On the other hand, Elizabeth reasoned, there had been nothing improper in his behavior tonight. He had danced with Cecily only twice; he had danced with Anne Claridge, Amelia Norris, and one other lady as many times. His manner to Cecily at the supper table, although markedly attentive, had not been exactly flirtatious. The man was, after all, supposedly betrothed to Miss Norris, though Elizabeth had seen little evidence of any strong attachment on his part.
And what of Cecily? She had been flushed with pleasure when dancing with Hetherington and at the supper table. But she had looked much the same all evening. She had not looked particularly as if she were languishing after the marquess when she was not dancing with him.
Elizabeth decided that she should wait before saying anything. She was very reluctant to admit to a previous acquaintance with Hetherington. She would observe the two of them at the dinner party two days later and at the picnic on Saturday.
Why had Hetherington so pointedly invited her to that picnic? He had given every sign of loathing and despising her before that invitation. Elizabeth was very inclined not to go, but she really did feel it her responsibility to keep an eye on Cecily. Anyway, the man had dared her to go, had he not?
Why was he so hostile? Elizabeth was completely puzzled. She might have expected him to be embarrassed after the way he had treated her. But hostile?
Their newfound love had developed slowly after that night when, finding themselves unexpectedly alone together, they had kissed. For several weeks they had met as frequently as before, but always in public. Their friendship had grown. Soon Elizabeth had considered him to be her closest friend. She looked forward to meeting him. With him she felt free to pour out her innermost thoughts. It was to him she had confided her worries over her father, who was drinking more and sinking further and further into debt. She had confided her worries over her beloved John, her fear that when the time came, he would have no estate to inherit.
After his one declaration of love, Robert had not broached the matter again for several weeks. Only a new tenderness in his eyes and an occasional squeeze of the hand had convinced her that she had not imagined the episode at the ball. Finally he had spoken. He had invited her to drive with him in the park. He had chosen paths that were somewhat less public than the promenade that all the ton frequented on afternoons when it did not rain.
"Elizabeth," he had begun, "you believe that I love you, do you not?"
"Yes," she had replied, looking across at him. He was tight-lipped and frowning, an unusual expression for him.
"You must wonder why I have made no reference to the fact in three whole weeks," he had continued, his voice strained. "After my behavior on that one evening, I owed you an offer of marriage the next morning."
"No," she had said. "I kissed you too, Robert, and I do not believe we did anything so very wrong. I should hate to think that any man felt obliged to offer for me merely because he had kissed me."
"You misunderstand," he had said, distressed. "I want to marry you, Elizabeth. God, how I wish to marry you! But I am afraid I cannot."
Elizabeth had stared at him, wide-eyed.
His eyes had gone hard. "My father is not wealthy," he had said, "and I depend entirely upon him for my living. He opposes my taking any sort of employment and keeps me very much in leading strings. When I am five and twenty, I shall inherit the money left me by my mother. It is not by any means a fortune, but I shall be able to be independent on it."
"You do not need to tell me all this, Robert," Elizabeth had said doubtfully.
"Oh, yes, I do," he had answered viciously. "Do you not see what has happened? For three weeks I have been trying to persuade my father to allow me to make you an offer. It will not do. I must dangle after an heiress. It is useless to argue that I am a mere younger son, that if he were to turn over my mother's money to me now, as he could if he wished, he would be free of responsibility for me. I must marry wealth. I appealed to my uncle, my lather's younger brother, to intercede for me. Uncle Horace was always an indulgent man when I was younger. But he is worse than Papa. He believes that I should marry both position and fortune. He is as rich as Croesus, by the way. I can see no way out, Elizabeth, except to ask you to wait for three years. I can hardly expect that of you."
"Three years is a long time, Robert," she had replied. "Anything can happen in that time to change the situation. For now, it is enough to know that you love me." But she had been painfully aware that this was probably the only Season in London that she would be allowed, that they might have to spend three years without even seeing each other before they could wed.
Robert had drawn his horses almost to a halt and gazed across at her. "And you, Elizabeth?" he had asked. "Do you love me? Will you wait for me?"
"Yes," she had answered with all the ardor of extreme youth. "I love you, Robert, and I shall wait forever if I must."
He had glanced hastily around, but there were other riders in sight. He had had to content himself with lifting her hand, drawing her glove down to bare her wrist, and pressing his lips to the pulse there.
"I shall always love you," he had said, and Elizabeth had believed him.
She laughed harshly now as she stood at the window of her room in the Rowes' house, made light by approaching dawn. Forever did not last very long, she reflected.
Chapter 4
Elizabeth was relaxing in the rose garden the next afternoon when Hetherington and Amelia Norris came to call. She had been into Granby in the morning to accompany Cecily on some shopping errands, and had listened to the girl practicing on the pianoforte after luncheon. Now Cecily was with her mother, and Elizabeth felt free to read at leisure the letter from her brother that had arrived by the morning post.
Although she saw the two visitors arriving on horseback, she did not reveal her presence or make any move to go into the house herself. She was very glad, in fact, to be granted such a fortunate escape.
Baby Jeremy had recently taken his first steps alone, she read with a smile. He had lowered himself down the whole length of the staircase one afternoon, waddled a few steps down the hallway, and toppled a marble bust off a table that he must have clutched for support. The housekeeper did not seem to know whether to scold or to hug the child. Louise was increasing again. John was a little worried, although she laughed away his fears. She was bilious in the mornings as she had not been with Jeremy. But she told him that she was merely looking for excuses to stay abed in the mornings. Elizabeth would be a very welcome visitor. She would be able to offer companionship to Louise, an extra member of the admiring audience to her nephew, and of course, a wonderful source of comfort to her brother.
Elizabeth smoothed the letter on her lap and smiled down at it. John never gave up trying to lure her home. And the temptation was great, she had to admit that. She could not go back, though, and be dependent on her brother. She could not break in on the family circle there. Although she was really no more than a servant where she was, at least she was supporting herself on her own earnings. She had a measure of independence and self-respect.
She was jolted from her reverie by the sound of approaching voices. She recognized the rather shrill tones of Amelia Norris and the softer, higher-toned voice of Cecily. Perhaps they had left Hetherington in the house. She lowered her head to her letter again, hoping they would pass by without seeing her.
"Hiding, Miss Rossiter?" a deeper voice said from the graveled entryway of the arbor.
"Not at all, my lord," she replied coolly, looking up into his face. "I did not know that my presence was requested."