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“Because I’m so dull and conventional, you mean?” he asked. “Because I always have my nose in a book?”
“You mustn’t imagine insults where none are intended. Besides, you know perfectly well that if I meant to insult you I’d do so without roundaboutation,” she rebuked.
“Then what is so puzzling about my choice of friends?”
“I only meant that you’re contemplative and serious,” she answered, looking down at her hands. “Lord Berne has probably never had a serious thought in his entire life. I cannot understand what would make his company rewarding for you.”
Jack smiled ruefully. “I can’t expect all my friends to be Aristotles. I’d probably be bored to death if they were. Maybe I cling to these fellows because they make a change from the monotony of my own company. Is that so odd? Would you wish all your bosom bows to be exactly like yourself?”
“Egad, no,” she answered with a show of horrour. “I should throttle them all in five minutes. Only I haven’t any bosom-bows. Nor will I get any,” she added, glancing towards the house, “if anyone learns I’ve been entertaining you all this time unchaperoned.”
She rose and Jack was obliged to follow, though it was not at all what he would have preferred. For nearly an hour they’d talked and she hadn’t berated him or hit him once. He hadn’t felt so serene in weeks.
Perhaps it was simply the vehemence of her behaviour—the flurry and collision and high emotion—which triggered so much emotion in himself. Maybe now that she had settled somewhat into her new life, she would not agitate him quite so much.
The end of this tranquil interlude, could Jack but have known it, appeared early Wednesday afternoon in the form of a cloud of dust. This gradually resolved itself into a pair of sweating horses pulling a dashing black curricle upon whose seat Lord Berne was perched. He’d decided that while rivals were all very well in the case of puerile infatuations, they would not do at all when it came to a Grand Passion. The enemy must be routed. There would be no more clandestine embraces in gardens or anywhere else, save where Lord Berne played the male lead.
The viscount did not customarily abuse his cattle, and would have arrived with a deal less lather if he hadn’t needed a potent excuse for stopping at Rossing Hall. Jack’s uncle might have easily enough walked over or around Lord Berne had that young man been lying mortally wounded in his path, but for dumb animals Lord Rossing had compassion.
For the weary horses’ sake, then, he grumblingly allowed Lord Berne entrance. This did not mean the reluctant host wished to talk to his guest, however. He promptly abandoned Lord Berne at the library door and headed in the opposite direction.
Wasting no time, Tony launched his offensive as soon as he entered the library. Citing Atkins’s report of what had transpired in the garden, the viscount demanded to know Jack’s intentions toward Miss Desmond.
Being not only greatly taken aback by this unlooked-for assault but altogether unable to satisfy himself upon this very subject, Mr. Langdon was utterly incapable of responding.
Since Lord Berne had no intention of heeding any reply in the first place, Jack’s stammering bewilderment spared his having to feign attention. The viscount mounted his attack.
“You cannot toy with her affections, Jack. I know what her father is and what he’s done, and I know what people say of her mother, but that is no reason to take advantage of an innocent girl.”
“Take advantage?” Jack repeated, dazed. “What are you saying?”
“You know very well what I mean. You think—” Lord Berne stopped short to stare at his friend in consternation. “Oh, Lord, what am I saying? Forgive me, Jack. I must be mad.” He began pacing, speaking rapidly as he did so. “I don’t know what’s happened to me. I tried to stay away, truly I did. But she draws me. No woman has ever—no, you will not believe it. You’ll laugh—no, your heart is too generous for that. Oh, Jack, your friend is brought low, indeed.” Lord Berne threw himself into a chair.
“Good God, Tony, what on earth is the matter?”
“The matter,” the viscount repeated bitterly. “Everything is the matter. I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t think. Oh, Jack, I love her. Can you believe it?”
“Well, yes, actually, I can. You’re always in love with somebody,” said Jack rather unsympathetically.
“Never like this. When before could I find no comfort elsewhere? But how can I think of my comfort, knowing the undeserved burdens that innocent angel must bear? An ill fame, not of her making, blights her youth even before it blossoms. How can I find happiness anywhere, knowing the world is determined to destroy any chance of hers?”
His stunned foe sank into a chair.
Lord Berne got up from his to recommence his agitated march upon the carpet. “She wishes nothing to do with me, and I cannot blame her. Yet how can I keep away when there remains any hope I might be able to help her? Perhaps that would make her think a little more kindly of me. Only a little, Jack. I know I can’t expect her to care—and I’m sure she deserves a worthier fellow. Yet if she’d but smile kindly upon me once, I think I could live on that, and die, if not happy, then a better man for it.”
Any expression of selflessness was so utterly foreign to Lord Berne’s character that Mr. Langdon might be excused for blinking once or twice to assure himself he was not dreaming. This could not be Tony Melgrave who strode back and forth before him declaiming upon his unworthiness of the seraphic being known as Miss Delilah Desmond. Tony deserving of her—of any woman’s—scorn? Impossible, Jack told himself.
Aloud he said, “I see what the matter is, Tony. She’s the first woman in your experience who did not collapse helpless into your arms the instant you smiled upon her. The novelty of the experience has obviously been too much for you. You’re merely frustrated, and having never been so before you confuse the emotion with love.”
“Why should you believe me?” Lord Berne ceased his pacing to take up a tragic pose at the mantel. “You know what a paltry, insensible beast I am. No one would believe me, and there’s no one to blame but myself. Perhaps my family has indulged me overmuch, but I cannot blame them. A man makes his own character. Only I bear the guilt, and only I can make amends.” He turned upon his friend a gaze so desolate that Jack experienced a profound twinge of guilt.
“No more,” said Jack hastily. “You’re making yourself overwrought, which always makes you behave recklessly. I’ll ring for wine and you must try to collect yourself.”
“I’m perfectly collected. You needn’t fear I’ll do myself—or your neighbours—an injury. I’ve thought the matter over long and hard, and I cannot bring myself to believe the situation is hopeless.”
Lord Berne moved from the fireplace to perch on a chair opposite his friend. “You’ve seen her recently?”
Jack admitted he had.
“Did she speak of me? Did she mention what I said to her when we last spoke?”
“You were mentioned only in passing.”
The viscount nodded sadly. “She suspected I wasn’t in earnest, and my going away only confirmed her suspicions. But enough self-pity. I’d better tell you what I proposed.” He proceeded to repeat the scheme he had suggested to Miss Desmond.
“So that explains the business at church,” said Jack. “No wonder she was complaining of the visitors and calling herself a curiosity piece.”
“Then they’ve begun to relent?” the viscount asked eagerly. “They’ve welcomed her?”
Jack admitted that such appeared to be the case.
“Then there’s hope!” Lord Berne exclaimed. “That’s all I wanted. My way is clear now. I will not rest until she’s securely established, until no one will dare breathe a word against her.”
The wine was duly provided, but it refreshed neither party. Lord Berne was too busy talking to remember to drink his, and Jack was too busy with his troubled thoughts to taste what he drank.
Mr. Langdon examined his own feelings and found them base. He was tormented only by lust, wh
ich had certainly not inspired him with any true compassion for its object or any heroic plans for her future happiness. He’d thought only of his own needs and railed inwardly against her for arousing them. There was nothing of finer sentiments in this, nothing remotely worthy of the name Love. Being a just man, he felt he must ease his friend’s mind regarding the “intentions” referred to earlier.
“I hope, Tony, you won’t give the business in the garden another thought,” he said, feeling very awkward. “You see, she tripped and stumbled into my arms and... and I lost my head. I got soundly slapped for my impertinence. I was also told in no uncertain terms that my attentions were profoundly unwelcome. That was and is the end of it, I promise you.”
