Someone to Wed
Page 36
“That is one specific thing?” she said. “But what about you, Lord Riverdale? Presumably you too must keep learning if your growth is not to be stunted. What is one specific thing you can learn?”
“Touché.” He grinned at her. “I can learn not to manage the lives of those around me.”
She laughed again. Laughter softened her and gave hints of the woman she could be if she could just get past whatever it was that had frozen her natural development when she was still a child.
“I shall think about what you have said,” she told him, “keeping in mind that you will be busy learning not to manage my life. But there will be no betrothal ball or any other. I am far too busy dancing to my own private melody, remember.”
He had felt more hopeful in the past few minutes than he had in his whole acquaintance with her. She was willing, it seemed, to open herself in small ways if not in large, and he had acknowledged his own need not to be inflexible. More important, she was capable of laughter and even of wit.
“Before anything else, though,” she said, “your mother and sister must approve.”
It struck him as sad that there was no one on her side whose approval he must seek. No one to share the celebration of their betrothal or the planning for their wedding.
“Last year,” he said, “when Anna had been newly discovered by the Westcott family and everyone was trying to bring her up to scratch, Netherby offered her marriage and the family swung into action to plan the grandest wedding the ton had ever seen. While they—we—were at it, Netherby acquired a special license and took her off one morning and married her without a word to anyone. It came as a severe shock to the family, but I have always thought it was the very best way it could have been done. Anna was new to the ton. She would have hated the pomp and bluster of a public wedding. And Netherby simply would not allow it. Would you like us to imitate them, Miss Heyden? Shall I purchase a special license—I could do it tomorrow—and marry you quietly? You would be my countess without any public fuss and would have my full permission to be as eccentric as you pleased for the rest of our lives.”
It was an impulsive suggestion on his part, but it was not one he expected to regret. He had to wait for her answer until a couple of ladies had passed them. As they did so, she half raised her left hand in the direction of her face but then returned it to her side. The two ladies exchanged greetings with him—he knew them slightly—took a good look at Miss Heyden, and walked on in silence until they had passed out of earshot. A few drawing rooms were soon going to be buzzing, he guessed.
“Without even speaking to your mother and sister?” she asked. “And without any discussion of the full extent of my fortune? Without signing any sort of marriage contract?”
“I will take you upon trust if you will take me,” he said. He was beginning to feel a bit dizzy. He could be a married man the day after tomorrow, depending upon her answer.
She drew an audible breath and held it for a few moments as they approached the crowded carriage road close to the gates.
“It is a tempting idea,” she said. “But I will not marry you without your mother’s full approval, Lord Riverdale.”
Eleven
Wren went straight up to her room upon her return, removed her bonnet and gloves, and sat on the chair by the window. Fortunately, Mrs. Westcott and Elizabeth had not yet returned from the garden party, and the earl had not stayed. He was, however, planning to return for dinner. She picked up her library book and opened it before closing it again and setting it aside no more than a minute later. She was certainly not going to be able to read for the next little while. Her mind was buzzing as though a whole hive of bees had been let loose in there.
She was betrothed. Tentatively.
Her dream was about to come true.
Or was it? She could not possibly be the Countess of Riverdale. He had brushed aside her misgivings by assuring her that she might be an eccentric recluse if she wished, but she did not quite believe it would be possible. Already she had met his mother and sister and cousin. Another cousin—the dispossessed former countess—had been invited to come here to stay with her daughter. If she was to be married, she would be here when they came—if they came—and she would remain here until the end of the parliamentary session. She would not be able to hide in her room all day every day. How long would it be before she was called upon to meet all the Westcotts—and the Radleys too, the relatives on his mother’s side? And then who after that?
But why not?
Perhaps her face was not so hideous after all. Not one of the people she had met had shrieked or stared at her in horror or called her a monster or wanted to keep her confined to a room with the key turned in the lock from the other side, with netting over the window, lest someone look up from below and see her peering out. No one had called her a punishment from hell. No one had suggested that she belonged in an insane asylum or had been on the brink of sending her there.
Wren spread shaking hands over her face and concentrated upon getting her breathing under control so that she would not faint. No, of course not. No one had said or done any of those things in twenty years. But there was a certain sort of memory that seeped into one’s very bones and tissues and sinews and into the deepest recesses of one’s mind and being. Would she ever see herself as others saw her? Would she ever believe what they saw?
She removed her hands from her face and rested them in her lap while she looked out at the garden, at flowers and shrubs and rows of vegetables off to one side and a sort of knot garden of herbs beyond them, and breathed in the sweet air and the myriad scents that came through the open window with the light breeze.
She was betrothed. She was going to be wed. All the dreams she had ever dared dream were going to come true. And it was not going to be just any old marriage, but marriage to him, the Earl of Riverdale, and she very much feared she was in love with him. But why had her mind chosen the word feared? Because she knew her feelings could never be returned? It did not matter. He had promised liking and respect and a hope of affection, and they were good enough. From him they were good enough, for if she had learned one thing about him during their brief acquaintance, it was that he was a man of honor to whom family was of paramount importance.
Wren closed her eyes and continued to breathe in the soothing smells of sweet peas and mint and sage. She feared—and yes, it was definitely fear this time—that she would not be able to change enough to arouse any real affection in him. It was not just her face that she had hidden from the world. It was the whole of herself. Her instinct was to hide behind veils within veils, and she had done it for so long that she did not know how to cast those veils aside.
She had met four people without her facial veil. She had even gone out without it this afternoon. But could she lift the heavier veil she wore over herself? She had only ever done it with her aunt and uncle. She was well aware that she was different. She was not warm or open in manner and never could be. She seemed incapable of showing her feelings. She was not … Oh, she was not a thousand and one things other people were without any effort.
What was she, then? She did not want to define herself for the rest of her life with negatives.
She was a businesswoman and a successful one. She had a good head on her shoulders, and she worked well, curiously enough, with other people. She was capable of love. She had loved her uncle and aunt with all her being. She had easily grown fond of Elizabeth and Mrs. Westcott. She apparently loved the Earl of Riverdale. She knew she would love their children—if, please God, they had any—with a passionate adoration no matter what.
“Touché.” He grinned at her. “I can learn not to manage the lives of those around me.”
She laughed again. Laughter softened her and gave hints of the woman she could be if she could just get past whatever it was that had frozen her natural development when she was still a child.
“I shall think about what you have said,” she told him, “keeping in mind that you will be busy learning not to manage my life. But there will be no betrothal ball or any other. I am far too busy dancing to my own private melody, remember.”
He had felt more hopeful in the past few minutes than he had in his whole acquaintance with her. She was willing, it seemed, to open herself in small ways if not in large, and he had acknowledged his own need not to be inflexible. More important, she was capable of laughter and even of wit.
“Before anything else, though,” she said, “your mother and sister must approve.”
It struck him as sad that there was no one on her side whose approval he must seek. No one to share the celebration of their betrothal or the planning for their wedding.
“Last year,” he said, “when Anna had been newly discovered by the Westcott family and everyone was trying to bring her up to scratch, Netherby offered her marriage and the family swung into action to plan the grandest wedding the ton had ever seen. While they—we—were at it, Netherby acquired a special license and took her off one morning and married her without a word to anyone. It came as a severe shock to the family, but I have always thought it was the very best way it could have been done. Anna was new to the ton. She would have hated the pomp and bluster of a public wedding. And Netherby simply would not allow it. Would you like us to imitate them, Miss Heyden? Shall I purchase a special license—I could do it tomorrow—and marry you quietly? You would be my countess without any public fuss and would have my full permission to be as eccentric as you pleased for the rest of our lives.”
It was an impulsive suggestion on his part, but it was not one he expected to regret. He had to wait for her answer until a couple of ladies had passed them. As they did so, she half raised her left hand in the direction of her face but then returned it to her side. The two ladies exchanged greetings with him—he knew them slightly—took a good look at Miss Heyden, and walked on in silence until they had passed out of earshot. A few drawing rooms were soon going to be buzzing, he guessed.
“Without even speaking to your mother and sister?” she asked. “And without any discussion of the full extent of my fortune? Without signing any sort of marriage contract?”
“I will take you upon trust if you will take me,” he said. He was beginning to feel a bit dizzy. He could be a married man the day after tomorrow, depending upon her answer.
She drew an audible breath and held it for a few moments as they approached the crowded carriage road close to the gates.
“It is a tempting idea,” she said. “But I will not marry you without your mother’s full approval, Lord Riverdale.”
Eleven
Wren went straight up to her room upon her return, removed her bonnet and gloves, and sat on the chair by the window. Fortunately, Mrs. Westcott and Elizabeth had not yet returned from the garden party, and the earl had not stayed. He was, however, planning to return for dinner. She picked up her library book and opened it before closing it again and setting it aside no more than a minute later. She was certainly not going to be able to read for the next little while. Her mind was buzzing as though a whole hive of bees had been let loose in there.
She was betrothed. Tentatively.
Her dream was about to come true.
Or was it? She could not possibly be the Countess of Riverdale. He had brushed aside her misgivings by assuring her that she might be an eccentric recluse if she wished, but she did not quite believe it would be possible. Already she had met his mother and sister and cousin. Another cousin—the dispossessed former countess—had been invited to come here to stay with her daughter. If she was to be married, she would be here when they came—if they came—and she would remain here until the end of the parliamentary session. She would not be able to hide in her room all day every day. How long would it be before she was called upon to meet all the Westcotts—and the Radleys too, the relatives on his mother’s side? And then who after that?
But why not?
Perhaps her face was not so hideous after all. Not one of the people she had met had shrieked or stared at her in horror or called her a monster or wanted to keep her confined to a room with the key turned in the lock from the other side, with netting over the window, lest someone look up from below and see her peering out. No one had called her a punishment from hell. No one had suggested that she belonged in an insane asylum or had been on the brink of sending her there.
Wren spread shaking hands over her face and concentrated upon getting her breathing under control so that she would not faint. No, of course not. No one had said or done any of those things in twenty years. But there was a certain sort of memory that seeped into one’s very bones and tissues and sinews and into the deepest recesses of one’s mind and being. Would she ever see herself as others saw her? Would she ever believe what they saw?
She removed her hands from her face and rested them in her lap while she looked out at the garden, at flowers and shrubs and rows of vegetables off to one side and a sort of knot garden of herbs beyond them, and breathed in the sweet air and the myriad scents that came through the open window with the light breeze.
She was betrothed. She was going to be wed. All the dreams she had ever dared dream were going to come true. And it was not going to be just any old marriage, but marriage to him, the Earl of Riverdale, and she very much feared she was in love with him. But why had her mind chosen the word feared? Because she knew her feelings could never be returned? It did not matter. He had promised liking and respect and a hope of affection, and they were good enough. From him they were good enough, for if she had learned one thing about him during their brief acquaintance, it was that he was a man of honor to whom family was of paramount importance.
Wren closed her eyes and continued to breathe in the soothing smells of sweet peas and mint and sage. She feared—and yes, it was definitely fear this time—that she would not be able to change enough to arouse any real affection in him. It was not just her face that she had hidden from the world. It was the whole of herself. Her instinct was to hide behind veils within veils, and she had done it for so long that she did not know how to cast those veils aside.
She had met four people without her facial veil. She had even gone out without it this afternoon. But could she lift the heavier veil she wore over herself? She had only ever done it with her aunt and uncle. She was well aware that she was different. She was not warm or open in manner and never could be. She seemed incapable of showing her feelings. She was not … Oh, she was not a thousand and one things other people were without any effort.
What was she, then? She did not want to define herself for the rest of her life with negatives.
She was a businesswoman and a successful one. She had a good head on her shoulders, and she worked well, curiously enough, with other people. She was capable of love. She had loved her uncle and aunt with all her being. She had easily grown fond of Elizabeth and Mrs. Westcott. She apparently loved the Earl of Riverdale. She knew she would love their children—if, please God, they had any—with a passionate adoration no matter what.
