Joan Wolf (14 page)

“Don’t be impertinent.” He spoke coolly, but there was something menacing in his rigidly controlled voice.

“I’m not the one who initiated this conversation,” I snapped. “And what is more, it is no concern of yours who I speak to or who I choose to hold hands with. I don’t work for you any longer, Lord Leyburn.”

He stared down at me for a long silent minute, his mouth bitter and ruthless. I could feel my heart hammering. I wanted to lean my body against his, to hold him close to me. I wanted to love him, not to fight him. But he still thought of me as a reckless child.

“There you are, Miss Langley,” said a voice at my elbow. “I have been looking for you this past hour.” It was Lord Henry Sandcroft.

“Well, you’ve found me,” I said with an effort at lightness. “Lord Leyburn, do you know Lord Henry Sandcroft?”

“No.” After a pause Diccon held out his hand. “You’re Markham’s son, aren’t you?”

Lord Henry shook hands. “Yes.”

“Lord Henry is going out to the Peninsula in a few weeks,” I informed Diccon. “He’s got an appointment to Wellington’s staff.”

For the first time all afternoon I saw Diccon smile. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Lord Henry’s determined-looking face softened slightly under the radiance of that smile. “It’s been a great bore this last year, hanging about London.”

“I know.” A shadow crossed Diccon’s face. “I always feel like a trapped animal in London. And then one gets involved in affairs like this”—he waved his hand to encompass the gardens and the people—”doing the polite to people one wouldn’t entertain in one’s woodshed at home.”

Lord Henry grinned. “I know what you mean.”

“Well, at least the two of you can escape,” I said. “I’m the one who is stuck here.”

“If you marry a Parliamentary chap you certainly will be,” said Lord Henry.

It took me a minute to realize he was talking about Martin. I thought it prudent to remain silent.

“Let me show you the summerhouse, Miss Langley,” Lord Henry said coaxingly. “I’ve scarcely seen you in days and I’ve something of great importance to say to you.”

“Grandmama is looking for me, Henry.”

“No, she’s not. She was gossiping away with Lady Witton only a few minutes ago.”

I looked up at Diccon.

"Lady Ardsley desired me to bring Valentine to her,” he said, and gave me a smile of such beauty that even Lord Henry was awed. I knew that smile and I knew he was lying.

“I am quite certain Grandmama will not wish me to interrupt her conversation with Lady Witton,” I said austerely to that angel’s face. His dark eyes narrowed slightly and I started back, refusing to be browbeaten. For some reason, he did not want me to go off with Lord Henry.

“Will you come for a walk with me, Valentine?” Lord Henry sounded very grave.

I tore my eyes away from Diccon’s face and looked up at him. I put my hand on his arm and smiled. “Of course I will, Harry.”

Without another word, Diccon turned on his heel and strode off. I stared after him for a minute as he walked across the lawn, at his arrogant head and long free stride. Heads turned all along the way to watch his exit. Then I turned with Lord Henry in the opposite direction and walked toward the summerhouse.

There were two other couples in the summerhouse when we got there, and Lord Henry swore under his breath.

“Why don’t we walk along the path,” I said soothingly, and he nodded and turned toward the gate I had indicated. We let ourselves into a little wood and walked for a few minutes in silence. I was preoccupied with thoughts of Diccon and jumped a little when Harry began to speak.

“I leave for Lisbon in two weeks,” he told me. “I must go down to Markham tomorrow to spend some time. Mama will be very upset if I leave without saying good-bye.”

“Of course you must go to Markham,” I agreed. “Two weeks!” I looked up at his tough, aquiline profile and felt a pang. I liked Harry very much. “I shall miss you,” I said.

He stopped and looked down at me. “I’ve wanted this post ever since Wellington went out there,” he said somberly. “I’ve wrecked my mother’s peace to get it. And now I find that I don’t want to go.” He picked up my hands and held them tightly. “I don’t want to leave you, Valentine.”

“Oh,”
I said.

“I never planned to marry,” he went on tensely. “Not for years and years, at least. I have ambition. But I never thought I would find a girl like you.”

“I’m not so special, Harry,” I said lamely.

“Oh, Valentine.” It was a cry almost of pain, and he pulled me into his arms and held me close. I rested my cheek against his shoulder and felt his strong, hard young body pressed to mine.

“Will you marry me?” His lips were buried in my hair and his voice sounded a little muffled. “Will you come out to Lisbon with me, Valentine? I have no right to ask it of you, I know. But will you?”

“You have every right to ask me, Harry. And of all the men I have met in London, you are the one I could have loved.”

After a moment his arms around me loosened. “Could have?”

“Yes,” I said sadly, and stepped back from him. I picked up his hand and looked at the strong broad fingers. “Perhaps I shall marry someday. But you would not be satisfied with what I have to give, Harry. Other men might be, but not you.” Still holding his hand, I looked up into his face. “My heart is already pledged,” I said softly.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Leyburn.”

He looked suddenly very bleak. “Leyburn,” he repeated. “How can any ordinary man hope to compete with that?”

“You are not an ordinary man.”

He gave a short staccato laugh. “How do you know him, Valentine?”

I told him. I told him the whole story. When I had finished, there was a small, bitter smile on his face. But all he said, quietly, was, “I see.” Then he took my face between his hands and turned it up.

“Only you,” he said.

“Only I would be cork-brained enough to embark on such a scheme,” I admitted ruefully.

“That, of course.” He smiled more naturally. “And only you would have told me.”

“You deserve to know. And I never had a great deal of pride.”

“You are the proudest person I have ever known.”

I stared at him in astonishment. “I?”

“You. You are Valentine Langley and you don’t care in the least what other people may think of you. I have never met anyone less concerned about the opinion of others.”

“You should know Diccon,” I said.

He still smiled, although his eyes were grave. “Listen to me, Valentine.” He ran a gentle finger over my cheekbone. “I love you very much. If ever, at any time, you change your mind and decide to marry me, just write.”

I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes and I made no attempt to blink them back.

“I love you too, Harry. But—but not in the way you want me to.”

He bent and kissed the drops on my cheeks. “Come,” he said. “I’ll take you to your grandmother.”

Chapter 20

I felt very cast down the day after the garden party. It distressed me that I had hurt Harry. It distressed me that I could not return his love. There was only unhappiness for me in the love I had chosen. But then, I had not really chosen it; it had chosen me.

Grandmama and I were sitting dully at home with a fire to take the damp out of a chill gray day when Martin arrived at Ardsley House in the late afternoon. He accepted a cup of tea from Grandmama.

“It’s going to rain,” he told us unnecessarily.

“Yes. It was fortunate that Lady Ravensworth had her garden party yesterday,” Grandmama replied.

“What have you been doing all day?” I asked him, more for something to say than because I cared. I was not in a good temper.

Martin put down his cup. “I almost saw a duel this afternoon.” He saw he had our complete attention and smiled with satisfaction.

“Well, it wasn’t precisely a duel since it took place at Angelo’s and the swords were tipped” —Angelo’s was a well-known fencing establishment in St. James’s Street—”but, by Jupiter, it was the prettiest swordplay I’ve ever seen. And they were serious—if they weren’t surrounded by an audience, I believe they would have gone at it in earnest.”

“Who?” Grandmama demanded.

“Why?” I asked.

Martin answered my question first. “You won’t believe it,” he said in wonder, “but the fight was over King Richard the Third.” And so of course I knew who one of the parties was.

“Who was Lord Leyburn fighting?” I asked Martin resignedly.

“Hollingwood.”

“Good heavens. I believe Harry once told me he was the premier swordsman in London.”

“He was,” answered Martin, with emphasis on the past tense. He shook his head. “Leyburn is unbelievable.”

“He feels very strongly about Richard the Third,” I replied absently.

“Richard the Third?” echoed Grandmama in utter bewilderment. “Isn’t he the king who murdered the little princes in the tower?”

“He did not!”

“All right, Val,” Martin said soothingly. “We don’t want any swords in here.”

“Very funny,” I said nastily. It really was infuriating how no one cared to learn the truth about Richard.

“I’ll tell you what, though,” Martin was saying soberly, “Leyburn hasn’t made many friends in London.”

“Why not?” I demanded.

“Well, this morning, for example. There was no need for him to fly up into the boughs about Hollingworth’s perfectly harmless remark.”

“I am quite certain that Diccon didn’t immediately whip out his sword.”

“No. Well. But who really cares about someone whose been dead for centuries?”

“Diccon does. I do.” I glared at him. “Do you realize that the little princes were most probably perfectly safe and healthy when the Tower was turned over to Henry the Seventh?”

Martin was putting up his hands. “All right, Val. All right! Richard the Third was a saint. Don’t flash your eyes at me.”

“What I do not understand, Valentine, is why you should be referring to Lord Leyburn by his given name. Or why his interests and feelings appear to be so well-known to you.” Grandmama had found a topic of far greater interest to her than the last Plantagenet king.

“I’m sorry, Grandmama.”

“It is extremely improper.”

“I beg your pardon, Grandmama.”

“Is there something between you and Lord Leyburn that I am unaware of?”

“Of course not.” I spoke quite definitely. “He was a friend of Papa’s. That is all.”

She gave me a long hard look. “I have never understood how your father came to have a friend of such great eminence.”

I narrowed my eyes and looked back at her even harder. “But then, Grandmama, you have never appreciated Papa.”

Silence. Checkmate.

Martin cleared his throat. “Are you going to the Brooks’ dinner tomorrow, Aunt Mary?”

“Yes, Martin, we are.” Grandmama spoke with all her old dignity. “Shall we see you there?”

"Yes."

Grandmama looked at me and smiled complacently. Brooks House was not the sort of place one would normally find Martin. Lord Brooks was a die-hard Tory. Poor Grandmama thought Martin was going because I was. He was going, of course, because Barbara would be there. My cousin and I exchanged an amused glance, and Martin got up to take his leave, promising to see us the following evening.

“I do believe Martin is finally growing up,” Grandmama said after he had left. “You know, Valentine, he is quite fond of you.”

The poor old dear. I gave her a warm kiss and a hug. She was going to be so disappointed.

Diccon was at the Brooks House dinner. He was the first person I saw when we walked into the drawing room. He was talking to the Duke of Cartington, and as I looked at him, I understood why so many men I knew expressed hostility toward him. It must be difficult for the ordinary man to forgive Diccon for being Diccon.

His dark eyes met mine across the room and for a brief moment I had the strangest feeling that we were alone. Then Grandpapa said something to me and the spell was broken.

Diccon was seated next to Lady Barbara at dinner and I had Lord Stowe on one side of me and Martin on the other. Martin tried to monopolize my attention so as to provoke Barbara. Lord Stowe kept cutting into Martin’s conversation, however, and interspersed his remarks to me with some decidedly nasty asides to my cousin. I felt rather like a bone in the middle of a dog fight. I was very glad when dinner was over and the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port.

There was a lovely piano in the drawing room and Lady Brooks asked if one of the ladies would play. The Duchess of Cartington immediately volunteered Barbara. After a little show of bashfulness, she complied.

She played like a stick. She knew all the notes and made no mistakes. Her timing was faultless. But there wasn’t an ounce of feeling in her music. It was as abstract and as emotionless as a mathematical formula.

Barbara was still playing when the gentlemen joined us. When she finished, Martin led the raves. His face was actually glowing. He thought she was so wonderful. Poor deluded Martin.

Diccon and I exchanged a glance. No one who played like that could have the slightest feeling for music.

Barbara certainly looked beautiful, though. One had to give her that. Her golden curls were glorious, her eyes as blue as cornflowers. She smiled briefly at Martin and for a moment she was radiant. Martin had been right: she did love him. What a fool she was not to marry him.

“I wonder if we might prevail upon Lord Leyburn to favor us with a piece.” It was Lord Brooks, and suddenly I knew where I had seen him before. He had been at the Musical Society harpsichord concert.

“Lord Leyburn?” said one of the gentlemen in surprise. It was usually the ladies who entertained after dinner.

“Yes,” said Lord Brooks. “Please, my lord.”

With a slight shrug, Diccon sat down before the piano. There was a moment of expectant silence and then he began to play.

He gave us the “Moonlight Sonata,” and as I listened to the achingly beautiful music of Beethoven, I felt such an anguish, such a longing in my heart. I watched Diccon’s profile, and my heart cried out to him.