passion
which had been unleashed within my first marriage. Perhaps it had come over me
the first time I'd found myself obliged to lie to Sir Anthony, telling him I
loved him when I could barely comprehend the true nature of my feelings. A week
ago I had been anxious to see him again; I'd been restless with thoughts of
those forbidden embraces I knew he yearned for yet denied himself, and when I'd
dreamed of being close to him once again, of knowing that the lightest touch of
his hand would carry the weight of a wild, inadmissible passion, I felt as if
my skin had been touched by a hot wind.
But no more.
Now I could hardly wait for him to depart for England and relieve
me, at least for a time, of the obligation to invent cheerful answers to his
affectionate questions.
Once he was gone, I could at last begin to think more coolheadedly
about all that this marriage would require of me and could try to devise some
way of rising to the challenge.
But when I was finally free to devote my attention to these
pressing matters, I found that the mere prospect of becoming Lady Camwell
filled me with stark terror.
I recalled a joking remark Lord Marsden had once made to the
effect that his cousin sometimes seemed to hold himself to an almost inhumanly
high standard of conduct. Lord Marsden had punctuated this observation with an
indulgent laugh, but now the memory alarmed me. No doubt it was true; and no
doubt Sir Anthony would hold his bride to the same relentless standards. He
might be kindly and diffident in France, where he came for pleasure, but who
knew how he might behave in his own domain? Would that inflexible morality I
had sensed in him from time to time be the law by which he ruled his household?
Oh, there were a thousand reasons why this marriage could never
work! But somehow I would have to keep it limping along for as long as I could.
If Sir Anthony had proposed to me a week earlier than he actually
had, how would I have responded? I would have had to ask him to give me time to
think—it was all so unexpected. Then I would have had to examine myself as to
whether I honestly loved him or believed that I might be coming to love him. I
would have had to explore every obstacle to closeness of which I was now
becoming painfully aware. I would have been obliged to confront him with all
the things in my past that were sure to scandalize his friends, his family, and
very likely my high-minded suitor himself.
Now I no longer had any of these luxuries—of time, of fearless
soul-searching, or of candor.
I would have to marry him whether I loved him or not. I would have
to conceal from him anything and everything that might suggest how unwisely he
had chosen his wife.
I would have to mimic love without ever allowing myself to feel
it. I would have to suppress any impulse to speak too freely: I might expose my
loneliness, an incessant nostalgia for my old life, or my continual longing for
Frederick; I might make some thoughtless and revealing allusion to my
grandmother, or voice an opinion that someone in my privileged position could
scarcely be expected to hold. One careless word might shatter the illusion of
love, not to mention the identity I had acquired not only by marriage to
Frederick but by my own efforts as well—that of the mysterious, refined,
reserved, and elegant Madame Brooks, who had won Anthony Camwell's heart
without even trying.
Oh, there would be countless areas where a misstep could cost me
dearly.
I would have to adapt myself quickly to a very unforgiving harness
or risk exposing myself to constant criticism and scandal-mongering, for surely
the freedoms that generous-spirited Paris had allowed Madame Brooks would never
be tolerated in the upper echelons of English society.
If only there were someone I could talk to!
I thought, with a sharp pang of loss and longing, of my dear
friend, Guy Hazelton. I had not seen him for years, not since he'd given up his
life in Paris to return to England with his
which had been unleashed within my first marriage. Perhaps it had come over me
the first time I'd found myself obliged to lie to Sir Anthony, telling him I
loved him when I could barely comprehend the true nature of my feelings. A week
ago I had been anxious to see him again; I'd been restless with thoughts of
those forbidden embraces I knew he yearned for yet denied himself, and when I'd
dreamed of being close to him once again, of knowing that the lightest touch of
his hand would carry the weight of a wild, inadmissible passion, I felt as if
my skin had been touched by a hot wind.
But no more.
Now I could hardly wait for him to depart for England and relieve
me, at least for a time, of the obligation to invent cheerful answers to his
affectionate questions.
Once he was gone, I could at last begin to think more coolheadedly
about all that this marriage would require of me and could try to devise some
way of rising to the challenge.
But when I was finally free to devote my attention to these
pressing matters, I found that the mere prospect of becoming Lady Camwell
filled me with stark terror.
I recalled a joking remark Lord Marsden had once made to the
effect that his cousin sometimes seemed to hold himself to an almost inhumanly
high standard of conduct. Lord Marsden had punctuated this observation with an
indulgent laugh, but now the memory alarmed me. No doubt it was true; and no
doubt Sir Anthony would hold his bride to the same relentless standards. He
might be kindly and diffident in France, where he came for pleasure, but who
knew how he might behave in his own domain? Would that inflexible morality I
had sensed in him from time to time be the law by which he ruled his household?
Oh, there were a thousand reasons why this marriage could never
work! But somehow I would have to keep it limping along for as long as I could.
If Sir Anthony had proposed to me a week earlier than he actually
had, how would I have responded? I would have had to ask him to give me time to
think—it was all so unexpected. Then I would have had to examine myself as to
whether I honestly loved him or believed that I might be coming to love him. I
would have had to explore every obstacle to closeness of which I was now
becoming painfully aware. I would have been obliged to confront him with all
the things in my past that were sure to scandalize his friends, his family, and
very likely my high-minded suitor himself.
Now I no longer had any of these luxuries—of time, of fearless
soul-searching, or of candor.
I would have to marry him whether I loved him or not. I would have
to conceal from him anything and everything that might suggest how unwisely he
had chosen his wife.
I would have to mimic love without ever allowing myself to feel
it. I would have to suppress any impulse to speak too freely: I might expose my
loneliness, an incessant nostalgia for my old life, or my continual longing for
Frederick; I might make some thoughtless and revealing allusion to my
grandmother, or voice an opinion that someone in my privileged position could
scarcely be expected to hold. One careless word might shatter the illusion of
love, not to mention the identity I had acquired not only by marriage to
Frederick but by my own efforts as well—that of the mysterious, refined,
reserved, and elegant Madame Brooks, who had won Anthony Camwell's heart
without even trying.
Oh, there would be countless areas where a misstep could cost me
dearly.
I would have to adapt myself quickly to a very unforgiving harness
or risk exposing myself to constant criticism and scandal-mongering, for surely
the freedoms that generous-spirited Paris had allowed Madame Brooks would never
be tolerated in the upper echelons of English society.
If only there were someone I could talk to!
I thought, with a sharp pang of loss and longing, of my dear
friend, Guy Hazelton. I had not seen him for years, not since he'd given up his
life in Paris to return to England with his
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