Web of Love by Mary Balogh

over. If he were dead, of course, there would be no decision to make. But there were some things worse than death for a soldier. He might not wish to inflict himself upon any wife.
    â€œI missed you at the picnic last evening,” he said. “I thought you were to be there.”
    â€œYes,” she said. “I looked forward to it because I have never been to a moonlight picnic before. But Ellen would have had to come, and Papa would have come to keep her company. And they are such strange people. If you would believe it, they would far prefer to stay at home together. And they have been so very good to me. I have been allowed to go everywhere. So I had the headache last night and retired early to my room.”
    â€œDid you?” he said, looking at her with some amusement. “And did you sleep?”
    â€œNo, I did not,” she said. “I wrote a long letter to Helen West, my particular friend at school, but I had to shade the candle so that Ellen and Papa would not see it shining under the door, and then I could scarce see the paper to write. I was feeling thoroughly cross and sorry for myself by the time I went to bed.” She looked up at him and giggled merrily.
    â€œWell,” he said, speaking more incautiously to her than he had ever done before, “I was feeling cross and sorry for myself too by the end of the evening. You were not there.”
    She blushed and looked away.
    But it was true. Not, perhaps, that he had been out of sorts just because of her absence. But he had definitely been out of sorts. He had found himself almost literally bumping into Susan Jennings wherever he turned, and somehow turning aside her veiled suggestions that they stroll and enjoy the moonlight together. Lieutenant Jennings was apparently about official business and had been unable to accompany his wife to the picnic.
    Moonlight picnics could get one into more trouble than just about any other entertainment.
    He looked down at Jennifer Simpson again, some light remark on his lips. But it froze there when he found her tight-lipped, tears glistening on her lashes.
    â€œWhat is it?” he asked in some concern.
    â€œThose horrid women,” she said. “I hate them.”
    He looked his amazement.
    â€œDid you not see?” she asked. “They walked quite pointedly past Ellen and Papa and made a great to-do about acknowledging you.”
    â€œThose two ladies we just passed?” he asked in some astonishment. “Because I have a title, perhaps, and they think me vastly superior to the ordinary run of mortal.” He grinned down at her.
    â€œBecause Ellen is the Countess of Harrowby’s daughter,” she said, “and they think her a little worse than the dirt beneath their feet. The two of them together do not possess as much worth as Ellen in her little finger.” Her tone was quite vehement.
    He frowned in incomprehension and glanced ahead to Mrs. Simpson, who was saying something to Charlie and smiling.
    â€œAnd Ellen persists in not noticing,” Jennifer continued. “And Papa says that those people are not worthy even of our contempt. I would like to spit in their eye, and I would do so too if it would not create a huge scandal and hurt Ellen worse than their snubs.”
    â€œI am sure your father is quite right,” Lord Eden said, “though your anger on your stepmother’s behalf does you credit. But the Countess of Harrowby is still alive.”
    â€œDo you know her?” she said. “Papa told me when I asked—though he said he should not be telling me such things—that Ellen grew up thinking herself the daughter of the earl. But then the countess had a terrible quarrel with him and told him before she ran away with someone else that Ellen was not his daughter. And when Ellen found out, she insisted on going to her real father, who had always been a friend of the family, although the earl wanted her to stay and still be his