She looked at him coolly. “How foolish you are, Kit,” she said. “How utterly foolish.”
“You had an understanding with Jerome,” he said. “You would not have married me.”
“Of course I would not,” she said impatiently. “You were a younger son. I am the daughter of a Duke of Bewcastle.”
“Well, then.” How devastating those words would have sounded to him three summers ago. How relieved he was to hear them now. “There was no permanent harm done, then, was there? Did you love Jerome?”
“Oh, fool, Kit,” she said softly. “Fool!”
He had known her for a long time. They had been close friends. Sometimes meanings did not have to be spelled out in words.
“Freyja—” he began.
“For what are you punishing yourself this time?” she asked him. “Still for Sydnam? For Jerome? Because you broke his nose and had no chance to beg his pardon before he died? You have become a bore, Kit. Just look at her! If you had chosen to flagellate yourself with a nail-studded club you would not have been picking a worse punishment. She is primness and dullness personified. You have made your point, believe me. Now, what do you plan to do to extricate yourself?”
For a brief moment he closed his eyes. Ah, he had not expected this. He moved a little closer, fearful suddenly that they might be overheard. He lifted one foot to the seat beside her and draped one arm over his raised leg.
“Freyja,” he said, “you are mistaken. Very mistaken, I’m afraid.”
There was one thing about Freyja—she had never been slow of understanding. And it was quite against her nature to grovel, to beg, to weep, to make any sort of scene. She stared up at him, all cold haughtiness, and then she moved to jerk to her feet.
“No, don’t.” He grasped her shoulder. “Don’t hurry back without me. It might be noted and commented upon. Take my arm and we will return together. Perhaps we can smile?”
“You, Kit,” she said, getting to her feet more slowly and linking her arm through his, “may go to hell. I hope you burn there. Better yet, I hope you live well into your nineties with your lady bride. I cannot imagine a more hellish sentence for a man of your nature.”
She lifted a smiling face to his. Freyja had always been mistress of the feline smile.
He did not respond. There was no point. Besides, he was reminded that if he did live into his nineties, sixty or so of those years were going to have to be lived without Lauren. Unless even yet he could get her to change her mind. Surely he could. Once this day was over he would be able to concentrate all his efforts upon coaxing her to love him.
We must not snare each other now. . . .
He would not remember that she viewed marriage with him as a sort of imprisonment, as a loss of all her newly won freedom.
He would teach her that there was more than one kind of freedom.
Kit was nowhere in sight when the dance with the Duke of Bewcastle was over. But Gwen was approaching on Lord Rannulf’s arm. Lauren smiled at them both. She would suggest to Gwen that they slip away for a few minutes to find a cool drink. It was a warm night. But Lord Rannulf gave her no opportunity to make the suggestion. He bowed to Lauren and asked for her hand in the next set.
He was one of the few gentlemen of her acquaintance, she thought after she had accepted, who could make her feel almost diminutive. He really was a giant of a man.
“You are looking becomingly flushed, Miss Edgeworth,” he said with that look in his eyes that she had never been able quite to interpret. Was it mockery or simply amusement? “But one would hate to force you into further exertions too soon. Do come and stroll with me outside.”
She had absolutely no wish to walk outside with him even though she knew there were several other guests out there to make all proper. But it was not a request he had made, she realized. He had drawn her arm through his and was moving purposefully out of the ballroom and toward the outer doors. Well, she decided, a little fresh air would feel good.
He could be an amusing companion. He pointed out several of the neighbors and told her brief anecdotes about them. He was a keen observer of human nature, it seemed, and yet none of his observations were quite malicious. Lauren found herself feeling well entertained. They were strolling above the parterres, in the direction of the rose arbor.
“Ah,” he said softly when they were close, “foiled! There is someone there before us—two persons actually. We must walk into the flower gardens instead.” And he turned her into the parterres.
He must have known even before coming out here, she realized, even before asking her for this set of dances, who was in the rose arbor. He had wanted her to know, to see for herself. Probably Lady Freyja wanted it too.
She was sitting on one of the seats. Kit, in a characteristic pose, stood close to her, one foot on the seat, one arm draped over his leg. The other hand was on her shoulder, bringing his head very close to hers.
Lord Rannulf was recounting some other anecdote, to which Lauren was not listening. He stopped, obviously without finishing.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I would not for worlds have had you see that.”
“Would you not?” she asked. Ladies did not call gentlemen liars.
“It is not what you think,” he said. “They have been friends all their lives, you know. They are still friends. You have seen for yourself how much they have in common, how they love to challenge each other and compete against each other, how much they come alive in each other’s company. But there is no more to it than friendship, I do assure you.”
“Lord Rannulf,” she said, “you were in the middle of a story. Please finish it. You need not concern yourself with what I think. My thoughts are private. You could not begin to guess their contents.”
Despite herself she had been wavering in her resolve. She did not even realize it until now when her determination to leave in the morning was strengthened, when staying even one more day was finally no option at all. It was a good thing this had happened, she thought as Lord Rannulf at her side, far from completing the story he had begun earlier, fell silent.
She had known that it would happen, of course, that it was inevitable. But now she had seen for herself and could entertain no niggling doubts. No faint hopes.
She would not let it upset her. It would be vastly unfair—to both Kit and herself. She had had her adventure and now it had come to an end. It was understandable that her spirits were rather flat after such a splendid adventure. But she would soon cheer up once she was back at Newbury. There would be her mother’s letters to read, Elizabeth and the baby to fuss over, Lily to rejoice with—oh, yes, finally, finally, she would be able to rejoice with Lily—and her future to plan. There would be her new freedom to enjoy. How many women had the freedom she now had?
“I am sorry,” Lord Rannulf said softly, and for the first time it seemed to Lauren he spoke with sincerity. “I am truly sorry, Miss Edgeworth. You have not deserved this.”
“Deserved what, Lord Rannulf?” she asked him. “Trickery? But life is full of tricks and lies and masks. One would be foolish not to be armed against them.”
Especially when she herself was the biggest perpetrator of deception.
He took her to where Aunt Clara was talking with the Countess of Redfield in the ballroom, bowed over her hand before raising it to his lips, and walked away without speaking another word to her.
Lady Freyja was back in the rose arbor when Lord Rannulf found her. She was sitting on the same seat she had occupied a few minutes before.