At Last Comes Love

8

MARGARET did not invite the Earl of Sheringford to stay for tea even though all her family was assembled in the drawing room above, anxiously awaiting the outcome of her meeting with him.

She was far more breathless than she ought to have been by the time she had climbed the stairs. Even so, she would gladly have climbed another flight to take refuge in her room. It could not be done, however. She squared her shoulders and opened the door.

Stephen was standing at the window, facing into the room, his hands clasped behind his back, his booted feet slightly apart, an unusually grim expression on his face.

Elliott was standing behind Vanessa's chair beside the fireplace, one hand on her shoulder. She was looking agitated; he was looking like a dark, brooding Greek god. Jasper was sitting on a love seat beside Katherine, Baby Hal asleep in the crook of his arm. Katherine was perched on the edge of her seat, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles showed white.

All of them, with the exception of Hal, turned toward the door, glanced beyond Margaret's shoulder, and almost visibly relaxed when they saw that Lord Sheringford was not with her. "Well, Meg?" Stephen asked tensely, and it occurred to her that at some time during the past couple of years, when she had not been paying particular attention, he had grown fully and admirably into his role as head of the family. He was no longer simply the carefree, sometimes careless, always charming youth she remembered. "Well," she said cheerfully, "here I am, and I have given directions for the tea tray to be brought up without further delay. You must all be as parched as I am. There will be an additional guest in your box at the theater this evening, Elliott. I hope you do not mind. I have invited the Earl of Sheringford to join us there." /Of course/ he minded. It showed in the further darkening of his expression.

They /all/ minded. /She/ would have minded, very much indeed, if she had been sitting there and one of her sisters had been standing here. She would have wondered if the sister concerned had windmills in her head instead of a functioning brain. "Oh, Meg," Kate said, "you have accepted him." "I am /not/ betrothed to the earl," Margaret said. "If I had been, I would have brought him up here with me to present to you all." Stephen's shoulders sagged with relief. "I /knew/ you would not accept him in a million years, Meg," Vanessa said, smiling warmly at her. "You have always been by far the most sensible of us all, and it would be decidedly /un/-sensible to marry a man like the Earl of Sheringford merely because of a little silly gossip." Vanessa was right, Margaret thought. She /was/ sensible. She was all sorts of very proper, very reasonable, very /dull/ things. But since last evening, and more especially since this morning, she had conceived the startlingly irrational urge to do something that was not sensible at all. She wanted to… Well, she wanted to /live/. "But you have nonetheless invited Sherry to join you at the theater this evening, Meg?" Jasper said. "A consolation prize for the poor man, perhaps?" The tea tray must have been all ready to bring when she had given the word. It was carried into the room almost on Margaret's heels, and they all fell silent while it was set on a low table that had been placed before her usual chair, which everyone had left empty.

It was a chair that would probably be left empty for her use all her life if she did not marry, Margaret thought. No one must sit in it because it was Aunt Margaret's chair – or /Great/-Aunt Margaret's – and she needed to be close to the fire to keep the chill out of her aged bones and close enough to the mantel to prop her cane against it.

It was a horrifying glimpse into the future.

She seated herself and picked up the teapot. "I have not accepted the Earl of Sheringford's marriage offer," she said as the door closed behind the footman and Vanessa came to distribute the teacups. "Neither have I rejected it." She set the teapot down and looked up. They were all waiting for an explanation. The atmosphere was tense again. "He must be married before the Marquess of Claverbrook's eightieth birthday, which is in a little less than two weeks' time," she said. "If he is not, he will lose his childhood home and the income he has always derived from it. He will be forced to seek employment until his grandfather dies, which may be shortly in the future or a long time away – it is impossible to know. He will /not/ lose his home if he marries even one day before the birthday. With a special license it can be done almost at a moment's notice." "But you are not – " Katherine began. "I have told Lord Sheringford," Margaret said, "that it is possible I will marry him in two weeks' time, but that it is equally possible I will /not/. I informed him that it is up to him in the meanwhile to woo me, to convince me that marriage to him is what I want for the rest of my life. It was extremely risky for him to accept the challenge, but he did. If I say no, it will be too late for him to find someone else." "No one would have him, anyway," Stephen said, lowering himself into the nearest chair, "especially after last night and this morning." "I am not so sure of that, Stephen," Elliott said. "His future prospects are dazzling enough to tempt any father with some ambition, few scruples, and a marriageable daughter. And Woodbine Park itself is a not inconsiderable property." "But /why/?" Katherine asked, gazing at Margaret. "Why would you even /consider/ such a marriage, Meg? You must realize as well as we do that apart from a little embarrassment, your reputation will not suffer any real damage if you simply say no. Why did you even /see/ him today when Stephen was very willing to turn him away on your behalf?" They were questions they all wanted answered, though she had answered some of them this morning. Not one of them had touched their tea.

Vanessa had not even handed around the plate of cakes. "I behaved badly last evening," Margaret said. "I wanted Crispin to know that I was not eagerly waiting for him to pay attention to me and perhaps even pay court to me. And I was annoyed – no, /angered/ – when he came to rescue me from the earl's wicked clutches after talking with Nessie and Elliott. As if he were my keeper. As if I needed his protection. As if I had not been forced to protect myself /and/ my brother and sisters in all the years after he went off to join his regiment. And so I said something very rash and very foolish. I told him that the Earl of Sheringford was my betrothed. None of what happened for the rest of the evening or today has been his fault. Indeed, he has been the soul of honor." "Except that by your own admission he is desperate for a bride," Stephen said. "And you also told us last evening that he /suggested/ what you said to Dew. You appear to have played right into his hands, Meg." She felt humiliated at the confession she had just made about Crispin.

She had never spoken to anyone of her relationship with him or her terrible heartache and resentment after his betrayal. She had kept it all strictly to herself. /Had she really just come perilously close to admitting to the Earl of Sheringford that they had been lovers before Crispin went off to join his regiment/? "I believe," she said, "I owed Lord Sheringford the courtesy of receiving him this afternoon." "And the courtesy of marrying him?" Elliott asked. "He will be very persuasive during the next two weeks, Margaret. You may depend upon that. His livelihood hangs upon your saying yes. And he must be extraordinarily good at persuasion. Not so very long ago he talked a married lady into ruining herself and running off with him." "Though to be fair, Elliott," Katherine said, "it ought to be said that no one has ever accused him of taking Mrs. Turner against her will. I daresay she was at least partly to blame." "If he can be persuasive enough," Margaret said quietly, picking up her own saucer and carrying her cup to her lips with hands that were almost steady, "I will marry him. If he cannot, then I will not. It is as simple as that. The decision will be mine." There was an uncomfortable silence. "Perhaps," Stephen said, "we should all take the man to our collective bosom and encourage the match with all the enthusiasm we can muster.

Otherwise Meg will marry him to spite us – and will end up spiting herself in the process. You were always the most stubborn person I knew, Meg. If any of us ever wanted to do something and you said no, then no it was no matter how much we might beg and plead." The accusation stung. "I was /responsible/ for you all," she said. "I stood in place of both parents to you even though I was ridiculously young myself. You will never know the burden that was, Stephen – to do the job as well as I was able and even better than that. Failure was out of the question. And none of you have turned out so very badly." "Take Hal, love," Jasper said to Katherine, and he handed over the baby's limp sleeping form before getting to his feet and coming to sit on the arm of Margaret's chair and take one of her hands in both his own. "You did a superlative job, Meg. You proved dependable in that monumental task, and I for one would trust you with my life. More than that, I would trust you with my son's life if the need ever arose.

Sherry was a friend of mine before he ran off with Mrs. Turner. He was no wilder than any of the rest of us – which is not saying a great deal, it is true. He did what he did for reasons of his own. Perhaps he will tell you what they were one of these days. But you must make your own decision concerning him, and I for one will trust you to make the right decision. Right for /you/, that is, and not just for your family. It is time you took your life back into your own hands and lived it for yourself." He handed her a large linen handkerchief, and only then did she realize that she had been crying even before he left his place. She took it and spread it over her eyes, mortified. She had never been a watering pot.

She had perfected the art long ago of repressing all her deepest feelings so that other people would be able to rely upon her as steady and dependable. "Oh, Meg," Vanessa said, "/of course/ we all trust you. It is just that we all love you so very dearly and want your happiness more than we could possibly want almost anything else in the world." "Meg." Stephen's voice was filled with misery. "I did not mean a word. I am so sorry. Forgive me. It is just that you are more than a sister to me. I was the youngest. I hardly remember our mother. My memories even of our father are dim. /You/ were my mother, and a wonderful one you were too. You were the Rock of Gibraltar. I will never forget what I owe you. I /certainly/ do not owe you spite and bad temper." Elliott cleared his throat. "Sheringford will be treated with the proper courtesy this evening, Margaret," he said. "You may be assured of that." She dried her eyes and blew her nose and felt very foolish. "Thank you," she said. "Cook will be mortally offended if we send back the cake plate untouched." "I thought," Jasper said, "no one would ever think of offering it and that I was doomed to return home hungry." He picked up the plate and handed it around himself.

He had called her sexually appealing, Margaret remembered suddenly – the Earl of Sheringford, that was.

What shockingly outrageous words! /Sexually appealing/.

A treacherous part of her mind told her that it was perhaps the most delicious compliment anyone had ever paid her.

What a shocking admission!

And there was something about him. He was not handsome. He was not even good-looking. But he was… Interesting.

Fascinating.

Totally inadequate words. But properly brought up ladies did not have the vocabulary to describe such men.

Doubtless it was the fascination of the forbidden. He was a self-confessed jilt and wife-stealer. He scorned to use either lies or wiles or charm despite his desperate need to attract a bride. Perhaps she was simply curious to know how such a man could have persuaded a respectably married lady to give up everything – including her character and reputation – in order to elope with him.

He was very much /not/ the sort of man she would have expected to find fascinating. And that was a fascination in itself. /Sherry/.

It was a name suited to a happy, active, carefree young man.

What had he been like /before/? What had he been like /during/? What was he like /now/ – apart from a man who looked neither happy nor carefree?

She had two weeks in which to satisfy her curiosity and get to know him.

Two weeks during which to understand her fascination with him and get over it – or convert it into a lifetime commitment.

Margaret shivered, but fortunately no one noticed. They were all taking cakes so that the cook would not be offended, and talking with determined cheerfulness.

Duncan arrived slightly late at the theater so that he would not have to hover outside Moreland's box looking conspicuous while he waited for the duke's party to arrive. It was a ruse that accomplished nothing, though, for being late meant that he had to make an entrance into a box where everyone else was already seated. And it had to be done in full view of an audience that was also seated and assuaging its boredom before the play began by observing and commenting upon each new last-minute arrival.

He might as well have been the lead actor making his entrance upon the stage. He did not doubt that every eye in the theater was fixed upon him. He did not look to see, but he did not need to. There was a changed quality to the sound of voices that told him he was the focus of all attention.

It was unnerving, to say the least. /This/, he thought, had been deliberate, not to mention sadistic.

Margaret Huxtable was testing his mettle. Perhaps she was testing her own as well, for she was going to be as much on public display this evening as he was. Of course, to be fair, she had not invited him to arrive late. But he saw immediately that she had taken a seat at the front of the box and had kept one chair empty beside her. She could not have chosen a chair at the back so that she – and he – could duck down behind her relatives if she chose?

Every head in the box turned his way. Moreland looked haughty, Merton looked grim – nothing new there – Monty was grinning, his lady opened her fan and merely looked, the duchess smiled broadly with what appeared to be a genuine attempt at warmth, and Miss Huxtable coolly raised her eyebrows. "Ah, Lord Sheringford," she said, and, like her sister, she opened her fan.

He bowed, and she proceeded to introduce him to her sisters, both of whom were beauties, though the duchess perhaps possessed more warm charm than actual good looks. "Do come and sit beside me," Miss Huxtable said, and he made his way to her side and seated himself. He could hardly feel more conspicuous, he thought, if he had decided to come here without a stitch of clothing.

He took Miss Huxtable's free hand as he seated himself and raised it to his lips. "Bravo," he said softly, for her ears only. "This was quite deliberate, was it not?" She did not pretend ignorance of his meaning. She smiled at him as she recovered her hand. "Let us see how much you want me, Lord Sheringford," she said. "And let the /ton/ see it." She leaned a little toward him as she spoke, still smiling. No one else heard the words.

At this precise moment – or any other moment for that matter – he wanted her only because the alternative was unthinkable. "You are looking astonishingly lovely," he said quite honestly. "But since you always do, I will not belabor the point. You are fortunate enough to have the sort of beauty that will survive into middle age and even into old age and only very gradually mutate into handsomeness." "You certainly know how to turn a woman's head, my lord," she said, fanning her face vigorously. "I am quite in love with you already. Is that your intent?" The words were not spoken with either venom or sarcasm. They were spoken with /humor/. She was laughing at him, but not with any apparent spite.

Maybe she was not just a cold fish, after all. He must be thankful for small mercies.

He almost smiled back, but scores of eyes were boring into him from all directions, near and far, and if he did not look back into those eyes soon, he would not do it at all, and some infernal gossip writer would take note of the fact and discern his discomfort and interpret it as shame.

He would not enjoy that – chiefly because he did not /feel/ ashamed. Never had and never would.

He had had the forethought to arm himself with a quizzing glass before leaving the house – a fashion accessory he did not normally affect.

Indeed, Smith had had to go searching around in numerous drawers before finding one. He lifted it to his eye now and looked slowly about the theater – up at the tiered boxes, down to the pit, which was occupied almost exclusively by gentlemen, one or two of whom waved cheerfully up at him.

A few people looked boldly back at him from the boxes. Far more, though, turned away and pretended to be quite unaware of his very existence. "You ought to be warned," Miss Huxtable said at just the moment when the warning became unnecessary, "that Mrs. Pennethorne is seated in a box almost directly opposite and above us. Elliott has identified the gentleman beside her as Mr. Pennethorne and the gentleman directly behind her as Mr. Turner, her brother." Laura's husband, no less.

They were all looking back at him, Duncan saw as he lowered his glass and made a slight inclination of the head in their direction. Good God, no wonder there had been such a buzz when he stepped into Moreland's box. Caroline had not changed in any noticeable way in five years. She was looking as sweetly pretty and delicate as ever. Norman was surely larger in girth, but he looked as prosy a bore as he had ever looked.

And he still liked to risk the health of his eyeballs with the height and sharpness of the points of his starched shirt collar. Randolph Turner was looking as if someone had drained all the blood from his handsome blond head.

Was he wondering, perhaps, if the /ton/ would expect him to slap a glove in Lord Sheringford's face and proceed to put a bullet between his eyes from twenty paces on some chilly dawn heath? /That/ would be enough to send all his blood pooling in his feet.

None of the three of them acknowledged his nod.

Then the buzz of conversation changed subtly. The play was about to begin. "One might almost believe, Miss Huxtable," Duncan said, dropping his quizzing glass on its black ribbon and taking her hand to set on his shirt cuff, then holding it there with his other hand, "that you had orchestrated the whole thing. It is a marvelous piece of theater in itself, is it not?" She laughed. "That would have been very clever of me," she said. "Do you admire Mr. Goldsmith's plays?" "I shall answer the question after viewing the performance," he said.

But he could not concentrate upon it. He was very aware of the warmth of her hand, the slim length of her fingers, the perfect oval of her short-cut nails. And he was aware that she was a woman of great physical attractions, and that he was definitely attracted – physically, that was.

Bedding her would be no hardship at all, if they ever married.

He was aware of her family sitting very close and watching in silence – though whether it was him or the play that they watched, he did not know since they were all behind him.

And he was fully aware that those who were in attendance tonight would have far more interesting things to discuss tomorrow than the caliber of the performance that was proceeding on the stage. /Would/ Randolph Turner finally defend his honor and challenge him to a duel now that he had dared show his face in London?

Even though duels were /illegal/?

Sound swelled as the first act came to an end and the intermission began. "Is the performance better than you expected, Meg?" the duchess asked, leaning forward in her chair. "She believes, Lord Sheringford, that she prefers to /read/ plays rather than watch them performed." "It is because we grew up in the country," Lady Montford explained, "where there were far more opportunities to read than to watch a performance." "The characters on stage almost never look quite as I imagined them," Miss Huxtable said. "And the dialogue is never quite as sprightly. On the whole I prefer to bring my imagination to bear upon literature rather than my eyes and ears." "But this is an unusually fine performance," Merton said. "Tell me, Meg," Monty said, winking at Duncan. "Would you rather read a musical score than listen to a symphony?" "That is a different matter altogether," she told him with a smile. "Not really," Moreland said. "A play is written to be seen and heard, not read, Margaret." "But I would say," Duncan said, "that anything that is written in any form for the purpose of entertaining an audience may be enjoyed in any manner each individual finds most entertaining." "Oh, what a very diplomatic answer," Lady Montford said, clapping her hands. "I must remember that the next time you decide to tease Meg about her preferences, Jasper." "Shall we go for a stroll outside the box?" he suggested, getting to his feet and offering an arm to his wife. "Would anyone care to join us?" He looked deliberately at Duncan.

Merton and Moreland and his duchess were already on their feet. "We will remain here," Miss Huxtable said, and a few moments later they were alone together in the box. "You are showing a small degree of mercy on me, are you, Miss Huxtable?" Duncan asked. "Or on yourself? Do you enjoy the notoriety you have courted by inviting me here this evening?" "It is a notoriety I brought upon myself the moment I gave in to temptation and introduced you to Crispin Dew as my betrothed," she said. "Though the word /notoriety/ suggests the existence of some wrongdoing.

I have done nothing wrong – except to tell that lie." "Which," he said, "will soon turn out not to be a lie after all." "/Will/?" she said. "You are very confident, my lord." "What will happen to you," he asked her, "if you do not marry me?" She was the sort of woman, he thought, who could wear any color and look as if that was the color she ought always to wear. Tonight it was a netted silver tunic over turquoise silk. She was the sort of woman who would look beautiful even when her dark hair began to turn gray.

She shrugged and fanned her face slowly. "Nothing whatsoever will change," she said. "The gossip will soon die down for lack of fuel to feed it, and I shall go home to Warren Hall, where I am always happy and where I can always keep myself busily occupied." "And as time goes on?" he said. "Will your life always remain the same?

How old is Merton?" "Twenty-two," she said. "In five or six years' time, then," he said, "if not sooner, he will undoubtedly turn his mind toward marriage and the begetting of heirs.

What will happen to your life at Warren Hall then?" "It is a large house," she said. "There will still be room for me." He gazed deeply into her eyes and said nothing. "I will find /something/ to do," she said. "With your brother's children, no doubt," he said. "Yes," she agreed. "That will be pleasant." "Would it not be more pleasant," he asked, "if they were your own?" She fanned her face a little more briskly. "We are talking about what I will do if I do not marry /you/," she said. "Perhaps I will marry someone else." "Who?" he asked her. "Major Dew?" She folded her fan, laid it very carefully across her lap, and looked down at it. "No," she said. "The time for that was ten years or more ago. What I felt for him then cannot be recaptured now, and I could not settle for less." "And yet," he said, "if you marry me, you will be settling for considerably less, will you not? You have never loved me, and I have never loved you." She looked up at him, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Lord Sheringford," she said, "you are supposed to be /wooing/ me. Do you expect to succeed if you tell me so baldly that you do not love me?" "I suspect I would stand far less chance of success," he said, "if I were to sit here pouring ardent platitudes into your ear and sighing piteously like a lover who fears that his love will be scorned and his heart trampled underfoot." "I believe you would," she admitted, laughing.

He held her eyes with his own. "You are not a virgin," he said, "by your own near admission. Are you content to go through the rest of your life without any more sexual experiences?" She flushed but did not look away from him. "As you believe I will," she said, "if I do not marry you?" "As you probably will," he said, "if you do not marry me or someone else. I do not judge you to be promiscuous. But why /not/ me? I could give you that experience. I believe I could make it very enjoyable indeed for you. Unless, that is, you prefer the passive pleasure of simply reading about it." "Assuming," she said, "that there were somewhere I could read about such a thing. Are there any such books? I daresay there are in the male world. But is this how you would woo me, Lord Sheringford? By telling me how skilled and satisfying you would be in the marriage bed?" "It is not a slight consideration," he said, "even though properly nurtured ladies are doubtless taught to believe that a marriage bed is a place for duty, not pleasure – and that there is no other type of bed in which the pleasures of sex can be indulged and enjoyed." /"You/, Lord Sheringford," she said, "are quite outrageous. Is this how you planned to woo a frightened young girl with impoverished parents?" "Good God, no," he said. "I would not have needed to woo her at all. I would have wooed her father with statistics detailing the prosperity of Woodbine Park and a listing of my grandfather's holdings. Though it would have been unnecessary to do either. My title and the one to which I am heir would have been inducement enough." "I believe God /is/ good," she said. "But I would prefer not to have the fact blurted out as an exclamation in my hearing, Lord Sheringford." "I beg your pardon." He felt his first real amusement of the evening. "But you believe your present wealth – provided you marry within the next two weeks – and your future prospects will not weigh sufficiently with me?" she said. "But of course you do. I told you so this afternoon. And so I must be enticed with the promise of – of – " She seemed unable to complete the thought. "A good time in bed?" he suggested. "I must be enticed by /that/?" she said. "I believe it might weigh with you more than you will admit," he said. "You are beautiful and attractive, Miss Huxtable – and thirty years old.

And single. And it is presumably ten years or more since you last lay with a man. I believe the prospect of being able to do so again, not just once but nightly – and even daily too, perhaps – must be very appealing indeed to you." "Nightly and daily with /you/?" she said. "Do you find me repulsive?" he asked her. "You are not handsome," she said. "You are not even particularly good-looking." Well, he /had/ asked!

He raised his eyebrows.

Her flush returned with a rush. "But you are not ugly either," she said. "You are certainly not repulsive. Indeed, you are – " At which interesting point in their conversation they were interrupted when someone tapped on the door of the box and opened it without waiting for an invitation. His mother stepped inside, followed by Sir Graham. "Duncan," she said. "Oh, how brave of you to come to the theater this evening, though Graham calls it foolhardy, just as he did last evening when you attended the Tindell ball. I ought to have waited for you to bring your betrothed on a formal visit, I know, but you did not come this afternoon when I remained at home in the expectation that you would, you provoking man. Introduce us now, if you please." "Mama," he said, "may I have the honor of presenting Miss Huxtable, who is /not/ my betrothed, though she was kind enough to invite me to join her family in the Duke of Moreland's box this evening? May I present my mother, Miss Huxtable? And Sir Graham Carling, her husband?" "Not /betrothed/?" His mother stepped forward and took both of Miss Huxtable's hands in her own, preventing her from curtsying. "But of course you are or will be soon. The whole world believes it, and what the whole world believes inevitably come to pass later if not sooner.

And did you not, Miss Huxtable, admit last evening to some military officer whose name escapes me that you are betrothed to my son?" "I did, ma'am," Miss Huxtable said. "But I was vexed with Major Dew over a private matter and lied, I am afraid." "At my suggestion," Duncan added, noticing the pained expression on Sir Graham's face. "And so you have found yourselves in a very public scrape today," his mother said with a laugh. "But it need not continue to embarrass either of you when the solution is so easy. You must make the lie into the truth and announce your betrothal. You make a very handsome couple. Do they not, Graham?" "I believe, Ethel," he said after growling out something that might have been agreement and might not, "the play is about to resume. We had better return to our box." "Yes, we must," she agreed, squeezing Miss Huxtable's hands before releasing them. "My son must bring you for tea tomorrow, Miss Huxtable.

We will talk about the wedding, which must be arranged quickly because Duncan's grandfather, who has always been an old grump, is being even more odious than usual and has cut off his funds. He is bound to restore them if Duncan marries someone so very eligible. He will really have no choice, will he? But even a hasty wedding need not be a clandestine or dreary affair. I shall have some ideas to suggest by tomorrow. Do promise to come." Miss Huxtable looked at Duncan – and then smiled. "I will be delighted, ma'am," she said. "Though I must warn you that there may not /be/ a wedding." "Of course there will," his mother said. "All men develop icy feet when marriage looms large on their horizon. I shall work upon Duncan before tomorrow afternoon and bring him to heel. You must not lose a wink of sleep over the matter." "I shall not, ma'am," Miss Huxtable promised, and her eyes were actually twinkling as Sir Graham ushered Duncan's mother from the box and they resumed their seats. "Oh," she said, "I /do/ like your mother. I like people with character." "Do you also like the infamous sons of such mothers?" he asked.

But she merely laughed as her family returned to the box.

Perhaps, he thought as the play resumed, his mother would talk her into the marriage. He hoped so.

There was so little time left to begin all over again.

The box that had been occupied by Turner and Norman and Caroline was empty, he noticed.