And, God, more than a fool. A prize idiot! He loved her. He loved Rosalind Dacey, the woman to whom of all others he felt most antagonistic. Of course! He must have felt it from the start, and some inner instinct of self-preservation had reacted with such terror that he had convinced himself that the opposite was true, that he hated her. God help him, he had lost, cruelly lost, every woman to whom he had entrusted his love and now it was happening again. But this time he had lost her before ever having her. He had done everything in his power to make her hate him, and hate him she did. He had used every effort to find her a husband, to be rid of her before he was forced to recognize his love of her. And she was now betrothed to a man with whom she seemed quite contented and who obviously desired her. And he had just insulted her beyond endurance. The terrifying experience of expecting her each moment to break her neck had snapped his control. If she had not broken away when she had, he would be lying with her now, his seed inside her, contemplating the worst dilemma of his life. He would have been forced to marry a woman who hated him, keeping her away forever from the man with whom she could be happy.
He had lost again, and through his own stupidity this time. Raymore looked up at the blue sky and laughed harshly. But the smile on his face faded quickly and he rested his forehead on his knees again. He could not get that song out of his head. Words that had eluded him for days were suddenly there with cruel clarity:
Rosalind!
Sylvia had passed a restless night. She felt extremely foolish having discovered that yet again she had only imagined herself in love. But tbis time it was impossible to get out of the entanglement that she found herself in. Lord Standen was a man of principle and impeccable reputation. Their betrothal had been publicly celebrated in London at his sister's ball and was being celebrated this week. She had been accepted by his mother. Plans for a wedding in the autumn were already being made. She could not possibly tell him now that she did not wish to be his wife.
Perhaps the situation would still be tolerable if it were not for her terrible discovery of the day before. She could do worse than make this marriage. Lord Standen would be a good husband, she believed, even if rather strict. She would have a good home, all the luxuries she could want for the rest of her life. She would occupy an enviable position in society. The fact that she did not love him need not doom her to misery.
But the fact that she loved his brother surely would. She was not really surprised that she had not realized the truth until the day before. Nigel Broome was so different from any of the young men with whom she had fancied herself in love during the past few years. They had all been handsome, charming, fashionable. Nigel was so ordinary: only passably good-looking, only of medium height, and earnest rather than charming in manner. She had liked him from the first, had developed a close and warm friendship with him. Only the afternoon before, when they were together in the boat, had she known that he was far more than a friend to her. He was the man with whom she wished to spend her life. She did not care that with him she would not live in mansions or have several carriages or dressing rooms full of gowns. It would be enough just to be with him, to share his dreams, to look after his comforts.
But there was little use in dreaming. Even if she could summon the courage or audacity to break off her engagement to Lord Standen, she could not then marry his brother. Such behavior was unthinkable. And even if she had not accepted Standen's proposal in the first place, she doubted very much if Cousin Edward would have countenanced her marriage to Nigel Broome. His birth, of course, was as good as Lord Standen's, and he had an income of his own, she knew, though he was not a wealthy man. But the fact was that he was a younger son with no particular prospects, and she was sure that her guardian would consider him unworthy of the daughter of an earl.
There was nothing for it, it seemed, but to accept her fate. But Sylvia felt desperately lonely. At one time during the night she had considered going into the next room and waking Rosalind. But she remembered Cousin Edward telling Lady Standen in the drawing room that her cousin had retired to bed with a headache.
When she awoke the next morning, Sylvia felt an immediate sinking of the heart as memory flooded back. She dreaded telling anyone of her problems, but the need to confide in someone was overwhelming. She dressed in haste, without summoning help, and brushed impatiently at her blond curls. She would go talk to Rosalind before going down to breakfast. Rosalind always seemed to know what to do, although Sylvia did not think that anyone could offer her any real help. Rosalind's room, alas, was empty. She must be up and riding early as she often used to do at home.
She went downstairs, but shook her head at the footman who would have opened the doors of the breakfast room for her. She could hear voices inside and did not think she could cope with the need to be sociable just yet. She wandered through the front door, which stood open to the morning sunshine, and started to cross the main driveway to the formal gardens that were laid out south of the house. She stopped when she saw Raymore striding toward her from the direction of the stables. He was staring at the ground, looking pensive. He did not look his usual arrogant self at all, in fact. On impulse, Sylvia stopped and waited until he was close enough to notice her.
"Good morning. Edward," she said brightly when he looked up. "Have you been riding so early?"
"Yes," he said, "it is a beautiful morning."
"May I speak to you for a few moments?" she asked hesitantly. "Or are you very anxious to go in to breakfast?"
"I am not hungry at all," he said abruptly and, offering her his arm, led her into one of the grass walks of the garden.
"Cousin Edward," Sylvia said with a deep breath, "I am very unhappy."
Unhappy, he thought, turning to glance down at the pretty girl on his arm. What did she know of unhappiness? She had doubtless been pampered and petted all her life and had no conception of what pain and misery were. "Oh?" he prompted chillingly.
"I fear I have made a dreadful mistake," she said, staring at the ground ahead of her.
"A mistake?"
"I do not wish to marry Lord Standen," she said.
Raymore stopped walking and turned to look down at her incredulously. "Is this some kind of joke?" he asked. "Why, pray, do you not wish to marry?"
Sylvia's syes were filled with tears. "Don't be angry with me," she pleaded. "I cannot love him, Edward. I thought I did, truly, but it is not so. Oh, what am I to do?"
"What are you to do?" he thundered. "Why, you are to marry the man, of course. Love! What does that have to say to the matter? Do you believe you would be one whit the happier with a man whom you loved? You would only be inviting misery and betrayal. I want to hear no more of this nonsense. Do you understand?"
"Edward," she began, a tear spilling out of each eye.
"The connection is eminently suitable," he went on. "You are doubtless the envy of every unmarried girl in London. You will live in the style to which you are accustomed, and even more elaborately. I will not tolerate any withdrawal from this betrothal, Sylvia. Such a move would publicly embarrass Standen and sully your own reputation. What other man would be willing to look at you for the remainder of the Season?"
"I am sorry," she said. "I did not mean to anger you. Please forgive me. I shall try to feel as I ought."
Raymore relaxed slightly. He had certainly not expected trouble from this girl. But at least she was more biddable than her cousin. She just needed firm handling. She would have it from him until she was safely married, and he believed beyond a doubt that Standen would put up with no nonsense once the ceremony was over.