They were soon riding across fields and past budding trees. They had lapsed into silence.
“How well do you know Annabelle?” he asked her at last. “Does she confide in you?”
“Annabelle is a very private person,” she said. “I don’t believe she confides in anyone. Are you disturbed because she is always so very serious? That is just Annabelle, I’m afraid.”
“You don’t know of any swain back in your brother’s neighborhood who is sighing for her favors?” he asked.
She looked at him sharply. “Has she said anything that makes you think there is such a person?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” he said. “There is no one more proper or more accepting of the life others have arranged for her than Annabelle. She is all good sense and duty and sweetness, and she has shut the door to her inner self against all comers, I believe. I thought perhaps she might have opened it to you. She admires you a great deal.”
“She will be a good wife to you,” she said.
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” he said. “She will not give me a moment’s trouble. I will not hear a single sigh from her over the mysterious swain.”
“What makes you think there is such a man?” she asked.
“She is trying to fall in love with me,” he said. “There seems to be little need to do so, unless she is trying to fall out of love with someone else.”
Rosamund was silent, unable and unwilling to ask him if he was trying to do the same thing. But then he did not believe in love, as he had told her on an earlier occasion. Only in satisfying his appetites—until now. And now in being faithful and loyal to his chosen bride.
And it seemed very possible that there was someone else. She had not really thought of it before, but it made perfect sense. Certainly Annabelle had been crying the night before. She had been puffy-eyed that morning when Rosamund had called on her before breakfast, and she had claimed that the birds singing outside her window had kept her awake and given her a headache. But dawn did not come very early at the beginning of March.
Rosamund had concluded that something had happened between the girl and Justin, that somehow she was regretting the betrothal she was about to make. And the thought had made Rosamund feel quite ill. She still believed in her theory, but it would make more sense if Annabelle were in love with someone else. If she were not, then surely she would be pleased, or at least accepting of the match that had been arranged for her. After all, most eighteen-year old girls would be over the moon at the prospect of marrying a young and handsome and wealthy earl.
“Perhaps she is just overwhelmed by the occasion,” she said. “Next week, when the deed is accomplished, she will probably relax and be far more cheerful.”
“Perhaps you are right,” he said. “And will I be more relaxed? And will you?”
“I will not be here,” she said. “I have fortunately remembered that Leonard has a distant cousin living just thirty miles from here. I shall visit her next week, after the ball. Dennis and Lana can take me up on their way home the following week. It will be better that way. I am relieved that I have thought of it.”
“Yes,” he said. “But how are you going to avoid me at my wedding and down through the years, Rosamund?”
“These feelings we have will wear off,” she said. “It is just that it all happened little over a month ago. Eventually we will forget and find it easy to be in each other’s company. But not yet. This time next week I will be gone. A few more days and then you will not have to be afraid that, try as we will, we will not be able keep out of each other’s company.”
“Meanwhile,” he said, “there are still these few days. And I am still free, relatively speaking. And there is still what remains of this afternoon, when we did not scheme to be alone together but are alone, nevertheless. We are not far from the lake, are we? Let’s ride that way. Let’s enjoy this hour for what it’s worth. Shall we?”
“You are asking me to go with you to make love with you?” she asked quietly.
He did not answer immediately. “I don’t know,” he said. “Am I? Yes, I suppose I am, and it would not do, would it? But let’s have that hour together anyway, Rosamund. Let’s ride to the lake and sit there quietly for a while. Let’s see if we can find some peace that will take us through these difficult days. We were friends as well as lovers, weren’t we?”
“Yes,” she said reluctantly. He had noticed that, too, then. It had not been entirely physical for him. She was not sure she was glad he felt as she did. And it would be madness to go with him. Even if they did not end up making love, there was no peace to be found together. Only more torment. “Will you come?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
They turned their horses in the direction of the lake without another word.
Chapter 12
The lake was calm and a deep blue as it had been two days before. A few fluffy clouds were floating in the sky. There was a suggestion of warmth in the air, early as the season was. For perhaps one hour he was going to forget everything but his surroundings and his companion, the Earl of Wetherby thought, reaching up his arms to lift her from her saddle.
He deliberately slid her down along the length of his body, feeling her warmth and her slimness. He kissed her briefly on the lips and watched her mouth curve into a slight smile. They had not exchanged a word since turning off to the lake, but he knew by a medium deeper than words that she had made the same decision as he about the next hour.
He tethered their horses and took her by the hand. They strolled to the water’s edge—the bank was low at that point— and stood gazing across.
“Let’s sit down,’’ he said, breaking the silence between them at last. And he drew her down into the shade of an oak tree, setting his back against the trunk. She did not resist when he put one arm about her shoulders. She unpinned her riding hat from her hair, set it down on the grass beside her, and nestled her head against his shoulder.
“Spring has always been my favorite season,” she said. “Everything is springing to new life and nothing seems impossible. Last year especially it was in the spring that I began to throw off my gloom. I filled the house with spring flowers and put crocuses and primroses on Leonard’s grave.”
