He Said Yes Page 21

  "I would be more than glad to comply with your wishes, your ladyship, if I thought they were sincere," Evelyn replied "but I don't believe that you truly want to be alone."

  The tightening at the corners of Lady Waltham's mouth betrayed her irritation. She wasn't used to people being dis­obedient or blatantly rude to one's betters. At the very mini­mum, she was accustomed to being pampered because her health was considered frail. When she spoke again there was a hint of desperation in her voice.

  "Why are you doing this? Why do you insist on torment­ing me under the guise of friendship? Isn't it enough that I'm forced to tolerate your presence; what more do you wish to gain except the salary my stepson pays you?"

  "To repay a kindness," Evelyn answered candidly.

  "Then you seek to repay it with unkindness," Lady Waltham snapped.

  Evelyn said a silent prayer, then sat down, folding her hands in her lap. "Tell me about your husband. Share your memories with me. Was he tall and handsome? Soft-spoken or boisterous? I know he liked to sail, that he loved the water."

  Lady Waltham's shoulders slumped as her hands, covered with black lace to the knuckles, came up to cover her face. "I don't want to remember him. Don't you understand? It hurts too much."

  Evelyn left her chair and moved across the room to sit down upon the ottoman at the foot of Lady Waltham's chair. She reached out and gently pried the woman's hands away from her face. "If you loved him, then the memories will be filled with love, as well. Let them give you the comfort you've denied yourself up to now."

  For a long moment Lady Waltham looked as if she wanted to strike Evelyn, her eyes as cold as winter ice; then they blinked and Evelyn saw the wet gleam of tears.

  "Do you know what it's like to love someone so much it pains you to be away from them for even the space of an hour?" Lady Waltham asked viciously. "Do you?"

  "Yes, I think so," Evelyn answered in a whisper. "Even when he's not with you, the knowledge that he will be there soon offers your heart comfort."

  She knew the answer shocked Marshall's step-mother, but unless she named the man she loved Lady Waltham would have no way of knowing it was the marquis.

  The silence stretched into minutes, and Evelyn feared she'd pushed too hard trespassing upon things that were none of her business, things too private for another heart to understand. Then she felt Lady Waltham's hands turn, to hold on to hers, gripping her fingers with surprising strength.

  "George was handsome," she whispered softly. "Not in a rakish way. He was far too dignified for that. Marshall re­sembles him, the same dark hair, although his eye color comes from his mother. George's eyes were blue, darker than mine, and oh, so piercing. I remember the first time I saw him. He stole my breath, standing at the entrance to the ball­room, dressed in flawless black."

  "Where did you meet?" She asked the question in a soft tone.

  "At a masque ball held by the Earl of Leicester. It was my second Season. I had gained a proposal my first year out, but my father encouraged me to decline the man's suit." A weak smile came to her face. "He was right. George was the man I was supposed to marry."

  "Was it a beautiful wedding? Large? Small?"

  Another smile. This one stronger, more pleasing, came over Constance's face. "Small compared to most. But it was beautiful. We married . . . twenty years ago today." A tear slid down her face. "It sounds like a long time ago. But it wasn't. Not nearly long enough."

  She wept then, openly, painfully, and Evelyn held her in her arms. Soon her own tears were joining those of Lady Waltham, tears she could shed without reproach or explana­tion.

  Eventually Marshall's stepmother regained her compo­sure. But once the words had started they couldn't be stopped.

  Evelyn rang for tea and listened as Lady Waltham recited the events of that first evening, the introduction that George William Bedford the sixth Marquis of Waltham, had insti­gated. The story went on, how the marquis had taken to a shy young lady, how he'd patiently courted her, bringing her out of her shell until she woke each morning with a head full of thoughts that began and ended with him alone.

  "He proposed before the end of the Season," Lady Waltham told her. "And I accepted despite my misgivings."

  "Misgivings?"

  "Marshall," she admitted. "I didn't have the slightest no­tion how to go about being a mother, and it frightened me to think of it. Of course, George wouldn't hear of a long en­gagement. He wanted a wife, and he wasn't always a patient man."

  A trait his son had inherited.

  A faint smile came to Lady Waltham's tear-streaked face. "Of course, the moment I saw Marshall, I realized my fears had been wasted. He looked so much like his father that I loved him instantly. He was big for his age, tall and slender with the promise of nobility about him. We settled into a family with little effort after that."

  Evelyn listened. It was easy to picture the couple, their love for each other, summers filled with boat races and lawn parties, little girls toddling after their father. As it was all too easy to imagine that same happiness in her own life, being married to Marshall, strolling the grounds of Bedford Hall with him at her side, standing on the beach with a mother's fear as he taught their children how to swim in the foamy surf, spending the rest of her life loving him and being loved.

  It was a good hour before Lady Waltham drew in an ex­hausted breath and apologized for burdening Evelyn with her misery.

  "There is no misery in hearing about someone's happi­ness, my lady. I envy you the time you had with your hus­band. So few women know that they have been truly loved."

  Lady Waltham smiled. "You are an extraordinary young woman, Miss Dennsworth. And I regret my previous rude­ness. Will you forgive me?"

  "There is nothing to forgive. Now, why don't you rest. Lunch will be served soon, and if the day holds its sunshine, a walk along the beach might be to your liking. Catherine told me it was a habit you shared with her last summer."

  "I've neglected my children," she said sadly. "Both of them. Winnifred is excited about the prospects of Lord Lansdowne proposing marriage, and I've yet to set eyes on the gentleman. Catherine is growing up faster than she should. Marshall has scolded me for not paying her more at­tention."

  "No longer, I trust," Evelyn said giving her ladyship's hands a firm squeeze. Their former coldness had dissipated, and she thanked God that Lady Waltham had finally ac­cepted her friendship. "Each time you are tempted to stay in your room, think of a part of the house that holds a pleasant memory and visit it."

  "Are you always this optimistic?"

  "I try to be," Evelyn replied. "I've recently discovered that dwelling on things we have no control over can be a waste of time. It's best to enjoy each day and hope for the best."

  What Evelyn didn't say was that she had begun to live on hope, the hope that Marshall's physical affection might miraculously turn into love. If not, she'd glean all the happi­ness she could from the summer, and pray that whatever providence had in store for their separate futures, the mar­quis would find a woman who loved him half as much as she did.

  The prayer was a bittersweet wish, for she hated to think of him holding another woman in his arms, but it was foolish to think that he wouldn't marry one day. His title and an heir demanded that he eventually take a wife. In which case, Evelyn hoped she was like Lady Waltham, a woman with a heart capable of loving for a lifetime.

  Lady Waltham's transformation was a gradual one, but by the end of the week, everyone at Bedford Hall was aware that the mistress of the house was slowly setting aside her mourning. She began rising early, requesting her morning tea on the terrace rather than in her room, then lingering to have breakfast with her daughters. A tour of the guest wings came next with instructions as to the placement of expected visitors, along with various other items that she had will­ingly allowed to regress into the hands of the staff.

  There were more long conversations, private talks that al­lowed Lady Waltham to gradually rid herself of grief and take o
n the temperament of a woman who would miss her husband dearly, but one who also knew his memory was a comfort not a curse.

  At Lady Waltham's insistence, Evelyn spoke of herself occasionally, relating stories of her childhood in Sussex, of being raised in a rectory, of her dream to one day open a dress shop. She was careful never to mention the marquis in any way that might arouse Lady Waltham's curiosity.

  One such conversation happened on the beach the after­noon of the marquis's return to Bedford Hall. Lady Waltham was sitting in a wicker chair, carried down to the beach by a dutiful footman, while Evelyn sat by her side, knees folded on a plaid blanket. They had luncheon on the shore and were now relaxing, enjoying the brightness of the day. Catherine was walking along the beach, her pinafore hem wet from the waves she'd been told time and time again to avoid. Whenever she found a particularly nice shell, she'd come running up the beach to place it in a small wicker basket brought along for just that purpose.

  "A dress shop of your own," Lady Waltham mused as a gale of wind threatened her black bonnet. She put up a hand to hold it in place until the breeze subsided then turned to look at her companion. "A woman in business has more challenges to meet than the monthly rent," she said. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather marry? Your personality lends itself to being a wife and a mother."

  "Perhaps someday," Evelyn said wishing for all the world that it could be to the man she truly loved. "If the right man comes along."

  "I thought he had" Constance said her gaze turning in­quisitive. "The manner in which we have spoken to each other of late leads me to believe that you have been in love. Are still in love."

  Evelyn looked toward the ocean, knowing Lady Waltham would see the truth in her eyes if she tried to deny it. "There is a man, but I fear there will never be a marriage. Things . . . There are things in the way."

  "Forgive me for prying. It is none of my business."

  A short silence ensued broken only by the rhythmic sound of waves rolling onto the shore and the chatter of seagulls. Evelyn hadn't lied when she'd told Lady Waltham that she wished to be her friend but the relationship, devel­oping at a fast pace, was still one-sided. She could listen to Constance—she'd received permission to address her lady­ship by her given name whenever they were alone—but she didn't dare share her own secrets. It was a bit surprising to discover just how much of her life was now absorbed by the marquis. It left little to tell anyone, especially his stepmother.

  "Marshall!" Catherine yelled scampering toward the grass-covered dunes. "You're back!"

  "So I am, kitten," he said meeting her halfway, then scoop­ing her up and swinging her around. "And your nose is pink from too much sun. Where's your bonnet?"

  "Evelyn is watching over it for me," Catherine told him, then wiggled her nose. "Is it really pink?"

  "Pink is a very pretty color," Marshall said taking her

  hand and leading her down the dune as elegantly as he might escort a young lady onto the dance floor.

  Evelyn watched him approach, her heart beating wildly, then suddenly stopping the moment he was standing over her, his smile as provoking as it had been that day on Bond Street when he'd knelt to help her gather up the pins. She averted her gaze, not wanting to appear overenthusiastic be­cause he had returned home.

  "Am I to believe my eyes and ears?" Marshall said lean­ing down to take his stepmother's hand. "The entire house is abuzz with the news. My stepmother has taken a likening to sunshine and fresh air."

  "Stuff and nonsense!" Lady Waltham replied with a snap. "What good does it do to have a seaside estate and not enjoy it?"

  "My sentiments exactly," Marshall laughed as he eased himself onto the blanket. He turned his eyes on Evelyn. "Whatever you did I thank you, Miss Dennsworth."

  The words were spoken with a heartfelt sincerity that threatened to bring tears to Evelyn's eyes, but she smiled in­stead nodding slightly in acknowledgement.

  "What she did was bully and coerce me," Constance said. "She has been nothing but rude and unflattering to a widow, and I consider her a true friend for her efforts."

  "Then so shall I," Marshall replied.

  He didn't touch her, but Evelyn saw the desire in his eyes. It was all she could do to keep from throwing herself into his arms. In that moment, seeing him smiling, his hair blown by the wind his eyes bright with joy and excitement, Evelyn knew she would love him forever.

  "How was Norwich?" his stepmother asked as Catherine returned to the beach. This time with her bonnet.

  "As Norwich always is," Marshall replied digging into their luncheon basket to see if anything had been left over. He found an apple. While he chewed he glanced at Evelyn, his eyes promising her a visit that very night. "Nothing un­usual goes on there, or at least nothing that came to my ears. Ran into Granby. He'll be arriving a good week before the regatta."

  "The man is a notorious rascal," Constance said address­ing Evelyn.

  "And a good friend" Marshall said. "Not to worry, I'll keep him on a short leash."

  "Make sure you do," his stepmother replied. "The last time he came to call, we nearly had a scandal on our hands."

  Marshall laughed out loud. "You're exaggerating."

  "Perhaps a little." Constance surprised them both by laughing. "Nevertheless, your sister is deep in the Season, and with Lord Lansdowne on the invitation list, I don't want anything unsavory going on."

  "How is Winnifred?" Marshall asked.

  "Your sister is fine," his stepmother replied. "A bit re­served but then, she's no longer a child. One expects a young lady of her age to show some maturity. Have you given this Lord Lansdowne a thorough looking over. I shan't want Winnie to be mislead by his intentions."

  "He comes with the Duke of Morland's personal recom­mendation," Marshall replied. Then turning to the side so only Evelyn could see his face, he gave her a wicked wink. "As for Winnie suddenly becoming reserved . . . Let's hope Lansdowne likes his ladies mature. I prefer them a tad more interesting."

  "Don't be impertinent," Lady Waltham said but without sharpness. "You'll give Miss Dennsworth the impression that you're as incorrigible as Granby."

  "My apologies, Miss Dennsworth," he said smiling all the while. "With that, I shall take myself back to the house." He stood blocking the sun with his body. "Enjoy your after­noon, ladies."

  Evelyn did her best not to stare as he waved goodbye to Catherine, then trekked up the dunes, his boots sinking ankle deep into the white sand.

  "I fear it will be easier to marry off Winnie than it will be to find my stepson a suitable wife," Lady Waltham said. "He's determined to remain a bachelor as long as possible."

  "He's still young," Evelyn said with as much composure as she could manage and without looking at Constance.

  "Be that as it may, he still requires a wife. An heir."

  "Of course," Evelyn agreed hoping her voice sounded convincing.

  "I've invited several prospective young ladies to the re­gatta festivities," Lady Waltham went on, unaware that every word pierced Evelyn's heart. "He will be polite, perhaps even flirt with one or two, though I doubt anything more will come of it. But then, one can always hope."

  Fifteen

  The wind was blustering from the north, bringing a dri­ving rain that pelted the roof of the cottage. Beyond the door and closed shutters, the night was caught in the heavy grip of the storm. Evelyn had built a small fire, just enough to take the chill out of the air while she bathed. She put on a night­gown, one she'd bought before leaving London, and a dress­ing gown with blue embroidery and sat in front of the fire, brushing her hair.

  Would the storm keep Marshall at the manor house?

  Minute by minute the rain grew more irate, the rhythmic pelting turning into a furious downpour as sheet after sheet of water lashed the cottage. The sound of the sea was even louder, waves crashing onto the beach in wet slaps. The can­dles—there were no gaslights—flickered as the cottage proved to be as drafty as Marshall had predicted. But the fire was cozy,
its light adding to the warmth, keeping the storm at bay.

  Suddenly another sound joined the storm. Someone stomp­ing their feet outside the door, ridding their boots of mud. Evelyn heaved a deep sigh of relief, then hurried to unbolt the latch. "You're soaked to the bone," she said.

  "That I am," Marshall admitted, stepping inside, then lev­eling his weight against the door and a blast of wind until he had the latch secured. "I pity any packet boats on the Channel tonight."

  As always, Evelyn felt no greater emotion than the mo­ment when he was standing before her eyes. She was in­stantly enveloped by the present; past and future detached from her mind the wrong and right of their love affair some­thing to be worried about later.

  "I was just going to brew some tea," she said looking to­ward the fireplace and the kettle waiting to be hung over the low flames.

  "I've something better in mind" he said holding up a bottle. "Have you ever tasted cognac?" Evelyn shook her head.

  "It's the perfect drink for a night like this. Smooth and rich," he told her. "I had thought to celebrate with a bottle of champagne, but the storm made the decision for me."

  She hung his slicker on the peg rack just inside the door while he removed his boots, placing them near the fire to dry. His hair was wet, clinging to his brow until he brushed it back with his hand. He had come to her despite the storm. Evelyn felt a twinge of womanly pride that he had left his dry, warm home and ventured out into the night, armed with a bottle of cognac and a need to be with her, even if the need was only physical.

  "What are we celebrating?" She walked to the cupboard for glasses.

  "My stepmother's resurrection, what else?" He raised his arms and pulled his shirt over his head then tossed it onto the back of the small sofa that faced the fireplace. "I can't believe the difference. She was her old self this evening at dinner, chastising the girls, rambling on about the regatta party and all the matchmaking that will be done." He sat down and stretched out his legs, warming his feet. "However did you do it?"