Lizzy walked the smooth, even embankment that had been built along the Ure. The sun had just climbed above the horizon. The river was illumed in a fragile light the color of watered beer. The world seemed new, the air clear and cold, so pure after London’s sooty vapors that it almost hurt to breathe. There was a time when she would have found Fairleigh Park wanting, when she’d have overlooked its fresh loveliness because it did not possess the mass and grandeur to rival Lyndhurst Hall, the Arlingtons’ ancestral manor, or Huntington, Lord Wrenworth’s seat.
But that was so long ago, when she’d believed that a mere batting of her eyelashes could cause a tempest in a man’s heart, any man’s heart. The young Arlington heir had certainly seemed susceptible to her charms, but he had loved her less than he’d feared his mother, who didn’t think Lizzy’s connections quite good enough for her exalted family.
She’d next set her cap on the Marquess of Wrenworth, whose mother had been long dead and who had the greatest fortune among all the titled men of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. The marquess, despite Lizzy’s assiduous courting, would marry a woman of no connections whatsoever.
The twin failures and her mother’s death from what everyone had thought a mere seasonal cold had plunged Lizzy into a state of rudderless misery that had led to the disaster with Henry. And that had led to a deep melancholia from which she’d thought she’d never emerge. But emerged she had, weak and uncertain, to find herself almost on the shelf, her prospects of a good marriage—of any kind of marriage—halving with each passing year.
It was better fortune than she deserved that Stuart had at last decided to marry—and that he’d been receptive to her overtures. As a girl, she’d entertained thoughts of marriage with him, until she’d realized that while he was handsome and well thought of by her father, he had neither the importance nor the wealth that she’d decided was her due.
In the years since, while she’d blindly chased after the impossible match to satisfy her vanity, he’d risen high in the world. There was talk that after the passage of the Irish Home Rule bill, he would be given the portfolio of the Home Secretary. A Great Office of the State at his age could augur only one thing: a career at 10 Downing Street.
And now this very fine, very beautiful estate.
She sighed. He could have chosen any woman. He chose her. Years ago she’d have been smug and superior about it. Now she was only grateful. She was determined to be a perfect wife to him. She would make him happy, and make sure that he never had cause to regret his choice.
“Are you quite all right, Miss Bessler?”
She jerked around at Mr. Marsden’s voice. He stood a few feet away, an expression of apparent concern on his face. “You stopped walking and you’ve been standing in place.”
How long had he been there, watching her? Had he followed her from the house? And why must her first reaction to his presence be a quiver of excitement?
“I couldn’t be better, thank you,” she said coolly.
He had behaved himself last night, at dinner and afterward. He could be quite the charming guest when he tried, which made her resent him even more for his deliberate provocation on the train.
“I understand that congratulations are in order, even though the official word will not be in the papers for a few days yet,” he said.
“And now you need not trouble yourself on why I haven’t married, despite all my sterling qualities,” she said.
She resumed walking in the direction of the house, for a lady did not stand and converse with a gentleman. He fell into step beside her. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?”
“Quite,” she said.
“And what a tremendous dinner last night. The best I’ve ever had.”
“I can’t agree more.”
“And Madame Durant is beautiful, or so they say.”
There was something prurient in his tone. Lizzy glanced at him. He again wore that speculative dirty look.
Enough was enough. She would be Mrs. Somerset in a matter of weeks. She did not have to put up with this insolence from a mere secretary. She halted. “The way you look at me makes me intensely uncomfortable, Mr. Marsden. I would be most obliged if you would desist.”
The obsceneness receded from his eyes. He had gray eyes that matched the cashmere scarf about his neck—yet another example of his vanity. She would not be surprised at all to learn that he wore padded shoes so that they would stand at exactly the same height of five foot ten.
“I’m sorry. Have I been so obvious?” he said, sounding more amused than anything else. “So you’ve noticed that I couldn’t stop looking at you.”
His admission set off a strange thrill.
“I would appreciate it if you made an effort, since it would be best for us to remain on amicable terms for Mr. Somerset’s sake,” she said grandly.
“Perhaps we might not need to maintain amicable terms,” he said. “I haven’t decided whether I’ll let Mr. Somerset marry a woman of your…unconventional ways, and I’ve still a few more days to make up my mind.”
“I beg your pardon?” she cried.