The Proposal (7 page)

How had Muir died, Hugo wondered, having allowed his mind to wander. He did not ask.

The doctor was being shown into the room, and he confirmed Hugo’s suspicion that his patient’s ankle was severely sprained though not apparently broken or fractured. Nevertheless, it was imperative that she rest her leg and put absolutely no weight upon it for at least a week.

The Survivors’ Club was going to have to expand to admit one more member, it seemed, even if just temporarily. George had allowed Mrs. Parkinson to win her point and give herself the opportunity to insinuate her company upon them for some days to come. Lady Muir was staying.

Mrs. Parkinson was the only one among them who looked gratified at the verdict, even though at the same time she dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes and heaved a soulful sigh.

It would have been better, Hugo thought, if he had not gone down onto the beach at all today. Last evening’s joke ought to have been warning enough. God sometimes enjoyed getting in on a joke and giving it his own peculiar twist.

The new sprain had been aggravated by the old break, which in its turn had been poorly set. He would dearly like to have a word with the physician who had set it, Dr. Jones said with some severity after he had explained the situation to Gwen. He ordered her not to put her foot to the ground for at least a week but rather to keep it elevated at all times, not even on a low stool but whenever possible on a level with her heart.

It would have been a gloomy enough pronouncement under any circumstances. Even at home, the prospect of remaining inactive for so long would have been irksome. And at Vera’s, another week without any escape from the company of her hostess and her friends would have been rather like being sentenced to a stay in Purgatory. Nevertheless, even that would have seemed like Paradise in comparison with the reality she faced. She was going to have to spend a week—
at least
a week—at Penderris Hall as a guest of the Duke of Stanbrook. She was being forced to impose herself upon a reunion of men—and one woman—who had spent long months together here recovering from wounds sustained during the wars. They were surely a closely bonded group. The last thing any of them would want was the forced presence of an outsider, a stranger to them all, who was nursing nothing more lethal than a hurt ankle.

Oh, this was the stuff of nightmares.

She was humiliated and in pain and homesick—
dreadfully
homesick. But most of all she was angry. She was angry at herself for continuing along the beach after discovering how difficult a terrain it was to walk upon, and for choosing to climb that treacherous slope. She had a weak ankle. She
knew
her limitations and was usually quite sensible about the sort of exercise she undertook.

Most of all, though, she was angry—quite furious, in fact—at Vera. What true lady would suddenly close her home to the very friend she had begged to come and keep her company in her grief and loneliness, just because that friend had suffered a slight accident? Should her reaction not have been quite the opposite? But Vera had been patently, embarrassingly self-serving in her unwillingness to allow Gwen to be conveyed to her house. Much as she had railed against the Duke of Stanbrook before today, she had obviously been thrilled beyond words at being offered a chance to come here to Penderris today, and in his crested carriage, no less, for all the other inhabitants of the village to witness. She had seen the chance to extend the thrill and become a daily visitor here for the next week or so and had proceeded to grasp it, without any consideration whatsoever for Gwen’s feelings.

Gwen nursed her humiliation and pain and anger while she reclined upon the bed in the guest room that had been assigned to her. Lord Trentham had carried her up here and deposited her on the bed and left her almost without a word. He
had
asked if he could fetch her anything, but both his face and his voice had been without expression and it was clear he did not expect her to say yes.

Oh, she must
not
give in to the temptation to shift all the blame for her discomfort onto the occupants of Penderris Hall. They had taken her in and been remarkably kind to her. Lord Trentham had carried her all the way up from the beach, or very close to it. And his hands had been surprisingly gentle when he removed her boot. He had brought her that cool cloth and pressed it to her forehead just when the pain had been threatening to get beyond her control.

She must
not
dislike him.

She just wished he did not make her feel like a spoiled, pampered, petulant schoolgirl.

A maid distracted her after a while. She brought more tea and the news that a portmanteau of her ladyship’s belongings had been brought over from the village and was now in the dressing room adjoining the bedchamber.

The same maid helped her wash and change into a gown more suitable for evening. She brushed out Gwen’s hair and restyled it. And then she left the room and Gwen wondered what would happen next. She hoped desperately that she could remain in her room, that the maid would bring up a tray at dinnertime.

Her hopes were soon to be dashed, however.

A knock on her door was preceded by the appearance of Lord Trentham, looking large and actually rather splendid in a well-fitting tailed evening coat and other evening attire. He was also glowering. No, that was unfair. His face in repose rather naturally glowered, Gwen thought. He had the look of a fierce warrior. He looked as though the niceties of civilized living were unimportant to him.

“You are ready to come downstairs?” he asked

“Oh,” she said. “I would
really
prefer to stay here, Lord Trentham, and be no bother to anyone. If it is not too much trouble, perhaps you would ask for a tray to be sent up?”

She smiled at him.

“I believe it
would
be too much trouble, ma’am,” he said. “I have been sent to bring you down.”

Gwen’s cheeks grew hot. How very mortifying! And what a vastly unmannerly answer. Could he not have phrased it differently? He might have told her that her company would be no bother to anyone. He might even have gone as far as to say that the duke and his guests were looking
forward
to her joining them.

He might have
smiled
.

He strode toward the bed, bent over her, and scooped her up.

Gwen set one arm about his neck and looked into his face even though it was disturbingly close.
She
could retain her manners even if he could not.

“What do you all do during your reunions?” she asked politely. “Reminisce about the wars?”

“That would be daft,” he said.

Was he always so rude? Or was it just that he resented her and could not even be civil to her? But he could have carried her to the village instead of bringing her here. Obviously he was such a strong giant that her weight was no object to him.

“You studiously avoid all mention of the wars, then?” she asked as he made his way downstairs with her.

“We suffered in this place,” he told her. “We healed here. We bared our souls to each other here. Leaving here was one of the hardest things we had had to do in a long while, perhaps in our whole lives. But it was necessary if our lives were ever to have meaning again. Once a year, though, we return to make ourselves whole once more, or to bolster ourselves with the illusion that we are whole.”

It was a lengthy speech for Lord Trentham. But he did not look at her as he spoke. His voice sounded fierce and resentful. It put her in the wrong again. It implied that she was a soft and pampered lady who could not possibly understand the sort of suffering he and his friends here had endured. Or the fact that that suffering never quite came to an end, that the sufferer was forever scarred by it.

She
did
understand.

When wounds healed, everything should be mended. The person concerned should be whole again. That seemed to make good sense. But
she
had not been mended when her leg knit together after being broken. Her leg had been poorly set. She would not have been whole even if her leg had healed perfectly, though. She had also lost her unborn child as a result of the fall. It might even be said that she had
killed
her child. And Vernon had never been the same after it had happened, though that did beg the question—
the same as what
?

When one had once suffered a great hurt, there was always a weakness afterward, a vulnerability where there had been wholeness and strength before—and innocence.

Oh, she
did
understand.

Lord Trentham carried her into the drawing room and set her down on the same sofa as before. But this time the room was not empty. There were, in fact, six other people present apart from the two of them. The Duke of Stanbrook was one, Lady Barclay another, Viscount Ponsonby a third. Gwen wondered fleetingly what
his
wounds had been. He looked dazzlingly handsome and physically perfect, just as Lord Trentham looked
large
and physically perfect.

It was obvious what was wrong with one of the other gentlemen. He hauled himself to his feet when Gwen came into the room, using two canes strapped to his arms. His legs looked unnaturally twisted between the canes, and it appeared as though he was supporting much of his weight on his arms.

“Lady Muir,” the duke said from his position before the hearth, “I appreciate your making the effort to join us. I fully understand that it must have
been
an effort. I am delighted to have you as a guest in my home, though I regret the circumstances. I look forward to becoming better acquainted with you during the coming week. You will not hesitate, I hope, to ask for anything you may need.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, flushing. “You are very kind.”

His words were courtesy itself, though his manner was stiff, distant, austere. But at least he
was
courteous. Unlike Lord Trentham, he was clearly a gentleman from head to toe. An extremely elegant gentleman too.

“You have met Imogen, Lady Barclay, and Flavian, Viscount Ponsonby,” he continued, crossing the room to pour a glass of wine, which he brought across to her. “Allow me to introduce Sir Benedict Harper.”

He indicated the man with the twisted legs. He was tall and slim, with a thin face and angular features that had once perhaps been purely handsome. Now they gave evidence of prolonged suffering and pain.

“Lady Muir.”

“Sir Benedict.” Gwen inclined her head to him.

“And Ralph, Earl of Berwick,” the duke said, indicating a good-looking young man if one ignored the scar that slashed across one side of his face. He nodded to her but neither spoke nor smiled.

Another dour man.

“My lord,” she said.

“And Vincent, Lord Darleigh,” His Grace said.

He was a slight young man with curly fair hair. He had an open, cheerful, smiling face, and the largest, loveliest blue eyes Gwen had ever seen. Now
there
was a man destined to break young hearts, she thought. There was no sign of any injury he might have sustained either to body or soul. And he was so very young. If he really had been an officer during the wars, he must have been a mere boy …

He seemed out of place in this group. He looked too young and carefree to have suffered greatly.

“My lord,” Gwen said.

“You have the voice of a beautiful woman, Lady Muir,” he said, “and I am told you have the looks to match. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Imogen says that you are horribly embarrassed to be here, but you need not be. We sent Hugo down onto the beach today to find you. He has a well-earned reputation for never failing in any mission set him, and this was no exception. He fetched a rare beauty.”

Gwen was feeling a jolt of shock that had nothing to do with his last words. Indeed, for a few moments she did not even fully comprehend what they were. She had suddenly realized that despite the loveliness of his eyes and the fact that he appeared to be gazing directly at her,
Lord Darleigh was blind
.

Perhaps his was the worst injury of all, she thought. She could imagine little worse than losing one’s sight. Yet he smiled and was purely charming. Did his smile extend all the way inside himself, though? There was something slightly disturbing about his cheerful demeanor now that she understood the devastation the wars had wreaked upon his life.

“If Hugo had fetched a gargoyle, Vincent,” the Earl of Berwick said, “it would have made no difference to you, would it?”

“Ah,” Lord Darleigh said, turning his eyes with great accuracy in the direction of the earl and smiling sweetly, “it would not matter to me, Ralph, would it, provided she had the soul of an angel.”

“A hit indeed, Ralph,” Viscount Ponsonby said.

And that was when Gwen heard the echo of what Viscount Darleigh had said to her—
We sent Hugo down onto the beach today to find you … He fetched a rare beauty.

“Lord Trentham came to
find
me?” she asked. “But how did he know I would be there? I did not plan that walk ahead of time.”

“You would do well, Vincent,” Lord Trentham said, “to tie your tongue in a knot.”

“Too late,” Viscount Ponsonby said. “Your secret must out, Hugo. Lady Muir, for a number of reasons, all of which seem sound to Hugo, he has decided to take a bride this year. His only p-problem is selection. He is arguably the finest soldier the British armies have produced in the last twenty years. He is not, alas, equally renowned as an accomplished l-lover and wooer of the fair sex. When he explained his situation to us last evening and added, wise man, that he was not in search of any grand love affair, he was advised to look about him for a personable female, explain to her that he is a lord and really quite f-fabulously wealthy, and then suggest that she marry him. He agreed that he would go down to the beach today and find such a woman. And here you are.”

If her cheeks grew any hotter, Gwen thought, they would surely burst into flame. And all her earlier embarrassment and anger had returned with interest. She looked at Lord Trentham, who was standing stiff and erect like a soldier at ease, but
not
at ease, and her chin lifted and her eyes sparked.