He still loved
Rachel. He would love her until the day he died.
Which left him in the most d
amnable quandary.
Moving across
to the balustrade, he brushed the heaped snow into the garden bed
below and sat, indifferent to the wetting his jacket would
undoubtedly be subject to. Damp material was the least of his
troubles.
How long, he wondered, would he have been able to delude
himself
that
he no longer cared for the girl if he had stayed away? Years?
Forever? Perhaps he would have been all right if he had not seen
her again, convinced that he was entirely whole when in reality, a
little part of him had been missing for a long time. He knew
differently now, of course. Rachel was that part of him. Having
fallen in love with her, he could never truly love another
woman.
Loving a woman had not been high on the list of Nash’s
priorities. Loving their bodies
and mutually satisfying physical needs was
an entirely different matter. He had occasionally wondered – but
with no great interest – why he felt so little connection to the
females he bedded, but had simply put it down to a male’s natural
ability to disconnect and move on. The hunter’s prerogative. Call
of the masculine wild.
Call it
whatever the hell you wanted, the truth was far less devil may
care.
He had
not been able to move on because he could not. His love of Rachel
was the one absolute he was certain of. So… what were his
choices?
He had
not argued with her when she had said Richard Thursby would be
socially ruined if he threw in his lot with her. A respectable
gentleman forming an alliance with a shamed woman could mean one of
two things; that she was his mistress or that he had taken leave of
his senses. Rachel was certainly beautiful enough to make a number
of fellows forego rational behavior, but the censure of one’s
fellows could be a powerful thing. No doubt Thursby, having met his
childhood companion after the passage of time, had been bowled over
by her all over again. He might claim altruism, the desire to
reignite their earlier friendship, but Nash knew that it was a damn
sight more than kindliness that stirred in Thursby’s breast. In
that, he and the man were similarly afflicted, brothers united by a
common sentiment.
Rachel
Sheridan.
Nash blew
out a breath. The wedding was on the morrow and the plan had been
to stay on for several more days, enjoying a small, intimate house
party while the new Lady Casterton prepared to leave her family
home and venture into her new life in Warwickshire. Nash had been
going to accompany them, as he planned to return to his own home,
but he now knew he could not stay. Every moment he spent at
Thorncroft seemed to drive home his reawakening, the realization
that a life without Rachel in it was shaping up to be no life at
all. Was it too late for him already? If he left on the morrow
would he really be able to banish the past few days from his
memories.
Would he
? Hell! He was deluding himself if he thought anything of
the kind.
‘
You are… sunk, old fellow,’ he muttered. ‘What the devil are
you going to do now?’
What
indeed.
Rising to his feet, he looked out at the darkened gardens,
suddenly
gripped by the restless, itchy feeling that had become all
too familiar over the past three and a half years. Under different
circumstances he would do something physical; go for a brisk walk,
take a long, hard ride… something to ease the void that too often
opened inside him. He had an uncomfortable feeling that none of his
usual pursuits would be enough to satisfy him now.
I could go back in there and dance.
But there is only one person I
want to dance with. She has the power to ease this wretched
twitchiness. I would like to dance every dance with Rachel, sweep
her up into my arms and find things to say that will banish the
shadows from her eyes and bring on her laughter. Dear God, I do
love to hear her laugh…
What could the future hold if
Rachel was not in it? How could he marry
another woman, have her bear his children, when he had given all of
his affections to somebody else, somebody who it seemed entirely
likely he would see again, unless he forswore Adam’s home whenever
Rachel came to visit? And how would
that
look? He suspected that she would completely
understand his behavior but perversely, he found the idea of
administering such a snub to be unpalatable.
There was no
doubt about it; he was in a hell of a jam.
It was
time to go back inside before his absence was noticed by his hosts.
He had taken ten steps towards the door when an idea came to him,
so absurd, so ridiculous that he came to an abrupt stop again. He
examined it for a moment, holding it up to his mind’s eye for a
closer scrutiny.
I could always
marry her myself…
It was
such an outlandish idea that for a moment he could do no
more than hold the thought, circling the concept, letting it sink a
little deeper until it settled into an actual possibility in his
mind.
Marry the girl, the fallen woman, the creature who had been
cast out by Society and who, but for the good graces of her family,
would now have been
buried in the wilds of some distant hinterland, living her
life out at the beck and call of a distant – but no doubt demanding
– relative.
Was he mad?
He took several
more steps towards the door, turning over the possibilities, the
consequences, the ramifications.
His
mother would have conniptions and would undoubtedly react with all
the fortitude she usually demonstrated; she would take to her divan
and likely never rise from it again, fortified by an endless supply
of hartshorn and sympathetic, like minded friends. She had liked
Rachel well enough for her son when the girl was untarnished,
popular and came with a satisfyingly large dowry but now she would
undoubtedly use every weapon in her female armory to dissuade her
son from committing an act of social insanity if he announced an
engagement.
As for his position i
n Society…
He was a wealthy earl who currently had the admiration
(undeserved), respect (inevitable) and good will of his peers. He
could have any female in England – and quite possibly the British
Isles – who was of marriageable age and free to wed. It was
expected that he would make a stellar match of it, breed an heir
and pursue the normal pursuits open to a man of his standing.
Whatever they might be. He had been gone for some time but he
assumed that gambling, drinking and fornication were still
popular
recreations for the gentry.
If he married Rachel, he would likely find that good
will would
evaporate. And even those that were still willing to receive him
would cut Rachel in a thousand different ways. A few words, a
certain look, a disdainful smile. There was no end to the cruelties
that could be inflicted, all in the politest way possible. He would
be subjecting Rachel to a dreadful burden.
If we went into Society. I could take her abroad with
me
. She need
never see anyone who might cause her pain.
An interesting idea and an appealing one. He found that he
was not overfond of his home country or the people who presided
over it. But it would smack of running away and that stuck in the
gullet. He did not want to hide
his wife away. It would be tantamount to
admitting that he was ashamed of her, that there was something to
hide
from
.
But there is, he reminded himself. All the good
intentions in the
world cannot change that. Rachel has been sullied by another man
and nobody will ever let her forget that she allowed herself to be
shamed.
Allowed herself
to be shamed…
For the
first time, Nash made himself examine that idea more closely.
Presumably, Salinger had seduced her away from her family home with
promises of a midnight flight to Gretna Green. Rachel could not
have known that the man was already married. It was a foul trick to
play on the girl, but then, Dorian Salinger was a contemptible
creature, keeping his merchant daughter’s wife locked away in his
family home in Ireland while he enjoyed the pleasures of London at
his leisure. No doubt he had decided that he wanted Rachel Sheridan
as soon as he had set eyes on her and had set about achieving that
goal. What had he said to her to convince her that they should stop
and rest along the way? It was all too easy to imagine and Rachel,
innocent that she was, would no doubt have acquiesced, sure that by
the end of the following day she would be Mrs. Dorian
Salinger.
The
scene, played out in his head, made Nash’s temper rise with
alarming speed. His friends had told him that Salinger had not been
seen in London for several years after the incident. Perhaps he had
been chastened due to his far from gentlemanly behavior, although
it was more likely his rich father-in-law had brought him to heel.
Salinger didn’t have scruples. Nash shook his head, scowling at how
the innocent could so easily be seduced by the vile. Difficult as
it was now for him to imagine, he could see how a vulnerable girl
could be taken in by an experienced rake. The only question was;
why had nobody warned her as to Salinger’s true nature?
Once again, he moved slowly towards the door that would
lead him back to warmth and laughter and the eager embrace of his
peers. He was vaguely aware of the cold penetrating his evening
clothes, but it was a mild annoyance. His thoughts were still
wholly focused on his future, or rather, the po
ssibilities that his future
might hold, had he but the courage to move in a certain
direction.
It was
madness to even contemplate offering for Rachel, but then, it was
madness to simply walk away from her. Now that he had seen her
again he knew that she would occupy his thoughts far too
frequently.
I could marry
Rachel. We could weather the storm together and in time, if it was
not forgotten, at least it might fade away…
He could marry
Rachel.
Once the
thought was lodged, it was difficult to abandon the idea. He had
sworn, three and a half years before, that he would never ask
Rachel Sheridan to marry him again and he had certainly meant it.
With her shocking history it was even more impossible that he could
do so, and yet… and yet…
Re-entering the house, he made his way back to the
ballroom, head full of ideas that were as absurd as they were
seductive.
Marry Rachel
Sheridan. Take her for his new countess and to hell with the rest
of the world.
Marry
Rachel…
Well… why the
hell shouldn’t he?
By the
time Worsley presented himself for his second dance, Rachel was
feeling decidedly frayed around the edges. Or at least, her
patience was. She was heartily sick of fending off lewd advances,
subtle and unsubtle and was thinking of adjusting her responses to
something that her old governess would most assuredly not have
approved of. Something along the lines of ‘please do not speak to
me again’ or ‘you are an execrable human being’. If she offended
them, it would only even the score, after all. She had spied the
earl moving purposefully towards her and was relieved for his
deliberate advance cut off Sir Jasper Fielding, Richard Thursby and
the dithering Mr. Fennick who had obviously decided to brave his
mother’s wrath and come back for a second twirl on the dance floor.
Worsley ruthlessly pre-empted all three men, smiling at them with
bland assurance as he quirked a smile at Rachel.
‘
Miss Sheridan? My dance?’ He held out a hand.
She placed her
hand in his. It was a good, strong hand, warm without being moist,
a fact that she appreciated after so many clammy dance
partners.
‘
Oh yes, I had not forgotten.’ She gave her thwarted would be
partners a small nod of the head. ‘If you will excuse
me?’
It wasn’t until
they were on the dance floor and the music underway that either
spoke again.
‘
Do I look very disagreeable?’ she inquired ruefully, grateful
that it was another waltz and they did not have to change partners.
She was seriously considering retiring for the evening.
‘I don’t
think that’s possible.’
‘
Really? My face must be better schooled than I had thought. I
feel positively savage.’
He seemed
to draw her a fraction closer, probably a little closer than was
considered acceptable under the circumstances. She did not hold it
against him. There was nothing lascivious in Worsley’s manner.
Instead, she again had the impression that he was annoyed on her
behalf.
‘
Men can be complete idiots,’ was all he said, however, tone
wry. ‘Would you like me to call a few out for you? I wouldn’t kill
them, merely wound them a little. Give them something to think
about.’
The words were
said lightly but she sensed a thread of grimness beneath. Rachel,
suddenly beset by a vision of the local gentlemen lining up in the
early light of morning so that Worsley could dispense the
equivalent of a spanking made her utter a small gurgle of
laughter.
‘
No, but it is a delicious image! Are you a crack shot, Sir? Or
would you fence with them?’