holiday, though he had thought he would not make his offer until they had all been there for a few days and he could be quite sure before taking the final step.
“I believe, my dear,” he said, and then wished he had not called her that, as if she were a favored niece, “my size and demeanor and—age sometimes inspire awe or even fear in those who do not know me well. At least, Ihave been told as much by those who do know me. I have no wish either to hurt or distress you. What is it?”
He noticed that she closed her eyes briefly before answering. “Please,” she said, “will you refrain from mentioning to Mama and Papa that I ran into Mr. Sperling by chance this morning? They do not like him, you see, and perhaps would scold me for not giving him the cut direct. I could not do that. Or at least I did not think of doing it until it was too late.”
“Of course,” he said. “I have already forgotten the young man’s name and indeed his very existence.”
“Thank you.” Some of the terror had waned from her eyes when she looked up at him. “Though I w-wish I had done so. It was disagreeable to have to acknowledge him. I was very relieved when you came along.”
“It is a quite impossible situation?” he found himself asking when he should have been content to play along with her game.
There was fright in her eyes again. She bit her lip and tears sprang to her eyes. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “Please do not be angry with me. It was the last time. That is—It will not happen again. Oh, please do not be angry with me. I am so frightened of you.” And then the fright escalated to terror once more when she realized what she had said, what she had admitted, both about him and about Jack Sperling.
This time he did set his hand over hers—quite firmly. “That at least you need not be,” he said. “What is the objection? Lack of fortune?”
But she was biting hard on her upper lip and fighting both tears and terror—despite his words. The library was before them.
“I shall leave you to your maid’s chaperonage,” he said, stopping on the pavement outside it and relinquishing her arm. “We will forget about this morning, Miss Grainger. It never happened.”
But she did not immediately scurry away, as he rather expected she would. She looked earnestly into his face. “I have always been obedient to Mama and Papa,” she said, “except in very little things. I will be obedient—I would be obedient to a husband, sir. I would never need to be beaten. I—Good morning.” And she turned to hurry into the library, her maid behind her.
Good Lord! Did she imagine—? Did he look that formidable? And what a coil, he thought. He could not possibly marry her now, of course. But perhaps it would appear that he had gone rather too far to retreat without good cause. There was excellent cause, but nothing he could express to another living soul. He could not marry a young lady who loved another man. Or one who feared him so much that she imagined he would be a wife-beater.
Whatever was he going to do?
But he was not fated to think of an answer while he stood there on the pavement, staring at the library doors. They opened and Lady Stapleton stepped out with Mrs. Cross.
He forgot about his problem—the one that concerned Miss Grainger, anyway. He always forgot about everything and everyone whenever his eyes alighted on Lady Stapleton. They had avoided each other for the past month. They attended almost all the same social events and it was frequently necessary to be part of the same group and even to exchange a few words. But they had not been alone together since that evening when they had waltzed and then taken supper together. The evening when he had told her they could be nothing to each other because there had been that night.
That night. It stayed stubbornly in his memory, it wove itself into his dreams as none other like it had ever done. Not that there had been another night like that.
“I believe, my dear,” he said, and then wished he had not called her that, as if she were a favored niece, “my size and demeanor and—age sometimes inspire awe or even fear in those who do not know me well. At least, Ihave been told as much by those who do know me. I have no wish either to hurt or distress you. What is it?”
He noticed that she closed her eyes briefly before answering. “Please,” she said, “will you refrain from mentioning to Mama and Papa that I ran into Mr. Sperling by chance this morning? They do not like him, you see, and perhaps would scold me for not giving him the cut direct. I could not do that. Or at least I did not think of doing it until it was too late.”
“Of course,” he said. “I have already forgotten the young man’s name and indeed his very existence.”
“Thank you.” Some of the terror had waned from her eyes when she looked up at him. “Though I w-wish I had done so. It was disagreeable to have to acknowledge him. I was very relieved when you came along.”
“It is a quite impossible situation?” he found himself asking when he should have been content to play along with her game.
There was fright in her eyes again. She bit her lip and tears sprang to her eyes. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “Please do not be angry with me. It was the last time. That is—It will not happen again. Oh, please do not be angry with me. I am so frightened of you.” And then the fright escalated to terror once more when she realized what she had said, what she had admitted, both about him and about Jack Sperling.
This time he did set his hand over hers—quite firmly. “That at least you need not be,” he said. “What is the objection? Lack of fortune?”
But she was biting hard on her upper lip and fighting both tears and terror—despite his words. The library was before them.
“I shall leave you to your maid’s chaperonage,” he said, stopping on the pavement outside it and relinquishing her arm. “We will forget about this morning, Miss Grainger. It never happened.”
But she did not immediately scurry away, as he rather expected she would. She looked earnestly into his face. “I have always been obedient to Mama and Papa,” she said, “except in very little things. I will be obedient—I would be obedient to a husband, sir. I would never need to be beaten. I—Good morning.” And she turned to hurry into the library, her maid behind her.
Good Lord! Did she imagine—? Did he look that formidable? And what a coil, he thought. He could not possibly marry her now, of course. But perhaps it would appear that he had gone rather too far to retreat without good cause. There was excellent cause, but nothing he could express to another living soul. He could not marry a young lady who loved another man. Or one who feared him so much that she imagined he would be a wife-beater.
Whatever was he going to do?
But he was not fated to think of an answer while he stood there on the pavement, staring at the library doors. They opened and Lady Stapleton stepped out with Mrs. Cross.
He forgot about his problem—the one that concerned Miss Grainger, anyway. He always forgot about everything and everyone whenever his eyes alighted on Lady Stapleton. They had avoided each other for the past month. They attended almost all the same social events and it was frequently necessary to be part of the same group and even to exchange a few words. But they had not been alone together since that evening when they had waltzed and then taken supper together. The evening when he had told her they could be nothing to each other because there had been that night.
That night. It stayed stubbornly in his memory, it wove itself into his dreams as none other like it had ever done. Not that there had been another night like that.
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