Colin, deeply shaken, sat alone in the library, head in his hands, staring at the figured carpet. He dug his fingers into his curls and pulled, frustration and confusion ripping at his gut. What was he to think? Rachel had demanded to know what the night before had meant, and then had kissed him. She had definitely made the first move, but his own yearning had overpowered him and he had let loose all the repressed longing in his soul and body. For a few seconds it had been heaven, until he had realized how quiet she was, passive, quiescent. That was not what he wanted. He wanted her to kiss him back, love him as deeply as he loved and needed her.
He pondered the years of their acquaintance, all the rejections, all the times he had thought he was making progress, only to find she disdained his suit just as always. What was he now to think? With any other girl he would imagine her kiss to mean she liked him, and welcomed him as a potential suitor, but he had learned through long, hard trial and error—more than anyone else knew, even Andromeda—that it did not do to make assumptions with Rachel. He was as confused as ever.
The library door squeaked open.
“Colin? What are you doing sitting in the gloom like this?”
“Go away, Andy. I have things to think about.”
“Hmm. ‘Things’ meaning Rachel Neville?”
“Not your business, old girl. Leave it alone.” His tone was grim, he knew, and he meant it to be. This was no time for anyone to be bothering him. He wanted to be alone with his misery.
“I won’t.”
That figured. Andromeda was more stubborn than any other woman he knew.
“Colin, I don’t know what went on between you two just now,” she said, coming over and crouching at his knee. “But I do know that when she left she looked . . . confused. Troubled.”
He laughed shortly. “Poor, poor Rachel! She is certainly troubled. Probably because I won’t propose again so she can reject me one more time.”
“Colin! Don’t sound so bitter!”
“Don’t tell me how to sound.”
“But she’s not like that anymore.”
“You are such an innocent, Andy.” He stared into her dark eyes and shook his head. “Just because you are the soul of honesty does not mean most women are like you. Women are like that. Rachel is like that. She has led me down the garden path before and I fear she is doing it again, just to amuse herself now that all her suitors have . . . well, no, that’s not true.” He thrust his fingers through his tousled hair again and clutched at it in frustration. “She could have her pick of men to court her if she wanted. God knows there are dozens of them fools for her. Just like me.”
“Not just like you! You know her; they don’t. Colin, give her a chance. Believe that people can change. It is possible.”
“I have thought so before—”
“I told you then that you were a fool!” she said vigorously. “I knew what she was about, but you didn’t listen to me. She was an unhappy, bitter girl then. I see such a difference in her now, and you are a great dolt if, feeling the way you do—”
“You have no idea how I feel,” he said, exasperated. Andromeda had always tried to order his life, but it was enough. He was a man and would not stand for it anymore. “Just go away, Andy.”
“Do you love her?”
“Shut up and go away!” He was being unconscionably rude, and he regretted it immediately. He stood and stretched, his sister rising as he did. He took her shoulders, gazed directly into her eyes and said, “I will manage my own life. I will not die without Miss Rachel Neville, I promise you that.”
Andromeda’s eyes filled with tears and she laid her palm flat on his cheek. “I just want you to be as happy as I am, little brother. And if you love Rachel as I love Parnell, then only having her will make you happy. Life with love is so full, and rich, as if all the colors are new and all the sights you have ever seen are fresh. It changes you, I think. Transforms you.”
“Oh, Andy! What will I do with you now that you have turned so wise?” He gave her a quick, uncharacteristic hug and as swiftly released her. “Once we had unrequited love in common; you with Haven and me with Rachel. Now I am alone. I don’t think I like it.”
“Then you do still love her.”
He sighed, unwilling or unable to battle it anymore. “I do. I love her more than ever, with every fiber of my being.”
She frowned at him, her expression full of puzzlement. “How can you love her if you think so poorly of her, that she would lead you on purposely yet again? I never did understand that.”
He frowned, wondering about that himself. How could you love someone you didn’t trust? Was it merely lust, then, or frustrated desire? No, there was more, much more, in the tangled web of his feelings for Miss Rachel Neville. It was deeper, more complex, a part of his soul and his definition of himself, and had been for years. And yet it was not just a habit he had gotten into, as he had begun to believe. “I have always known that there is something within her, something fine and precious buried under the layers of social manners and elegant affectation. I love that. I want that. But I am resigned now that it is so deeply buried she might never let it come forth.”
“Or maybe you are blinded by years of rejection,” Andromeda said gently, reaching out and tousling his curls just as if he were a boy still. They were silent for a few moments in the vast, faintly musty cavern that was the Strongwycke library. When Andromeda spoke again, her voice was hushed, quiet, and yet rich with feeling. “Have you ever considered that perhaps you have been underestimating her, and her ability to change, to grow? Maybe she is now all that you thought she could be.”
“Why?” He shrugged and shook his head. “No, Andy, I am no different than in the past. I have no more money, nor better status, nor am I better-looking. I am still just me. Ugly, uncouth Colin. How can I believe her feelings toward me would have changed?”
“Because the change never needed to come from you, it needed to be within her. And she is different, more thoughtful, more—”
Finished with the subject and sick of speculation, Colin turned his sister and gave her a push toward the door. He was tired of all of this introspection; it gained him nothing that he could see or feel or touch, and that was all that mattered in the end. Here and now was all he had, all he would ever have. “Go back to your knight in shining armor and leave me to sort out my romantic woes on my own. I promise I will be as happy as a grig at your wedding and shall dance ’til dawn.”
• • •
Alone in the Haven House drawing room—everyone’s least favorite room, and therefore private most of the time—Rachel, curled up on the grim, indescribably ugly sofa, sat staring out the muddy glass to the street scene trying to understand her own feelings, much less Colin’s continued rejection of her in contrast to his enthusiastic participation in their kisses.
He had enjoyed it as much as she had. And she had liked it, not in any remote sense, but because it was Colin. She had wanted to kiss him. Him. Colin Varens, old friend and neighbor, companion of her youth. The previous night had awakened some hunger that was not yet sated. Maybe it never would be. His ravenous kisses of that morning had just sharpened her appetite into a craving. She hadn’t known how to understand it, hadn’t imagined the force with which it would consume her, and so had gone still, quiet, trying to fathom her reactions to Colin’s caresses. But the hunger had not abated.
There was a dreadful notion. Imagine, she thought, going around all the time hungry for what you could never have, knowing in your heart that no matter how much you needed the other person—
The thought arrested her and she stared blankly out the window. That was exactly what Colin must have felt for the last five or six years, ever since the first time he proposed—after considerable encouragement from her—only to be told no, she would never marry him. Time after time he had proposed, sometimes obliquely, sometimes with an outright declaration, professing his love and devotion, swearing undying fidelity. And she had always rejected him.
And yet she had taken for granted that Colin loved her and would always love her.
Had that love that he had professed to be eternal finally died? Had seeing her in London’s milieu, set against the backdrop of hundreds of lovely ladies, many of them eager for his attentions, finally cooled his ardor? It was a logical assumption to make.
But not if she was to judge by his kisses.
She touched her lips. At seventeen she had let him kiss her once, a very chaste kiss, and only fleeting. She had felt nothing, and had never let him repeat the experiment, sure she would feel no more than that one time. In truth, she had been happy she did not feel the “tingling” a girl once described to her. It had sounded horribly earthy.
It was safer to be cool, and she had always been happy that she seemed to be cold by nature. Frozen, one did not feel pain if someone left, or died. Too much of life was lived on an emotional plane, she had always thought. Poets raved on and on about the all-consuming fires of love, the desperation of unrequited passion. They maundered on about bitter jealousy and rage, despair. She was seldom troubled by feelings of anger or jealousy, fear or sadness. She had liked it that way, been happy in her coolness.
So what was wrong with her now? Why were her emotions in a tumult, her thinking muddled and confused?
She traced a heart on the dusty pane of glass. The servants were clearly not doing their job in this part of the house, she thought, wiping her finger on the brocade of the hideous sofa. Her mother was failing in her usual strict discipline, but then she had been distracted lately, with Grand ill.
She should be doing something, Rachel thought. She should go out shopping, or to the bookstore, or she should go visiting. She owed many visits before she left London, and just did not have the energy, it seemed, for any of them. She frankly did not care. What was wrong with her?
Feelings, so long restrained or submerged, raced through her constantly, leaving her wretched with a longing for peace. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not find the way back to her former poise, and strangely, was not even sure that she wanted to. For this emotional life she was discovering had compensations. Apart from her tumultuous longings, she had found that there were pleasant moments in her newly emotional life.
Belinda had insisted on walking arm in arm with her just the other day, and it had warmed her. Giddily, they had sung a silly song as they walked in the park, and she had not cared when people stared. And Andromeda! They had long had a difficult and strained relationship, and Rachel knew it was because of her rejection of Colin’s suit. Rachel feared it also had derived from her own disdain for Andromeda, whom she had considered just an odd spinster, negligible at best, strange at worst. But the woman had been so very kind to her lately, and she had found in her almost an older sister. Life had its difficult moments, but also its rewards.
And most of all, there was Colin. She must face facts. She very much feared that after all this time, and all her continued rejection, she had fallen in love with him. Kissing him had thawed the last frozen bits of her heart, and it had stung, like frostbitten fingers warming near a fire. There was the tingle and the sting. She thought she could enjoy kissing him often, if he would respond as eagerly as he had that morning. Surely that must mean something, his fervent response, or was it different for men? Could they kiss someone and yet not truly care about them?
She was no idiot. She had heard the whispered tales of girls led astray by a man with promises and then abandoned. And she knew men kept women for their own bodily pleasure with no attachment. She knew what the marriage bed meant, both to men and to women. It was described by her mother as a sordid duty, but she had known her mother exaggerated its unpleasantness to women, for surely there would not be so many children born in the world if patriotism, a desire to repopulate their isolated island after the ravages of war, was the only reason. Most women she knew were not that patriotic.
But what she had never considered was, what if it was—scandalous thought—enjoyable, the earthy side of begetting children? If kissing was a part of it, and she supposed it must be, for she would certainly demand it be, then it could prove to be . . . entertaining. She laid her flaming cheek on the back of the sofa, wondering at the turn of her thoughts, and traced heart shapes on the brocade back. What a moonling she had become!
Colin. If she should marry him, would he come naked to bed, and would they . . . she buried her face in her arm. Perhaps, after all, this love she thought she now felt for Colin was merely physical, some strange awakening of her womanly self. Again she traced the brocade design. No, she didn’t think that theory would hold up to the light of reason. If that was true, if what she felt for him was no more than the physical longing a woman might feel for an attractive man, she would not have been so worried for him in the ring. Seeing him hit had left her distraught, horribly fearful for his safety. And acknowledging those feelings had disturbed her more than she would ever admit to anyone.
The familiar tap tap tap of a cane sounded in the hall, and the door opened. Rachel looked up as her grandmother came into the room. She looked so tired and frail. Sometimes it seemed as if willpower alone kept her going. There was another difficult relationship she was experiencing anew. She and her grandmother had never been close, and yet, seeing her ill, she had realized how much she treasured the troublesome old woman. It had occurred to her that their differences over the years had partly been due to her feeling that her grandmother had never been misled by Rachel’s careful, ladylike demeanor.
“I thought I would find you here,” the old woman said. “Hiding out from your mother?”
“Not really,” Rachel said, hopping up from the sofa and moving to pull out a chair for her grandmother. “Here, Grand, sit. You should not be up so much. And whatever happened to that Bath chair mother purchased for you?”
“I sent it to Yorkshire.” She dropped into the chair with a groan. “Once I am there, your mother and I are going to move into the dower house, we think, and have a joyful time redecorating it. We have ordered new furnishings, wall coverings, paint, marble tiles . . . all manner of hideously expensive rubbish. She is still angry with Haven and thinks to punish him by moving out of Haven Court to Haven Wood.” The old woman’s eyes twinkled. “I shall tell him that if he wants his peace he should act heartbroken and demand she move back to the big house. It will keep her with me for years!”
“How will you two live together? You can barely stand to be in the same room without bickering.”
The twinkle softened and a smile loosened the purse-string wrinkles around the old woman’s mouth. “Lydia, for all her bluster and misguided notions, is a good woman. I fear I have been horribly hard on her for too many years. I would like the opportunity to make up for that now. As short as the time left to me is, I would make good use of it.”
Rachel shook her head and curled back up on the brocade sofa. “Everything feels like it is changing. Where shall I live?”
“Where do you want to live?”
“With Colin.” It was immediate, the response so quick it must have been from her heart. She hid her flaming face in her arms for a moment, but then looked up to meet the dowager’s eyes.
Grand did not seem surprised. “And what is stopping you? The puppy has always been mad for you.”
“Not now. I think I have killed all those tender feelings, I have been so cruel. He will never ask me to marry him now. I have rejected him too many times.”
The old lady leaned forward on her cane. “Tell him to come see me. I will set him straight. I have done it before to the country turnip!”
Rachel thought back to just two months before, when Colin, finally accepting her last rejection of his suit, had turned around just days later and asked her younger sister to marry him. Pamela had already received Strongwycke’s proposal, and Colin’s had confused her terribly because she had always fancied herself in love with him. Rachel raised the specter of that ill-timed proposal to her grandmother. “What did that mean? How could he want to marry me one day and then ask Pammy to marry him two days later?”
The woman snorted. “He never truly wanted to marry her! Just thought she would make a comfortable wife and a friend for his sister. The lad has poor control over his impulses. That makes him a good fighter, I suppose.”
Impulses. Like the impulse to kiss her, she supposed. And yet, watching him box with Sir Parnell, she had to think that boxing, contrary to her grandmother’s opinion, required a great deal of control over one’s impulses. One could not just lash out, but must choose the best time and strike wisely.
But nonetheless, it was a relief, hearing her opinion that the proposal to her little sister had just been an impulsive gesture. Colin’s proposal to Pamela had hurt and puzzled her. She hadn’t quite known why then; now she understood herself a fraction better. She had been jealous and put out, in truth. “Grandmother, what can I do? How can I make him see that I have changed, that I love him.” There; it was said, for better or worse, and it did not feel so bad, admitting that she loved him and yet he might not love her.
Oh, wait . . . that part did feel bad.
“You will have to be bold, I am afraid. Men do not like to look foolish, and I’m afraid you publicly rejected him once too often. Not that you did the wrong thing, my dear. No woman should say yes when her heart says no. And yet for the longest time I believed that a marriage could be perfectly good without love; mine was for many years.” She gazed toward the hearth, her blue eyes becoming misty with remembrance. “Then, oddly, I fell in love with my husband after I lost my second child. He was heartbroken, and I thought it was because it was another son, and then I found out his pain was for me, for what I had gone through. My marriage was never the same. Love changed everything. I found out that marriage with love is so much better than without.”
Rachel gazed at her grandmother, trying to see the young woman within her, trying to trace the image held only in the portrait in their gallery now, of a lovely woman with blazing blue eyes, wearing panniered skirts, her hair dressed high and powdered. It was too hard. Grand had always been an old woman to her.
“Why did it change everything?” she asked.
The elderly woman swiveled her watery gaze to her middle grandchild. “It blessed my heart.”
Blessed my heart. What a lovely phrase. Rachel sighed. “What should I do?”
“If you love your baby baronet, and think he loves you in return, then you will have to find a way, some bold gesture, that will let him see you will not treat him shabbily again. My dear, do whatever it takes if he is the one you would marry.”