The Proposal: Number 1 in series (Survivors’ Club)
The Proposal: Chapter 17

The damnable thing was that Lady Muir had been right. The ballroom really had been buzzing with the news of his fame. A dozen or more men had wanted to shake his hand during supper, and wherever he looked, he had intercepted nodding heads and plumes and admiring glances. It had been deuced embarrassing and had ended up causing him to look down at his plate more than anywhere else, feeling awkward and very much on display. He had spent the rest of the night dodging from one shadowed corner to another, but it had not seemed to help much. And he had been unable to leave early as Constance danced until the last chord of the final set had been played.

Now this morning there had been a veritable deluge of post, almost all of it invitations to various ton entertainments: garden parties, private concerts, soirees, Venetian breakfasts, whatever the devil they were, musical evenings—how were they different from concerts? And how could a breakfast be scheduled to begin during the afternoon? Was it not a contradiction in terms? Or did it mean that the ton slept all morning during the Season, something that made sense actually, since they obviously caroused all night? Almost all the invitations addressed to him included Constance, a fact that made it difficult either simply to ignore them or to send back a firm refusal.

There were a few invitations addressed just to Constance, as well as three bouquets—from Ralph, young Everly, and someone who had signed his card with such an extravagant flourish that his name was illegible.

Hugo went off to spend the morning with William Richardson, his manager, leaving Constance with her mother and grandmother and the two little boys the latter had brought with her this morning. Strangely, Fiona did not seem unduly distressed by their energy and incessant questions, and Constance was ecstatic at the chance to talk and play with these new cousins. She was to go driving in Hyde Park later in the afternoon with Gregory Hind, one of last night’s partners, the one with the loud, braying laugh and the tendency to replace everything funny. He had passed Lady Muir’s strict scrutiny, however, and Connie liked him. And apparently Hind’s sister and her betrothed were to accompany them, so all was perfectly respectable.

Hugo immersed himself in work and longed for the country.

He was not at all sure he wanted to court Lady Muir. She limped. Really quite noticeably. But when he chuckled quietly at the memory of saying that to her, he won for himself a puzzled look from Richardson and then an answering laugh as though the man thought he must have missed a joke but would pretend he had not.

No, he was not sure he wanted to court her. He would be no good for her. She needed someone to cherish her and pamper her and make her laugh. She needed someone from her own world. And he needed someone … But did he really need anyone at all? He needed someone to bear him a son so that his father could rest in peace. He needed someone for sex. The son could wait, though, and sex could be had elsewhere than in marriage.

A depressing thought.

He did not need Gwendoline, Lady Muir. Except that she had taken him with her last night to the very darkest depth of her soul and he had felt curiously gifted. And she had kissed him as if … Well, as if he somehow mattered. And when he had said that about her limp, she had thrown back her head and laughed with sheer merriment. And except that he had been inside her body in the cove at Penderris and she had welcomed him there. Yes, she had. She had, and he, who had only ever had whores before her, had known the difference even though she had lacked most of their expertise.

He had been wanted, cherished, loved.

Loved?

Well, perhaps that was going a bit too far.

But he craved more. Her? Was it her he craved? Or it. More of it.

Or was it love he craved?

But he had been wool-gathering for too long and returned his attention determinedly to work.

Later in the afternoon he was rapping the knocker against the door of Kilbourne House on Grosvenor Square and asking the butler if he would replace out if Lady Muir was at home and willing to receive him. He fully expected her to be out. It was the time when everyone was out walking or riding or driving in the park and it was a pretty decent day even if the sun was not constantly shining. Hind had been driving off with Constance as Hugo was leaving the house, braying with laughter at something she had said. Perhaps this was why he had come now—because he could be fairly sure that she would not be home.

If he ever grew to understand himself, Hugo decided, it would be a miracle of the first order.

Not only was she at home, and not only would she receive him, but also she came downstairs in person, just ahead of the butler. She was looking pale and listless, a little heavy-eyed.

“Come into the library,” she said. “Neville and Lily are out, and my mother is resting.”

He followed her into the room and closed the door.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

She turned to look at him and smiled slightly.

“Nothing, actually,” she said. “I have just come from spending the afternoon with Lauren.”

Her face crumpled and she spread her hands over it.

“I am sorry,” she said.

“Was I right?” he asked her.

Good God, what if he had not been?

“Yes,” she said, lowering her hands, her facial muscles under control again. “Yes, you were right. We have just spent almost a whole afternoon crying like idiots. I am to understand that I am the biggest goose ever born to keep all that bottled up inside for so long.”

“No” he said, “you are not a goose. She was wrong there. When we feel like rotten eggs, we would rather no one cracked our shells—for their sake.”

“I am a rotten egg, then.” She laughed shakily. “Is your sister happy today? I intend to call on her tomorrow morning.”

“She is out driving with Hind and his sister,” he said. “The sitting room of the house looks and smells like a flower garden. She has received five invitations, not counting the thirteen I received that include her. Yes, she is happy.”

“But you are less so?” she asked. “Oh, do come and sit down, Hugo. I will get a crick in my neck from looking up at you.”

He sat down on a love seat while she took the old leather chair across from him.

“I would be quite happy to make a bonfire out of the lot of them,” he said, “but I have to think of Connie. I came to ask your advice on which invitations to accept.”

“Of those?” She nodded at the bundle of papers he held in one hand.

“Yes,” he said, holding it out toward her. “Constance’s on top, mine below. Which ought we to go to? If any. One ton ball was all I promised, after all, and I don’t want to raise unreasonable expectations in her.”

“She can replace happiness only among her own kind, you think?” she asked, taking the pile of invitations from him and setting it on her lap.

“Not necessarily.” He could feel his jaw hardening. She was making fun of him. “But probably.”

She took a few minutes to look through the invitations one by one. He watched her as she did so and was irritated. For he wanted to step over there, scoop her into his arms as he had done at Penderris when he had had every excuse to do so, and carry her back here to cradle on his lap. She was still pale. But he was not her keeper. He was not in any way responsible for bringing her comfort or anything else. Her back was ramrod straight. No, that was unfair. It was straight, but her posture was relaxed, graceful. Her spine did not touch the back of the chair, though. Her neck arched like a swan’s. She was a lady from the top of her head to her well-manicured fingertips to her daintily shod feet.

And he wanted her something fierce.

“I have received most of these invitations myself,” she said. “I would not presume to tell you which ones to accept or refuse, Lord Trentham. But there are some it would be wiser for Constance to refuse and a few it would be very advantageous for her to accept. In fact, there are three events to which I was very much hoping she would be invited so that I would not have to go to the effort of securing her an invitation.”

She laughed softly and looked up at him.

“You must not feel obliged to come with her,” she said. “I shall be delighted to take her with me and to be an attentive chaperon. However, the ton will be disappointed if the hero of Badajoz disappears from the face of the earth again after last night, when many of them either did not have a chance to speak with you and shake your hand or else were not even present. The ton is a fickle entity, though. After a while the novelty of seeing you at last will be replaced by something else and you will no longer be the focus of attention wherever you go. But everyone is going to have to be offered the chance of seeing you a number of times before that will happen.”

He sighed.

“I will accompany Constance to those three events,” he said. “Tell me which they are, and I shall send an acceptance.”

She set the three on top and handed the bundle back to him.

“How I would love some fresh air,” she said. “Will you take me walking, Lord Trentham, or will my limp embarrass you?”

She smiled as she said it, but there was something wistful in her eyes.

He got to his feet and shoved the pile of invitations into his coat pocket, pulling the fashionable garment horribly out of shape.

“You do know I was joking last night,” he said. “Your limp is part of you, Gwendoline, though I wish for your sake it was not. You are beautiful to me as you are.” He held out a hand for hers. “But I still have not decided if I wish to court you. One of those three invitations is to a garden party.”

She laughed and at last there was a little color in her cheeks.

“It is,” she said. “You will acquit yourself well enough, Hugo, if you remember one small thing. When you drink tea, hold the handle of the cup with your thumb and three fingers—but not with your little finger.”

She shuddered theatrically.

“Go and fetch your bonnet,” he told her.

I have decided not to court you,” he said.

They had been walking along the pavement in the direction of Hyde Park, Gwen’s arm tucked through his. She had been feeling weary to the marrow of her bones just a short while ago after returning from Lauren’s. She probably would have lain on her bed if Hugo had not come. She was glad he had. She was still feeling tired, but she was relaxed too. Almost happy.

They had not been talking. It had seemed unnecessary to do so.

She had been feeling … safe.

“Oh?” she said. “Why, this time?”

“I am too important for you,” he said. “I am the hero of Badajoz.”

She smiled. It was the first time he had spoken voluntarily about that episode in his life. And he had made a joke of it.

“Alas,” she said, “it is too true. But I draw consolation from the fact that you are too important for anyone. You must marry someone, however. You are a lusty man but far too important to frequent—”

Oh, dear, she was not made for this kind of banter.

“Brothels?” he said.

“Well,” she said, “you are too important. And if you must marry, then it follows that you must also court the lady of your choice.”

“No,” he said. “I am too important for that. I merely have to crook my finger and she will come running.”

“Fame has not made you conceited by any chance?” she asked him.

“Not at all,” he said. “There is nothing conceited about acknowledging the truth.”

She laughed softly, and when she looked up at him, she saw what might be a smile lurking about the corners of his lips. He had been trying to make her laugh.

“Do you plan,” she asked, “to crook your finger at me?”

There was a rather lengthy pause before his answer while they crossed the road and he tossed a coin to the young crossing sweeper who had cleared a pile of steaming manure out of their path.

“I have not decided,” he said. “I will let you know.”

Gwen smiled again, and they entered the park.

They walked past the fashionable area, where crowds were still driving or riding or walking, though they did not linger there. Even so, their arrival was noticed with far more interest than she alone would have drawn, Gwen thought, and numerous people called out to them or even stopped for a brief exchange of greetings. Both of them were delighted to see the Duke of Stanbrook riding with Viscount Ponsonby. The duke invited them to take tea with him the following afternoon. Constance Emes waved cheerfully from Mr. Hind’s barouche some distance away.

But they strolled onward rather than walk the circuit like everyone else, and passed far fewer vehicles and pedestrians.

“Tell me about your stepmother,” she said.

“Fiona?” He looked at her in some surprise. “My father married her when I was thirteen. She was working at a milliner’s shop at the time. She was extremely beautiful. He married her within a week or two of meeting her—I did not even know about her until he announced abruptly one day that he was getting married the next. It was a nasty shock. I suppose most lads, even thirteenyear-olds, imagine that their widowed fathers loved their mothers so dearly that they could never again even look at another woman with desire. I was fully prepared to hate her.”

“And did forever after?” she said, nodding to a trio of gentlemen who passed them and tipped their hats to her and glanced at Hugo in open awe. He seemed unaware of their existence.

“I like to think I would have recovered some common sense,” he said. “I had had my father to myself most of my life and I adored him, but I was thirteen and already knew that my life did not revolve about him. But it was soon obvious that she was horribly bored. It was obvious why she had married him, of course. I suppose there is nothing too terribly wrong in marrying a man for his money. It is done all the time. And I don’t think she was ever unfaithful, though she would have been with me a few years later if I had allowed it. I went off to war instead.”

“That was your reason for going?” She looked up at him, her eyes wide.

“The funny thing was,” he said, “that I could never bear to kill even the smallest, ugliest creature. I was forever carrying spiders and earwigs out of the house to set them on the doorstep. I was forever rescuing mice from traps on the rare occasions when they were still alive. I was forever bringing home birds with broken wings and stray dogs and cats. For a while my cousins used to annoy me by calling me the gentle giant. And I ended up killing men.”

Much was explained, Gwen thought. Ah, much was.

“Is your stepmother not close to your uncles and aunts and cousins?” she asked.

“She felt inferior to them,” he said, “and consequently believed they despised her. I do not believe they did. They would have loved her and welcomed her into the fold if they had been given the opportunity. They all came from humble origins, after all. She cut herself off from her own family in the belief, I suppose, that they would drag her down from the level she had reached by marrying my father. I went to call on them a week ago. They have never stopped loving her and longing for her. Incredibly, they do not seem to resent her. Her mother and her sister have spent some time with her already, and this morning her mother brought her two young grandchildren, Fiona’s nephews. There are still her father and brother and sister-in-law to be met, but I am hopeful that it will happen. Perhaps Fiona will get her life back. She is still relatively young, and she still has her looks.”

“You do not still hate her?” she asked as he moved her off to the side of the path for an open carriage that was coming toward them.

“It is not easy to hate,” he said, “when one has lived long enough to know that everyone has a difficult path to walk through life and does not always make wise or admirable choices. There are very few out-and-out villains, perhaps none. Though there are a few who come very close.”

They both looked up at the occupants of the carriage, which had slowed to pass them.

It was Viscountess Wragley with her younger son and daughterin-law. Gwen always felt desperately sorry for Mr. Carstairs, who was thin and pale and apparently consumptive. And for Mrs. Carstairs, who always looked discontented with her lot in life but was always at her husband’s side. Gwen did not know either well, since they avoided most of the more vigorous entertainments of the Season.

She smiled up at them and bade them a good afternoon.

The viscountess inclined her head regally. Mrs. Carstairs returned Gwen’s greeting in a listless voice. Mr. Carstairs did not speak. Neither did Lord Trentham. But Gwen became suddenly aware that the two men were gazing at each other and that the atmosphere had become inexplicably tense.

And then Mr. Carstairs leaned over the side of the carriage.

“The hero of Badajoz,” he wheezed, his voice filled with contempt. And he spat onto the ground, well clear of the two of them.

“Francis!” the viscountess exclaimed, her voice coldly shocked.

“Frank!” Mrs. Carstairs wailed.

“Move on, coachman,” Mr. Carstairs said, and the coachman obeyed.

Gwen stood frozen in place.

“The last time I saw him,” Lord Trentham said, “he spat directly at me.”

She turned her head sharply and looked into his face.

“Mr. Carstairs was the lieutenant you told me about?” she asked. “The one who wanted you to abort the attack on the fortress?”

“He was not expected to live,” he said. “He obviously had massive internal injuries as well as plenty of outer ones. He was coughing blood and a lot of it. He was sent home to die. But somehow he lived.”

“Oh, Hugo,” she said.

“His life is ruined,” he said. “That is obvious. It must be doubly difficult for him now to know that I am here and that I am being greeted as a great hero. He is as great a hero, if that word applies to either of us. He wanted to abort the charge, but he followed when I led onward.”

“Oh, Hugo,” she said again, and for a moment she rested the side of the bonnet against his sleeve.

He did not move them back onto the path but instead led her across an expanse of grass toward a line of ancient trees and among them along a far narrower path that was quite deserted.

“I am sorry you were exposed to that,” he said. “I shall escort you home if you wish and stay away from you in future. You may take Constance to the garden party and those other two places if you will be so good—or not, if you choose. You have already done a great deal for her out of the kindness of your heart.”

“Does this mean,” she asked him, “that you will never crook your finger at me?”

He turned his head and looked down at her, as grim a soldier as she had ever seen.

“It means that,” he said.

“That is a pity,” she said. “I had been beginning to think that I might, just might look favorably upon your courtship. Though admittedly pride might prevent me from going running toward a crooked finger.”

“I cannot ever expose you to anything like that again,” he said.

“I must be protected from life, then?” she said. “It cannot be done, Hugo.”

“I know nothing whatsoever about courtship,” he told her after a brief silence. “I have not read the manual.”

“You dance with the woman in question,” she said. “Or, if it is a waltz and you are afraid of tripping all over your feet or treading all over hers, then you stroll outdoors with her and listen to her pour out all her deepest, darkest secrets without either looking bored or passing judgment. And then you kiss her and make her feel somehow … forgiven. You call on her when she is feeling weary to the bone and take her walking. You make sure to lead her along a shady, deserted path so that you may kiss her.”

“A kiss each day?” he asked. “That is a requirement?”

“Whenever possible,” she said. “It takes ingenuity on some days.”

“I can be ingenious,” he said.

“I do not doubt it,” she told him.

They strolled slowly onward.

“Gwendoline,” he said, “I may seem like a big, tough fellow. I am not sure I am.”

“Oh,” she said softly, “I am quite sure you are not, Hugo. Not in all the ways that matter, anyway.”

I am not tough either. Or a tease.

At least she did not think she was a tease.

She desperately needed to think. She was still very tired. She had slept only in restless fits and starts last night, and today there had been the painfully emotional afternoon with Lauren and now … this.

“A kiss a day,” he said. “But not necessarily as a signal of courtship on either of our parts. A kiss merely because conditions are favorable and we wish to get physical.”

“It sounds like a good enough reason,” she said, laughing. “Kiss me, then, Hugo, and rescue today from seeming somehow … dismal.”

Tree branches laden with their spring coat of light green leaves waved above their heads. The air was fragrant with the smell of them. A chorus of invisible birds was busy with their mysterious, sweet-sounding communications. In the distance a dog barked and a child shrieked with laughter.

He turned her back to a tree trunk and leaned his body against hers. His fingers pushed past the sides of her bonnet into her hair while his palms cupped her cheeks. His eyes, gazing into her own in the shade of the trees, were very dark.

“Every day,” he said. “It is a heady thought.”

“Yes.” She smiled.

“Beddings every night,” he said. “Several times a night. And often during the day too. It would be the natural result of courtship.”

“Yes,” she said.

“If I were courting you,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “And if I looked upon that courtship with favor.”

“Gwendoline,” he murmured.

“Hugo.”

And his lips touched hers, brushed them lightly, and drew back.

“The next time,” he said, “if there is a next time, I want you naked.”

“Yes,” she said. “If there is a next time.”

What were all the reasons why all this was an improbability, even if not an impossibility? What was one of those reasons? Even one.

He kissed her again, wrapping both arms about her waist and drawing her away from the tree into his body, while her arms twined about his neck.

It was a hard, hot kiss, their open mouths pressed together, their tongues dueling, stroking, in her mouth, in his, back again. They breathed heavily against each other’s cheek. And ultimately they kissed softly and warmly and with lips only, murmuring unintelligible words.

“I think,” he said when he was finished, “I had better take you home.”

“I think so too,” she said. “And then you had better pull those invitations out of your pocket before it acquires a permanent bulge.”

“It would not do to be walking around looking like an imperfect gentleman,” he said.

“No, indeed.” She laughed and took his arm.

And she recklessly upgraded her chances of a future with him all the way from improbable to possible.

Though not yet to probable.

She was not that reckless.