bed of hyacinths growing against a wooden trellis, his back to her. It was a reasonable request, he supposed. To her—probably to everyone at Alvesley and Lindsey Hall—it must seem that keeping Lizzie close was in extremely poor taste. Except that Lizzie was a person. She was an innocent child. And she was his. “No,” he said, “I cannot make that promise, I’m afraid, Portia.” Her silence was more accusing than words would have been. “I have observed the proprieties for all these years,” he said. “My daughter had a mother and a comfortable home in London, and I could see her whenever I wished, which was every day when I was in town. I told no one about her except Neville, and never took her where we would be seen together. I accepted that that was the way it must be. I never had real cause to question society’s dictates until Sonia died and Lizzie was left alone.” “I do not wish to hear this,” Portia said. “It is quite improper.” “She is not quite twelve,” he said. “She is far too young for any independence even if she were not blind.” He turned to look at her. “And I love her,” he said. “I cannot banish her to the periphery of my life, Portia. I will not. But my worst mistake, I realize now, was not telling you about her sooner. You had a right to know.” She said nothing for a while. She sat as still as any statue, delicate and lovely beyond belief. “I do not believe I can marry you, Lord Attingsborough,” she said then. “I had no wish to know of any such child and am only amazed that you think now you ought to have informed me about that dreadful creature, who cannot even see. I will not hear any more about her, and I will not tolerate knowing that she remains here or even at Lindsey Hall. If you cannot promise to remove her, and if you cannot promise that I will never hear of her again, I must withdraw my acceptance of your offer.” Strangely, perhaps, he was not relieved. Another broken engagement—even if it would be obvious to the ton that she was blameless in both—would surely render her almost unmarriageable. And she was no young girl. She must be in her middle twenties already. And in the eyes of society, her demands would appear quite reasonable. But—that dreadful creature… Lizzie! “I am sorry to hear it,” he said. “I beg you to reconsider. I am the same man you have known for several years. I fathered Lizzie long before I knew you.” She got to her feet. “You do not understand, Lord Attingsborough, do you?” she said. “I will not hear her name. I will go now and write to Papa. He will not be pleased.” “Portia—” he said. “I believe,” she said, “you no longer have any right to use that name, my lord.” “Our engagement is off, then?” he asked her. “I cannot imagine anything that would make me reconsider,” she told him, and turned to walk back to the house. He stood where he was, watching her go. It was only when she had disappeared from sight that he felt the beginnings of elation. He was free! 20
Claudia returned to Lindsey Hall without Lizzie. By the time the Marquess of Attingsborough returned to his room, she was fast asleep and it seemed very possible that she would sleep all night if left undisturbed. Lady Ravensberg offered to have a truckle bed set up for him in the dressing room. He also insisted upon escorting Claudia back to Lindsey Hall in his own carriage—the guests from there had returned home long ago, of course. The viscountess, Anne, and Susanna all promised to watch Lizzie until his return. Claudia tried to insist upon going alone, but he would not hear of it. Neither would Anne and Susanna, who reminded her that it was now evening. And heaven help her, Claudia thought as they descended the staircase together and stepped out onto the terrace, where the carriage awaited them, she was not going to argue the point. Viscount and Viscountess Ravensberg were out there, as was Lady Redfield. “Miss Martin,” the countess said, “I hope you will disregard everything that Lady Sutton and Miss Hunt said earlier. My husband and I have been delighted to entertain both you and the girls from your school—including Lizzie Pickford—and you were not neglecting your duties by walking with your childhood friend, the Duke of McLeith. We were all watching her and so we were all responsible for letting her wander away.” “Miss Martin was certainly not to blame,” the Marquess of Attingsborough said. “When she went walking I was playing with Lizzie. She had every reason to believe that I would keep her safe.” He handed Claudia into the carriage and climbed in after her. “Miss Martin,” the viscountess said, leaning into the carriage before the door was closed, “you will come to the anniversary ball tomorrow, will you not?” Claudia could think of nothing she would like less. “Perhaps it would be better,” she said, “if I were to stay away.” “You must not,” the viscountess said. “You would thereby suggest to some of our guests that they have more power to decide who is welcome at our home than we have.” “Lauren is quite right, Miss Martin. Please come,” the countess said. Her eyes twinkled. “You do not look to me like a lady who lacks courage.” The viscount, when Claudia caught his eye, winked. “You are all most kind,” Claudia said. “Very well, then, I will come.” What she really wanted to do, she thought, was return to Lindsey Hall alone, pack her bags, and leave at first light. As the door closed and the carriage moved forward, she thought of the last time she had left Lindsey Hall. How she would love to repeat that exit! The carriage suddenly seemed to be filled with just the two of them—the very same carriage in which he had taken refuge from the rain on the road from Bath when she had been uncomfortably aware of his masculinity. She was aware again, though of far more than just that. And she remembered what—incredibly —she had almost forgotten in the emotional turmoil of the past hour or so. While they had been sitting on the bed in that little hut in the woods he had spoken to her without any sound—with only lip movements. But she had heard loudly and clearly. I love you, he had told her. Heartache, she thought, was very likely to turn to heartbreak before this was all over. And that was an optimistic assessment of the future. It would turn to heartbreak. Indeed, it already had. “Miss Hunt has broken off our engagement,” he said as the carriage wheels rumbled onto the Palladian bridge. Sometimes even a short sentence did not have the power to impress itself upon the mind all at once. It was as if she heard the words separately and needed a few moments to piece them together and know what he was telling her. “Irrevocably?” she asked. “She told me,” he said, “that she cannot imagine anything that would cause her to change her mind.” “Because you have an illegitimate child?” she asked. “Apparently,” he said, “that is not the reason at all. She does not care if I have any number of mistresses and children. Indeed, she seems to expect it of me—as she expects it of all men. It is the fact that I broke one of the cardinal rules of polite society by acknowledging Lizzie’s relationship to me that has offended her. My refusal to have her removed from Alvesley tonight and Lindsey Hall tomorrow and never to mention her ever again is what caused her to inform me that she could not marry me.” “Perhaps,” she said, “on cooler reflection she will change her mind.” “Perhaps,” he agreed. They did not speak for a while. “What next, then?” she asked. “What will happen to Lizzie? Eleanor and I are agreed that she is educable and adaptable and eager to learn. It would be a pleasure to take on the challenge of having her at the school. However, I am not sure it is what Lizzie wants even though I know she had been enjoying the company and the activities.” “What I have wanted to do from the moment of Sonia’s death,” he said, “is move Lizzie to Willowgreen, my home in Gloucestershire. It has always seemed an impossible dream, but maybe now I can make it a reality. The secret is out after all, and I find that I do not care the snap of two fingers what society thinks of me. And society is often not half the villain we sometimes expect it to be. Anne and Sydnam Butler have her son with them at Alvesley. He was born out of wedlock nine years before they met each other—but of course, you know all about that. David Jewell is treated here no differently from all the other children.” “Oh,” Claudia said, “I think Willowgreen—the country—would be perfect for Lizzie.” She felt a nameless longing—which would not remain nameless if she allowed her thoughts to dwell upon it. “What provision would you make for her education?” she asked. “I would hire a companion and governess for her,” he said. “But I would be able to spend a great deal of my own time with her. I would teach her about the countryside, about plants and animals, about England, about history. I would hire someone to teach her to play the pianoforte or the violin or the flute. Perhaps in a year or two’s time she would be more ready for school than she is now. In the meantime I would be able to remain at home for far longer spells than I have been able to do with her in London. I would be less idle, more meaningfully employed. You might even come to approve of me.” She turned her head to look at him. The carriage was just drawing clear of the trees at the bottom of the driveway and passing through the gates. His face was lit by the slanting rays of the sun, which was low in the sky. She noticed that he spoke hypothetically, as if he did not really believe in his freedom. “Yes,” she said, “perhaps I might.” He smiled slowly at her. “Though I already do approve of you,” she said. “You have not spent so much time in London for frivolous reasons. You have done it for love. There is no nobler motive. And now you have acknowledged your daughter publicly. I approve of that too.” “You look,” he said, “like the prim schoolteacher who first greeted me in Bath.” “That,” she said, folding her hands in her lap, “is who I am.” “Was it not you,” he said, “who told my daughter just a short while ago that no one can be summed up by labels alone?” “I have a rich life, Lord Attingsborough,” she told him. “I have made it myself, and I am happy with it. It is as different from the life I have lived during the past few weeks as it could possibly be. And I cannot wait to return to it.” She had turned her head away to look out through the window. “I am sorry,” he said, “for the turmoil I have brought into your life, Claudia.” “You have brought nothing that I have not allowed,” she told him. They lapsed into silence after that, a silence that was fraught with tension and yet was curiously companionable too. The tension, of course, was sexual. Claudia was well aware of that. But it was not lust. It was not just the desire to embrace and perhaps go beyond mere embraces. Love lent a comforting touch to the atmosphere, and yet it was a love that might yet be tragic. Miss Hunt might yet change her mind. And if she did not? But Claudia’s mind could not move beyond that stumbling block. The Duke and Duchess of Bewcastle stepped out through the front doors of
