Rigid with anger, Dorothea struggled to control her voice. ‘Mr Buchanan! I will tell you for the last time: I do not wish, in any circumstances, to marry you! I trust that is plain enough. I will not change my mind. It was unwise in the extreme for Herbert to have encouraged your suit. I’m sorry, but I must return to the ballroom.’
She moved to sweep past him where he stood, his back to the door. As she did so Desborough, who had been looking all over for her, appeared there. Sheer relief showed on Dorothea’s face. At the same moment Edward Buchanan grabbed her by the shoulders and attempted to kiss her. She struggled frantically, averting her face.
Almost instantly Buchanan was bodily plucked from her and thrown roughly against the wall. In considerable surprise he slid down to sit on the floor, his legs splayed out in front of him and an idiotic look on his face. Desborough, adjusting the set of his coat before offering his arm to Dorothea, turned at the last moment to say, ‘Be thankful it was me and not Peterborough, Walsingham, or, God forbid, Hazelmere. Any of those three and you would be nursing rather more bruises and, very likely, a few broken bones as well. I suggest, Mr Buchanan, that you trouble Miss Darent no longer.’ And, with that, he ushered a deeply grateful Dorothea back into the ballroom.
The upshot was that Hazelmere’s friends never, ever, left her unattended again, whether in the ballroom, the Park, or any other gathering of the fashionable.
Hazelmere’s entire attention was devoted to controlling the frisky bays as he threaded through the crowded streets of the capital. Once they had passed the village of Hampstead and started over Finchley Common he dropped his hands and the bays shot forward. With the horses driven well up to their bits, the curricle rocketed past coaches travelling at conventional speeds. Jim Hitchin, hanging on grimly behind, kept his lips firmly shut and prayed that his master’s customary skill did not desert him. As the evening wore on and the shadows started to spread, throwing inky patches across the road, concealing pot-holes and ruts, Jim expected their pace to ease. But no change in speed was detectable as they left Barnet behind and raced onwards up the Great North Road towards the George at Harpenden, where they spent the night on such trips as these.
Jim kept silent, more from fear of distracting the Marquis than from reticence. But, when Hazelmere overtook the north-bound accommodation coach just before St Albans on a tight curve with less than inches to spare, Jim, in considerable fright, swore roundly.
‘What was that, Jim?’ came Hazelmere’s voice.
‘Why, nothing, m’lord,’ replied Jim. Unable to help himself, he added, ‘Just if you was to be wishful to break both our necks I could think of few faster ways to do it.’
Silence. Then Jim heard his master laugh softly. ‘I’m sorry, Jim, I know I should not have done that.’ And the curricle slowed until they were bowling along at a safer pace.
Yes, and you’re still up in the boughs, thought Jim. Just as long as you keep this coach on the road, we’ll survive.
It was late afternoon on Thursday when they reached Lauleigh, Hazelmere’s Leicestershire estate between Melton Mowbray and Oakham. His steward, a dour man named Walton, had not erred in demanding his attendance. There was an enormous amount of work to be done and they made a start on it that evening, going over the accounts and planning the activities of the next two days.
Walton, hearing from Jim of the likely change in his lordship’s affairs, made sure that anything requiring his authorisation was dealt with. He was under no illusion that he would be able to summon his master north again that Season. Accustomed, like most of the Marquis’s servitors, to keeping a weather eye out for his temper, in this case Walton guessed it was unlikely to be directed at him, and his flat tones droned in Hazelmere’s ears incessantly over Friday and Saturday.
Hazelmere called a halt on Saturday afternoon and retired to his study, informing Jim that they would leave early the next morning. The events of the past two days, entirely divorced from those of the Season, had succeeded in restoring his calm. By forcing his mind to deal with such mundane affairs, he had managed to shut out the turmoil of emotions he had experienced on leaving Dorothea until now, when he felt infinitely more capable of dealing with them.
While it was warm in the south of the country, in Leicestershire the winds blew cool in the evening and the fire was alight. Pouring himself a drink, he dropped into the comfortable armchair before the hearth, stretching his long legs to the blaze. Cupping the glass in both hands, he gazed into the leaping flames.
Conjuring up the image of a pair of emerald eyes, he wondered what she was doing. Ah, yes. The Melchett ball. Away from the endless round of London during the Season, he was even more conscious of how much he wanted her by his side. That meeting in the drawing-room at Merion House had had about it an air of inevitability. He’d been so angry with her when he’d walked in the door-admittedly more from hurt pride than righteous indignation. And she’d been so surprisingly angry with him! Thankfully, she had promptly told him why. He grinned. All the dictates of how a young lady should behave had been overturned in the space of a few minutes. He could imagine no other female-apart from his mother, perhaps-who would dare let on that she even knew of his mistresses, much less question him on the subject.
As his relationship with Helen Walford was so well known among the ton, it had never occurred to him that a different version could be presented to Dorothea. Very clever of the Comte. He vaguely recalled some difficulty with Monsieur de Vanee over one of the barques of frailty who had at one time resided under his protection. What had been her name? Madeline? Miriam? Mentally he shrugged. The Comte’s lies had undoubtedly been the cause of Dorothea’s distress that night, coming on top of the incident with the Prince. Hardly surprising that she had baulked at meeting Helen and him in the Park.
But why,
It had not occurred to him until that day that by loving her he had put into her hands the power to hurt him. Since he was naturally strong and self-reliant, there were few close to him whose opinions mattered enough to affect him-his mother and Alison, Tony and Ferdie and, to a lesser extent, Helen. That was about it. And Dorothea mattered far more than all of them combined. But if such vulnerability was what one had to put up with, then put up with it he would. She had only lashed out at him because she was hurt by his imagined perfidy. He would simply ensure that such misunderstandings did not occur in the future.
So where did that leave them now? Much where they had been before, except that presumably she now knew he loved her. Assuming that events progressed as he intended, there was no reason that they could not be wed in a month or so. Then his frustrations and her uncertainties would be things of the past.
He brought his gaze back from the ceiling whence it had strayed and fixed it once more on the dancing flames. He was happily engaged in salacious imaginings in which Dorothea figured prominently when his housekeeper entered to inform him that dinner was served.
He reached Darent Hall, close to Corby and not far off his direct route, just before ten o’clock. He threw the reins to Jim, who had run to the horses’ heads, with a command to keep them moving.
Admitted to the hall, he spoke to the butler. ‘I am the Marquis of Hazelmere. I wonder if Lord Darent could spare me a few moments?’
Recognising the quality of this visitor, the butler showed him into the library and went to inform his master. Herbert was engaged in consuming a leisurely breakfast when Millchin announced that the most noble Marquis of Hazelmere required a few words with him. Herbert’s mouth dropped open. After a moment he recovered himself enough to reply, ‘Very well, Millchin, I’ll come at once, of course. Where have you put him?’
Millchin told him and withdrew. Herbert continued to stare at the door. He had little doubt what Hazelmere wanted, but Marjorie had insisted that he was not in earnest and, even if he was, that he could not be considered suitable. In this instance, adherence to his wife’s wishes was entirely impossible. Herbert was already uncomfortable before he entered his library to face Hazelmere, who somehow seemed more at home in the beautiful, heavily panelled room than its owner.
The interview was brief and to the point, conducted as it was by Hazelmere rather than Herbert. Having listened to the Marquis’s request, Herbert felt forced to reveal that he had already given Edward Buchanan
