed almost two years before. She would not be helped.

"Let's wait here for a few minutes, shall we?" he suggested, and he could feel her relief. "My father and Louisa should come up with us soon."

The earl, when they did, frowned at the end of the lake where they stood and expressed his concern over the reeds that were growing out of the water.

"Any boat venturing down to this end could get stuck fast," he said, "and never get free. It would be quite dangerous to swim here.

I'll have to have it cleaned out."

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"But the reeds give a lovely wild, picturesque aspect to the lake,"

the countess said. "Don't you think so, David? It does not have to be a pleasure lake, does it? Can it not merely be a pleasure to look at?''

"My gardeners would love to be within earshot now," the earl said dryly. "You would be offering them a wonderful excuse to be lazy, my dear. We would have wild nature to the very doors."

She laughed. "Now that is not what I said at all, William," she said.

"Is it, Rebecca? Men will persist in thinking us foolish creatures by hearing only what they think we say instead of what we actually do say. Let's walk ahead and talk sense to each other, shall we?''

He was not sorry, David thought, as they strolled back the way they had come, to be with his father for the return walk.

"What do you think?" the earl asked. "Shall I have the lake cleared out, David? Or shall I please your stepmother?"

"I would not touch those questions with a thirty-foot oar," David said, chuckling.

"Well, I suppose if it is just the one end that is clogged and picturesque, there is no great harm," the earl said gruffly. "Those who want can still bathe and boat at the other end. But I am not going to allow the whole lake to get quite overgrown, you know.''

The explanation for the walk rather than a ride and for the slowness of the walk came at tea after they had all arrived back at the house. The countess stood behind her husband's chair after pouring the tea, and set a hand on his shoulder.

"Shall we tell them, William?" she asked him.

He covered her hand with his and then patted it. "I said yes when you asked me the same question earlier, my dear," he said. "Go ahead."

She flushed deeply. "But I feel so very embarrassed," she said.

"David is twenty-eight years old."

David raised his eyebrows.

"You are going to have a brother or sister," she said. "A halfbrother or halfsister, that is. Will you mind?"

For a twenty-eight-year-old man he must be incredibly naive, David thought. He had not really considered it as a possibility. The idea of his father begetting a child at the age of fifty-two seemed incredible to him. And yet his shock was laughable. His father was
only
fifty-two, after all. Louisa was only thirty.

A brother or sister? At his age? He got to his feet.

"Will I mind?" he said. "I am delighted," He shook his father by the hand, noting with interest that he looked as embarrassed as Louisa. And he pulled Louisa into his arms and hugged her tightly. "I am pleased for you," he said. "Why would you be embarrassed to tell me?"

"I don't know," she said. "I am also very happy. And immensely proud of myself. Aren't I, William?"

But the earl was getting to his feet and holding out his arms to Rebecca.

"Father," she said, going into them, "I am delighted for you, And for you too, Louisa."

And then the two women were hugging and Louisa was laughing.

Father and son looked self-consciously at each other over their heads.

Perhaps all was not lost after all, David thought.

At breakfast the following morning, Rebecca and Louisa made arrangements to spend the afternoon visiting the elderly Mr.

Maynard and one or two other cottagers who had been ill. But Rebecca had the morning to herself and took a book out to the rose arbor beside the house. She always found it a haven of peace and beauty with its neatly clipped shoulder-high hedges and stone arched entrance, with its wrought-iron seats and marble statues. And of course its roses.

She opened her book but did not even try to read. A breeze fluttered the edges of the pages but was not strong enough to turn them.

She kept remembering his asking if she would remain forever a widow since her heart was buried with Julian and she could not contemplate marrying without being able to give her heart. Just a few days ago she would have answered unhesitatingly. The answer would have been yes. How could she marry again when she was already married to Julian?

She was not so sure of her answer now. She could never love again, it was true. But life would be so empty of meaning if it was never to hold anything more than she had now. She realized that for a long time she had been waiting—waiting for the next phase of her life to begin. Waiting for Julian to come back. But he was not coming.

Ever. Could her own life stop just because his had? At one time she had wished the answer could be yes. She knew that for almost two years she had wished unconsciously that she were dead too.

But she was not dead. And life was reasserting itself. Slowly and painfully, but undeniably. She had willed it so just a few days before.

And she had put aside her black

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clothes and donned gray as an outer sign of her return to life. And yet the future yawned empty and rather frightening. She was lonely.

But not alone. Someone was coming through the archway. She looked back over her shoulder and saw without surprise that it was David. She had been half expecting him, she supposed. Nothing had been settled between them. She had said no, adamantly and on both occasions when he had asked. And both times he had given up pressing the point. But she knew nothing had been settled. She knew that he would ask again. And she knew that her final answer had not been given yet.

They did not greet each other. He sat quietly beside her on the seat she had chosen. It was strange that greetings were not necessary, she thought. It seemed that they were communicating beyond the medium of words. He was waiting for her to speak. Not impatiently.

But he knew she would say something. He knew she had something to say.

She closed her book. And her eyes for a few moments.

"I am happy for them, you know," she said. "It is not that I am not happy.''

He said nothing. Perhaps because he did not know what she was talking about, though she felt that he did.

"I don't think I can bear to be here when the child comes, David,"

she said. "They will be more of a family than ever. I will feel more out of place than ever.''

Still he said nothing. He took the book from her hands and set it down on the seat on the far side of him.

"I wanted both of those babies," she said, her eyes closed again.

"You can't imagine how much I wanted them, David. It was hard for Julian. He was so very pleased and then so upset both for his own loss and for my pain. But it was harder for me. They were inside my body. Part of me. It hurt dreadfully to lose them."

She felt his fingers rest lightly against the back of one of her hands for a moment.

"They would have made our happiness complete," she said. "Just as this child will make your father's and Louisa's. I really am happy for them. But I dread being here."

He spoke at last. "Come with me, then," he said.

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She was so very tempted. For the first time she was tempted. And yet all through the night and die morning she had known diat he would ask again. She had steadfastly held her mind away from making a decision. She had convinced herself that there was no decision to make. She could not marry him.

"David," she said, opening her eyes to look down at her hands. She swallowed convulsively. "David, I don't love you."

"I don't ask for your love," he said. "I ask merely for your help and companionship, Rebecca. And perhaps for a little affection if I prove to be a good husband to you. I don't ask for what you cannot give."

"But as your wife," she said, "I would feel honor-bound to give all."

"All you can," he said. "And your loyalty. That is all I ask, Rebecca.

It is what I offer you."

She clenched her hands and then spread them over her lap.

"How would you feel," he asked, "if you came to Stedwell with me and found it as shabby and even as derelict as I suspect it is?"

She thought for a moment. "I think I would feel invigorated," she said. "There would be so much to do."

"There would be no one to help you," he said. "Except me—and the servants, of course. But I would be busy with the farms, which will need my attention after all these years."

"I would not ask for help," she said. "It would be wonderful not to need help, to have a free hand in accomplishing such a large task. To be needed." She stopped suddenly, realizing what she was saying.

"You would be needed, Rebecca," he said. "I need you."

But she could not. He was David. She had never even liked him—or not since childhood anyway. And especially not since—since Flora. She could not use him now for her own convenience.

"Is it a marriage in name only that you are proposing, then?" she asked him, feeling herself flush.

"No," he said. She knew he was looking steadily at her even though she could not bring herself to turn her

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head to meet his eyes. "It would have to be a marriage in every sense of the word. I don't believe we could live together in the same house otherwise."

"But I couldn't ..." she said, clasping her hands tightly together in her lap. She could not face the intimacies of marriage with a man she did not love. Even with the man she had loved it had been difficult.

Duty of course was what forced a woman to submit quietly—her whole upbringing had prepared her for that—but she did not think she would have found it possible without her deep love for Julian, her earnest wish to please him. It was unpleasant for a woman, even when there was love. Without it, it would be quite repugnant.

"I would not be trying to take Julian's place, Rebecca," he said.

He did not understand. Men did not, it seemed. Julian had always found it pleasurable. He had come to her almost every night, except when she had been with child and when she had been having her monthly periods. She had never minded because she had loved him and because she had been his wife. She did not believe he had ever realized that it had not been as pleasurable for her as it had been for him.

"Come with me," David said. "Marry me and come with me."

She turned her head to look at him for the first time. "David," she said, "we both know why it might be in my interest to marry you. I am lonely and adrift and need a husband and home. But what about you? Why would you wish to marry me when you might marry whomever you choose? You don't love me."

It was a question that had deeply disturbed her since he first asked.

He knew she did not love him and never could. And yet he was prepared to marry her? It made no sense at all.

I want to start my new life at Stedwell without delay,'' he said.

"After all these years of neglecting it, I can't wait to begin. I need a wife now. I don't want to waste more precious time going about trying to meet someone suitable.
You
are suitable. I know you. You need me. We need each other."

It still made no sense. Could he be so cold that he felt

78 Mary Balogh
no need of love? Or was he naive enough not to believe in love just because he had never yet encountered it for himself?

"But perhaps you would find love if you waited awhile," she said.

He shook his head. "I believe in affection more than love," he said.

"Perhaps you would fall in love with someone else after our marriage,'' she said, ''and it would be too late.''

"I would make you certain vows on our wedding day," he said. "I could not take marriage vows lightly, Rebecca. All my devotion and fidelity would be pledged to you—for the rest of my life and yours."

It seemed somehow cold and unfeeling even though he mentioned devotion. As if devotion could be willed. And as if there were no real emotion involved. And yet it was all she would ever be able to give a second husband. Perhaps it could work. Perhaps her first marriage was not the only kind of marriage that could succeed.

And yet,
she almost said aloud,
you did not remain either devoted or
faithful to Flora.
But then he had made no vows to Flora. She wondered how many other women there had been since Flora. There must have been others, surely. She had heard that soldiers, the officers anyway— the unmarried ones—often lived lives of wild debauchery when they were able. It was the inevitable result of the constant threat of death that was a way of life to them, she supposed. David must have had many women. He was such a very handsome and attractive man.

She was aware of his attraction for the first time since his return, of his handsome features and very blue eyes, of his broad shoulders and well-muscled physique. She had fought her attraction to him as a girl, suffering dreadful pangs of guilt whenever she had caught herself gazing at him appreciatively or daydreaming about him. It was not seemly to think of a man in physical terms, especially when one could not like or admire the man himself. She had always turned with renewed adoration to Julian, who deserved her love, and whose whole person she loved.