She was still going to go. She was going to do her best to fall in love with him.
Oh, how absolutely absurd. As if one could fall in love at will. And how unfair to Lord Merlock if she were to flirt with him as a sort of balm to her own heartbreak without any regard whatsoever for his feelings. She would go as his guest, and she would smile and be amiable. Just that and no more.
How she wished, wished, wished she had not taken that walk along the pebbled beach after her quarrel with Vera. And how she wished that having done so, she had chosen to return by the same route. Or that she had climbed the slope with greater care. Or that Hugo had not chosen that morning to go down onto the beach himself and then to sit up on that ledge just waiting for her to come along and sprain her ankle.
But such wishes were as pointless as wishing the sun had not risen this morning or that she had not been born.
Actually, she would hate not to have been born.
Oh, Hugo, she thought as she picked up her embroidery again and looked in despair at the lovely silky green petal of her pink rose.
Oh, Hugo.
Gwen neither saw nor heard from Hugo for a week. It felt like a year even though she filled every moment of every day with busy activity and sparkled and laughed in company more than she had done in years.
She acquired a new beau—Lord Ruffles, who had raked his way through young manhood and early middle age and had arrived at a stage of life perilously close to old age before deciding that it was high time to turn respectable and woo the loveliest lady in the land. That was the story he told Gwen, anyway, when he danced with her at the Rosthorn ball. And when she laughed and told him that he had better not waste any more time, then, in finding that lady, he set one slightly arthritic hand over his heart, gazed soulfully into her eyes, and informed her that it was done. He was her devoted slave.
He was witty and amusing and still bore traces of his youthful good looks—and he had no more interest in settling down, Gwen guessed, than he had in flying to the moon. She allowed him to flirt outrageously with her wherever they met during that week, and she flirted right back, knowing that she would not be taken seriously. She enjoyed herself enormously.
She took Constance Emes with her almost everywhere she went. She genuinely liked the girl, and it was refreshing to watch her enjoy the events of the Season with such open, innocent pleasure. She had acquired a sizable court of admirers, all of whom she treated with courtesy and kindness. She surprised Gwen one day, though.
“Mr. Rigby called this morning,” she said at the Rosthorn ball. “He came to offer for me.”
“And?” Gwen looked at her with interest and fanned her face against the heat of the ballroom.
“Oh, I refused him,” Constance said as if it were a foregone conclusion. “I hope I did not hurt him. I do not believe I did, however, though he was understandably disappointed.”
She said it without any conceit.
“I believe,” the girl added, “his pockets are rather to let, poor gentleman.”
“He would have been a very good match for you nevertheless,” Gwen said. “His grandfather on his mother’s side was a viscount. He is handsome and personable. He would have treated you well, I believe. But if you do not feel any deep affection for him, then none of those things matter and I can only congratulate you for having the courage to refuse your first offer.”
“If he had no money,” Constance said, “he might have some relative purchase a commission in the military for him or become a clergyman. Both are considered quite unexceptionable careers for the upper classes. He might be someone’s steward or secretary with only a little lowering of his pride. Marrying a rich wife is not his only option.”
“And that is what he was trying to do with you?” Gwen asked. “Did he admit as much?”
“He did when I pressed him,” Constance said. “And he was hardly embarrassed at all. He assured me that we had equal assets to bring to a marriage—money on my part, lineage and social standing on his. And he assured me, I believe truthfully, that he had an affection for me.”
“But you were not convinced it was an equal exchange?” Gwen asked.
The girl frowned and unfurled her own fan.
“Oh, I suppose it was,” she admitted. “But what would he do for the rest of his life, Lady Muir? He would have all my money with which to be idle, but … why? Why would any man choose to be idle?”
Gwen laughed.
“Mr. Grattin is coming to claim his set with you,” she said.
The girl smiled brightly at her approaching partner.
She had not mentioned Hugo. She did not mention him all week, and Gwen did not ask.
You will be hearing from me, he had said the last time she saw him. And she had expected to hear the next day or the day after.
More fool she.
And then she did hear. He sent a letter, which was beside her plate at breakfast one morning with a bundle of invitations.
“Constance’s grandparents will be celebrating the fortieth anniversary of their marriage in two weeks’ time,” he wrote. “These are my stepmother’s parents, the grocery shop owners. A cousin on my father’s side and his wife will be celebrating their twentieth a few days later. Both sides of the family have agreed to spend five days with me at Crosslands Park in Hampshire in order to celebrate the occasions. If you would care to join us, you may travel in the carriage with my stepmother and sister.”
There was no opening greeting, no personal message, no specific dates given, and no assurance at the end that he was her very obedient servant or any such courtesy. Just his signature, boldly scrawled but without any affectation. It was perfectly legible.
“Trentham.”
Gwen smiled ruefully down at the single sheet of paper.
Come to my world.
“Is it a joke you are able to share, Gwen?” Neville asked from his place at the head of the table.
“I have been invited to a five-day house party in the country in the middle of the Season,” she said.
“Oh, how lovely,” Lily said. “Whose?”
“Lord Trentham’s,” she said. “It is in celebration of two wedding anniversaries, one on his father’s side of the family and one on his stepmother’s. Both families will be there, at Crosslands Park in Hampshire, that is. And me if I care to go.”
They all looked at her in silent inquiry for a few moments as she folded the note carefully and set it back beside her plate.
“He wishes to introduce you to his family,” Lily said. “That is significant, Gwen. He is serious about you.”
“But it is a little strange,” Gwen’s mother said, “that he has invited only Gwen. Is he about to renew his addresses to you, Gwen?”
“On the contrary,” she said. “When he came here last week, it was to inform me that he had decided not to court me. He was horribly embarrassed by that scene at the Brittling garden party, you know, and feared that he had embarrassed me too.”
“Yet he has invited you to a house party?” her mother said. “And you are to be the only guest who is not a member of his family or his sister’s? And why would he come here to tell you that he was not going to court you?”
“I invited him to court me,” Gwen said with a sigh, “when he came to Newbury Abbey.”
“There!” Lily exclaimed. “I have been right all along. Admit it, Neville. Gwen and Lord Trentham are head over heels in love with each other.”
“Who are Mrs. Emes’s people?” Gwen’s mother asked.
“They are small shopkeepers,” Gwen said with a rueful smile. “His own people are successful businessmen. So is he. He is also a farmer on a small scale. His head, I believe, is with his businesses, but his heart is firmly with his lambs and chicks and other live-stock. And with his crops and garden.”