I could not simply pay her off or abandon her. I had no choice but to marry her. I never loved her. I loved /you/. I never wavered in that devotion. I still love you. But you must understand that you had set me an impossible task. You asked me to wait too long. You did not need to stay with your family. Vanessa was not much younger than you were." "Why did you not write to me?" she asked.
The Earl of Sheringford, she was thinking, made no excuses for what he had done. He admitted everything even though he needed her to think well enough of him to marry him and rescue him from penury and the loss of his home. "I wrote a hundred letters," he said, "and crumpled them all up and threw them in the fire. I knew I would be breaking your heart. I wrote to my mother. I thought she was more likely to break it to you gently." Margaret said nothing. "/Was/ your heart broken?" he asked. "/Mine/ was, Meg. Having to marry Teresa was cruel punishment for a few stolen moments to alleviate my loneliness." "Was she the only woman with whom you soothed your loneliness?" she asked. "Meg!" he exclaimed. "How am I expected to answer /that/?" "With a yes or a no," she said. "/Was/ she?" "Well, of course not," he said. "I am a /man/, Meg. But it would not have happened if you had been there. It /will/ not happen if you marry me now. Do it. Send that scoundrel on his way and marry me. Don't punish me any longer. Don't continue to punish yourself." The carriage had stopped moving. They must be outside Merton House already. The coachman did not open the door. "That is what you are doing, you know," he said, sitting forward again and taking one of her hands in his. "Punishing yourself. If you marry Sheringford, it will be to spite me. But then you will find yourself in a marriage that may last for the rest of your life. I was fortunate to be set free of mine after only four years. You may not be so fortunate.
Don't do it, Meg. Don't." He squeezed her hand tightly and bent his head to kiss her hard on the lips. His free hand came behind her head and held it while he kissed her harder still.
Oh, she had forgotten. He had always kissed her with almost bruising urgency. He had made love to her the same way in a secluded corner of Rundle Park the day before he left to join his regiment. It had been swift and hard and painful and had left bruises. But her need for him on that occasion had been just as desperate.
Oh, it was all a lifetime ago. Except that he kissed the same way now – or tonight, at least.
She set a hand against his shoulder and pressed firmly until he lifted his head and loosened his hold on her hand. "After you married, Crispin," she said, "my heart /was/ broken. I will not deny it. But I did not slip into a sort of suspended life, a life that would be forever gray and meaningless if you did not somehow come back to me. I put back the pieces of my heart and kept on living. I am not the woman I was when I was in love with you and expecting to marry you. I am not the woman I was when I heard that you were married. I am the woman I have become in the five years since then, and she is a totally different person. I like her. I wish to continue living her life." It was true too. Though there was a terrible ache in her throat. "Let that life open to include me again, then," he said. "I need you, Meg. I am lonely without you. And I /know/ you still love me. You knew I was back in England. That was why you betrothed yourself to Sheringford, was it not? You picked the very worst man you could find. Perhaps you did not even understand why. But I do. You did it so that I would come and rescue you. You did it because you were angry with me and wanted to punish me and bring me back to you. Ah, you did not have to do that, Meg. I was coming anyway." "Crispin," she asked him, "when was the last time you had a woman? I mean lay with one?" The new Margaret – the /very/ new one – was far bolder than the old. But even the new Margaret was horribly shocked by the question she had just asked. Anger was deep in her, though. And grief. "I am /not/ going to answer that," he said, sounding as shocked as she was. "That is /not/ the sort of question a lady asks, Meg. I can't /believe/ – " "/This/ lady just asked it," she said. "/When/, Crispin? Some time during the past week?" "That need not concern you at all," he said. "Good Lord, Meg, that – " "Then you can not be very lonely," she said. "I am lonely for /you/," he told her. "There will be no one else once I have you, Meg." "Or no one else I would ever know about, anyway," she said. "Crispin, this has been a lovely evening. Your parents are as warm and hospitable as they have ever been. Let us not spoil it. I am tired. Will you give the coachman the signal to open the door and set down the steps?" He sighed and released her hand before rapping on the front panel. "Think about what I have said," he told her after he had handed her down from the carriage and Stephen's butler was holding the door of the house open. "Don't marry Sheringford to spite me, Meg. You will end up spiting only yourself." "Crispin," she said, "you flatter yourself. Good night." He jumped back into the carriage and sat looking straight ahead while the coachman put the steps up again and closed the door.
Margaret went into the house before the carriage drew away from the steps.
She was very agitated. Quite upset really.
He still had the power to stir her emotions.
But the emotion she felt most was anger – and that terrible grief.
Lord Sheringford had been quite right about him. He /was/ weak. She could not like anything he had said tonight about himself.
But he was still Crispin. She had loved him.
Ah, /how/ she had loved him.
She trudged up to bed though she did not believe she would be able to sleep.
After twelve dry years, she had been kissed twice today – by different men.
Both of whom wished to marry her.
Neither of whom was a particularly desirable mate.
But only one of them would admit it.
Mrs. Henry, Duncan's Aunt Agatha, had not sent him an invitation to her soiree, but she surely would have done, he reasoned, if he had been in London when she sent out the cards. He had always been a great favorite with her, perhaps because she had had six daughters of her own but no sons.
Her greeting was not particularly effusive, though, when he arrived in the middle of the evening with Margaret Huxtable on his arm. "Oh, goodness me," she said as soon as she saw him, looking more dismayed than delighted, "Duncan! How very – " She did not complete the thought, but raised her eyebrows before taking his offered hand in both her own and laying her cheek against his. "Well, never mind. My soiree is certain to be talked about tomorrow and perhaps for the next week or two, and no hostess could possibly ask for more, could she? Besides, you are my nephew." She turned to smile warmly at his companion. "Miss Huxtable," she said, "what a lovely shade of rose red your gown is. Of course, you have the coloring for it. And so you have taken on my scamp of a nephew, have you? I do commend your courage." "Thank you, ma'am," Miss Huxtable said. "I was delighted by my invitation to your soiree." She /had/ received an invitation, it seemed. And yet, Duncan thought, she had not been in London much longer than he, had she? Had his aunt really not wanted him here, then? It was a humbling thought.
But she was turning away to greet another group of new arrivals. "I suppose," he said, offering his arm to Miss Huxtable and covering her hand with his own when she set it on his sleeve, "we had better proceed to make the evening memorable for my aunt. All eyes appear to be upon us already, as you may have observed. One grows almost accustomed to it. Do you enjoy being notorious?" "Not at all," she said. "But I am not. Why should I be? I have merely accepted the escort of a gentleman to a soiree for which I received an invitation." Her chin was up, he noticed. There was a slight martial gleam in her eye. "A gentleman who is actively wooing you," he said, dipping his head closer to hers and looking directly into her eyes. "And I see two of my cousins over there. I really ought to go and make myself agreeable before Susan's eyes pop right out of her head." They crossed the room, and Duncan introduced Miss Huxtable to Susan Middleton and Andrea Henry, two of Aunt Agatha's daughters. "Oh, not /Miss Henry/ any longer, Duncan," Andrea protested. "I am Lady Bodsworth now. Did you not hear? I married Nathan two years ago." "Did you indeed?" he said. "Fortunate Nathan. But you did not invite me to the wedding? How unkind of you. I must have been off doing something else at the time." She bit her lip, her eyes dancing, and Susan laughed outright. He had always been as great a favorite with his girl cousins as he had with his aunt – a partiality he had always returned. They had been jolly girls, always up for a lark. "I cannot /believe/," Susan said, "that you have come back to London, Duncan. Though I am /very/ glad you have, I must say. I never could abide Caroline Turner, as you may remember my telling you before you betrothed yourself to her." "You really ought not to have come to Mama's soiree tonight, though, Duncan," Andrea said. "Not without consulting her or one of us first, anyway. Any one of us would have advised against it. If I were you, I would not stay longer than a few minutes. Miss Huxtable, I /do/ admire your gown. The color is divine. It would not suit me, alas – I would fade into pale nothingness inside it. But it suits you to perfection." "Thank you," Miss Huxtable said.