A Lady of Talent (24 page)

She smiled gratefully at him, and all that he could think of was how desperately he wished that it was the two of them who were the eloping couple, not Neville and Barbara. “Cecilia,” he began hoarsely.

Her eyes, full of longing and understanding told him all that he needed to know. She was as loath for the journey to end as he was. She too wanted it to continue on forever, just the two of them, talking and sharing the pleasure of the passing scenery, the fresh air, and spring in the countryside, free for the moment from the burdens of their responsibilities.

“Cecilia, let us ...” But he could not in all honor voice the treacherous thought that haunted him, which was that perhaps the happiest thing for all of them would be to let Neville and Barbara reach Shelburne and carry out their elopement as planned.

“Yes? What is it?” There was a look in Sebastian’s eyes that she could not fathom, dark and cloudy, almost as if he were in pain.

He sighed and pulled her to him, his lips coming down hard on hers. It was the only way he could keep himself from saying what was in his heart: that he loved her, that he wanted her desperately, that he longed with every fiber of his being to beg her to be his wife—to share the rest of her life with him, to travel to foreign lands and cultivate interesting friends who conversed intelligently on topics more important and inspiring than fashion and the
haut ton—
to live life the way it should be lived, the way he had longed to live it since he had first seen her picture—with her.

Cecilia’s lips parted under his, and she clung to him with a desperation that told him she too longed to forget everything but the two of them.

But the impatient stamping of the horses and the rattling of the harness brought them to their senses.

Gently, sadly, Sebastian released her, and—giving a final tug to wrap his coat more tightly around her shoulders—once again took up the reins. There was nothing more to say or do, but continue on the course they had set for themselves: rescuing two selfishly heedless people from the consequences of their own rash actions.

And so they continued, but they rode in silent sympathy now, each one struggling with desire and duty, and knowing with a sinking feeling that duty always won.

Chapter Twenty-eight

It was only a few more miles before the next posting house appeared. As they pulled into the yard, ostlers were busy hitching horses to a traveling carriage, and from the anxious looks that the coachman was casting in the general direction of the inn’s entrance, it appeared that something somewhere had gone amiss.

The next instant, a lady, exquisitely attired in a green sarsenet pelisse and a bonnet with ribbons and feathers to match, marched out into the yard, furling and unfurling her parasol in agitation. “I cannot go another mile in this rattling bone-breaker, I tell you. I am already shaken half to death,” she declared in a petulant voice.

“But think, my dear, it is only an hour or two more at most,” her companion pleaded in the conciliating manner of one who had been repeating this refrain for the better part of the day.

“I
will not
go on.”

Sebastian pulled his team to a halt in the yard, jumped down from the curricle and strode toward the young woman, after tossing the reins to the ostler who, glad to be away from the scene of unpleasantness, had come hurrying forward with more than his usual alacrity. “You would prefer, then, to spend the night in a country inn? I think not.”

“Charrington!” Barbara gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“I would think that is a question better addressed to you. For my part, I am here to save you from what would appear to be a most uncomfortable situation.” He then turned his back on the petulant beauty, and strode around to help Cecilia alight, smiling at her encouragingly before turning back to his fiancée. “Now if you will leave off complaining, I think we had all better go inside and sort out this entirely unnecessary situation.”

Barbara gaped at her husband-to-be as though she were seeing him for the very first time. Heretofore, the Earl of Charrington had been nothing more to her than a mere convenience, a voucher to Almack’s, a title and a family that would insure her a premier position in the
ton,
and go a long way toward establishing her as a leader in the fashionable world. Lately, of course, he had also come to represent an impediment to her amusement, and an escort whose absence kept her from attending the functions she wished to attend in the style in which she wished to attend them. But, whatever else he had been, he had never, until this moment, existed for her as a person. Now hearing the annoyance in his voice and reading the scorn in his eyes, it struck her with shattering clarity that this was a man whose patience had been severely tried, a man whose wife-to-be was in a compromising situation from which he was forced to extricate her. And he did not look the least bit happy about it.

It was a totally new experience for Barbara, and she had not the least notion how to respond, but she knew that she suddenly felt more tired and wretched than she could ever remember having felt, and at this moment her fiancé, no matter how irritated he might be, looked like a man who was going to remedy that situation for her. “Very well,” she replied meekly and headed back toward the inn.

“Cecy?”

“Don’t bother, Neville.” And turning on her heel, Cecilia trooped tiredly after Miss Wyatt.

Within minutes, Sebastian had requested a private parlor and refreshment and ordered the inn’s own post chaise to be prepared for a return journey to London. While it might not compare in luxury or comfort to the carriages in which Barbara was accustomed to traveling, it was new enough that its windows did not rattle, and it was far better sprung than the equipage that had brought Neville and Barbara from London.

While the landlord was busy ordering refreshments and conveyances for this ill assorted party, Sebastian was holding forth in the parlor. He turned to his fiancée and Neville. “What I find absolutely incredible is that the two of you—who have more than once accused both Lady Cecilia and me of being totally oblivious to the dictates of the
ton,
which you say one ignores to one’s peril—should be so dead to all sense of propriety that you would not realize that an escapade such as this would place you utterly beyond the pale of good society. Such a calamity, as you well know, would not cause someone like me or Lady Cecilia to lose a moment’s sleep, but to two people such as you, it would be worse than ruin—not to mention completely incomprehensible—which is why Lady Cecilia and I cannot allow you to do this to yourselves, no matter what your motives.”

The Earl of Charrington drew a deep breath and continued. “Now I have contrived to locate a slightly more commodious conveyance than the one you employed to come here to take you back to London and, as Lady Cecilia has endured an even more uncomfortable journey than you have”—he shot a quelling glance at his fiancée—”I would suggest that you and she, along with Neville, take your places in that carriage and return to London with all possible speed. I shall be following you in my curricle.”

There was nothing more to be said. By now, any member of the party who might possibly have objected was too exhausted and dispirited to do anything but comply with what now, in the cold, clear light of recent experience, seemed to be the most reasonable solution.

So it was that as the sun was slowly sinking in the west, Barbara, Neville, and Cecilia climbed into the carriage and settled in for the long and tedious trip back to the metropolis.

Of the subdued little group, only Barbara was not too exhausted to comment acidly that the new carriage was hardly an improvement over the old.

Cecilia did not deign to offer a reply to such a useless observation. Her brother, however, addressed Barbara in cajoling tones. “One must look on the bright side: at least it is a different carriage, and therefore we are likely to be bruised in different places than we were in the first vehicle. And Charrington is quite right, you know. Uncomfortable as it is, it is far better to endure a few more hours in this carriage than a night at that inn. Besides, no one looking for scandal could have cause to remark on a day trip to the country in the company of your fiancé and my sister. A night, however, would be a great deal more difficult to explain.”

An infuriated sniff was all the response he received to his valiant attempts to placate her.

And for the rest of the journey home, Cecilia could not help but wonder how a man like Sebastian, who had such an appreciation for a cheerful and conversational traveling companion, was going to be able to endure a lifetime full of trivial chatter and continuous demands. How could he, in spite of what he felt he owed to Sir Richard Wyatt, have offered himself up to such an iniquitous bargain?

If the truth be told, Sebastian—keeping his eyes fixed on the carriage in front of him, and trying to ignore the deepening chill of the evening air—was asking himself the very same question. What on earth had possessed him, and how was he going to bear it, especially now when he knew what true love and companionship were really like?

The one consolation he could take from all of this was that Lady Cecilia Manners, in spite of her feelings about his failure to save her father, could not say that he had not conducted himself in a thoroughly honorable fashion. Sebastian had seen the warmth of approval in her eyes and felt the encouragement in her tired smile as he had addressed them all in the inn parlor that evening. And from that tiny bit of approval he would have to take enough consolation to last a lifetime of loneliness and isolation.

But oh how he wished he had held her in his arms and told her how very much she meant to him—told her that he loved her now and would love her always. No matter how long he lived as Barbara’s husband, his heart would be Cecilia’s forever, as it had been hers since before he even knew her name, when she was nothing but a picture on his wall.

There was nothing more Sebastian could do except return to London, explain to Sir Richard his daughter’s absence as best he could, and marry Barbara with as much pomp and ceremony as her social ambition craved. After that, they would go their separate ways. Odd, how chilling what once had seemed so normal sounded, now that he had met Cecilia and learned the joy of true love.

Once she was properly married, Barbara would probably not complain of his inattention to her, for it would then be perfectly acceptable for her, as a dashing young matron, to have any number of admirers fighting one another for the honor of escorting her to this ball or that ridotto. She, at least, would be relatively content with the situation. For Sebastian, it would be an altogether different matter indeed, but he would just have to bear it as best he could.

How cruel it was that what had once seemed to be such a rational union, so free of the pressure of romantic expectations and emotional pressures now seemed so frighteningly empty and desolate.

But he must not dwell on that. He must think of ways in which he could still help Cecilia achieve her dream. Helping her as best he could, with what little help she would allow him to offer, would form the sum total of his happiness in life. He was not without influence in the City. At the very least, he could insure her a steady stream of commissions for portraits, which, if they did not directly advance her goal of becoming a history painter, would at least relieve her of some of the financial worries brought on by that useless brother of hers.

It was even possible that he could convince her to let him invest some small portion of the commissions she received in a variety of financial instruments, so that she would have some money she could call her own, safe and protected from the depredations of Neville’s wilder schemes for raising the wind, like gambling with Lord Melmouth. This vague hope that he might be able to assist her in the future was all that he had left.

Chapter Twenty-nine

At last, they drew up in front of the house in Golden Square. Neville, opening the door so he could hand his sister out of the carriage, was surprised to discover Sebastian already there, ready to do the very same thing. There was nothing he could do but cast a final encouraging smile at Barbara and follow his sister and the earl.

Gently taking Cecilia’s arm, Sebastian led her up the steps and, pausing at the top to take her hand in his, pressed it to his lips. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for everything.”

And then he was gone, climbing tiredly back into his curricle as the now diminished entourage headed toward Russell Square.

The kiss had been the formal, if old-fashioned, gesture of respect that gentlemen had once shown ladies in a bygone era, but none of its effect was lost on Neville, who whistled silently to himself as he followed his sister into the house.

Here was a fine kettle of fish. It was now plain as pikestaff that the Earl of Charrington was in love with his sister, and—now that Neville thought back on the special understanding that seemed to exist between the two of them—she was very likely in love with the earl. And there they were, the pair of them too proper and too responsible by far to do anything about it.

Well, he, Neville, Marquess of Shelburne, refused to stand idly by and let the two of them ruin their lives—not to mention two perfectly good fortunes. For once in his life, he was not going to leave it up to others to take charge and sort things out. The very first thing tomorrow he was going to pay a visit to Sir Richard Wyatt and put things to rights.

What a fool he had been all this time, spending his energy trying to get his sister married to a fortune when it was far easier to do it himself. Granted, Miss Wyatt did not have the impeccable antecedents that would ensure her true social cachet, but with her elegant face and figure, his decided air of fashion, and his own illustrious antecedents he would make her a leader of the
ton
in no time. The elopement had been an emotional and poorly conceived notion on Barbara’s part. A formal offer of marriage from a peer of the realm whose title and family eclipsed Charrington’s was quite another.