“And Gemma.” The words were out before she realized it. She was shocked at herself and clapped a hand over her mouth. She knew how to be discreet. That was not it.
Lord Marsden appeared to sober. “So that is the lay of the land. I can see it. No wonder he gave me a look that could fry bacon after I danced with her. He thought he was being discreet. He wasn’t. And it makes sense. They both probably entertain each other talking about rashes and poxes.”
“No, that isn’t how they entertain each other.”
He gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Why, Miss Taylor, there is some humor in you.”
“I see nothing humorous about the situation. He was promised to me. I waited for him to come up to scratch for two years. Two years of his weekly calls where he’d bore me because he never said anything.”
“I told you he could be dull,” Lord Marsden said with a shrug.
She waved him off, too lost in her catalog of complaints to care. “In truth, he was just there. A placeholder in my life. One of many, it turns out.”
That was the gist of it.
He’d wasted her time, and she was a woman. The matrons warned her time was limited for a woman.
“Then you will have to do something else,” the earl said reasonably, and Clarissa thought she would scream. She turned on her heel and went marching off. The dance was better than arguing with Lord Marsden.
She forgot her intent to hide, to escape to someplace to think. Consequently, she almost ran into Ned.
He caught her by the arms before she barreled over him. “Thank heavens I found you.”
She yanked away from him and he let her go. “I am not interested in anything you have to say to me.”
“I understand, and you have every reason to be upset—”
“Why, Ned, why? Why her and not me?”
Regret crossed his handsome features, and something else akin to wonder before he said, “I fell in love with her.”
“Love?” She took a step away, wishing she hadn’t heard him say those words, wishing she hadn’t seen him kissing Gemma. Wishing, wishing, wishing . . .
And hadn’t her wishes always led to disillusionment? Nothing was ever as it seemed.
She faced him with what she hoped was some maturity. “What do we do now?”
The moonlight caught on a muscle working in his jaw. His expression was so bleak, he could have been carved from stone, and then he said, “We marry.”
She wasn’t certain she heard him correctly. “You are serious?”
“Clarissa, I gave my word.”
Relief flooded through her. She wasn’t going to be humiliated. He was going to honor his promise. She’d be free from having to live under others’ roofs or to be alone. “Thank you, Ned. Thank you very much. I will be the best wife. I promise. I will do anything you wish.”
There was a heavy beat of silence, and then he said, “I know.” He shifted his weight, turning from her. He drew a deep breath and released it and then said, without true energy or desire, “Shall we go inside?” He offered his arm.
This wasn’t the way she wanted it. In a world of her making, he’d kiss her and tell her she was the one he loved.
But then, no one had ever loved her. She was the burden.
She took his arm. “Yes, let’s.” Hers was a false cheerfulness, and a signal of determination to be true to her word—she would be a good wife. She’d not offer complaint, she’d do as he suggested, and she’d keep her own emotions and feelings carefully in line with his. After all, she knew how to walk a very narrow line.
And out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement.
Another glance told her that Lord Marsden had come out of the barouche. He’d probably heard everything—and had an opinion, one designed to make her feel guilty. Well, she wouldn’t. He was not her judge. He knew nothing of her life, of how hard it was to manage the world when one had nothing.
Besides, she really, really, really did not like the Earl of Marsden.
She just wished his words didn’t haunt her, especially as she returned to the dance and pretended everything was all right.
Chapter Twenty-One
Gemma had left the dance by the time Ned returned with Clarissa on his arm. It disturbed him that he couldn’t ask anyone where she’d gone. He had no right to worry whether she’d made it home safe—if home had been her destination.
No, he had to stand beside Clarissa and behave as if all was right in his world, even as he felt himself crumbling apart inside.
Eventually, the evening came to an end. Ned escorted Clarissa out to Squire Nelson’s vehicle and dutifully waved as they drove off.
Mars sidled up to him. It was obvious his friend was in his cups. “I didn’t see you most of the evening,” Ned said.
“I’ve been to one Cotillion too many,” was the response, and then the earl added, “Run away, Thurlowe. Don’t marry her.”
Ned didn’t like hearing his deepest desire put into words. “You have been against the marriage from the beginning. You know one of us has to do it.”
“No, I don’t know that. Nor do I jump because the matrons issue a command.”
“I’m not marrying her for that reason.”
“No, you are doing it because good Doctor Ned Thurlowe takes care of everyone. Someday you need to start caring for yourself.” On that he walked over to his horse and mounted, leaving Ned alone.
Most of the attendees were gone. Even the musicians and the matrons had packed up.
And Ned dared to walk by The Garland. All was quiet . . . and life moved on.
The next day, after a sleepless night where Ned had reviewed in his mind the confrontation with Clarissa, he was heavy-eyed and not particularly anticipating the Frost lecture, something he’d believed would be the highlight of his year.
What he wanted was to see Gemma.
He arrived at the back door, hoping to catch her alone in the kitchen before everything started. He didn’t know what he was doing. He just needed to lay eyes on her.
She was in the kitchen but unfortunately not alone. Mark Dawson and Fitz were there helping her. Or rather, they were there in her way.
But there could be no doubt in anyone’s mind they were wooing her, each in his own clumsy way.
“Hello, Doctor,” Fitz said. He was in shirtsleeves. “Since the day promises rain, we’ve moved everything to the main room.”
“Ah, well, that is good.” Ned’s gaze met Gemma’s.
She’d pinned her hair at the nape of her neck instead of wearing her braid. Once again, she’d left her black. Her dress was green with sprigs of violets printed on it. He thought she looked beautiful—even though she refused to meet his eye and used Fitz and Dawson as buffers. He couldn’t blame her.
Other members of the Logical Men’s Society and Royce arrived to help prepare seating for the lecture. Sir Lionel and Fullerton did not come. Since the activities of the Society had stopped revolving around drink, they had been notably absent. Ned hadn’t even seen Sir Lionel at the Cotillion, either. However, he hadn’t been so lost in himself not to notice Fullerton escorting Mrs. Warbler through a set or two of the more sedate dances.
Around noon the villagers started gathering for the lecture. There were more women than Ned had anticipated and, to his alarm, some children. Their mothers went to great pains to assure Ned the children would stay outside.