He growled low in his throat. “Is that all you have to say? Hounding me for months —years —inveigling me into a proposal and not a word of apology?”
“What would you have me apologise for?” she said, her chin lifting. “For wanting to marry well? That is all any woman does who has a care for her own future. And do not insult me by suggesting that I tricked you into offering for me, for I did no such thing! You are unspeakably rude to suggest it. You are a grown man, Lord Embleton, so take responsibility for your own behaviour. You freely chose to offer for me, although you still have not explained why, and I was free to accept. And now, just because I want to talk more openly, as a betrothed couple might expect to do, you berate me as if I were a child and expect me to apologise.”
“You only want to marry me because I shall be a duke one day!”
“Every woman of marriageable age wants to marry you because you will be a duke one day. There is no shame in that! It is sensible. Do you think we are all romantic fools who will marry just for love, even if the beloved is only a common labourer? Women are more practical than that, I assure you. We take into account a great many things before we decide on a man, and a duke at least has the advantage of great wealth, so if he turns outto be a bear after the wedding, at least one may be miserable in comfort. And if he turns out to be a bearbeforethe wedding —”
She stopped, seeing the obvious conclusion to this train of thought.
But he seemed to deflate before her eyes. “A b-b-bear?” he whispered. “Am I?”
The stricken look on his face had her instantly awash with guilt. And yet, she could not face a future where her husband might at any moment turn on her in anger, and without the least provocation. It was unthinkable. She wanted a husband like Izzy’s, who meekly followed her about in adoration. Or like Josie’s, whose face lit up whenever she came into the room. Or like Papa, who simply disintegrated when Mama was away.
She wanted a husband who teased her and never failed to lift her spirits. A husband who asked her advice and listened to her. A husband who loved her.
She wanted Robert.
Licking her lips, she said gently, “I think perhaps you are only a bear very occasionally, and only with me. Something about me seems to rub you the wrong way. I do not think we are suited to marriage, do you?”
He gazed at her, raw misery on his face. “You were c-crying,” he said softly. “I c-could not b-bear to think I m-made you c-c-cry.”
“I had quarrelled with Lord Kiltarlity, that was why I was crying,” she said crisply. “It was nothing to do with you. Lord Embleton — Ralph — you made the same mistake with Bea Franklyn, I think. She kissed you, naturally you supposed her affections were engaged so you proposed. And with me, we quarrelled, you found me crying, you proposed. Your problem is not that you are a bear, but that you are entirely too soft-hearted. You must learn not to propose marriage to every woman for whom you feel sorry. You need to find a woman who makes youfeel glad to be alive. My lord, may we at least part as friends? Will you shake my hand?”
She held it out to him, and at once he took it and lifted it to his lips, with a warm smile that lit up his whole face. “You d-d—” He took a deep breath. “You de… serve… to… be… a duchess.”
Olivia smiled too. “You are very kind, my lord, but that was merely the foolish conceit of a child — to outdo my sisters. I have discovered that it is not the rank of a man which matters, but his character. And whether I love him, of course. I shall never be a duchess. I might perhaps, if I am very fortunate, one day be a countess.”
“Kil.. tar.. li.. ty?”
Her smile broadened. “Yes. Wish me luck.”
“I do. And happiness. And I… shall… look… for a woman… who… makes… me… glad to… be alive.”
“Then I wish you good fortune in your search, my lord.”
With a curtsy, she turned and left the room, free of her engagement and freer of heart than she had been for many weeks.
***
Robert could not tell how many days passed as he slid slowly into a despair so profound he wondered how he could even breathe. He sat in his book room all day, a glass of something in his hand, staring into space, wondering where his darling was and what she was doing and whether she was happy… surely she was happy? She was going to be a duchess, just as she had always wanted, so she must be happy. And Embleton had won a priceless jewel, so he must be happy, too. It was only Robert who was overwhelmed with grief.
At first he managed tolerably well, arriving on time for meals, although he ate nothing, and dragging himself through the usualactivities — meetings with his stewards and gamekeepers, a visit from his attorney and another from a neighbouring landowner, and even, once, attempting to play whist with his mother and sisters, until his ineptitude became too great even for his fond relations to tolerate.
They treated him as if he were a valuable piece of porcelain, liable to break at any moment, and he could not say they were wrong. He felt as if he might simply crumble to nothing at a single loud word, so he was grateful for their soft voices and the gentle reminders of appointments. His valet came to fetch him when it was time to dress for dinner. Somehow, he got through each day.
But every day was a little worse than the day before. He woke late each morning after a few restless hours’ sleep hoping that this was the day when he began to feel better, but it never was, and eventually the day came when the pain became too much to bear. He went into his book room, locked the door and reached for the brandy bottle.
24: A Kiss
Robert woke to grainy eyes, a thundering head and the sound of birds twittering. Moving, or even opening his eyes, was far too difficult, so for a while he simply lay, wondering why his bed was so wretchedly uncomfortable. His pillow had gone missing for one thing, and his cheek, which should have rested against smooth linen, was lying on something else entirely. Wool, his befuddled brain decided. How very odd.
The twittering came and went and there was some sort of perfume in the air, that made him think of spring flowers and warm sunshine. There was a rustle of… was it silk? The perfume grew stronger and faded away, leaving him with a wisp of memory of walking by the Serpentine in London. None of it felt threatening, however, so he lay still, allowing it to wash around him.
Whispers. The twitterings were whispered female voices, low and melodious. Not his sisters, whose voices were rarely low and never melodious. But there was one who sounded so… surely it could not be…?
With difficulty, he opened one eye, cried out in shock, closed it tightly again.
The whispers became giggles. “He is awake. Open your eyes, Robert.”
