Slightly Tempted (38 page)

"But you did not think of explaining to Gervase's father?" Morgan said. "He never saw his son again. He died believing him to be a ravisher and a thief."

"He had always been so proud and fond of Gervase," Henrietta said. "How could I have known that he would actually punish Gervase-and in such a way? It was horrible. It was like a nightmare from which I could not awaken."

"But you would not do the honorable thing and confess your part in what had happened?" Morgan stared at her. Such cowardice was so far beyond her own nature that it was hard to understand it, far less condone it in someone else.

"Morgan," Henrietta said, "there is nothing,nothing you can say that I have not said to myself a thousand times, that Marianne has not said toherself . It is not easy to live with the guilt of realizing that what one did, knowing even then that it was wrong, had such catastrophic results for several innocent people. I have given thanks daily for Gervase's homecoming and for the happiness he has found with you. But it does not quite compensate or atone."

"No, it does not," Morgan agreed, understanding suddenly why Henrietta had always been so pleased for them. She looked from one to the other of the co-conspirators, trying to imagine what could possibly have driven two young girls to such desperate measures. Just youth and naïveté and defiance of authority-and then fear of the consequences if they confessed? But how had Henrietta been drawn into it? Had it been just spite on her part against a cousin who had pressed dancing partners and even beaux on her when she could not attract them herself?

It was as that final question was passing through her mind that the answer came to her like a blinding light. She was only recently out of the schoolroom. She had lived a sheltered life there, taught only those things considered essential for a lady's education and whatever she could glean from boisterous brothers and a bold sister, all of whom had been careful of what they said in her hearing. But she understood nevertheless.

Of course!

Marianne and Henrietta were more than friends. Theyloved each other. Marriage, for either one of them, would have been the ultimate disaster, the horror of horrors to be avoided at all or any cost.

And so theyhad avoided it-at a terrible cost to other people.

She looked from one to the other again and, though not a word was spoken, she could see that theyknew she knew. Briefly, almost imperceptibly, their hands touched on the settee cushion between them.

She understood. She did not condone. She did not forgive, but she understood. She could not hate them, she discovered. She had put herself mentally into their shoes and imagined taking the walk through life that was their destiny, and she could not hate them or condemn them. She could only despise what they had done.

"If I could go back," Marianne said with a sigh, "I would defy my father and speak plainly with the Duke of Bewcastle. Or so I say now when I am safe from both of them. But going back would mean returning to the body and mind and emotions of a timid, frightened girl who was different but could not explain those differences to anyone in the world except the one who shared her fright. Perhaps even knowing what I know now I would not have found the courage."

"And if I could go back," Henrietta said, "I would speak to Uncle George, explain to him, even though doing so would have meant being torn away from all communication with Marianne. I would not allow that to happen to Gervase if I could go back and do things differently. But I cannot go back-and perhaps I would not find the courage even if I could."

"Find it now," Morgan said.

"My uncle is dead," Henrietta said, "and so is Marianne's father."

"But Gervase is not," Morgan said. "And Wulfric is not."

Marianne blanched. "You expect me to confess to theDuke of Bewcastle ?" she said.

"I expect nothing," Morgan told her. "Wulfric is a strong man. Whatever he suffered then, he will have recovered from by now. And Gervase's long ordeal is over. He was strong enough to survive it with all his best character traits intact, and he is building his life anew. They will both live out their lives in the manner they see fit regardless of what you do. I expect nothing of you."

She got to her feet.

"I wish to leave now, Henrietta," she said.

Henrietta hesitated. "Take the carriage," she said. "Will you mind going alone? Marianne will send me home in her carriage later. We need to talk."

It was a relief to Morgan to be alone on the journey home. The truth was far more horrible than she had ever imagined. How dreadful it must be to love and yet know that the world would never either condone or accept that love. To have to keep it secret throughout a lifetime.

Yet love it must be. They had been constant to each other for years, had committed terrible deeds for each other, had betrayed a cousin and friend for each other, had wreaked immeasurable hurt on other people, and had shared the guilt ever since.

How could she know what she might be capable of doing under similar circumstances?

If Wulfric had persisted in refusing to allow Gervase to pay his addresses to her, she might have openly defied him, perhaps even have eloped. Or she might at worst have waited three years until she reached the age of majority and did not have to consult Wulf at all.

Marianne and Henrietta had had none of those options.

But Morgan's mind was suddenly diverted.

Eloped? Waited three years?

She was not going to marry Gervase at all-by her own choice.

She must end the masquerade soon. Perhaps she would do it at the ball. That would be spectacular-and also unnaturally cruel. Afterward, then. Soon afterward. She would tell him quietly that she was ending it and leave Windrush with Freyja or Aidan. It would be enough. She would leave enough embarrassment behind her-and take enough bleakness away with her.

Did he have any feelings for her at all? Sometimes she thought he did, and of course hetold her that he loved her. Certainly she believed that he had a physical passion for her. The words he had murmured to her while making love to her outside the grotto had surely not been feigned. But it was not enough anyway. He had become too dear to her in Brussels, and all the time he had been cynically and callously using her. There could be no forgiveness for that-or if there could, then there could be no lasting trust after it.

Morgan closed her eyes as the carriage bounced over the ruts of a road that was still rather muddy. How strange life was, she thought. If Marianne and Henrietta had not behaved desperately and dishonorably on a night long ago when she herself was only nine years old, Gervase would not have crossed the ballroom at the Camerons ball in Brussels and effected an introduction to her. He would not even have noticed her. She would not have noticed him. He would not have been tempted to make his own descent into dishonor. She would never have loved him.

All connected. Ah, yes, all, all connected.

THE SUNSHINE WAS BACK THE FOLLOWING DAY.THEYall spent it exploring the wilderness walk in the morning, boating and swimming and even diving later. But the heat and exercise tired most of the children by midafternoon and all of them were sent to the nursery for a sleep or some quiet time. The adults variously dispersed through the house or on a stroll outside. Morgan was sitting on the seat in the flower garden with Emma, who had walked over from the vicarage just a short time ago, while Jonathan toddled around near them.

Gervase watched from the library window, having just caught up with some correspondence that had been awaiting his attention on his desk for two days. It pleased him that his family and the bolder Bedwyns seemed to like one another. It particularly pleased him that Morgan had been so well accepted here and that she seemed genuinely delighted by her surroundings and the people in it.

After the ball he was going to convince her somehow to forgive him. He was going to propose marriage to her in earnest.

He was on the verge of going outside to join the ladies and to play with his nephew, but he noticed suddenly that a carriage was approaching up the driveway. He did not recognize it even when it drew closer. He ought to go outside to greet his visitor in person, perhaps. But something held him back.

Both Morgan and Emma raised a hand in greeting as the carriage drew level with them, but it continued on its way past them and turned onto the terrace below the window at which Gervase was standing. He watched as a lady descended, a maid behind her.

His mouth turned suddenly dry. Morgan had gone out in the carriage with Henrietta yesterday but had not told him where they had gone-he had not asked. But he had guessed.

It is not my final word,she had told him just the day before.My brother suffered from that incident too.

And now Marianne had come to Windrush. He hoped she had come to call on his mother-or Henrietta, tasteless as such a visit would be when he was in residence.

She climbed the horseshoe steps and disappeared inside the house below him. Morgan was looking up at the window. Briefly their eyes met before he turned away. Was this too a part of her revenge?

Had Marianne come to seehim ?

He would refuse to receive her. It was as simple as that.

And then his butler tapped on the door and opened it to ask him if he was at home to Lady Marianne Bonner.

He opened his mouth to say no. Had she come to beg his forgiveness? He had none to give. Some things were unforgivable.

Like using and defaming and drawing into scandal a young, innocent girl merely because one had a grudge against her brother.

Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.

He had never thought of himself as a particularly religious man. But those words popped into his head anyway.

"Show her in," he said curtly, and waited grimly before the window, his hands clasped at his back.

Marianne had been lovely as a girl-all blond, blue-eyed, slender femininity. She was an even lovelier woman. Her figure had developed alluring curves, and the years had added character to her face and made it somehow more beautiful. He wondered anew, as he had wondered years ago, why she had been so adamantly opposed to marrying Bewcastle, who had been-and still was-one of the greatest matrimonial prizes in all Britain. She had not explained that to him in her sitting room before he fell into a stupor from the drink she had given him.

She curtsied low, and he bowed stiffly.

"Lord Rosthorn," she said, "thank you for seeing me."

She was, he realized with some satisfaction when he heard the tremor in her voice, very nervous.

"I do not imagine, ma'am," he said, "that we have anything of great significance to say to each other."

He did not offer her a seat.

"You are quite right," she said. "I will offer no explanation for my behavior that night. I am sure you have long understoodwhy I did it. And I can offer no excuse either. A reluctance to marry the Duke of Bewcastle or anyone else for that matter and a fear of my father were no excuses for what I did to you and then what I allowed to happen to you even though I had not foreseen it. An apology is cheap and perhaps even an insult considering how long I made you suffer. But, Gervase, it is all I have to offer. I wish there were more. I wish I could go back and change the past, but it is the one thing none of us can ever do. I stand condemned and offer no plea in my own defense. Thereis none."

"Youcould go away," he told her, "so that we will not have to inhabit the same neighborhood for the rest of our lives."

She visibly blanched. She even swayed slightly, and he almost hurried toward her to support her or bring her a chair. But she brought herself under control again.

"I could," she agreed. "Is that the punishment that would seem fair to you, Gervase? Perhaps you are right. Perhaps itwould be fair-an eye for an eye, exile for exile. Very well, then, if it is your wish."

"Not quite an eye for an eye," he said. "I was forced to leave behind all that I held dear when I left here."

"Ah, Gervase," she said, "and so would I be.Is it what you wish me to do?"

There were tears in her eyes, but they did not spill over. And she did not lower her head or look away from him. He regarded her steadily, frowning.

A reluctance to marry the Duke of Bewcastle or anyone else for that matter . . .

Ah, Gervase, and so would I be.

It would seem to her like an equal punishment to be banished from Winchholme as he had been from Windrush? But she had no one here as he had.

Except friends.

Or perhaps one particular friend.

Who had been Marianne's accomplice at that ball? There must havebeen an accomplice if her plan was to succeed. He had always realized that but had assumed it was some servant or lackey.

Henrietta?

It would explain all, would it not?

But did he want to know for sure? Was he willing to ask the question?

"One thing I have discovered recently from my own experience, Marianne," he said, "is that forgiveness can never be deserved. If it could be, it would not be needed, would it? I too would change some events from the past if I could. But of course I cannot. And bad as the past nine years have been, they have not been totally wasted. I am a different man from the one who left England a few days after that infamous ball, and he is a man with whom I have grown comfortable. I met my future countess while still in exile. I may never have met her otherwise, and I would regret that more than anything else I can imagine."