Rachel and Belinda leaped up to congratulate the couple, hugging them both in an extravagant display of emotion. But Colin sat, staring off over the gentle decline toward the garden, misty in the midday heat of the English countryside. He could not quite take it all in. In one moment every element of his life had changed.
“Colin, are you not happy for me?” Andromeda said.
“Of course I am,” he said, rising and holding out his hand to his friend, Sir Parnell. He glanced from one to the other, the handsome though brown knight and the woman who would never look like a blooming twenty-year-old again, his beloved sister. Almost his conscience, he would have said. “I am happy for you if this is what you really want. But you need not marry, you know, Andy. I only joke about you being an old maid. I never meant it.”
“But I want to marry,” Andromeda said, coloring.
He heard the hurt in her voice and stood, approaching her. Damn his clumsiness anyway! He would not injure her feelings for anything. “Then I am happy for you.” He hugged his sister.
In truth, he was shaken, this one event rocking his world more than he would ever admit to anyone. It had never occurred to him that Andromeda would marry. When he had imagined, in years gone by, marrying Rachel and taking her to Corleigh, it was always knowing in the background that Andromeda would stay, keep house for them, and Rachel would not need to care for all the petty details of running an estate. He had wanted her to be able to just sit in the parlor, embroider or net, and go for the occasional walk with him. Andromeda and he would take care of all the mundane details of life so she could just concentrate all her efforts on staying the perfectly lovely, perfectly delicate English rose she was.
This day had changed many things, and made him wonder about many more. Was no one whom he had thought? Was he doomed to find, through his life, that his judgments had been pretty far from reality all through the years? Pamela, little imp-wanderer and eternally youthful boyish girl-child, had captured and married the sophisticated, intelligent Earl of Strongwycke. Rachel—cool, pragmatic, icy calm beauty expected to marry well—had rejected an eligible marquess for no good reason that anyone could imagine, except that she did not love him and he did not love her. And Andromeda, devoted sister, lifelong spinster, was engaged to marry a Caribbean nabob.
As they returned home, he let his horse take him far ahead of the others, needing some time to adjust to the changes in his life. No Rachel, ever. That was the hardest thing, and perhaps he had only just accepted it, finally and for good. Watching her eat the cream-dipped strawberry, he had felt that old rush of physical longing that was more than mere sexual desire. It radiated from some core of him that was so saturated with Rachel that her name was engraved on his heart. As much as he tried to eradicate it, it would not go away.
He was in love with her. Even this new Rachel, the one who had adventures, and rode in hot air balloons and acted the hoyden on occasion; he still loved her. It should have given him a disgust of her. It truly should have been what erased his emotional attachment to her once and for all, for she had exceeded the boundaries of what he had always thought of as ladylike. She was not the Rachel he had fallen in love with.
Or was she?
She was still as lovely as ever, but her beauty was only a small part of what he had always believed he had loved about her. He still saw her in pensive moments. There was a vulnerability in her that he had sensed from a very young age; it had attracted him, had created within him his powerful urge to shelter and protect her. She had, since her father died, cloaked her emotions within a hard shell, turning away any tender sentiment. But he had felt her pain and shared it, remembering how it hurt to lose his mother when he was about the same age. And he had wanted to protect her from any more pain in her life, however unrealistic that had been. He wanted to be her guardian, her valiant knight protector.
Now she was coming out of that shell, and he had seen how her vivacity and new liveliness had attracted a different sort of man than had courted her in past. Yarnell had thought she would be a doll to put up on a shelf and admire: perfectly gowned and coifed, perfectly lovely, and perfectly cold. But hadn’t he been treating her much the same as the despised marquess? Hadn’t that very expectation, that he could keep her cloistered and protected, leaving to Andromeda all the real work of running an estate, been an insult to her strength and independence?
She had been right to tell Yarnell to release her, and she had been right to say no to his own proposals all those years. Whatever her reasons had been, she had been absolutely right. There was more to her than the brittle, beautiful shell. She was emerging, like a butterfly from a chrysalis, to use a hoary old metaphor for a lady of her loveliness. She was shedding her fears, leaving behind her vulnerability, showing her strength of character, and yet he could not cast off his emotions for her as easily.
She was still precious to him, and he still wanted her in every way a man could want a woman.
So he truly did love her, bone deep. He longed for her even more, humbled by her strength, attracted by her new boldness in a way he never would have believed. And yet his chances to attach her were just as remote, or perhaps more so, especially with the grim way he had been treating her lately, stubborn boor that he was. Many men would seek her out. One of them would surely capture her heart, for he instinctively knew that with the changes in her there would be a warming of the frost that had encapsulated her for so many years. And some lucky man would find a way to turn that flicker of warmth into fire.
With that glum thought he came to the London turnoff and waited for the carriage and Sir Parnell. He must concentrate on his sister’s marriage. He owed her much for years of patience and companionship, love and nurturing. Without even thinking about it he knew they would be happy. It had only ever needed a man who could appreciate the unique woman she was, and he could not have hoped for a better brother than Sir Parnell Waterford.
Tamping down his own unutterable sadness and plastering a fraudulent smile on his face, he called out, “I propose that we stop at the White Hart and send the innkeeper out for the best bottle of champagne he can find. We have something truly wonderful to celebrate in the marriage of my sister to a man who almost deserves her.”
He was rewarded for his effort with a radiant smile from his sister, who had needed only his blessing, he realized, to make her completely happy. They had only two weeks left in London before they must go north, returning Belinda to her uncle and new aunt. He suddenly realized that the trip home would likely be made without his sister, who would be preparing to marry, or perhaps be already married. He must make the most of the next two weeks, for he doubted he would be back down to London any time soon.
As they entered the tavern, and he stepped back to allow Rachel and Belinda to advance ahead of him, he decided that he would stop letting his expectations rule him and would just let each day come and go. It was the only thing he could do.
• • •
But that was easier to think than to do. He had to be grateful that he had his fighting. Bouts were scheduled every couple of days, and he won consistently. Pugilism was not without its danger and he still suffered his share of bruises, scrapes and cuts, but it felt good to do what he was so very proficient at. Even with Sir Parnell more busy now, a newly engaged man, Colin still found he was learning all the time and getting better. He had attained a reputation, and crowds came to watch him box. He even beat Sussex Sam handily, sending the giant down in just three minutes. That was his most satisfying triumph.
He even wished Rachel could have seen it.
Socially he was finding himself more in demand than he ever would have imagined. Lord and Lady Sommer, a couple Colin had met briefly at a picnic, were holding a ball. Colin was surprised to find an invitation for himself and Andromeda in the morning mail, since the earl and countess had rather snubbed him when they were introduced. He could only assume that good company was getting very sparse, and he had been moved up to “acceptable” as a result. It did not hurt, he supposed, that Lord Sommer had bet a very large amount in a fight, backing him, and had won his bet.
It didn’t surprise him to find that Rachel would be there. Events were infrequent now as most of the better families left town, and she was everywhere he turned, her radiance always before him, his heart always thrumming painfully at the sight of her. It was still unfashionably light when he arrived, but he found that he was not the first, as he had feared he would be. He was greeted politely by his host and hostess and made Andromeda’s apologies, then wandered for a while, talking to people he had met recently, but more often strolling alone.
When Rachel arrived he knew it instantly. Every man in the ballroom, it seemed to him, gazed at her with longing. Several were openly courting her, but elusive as she had become, there was no rumor as to which she would choose. It seemed that despite her fears, she had been forgiven by society for jilting Lord Yarnell, even in the face of his mother‘s determined spite. The dowager Lady Yarnell had removed to Wight for the summer, it was said, to lick her wounds and send plaintive—and, it was rumored, ignored—missives to her hitherto obedient son, who was traveling happily with his unsuitable bride.
Colin was happy Rachel had not been made to suffer for doing the right thing. It could likely be attributed to her beauty, social standing, and the ardor of many more suitors, he supposed, with a cynicism born of a new understanding of London society. She was a valuable commodity: beautiful, rich, well-born and with a spotless reputation. As such, she would not be censured when there were likely many matchmaking mothers looking for well-dowered and well-born young ladies for their sons.
He watched as gentlemen flocked to her side. He recognized one or two fortune hunters, some who would gather around any recognized fashionable beauty, but many genuine admirers. All of them much more eligible than he. She was accompanied by her mother, but that woman looked peevish and ill-tempered and retreated immediately to the chaperones’ chairs to gossip with her cronies. As the music started, Rachel’s card was no doubt filling with waltzes and galops, mazurkas and country dances.
She looked up and caught his eyes on her. Since his sister’s engagement they had made an uneasy peace, uneasy because it was wretchedly uncomfortable longing for her every waking minute and knowing all hope was dead. She raised the dance card and tiny pencil in pantomime, and he nodded. Yes, he hoped she would put him down for a dance. It would be her decision which one, though he might have to take whatever had not yet been claimed.
Later, about the third or fourth dance, he found that he was right; it was a staid minuet, and they were apart much more than they were together. He supposed he should consider himself lucky it was not one of the more modern dances, for he was not the best on the floor. “When do you go back north?” he said as they promenaded at the end of their dance.
“In two weeks. We would have been gone already, but Grandmother is still not fit to travel.”
“She seemed much better the last time I saw her,” he said, remembering their conversation. It was she who had told him that women were not china figurines to be kept on a shelf. At the time he had brushed aside her remarks as irrelevant to him; only later had he understood the justice of her accusations. He would have stifled the vibrant woman on his arm with his over-care.
“She’s better, but still weak. We will have to take the trip home in easy stages. Haven and Jane are coming down to accompany us home to Yorkshire.”
He had been about to offer his own escort as far as their path lay together, but even that was not necessary. He could leave any time, he supposed. “Home to Yorkshire,” he murmured.
“I was thinking of going to visit Pamela for a while. I miss her so much. I never knew how much until recently.”
“That would be good for both of you. I’m sure she misses you just as much.”
Their desultory conversation was over as her next dance partner came to claim her for the coveted waltz, and he watched them glide across the floor in elegant swooping motions. She must think him a dull dog compared to these London dandies who were all mad for her. She must laugh to herself about old Colin, forever proposing, faithful old dog that he was.
He shrugged and turned, walking away.
• • •
Rachel, nominally dancing with Lord Featherfew, was thinking ahead to her return to Yorkshire. What would Colin do, alone at Corleigh? She caught a glimpse of him and noticed three young ladies had clustered around him, one with her hand daringly on his upper arm. If he wanted, he would not need to be alone. Many girls would consider themselves lucky to marry him, and knowing him as she did, she knew they would have every chance at a happy marriage. He could be stuffy and hidebound, but he was also kindhearted and good. And he certainly had a vigorous male attractiveness to him, despite his plain appearance. Even ladies not in need of a husband had found him attractive.
His new reputation as a winning boxer intrigued many of the ladies; Rachel had heard it whispered among some of the women, ladies who were not supposed to know about such brutal things but clearly did. As for herself, she supposed it was just the shock of the sight, but she could not rid herself of the image of him, stripped to the waist, skin pale as marble, muscles gleaming with sweat, as he fought Sussex Sam. The image taunted her; he had apparently been fighting for years, and yet she had never known of that side of his life. What else about him did she not know? What other layers were there to her old friend, things he had hidden for fear of shocking the delicate flower he had always considered her?
When she was younger she had treated him as one would a pet puppy, tolerating his eager attentions, rebuffing him when she became bored. And he had thought of her, it seemed, as a hothouse flower, apt to wilt at the slightest breeze. Had he changed most, or had she? Or was it only their image of each other that had changed? He certainly did not seem like a puppy anymore.
The dance finally ended, and her escort walked with her around the perimeter of the ballroom. Her next dance was not engaged, so she requested they return to her mother.
Instead, her escort suggested, “Will you walk with me in the garden, Miss Neville?”
“That would be lovely, my lord,” she said. The ballroom was overheated, and a breath of cooler air was the cure.
They strolled out to the terrace. Lord Featherfew had a rakish reputation, but he was reportedly on the hunt for a wife and had calmed his wilder tendencies. He had given her a fair amount of attention of late, and though he was a pleasant enough fellow, she was not seriously considering him a suitor. In truth, she was not considering anyone a suitor. She was too confused about her own feelings for that.
“That grassy stretch looks cooler, does it not, Miss Neville?”
The lawn wove in and out of ornamental fruit trees and burgeoning gardens of hydrangea and unnamable shrubs. The path beckoned; cool fingers of shadowy twilight had already tempted another couple, who strolled among the trees.
“It does. Shall we walk there?”
He was an undemanding escort. He was not one for conversation, and she found his company peaceful, rather like being alone. She wondered, as they strolled, should she be considering Colin in the new light shed on his life? Should she be thinking of him as a possible husband? That was ridiculous, of course, for he had finally accepted that she would never marry him, and truly seemed happy about it now. That stung, she had to admit to herself. He had been her devoted admirer for so long she felt adrift without that in the background of her life. At the time she had truly wanted him to just leave her alone, but it felt odd now that he had taken her at her word.
“Where are we going, my lord?” she asked, suddenly realizing they were quite alone among the shrubbery and it was darker than she had expected.
“Miss Neville, my dear, you have my most fervent admiration,” he said, pulling her around to face him and clutching her against him. “It cannot have escaped your attention that I am your most devoted admirer, and now I wish to prove to you the passion of my attachment.”
“Sir, I—”
But her words of denial were cut off as he gripped her in an iron grasp and kissed her, hard, his brandy-scented breath mingling with hers as he sucked on her lip and jammed his tongue in her mouth. She gagged and struggled, but he was strong and had her one arm almost bent behind her.
She wrenched her head to the side and cried out, “Stop, my lord, leave me—”
He had pulled her close again and found her mouth, smothering it with his own.
But then suddenly he was pulled away from her, and as quickly as that happened he was on the ground, hand on his jaw. Colin stood over him, fists clenched.
“Leave now, Featherfew, and if you ever come near Miss Neville again I will kill you, I swear it.”
The viscount scrambled to his feet and said, “I didn’t harm her, Varens. Ask her yourself. She let me lead her away from the lighted paths. What else was I to think but that she’d welcome my attentions?”
“She doesn’t.”
“How do you know?” The fellow, a hurt expression on his handsome face, turned to Rachel. “Miss Neville, I—”
“Lord Featherfew,” she said, her voice trembling. “You have mistaken my feelings. I did not realize we had strayed so far from the lighted path, or I would not have—”
“You don’t need to apologize to this lout, Rachel,” Colin growled. “Leave, Featherfew.” He moved menacingly toward him.
“I most certainly will. I have never been so insulted in all my life!” The viscount, still nursing his jaw, which would likely sport a colorful bruise the next day, strode away, muttering angrily under his breath.
“He has a point, Colin,” Rachel said, trying to conceal a smile. Her hero, rescuing her again, just as he did when she was eight and he thirteen and she had strayed too far from Haven Court and fallen in a pond.
“The important thing is, are you all right, Rachel?” He came to her and put his hands on her shoulders, pulling her gauzy cap sleeves back into place.
“I am. He frightened me, but in retrospect I can see he thought I would welcome his kisses. I just had been daydreaming and had not realized how far we had strayed.” She could not exactly say she had been daydreaming about him.
His expression serious, he said, “You must be careful, Rach. You are so beautiful; more than one man could be tempted to hope you would favor him.”
“My beauty does not excuse his behavior,” she said, stung by the implication that she was somehow responsible for Featherfew’s misbehavior.
“Of course not; I didn’t mean that. But you are so lovely.” He let the sentence hang and there was silence between them.
Then the extraordinary happened.
His expression softened, and his dark eyes blazed with warm light. He surrounded her in his arms and pulled her close, hesitated for just a moment, and then kissed her, not hard; gently he moved, exploring her lips with his.