The Phantom Lover (22 page)

The memory of another kiss flashed into his mind. He saw Nell's face, streaked with rain and tears, staring up at him. How strange that moment had been—he'd had no recollection of initiating it, but he'd found himself kissing her. A hunger had welled up in him and only the fierceness of the rain had brought him to his senses and kept him from crushing her in his arms. He'd let her go, but he'd been trembling and shaken.

What a time he'd chosen for these thoughts! Berating himself, he kissed his promised bride with as much warmth as he could muster and set about convincing her—and himself—of his delight at the news.

It was well after two when the Thorne carriage was called for and the family wearily climbed into it. As the coach rumbled over the cobblestones, the occupants were strangely silent. Charles had spent the entire evening at the card tables and was glumly attempting to calculate his losses. Sybil was concerned with the lack of comment on her hairstyle and was, in the darkness of the coach, attempting to reevaluate it in her tiny hand mirror. Amelia was dozing in the corner. Both Harry and Nell were absorbed in reflection. At last Harry looked up and spoke to them all. “I suppose you've surmised that I have an announcement to make to you,” he began.

“Eh? Announcement?” Amelia mumbled, shaking herself awake.

Sybil dropped the mirror into her lap and clapped her hands. “Oh, Henry,
dear
!” she squealed. “She's
accepted
you!”

“Yes,” Harry said quietly, “Miss Manning has agreed to marry me. A date has been set in June.”

There was a chorus of congratulations, in the midst of which the coach drew up at the door. They alighted with an excitement equal to their boarding the coach earlier that evening, and they entered the hallway in noisy gaiety. Beckwith, taking all the outer garments on his arm, joined the others in voicing his congratulations and managed, to Sybil's disgust, to pump his lordship's hand heartily.

After the others had fervently wished him joy and gone to bed, Nell lingered behind. “You haven't said a word, my dear,” Harry remarked as he, too, headed for the stairway. “Don't
you
wish me happy?”

“You
know
I wish you happy,” she said, coming to the foot of the stairway and looking up at him. “Aren't you glad, now, that you took my advice?”

“Yes, of course,” he said shortly.

“And you see now that Miss Manning does not find you ‘part of a man'?”

“Yes.”

“And that all the plans you'd made before you went to Spain may still be realized? That you are accepted by the world just as before?”

“Yes, yes,” he said, a touch of asperity in his voice, “you were in the right about everything. There! Are you satisfied now?”

The stairway was only dimly lit by a single candle in a wall sconce on the landing, and she had to peer into the gloom to make out his expression. But his face was shadowed. “What is it, Harry?” she asked, puzzled at his tone. “You
are
happy, are you not?”

There was a pause. “I
must
be happy,” he said enigmatically, and he turned and climbed wearily up the stairs.

Chapter Fifteen

I
F HARRY'S WORDS
had left Nell with doubts about his happiness in his betrothal, his subsequent actions dissipated those doubts completely. Lord Thorne's behavior toward his promised bride was more than exemplary. He was completely devoted. The story of their long-protracted courtship and its happy outcome was the talk of London, and many a dowager dripped sentimental tears over it, even after hearing the tale for the third time. The couple was much in demand, and they were forced to make a choice every evening from among dozens of invitations. They were much admired and fussed over, and Harry began to feel as if he were drowning in a sea of cloying sweetness.

The only outward sign of his distaste, however, was his suggestion to his betrothed, after a few weeks of constant socializing, that Edwina attend some of her parties without him from time to time. Understanding that it was the strange way of men to prefer exclusively male company occasionally, Edwina was sweetly agreeable. Thus it was that, one evening in late March, Harry sat in the library at Thorne House, bent over a chessboard with only Roddy for company. They both had removed their coats and neckerchiefs, and Harry had indulged himself in the luxury of resting his weary leg on a hassock pulled up before him. “Let's call it a draw,” he said to Roddy after studying the pieces that remained on the board with a rather bored scrutiny.

“May as well,” Roddy agreed. “You don't seem to have your mind on the game anyway. You could easily have taken my queen with your knight a few moves back.”

Harry leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Too easy by half. It's no sport to win from a man who leaves his queen so carelessly unprotected.”

Roddy shrugged and busied himself with replacing the beautifully carved chessmen in the velvet-lined chest which housed them. “Nevertheless, old fellow, something is on your mind. You've hardly spoken a dozen words tonight.”

“It's only that I'm deucedly tired. I'm unaccustomed to the round of social engagements that seems to be required of a prospective bridegroom. I don't see how Edwina stands it. I'm worn to the bone.”

“Oh, women thrive on such stuff,” Roddy said with assurance. “A woman can be prostrate with any complaint from the headache to influenza, but the moment someone suggests a party, she will fly from her bed like a bird dog to a scent.”

Harry chuckled. “And how have you become such an authority on women, you mooncalf?”

“I'm an observer,” Roddy grinned. “Merely an observer. But you must admit that I'm a persistent and astute one.”

“I'll admit to only half of that. You, like all healthy males, are a
persistent
observer, but very few of us are
astute
about the sex.”

“Speak for yourself, Harry, old man. Which one of us was astute enough to avoid matrimony, eh?”

“The only reason you've avoided it so far,” Harry rejoined, “is because you've never found a female who'd have you.”

Roddy laughed, but he recognized the fact that Harry's quips lacked their usual spirit. Brushing his mustache with his index finger, he studied Harry closely. “Are you perhaps feeling some regret about the impending nuptials?” he asked.

Harry gave him a quick glance. “Of course not. Why do you ask?”

“I've heard that misgivings before the wedding are a quite commonplace symptom in males.”

“I suppose they are,” Harry said noncommittally.

“I didn't suppose that
you
would be inflicted with those misgivings, however. Your Miss Manning is a diamond.”

“Yes, she is.”

“A lady of the first stare. She never behaves in that silly, giggly way some girls have. She always appears just as she ought. Pretty as a picture and always says just the right thing.”

Harry leaned forward and fixed his eyes on Roddy's face. “Do you think, perhaps,” he ventured slowly, “that she is a bit
too
perfect?”

“
Too
perfect? I don't understand,” Roddy said, brushing his index finger on his mustache again. “How can a woman be too perfect?”

Harry leaned back and stared thoughtfully ahead of him. “I don't know, quite. But don't you think it would become irritating to live with a woman whose hair was never tousled, whose temper was never unchecked, whose impulses were never spontaneous, whose words were never ill-considered?”

Roddy peered at Harry with sudden understanding. “Is that your impression of Miss Manning?”

Harry bit his lip guiltily. “No, no, of course not. I'm just offering a hypothesis.”

“Well, it's a pretty silly hypothesis. There never was a woman in the
world
whose temper was never unchecked or whose words were never ill-considered. But if there were, I should snatch her up at once!”

Harry smiled, but Roddy noticed it was strained. “Would you indeed? I'd have thought you'd prefer your females a little wild and impulsive.”

“Like your ward, Miss Belden?” Roddy grinned appreciatively. “Yes, now you mention it, I
would
like a girl like that.”

Harry's laugh burst out. “Is there a type you would
not
like, you mushroom? By the way, may I remind you that Nell is not my ward?”

“Well, your niece then.”

“She is not my niece. She is Charles's ward and not related to
me
at all.”

“Good,” Roddy said with a glint. “Then I need never find myself in the position of having to come to you for permission to pay my respects to her.”

Harry turned to Roddy curiously. “Is there some seriousness behind that jest? Do you have designs in that direction?”

“Do you mean in regard to Miss Belden? Yes, indeed. I find her completely charming. You'd see it too, if you weren't so bemused by your Edwina. But Miss Belden has no eyes for me, I'm afraid, except as a friend. I think she's fixed her affections elsewhere.”

“Do you?” Harry asked, elaborately casual. “And where do you think she has fixed them?”

“On you,” Roddy suggested, after a slight hesitation.

Harry looked away quickly. “Rubbish! She regards me as an uncle … or an older brother …”

“Does she? Are you certain?”

“Of course. Just as I'm certain that I regard
her
as a delightful little sister.” The words were barely out of his mouth when the recollection of a kiss again flashed across his mind. Sister, indeed! He shifted in his chair uncomfortably.

Roddy was observing him shrewdly. “Yes, of course,” he said agreeably, rubbing his mustache with his finger in that irritating way of his. “How else can you regard her, when you're pledged to Edwina so irrevocably?”

“You're hinting at something quite nonsensical,” Harry said irritably. “You sound like a gabbling old busybody. If this is the extent of your conversational talents, let's set up the chessboard again.”

But Roddy's conversation was not so easily put out of Harry's mind. He knew that his feelings for Nell were far from brotherly. He lay awake well into the night wondering why he'd found it necessary to try to convince Roddy that Nell was like a sister to him. Was he ashamed of his feelings for her? And if so, why? Carefully and dispassionately analyzing the situation, he reasoned that there was something in his attachment to the girl that made him feel unfaithful to Edwina. But the only way
that
could make sense would be if he loved
Nell
…!

Suddenly it all seemed blindingly clear. What a fool he'd been! He'd been in an emotional turmoil ever since he'd laid eyes on the girl in her bedroom at Thorndene as she'd stood staring at a ghost, her nightcap askew and her eyes sparkling with intrepid amusement. Only a complete gudgeon would have taken so long to diagnose the trouble. What he'd felt for Edwina before he'd gone to the Peninsula was a boyish fantasy compared to the breadth and depth of what he now felt. Love had come to him at a time of personal suffering and bitter loneliness, and it had been unrecognizable because it had been neither romantic nor particularly soothing. It had
hurt
, and it had mixed itself up with all his other pains.

Nell was lovely, but, objectively speaking, Edwina was more beautiful. Edwina was more gentle, more steadfast, more serene. Edwina would never have entertained a ghost in her bedroom, nor asked rude questions about a man's private feelings. She would neither have nagged him nor quarreled, nor kissed him when she knew he was promised to another (out on the cliffs in a driving rain). And she would never have broken three betrothals. She would not break even
one
. Edwina was sensible and thoughtful and fair and fine.
And he didn't want her at all
. He wanted the stubborn, rude, impulsive, foolish little chit who'd pushed and coaxed and irritated and cajoled and
dared
him back to life when he'd felt almost dead.

Good God, what had he done? To prove to Nell that he had the courage to face the world, he'd tied himself to Edwina in a betrothal he no longer wanted. And, as Roddy had put it, a betrothal was an irrevocable pledge. Ladies, of course, had the right to change their minds, and if they were capricious (as Nell had evidently been in the past) they cried off carelessly and frequently. But a gentleman had no such privilege. He could
never
cry off.

Harry tossed fitfully on the pillow to relieve the feeling of imprisonment which overwhelmed him. He shut his eyes and urged sleep to come, but, like a willful girl, it eluded him. Surrendering at last to sleeplessness and utter dejection, he lay staring up into the darkness. “Oh, Nell,” he muttered miserably, “what a mull we've made of it, between the two of us!”

Hoping to avoid seeing Nell until the shock of his new discovery had been subdued into resignation, he came down to breakfast an hour earlier than usual, and of course came face to face with her. He reddened, mumbled an unintelligible greeting and sat down. Quickly he occupied himself in reading several innocuous messages with avid attention. Nell offered him tea, which he accepted with a grunt and without meeting her eyes. When at last he looked up from the note which he'd reread three times without understanding, he found her looking at him curiously. “Is something amiss?” she asked. “You seem a trifle out of curl.”

“I'm fine, perfectly fine. Will you be good enough to pour a cup of tea for me?” he asked, looking quickly down at his letter.

“Of course, if you wish it, although you've barely touched the tea you have.”

Harry had forgotten that he'd already accepted a cup from her, and he stared at the cup in front of him embarrassedly. “Oh, yes. Well, it's probably cold,” he said awkwardly.

She handed him a fresh cup, and he took a hasty gulp. Since it had just been poured, it was quite hot and scalded his tongue. “Aah!” he gasped helplessly, setting the cup down precipitously and sloshing the steaming liquid over his hand, causing another uncomfortable sting. “Damnation!” he muttered, his ears reddening.