When they finally broke their embrace, C.J. feared that her inevitably disheveled appearance when they exited the maze might raise some eyebrows. “Oh dear,” C.J. sighed contentedly. “What you must think of me, Percy?”
“I think of you as the woman who has accepted my suit and thus evinces a desire to share my bed in future. If you were to reward my embraces with a chilly reception, I should be forced to rethink my good opinions of you.”
“I don’t suppose many gently bred young ladies behave as I have been acting these past twenty-four hours.”
The earl smiled. “You would be surprised, Miss Welles. Your behavior is not only perfectly natural, it is as God intended, or the world would never be peopled. It must be said, however, that what takes place behind hedgerows ought never to be paraded in public assemblies, as you were made well aware last night.”
The earl expertly led the way out of the labyrinth, and the couple found Jane on the bench where C.J. had left her, making tiny notes with a pencil on a scrap of paper, which, upon noting their arrival, she immediately replaced without comment in her reticule.
Jane greeted her cousin; and discreetly discerning a blush upon Cassandra’s cheek and perhaps a stray curl or two, hinted that if there was an understanding between Miss Welles and her cousin, she would be quite content to remain where she was while they enjoyed the rare opportunity of an unchaperoned stroll through the gardens. Lord Darlington confirmed her suspicions, then offered his arm to Miss Welles. Miss Austen waved them a fond farewell and removed her notes from her reticule.
The lovers traipsed over the sloping, manicured lawns, the earl supporting C.J. as she negotiated the occasional stone or uneven patch of terrain in her fragile leather slippers, stopping to rest when they neared a row of stone balusters. Darlington twisted his signet ring in a display of discomfort. “This is not an easy subject for me to broach, Miss Welles, especially with you, but it is precisely with you that I must share these thoughts and feelings.”
They leaned against the carved baluster, and C.J. felt a knot begin to tie itself within her stomach. The earl read her expression. “I hope that my saga of woe will not give you cause for alarm, but rather illustrate certain facts about my past. You may decide for yourself whether or not you still esteem my character after you hear them. Frankly, I had never expected to meet a young lady who so captured my interest. Heretofore, I have long considered that part of my life over.”
He sounded like a lawyer. C.J. set her jaw and prepared for the worst.
“Our . . . courtship . . . is proceeding more along the lines of Cousin Jane’s theories of romance, rather than my own, Miss Welles. I have asked and you have allowed me to pay my addresses to you without your knowing very much about me at all. It does you credit, I suppose, to take me at face value, as it were . . . but I cannot avoid feeling that a selfishness on my part in withholding information from you concerning my past places you at a disadvantage, which, I have determined . . . after agonizing over the decision . . . is unfair.”
C.J. tried not to appear impatient with his maddening ability to be circumspect, struggling to keep her expression one of placid concern, rather than betray her anxiety. In a way it was hard not to pity Darlington’s difficulty in expressing whatever it was he wished to confess to her.
“Miss Welles, it is no secret that I was once married and that I am now a widower. My wife was . . . not the kind of woman who enjoyed a favorable regard among our set, owing to two accidents: one of birth, and one of profession. Marguerite, although a noblewoman—the sister of a count—was a Frenchwoman.” He lowered his voice. “She was also an actress.”
Chapter Fourteen
Darlington continues to reveal the details of his own painful past, followed by a fortuitous interruption, and the rather sensuous results yielded by a sudden rainstorm.
C.J.’S EYES WIDENED and she emitted a little gasp.
“I did not mean to shock you, Miss Welles,” Darlington hastily interjected. “I had formed the assumption that you were a more open-minded young lady. Forgive me if I was incorrect.”
“No—no, it is not that at all,” C.J. insisted, wondering if her own secret could be read on her face as easily as if it were emblazoned there. “Go on, please.”
“My late wife, Marguerite, was one of two sisters of the Comte de Feuillide, the man who married Miss Austen’s relation Eliza. Fiercely independent, Marguerite made a name for herself at the Comédie-Française. I myself was one of the most ardent admirers of her talent, finally screwing up the courage to ask if she would permit me to call upon her one night in her dressing room after one of her luminous performances in Tartuffe.
“When the Terror began in Paris, I insisted that she remain with me in England. We were extremely happy together, but Marguerite missed her life upon the stage. Her command of the English language was not secure enough for her to gain similar employment here; besides which, because she was a nobleman’s wife, her profession was severely frowned upon by the British aristocracy.”
“What happened?” C.J. asked softly.
“We lived in London for two more years, but Marguerite grew increasingly homesick. In 1794, against all my fervent entreaties, she crossed the Channel alone, as I had affairs to attend to that kept me in England. When
