A Summer to Remember

Chapter 7

Lauren was on her way to Alvesley Park. The long journey into Hampshire must be almost over, in fact, she thought. The afternoon was well advanced.

More than two weeks had passed since the evening at Vauxhall when all this madness had begun. And madness it surely was. At the time she had imagined—if she had stopped to think at all—that she would simply ride off with Viscount Ravensberg on their masquerade, that they would proceed the very next day to Alvesley and her summer of adventure.

It had not turned out that way. Of course it had not. Even before she had tossed and turned her way through a sleepless night after the Merklingers had conveyed her home, she had realized that what she had agreed to—no, what she had suggested—was not just a carefree fling for the two of them but a huge lie that was to involve a large number of people. Common sense and a regard for propriety almost prevailed at that point. She almost dashed off a note to Lord Ravensberg, canceling all their plans.

Almost. But she had gone down to breakfast first, and Elizabeth had asked her about the evening at Vauxhall.

“It was very enjoyable,” she had replied—and after a moment’s hesitation, “Elizabeth, he asked me to marry him and I said yes.”

Elizabeth had risen hurriedly to her feet despite her bulk and hugged Lauren and laughed with delight and assured her that she had made a wise choice despite anything that Aunt Sadie and her ilk might say to the contrary.

“You have chosen to go with your heart after all, Lauren,” she had said. “I am so very proud of you and happy for you.”

Lord Ravensberg had called only an hour or so later to speak with the Duke of Portfrey, though he was not in any way Lauren’s guardian. It was a visit Lauren had not expected him to make, but one that Elizabeth had commented upon with approval.

Suddenly it had seemed out of the question simply to ride off for Alvesley with her betrothed. How could she, Lauren Edgeworth, have thought for a single moment that it might be possible? Suddenly everything had become very formal and correct.

Announcements had had to be made—to Lord Ravensberg’s family to expect her, to her grandfather in Yorkshire, to her family at Newbury Abbey, to her relatives in London, to the ton at large.

The betrothal—the fake betrothal—had become alarmingly real and no carefree adventure at all. Uncle Webster had rumbled with displeasure and called the viscount—in his absence—an impudent puppy. Aunt Sadie had called for the hartshorn, and Wilma had volubly declared herself speechless. Joseph had looked faintly amused but had offered no comment beyond a wish for Lauren’s happiness. The Duke of Portfrey had given it as his opinion that Lord Ravensberg’s notorious exploits amounted to nothing more than a sowing of wild oats. His military record told its own impressive story, he had added. He and Elizabeth had hosted a grand family dinner in celebration of the event the day before Lord Ravensberg left for Alvesley to break the news to his parents and two days before the announcement appeared in all the morning papers.

It had been impossible to come to Alvesley alone or with only a maid for company, of course, even though the journey could be made in one day. And impossible too to make the journey with Lord Ravensberg’s escort. Such behavior simply would not be proper—they were not wed. Elizabeth was within a month of her confinement and quite unable to travel. Lauren would not even ask Aunt Sadie to accompany her.

It was Aunt Clara, the Dowager Countess of Kilbourne, who was doing that. And Gwendoline, the widowed Lady Muir. They had come all the way from Dorsetshire to London in order to cry over her and laugh over her and hug her until her ribs felt bruised—and to accompany her to Alvesley at the invitation of the Countess of Redfield.

All was very formal, very proper.

Lauren felt weighed down by the hugeness of the lie she had set in motion. She had not told even Gwen the truth. And there had been no word from Lord Ravensberg to tell her how well—or how ill—his announcement had been received at Alvesley. Only the letter of formal invitation from his mother.

“Ah,” Aunt Clara said now, waking from a doze that had kept the two younger women silent and had left Lauren alone with her thoughts and her conscience, “this must be it. I will not be sorry to see the journey at an end, I must say.”

The carriage—the Duke of Portfrey’s, complete with all the pomp of ducal crest and splendidly liveried coachman, postilions, and outriders—had just passed through a small village and was slowing to turn between massive wrought-iron gates, which a porter was throwing wide. He stood aside, glanced up into the carriage, and dipped his head, pulling respectfully on his forelock.

“Oh, Lauren.” Gwen leaned forward to squeeze her cousin’s knee. “This looks very impressive indeed. You must be bursting with excitement. You have not seen Lord Ravensberg for almost two weeks.”

“I am eager to make the young man’s acquaintance,” Aunt Clara said. “Despite Sadie’s disapproval and Wilma’s foolish vapors, I am prepared to like him. Elizabeth does, and she is invariably sensible in her assessment of character. And he has won your regard, Lauren. That must override any possible doubt I might feel.”

Lauren curved her lips into a smile—they felt remarkably stiff. She did not want to be doing this—deceiving the two people who were dearest to her in the world, deceiving the Earl of Redfield and his family, bowling along through a shaded, heavily wooded park toward a charade of her own making. But of course it was too late now not to be doing it.

How could she have made that irresponsible suggestion at Vauxhall? What on earth had possessed her? She was never impulsive. And she did not even like Lord Ravensberg. Did she? Certainly she did not approve of him. His dancing eyes and his frequent laughter suggested altogether too careless an attitude to life. He positively delighted in doing and saying outrageous things that were simply not gentlemanly. At this precise moment, she thought with some alarm, she could not even remember exactly what he looked like.

Suddenly the carriage interior was flooded with sunlight again. Lauren moved her head closer to the window beside her and gazed ahead. They had drawn clear of the forest and were approaching a river, which they were going to cross via a roofed Palladian bridge. To her far left she could see that the river emptied its waters into a lake, which was just visible among the trees. Beyond the bridge, well-kept lawns sloped upward to the classical elegance of a large, gray stone mansion. The lawns were dotted with ancient trees. On the lake side of the house were stables and a carriage house.

“Oh,” she said, and Gwen pressed her face to the window too, turning her head to look backward.

“Splendid,” Aunt Clara said. She was looking through the opposite window. “That must be a rose arbor beside the house with flower parterres below it.”

Then Gwen was patting Lauren’s knee again and smiling, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

“I am so happy for you!” she exclaimed. “I knew that sooner or later you were bound to meet the man who was created just for you. Are you very deep in love with him?”

But Lauren only half heard. The carriage had turned past the stables, and its wheels were crunching over a wide graveled terrace toward the steep flight of marble steps leading up beyond massive fluted pillars to the mansion’s great double doors, which stood open. There were people on the steps—two, three, no, four of them. And at the foot of the steps, dashing and elegant in a form-fitting coat of blue superfine over tight gray pantaloons and shiny, tasseled Hessian boots, a sunny smile on his face . . .

“Ah, yes,” Lauren said, though whether in answer to Gwen’s question or her own foolish fear that she would not recognize him, no one thought to ask—least of all Lauren herself.

Kit had been restless all day. He had ridden for hours, alone, across country, following no particular route, trying to kill the hours until she could reasonably be expected. Then, back at the house, he had paced in and out of front-facing rooms, peering out through the windows long before the carriage could possibly roll into sight unless it had left London in the middle of the night. He had even walked briskly down to the lodge shortly after luncheon to chat with the porter for a while.

He wished this whole thing were not happening. He wished, now that it was too late to do things differently, that he had simply written to his father earlier in the spring with a firm refusal to have any marriage arranged for him. He should have refused even to come home until he felt more ready to do so. He should not even have sold out last year. He could be with the armies now, doing what he did best. He should have written to his father . . .

But the trouble was that he was Ravensberg. He was the heir. And as the heir he had responsibilities, which he had shirked for almost two years even though he had ended his career. It was his duty to be at home, to make his peace with his father, to learn what the future Earl of Redfield needed to know, to take a wife, to father sons—yes, preferably plural.

But was he fulfilling those duties even now? With a sham engagement? And a homecoming that would have been difficult even under the best of circumstances? His father had been predictably furious when, after the first awkward exchange of greetings following his arrival, he had made his announcement. The situation, he had then discovered, was far worse than he had realized. A marriage settlement had been discussed and fully agreed upon by his father and the Duke of Bewcastle, Freyja’s brother. They had even signed a contract. It had apparently not occurred to either of them that it might be advisable to consult the wishes of the prospective bride and groom first.

Kit doubted that Freyja’s wishes had been consulted.

His mother had been dismayed and then tearful. The tight hug with which she had greeted him had not been repeated since. Even his grandmother had shaken her head at him with unspoken reproof. She was unable to say a great deal, having suffered an apoplexy five years before from which she had never quite recovered all her faculties. She still treated him with affection, but he knew that he had disappointed her.

And Sydnam—well, he and his younger brother, who had shaken hands awkwardly and without making full eye contact on Kit’s arrival, had had a nasty falling out that same night and now scarcely spoke to each other. Kit had found him in the steward’s office after everyone else had retired to bed, writing laboriously in a ledger with his left hand.

“So this is where you disappeared to after dinner,” Kit had said. “Why here, Syd?”

“Parkin retired before Christmas last year,” Sydnam had explained, looking at the worn leather cover of the ledger rather than at his brother. “I asked Father if I could take his place as steward of Alvesley.”

“As steward?” Kit had frowned. “ You, Syd?”

“It suits me very well,” his brother had told him.

Kit had assumed that Syd was living a life of enforced idleness here without his right arm and with only his left eye out of which to see and with no possible way of doing what he had been created to do. They had exchanged no letters in three years. He had assumed that Syd could not write any, and he had written none of his own because . . . well, because there had been nothing to say.

“How are you?” he had asked.

“Well.” The single word had been spoken abruptly, defiantly. “I am perfectly well, thank you.”

“Are you?”

Sydnam had opened the top left-hand drawer of the desk and placed the ledger inside it. “Perfectly well.”

They had been unusually close when they were younger, despite the six-year gap in their ages. He had been Syd’s hero, and in his turn he had adored his young brother, who had possessed all the qualities of character that he lacked—steadiness, sweetness, patience, vision, dedication.

“Why did you tell me to leave?” Kit had blurted suddenly. “Why did you join the chorus?”

Sydnam had not had to ask what he was talking about. After their father had banished Kit three years before, Syd had got up from his sick bed and come down to the hall, looking like a ghost and a skeleton combined, clad only in his nightshirt, his valet and a footman hovering anxiously in the background. But instead of offering the expected sympathy, he had told Kit to leave, to go, not to come back. There had been no word of farewell, no word of forgiveness . . .

“You were destroying all of us,” Sydnam had said in answer to his questions. “Yourself most of all. You had to go. I thought you might defy Father. I thought you might go after Jerome again and kill him. I told you to go because I wanted you gone.”

Kit had crossed the room to the window, from which the curtains were drawn back. But he had been able to see nothing outside—only his own reflection thrown back at him, and Syd’s, still seated at the desk.

“You did blame me, then,” he had said.

“Yes.”

The single word had pierced his heart. He would never forgive himself for what had happened, but without Syd’s forgiveness there was no hope of any kind of lasting peace. Only more of the restless search for forgetfulness, which he had been able to achieve with a measure of success while he had still been commissioned, but which had been impossible to find since he sold out. He had tried. He had hardly rested, day or night.

“Yes, I blame you,” Sydnam had said. “But not in the way you think.”

It had not been worth pursuing.

“Do you think,” Kit had asked, “that I would not have taken all your suffering into my own body if I could? I wish it had been me. I wish I had made that choice. If you could be made whole again, do you not think I would give my life to make it happen?”

“I’m sure you would,” his brother had said. “I am quite certain you would, Kit.” But there had been no forgiveness in his voice. Only harsh bitterness. “I do not want to talk about this. It was my suffering and these are my deformities and this is my life. I ask nothing of you, nothing whatsoever.”

“Not even my love?” The words had been almost whispered against the windowpane.

“Not even that, Kit.”

“Well.” Kit had turned and smiled, feeling as if all the blood in his body were draining downward, making him rather light-headed. He had crossed the room toward the door with deliberately jaunty strides. He had let himself out and closed the door behind him before bowing his head, his eyes closed.

No, no one had been made happy by his return to Alvesley, least of all himself. He felt like a stranger in his own home—an uncomfortable, unwelcome stranger. He felt useless—he, who had always been active and brilliantly successful and highly respected in his career. His father had made no move to educate him in the duties of the heir or to include him in any activities of his daily routine. Perhaps he was waiting until after the house party and the return of normality to the household. And Kit too felt as if he were waiting for the next phase of his life to begin—yet the very next phase was to be a charade. A lie. Unless, that was, he could persuade her to marry him after all and redeem some of his honor by doing what was right by her.

He had not been sleeping well—again. And when he did nod off from sheer exhaustion, the old nightmare kept rearing its ugly head. Syd . . .

By the middle of the afternoon he found himself in the drawing room in company with both his mother and his father—who rarely spent his afternoons there—as well as his grandmother. The others sat in quiet conversation while Kit made no pretense of doing anything but standing at the window waiting, his eyes fixed on the point of the driveway just beyond the bridge at which a carriage would first come into sight. They were all waiting, of course, for the unwanted, unwelcome arrival of their guests—though none of them had been discourteous enough to put it quite that way.

Kit’s betrothal had caused an awkward rift with their neighbors at Lindsey Hall six miles away—the Duke of Bewcastle and the Bedwyns, his brothers and sisters. Kit had ridden over there on his first morning back and had asked to speak with his grace. Bewcastle must have assumed, of course, that the call was a courtesy one for the making of a formal offer for Freyja. Kit had been shown into the library almost immediately.

Wulfric Bedwyn, Duke of Bewcastle, was not the sort of man anyone in his right mind would deliberately cross. Tall, dark, rather thin, with piercing gray eyes in a narrow face, a great hooked nose, and thin lips, he bore himself with all the unconscious arrogance of his breed. He had been brought up from the cradle for his present position and so had always held himself somewhat aloof from his brothers and his brothers’ friends, even though he was only a little more than a year older than Kit. He was a cold, humorless man.

He had not exploded with wrath when informed about the betrothal. He had merely crossed one elegantly clad leg over the other, taken a sip from his glass—the very finest French brandy, of course—and spoken softly and pleasantly.

“Doubtless,” he had said, “you are about to explain.”

Kit had felt just as he used to feel during his boyhood years when hauled up before the headmaster at school for some mischief—caught out, in the wrong, on the defensive. He had prevented himself only just in time from acting accordingly.

“And you will explain,” he had replied just as pleasantly, “why you would negotiate a marriage contract for your sister with my father rather than with me, her proposed husband.”

He had found himself being regarded steadily from cold, inscrutable eyes for long, silent moments.

“You will excuse me,” his grace had said softly at last, “for not offering my felicitations on your betrothal, Ravensberg. You do, however, have my congratulations. You have a fine sense of revenge. Better than you used to have. Less brash, shall we say?”

He had been referring to three years before, of course, when after breaking Jerome’s nose Kit had galloped hell-for-leather over to Lindsey Hall and banged on the outer door for half an hour—it had been late at night—before Rannulf, Bewcastle’s brother and Kit’s particular friend, had opened it and told him not to make an ass of himself but to go on home. When Kit had demanded to hear the truth of her betrothal to Jerome from Freyja’s own lips, Rannulf had come outside and they had stripped down and engaged in ferocious fisticuffs for all of fifteen minutes before a burly footman and Alleyne, another brother, had dragged them apart, both bruised and bloodied, both snarling and struggling to continue. Bewcastle, standing outside the door silently observing the fight, had then advised Kit to take himself off back to the Peninsula, where his rage could be put to better use. Freyja had stood at his side, her head thrown proudly back, a smile of open contempt on her lips as she stared at Kit. She had not uttered a word.

Now, three years later, Kit had been framing an answer to the duke’s words when the library door behind him was suddenly flung back against the bookshelves and his grace’s eyes had gone beyond Kit’s shoulder, his eyebrows rising haughtily.

“I fail to recall,” he had said, “inviting you to join me here, Freyja.”

But she had stridden into the room regardless and approached Kit’s chair, ignoring her brother. Kit had risen to make her a bow.

“You have certainly taken your time about leaving the pleasures of London behind,” she had said, tapping a riding whip against her skirt. “I am on my way out for a ride with Alleyne. If you wish to call upon me, Lord Ravensberg, you may make an appointment with Wulf and I will see if I am free that day.” She had turned to leave without waiting for his answer.

She had not changed in three years. Of slightly below medium height but generously endowed, she carried herself with proud grace. No one, even in her infancy, had ever called Freyja pretty. She was one of the fair Bedwyns and wore her thick golden hair as she had always liked to wear it, quite unfashionably, in long, loose waves down her back. Like the other fair Bedwyns, she had startlingly dark eyebrows and a dark-toned complexion. And the family nose. As a child she had been ugly to the point of freakishness. Then she had blossomed into young womanhood, and ugliness had been transformed into a startling handsomeness. She had always, from infancy on, been a spitfire.

“Lady Freyja,” Kit had murmured.

“If you had simply gone riding, Freyja,” her brother had said, still in his soft, pleasant voice, “instead of feeling constrained to announce in person your intention of not receiving Viscount Ravensberg, you might have been spared having to learn thus publicly what he has come here to inform me. He has recently become betrothed to Miss Lauren Edgeworth of Newbury. She will be coming to Alvesley within the next week or two.”

Freyja was not his sister and a Bedwyn for nothing. After a moment’s silence, she had turned her head back over her shoulder to smile at Kit—a baring of the teeth that bore a resemblance to a smile, anyway.

“Oh, well done, Kit,” she had said softly. “Well done indeed. You have learned subtleties you used not to know.”

She had left the room without another word.

Three years before, Kit had conceived a sudden, all-consuming passion for the woman who had been his playmate all through their childhood—she had always flatly refused to be excluded by her brothers and their friends even from their wildest exploits. She had seemed to return his sentiments in full measure. He had talked of marrying her and taking her back to the Peninsula with him to follow the drum. She had said nothing to discourage him. He had believed that summer that he would willingly die for her. And then, when Jerome had suddenly, without warning, announced his betrothal to her, Kit had thought he might well die of her betrayal. But that had been three years ago. Much water had passed beneath the proverbial bridge since then.

“Ah,” he said now, his mind back in his father’s drawing room, his eyes on that point just beyond the bridge where the deer forest ended, “here it comes.”

A carriage, unmistakably grand, drawn by four perfectly matched horses and escorted by outriders, had come into sight. There was no possibility that it was merely a neighbor come to call on his mother or grandmother.

Everyone was rising, he saw when he turned toward the door, even his grandmother with the aid of her cane. But of course. They would all do what was proper and come down to welcome the unwelcome guests with formal hospitality. He wished suddenly that it was a real betrothal, that it was a love match, that at last he would be able to convince his family—and keep them convinced—that he had done something that was right and responsible and good for the whole family when he had chosen the Honorable Miss Lauren Edgeworth to be his viscountess.

He would have offered his grandmother his arm, but his father was before him. He gave it to his mother instead, and they descended the stairs, walked through the echoing hall, and went out onto the steps together, without exchanging a word. He had always been the most troublesome of her three sons. If ever there were mischief to be got into—and there always had been—he had invariably been at the center of it, the instigator and main participant. But she had always loved him anyway. Sometimes she had even shed a tear over him after his father had finished with him in the study. Since his return—except for her first warm hug—he was not sure she loved him at all any longer.

The carriage was almost at the stables. Portfrey had sent them in his own coach, then, and surrounded them with all his ducal pomp. It was all so very damnably proper and ceremonial. Had he really imagined during that mad hour at Vauxhall that he could simply load her into a hired carriage the very next day and bring her here to surprise his parents with their announcement?

He moved away from his mother’s side and ran down the steps to the terrace. Deuce take it but this felt strange. He was about to see her again. Their grand masquerade was about to begin. Was she nervous?

And then the carriage rolled to a halt, one of the postilions jumped down to open the door and set down the steps, and Kit stepped forward, smiling and stretching up a hand. He was half aware of the other two ladies, but it was Lauren Edgeworth who leaned forward and set her gloved hand in his.

He had half forgotten how very beautiful and elegant she was. Her dove-gray traveling dress and bonnet, both with violet trim, appeared quite uncreased by the long journey. She looked fresh and lovely and perfectly composed.

“Lauren.” He handed her down and bent his head to kiss her cheek, though somehow he caught one corner of her mouth as well.

“Kit.”

They had agreed at Vauxhall—or rather he had persuaded her—that they should use each other’s given name, but they had not done so until now. He squeezed her hand, still clasped in his own, and grinned at her. Suddenly a two-week-long depression lifted like a physical weight from his shoulders and he felt a surge of confidence and exhilaration at the prospect of the days ahead. Lauren really had been the right choice for him, even if only for the summer. And there was to be all the challenge of getting her to change her mind about the summer’s ending. He loved challenges.

“Aunt Clara,” Lauren said as he turned back to the carriage and gave his hand to the older of the two ladies within, “this is Kit, Viscount Ravensberg. My aunt, the Dowager Countess of Kilbourne.”

She was a smart, handsome lady with shrewd eyes and proud demeanor.

“Ma’am,” he said, making his bow to her after handing her down.

“And Gwendoline, Lady Muir, my cousin.”

He handed down the younger lady, who was very small, very blond, and very pretty. She looked at him with sparkling, frankly assessing eyes as he bowed to her.

Then it was time to turn and make the introductions to his family, who were waiting on the steps. All was accomplished in a manner that was perfectly smooth, perfectly civil. If Lauren was feeling any misgivings, any nervousness, she certainly was not showing it. Neither were his parents showing in any way at all that their son’s betrothal was anything but perfectly acceptable to them. His grandmother, when they were introduced, even took Lauren’s hand in her good one and drew her down for a kiss.

“Pretty,” she said, nodding in that way she had of indicating that she would say far more if she could. “Might have . . . known . . . Kit would choose a . . . pretty one.”

Lauren showed no discomfort at having to wait an inordinately long time for the short sentence to be completed. She was smiling—yes, actually—and giving his grandmother her full attention.

“Thank you, ma’am,” she said.

But Kit had suddenly noticed Sydnam standing on the top step, inconspicuous in the shadow of one of the pillars, half turned so that his left side faced out. Kit took Lauren by the elbow.

“There is someone else I want you to meet,” he said and led her up the steps. He half expected Syd to flee through the open door, but he stood his ground. “My brother Sydnam. Lauren Edgeworth, my betrothed, Syd.”

If she felt shock as she saw him fully, she gave no sign, not even a stiffening of her elbow against his hand. When viewed from his left profile, Syd was as extraordinarily good-looking as he had been all his life. But as soon as he turned, the beholder could see his empty right sleeve pinned neatly against his coat, the purple marks of the old burns discoloring and immobilizing the right side of his face and neck, and the black patch over his right eye socket. Beauty and the beast occupying the two halves of the same body.

Syd held out his left hand, and she did not hesitate to take it in her left so that they could exchange a handshake that was not awkward.

“Mr. Butler.”

“Miss Edgeworth, welcome to Alvesley,” Syd said. “Has your journey been very tedious?”

“Not at all,” she replied. “I had the company of my aunt and cousin, you see, and the knowledge that Kit would be here waiting for me at the end of it.”

Kit looked at her appreciatively. She sounded so warmly convincing that he felt a foolish lurching of pleasure in the region of his heart.

But his mother was, as always, the perfect hostess. She would accompany the ladies to their rooms, she told them, coming to join them on the top step, so that they might have an opportunity to freshen up before tea was served in the drawing room. She took Lauren’s arm, drawing her away from both her sons, and led the way inside while Lady Kilbourne and Lady Muir followed behind. Lady Muir limped, Kit noticed.