He still could not contemplate the night before with any rational thought. Seeing her in Robert's ballroom, knowing her real identity had completely numbed his mind. He could not now remember who his dancing partners had been. He could not remember who had been there or with whom he had talked. He could recall only his suffocating consciousness of her presence, at first standing, and later sitting on the sidelines. She had not danced even once. And she had looked sullen and quite unapproachable.
He had looked at her several times with incredulity. It was she, of course, yet she was not the Nell he remembered, the light, dreamy little wood nymph of his memory. This was a girl who was poorly dressed- the color and style of her gown were all wrong. Her hairstyle did not suit her and her face was fuller than he remembered. She would not have attracted him at all had he seen her for the first time that evening, he knew, especially with the brooding looks that were directed most often at the floor.
Yet he could look beyond her present appearance and see the ragged, unkempt, graceful creature he had known during the summer. And his heart had ached for her. Had London taken the bloom from her? Or had he done that? Looking at her minutes before he had approached her to ask her to dance, he had pictured her vividly as she had appeared the last time he had seen her, curled naked and sleepy beside him, flushed from his lovemaking, telling him that she loved him. He had found her refusal to dance a painful experience. He had wanted to stoop down in front of her, put his arms around her, and soothe away whatever it was that had taken away her joy.
It had been a particularly difficult moment later in the evening, after everyone but him had left, when Elizabeth had asked him how he had enjoyed the evening. It had been relatively easy to lie, even to laugh good-humoredly at her teasing and Robert's about the various ladies who had appeared smitten by his charms. But then she had spoken about Nell.
"Was she always so rude when you were in Yorkshire, William?" she had asked. "I do not wonder that you removed to Scotland if that was the sort of manners to which you were exposed."
"The elder sisters have quite acceptable manners," Robert had added. "My guess is that the youngest one has been overindulged. Someone should have given that girl a few good spankings when she was younger. Elizabeth wanted to throw her out when she was so rude to you, William." He had grinned.
Mainwaring's smile had been strained. "I am sure there must have been good reason for her mood," he had said. "She is not naturally an ill-natured girl."
"You are too good, William," Elizabeth had said. "I have quite made up my mind that the girl will not be included in any of our invitations for the rest of the winter. Our friend does not have to be exposed to such uncouth behavior."
He had left it at that and bade them good night. It was the only time he had suspected Elizabeth of insensitivity. But how could she be expected to know?
Mainwaring was beginning to feel cold. He wore only a riding coat, and the weather was overcast and blustery. He wished that he had his greatcoat. There was an inn perhaps a mile ahead along the road. He would stop there, he decided, and have some refreshments before heading his horse for London again.
A few minutes later he was gratefully ensconced in the chimney corner of the inn's taproom, a glass of ale and a steak-and-kidney pie on a plate before him. He was not hungry, but he had not had breakfast or luncheon. He must eat before setting out on his return journey. He estimated that he had been riding for about two hours before he had stopped here.
He had not exaggerated when he told Nell that he had lain awake all the previous night. He had not slept. He had a problem that needed to be solved, and he had no idea how best to go about it. Marry the girl he must. There was no question of that. And that decision was not hard to make. It had already been decided, in fact, though he had thought it was a penniless girl he was going to claim. The problem was how to make the offer without making it seem as if he offered only because of his recent discovery.
He was not sure that he loved Nell. The knowledge that he was free to love a woman other than Elizabeth Denning was still a novelty to him. He knew that he wanted her. Her loss of looks, so evident at the ball, had no bearing on that. And he knew that he was powerfully drawn to her, that he wanted to know her better, because he had the conviction that there was a great deal worth getting to know. But was that love? He did not know.
And he did not care. He would marry her. His final decision had been to waste no time. The proposal would only become more difficult to make the longer he delayed it. Perhaps her unhappiness of the night before came from a belief that he no longer cared. Perhaps if he went to her the next morning and asked her to marry him, she would respond and he would have the chance to explain to her why he had left her in the summer. Then he would be able to assure her that he had been planning to make the offer regardless of her identity. Perhaps. He had decided to take the gamble.
And it had not worked. Somehow it had been quite the wrong thing to do. She hated him and she despised him. And she believed all those things about him that be had hoped to avert. He had felt so helpless against her anger and her contempt. He had behaved badly. And he had acted with a double standard. Although he would dearly have liked to deny her accusations, he knew in his heart that he probably would not have made love to her had he known who she was. He quite possibly would not even have kissed her. It was a disturbing admission to make to himself. He had always prided himself on his treatment of those beneath him socially. He had always convinced himself that he treated people equally, regardless of their rank. And it was not true.
Mainwaring nodded curtly when the landlord offered to refill his glass of ale. He pushed away from him the half-eaten pie.
He had deserved her rebuff. He could not fully exonerate himself of all she had accused him of. And what could he do now? She had made it clear that she scorned his attentions. But he could not leave her alone. He had to marry her. By God, he had taken her virginity! She would not be able to accept any other man under those circumstances, and how would she explain to her parents her reluctance to choose a husband? She really had no choice but to accept him. And she hated him. Poor Nell!
Mainwaring paid his reckoning and walked out to the stableyard to claim his horse, which was looking refreshed after a feed and a thorough brush-down. He swung himself into the saddle. He would have to win her, prove to her somehow that marriage to him would not be the heavy sentence that she anticipated. He would have to show her that, though no angel, he was a man of integrity and conscience. He would have to try somehow to revive the love that she had given him so freely and so trustingly but a few months before.
It was not going to be easy.
Helen was not to be allowed to escape. No sooner had Mr. Mainwaring left the room than the butler was standing in the doorway, bowing and informing her that the countess desired her presence in the drawing room.
Helen sighed. There was no point in trying to avoid the issue. She walked toward the door, which the butler was holding open for her.
"Well," her mother said, rising to her feet as soon as Helen appeared in the doorway of the drawing room, "my own dear child. I knew we would find eligible husbands for you all if we just came to town and if you exerted yourselves. I don't know how it came about, my love, when you met Mr. Mainwaring for the first time only last evening, but such things do happen sometimes, I have heard. And to think Papa and I thought you did nothing but sulk throughout the ball."
"Mama…" Helen said.
"You are really to marry Mr. Mainwaring?" Melissa asked. "I wish you joy, Helen. I rather favored him myself at one time, but I believe I should look around me more carefully before making any choice."