Mary Balogh - The Proposal

What if she was with child and would not write to him?

And why could he not stop thinking of her day or night, no matter how busy he was with other things and other people? He was busy. He was spending part of each day with Richardson, and he was beginning to understand his businesses more fully, and ideas were beginning to pour into his head and even excite him.

But always she was there at the back of his mind—and sometimes not so far back.

Gwendoline.

He would be an idiot to marry her.

But she would save him from idiocy. She would not marry him even if he asked. She had made it very clear that she did not want him to ask.

But had she meant it?

He wished he understood women better. It was a well-known fact that they did not mean half of what they said.

But which half did they mean?

He would be an idiot.

Easter was almost upon them. It was rather late this year. After Easter she would be in London for the Season.

He did not want to wait that long.

She had not written, but what if …

He would be an idiot. He was an idiot.

“I have to go into the country,” he announced one morning at breakfast.

Constance set down her toast and gazed at him with open dismay. Fiona was still in bed.

“Just for a few days,” he said. “I’ll be back within the week. And the Season will not begin until after Easter, you know. There will be no chance of a ball or any other party before then.”

She brightened a little.

“You will take me, then?” she asked. “To a ball?”

“It is a promise,” he said rashly.

By noon he was on his way to Dorsetshire. To Newbury Abbey in Dorsetshire, to be more precise.

Hugo arrived in the village of Upper Newbury in the middle of a gray, blustery afternoon and took a room at the village inn. He was not sure he was going to need it. It was altogether possible that before dark he would be happy to put as much distance between Newbury and himself as was humanly possible. But he did not want to give the impression that he expected to be offered hospitality at Newbury Abbey.

He walked up to the abbey, expecting at every moment to be rained upon, though the clouds clung on to their moisture long enough to save him from getting wet. Soon after passing through the gates of the park he saw what he assumed was the dower house off to his right among the trees. It was a sizable building, more a small manor than a mere house. He hesitated for a moment, trying to decide whether to go there first. It was where she lived. But he tried to think like a gentleman. A gentleman would go to the main house first in order to have a word with her brother. It was an unnecessary courtesy, of course. She was thirty-two years old. But people of the upper classes set some store by the niceties of courtesy, necessary or not.

It was a decision he regretted soon after he arrived at the abbey itself, as grand and imposing a mansion as Penderris but without the comfort of being owned by one of his closest friends. The butler took his name and headed off upstairs to see if his master was at home—a rather silly affectation in the country.

Hugo was not kept waiting for long. The butler returned to invite Lord Trentham to follow him, and they made their way up to what turned out to be the drawing room.

And it was—damn it all!—crowded with people, not one of whom happened to be Lady Muir. It was too late to turn tail and run, however. Kilbourne was at the door waiting to greet him, a smile on his face, one hand outstretched. A pretty little lady was at his side, also smiling.

“Trentham,” Kilbourne said, shaking him warmly by the hand. “How good of you to call. On your way home from Cornwall, are you?”

Hugo did not disabuse him.

“I thought I would call in,” he said, “and see if Lady Muir has recovered fully from her accident.”

“She has,” Kilbourne said. “Indeed, she is out walking and is likely to get a soaking if she does not get under cover soon. Meet my countess. Lily, my love, this is Lord Trentham, who rescued Gwen in Cornwall.”

“Lord Trentham,” Lady Kilbourne said, also reaching out a hand for his. “Neville has told us all about you, and I will not embarrass you by gushing. But it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Do come in and meet our family. Everyone has come for Easter and for the baptism of our newest baby.”

And they took him about the room, the two of them, displaying him like a coveted trophy, introducing him as the man who had rescued their sister from being stranded with a badly sprained ankle above a deserted beach in Cornwall. And as the famous hero who had led the Forlorn Hope attack upon Badajoz.

Hugo could cheerfully have died of mortification—if such a mass of contradictions had been possible. He was introduced to the Dowager Countess of Kilbourne, who smiled kindly at him and thanked him for what he had done for her daughter. And he was introduced to the Duke and Duchess of Portfrey—had George not said that the duke had once been his friend?—and to the Duke and Duchess of Anburey; their son, the Marquess of Attingsborough, and his wife; and their daughter, the Countess of Sutton, and her husband. And to Viscount Ravensberg and his wife and Viscount Stern and his wife and one or two other persons. Not one of the people gathered there was without a title.

They were an amiable enough lot. The men all shook him heartily by the hand, the women were all delighted that he had been there on that deserted beach when Lady Muir had needed him. They all smiled and nodded graciously and asked about his journey and commented upon the dismal weather they had been having for the past several days and said how pleased they were finally to meet the hero who had seemed to disappear off the face of the earth after his great feat at Badajoz though simply everyone had been waiting to meet him.

Hugo nodded his head, clasped his hands behind his back, and understood the enormity of his presumption in coming here. He was a hero, perhaps—in their eyes. And he had his title—an empty thing, since everyone knew it had come as a trophy of war and had nothing whatsoever to do with birth or heritage. And he had come to suggest to one of their own that perhaps she might consider joining forces with him in matrimony.

His best course of action, he decided, was to take his leave without further delay. He need not wait to see her. He had come supposedly from Cornwall, on his way home from Penderris, and had made a detour out of politeness to inquire whether Lady Muir had recovered from her accident. Having been assured that she had recovered, he might now leave without anyone’s thinking it peculiar of him not to wait.

Or would they think it peculiar?

To the devil with them. Did he care what they thought?

He was not far from the drawing room window, talking to, or rather being talked at by someone—he had already forgotten most names—when the Countess of Kilbourne spoke up from nearby.

“There she is!” she exclaimed. “And it is raining—heavily. Oh, poor Gwen. She will be soaked. I shall hurry down and intercept her and take her up to my dressing room to dry off a bit.”

And she turned to hurry away while several of her guests, including Hugo himself, looked out into the driving rain and saw Lady Muir bobbing her way diagonally across the lawn below—her limp really was pronounced—her pelisse flapping about her in the wind and looking as though it was saturated with water, a large umbrella clutched in both hands and tipped sideways to shield as much of her person as was possible.

Hugo inhaled slowly.

Kilbourne was at his shoulder, laughing softly.

“Poor Gwen,” he said.

“If this is not an inconvenient time,” Hugo said quietly, “I would have a private word with you, Kilbourne.”

With which words, he thought, he had just burned a few bridges.

Gwen had recovered fully from her sprained ankle, but the same could not be said of her low spirits.

At first she had told herself that once she was on her feet again, everything in her life would be back to normal. It was mortally tedious to be confined to a sofa for most of the day even though many of her favorite activities were available to her there—reading, embroidering, tatting, writing letters. And she had had her mother for company. Lily and Neville had called every day, sometimes together, sometimes separately. The children, including the baby, often came with them. Neighbors had called.

And then, when she was on her feet and her spirits were still low, she had convinced herself that once the family arrived for Easter, all would be well. Lauren was coming as well as Elizabeth and Joseph and … oh, and everyone. She had looked forward to their coming with eager impatience.

But now there was no further reasonable explanation for the depression she could not seem to throw off. She was perfectly mobile again, and everyone was at the abbey and had been for the past two days. Even though the weather was dreary and they were all beginning to ask one another if they could remember what the sun looked like, there was plenty of company and activity indoors.

Gwen had discovered with some dismay that she could not enjoy that company as much as she always had. Everyone was part of a couple. Except her mother, of course. And her. And how self-pitying that sounded. She was single by choice. No woman who was widowed at the age of twenty-five could be expected to remain a widow for the rest of her life. And she had had numerous chances to remarry.

She had told no one about Hugo.