Lord Greywell's Dilemma (11 page)

“You could see the ruin from the drive over there.” Elspeth pointed to a spot in the distance where the view wasn’t obstructed by trees.

Greywell hadn’t said much on their walk. He was grateful for her apparent acceptance of his silence. Most women he knew felt it necessary to fill up any empty space with sprightly chatter, but not Miss Parkstone. When she didn’t feet like talking, or didn’t have anything to say, she walked along beside him, comfortable in her own thoughts. Even Caroline, he realized with some surprise, had seldom let a silence fall between them, even when he was reading the paper.

A few flurries of snow started to fall. Elspeth moved a little aside, so his hand fell from her elbow, and handed him the muff. Then she scooped up a handful of snow in her tan chamois-leather gloves, packed it into a hard ball, and took sight on a rock on the opposite side of the stream. “Would you like to lay a wager on whether I can hit it or not?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with easy camaraderie.

“Well,” he replied, dangling the muff from one hand, “if you could hit Mr. Blockley’s hat from an upstairs window with a queen cake, I fear I’d lose.”

“Did Papa tell you that?” Elspeth was indignant. The color rose to her cheeks, matching her cold-reddened nose. “He said he wouldn’t spread it about. Probably everyone in the neighborhood knows by now,” she grumbled, tossing the snowball back and forth between her hands. “He thought it a very good joke, but I shouldn’t have done it. It was childish of me. Still,” she added, an impish smile appearing, “I enjoyed it enormously.”

And with that she sent her snowball sailing across the stream, where it landed with a satisfactory splat against the rock she’d chosen.

“You have a good arm,” he congratulated her, handing back the muff. He scooped snow off the stone side of the bridge, formed it into a ball, and sent it after hers. It hit in precisely the same spot, shattering into fragments that spun off in snowy profusion.

“So do you.” Elspeth realized they would soon be returning to the house, where he would no doubt stay only long enough to see his valise packed and warm himself against the cold drive back toward Coventry. Inside her muff she clenched her hands together and forced herself to speak, her eyes kept steadily on the gurgling stream.

“I wish you would reconsider my offer to come to Ashfield to care for your son. I had the most awful dream last night. And now winter has set in, which is the most dreadful time for sickly babies. You could say I was a distant relation, perhaps. After all, I was your uncle’s wife’s godchild. There’s some sort of connection in that. People wouldn’t be surprised at your having someone come to help out at such a time. If you went off to Vienna, there couldn’t even be a whisper of impropriety in my staying there.”

A long moment passed while he studied her averted face. A possible solution to their impasse had come to him while they walked, but it would be so difficult to phrase it without offending her, without drawing into the light the dark fears she probably hid even from herself.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Miss Parkstone,” he said finally, regretful. “If you come to Ashfield, you really must come as my wife. But let me reassure you on that head. We have only met, and I am a recent widower. The marriage I propose is one of convenience. Granted, it is more convenient for me than for you, but I would hope you could find real benefit in it yourself. I would not expect the ordinary marital obligations from you under the circumstances. The succession is, I trust, provided for. Our arrangement could be one of companionship without the more intimate aspects of married life. If that is the way you would prefer it,” he added conscientiously.

Inside the muff Elspeth’s hands twisted in an agony of embarrassment, but her face was already so rosy from the cold that her agitation was only evident in the wild way her eyes skittered from one object to another, never coming to rest on Greywell. “But what if your child were to . . . I mean, if he didn’t survive,” she asked in a choked voice. “I’m sure he will, but one must consider all the alternatives.”

“I prefer not to consider that eventuality unless absolutely necessary.” He sighed and absently gathered another handful of snow, pressing it together as he continued, “I’m the last Foxcott, Miss Parkstone. It’s my obligation to produce an heir to the viscountcy if at all possible. I’m sure you can understand my feelings in the matter. The question probably won’t arise. If it does . . .” He tossed the snowball at the same target as before, hitting it squarely. Then he turned to her, gently lifting her bowed head with both hands, so she faced him fully. “I would have to expect your compliance, in that case.” He could feel a shudder run through her, but whether it was from the cold or from nervousness, he couldn’t tell. Her eyes remained on his face, so wide they reminded him of a frightened animal. But he would not, could not, compromise on this issue. His offer was, he felt, already more than generous, and probably hopelessly foolhardy.

Elspeth moistened her lips. She wanted to remove his hands, but knew she would be unable to face him if she did, and he deserved to be addressed as forthrightly as he had spoken. Had he decided on this unusual offer because he didn’t really like her? Or had this always been his intention? If she could be sure the child would live . . .

But that was a terrible thing to even think! How could she make a decision based on whether a child would live or not? The very thought was appalling! Of course he had no intention of consummating their marriage now, when he had so recently lost the wife he loved, a woman who had given her life to produce his son and heir. What he offered her was the sort of marriage she could never have hoped to have, one without the painful demands of physical intimacy unless his son died.

Feeling a little short of breath at what she was about to do, Elspeth, unable to speak, nodded her head. This didn’t seem to have the desired effect on his lordship, who merely raised one eyebrow in question. Elspeth tried again, nodding more vigorously.

“You could agree to those terms?” the viscount suggested, wishing she would express herself verbally.

“Yes,” she whispered. She would
not
let the child die. Too much depended on his living. “Thank you,” she added.

Only Greywell’s eyes betrayed the faintest amusement. “Thank
you . . .
Elspeth. Please call me David. It seems only proper that we be on a Christian-name basis, if we’re to be married.”

“When . . .” Her voice broke on the word; her throat felt totally parched. “When would we marry . . . David?”

“As soon as I can obtain a special license.” His hands dropped from either side of her face, and he withdrew a watch from his waistcoat pocket to check the time. “With luck I could have it by this evening, tomorrow morning at the latest. The day after tomorrow? Would Mr. Blockley be willing to marry us by special license?”

“I . . . think so.”

“Good. I’ll speak with him before I leave. Your father’s permission I take for granted,” he added ruefully.

“He’ll want to discuss my dowry.” Elspeth turned away from the gothic ruin and headed toward the house, cold, agitated, and determined. “At times he can be very businesslike.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Greywell murmured.

Chapter Six

Two days. Elspeth left Greywell with her jubilant father and went directly to her room, where she stood dazed for several minutes. When she’d left the room that morning she’d had no intention of leaving it permanently. At most she had thought she’d go to Ashfield for a short span to care for Greywell’s child. Elspeth told herself, as she crossed to the window, that she could go back downstairs and reverse her decision, but she knew she wasn’t going to. Outside a thin sunlight made the snow glare, though it did little to melt it.

The white lace dress over a white satin slip would do perfectly well for a wedding dress if the pale-rose corsage was replaced with white satin and the full-blown roses were removed. There wasn’t time to have anything new made up, and for such a small gathering as this wedding would be, the expense would be absurd.

There was the housekeeper to confer with, the neighbors to apprise of her change of status, the visit from Mr. Blockley to sit patiently through. Barely enough time to organize a full-scale departure, let alone consider the possible consequences of her acceptance of his lordship’s suit. Elspeth would be leaving every person she had ever known—for a friendless vicinity she had never seen.

And Greywell would leave her there with his son, going off to do his duty for his country. Leave her there alone with a possibly hostile household staff and an unhealthy baby. Well, that was what she wanted, wasn’t it? A chance to do something of her own for a change, to rid herself of the familiar patterns of daily life, which had begun to seem impossibly dull.

Greywell left, and returned the next morning, only to closet himself with Sir Edward and their solicitors for hours on end. The length of these meetings seemed excessive, but her father only said, “There’s nothing amiss, Elspeth. Everything must be gone over and written down and signed. It can’t be done in an hour, and you’ll see it all before it’s signed.”

Elspeth spent the hours trying to decide which of her childhood treasures to take with her. There was the first ivory fan her mother had given her for her fifteenth birthday, and the jewelry box that played a tune. Her father had brought it back from London many years ago for her mother, and subsequently given it to her. There was the jewelry she seldom wore, saved for her in the locked safe in Sir Edward’s study, to be carefully packed for the journey. But there were things she must parcel out among the servants and her neighborhood friends, too many decisions to leave time for her to think of what lay ahead. It was like living in a dream (or a nightmare) where she could see herself act, but didn’t quite feel as though she was in her own body.

That last evening, after the solicitors left, she sat in the drawing room with her father and Lord Greywell, discussing the most mundane topics: how to transport her trunks, whether her mare should be tied to the carriage or sent over with a stable boy, when Sir Edward would make a visit to Ashfield. Elspeth was surprised to hear he intended to visit her in her new home at all, but she was perfectly willing to plan for his coming at Christmastime. Greywell wouldn’t be there, of course, but that really had nothing to say to the matter. And it occurred to Elspeth that her father might not literally intend to come at all, but merely be saying so for Greywell’s benefit.

It didn’t bother her. Nothing much bothered her just then, since she didn’t feel real. Sir Edward urged her to play the pianoforte when conversation lulled. Greywell (she must remember to call him David) turned the music for her. He seemed pleased with her playing, mentioned that his mother had had just such a style as hers, a very sensitive ear for fine music. Elspeth noticed that the little finger of his right hand was slightly deformed.

“I got it caught in a door when I was a child,” he explained when he noticed her gaze. “It never healed properly, but it works all right.”

There were a million things she didn’t know about him, but that didn’t matter, either. If there were important things to learn, she would learn them in time. He didn’t know a thing about her, either, of course. Elspeth wasn’t sure there was anything important for him to learn about her.

She slept soundly that night and had her breakfast on a tray in her room. They were going to the church at nine, and there was just enough time to dress. At the last moment, instead of the pearls she’d intended to wear, she dug frantically through the luggage to find the jewelry box. With a sigh of relief she withdrew the little gold chain with its gold locket and flicked it open to stare at the miniature of her mother. On her wedding day she wanted at least this remembrance of her beloved parent with her. Would Mary Parkstone have approved of what she was doing? Elspeth clasped the chain about her neck with shaking fingers, trying to convince herself her mother would have understood.

* * * *

Mr. Blockley wore his most solemn countenance in front of the church when Elspeth descended from the carriage. Every fiber of his cadaverous body was rigid with disapproval, but he managed a slight smile for Greywell.

The service was short, and binding. Mr. Blockley managed to emphasize all the grimmer aspects of marriage, his doleful gaze resting inevitably on Elspeth’s pale face. But when he had pronounced them man and wife, Greywell touched his lips to her cold forehead and murmured, “We’ve made our own promises, my dear, and they are as binding as any spoken here.”

Elspeth managed a wan smile.

* * * *

“We can drive straight through or stop the night at Daventry,” Greywell told her when they had left Lyndhurst and Sir Edward well behind. You don’t have to decide now. I’ve sent word to Ashfield to expect us at either time. Are you warm enough?”

Elspeth had changed to a dress of gray Circassian cloth and muffled herself in the blue cloak with its ermine trim. The bricks at her feet were still warm and the carriage rug rested over her knees. “Yes, I’m comfortable, thank you.”

The sense of dissociation she had experienced for the last two days had suddenly disappeared when they left the small wedding breakfast at her home and climbed into the carriage. A feeling of panic had seized her as she waved goodbye to her father and the assembled staff.

Her life had just changed permanently, and the smiling, well-wishing faces did nothing to reassure her she’d made the right decision. The housekeeper had been quietly weeping into a handkerchief, and Elspeth strongly wished she could do likewise. But her smile remained frozen on her face; her arm ached as she waved through the carriage window until all of them were out of sight. Greywell had rearranged the carriage rug after she sat back, but he didn’t speak to her, either guessing she needed a few minutes to think, or having nothing to say.

It felt strange to be alone with him in a carriage jostling over the hard-packed roads. He sat surprisingly still, his gloved hands resting on his thighs. Elspeth wondered what he was thinking while he watched the passing landscape. It was difficult to put herself in his place, when she was having so much trouble with her own thoughts and reactions. Was he satisfied that he’d done the right thing? It could not have been easy for him to decide to marry her, with his wife so newly dead, just in the hopes she would be able to bring about a turn for the better in his son. Well, he must be relieved that he could go off now and leave the situation in her hands.