Susan Carroll (38 page)

“I may not be able to control my dreams, but
I assure you I have always been in command of my waking hours,
never allowing them to be cluttered by the sort of useless
sentimentality that torments lesser men.”

“Then it was quite wrong for you to propose
marriage to me,” Anne said. “A tenderhearted fool would never make
you a good marchioness.”

“There seems nothing more to be said. I
suppose at this juncture I am expected to utter some noble rot
about wishing you every future happiness, but I am not that
generous.'

His bitter words stung her like a lash. She
had thought his reaction to her refusal would be his usual shrug of
indifference or even relief. What she had not expected was the
depth of his anger and a flash of hurt in his eyes.

Pivoting on his heel, he strode to where his
gelding was tied, undid the reins, and vaulted into the saddle.
Anne pressed her fist to her mouth, swallowing the urge to call him
back. She had to remind herself that if she had wounded anything,
it had been his pride and not his heart.

As to the condition of her own heart, it was
something she did not care to examine just now. She watched him
wheel the black gelding about and thunder off through the park.

He had just vanished from view when Norrie
cantered toward Anne on her pony. The child had coaxed James into
allowing her to ride without his guiding hand upon the leading
reins, but Anne felt too drained to remonstrate.

Norrie reined the pony to a halt, crying out
in dismay, “Mama, where is Lord Man going? He did not even say
good-bye to me and I wanted to show him how I can ride Pegasus all
by myself.”

Anne felt unequal to dealing with her
daughter's disappointment, but she managed to reply, “Lord Mandell
recollected something important he had forgotten to do. We cannot
take up all of his lordship's afternoon, babe.”

“Do you think he'll remember about Aunt
Lily's party tonight? Can I wait up to tell him about Pegasus
then?”

Anne winced. She had forgotten about the
cursed soiree herself, and she had promised to help Lily
hostess.

“No, Norrie,” Anne said dully. “I don't
believe we shall be seeing Lord Mandell at Aunt Lily's
tonight.”

Or ever again.

But that thought was too bleak for Anne to
acknowledge to herself let alone to her sad-eyed little girl.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The party was what Lily termed a quiet
evening, a little supper and cards for a select gathering of forty
or fifty of the countess's most intimate acquaintances. She wished
to introduce to her friends a passionate young poet she had met who
promised to be as scandalous and infamous as Lord Byron.

Anne found Mr. Percy Shelley a little
alarming, with his views that encompassed everything from atheism
to the banishment of the monarchy. After dinner, when the gentleman
was coaxed to recite some of his poetry, Anne was content to
retreat behind the rosewood table in the drawing mom, helping to
serve the tea and coffee. She felt out of place amongst such
brilliant company, but it seemed preferable to the solitude of her
room this evening. She knew she would have done nothing but stare
out the window into the gathering gloom, listen to the mournful
sough of the wind through the trees, and think too much about
Mandell, wondering what she would say to Norrie when he did not
come to join them in the park tomorrow, wondering what consolation
she could whisper to herself when he never came again.

Any distraction was better than such torment,
though she wished Lily's party was livelier. The drawing room had
become oppressively solemn, with the only sounds the crackling of
the fire and the earnest cadence of Mr. Shelley's voice reciting a
sonnet he had been working on of late.

Lift not the painted veil which those who
live Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there, And it but
mimic all we would believe with colors idly spread

From the fidgeting of many of the guests,
Anne wondered if they comprehended Mr. Shelley any better than she.
Only one listened with rapt attention, a latecomer who stood apart
from the others, barely inside the threshold of the room.

Anne's heart gave a jarring thud. Mandell.
She had so convinced herself that he would not come tonight, she
had ceased to look for him. She had no idea at what juncture he had
slipped inside the drawing room, joining the other guests.

The sight of him occasioned her as much pain
as joy. The unrelenting set of his shoulders reminded her of his
behavior when they had first met, proud, sardonic, aloof. She saw
no trace of the man who could be so laughing and tender with her
little daughter, nor the lover who had wooed Anne with such gentle
passion, nor even the man who had been vulnerable enough to tear
out of the park in a rage of hurt and anger. He was the marquis
tonight, garbed in that style of severe elegance, the contrast of
black and white that became him so well. His dark fall of hair was
swept back from his forehead, candlelight flickering over the plane
of his high cheekbones.

When Mr. Shelley finished his recitation, the
company broke into a polite smattering of applause. Mandell
strolled away from the doorway and glanced about the room. It was
then that his eyes met Anne's. She saw at once that it was more
than the length of the chamber that separated them. The distance
was in his eyes tonight.

Her heart sank. So he had not forgiven her
for slighting his proposal of marriage. Then why had he come? She
could not believe it was to hear Mr. Shelley declaim his
poetry.

As Mandell approached her refuge behind the
tea table, Anne busied herself with rearranging the spoons and
helping the dowager Lady Mortlake to coffee. With the duke of
Windermere's words of warning about scandal still ringing in her
ears, Anne fancied a dozen pair of critical eyes upon her and the
marquis.

When the dowager moved away to chatter and
whisper with some of her acquaintances, Mandell took Lady
Mortlake's place in front of the table. As he towered over her,
Anne was too much aware of the silk-sheathed contours of his hard
masculine figure. She strove to maintain a calm outward facade.

“Good evening, Lord Mandell.” It was
difficult greeting him as a mere acquaintance, but if she did not
look up at him, she found she could succeed. “Such a surprise to
see you here this evening”

“Where did you think I would be?” he murmured
low enough so that only she could hear. “Languishing at home with a
broken heart'?”

The cold sneer in his words cut her deeply.
It had been so long since he had used that tone with her.

“No, you are looking very fit,” she said with
forced cheerfulness. “May I pour you some coffee?”

Her fingers trembled so badly when she
offered him the cup, Mandell was obliged to steady her hand with
his own. The contact was warm and all too fleeting.

“You appear to be a little overcome this
evening, my lady,” he drawled. “Perhaps it is owing to the force of
Mr. Shelley's poetry.”

“I scarcely understand it and what I do
comprehend saddens me, all this talk of raising painted veils and
discovering only fear and disillusionment beneath.”

“I found his little sonnet most amusing and
quite apt. How did that one part go? Ah, yes.
'He sought, for
his lost heart was tender, things to love, But found them not,
alas!'
“

He quoted the words with a harsh mockery that
tore at Anne's already raw nerves.

“Please don't, Mandell,” she begged, casting
a nervous glance around, relieved that Lily's other guests were out
of earshot.

“Don't what, my dear? Sigh over Mr. Shelley's
words? I thought such behavior would be expected of me. I am not
certain how one plays the role of rejected suitor.”

“I wish you would be honest enough not to do
so at all.” Anne met his gaze with a look of quiet reproach.

He scowled at her. She thought he meant to
pivot on his heel and stalk away'. After a brief hesitation, the
hard line of his mouth relaxed. His dark lashes drifted down,
veiling the intensity of his eyes.

“You are right, Anne,” he said at last. “I am
sorry. I don't know what madness came over me today. I fear you
unmanned me when you confessed to knowing about the nightmares. It
was generous of you to have spared my pride for so long, pretending
to have witnessed nothing, and I behaved like a perfect cad about
the whole thing.”

“It was natural that you were distressed. I
was too blunt when I blurted out the truth, and I should have
refused your offer of marriage with more tact.”

“You mean by thanking me in the conventional
manner for the great honor I had done you, saying you felt
compelled to refuse me with deepest regrets?” he asked. “No,
Sorrow, I am glad one of us retained their integrity and common
sense this afternoon.”

Anne wished she deserved the praise. But she
did not feel very sensible with Mandell so near. He set down the
coffee cup. Bending over her, he started to reach for her hand, but
like herself, he was forced to remember they were not alone. He
drew back as several ladies bustled up, clamoring for tea.

After Anne had served them and they had
drifted away again, Mandell complained, “Is it necessary for you to
attend to this? The countess has enough servants milling about
doing nothing. I would like you to walk out with me onto the
terrace.”

Anne stole a glance toward the French doors
and thought of losing herself with Mandell in the whispering
darkness of Lily's garden. She steeled herself to resist the
temptation.

“It would be too chilly.”

“It is a deal warmer than the first night you
allowed me to lure you into the gardens.”

“I fear a night as warm as that one will
never come again, my lord.”

Mandell vented an impatient sigh. “Then at
least take a turn about the room with me. I need to speak to you,
Anne.”

Before she could protest further, he summoned
one of the footmen to take Anne's place behind the tea urn. Most of
the other guests were gathering about the pianoforte where Lady
Mortlake swept back her train with a flourish and sat down to
delight the company with a few selections.

The dowager played competently enough, but
without Mandell's soul and fire. As he escorted Anne away from the
tea table, she saw him flinch. He led her to the far end of the
drawing room, to the shadowed recess of one of the tall curtained
windows. Anne affected to admire the view of Lily's gardens, but
all she saw was Mandell hovering behind her, his reflection
shimmering phantomlike in the night-darkened panes.

He sought again to apologize for his conduct.
“I am astonished you can forgive me for my surly behavior,
abandoning you like that at the park.”

“You will have more to do to appease Norrie,”
Anne said. “She was disappointed when you left so soon. She has
grown to be very fond of you.”

“You must convey to her my deepest
regrets.”

“You do not intend to come and see her again
yourself?” Anne asked, although she already knew the answer.

“No, I think it best that I do not.” Although
he smiled, the lines about his mouth were deep, carved with
weariness and resignation. “We appear to have reached an impasse in
our relationship, my dear. You do not make me a very conformable
mistress and it is obvious I will never make you a worthy
husband.”

“I think you could make a worthy husband
someday,” Anne said wistfully. “If only you would learn to set more
value upon your heart than your estate and title.”

“And to think I once said you demanded too
little, Sorrow. You ask far too much.”

“No, Mandell. I never expected that our time
together would last forever.”

“You told me you were seeking only a few
memories. Have I given you that much, milady?”

“Oh, yes! I spent so much of my life being
afraid of the dark. I will always remember you as the man who
taught me to love the power and beauty of night.”

If only she had not also learned to love the
man himself, difficult, forever distant, locked away behind that
wall of reserve she doubted he would ever permit anyone to breach.
Those brief moments she had spent in the park with his grandfather
had served to clarify for her the enigma that was Mandell. She
could see it all now, how it must have been for the frightened
child who had endured the horror of his mother's death and the pain
of his father's defection, only to be thrust into a strange land,
placed in the care of a stern and embittered old man. The duke of
Windermere had obviously taken great pains with his grandson's
education, fashioning a sensitive boy into the haughty marquis, the
cynical nobleman who believed in nothing, not even himself.

It was ironic, Anne thought. Never had she
been able to understand Mandell so well as she did at this moment
and never had they been further apart. Fearful lest her face betray
her thoughts, she moved closer to the window. She sensed a movement
of his hands as though he meant to rest them upon her shoulders.
But his touch never came.

“You will take care of yourself and young
Eleanor?” he said.

Anne nodded, not trusting herself to
speak.

“If you should ever need me for anything, you
know you have only to send for me. If Lucien should return to
torment you—”

“I don't believe that he will.”

“But if he should— Norrie made an odd remark
to me in the park today. She said she thought she saw her uncle
peering at her from the window of his house.”

“She told me that, too, and I sent one of the
footmen to check. The house is all closed up. There is no one
there.” Anne felt composed enough to face him again. “You must not
worry about any more danger from Lucien, my lord.”

“I would not if you gave me your promise
never to receive him again, never to be alone with him. I have felt
uneasy ever since I learned of his abrupt departure from London. I
found it rather odd coming so soon after the attack on Briggs.”